“Prince Eldalain,” Burrock said in greeting.
“Captain.” Eldalain gave the man a brief nod.
“Your father has a new task for you.” Burrock’s gaze flicked to Narine. “It is of some urgency. I fear you won’t like it much.”
A silent exchange seemed to pass between Burrock and Eldalain. Finally, Narine’s bother said, “Go on.”
“Your cousin, Heldain appears in dire straits. Grendath and some others have him trapped in Castle Dorban and demand he cede control of the city. Apparently, they are unhappy with the tax increase your father and Heldain enacted last summer.”
“I only just returned from Westhold,” Eldalain grumbled. “Now I have to ride to Dorban and bail Heldain out of something he should be able to handle himself?”
Burrock frowned. “It is what it is, Eldalain. If you wish to deny your father, you must tell him yourself.”
Eldalain glared at Burrock, his eyes alight as he began to glow with his magic. Narine knew the others couldn’t see it, but all took a step backward, save Klondon. The bodyguard stood ready with his palm on the handle of the gruesome battleaxe he carried. For a moment, she feared Eldalain might unleash his magic and destroy Burrock and his escort on the spot. The glow dimmed, the man dismissing his magic with the wave of a hand.
“Fine,” Eldalain sneered before spinning to face Narine. “We will resume this discussion when I return.”
Her brother stomped off, the guards separating as he walked directly between them. All remained silent until he was far across the courtyard and approaching the palace entrance.
“Your brother is growing frustrated with his role,” Burrock said quietly before glancing toward Narine. “I fear things between him and his father will soon come to a head. While his magic is daunting, and he doesn’t carry the years weighing upon Taladain, how can he hope to stand against the might of a wizard lord?”
Burrock walked away and the guards followed, their dark purple cloaks swirling behind them, leaving Narine alone with a lingering sense of dread.
34
The Price of Reputation
The peal of bells greeted the rising sun, and the portcullis began to rise. Travelers – some on foot, some on horseback, some on wagons – began to filter into Fastella. Perched on the roof of The Briar Patch, an inn located across the square inside the gate, Jace waited. Back when he lived in Fastella, he had spent many evenings in the taproom tossing dice with travelers who were unaware of his exploits. A number of years and many escapades had passed since then, but some of his favorite memories came from The Briar Patch.
The square below began to fill with farmers’ carts and citizens seeking fresh produce. A beggar, a young boy Jace did not know, settled at one intersection. He was sure the boy worked for Cordelia. They all did.
A familiar sound arose – the steadily rising staccato of horses approaching. A cluster of twenty-some riders emerged from a narrow street and crossed the square. At their head was a standard depicting a purple hound on a field of yellow. The robed figure beside the pennant was easy to place. Tall and thin with a brown beard and dark eyes, Eldalain led his retinue through the gate and out of the city. A distant shout arose as the man kicked his horse forward, his entire squad racing north at a gallop.
Jace smiled. “At least some things remain predictable.”
He noticed a flicker of movement on the roof beside his own. It didn’t take him long to guess who it might be.
“You can come out, Rindle,” Jace shouted.
Rindle stood and approached, his frown mirroring his thin mustache. “What are you up to, Jerrell?”
“I thought it might be a nice morning for some rooftop thinking.”
“Really? Overlooking the gate where Prince Eldalain just rode out?”
“Was that him?” Jace did his best to sound shocked. “Huh. I wonder where he is heading.”
“Come now, Jerrell,” Rindle snarled. “I don’t know why Cordelia places so much faith in you.”
“Perhaps it is my handsome looks. Or maybe even my charm.” Jace grinned. “Or maybe it’s because I have yet to fail.”
“Things change,” Rindle sneered. “I had never failed, either, until your interference.”
“I was merely doing my job. It’s not my fault you took the same contract with another party.”
“Yes. Cordelia.”
“And that was when she invited me in.”
“Her mistake.”
