Lords of Deception

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Lords of Deception Page 12

by Christopher C Fuchs


  “The Donovards are certain to blame us for their deaths regardless,” Graf said. “We have nothing to lose by helping them kill all the lord ministers.”

  “Some are already blaming us,” Meliamour said. “Not only for the deaths of Maillard and Raymond, but for the collapse of the Empire Alliance. They also say we’re plotting to overthrow Erech.”

  “We should be,” Graf said, his tone sharpening. “Better yet, if we invade Donovan it will put us in a stronger position. If we at least take back Durgensdil once and for all, the Donovards will be too frightened to cause us any trouble.”

  “I disagree,” Herzol said. “Attacking Alpenon Ministry—or Durgensdil, if you still insist on calling it that—will only invite a larger war. We should be focused on increasing our influence peacefully at this time. Perhaps strengthening our alliances and—”

  “The sword is the only true influence,” Graf said.

  “Your opinions are noted, Graf,” Theudamer said, raising his hand. “We share your lifelong desire to bring Durgensdil back into Rugenhav, but the time to invade has not yet come. Herzol, I heeded your earlier advice not to begin our plan to eliminate Erech’s high nobles. But now I must consider how to make the most of the current situation, as well as identify who is behind their deaths.”

  “Your Majesty, in her letters Vesamune also reported on the status of the Wosmoks,” Meliamour said. “Their recent mission failed. Most were killed and the rest captured but subsequently drowned when their prison carriage overturned in a river in Wallevet Ministry.”

  “Most?” Herzol asked with concern.

  “Your son, Wredegar, survived,” Meliamour told Herzol. “Along with one other. The rest perished, including Commander Garentorf.”

  “I warned this council…” Herzol said, shaking his head. “Too dangerous, too provocative.”

  “It seems the Donovards did not know who our Wosmoks actually were,” Meliamour said. “I often have them dress as thieves and beggars, and their Donovar speech must be impeccable.”

  “Promote Wredegar,” Theudamer said. “Give him command of the Wosmoks deployed to Donovan, and pull those Wosmoks who can speak Donovar out of Austveeden and send them to Eglamour to serve under Wredegar.”

  “I’ll send the courier at once,” Meliamour said.

  “Tell Wredegar to find out who is killing the lord ministers, but to stand down on further missions for now. He should stay in Eglamour until his new Wosmoks arrive. And tell Vesamune I want to know how Erech is responding to everything. If he continues to weaken we may be forced to take our opportunities while they are still there for the taking.”

  “Must Wredegar continue as a Wosmok?” Herzol asked. “My son is eager to take off the cloak of a widsemer and don knight’s armor again. It is time he ruled over his ancestral lands.”

  “Wredegar is one of my most capable ghosts,” Meliamour said.

  “Herzol, as long as your brother rules the Ward of Auftengardin, your family’s ancestral lands are well taken care of,” Theudamer said. “Wredegar’s current calling is in my service as a Wosmok. If he commands his unit well, he will be rewarded when he returns to Rugenhav.”

  26. FETZER

  Near Lyonseln Port

  Midspring, 3034

  They won’t tell me much, but Juhl has shared that the Order of the Candlestone is ancient, its roots planted before the first kingdom of this continent became independent from the Old World. The aims of the Order, and its current leader, are still hidden from me.

  Bertwil remains suspicious of me but has relaxed a bit. Morroy the Calbrian considers him and me to be on equal terms: my damaged journal and his broken nose. Juhl’s icy eyes notice everything. If all the Lambic women are as beautiful as she is, then perhaps Lambochardy’s many wars start with the jealousy of their men.

  Candlestone has been a revelation to me, perhaps from a god of a darker nature than most people believe. What little I’ve learned about the Order suggests their endeavor to overthrow lords and kings is a most serious and dedicated effort. I look forward to meeting this Arasemis, wherever he dwells…

  Fetzer looked up to see Bertwil’s grass-stuffed moccasins stepping toward him.

  “Time to put your little schoolbook away,” he said. “And don’t make me regret giving this to you.”

  Bertwil held out the hilt of a sword. Fetzer stood, carefully pocketed his journal, then took the blade.

  “No ‘thank you’?” the big man asked.

