“There was no call to say that,” said Trian softly. “You wounded him deeply.”
“And who is this ‘courier,’ ” returned Hugh, “who hands out the monies of the royal treasury and worries about a king’s feelings?”
“You are right.” The young man had turned slightly toward the window and Hugh could see him smile. “I am not a courier. I am the king’s magus.”
Hugh raised an eyebrow. “Young, aren’t you, Magicka?”
“I am older than I appear,” answered Trian lightly. “Wars and kingship age a man. Magic does not. And now, if you will accompany me, I have clothing and supplies for your journey, as well as the information you require. This way.”
The wizard stood aside to allow Hugh to pass. Trian’s manner was respectful, but the Hand noted that the wizard was deftly blocking the corridor down which Stephen had passed with his body. Hugh turned in the direction indicated. Trian paused to pick up the glowlamp, removed the screen, and walked near Hugh, hovering close at his elbow.
“You must, of course, look and act the part of a nobleman, and we have provided suitable costume. One reason you were chosen is the fact that you are gently born, though not acknowledged. There is a true air of aristocracy about you that is inbred. The prince is highly intelligent and would not be fooled by a clod in expensive clothes.”
After a short walk of no more than ten steps, the wizard brought Hugh to a halt outside one of the many doors lining the corridor. Using the same iron key, Trian inserted it into the lock and the door opened. Hugh stepped inside, and they traversed a corridor that ran at an angle to the first. This corridor was not as well-kept as the former. The walls were crumbling. Footing was treacherous on the cracked floor, and both Hugh and the wizard trod carefully and cautiously. Turning left, they entered another corridor; another left turn brought them to a third. Each successive corridor was shorter than the one previous. They were, Hugh recognized, moving deeper into the building’s interior. After this, they began a series of zigs and zags-turns taken seemingly at random. Trian talked the entire way.
“It was advisable that we learn all we could about you. I know that you were born on the wrong side of the sheets following your father’s liaison with a serving wench, and that your noble father-whose name, by the way, I was unable to discover-cast your mother out into the streets. She died during the elven attack on Firstfall and you were taken in and raised by Kir monks.” Trian shuddered. “It must not have been an easy life,” he said in a low undertone with a glance at the chill walls that surrounded them.
Hugh saw no need to comment and so kept silent. If the wizard thought to confuse or distract him by this conversation and the circumvolved route they were taking, Trian was not succeeding. Kir monasteries are built generally along the same plans-a square inner courtyard surrounded on two sides by the monks’ cells. On the third side were housed those who served the monks or, like Hugh, orphans taken in by the order. Here, too, were the kitchens, the “study” rooms, and the infirmary… .
… The boy lying on the straw pallet on the stone floor tossed and turned. Though it was bitterly cold in the dark, unheated room, the child’s skin burned with an unnatural heat and he had, in his convulsive struggles, thrown aside the thin blanket used to cover his bare limbs. A second boy, some years older than the sick child, who appeared to be about nine cycles, entered the chamber and stared pityingly down at his friend. In his hands, the older boy carried a bowl of water. Placing it carefully upon the floor, he knelt beside the sick child and, dipping his fingers into the water, dabbled the liquid onto the dry, fever-parched lips.
This seemed to ease the child’s suffering. His thrashings stopped and his glazed eyes turned to see who cared for him. A wan smile spread over the thin, pale face. The older boy, with an answering smile, tore a piece of fabric from his ragged clothes and placed it in the water. Wringing it out, careful not to waste a drop, he sponged the child’s hot forehead.
“It’ll be all right-” the older boy started to say, when a dark shadow loomed over them, a cold and bony hand grasped his wrist.
“Hugh! What are you doing?” The voice was chill and dank and dark as the room.
“I-I was helping Rolf, Brother. He has the fever and Gran Maude said that if it didn’t break he’d die-“
“Die?” The voice shook the stone chamber. “Of course he will die! It is his privilege to die an innocent child and escape the evil to which mankind is heir. That evil which daily must be scourged from our weak shells.” The hand forced Hugh to his knees. “Pray, Hugh. Pray that your sin in attempting to thwart the ancestor’s will by performing the unnatural act of healing be forgiven you. Pray for death-“
The sick child whimpered and stared up at the monk in fear. Hugh flung aside the hand that held him down. “I’ll pray for death,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “I’ll pray for yours.”
