Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  “You deceive yourself,” Justin said. “There is no army, no rescue, no reprieve. Give in to Arnaud, and we will both be the better for it.”

  King Olafur’s betrayal stung, and in other circumstances Devlin might have been tempted—if Arnaud had been a fair man instead of a monster. If Devlin’s will had been his own, then who knew how he might have chosen. But Arnaud was too evil to be allowed to rule, and the Geas would never permit Devlin a choice.

  “You have a choice. You can choose to obey the Prince, or you can defy him. You have your free will. I do not. I am what your people made me. The Chosen One. I must obey my oaths until death.”

  Justin rocked back on his heels. For the first time he truly seemed to see Devlin as a person rather than as an inconvenience.

  “Then we are both damned,” he said.

  It was a fair conclusion.

  The healer rose to his feet. “I will send the woman up with a mixture of poppy seed,” he said. “Drink it, and it will help you sleep.”

  Devlin supposed that was his way of apologizing for his earlier treatment. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I hope never to see you again,” the healer said.

  A kind thought. But it depended very much on what Prince Arnaud intended, and his treatment of Devlin so far had given little reason to hope that he might be merciful. Whatever happened, Devlin would simply have to endure. He had to survive until the day came that his captors thought him weak and tame. On that day he would be ready, and he would seize the opportunity to break free and destroy the evil creature that went by the name of Arnaud.

  Thirteen

  THE MAPS DRAKKEN HAD BROUGHT PROVED more valuable than coin, for the travelers were able to make good time while sticking to the lesser known roads and trails. Perhaps it was because they took these seldom traveled ways, but they saw few other travelers. Most of those they encountered were locals, walking on foot as they journeyed between the tiny villages dotting that part of the countryside. Thrice they heard hoofbeats, and each time managed to conceal themselves in the forest before being seen by a mounted patrol.

  When their provisions had run low, they had risked stopping in a village large enough to have shops catering to travelers. She had given Didrik enough coin to buy half the village and instructed him to return swiftly. He had returned three hours later, burdened with provisions, having spent only a small portion of her silver.

  “I told you to be quick,” she had groused.

  “They would remember a man in a hurry who foolishly paid far more than the goods were worth. It was not worth calling attention to us,” Didrik had replied.

  Indeed their small party had drawn few signs of interest. The farmers went about their business, working the small fields while pig herders supervised their charges in the forest. If they appeared somewhat grim, it could be the result of a hard winter rather than the prospect of imminent war. Indeed the others reported the countryside little changed from when they had journeyed here last summer, accompanying Devlin on his quest to expose the traitor Egeslic.

  They followed the pull of the axe, northeast to begin with, and then north. She was surprised, for a part of her had assumed that the Selvarat general would have taken over the seat of the Baroness of Korinth. But the axe led them more north now, nearer where Rosmaar bordered Korinth.

  Oluva reported that there were at least two fortified manors in the area, either of which would make a suitable base. And it was not far from where Major Mikkelson had stationed a substantial portion of his troops, to anchor the western end of his command. If Devlin was being held prisoner, she suspected it would be in one of those encampments. That is if he was still within the borders of Jorsk.

  Even a child knew that Rosmaar was a coastal province, with numerous coves and small ports where a ship could drop anchor. In her darkest moments, Captain Drakken feared that Devlin had already been taken aboard ship for the voyage back to Selvarat, that the axe would show them a path that led over the waves, toward a place where they could not follow. But she kept these grim thoughts to herself, and if the others shared her worries, they did not speak them aloud.

  Reluctantly they left the forest trail and emerged onto a wide road that led north to the coast, and to where they hoped to find Devlin. During the night they had crossed into the territory that made up the Selvarat Protectorate, and they would need to be careful. She had no way of knowing how tightly the province was held in the Selvarats’ grip.

  They would pass a cursory inspection, she had seen to that. She had scoured their possessions, ensuring that there was nothing that could identify them. Their uniform tunics had been discarded, replaced by plainer gear. She still had her cloak, though she had laboriously unpicked the damning insignia. Didrik’s and Stephen’s wardrobes were even odder assortments, for they had bits from Duncaer and the southern lands mixed in with the gear they had purchased in Kingsholm. The very variety of their garb, along with the well-worn weapons they carried, would lend credence to their tale that they were a group of unemployed caravan guards, looking for work.

  But the tale would not hold if someone recognized them. Oluva’s face was known here, and anyone who had spent time in the capital might well recognize Drakken or Didrik. It was a risk, but it was a risk they had to take.

  Their luck almost ran out on their very first day on the main road. As they rounded a curve, they came upon a patrol riding toward them. There was no time to hide, and fleeing would only confirm any suspicions the riders might have.

  “Stick to our story,” she cautioned. “Wait for my signal.”

  There were five of them, four dressed in the livery of provincial armsmen, trailed by a woman who wore the uniform of the Selvarat army. As they approached, Captain Drakken signaled her party to halt.

  “Fair day to you,” she said, as the patrol drew their horses to a halt. She noticed that the armsmen were careful not to bunch up, but rather fanned out to block the road. It would be difficult to take them, but they would if they had to.