  “You need my help,” Fetzer said.

  Bertwil glared at him but Juhl stepped in. “Let’s keep our focus.”

  “Captain Renaud says we’ve sighted the port of Lyonseln,” Morroy said as he descended the ladder. “Won’t be long now, and the sun is going down.”

  “Get in your barrels,” Bertwil said. “Fetzer, you take the one beside Morroy. No one comes out until the islander has us safely in his wagon. Understood?”

  Everyone took their places and waited. Fetzer’s barrel reeked of mackerel and glidiwots but he kept quiet. When they finally came into port, the crewmen hoisted the barrels out of the ship’s hold and onto the dock. Fetzer was a bit unnerved by being stuck in the barrel as it dangled from the dock crane.

  Soon he was tipped over and rolled up a ramp into a wagon. Sick from the motion, cramped, and craving fresh air, he hoped it would not be much longer. The horses jerked forward and Fetzer heard a barrel open. Bertwil began whispering, so Fetzer pushed his lid up and peered out.

  “Not yet,” Bertwil whispered. Morroy and Juhl were peeping out as well.

  “The islander will get us to Duke Gottfried’s castle,” Juhl whispered to Fetzer. “But he doesn’t know who we are or what we’re about.”

  Fetzer nodded. Bertwil climbed out of his barrel and poked his head out of the covered wagon’s front to speak with the driver. Fetzer assumed this was “the islander.” Fetzer glanced around the wagon. There were sacks of spices, a scale, and a stack of merchant ledgers.

  “Change of plans,” Bertwil said to them. “The islander says if we want to ‘meet’ the duke we should wait until morning. Apparently the duke is planning to travel.”

  “Morning is mere hours away,” Morroy said.

  “Exactly. So I told the islander to take us to the castle anyway and leave us in the courtyard. He agreed but he’s nervous.”

  “How did you hire this man?” Fetzer asked.

  “Not your concern,” Bertwil said.

  “Our master contacted him,” Juhl said. “Just a merchant willing to make a lot of coin to take us inside.”

  “That’s enough,” Bertwil hissed. “We’ll be inspected, so you’ll need this. Keep your head down and don’t come out until we do.”

  Bertwil picked up loose sacks from within the wagon and dumped their contents over each of them, then closed the lids. Fetzer received large dried leaves of some herb he’d never seen before. They smelled like spoiled cream and, along with the lingering fishy smell, made breathing difficult. But he did not complain.

  The sway and bump of the wagon and the heavy scents made Fetzer doze. He awoke later to the sound of soldiers’ voices.

  “…a look first. Go round there…”

  The wagon came to a stop and the leather flaps of the wagon cover jerked aside. A soldier or two rummaged around, then Fetzer heard a barrel lid being pulled off, then another. The soldiers did not bother to check them all. Fools, he thought. After a few shouts to the gatehouse, the portcullis drew up. The wagon lurched forward and soon he was being rolled off. Then silence.

  The hours passed slowly. Fetzer drifted in and out of sleep amid the occasional whinny of nearby horses or the footsteps of guard patrols. When a rooster crowed the coming dawn, he knew their time would come soon. Fetzer did his best to move his head, hands, and feet to avoid getting stiff.

  What he presumed to be the courtyard was soon alive with voices, horses, and laughter. Someone said “My lord.” That was all that
was needed. A barrel lid shifted nearby.

  “We’re covered,” Bertwil whispered. “Everyone out. Slow.”

  Fetzer pushed up through the herbs and lifted the lid. The barrels had been placed under a lean-to next to the castle wall. They had a protected view of the courtyard and the main door of Gottfried’s castle. Fetzer’s eyes fixed on a rotund, richly dressed man speaking with a few knights. Several carriages were being loaded with luggage.

  “Everyone ready?” Bertwil asked.

  Fetzer turned to see that Bertwil, Morroy, and Juhl were wearing wooden masks with tiny eye slits, and their weapons were ready.

  “No mask for you…yet,” Juhl said. “Just stay away from my alchemical clouds.”

  “Fetzer, you wait here until the fight has begun,” Bertwil said. “Your boots will be too loud.”

