Copyright 2020 by Stephen L. Hadley
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Duke of Minds
By Stephen L. Hadley
Chapter One
Duke Leo VanOrden couldn’t sleep.
That was hardly a new development; he’d tossed and turned endlessly every night for the past two weeks. Worse, he’d tried everything he could think of to correct the matter. Wine, women, and even working himself to exhaustion sparring with Lucius. None of it helped.
And so, clad in his nightclothes and a rich, woolen robe, he wandered. The Ducal quarters at the center of the Ministry of Justice were still new enough to him that he’d not yet tired of the exercise. The pair of halberd-wielding elven guards who trailed silent and obedient in his wake, however, were a different story. Pausing before the life-sized portrait of one of his predecessors, Leo ground his teeth as the elves’ muffled footsteps reached him.
He couldn’t begrudge their duty, of course. Nor could he blame them for the effort they made to minimize their presence. But, strangely, that almost made it worse. A month ago, he could have slipped out to roam the streets of Ansiri, unguarded and unobserved. Those nightly walks had been as refreshing as they were foolish. But now, with the city ready to tear itself apart at a moment’s notice, such things were impossible.
Not that it stopped him from missing them.
The sound of a latch turning echoed down the darkened hall. Leo moved swiftly, ducking into the shadows of an adjoining passageway as a door opened some twenty paces off. The young, blonde woman who emerged wore the simple, linen nightgown of a servant. She carried a taper in one hand. Though, from the way she cradled the flame with the other, Leo could scarcely imagine why she’d bothered.
He held his breath on instinct as the woman started down the hall toward him. Then, he sighed. What was he doing? He was the Duke, for goodness sake. And, knowing his luck, the woman would spot him at the worst possible moment, drop her candle at the sight of his skulking, and scream loud enough to wake every last person in the servants’ quarters.
Leo sighed, knocking the heel of his boot against the stone wall. The noise was quiet enough but echoed faintly through the empty hall. And, as he’d hoped, the woman merely flinched as she stepped into view.
“Your Excellency!” she gasped, hastily curtseying. Upon noticing that she had only one hand with which to do so, she blushed and dropped her gaze. “Forgive me, I, uh—”
“It’s fine,” Leo said, dismissing her concern with a wave. “I doubt you were expecting me…”
“Clara,” she supplied, blushing deeper. “It’s Clara, Your Excellency.”
“Leo,” he replied. He grinned as the woman’s eyes widened. “You can save titles for the daytime.”
“As… as you wish, Yo—Leo.”
He leaned against the wall, staring up at the arched stone above him. His wife would likely have criticized him for his laxness in both posture and manners. As much as he cared for Cirilla, she was like that, especially now that he was Duke. But rules and courtesies hadn’t helped him sleep. So, perhaps letting down his guard a little would do.
“So, Clara,” he said, still staring upward. “What’s got you roaming the halls at this hour?”
She didn’t respond. Leo glanced over, half-expecting the woman to have fled. But, no, she hadn’t. Rather, she stood stiff as a board and quickly dropped her eyes the second his gaze settled onto her.
“T’was nothing, Your Excellency,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep. And, well, I’ve a friend who works in the kitchens. I had thought to talk with her a bit.”
“The kitchens?” he said. “Well, now I know who to blame if my breakfast arrives cold.”
“I—” Clara stammered. “I would never dream of—”
“I’m teasing,” Leo explained. It was hard not to regret his joke, innocent though his intentions had been. Clara was practically trembling and appeared ready to weep at any moment. “Relax. You’ve done nothing wrong. I couldn’t sleep either.”
To his surprise, Clara lifted her face. There was a curious look to her eyes, part intrigue and part reluctance. She glanced at his guards, who lingered patiently near the end of the hall, then flashed a nervous smile.
“You couldn’t?” she asked, almost murmuring the words. “Is that… a frequent affliction?”
He inclined his head. “Recently, yes,” he admitted.
She took a step toward him and froze. Her face reddened, at her own boldness, presumably. Then, averting her eyes, she advanced within arm’s reach. The scent of smoke and lilac hung thick in the air.
“If…” she began, haltingly. “That is, if Your Excellency wanted…”
Leo knew what she was about to propose, even before the words left her lips. He’d heard such coy invitations before, most often from Delia. And although he knew what his answer would be, he did not interrupt. Some part of him admired Clara’s courage, pointless though its use had been.
“I wouldn’t object if… if you wanted to retire. There are plenty of rooms, so we haven’t needed to share. The bed is small, but—”
“You’re sweet, Clara,” Leo interrupted, gently. Reaching out, he stroked her cheek with a knuckle. “And I’m flattered. Truly. A few months, hell, a few weeks ago, I would even have accepted. But, I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Clara hesitated then pressed a hand to her breast. Her nightgown, modest and flowing though it was, clung to her willowy frame as she stepped closer to press herself lightly against him. The candle shook as she held it aside, but close enough that Leo could feel the flame’s warmth every bit as much as that of her body on his.