Jace sighed. “Why not just let it go, Rindle? The past is the past. Leave it there and look toward the future. I don’t want your job, nor do I wish to control these streets. I plan to complete my contract and leave Fastella, which can’t come soon enough.”
“That’s why you sent Eldalain away,” Rindle said with narrowed eyes. “You wanted him out of your hair so you could get to Taladain without having to deal with two wizards.”
Jace snickered. “Amazing. You actually have a brain in that pin-sized head.”
Rindle glared back. “Keep laughing. Your arrogance will be the end of you.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. However, many years will pass before then.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Rindle walked away, speaking over his shoulder. “Good luck with Taladain. You’ll need it.”
Jace frowned, watching Rindle’s back as the man departed. He knows something. Whatever it is, he believes it will be the end of me.
After stewing a moment longer, Jace decided it was time to return to the inn. He ran across three rooftops before leaping the gap over a narrow alley. Continuing, he crossed another eight rooftops, then moved to the edge. A familiar building stood across the street, the front adorned with a sign depicting a goat licking the foam off a tankard of ale.
The climb down to the second-story balcony was a simple task. The drop from the balcony to the front porch awning took but a moment. When he lowered himself to the street, he smiled at a well-dressed woman walking past. A big man walked at her side, glaring at him with suspicious eyes. The woman had pale hair, blue eyes, and sufficient curves to draw Jace’s attention. Despite his best smile, the woman frowned and steered clear, giving him a sidelong look of disdain, as if he were covered in manure.
“Stuck-up wizardess,” he muttered, glaring at her bodyguard’s back.
The bodyguard’s head was on a swivel, watching for any threats as he escorted the woman he was paid to protect. There was a time Jace had considered becoming a bodyguard, deciding against it. Lacking height and bulk, others constantly underestimated him, which was a bad fit. A good bodyguard had an intimidating appearance, the mere threat of their presence doing most of the work. Jace was just too inviting a target. He didn’t need that sort of aggravation.
He entered the inn and passed through the dining area where three tables were occupied by guests having breakfast. A hand went to his inside coat pocket, confirming the item he had retrieved that morning had not fallen out. Thank Gheald, he thought. The jeweler had done a fine job, but the fast turnaround had cost Jace double. To lose it after paying five gold pieces would be more than disheartening.
He cut through the building and emerged in the stable yard.
Rhoa and Rawk were there, her standing on his shoulders. Rawk’s thick hands gripped her ankles.
“Now, let go and hold your palms open in front of you,” Rhoa instructed.
Rawk did as she asked, slowly releasing his grip. With her arms extended for balance, she shifted one foot, then the other, until she stood on his palms. Jace leaned against the wall and crossed his legs at the ankles to watch the show.
Rhoa spoke while balancing on the short man’s palms. “When I bend my knees, wait a beat, then push up with all your might.”
“All right,” Rawk said.
Still balancing on Rawk’s hands, just above his shoulders, Rhoa squatted. With a grunt, Rawk thrust his arms up. At the same time, Rhoa leapt, twisting and flipping in the air, her arms in tight, her body spinning in a blur. She fell toward the gro
und, uncoiled, and landed lightly, her feet shifting slightly to avoid falling before she raised her arms high and bowed.
Hal, who sat in the shade of the stable wall, clapped and whooped.
Jace joined the stable hand’s applause, clapping as he strolled to the middle of the yard. “Very nice, Rhoa. Perhaps we do have a shot with this little show.”
The clopping of hooves came from the alley just before a familiar horse emerged. A small cart followed, Salvon holding the reins.
“Whoa,” the old man shouted and pulled the horse to a stop.
Hal stood and dusted off his trousers. He then walked to Jabbers and began disconnecting him from the cart.
“Where have you been?” Jace asked.
Salvon climbed down and dug through the back of his cart. “Procuring costumes.” He pulled out a bundle of blue and red cloth, tossing it to Rhoa.
“What is this?” she asked.
Salvon grinned and reached for the next bundle. “That, my dear, is a jester costume.” He then tossed the other bundle to Rawk.