  Fetzer looked down at his boots. Before he could protest, Bertwil rushed out, followed by the others in single file. He could not hear them running, their grass-stuffed moccasins merely a breeze across the ground. He drew his sword and watched impatiently.

  Bertwil was faster than his girth suggested. He was halfway across the courtyard before anyone sounded the alarm. The duke’s knights turned to see the Order members fan out behind Bertwil. The big man was upon them as they drew their swords. Their surprise was almost total. Bertwil killed one of the knights with his yellow-shimmering sword as Fetzer rushed out to join them.

  The duke’s head swiveled from side to side as he called his guards, then he drew his sword and ran for one of the carriages. He jumped inside and closed its wooden shutters. Morroy slashed at the door but was attacked by two guards. Many more poured into the courtyard.

  Juhl threw something at the carriage that burst gray powdery clouds at the door and shuttered windows. Then she split her sword into two and crashed into the guards. Fetzer came alongside her and they took down several of the guards together. But the courtyard was soon filling with soldiers.

  Juhl gave Fetzer one of her swords, then took a crossbow-like device from inside her cloak. She shot little smoking pellets into the approaching guards. Fetzer moved to block a knight approaching her from behind, but not before Juhl noticed. She ran up the side of the castle wall. Fetzer stared as she ran along the rampart, shooting more pellets. They created a foul-smelling smoke screen around the carriage that kept the guards away.

  From her perch on the rampart Juhl shot again at the carriage, this time with orange-smoking pellets. The carriage burst into flames amid screams from inside. The duke pushed open the door and stumbled out, a richly dressed woman close behind him. Without hesitating, Bertwil and Morroy slew them both.

  By now, different colored smoke was drifting throughout the courtyard, obscuring everyone’s view. Fetzer’s eyes watered and he could not control bouts of coughing. Bertwil and Morroy continued to move in and out of the smokes with ease, dispatching any knights and guards who came too close. Fetzer, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, started to fall back.

  Then bolts shot through the air. Fetzer caught a glimpse of crossbowmen lined up on top of the outer wall. He lost sight of Juhl and when he turned to Bertwil and Morroy they were running up the outer wall to escape.

  Fetzer looked toward the gatehouse but the guards had lowered the portcullis. There was no escape for him. He looked to the wall again. Only Juhl remained, and she had lowered a thin green twine. He ran over and took hold of it, certain it would snap. But it did not, so he pulled himself up.

  When he reached the top Juhl jumped over the edge into a tree. Guards were running along the wall toward him. Fetzer took a breath and jumped too. He fell through the tree, hitting limbs and landing in a bush. He felt the trickle of blood on his arm.

  “We can’t leave him!” Juhl cried.

  Fetzer rolled and pushed out of the bush. There in a hidden clearing in the woods was Morroy, blood pumping from his chest and mouth. Two crossbow bolts protruded from his ribs. Fetzer caught his breath and watched.

  “He’ll not make it,” Bertwil said, lifting Morroy’s tunic for a better look at his chest. A vial rolled out of one of Morroy’s pockets. “We were supposed to burn the castle, too,” Bertwil said, nodding at the vial. “But it’s too late for that, and for him…”

  Without a word, Fetzer grabbed the vial and ran back toward the castle wall. Bertwil yelled behind him but he did not stop. Fetzer remembered Juhl’s comment to Morroy back on the Meurden, about being careful with the vial so as not to sink the ship. Guessing it worked best on wood, Fetzer aimed for the lowest window of a guard tower. He threw it and heard the faint breaking of glass and soldiers shouting. Black smoke appeared at once from the window.

  He returned to the others. Bertwil had picked Morroy up. They all ran through the woods, with Fetzer limping from his fall through the tree. They had not gone far when Fetzer noticed Morroy’s pale face flapping over Bertwil’s shoulder, his eyes staring into the next world.

  Bertwil found another place to stop and they hid Morroy’s body in the brush. Juhl wept quietly. They looked back to watch a column of black smoke rising before pushing onward.

  27. MILISEND

  Eglamour Palace, Toulon Ministry

  Midspring, 3034

  “How can this be happening!”

  Her father’s outburst startled Milisend out of her thoughts of Regaume. The king’s court was quiet otherwise, an eerie silence amid more troubling news.