The blow of the monk’s staff caught Hugh across his upper body. He staggered. The second blow knocked him to the floor. Blows rained down upon the boy’s body until the monk grew too tired to lift the weapon. Then he stalked out of the infirmary. The water bowl had been broken during the beating. Bruised and battered, Hugh groped about in the darkness until he found the rag-wet with water or his own blood, he didn’t know which. But it was cool and soothing and he placed it gently on the forehead of his friend.
Lifting the thin body in his arms, Hugh held the sick boy close, rocking him awkwardly, soothing him until the body in his arms ceased to twitch and shiver and grew still and cold… .
“At the age of sixteen,” Trian was continuing, “you ran away from the Kir. The monk to whom I spoke said that before you left, you broke into their record rooms and learned the identity of your father. Did you find him?”
“Yeah,” answered the Hand, inwardly thinking: So this Trian has gone to some trouble over me. The magus has actually been to the Kir. He has questioned them, extensively, it seemed. Which means . , . Yes, of course. Now, isn’t that interesting? Who will learn more about whom during this little walk?
“A nobleman?” Trian probed delicately.
“So he called himself. He was, in reality-how did you phrase it?-a clod in expensive clothes.”
“You speak in the past tense. Your father is dead?”
“I killed him.”
Halting, Trian stared at him. “You chill me to the bone! To speak of such a thing so carelessly-“
“Why the hell should I care?” Hugh kept walking and Trian had to hurry to catch up. “When the bastard found out who I was, he came at me with his sword. I fought him-bare-handed. The sword ended up in his belly. I swore it was an accident, and the sheriff believed me. After all, I was only a boy and my ‘noble’ father was well-known for his lecherous ways-girls, youths, it didn’t matter to him. I didn’t tell anyone who I was, but let them think I was someone my father had abducted. The Kir had seen to it that I was well-educated. I can sound high-bred when I want to. The sheriff assumed I was some nobleman’s son, stolen to feed my father’s lust. He was more than willing to hush up the old lech’s death, rather than start a blood feud.”
“But it wasn’t an accident, was it?”
A stone turned under Trian’s foot. He reached out instinctively to Hugh, who caught the wizard’s elbow and steadied him. They were descending, moving deeper and deeper into the monastery’s interior.
“No, it wasn’t an accident. I wrested the sword from him; it was easy, he was drunk. I spoke my mother’s name, told him where she was buried, and stuck the blade in his gut. He died too quick. I’ve learned, since then.”
Trian was pale, silent. Lifting the glowlamp in its iron lantern, he flashed it into Hugh’s deeply lined, grim face. “The prince must not suffer,” the wizard said.
“So, back to business.” Hugh grinned at him. “And we were having such a pleasant chat. What did you hope to find out? That I’m not as bad as my reputation? Or the opposite? That I’m worse.”
Trian was apparently not to be
drawn off onto any side paths. Keeping his hand on Hugh’s arm, he leaned close, speaking softly, though the only ones to hear them that the assassin could see were bats.
“It must be swift and clean. Unexpected. No fear. Perhaps, in his sleep. There are poisons-“
Hugh jerked his arm from the man’s touch. “I know my business. I’ll handle it that way, if that’s what you want. You’re the customer. Or rather, I take it you speak for the customer.”
“That is what we want.”
Reassured, sighing, Trian walked only a short distance further, then halted before another locked door. Instead of opening it, he placed the glowlamp on the floor and indicated with a motion of his hand that Hugh was to look inside. Stooping, placing his eye to the keyhole, the assassin peered into the room.
