The second bout was done at half time. Still slow enough that even an inexperienced eye could follow their movements, but less of a strain to muscles, and Lukas’s commentary was more rapid, simply naming the moves. “Spin. Low feint. High. Block, retreat. Lunge.”
By design, that bout too ended in a draw. They repeated the exercise, with Drakken wielding the long sword while Henrik held the short sword of a guard.
Drakken rolled each shoulder in turn, stretching the arm muscles that had grown taut. Henrik did the same, and then he grinned at her.
“Quick time?” he asked.
“Why not?” It had been far too long since she practiced against a skilled opponent.
“Everyone rise and take two paces back,” Lukas ordered, and the circle of students around them widened, giving them room to fight.
She and Henrik raised their swords in salute. His sword was only partly lowered, as Henrik lunged forward, seeking to strike the first blow. Drakken had been expecting such a move, and she danced away to her left. She slashed his right arm with a blow that would have drawn blood if the sword had been steel, but after a short exchange of parries, it was Henrik whose sword point rested on her abdomen.
“Hold,” she called, acknowledging the hit.
Henrik froze, and then withdrew his sword. She nodded, in acknowledgment of his victory, then turned in a slow circle, looking at the students. A few of them appeared appreciative, but most appeared stunned, for the match had taken less than a hundred heartbeats.
“What did I do wrong?” she asked.
There was no answer.
“Anyone?”
One of the new recruits raised his hand, and she nodded at him to speak.
“You won the match,” the recruit insisted. “If your sword had been steel, your first strike would have disabled Henrik’s sword arm. He would have dropped his sword.”
“Mayhap,” she conceded. “But maybe no. Henrik is a tough fighter. He would be bloodied, yes, but he judged the blow glancing, true?”
“Yes, Captain,” Henrik confirmed. “Though I’ll have a bruise to show for my troubles.”
In such a practice match it was up to each participant to determine whether or not he or she had received a disabling wound. Younger fighters would often overestimate their endurance and refuse to concede that they had been injured in a practice match; but she knew Henrik well enough to know that he was an honorable opponent. She had known from the moment she struck that it was a mere slash, and Henrik had agreed with her.
“So, again, what did I do wrong?”
“You were focused on a high strike, and let Henrik get under your guard,” Oluva said, after glancing around and seeing that no one else was willing to say what should have been obvious.
Captain Drakken nodded. “Precisely. I was thinking as a duelist. A short sword lacks range, but it is more maneuverable than a long sword. I’d deliberately left an opening for Henrik to take a high strike hoping to disarm him, but he ignored the trap and went for a gut strike instead.”
And if they had been fighting with steel swords, she would have been mortally wounded. Henrik would not have escaped unscathed, but he would have lived to fight another day.
“Let us try this again,” Drakken said.
She handily won the next bout, and in the third she managed to disarm Henrik using a move she had learned from a Selvarat officer. She demonstrated the move twice in slow time, and then demonstrated how to counter it.
Mopping the sweat from her face with a towel, she watched for a few moments as Lukas lined the guards up in two rows facing each other and had them practice the maneuver they had just seen. Then, with a final word to Lukas, she took her leave.
She had done well, she reflected, holding her own against a fighter who was barely half her age. Her aching ribs and the rising bruise on the back of her thigh proved that Henrik had not held any of his blows out of respect for her rank or age.
The bells chimed the noon hour as Captain Drakken left the courtyard, intending to return to the Guard Hall to wash up and make herself presentable in case the King summoned his council to hear Devlin’s report. As she reached the hall, she saw Solveig of Esker descending the steps.
“Captain Drakken, what good fortune. I was just looking for you,” Solveig said.
“How may I serve?” Captain Drakken asked. In public they maintained the facade that she and Solveig were mere acquaintances, and Captain Drakken was careful to treat Solveig with the formal respect due to one who would someday hold the title of Baroness. Only a trusted few knew that Solveig and Drakken were both among the inner circle of Devlin’s advisors.
Solveig waited until Captain Drakken had caught up to her. “What news of Devlin and his quest?” she asked, in low tones. “I expected him to wait upon the King, but was surprised that not even my own brother saw fit to bring me news.”
So she was not the only one who had grown impatient.
“There is no news yet, though I expect to hear of his arrival shortly. And I am certain Stephen will seek you out as soon as he may.”
Solveig’s eyes widened, and she clutched Drakken’s forearm. “But you are mistaken. Devlin is already in the city. He returned last night.”
Drakken swallowed hard. “Come,” she ordered, leading the way up the stairs into the Guard Hall. She did not speak another word until they had reached the sanctity of her own office and shut the door firmly behind them.
“What do you mean Devlin has returned?”
It could not be possible. He could not have entered the city without passing through one of the gates, and the guards would surely have informed her. Solveig must be mistaken.
“Lord Rikard and I had agreed to meet last night at the Royal Temple, to trade gossip.”