  “Someone in this great hall knows,” Brugarn said to the watching courtiers. “One among you, perhaps more, knows who is killing the lord ministers. Someone is trying to overthrow our king and ruin our realm. Someone among us here…”

  The courtiers squirmed. Milisend wanted to go up and slap her uncle. If there was anyone who usurped her father’s authority, it was his youngest brother, Duke Brugarn, the Lord Minister of Toulon.

  “Who will rid us of this evil?” Brugarn continued. “Who will uproot it wherever it will be found?” He paced by the courtiers clustered around the throne, peering into the eyes of each. “Who is worthy…Who is suspect…?”

  Milisend’s eyes met Tronchet’s a moment before Brugarn came to him. She wondered how long Tronchet had been watching her.

  “You!” Brugarn jabbed a finger in his face. “You are the king’s Chief Magistrate of Eglamour. What can you say about Lord Maillard’s death, or Raymond’s before his? They were each on a mission from the king to save the Empire Alliance when they were struck down.”

  Tronchet regarded him with a puzzled look. “They were both killed in their home ministries, my lord, not in my jurisdiction of the capital.”

  “The details do not matter to me.” Brugarn waved dismissively. “The point is that shadowy men murdered another lord minister. As chief magistrate, you should know more.”

  “I am not the chief magistrate of Rachard or Bredahade,” Tronchet said. “The lawkeepers of those lands answer only to their lord ministers.”

  Brugarn sneered at him but had already found his next prey.

  “What about you, Sir Hamelin? As captain of the king’s guard, what can you say? Will this hidden scourge come to Eglamour?”

  Milisend knew Hamelin, if anyone, would throttle Brugarn if ever given the chance. But he stood silently next to the king. She urged Erech with her eyes to take back the floor from Brugarn. But her father was entranced with his theatrics.

  “Well, Sir Hamelin?” Brugarn asked. Hamelin answered with a hard stare. The duke paced forward, peering. “Perhaps none are worthy…all are suspect…”

  “I wonder…” Erech finally spoke. “We are surrounded by enemies now. The Rugens to the south, the Calbrians in the east, the Almerians all around…Perhaps the blame is best laid at the feet of a foreign throne.”

  “Perhaps, great king, perhaps…” Brugarn stopped his pacing. “Since none here can say, we can only wait for a sign. All of you, leave at once.”

  The courtiers exchanged confused looks. Erech’s lack of con
trol deeply embarrassed Milisend, but she knew better than to speak out in front of the whole court.

  “Go…” Erech said.

  To Milisend he sounded reluctant. Or indifferent. She approached her father as the courtiers filed out the doors, but Tronchet intercepted her and walked her toward the door.

  “Princess Milisend, lovely to see you.”

  “Magistrate…”

  “I wonder if I could have a quick word.”

  “Well, I—”

  “You see, there is still the matter of the diamond brooch belonging to the countess, and that ring stolen from Baron Balvene. I would like to—”

  “Tronchet, I’m quite sure I know nothing of their unfortunate losses, as I’ve said before.”

  “With all due respect, Princess, I’m quite sure that you do. And now there is the mysterious appearance of an alchemical smoking candle set right in front of the Benrollen Company’s treasury door. May I ask where you were that evening?”

  “Was anything stolen, Tronchet?”

  “No, the guards claimed to have foiled a pair of shadows.”

  “I’m confused, Tronchet.” Milisend smiled innocently. “For a moment I thought you were suggesting I had special knowledge of those unfortunate events. But since nothing was taken from the Benrollens I see that you believe me to be a good source of such gossip.”

  “No, actually—”

  “That’s all right, Tronchet. I take no offense.” Milisend spun on her heel, then sidestepped his attempt to cut her off again. She skirted back toward the throne. “If I hear of anything I’ll be sure to speak with you,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Anything at all!” he called back in frustration.

  Milisend set her eyes on Brugarn. The duke saw her coming and positioned himself between her and the king, but she spoke through him.

  “Father, I’m troubled by what happened to Lord Maillard. I know he was one of your favorites…” Milisend noticed an absent stare on Erech’s face. “Excuse me, Uncle,” she said, gently pushing Brugarn aside. “Father, are you unwell?”

 

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