  Didrik and Oluva had resumed their practice with the throwing knives. They lacked Devlin’s skill, but they were accurate enough. If she gave the signal, they would take down two of the armsmen before they had a chance to draw their weapons. That would make the odds four against three.

  But there was no assurance of victory, and a missing patrol would call down attention they did not need. Best to try and bluff their way through this encounter.

  “Who are you and where are you bound?” the senior armsman asked.

  “We are travelers, bound for Selborg,” she said. Selborg was a goodly sized town, about two days’ travel from where they were. It was a reasonable destination, and yet not important enough to call attention to them.

  The senior armsman held up his left hand, and she heard the sound of crossbows being cocked. The senior armsmen half drew his sword from its scabbard.

  “Selborg is a half day’s journey south from here. You are riding north,” he said.

  She swore silently to herself. The forest trails had twisted, and they had emerged far more to the north than she had expected.

  “Of course, you are correct,” she said swiftly. She called to mind the dozens of times she herself had interrogated travelers. Appearing too calm would raise their suspicions. She hoped they would think her flustered by their presence. “I meant to say that we are bound from Selborg, where we spent the past night. We are making our way to—”

  “Our affairs are none of your business,” Stephen interrupted her. He nudged his horse forward a few paces.

  The senior armsmen drew his sword, but Stephen seemed unconcerned. She glared at him, wondering what game he was playing at. He might think he was serving as a distraction, but all he was doing was making the armsmen even more nervous, which meant they had lost the element of surprise.

  “I do not speak with lackeys,” Stephen said. His voice dripped with disdain. Most times it was hard to remember that he was the son of a ruling Baron, but in this instanc
e he was every inch the haughty noble’s son.

  He rose in his stirrups and called out a greeting in a language that she did not recognize.

  The Selvarat officer nodded and rode forward.

  Stephen gave a flourishing court bow, a remarkable feat for one on horseback. The officer gave a half bow in return. Still speaking in what she presumed was the Selvarat tongue, Stephen launched into some kind of explanation. He gestured to the party, apparently answering the woman’s questions. After a few moments he beckoned for Oluva to come forward, and seemed to introduce Oluva to the officer.

  Oluva had the sense to play along, smiling and nodding. Drakken, for her part, did her best to look bored, as if she had not a concern in the world. But inside she seethed. If they got out of this, she was going to strangle Stephen. Slowly, and with great pleasure.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, another series of bows were exchanged.

  “Let them pass,” the woman commanded.

  The armsmen sheathed their weapons and parted. Drakken and Didrik rode through, her spine prickling under their unfriendly regard.

  “Ensign Romana has advised me that the roads ahead are in fine shape, and we should reach Dhrynes before nightfall. There is a decent inn there, which she has been kind enough to recommend,” Stephen said.

  “Safe journey to you,” the Selvarat ensign said. At least this time she spoke in the trade tongue. “And remember, the regional proctor will know where your cousin is stationed.”

  “You are kindness indeed. I will remember you to my cousin,” Stephen said.

  With a final nod, he guided his horse forward, and the rest fell in behind him. They rode in silence until Captain Drakken was absolutely certain that they were not being pursued.

  Then she nudged her horse beside Stephen’s. “What did you think you were doing back there?”

  She did not know whether to be furious over the risks he had taken or grateful that his ruse had worked.

  “Saving our hides,” Stephen said tersely.

  “But what did you tell him?”

  “I told him that I was Stephen, son of Gemma of the house of Narine, and that I had learned my cousin Hayden was stationed with the encampment. Naturally, I and my wife Oluva were going to pay our respects to my cousin and offer him our hospitality in this land of barbarians.”

  “Naturally,” she said dryly. “And what if she hadn’t believed you? What would you have done then?”

  Stephen shrugged. “Whatever needed to be done.”

  “What if someone thinks to check your story?” Didrik asked. “They got a very good look at us. Once they find out there is no Stephen of the house Narine, they will have sketches of us plastered across the province.”

  “I am not stupid,” Stephen said. “I did not lie. My mother Gemma is of the house Narine, a half-blood to be sure, but they acknowledge her lineage. And I have a distant cousin named Hayden, who last I heard was a lieutenant in Thania’s army. For all I know he could indeed be among the invading troops. If he isn’t, I could always claim to have been mistaken. Hayden is a common enough name among their folk.”

  “You did well,” she said grudgingly. “But next time you think to take such a risk, tell me first. I do not like being surprised.”

  “I will if there is time,” he said.

  It was the best she could expect.

  “Come now, pick up the pace,” she said. “Now that you have announced our intentions, we had best be sure we reach Dhrynes by nightfall so we can stay in that damn inn. Just in case the ensign thinks to check on us.”

  There was one virtue of Stephen’s improvisation. Till now they had avoided inns, for fear of being recognized. This one night, at least, they would have soft beds and fresh food. And a chance to listen to the other travelers, to find out what else was happening in the province. They had been lucky this time. They could not afford to make any mistakes.