Captain Drakken nodded. They knew that Solveig’s and Rikard’s public encounters were closely watched. But with the court in session, there were numerous diversions offered each evening, and no one found it odd that a noble would be returning to the palace long after sunset. If they took a path that led them past the unfashionable Royal Temple, well such was not suspicious in and of itself. And the deserted temple was a perfect place for a clandestine meeting, given Brother Arni’s tacit approval.
“It took me longer than I expected to take my leave from Lady Vendela’s ball. When I arrived, I found Rikard had been there for some time. We could see that the soul stone had reached Kingsholm, and Brother Arni had begun offering prayers of thanks for the Chosen One’s safe return,” Solveig continued.
“And that was at midnight?”
“I arrived after midnight, but Brother Arni said the stone had changed color an hour before.”
Perhaps Brother Arni was mistaken, though she had never heard of the soul stone spell failing. And he had no motive to lie about what he had seen. The priest was a man of sincere faith, who lived to serve the seven Gods and the Chosen One, their anointed representative.
But if Devlin had been in the city for twelve hours now, then where was he? And why hadn’t she heard anything?
“I returned to my chambers, but there was no word. The servants had no news, so I expected that Devlin had decided to wait until morning before seeking out the King. But as the morning passed, I became impatient. I knew he would seek you out, so I came here. But you haven’t seen him, have you?”
Captain Drakken shook her head. “Nor have I had any word that he arrived. It makes no sense that he would hide himself from his friends.”
“But surely someone must have seen them—the guards who let them in the gate, the sentries at the palace, the stablemen who took their horses . . . They did not simply fall from the sky.”
And Didrik, at least, would not have let twelve hours pass without reporting to her. Something was gravely wrong.
“I do not know what is happening, but I will find out,” Captain Drakken promised.
“What can I do?”
“Return to the palace. Make yourself visible. Listen for any gossip, but
do not let on what you know. If you hear anything, send word to me. And above all, do not wander off alone. I’ll assign one of my guards to watch you.”
“You think I may be threatened?” Solveig’s voice was incredulous. “Why?”
Drakken did not know what to think, but her instincts were telling her that there was grave danger. Until she knew the shape of the threat, it was best to err on the side of caution.
“Right now there are four people who know that Devlin has returned. You, Rikard, Brother Arni, and now me. Rikard has his own armsmen and the priest should be safe. But until we know why Devlin’s return has been kept secret, you should be on your guard. It may be nothing, but better safe than sorry.”
Five
DIDRIK GAVE A SIGH OF RELIEF AS THE ROAD widened and he caught his first clear view of Kingsholm. The high walls were gray and forbidding, meant to discourage potential attackers, but to him they were a welcome sight. These were his walls, and this was his city. He knew every yard of the long walls, and every one of the streets and alleyways. Blindfolded he could be set down in any part of the city and instantly know where he was using just his hearing and sense of smell. The city had its dangers, but those were things he understood. And there, at least, he had a reputation of his own that made him formidable. Not to mention the full weight of the Guard behind him.
He felt as if he were coming off a duty shift that had lasted months, not mere hours. The long trip to Duncaer had demanded his constant vigilance. And even the return had been tense, though the presence of Saskia and her sword arm had been a welcome addition to their party. Jorsk was his homeland, but there were those among his fellow countrymen who wished Devlin ill, and it had been Didrik’s responsibility to keep him safe. A charge he had failed when he foolishly allowed himself to become injured. Instead of watching over Devlin, he had become a burden.
He understood why Devlin had left him behind, though he had chafed mightily during the week that the healer had kept him in bed. And even when they resumed their journey, Stephen had insisted on a slow pace, coddling Didrik as if he were a cripple. Didrik had protested, but allowed himself to be overruled when it became clear that he did not have the strength for a full day of riding. Still, he had grown stronger with each day, and they had agreed to press on in hopes of reaching Kingsholm by sundown.
He urged his horse to a faster pace, ignoring the curses of the few pedestrians who had to scurry away or risk being stepped on. Had he been in a proper uniform they would have yielded at once, but the hardships of the journey were reflected in his garb. He wore a dark blue cloak that had been gifted him in Duncaer over his much-abused uniform. Stephen had acquired plain but serviceable clothes for them both in Kronna’s Mill, which they had worn for the past fortnight. But Didrik’s pride insisted that he appear in his uniform when he made his report to Captain Drakken.
At last he was forced to slow, when their way was blocked by a knot of people. The southern gate was only partially open, forcing those entering and leaving to file through a narrow gap that was flanked by a pair of guards. Didrik waited their turn with some impatience.
“I’m for a hot bath, a fresh-cooked meal, then I’ll sleep for a week,” Stephen declared.
It was a tempting vision, but Didrik had his duty. He had to seek out Devlin and inform him of his return. Then once Devlin released him, he would have to make his report to Captain Drakken. It would be many hours before he would be free to seek out his own quarters.
“You’ll be at the Singing Fish? Or staying with your sister at the palace?” Didrik asked. It was possible that Devlin might wish to speak with Stephen, though unlikely.
“At the Fish,” Stephen replied. “Solveig would insist on hearing every detail. Time enough to see her on the morrow.”
At last they reached the front of the queue.
“Anders Kronborn, you wretched sod, what are you doing here?” Oluva called out.