“It’s no trouble, m’lord,” she said. Her words emerged with growing urgency. “Please. I shan’t tell a soul. You wouldn’t even have to—”
“Enough,” Leo snapped. The woman’s insistence had broken through the thin layer of his flattered amusement, allowing his sleepless irritation to come bubbling to the surface. He pushed her away, indelicately but not overly hard. “You have my answer, girl. Now, be on your way.”
Clara stiffened, her brow furrowing slightly. For a moment, she looked as if she might respond. She didn’t. Instead, with a flick of her wrist, she flung the taper at Leo’s face and thrust a hand down the neck of her nightgown.
Leo dodged, clumsily swatting the candle aside. His eyes widened as Clara drew her knife. The silver of its blade glinted briefly in the candlelight.
He hurled himself into the hall, stumbling and nearly colliding headfirst into the far wall.
“To me!” he roared, whirling.
He didn’t glance at his distant guards. There was no time. Clara lunged at him, knife raised. He knocked her arm aside, breaking out in a cold sweat as the blade scraped coarsely against the wall beside his head. Kicking blindly, he managed to drive the woman back.
Clara grunted as she was struck. Then, much to Leo’s surprise, she lost her balance and fell. The knife fell from her fingers, sliding noisily across the stone floor.
He had no time to consider his options. Growling, Leo launched himself at the would-be assassin. Clara was scrambling, hands outstretched to retrieve her weapon. She cried out in pain as Leo landed atop her back. He yanked her hand away from the knife. Then, seizing a handful of golden hair, he pinned her down.
“Who sent you?” he snarled. “How did you know I’d be here?”
Clara
moaned but did not answer. She struggled weakly to free her wrist and, failing that, to squirm free of his weight. Both efforts proved in vain.
“Answer me!” he bellowed, his bared teeth inches from her ear.
She didn’t. And, a few seconds later, his guards reached him and tossed their halberds noisily aside. The first kicked the knife aside, safely out of reach. The other crouched at Leo’s side, grasped Clara’s unsecured arm, and twisted it with such a brutal efficiency that she cried out again.
“Hurt, Master?” the first elf demanded.
Leo shook his head, climbing shakily to his feet to allow them room. The elf’s curt words had shaken him. He’d agreed early on, at Lucius’ suggestion, that his guards be freed from the normal protocols of regal propriety. In emergencies, there was rarely time for an abundance of ‘if it please Your Excellency.’ But to hear such language used now, and in his own palace…
“Master?” prompted one of the pair. Kneeling astride Clara’s wrist, the elf glanced at him. “What would you like done with this one?”
He tried to consider the question, but it was difficult to think past the sound of the blood pounding in his ears.
After a few seconds of silence, the other elf turned to look at him as well.
“It’s not far to the gallows,” he suggested. “And it’s still dark, so there likely wouldn’t be any witnesses. Or, if you’d prefer, we could take her back to the barracks and handle it privately.”
“Please!” Clara cried out. She thrashed, trying unsuccessfully to meet Leo’s gaze. “Please, I’m sorry, Your Excellency! Leo! It was a mistake! I didn’t… they didn’t give me a choice! Please!”
Leo exhaled a slow, steadying breath. He was suddenly very, very tired, and not in the way he usually was of late.
“How are the dungeons?” he asked.
“Old,” answered the second elf. “Most of the cells are rusted, so we’ll need to post a guard.”
“Do it,” he said. “Once she’s secure, inform your commander what happened. And make certain that Baron Lucius is informed as well. I’m sure he’ll want to question her.”
“It will be done, Your Excellency. Would you care to accompany us? Under the circumstances, I think—”
“I’ll be fine,” Leo assured him. Cracking a grim smile, he gestured down the hall in both directions. Here and there, doors had begun to open, the rooms’ inhabitants peeking out with concerned expressions. “We probably woke half of the people here. You don’t need to worry about leaving me unguarded. You can go.”
“As you command.”
He stepped aside as the elves stood, each firmly grasping the woman by an arm. She rose without a struggle, her cheeks wet with tears and her eyes desperately seeking Leo’s as if she might achieve leniency by that connection alone. He ignored her, turning aside until the elves half-led, half-dragged her away. Then, and only then, did he step forward to retrieve her fallen knife.
The weapon was slender and small. The hilt, too, was so petite that he could not even grasp it comfortably in his hand. It had been wrapped in linen of a nearly identical color to both the silver blade and Clara’s nightgown. That, perhaps, explained why he had failed to notice its presence when worn beneath the garment. But, even more disturbing than his poor observation skills were the lengths to which the assassin and her employer had gone.
There were two possibilities. Either they had succeeded in turning one of his servants against him through threats or bribery, or they had managed to slip an agent into the pool of recent hires. It was difficult to say which prospect was more disquieting. Worse still, it was readily apparent that word of his nocturnal wandering had spread. How else would Clara have known to expect him? Even if it had been partly coincidence, she was clearly conscious enough of the possibility to wear her hidden knife beneath her nightgown.
Leo shuddered. If he’d been desperate enough to accept the woman’s amorous invitation, there’d have been no help for him. Trying to knife him in the hallway was a bold, somewhat risky proposition. Doing the same while he lay defenseless and distracted on a servant’s bed was quite a different story.
“Leo!”