  Master Justin visited the next morning and pronounced himself satisfied, though he grumbled that he could have done a better job if he had been at his full strength. Yet even diminished, his skill was remarkable. Devlin had experienced his share of burns before, mostly due to his own carelessness as an apprentice. Back then he’d been too poor for a healer’s care and had suffered through the blistering soreness, weeping rashes, and tender healing skin that split open at a touch. But now, after less than a day, his wounds were visibly smaller. And the pain, which should have been incapacitating, had softened into mere discomfort.

  The healer’s manner had improved, and if he was not particularly kind neither did he vent his anger upon his patient. Instead he was nearly civil, even going so far as to inform Devlin that Prince Arnaud had ridden out to consult with his commanders and was not expected back until late that day.

  Devlin thanked him when he had finished his work. Master Justin was not much of an ally, but he was all that Devlin had. Even if he were not willing to help Devlin make his escape, he still had access to information that could prove vital. And, should Devlin continue to need his services, there might come a time when he could be convinced to slip Devlin a weapon. A scalpel or even a small knife could give Devlin the edge he needed to take down his guards.

  And if Master Justin was unwilling to provide direct aid, he might well prove useful as a hostage or distraction. It was worth cultivating his forbearance.

  Though for Master Justin to continue his visits, Devlin must be injured again. It was not a pleasant thought.

  As sunset approached, a servant arrived with fresh clothing and Devlin was instructed to dress. Again he had a full escort as if he was a particularly savage animal who might attack at any moment. He grinned for a moment, wondering how they would react if he were suddenly to growl. His apparent cheerfulness seemed to make his escort nervous, so he continued to smile, even as they drew near the room where he had been tortured.

  To his hidden relief they passed that room and instead descended to the ground floor. He was led into a well-lit dining room, where a table had been laid out with two places. Devlin was seated at the near side of the table, and this time they chained his left arm to the chair, along with both his legs. But his right arm was left free.

  Not that he could do much with his arm, unless he intended to hurl his plate at Prince Arnaud, or perhaps stab him with a fork.

  As if thinking of him conjured him up, the Prince entered the room, followed by a pair of servants in livery.

  “Chosen One, I am glad to see you looking so well,” he said. His face beamed with pleasure, as if he had somehow forgotten that he had been the author of Devlin’s suffering.

  A servant pulled back the chair and Prince Arnaud took the place opposite Devlin’s. “I thought we might dine together and get a chance to become better acquainted,” the Prince said.

  It was all a piece of his madness, but Devlin had no choice except to play along.

  “Master Justin is a treasure, is he not? I found him serving a noble’s house. The noble did not deserve him, he had no idea how to make use of him. But I did. Just as I know how to make use of you,” Arnaud said.

  “I have always believed a man should choose his own path,” Devlin said.

  “Yes, but your path has hardly been of your own making, has it?”

  The observation cut close to the bone, but before Devlin could think of a reply, the door swung open. A pair of servants brought out the first course, a clear fish broth and a plate of bread for each of them. Wine was poured for the Prince, but in front of Devlin was placed a tall tankard of what appeared to be ale.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Try it, and tell me what you think,” the Prince urged him.

  Devlin lifted the tankard and took a sip. It was indeed ale from Duncaer. A touch bitter from the long journey, but far more to his taste than the finest wine would ever be.

  “Is it good?” the Prince asked.

  “It is decent,” Devlin said.

  “Wonderful. My cook thought the cask spoiled and n
early threw it out, but I assured him you would like it.”

  This was insanity. The Prince was behaving as if Devlin were an honored guest rather than a prisoner. If he had just met him, Devlin might well have mistaken the Prince for a man of honor and breeding. That is until he looked into his eyes. The Prince could smile and feign affability, but his cold gaze told the true story of his soul.

  “Quite a pleasant country, really,” the Prince said, launching into an account of the day’s activities.

  Devlin listened, making murmuring noises where appropriate. The Prince was remarkably frank with him, revealing that he had traveled to his encampment to discuss the disposition of his troops and to settle a matter of precedence between the allies. From his comments Devlin surmised that the occupying forces were composed of two disparate groups. The first were regular troops from the Selvarat army. The second was a contingent of mercenaries, loyal to the Prince. That matched with what he had witnessed himself, in the strange mix of soldiers surrounding the Prince.

  Even Devlin could see the difficulty of requiring the two units to work together. The disciplined troops of the army would despise the mercenaries, whom they saw as feckless opportunists who would cut and run if faced with real danger. The mercenaries, for their part, would resent any attempt by the army to control them.

  It was a useful bit of information to have. If one could find a way to drive a wedge between the two groups, it would hinder any plans the Prince might have to extend his dominion. He wondered why the Prince was speaking so freely in front of him. Was it because he still expected somehow to win Devlin over to his side? Or was it because he planned on killing Devlin before he had a chance to make use of this information?

  The fish soup was cleared away and replaced by roasted lamb. Devlin’s portion had been neatly sliced into small pieces, as if he were a small child who could not be trusted with a knife. But while he had only two utensils, the Prince had the elaborate array of one eating a state dinner, including a set of three knives. Devlin glared at them. They were only a short distance away, but chained as he was they might as well have been in the next village.