Didrik, who had opened his mouth to greet her, closed it firmly. Her left hand was resting on her sword belt with two fingers pointed down, the hand sign for caution.
He looked over at the other guard, but the man was a stranger to him. Too old to be a novice, yet what else could he be? The leather of his sword harness was unworn, and his cloak unstained by weather or the exigencies of service in the poorer quarters.
Was it her comrade Oluva did not trust? Or the possibility of spies in the crowd? What was going on?
“It’s been a long time. I never thought you’d have the nerve to show your face,” Oluva continued.
“A man has a right to go where he pleases,” he said, scratching his chest with his left hand, as he signaled explain.
Stephen, for once, was silent, and he gave thanks for the minstrel’s quick wits.
“I can’t believe you kept your old uniform. Captain Drakken isn’t going to be happy to see you. We may be taking on newcomers, but there’s no room for a man who cheats his bunkmates.” Oluva’s hand made the signal for an unknown enemy.
Didrik shrugged, as if he were well used to such insults. Anders Kronborn had been thrown out of the Guard four years ago, after he had been repeatedly caught cheating in a game of dice. The first offense had earned him a stint in the guardhouse. The second offense had earned him ten lashes. Growing wiser, he had taken his games from the Guard quarters to the taverns, where his luck had finally run out. Caught cheating, his fellow gamesters had been for summary justice, but before they could carry out their sentence, Captain Drakken had intervened, dismissing him from the Guard and banning him from the city.
As an alias, it was a good choice, but he itched to find out why Oluva had felt such a deception necessary.
“That bitch Drakken may not want me, but there’s plenty of work for a man who can handle a sword,” Didrik declared.
“And who’s this?” Oluva asked, jerking her thumb toward Stephen.
“My cousin Jesper. My aunt asked me to ride herd over him, to keep him out of trouble in the city.” Didrik smirked.
“Setting a wolf to guard the lamb. Well, it’s none of my concern. Stay out of trouble and stay away from the palace.” Her eyes caught his and held his gaze. “You have no friends there, understand?”
Oluva made the handing for betrayal.
Didrik swallowed hard, not needing to feign his sudden fear. “I understand.”
“Enough chatter,” the unknown guard said. “Ride on, then, you’re holding up these honest citizens.”
Didrik nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He forced himself to ride off slowly, still slouched in the saddle, as if he was indeed the rogue he had claimed to be.
“What was that all about?” Stephen asked.
“Not now,” he growled. Not here. Not until he could find somewhere safe. And then he had to figure out what to do next.
His thoughts whirled around and around, but they kept coming back to Oluva’s grim face as she flashed that last sign. Betrayal.
It was his worst fear, come to life.
He could feel Stephen’s gaze boring holes into his back as he turned down the street that led toward the old quarter of the city.
Oluva had warned him away from the palace, and for now he would trust her judgment. But what had she meant by betrayal? Drakken was still Captain; her words had made that clear. If the palace was no longer safe, then why not? If there were traitors in the Guard, surely Drakken could set that to rights. More puzzling still, who was the target? Didrik? Stephen? Both of them? What possible threat could there be?
And where was Devlin in all this? A part of him longed to go back to the gate and shake Oluva until she gave him the answers he needed, flames take the consequences. If the new guard took objection to his tactics, Didrik could defend himself. But he knew that such was foolishness. He was not a raw guard, still flushed with the impetuousness of youth. He was a sober lieutenant of nearly thirty winters. Personal aide to the Chosen One. Oluva had warned him to caution, and cautious he would be, until he knew more of the situatio
n in Kingsholm. Then, and only then, would he act.
Stephen suggested they lodge at the Singing Fish, but Didrik rejected that immediately. Stephen was too well known there. If someone was looking for them, it would be one of the first places they checked. Nor could Didrik turn to his own parents, who were bound to be watched as well. Neither of them could afford to go anywhere their faces were likely to be known.
A short distance from the gate, they left their horses at a livery stable. The owner, a woman of enormous girth called Selma the Fat, took one look at the shabby travelers and offered to sell the horses for them and split the proceeds. Didrik, his cloak drawn close to conceal his uniform, agreed.
He fully expected to be cheated by Selma, but that was all to the good. Selma would have no reason to mention just which two travelers had left the horses with her.
From there they made their way to a tavern along the river, though tavern was perhaps too fine a name for a place that could hold a mere dozen drunken sailors. But he knew there was an old storeroom, where the owner sometimes let folks down on their luck sleep. And indeed the serving boy reported that the room was empty, and he pocketed Didrik’s coppers without giving them a second glance.
As soon as the door swung shut behind them, Stephen’s patience ran out.
“What is going on?” Stephen demanded. “Why did Oluva call you by another name? And why can’t we go to the palace?”
Didrik dropped his saddlebags on the floor and looked around. There was a long bench against one wall and a tattered blanket hanging from a peg near a fire grate that looked like no fire had burned there for months. There was no pallet, nor any wood for a fire. Barely two paces across, and four paces long, the room was likely the safest place in Kingsholm. For now.
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