The sudden cry startled him, and he looked up to find Cirilla hurrying toward him. She was trailed by a trio of guards, one of whom carried aloft a lantern. All three were elves by the shape of their armor and all keenly aware of the recent violence by the hand each rested on the pommel of their sheathed swords. His wife, however, charged headlong without any such considerations.
Leo grinned, acknowledging her presence with a flippant wave. Like him, Cirilla was dressed in her nightclothes. Though, unlike him, she’d thrown a thin, richly embroidered dressing gown over the simpler garments. Not that it added much. At some point during her dash to his side, the gown had grown disheveled, hanging loosely off one shoulder until it resembled a hastily wrapped blanket. Her dark, normally tidy hair was equally tousled and looked suspiciously as though she’d just climbed out of bed.
Which, unless something had changed in the hour since he’d left it, she had.
“Are you hurt?” Cirilla demanded. She grabbed his arm, turning it and inspecting him without waiting for an answer. “What happened?”
“A servant,” Leo said. Lifting the silver knife, he offered it to her. “She tried to stick me.”
She took the knife, examining it with narrow eyes. Then, frown deepening, she glanced around the hallway and seemed to notice the curious eyes watching them from every angle.
“Go back to bed,” she instructed loudly. Then, stepping closer to Leo, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Here? Just… out in the open?”
“It wasn’t her first choice,” he admitted. “She kept trying to lure me back to her room. I expect she wanted to do it there.”
“Bitch,” Cirilla spat, her eyes flashing dangerously. “You didn’t hang her, did you?”
“Of course not. I’m going to have Lucius question her first.”
She nodded, the tension in her face draining away to reveal a thin-lipped smile. “Good,” she said. “I just hope he works fast.”
Leo chuckled despite himself and pulled her warmly into his arms. He was all too aware of the ears of Cirilla’s escorts, even as they steadfastly pretended not to observe either of their noble charges. Still, he couldn’t quite help but stoop close to her ear before speaking.
“Well,” he whispered. “Hopefully not too fast.”
Even with Cirilla’s face hidden, buried against his chest, he could feel her smile.
***
Strange though it seemed, the hours that followed Leo’s near brush with death were among the most restful he’d had in weeks. He slept dreamlessly and without stirring. It felt to him as though he’d only just closed his eyes when he was roused by the sound of a voice calling his name.
That by itself was nothing unusual. Cirilla had begun initiating more and more since his return from Sutherpoint, though Leo couldn’t say whether she was simply making up for lost time or if her frequent, amorous moods were an unexpected benefit of pregnancy. In either case, he wasn’t about to complain.
He rolled, expecting to find her waiting with a coy smile. Instead, he found her spot abandoned.
“Leo,” Nyssa said. “Sorry to wake you. It’s urgent.”
He rolled the opposite way and was about to groan when his complaint died on his lips. Nyssa wore a tense scowl, her full armor, and most significantly of all, both of her swords. Leo’s eyes flicked to Mihal’s, belted in its usual spot on the trow’s left hip. Then, wordlessly and without further hesitation, he climbed swiftly out of bed and began to dress.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“About dawn. We would have waited, but your wife insisted that—”
“Never mind that. What’s going on?”
“There’s been a riot,” Nyssa said. She approached before he could ask and began adjusting his collar where it peeked above his gold-trimmed mantle.
“Hired thugs, we think. Some of Davin’s men brought the news. They’re looking for the ones responsible.”
“Damn it,” he growled. “The whole point in relying on her was to prevent this sort of thing!”
Nyssa didn’t acknowledge his grumbling. Instead, she studied him, nodded, and made for the door. Leo followed, rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes.
“What else?” he asked.
“Besides the assassin? I don’t know. You should ask Cirilla; she’s waiting for you.”
She was, indeed, though not idly as he’d unthinkingly assumed. His wife stood in the main antechamber, just past the Duke’s formal chamber, surrounded by a host of dozens. A few were guards, elves mostly, who gripped their hilted weapons as if ready for an attack at any second. The majority of the rest were servants or functionaries and trickled away in ones and twos as they were tasked with relevant duties. So efficiently did Cirilla assign them, in fact, that all but a few had departed by the time he reached her side. Their parting, however, made room enough for him to spy the rest of the assembled number and brought a grin to his face.
Atarah and Fanette spotted him first and greeted him with identical nods before hastening to Nyssa’s side. The trow looked as though they were there for a purpose similar to the rest of the elves, but there was a palpable decrease in tension once they’d stepped away. Leo supposed he ought to have been grateful, but witnessing the continued tensions between his elves and trow was disappointing nevertheless.
Karran spotted him next, her crimson features lighting up at the sight. She hurried over, grasping his arm tightly and conveying with her amber eyes what her mute lips could not.
Safe, he gestured.
Karran’s smile broadened at his use of handspeech. Happy, she replied.
Her happiness didn’t last long, nor did her smile. With an enthusiastic hiss and the flaring of massive, ice-blue wings, Sann burst from the center of the throng and landed haphazardly by Leo’s side. Flashing a mouthful of wicked fangs, she seized his other arm and pressed herself bodily against it.
Duke of Minds (Master of Monsters Book 4) Page 1