The Hand rarely felt emotion of any sort, never showed it. In this instance, however, his bored and disinterested glance through the keyhole at his intended victim sharpened to an intense, narrow-eyed stare. He was not looking at the plotting, scheming youth of eighteen who had sprung from Hugh’s reasoning. Curled up on a pallet, fast asleep, was a towheaded, wistful-faced child who could not be older than ten.
Slowly Hugh straightened. The wizard, lifting the glowlamp, scanned the assassin’s face. It was dark and frowning, and Trian sighed again, his delicate brows creased in worry. Placing a finger on his lips, he led Hugh to another room two doors down from the first. He unlocked it with the key, drew Hugh inside and softly shut the door.
“Ah,” the wizard said softly, “there’s a problem, isn’t there?”
Hugh gave the room in which they stood a swift and comprehensive glance, then looked back at the anxious magus. “Yeah, I could use a smoke. They took my pipe away from me in prison. Got another?”
CHAPTER 6
KIR MONASTERY, VOLKARAN ISLES, MID REALM
“BUT YOU FROWNED, YOU SEEMED ANGRY. I ASSUMED-“
“-that I was feeling squeamish about butchering a small child?”
It is his privilege to die an innocent child, and escape the evil to which mankind is heir. The words came to him from the past. It was this dark and chill room, the cracked stone walls that brought the memory back to him. Hugh drove it down into the depths of his mind, sorry he’d recalled it. A warming blaze burned in the firepit. He lifted a coal with the tongs and held it to the bowl of a pipe the magus had produced from a pack lying on the floor. Stephen, it seemed, had thought of everything.
A few puffs and the sterego [4] glowed and old memories faded. “The frown was for myself, because I’d made a mistake. I’d misjudged … something. That sort of mistake can be costly. I would be interested to know, however, what a kid that age could have done to earn an early death.”
“One might say … he was born,” answered Trian, seemingly before he thought, because he cast Hugh a swift furtive glance to see if he’d heard.
There was very little the assassin missed. Hugh paused, the hot coal held over the smoking bowl, and stared quizzically at the wizard.
Trian flushed. “You are being paid well enough not to ask questions,” he retorted. “In fact, here is your money.”
Fumbling in a purse that hung at his side, he produced a handful of coins and counted out fifty one-hundred-barl pieces.
“I trust the king’s marker will be sufficient?” Trian held it out.
Hugh, raising an eyebrow, tossed the coal back into the fire. “Only if I can collect on it.”
Puffing on the pipe to keep it lit, the Hand accepted the money and inspected it carefully. The coins were genuine, all right. A water barrel was stamped on the front, a likeness (though not a good one) of Stephen’s head adorned the back. In a realm where most things were obtained by either barter or stealing (the king himself was a notorious pirate whose ravages committed among the elven shipping had helped him win his throne), the “double barl” coin as it was called was rarely seen, much less used. Its value was exchangeable in the precious commodity-water. [5]
This job would make Hugh’s fortune. He would never have to work again, if he chose. And all for killing one little kid.
There is an abundance of water in the Low Realm-those isles in the heart of a perpetual storm known as the Maelstrom. But no dragon has yet been found who will fly into the Maelstrom. The elves, with their magical, mechanical dragonships, are able to sail the storm-tossed route and consequently hold a virtual monopoly on water. The prices the elves charge-when they’ll sell it to humans at all-are exorbitant. Therefore, the raiding of elven transport ships and of water storage ports is not only financially lucrative for humans, it is a matter of life or death.
It didn’t make sense. Hugh balanced the coins in his hand and stood looking at the wizard.
“Very well, I suppose you must know something,” Trian admitted reluctantly. “You are, of course, familiar with the current situation between Volkaran and Uylandia?”
“No.”
On a small table stood a pitcher, a large bowl, and a mug. Tossing the money on the table, the assassin lifted the water jug and, pouring its contents into the mug, tasted it critically. “Low Realm stuff. Not bad.”
“Water for drinking and washing. You must at least appear to be a nobleman,” returned Trian irritably. “In looks and smell. And what do you mean, you know nothing of politics?”
Casting off his cloak, Hugh leaned over the bowl and plunged his face into the water. Laving it over his shoulders, he picked up a bar of lye soap and began to scrub his skin, wincing slightly when the lather stung the raw lash marks on his back. “You spend two days in Yreni prison and see how you smell. As for politics, they have nothing to do with my business, beyond providing the occasional customer or two. I didn’t even know for certain Stephen had a son-“
“Well, he does.” The wizard’s voice was cold. “And he also has a wife. It is no secret that their marriage is strictly one of convenience, to keep their two powerful nations from going for each other’s throats and leaving us at the mercy of the elves. The lady would like very much, however, to have power consolidated in her hands. The crown of Volkaran cannot be passed on to a female, and the only way Anne can take control is through her son. We recently discovered her plot. My king barely escaped with his life this time. We fear he would not a next.”
“And so you get rid of the kid. That solves your problem, I guess, but leaves your king without an heir.”
Pipe clamped firmly between his teeth, Hugh stripped off his pants and splashed water abundantly over his naked body. Trian turned his back, either from modesty or perhaps sickened by the sight of numerous weals and battle scars-some fresh-that marred the assassin’s skin.
“Stephen is not a fool. That problem is being resolved. When we declare war upon Aristagon, the nations will unite, including the queen’s own. During the war, Stephen will divorce Anne and marry a woman of Volkaran. Fortunately His Majesty is of an age that he can still father children-many children. The war will force the nations to remain united despite Anne’s divorce. By the time peace comes-if ever-Uylandia will be too weakened, too dependent on Stephen to break the ties.”
“Very clever,” Hugh conceded. Tossing the towel aside, he drank two mugs of the cool, sweet-tasting Low Realm water, then relieved himself in a chamber pot in a corner. Refreshed, he began to look over the various articles of clothing that were folded neatly upon a cot. “And what’ll make the elves go to war? They’ve got their own problems.”
“I thought you knew nothing of politics,” muttered Trian caustically. “The cause of war will be the … death of the prince.”
“Ah!” Hugh drew on the underclothing and the thick woolen hose. “All very neat and tidy. That’s why you must trust the deed to me, rather than handle it yourself with a few magics in the castle.”
“Yes.” Trian’s voice broke on the word; he nearly choked. The Hand paused in the act of drawing a shirt on over his head to give the magus a sharp glance. The wizard kept his back turned, however. Hugh’s eyes narrowed. Laying the p
ipe aside, he continued to dress himself, but more slowly, paying keen attention to every nuance of the wizard’s words and tone.
“The child’s body must be found by our people on Aristagon. Not a difficult task. When the word goes forth that the prince has been taken captive by the elves, there will be raiding parties sent to look for him. I will provide you with a list of locations. We understand you have a dragonship-“
“Of elven make and design. Isn’t that convenient?” Hugh responded. “You had this well-thought-out, didn’t you? Even to the point of framing me for Lord Rogar’s murder.”
Hugh pulled on a velvet doublet, black, braided in gold. A sword lay on the bed. Picking it up, examining it critically, Hugh slid the blade from the sheath and tested it with a quick, deft flick of his wrist. Satisfied, he replaced the blade and buckled the sword belt around his waist. He slipped his dagger into the top of his boot.
“And not only framing me for murder. Maybe committing the murder, as well?”
“No!” Trian turned to face him. “The house wizard murdered his lord, as you, I gather, have already guessed. We were on the watch and merely took advantage of the situation. Your dagger was ‘appropriated’ and substituted for the one in the body. The word was whispered to that knight friend of yours to the effect that you were in the neighborhood.”
“You let me lay my head on the blood-slimed stone, let me see that maniac standing above me with his dull sword. And then you save my life and think that fear alone will buy me.”
“It would have another man. With you, I had my doubts and-as you may have gathered-I had already expressed them to Stephen.”
“So I take the kid to Aristagon, murder him, leave the body for the grieving father to find, who then shakes his fist and vows vengeance on the elves, and all humankind marches off to war. Won’t it occur to someone that the elves aren’t really that stupid? They don’t need war with us right now. This rebellion of theirs is serious business.”
Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1) Page 5