“What is a jester?” Rawk’s face twisted in question.
“I am so glad you asked,” Salvon said with a smile. “In my travels, I have been many places and seen many things. Decades ago, I was part of a show featuring floridly dressed characters known as jesters. I would play lively tunes while these jesters performed. Adorned with bells on their hats and shoes, they would perform comedic acts with an acrobatic flair.”
Jace crossed his arms. “What does that mean?”
“Rawk and Rhoa are going to give Taladain a show unlike any other. I will recite a tale of a ridiculous hero, while they act it out in a combination of acrobatic stunts and physical comedy.”
Jace held his question while he waited for Hal to walk Jabbers into the stable. He then leaned toward Salvon. “What about me?”
“Oh, I have that figured out, as well.” The old man gave Jace a nod. “It was your idea to procure a position as a servant in the palace. You will proceed with your plan and help us gain additional intelligence. When the time comes, you must ensure you are among the servants present while we perform. Of course, the performance will not end quite the way Lord Taladain expects.”
Jace frowned. “I don’t yet have the proper clothing for a servant. You keep changing the plans on me, so I didn’t bother visiting a tailor.”
Salvon reached into the back of his cart and drew out another bundle, tossing it to Jace. “Already addressed, my dear boy. I believe you will find it fits you well enough.” He grinned. “You don’t even need to dress as a woman this time, Jerrell.”
Eyes narrowed, Jace stared at the man. “You have done some research, I see.”
“You are not the only one with eyes and ears in this city. I would not have survived this long without a few tricks of my own. Information is a valuable commodity, as you are quite aware.”
“Who is Jerrell?” Rhoa asked.
Salvon arched a brow. “You have never heard of the great Jerrell Landish?”
She furrowed her brow at Jace. “Isn’t that the name you asked me about when we first met?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t know of Jerrell Landish, perhaps you have heard of the trouble High Wizard Montague ran into a few years ago?” Salvon arched his brow at Jace. “It involves some rather…lewd behavior.”
“That was a contract I should have declined,” Jace muttered.
Rhoa glared at him. “Why the fake name?”
Jace grit his teeth, not caring for the path the discussion was taking. Reluctantly, he explained. “The Montague encounter wasn’t my only famous exploit. The name Jerrell became too well known and drew too much attention. A couple years ago, I began using Jace as a way to remain less conspicuous.”
“I don’t understand,” Rawk said. “Who is this Jerrell?”
Salvon clapped Rawk on the shoulder while smiling at Jace. “Jerrell Landish is a master thief, able to break into any stronghold. He can even steal the smallclothes right off you without you knowing it.”
Rawk’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why would you wish to steal someone else’s smallclothes?”
“Why, indeed,” Salvon said, still grinning at Jace.
Jace growled, “Perhaps someone bet a large sum that it couldn’t be done.”
Salvon laughed. “I knew it!”
Rhoa crossed her arms. “If you try to steal my smallclothes, you’ll find yourself leaking blood from a hole you would rather not have.”
Jace sighed. “Oh, for Gheald’s sake. I’m not going to steal anyone’s smallclothes. It was a one-time thing.”
“I suppose stripping a wizard naked and tying him to a bed was also a one-time thing?” Salvon’s grin grew wider.
“Of course it was!” Frustrated, Jace squeezed his fists until his knuckles turned white. “I don’t have to explain my actions to you, so just let it drop.”
The old man laughed. Even Rhoa and Rawk chuckled as Jace glared back at them.
“If you three are through harassing me, I need to change and see about a job at the palace.”
Laughter continued while Jace stomped to the rear entrance of the inn, opened the door, and slammed it behind him.
35
A Fatal Mistake
Amber light from the setting sun streamed through the window at the end of the palace corridor. Narine poked her head into the parlor where her father often dined but found it empty. She continued on, wondering where the man might be hiding. She disliked eating alone, and Adyn was otherwise occupied, something about another bet between her and Burrock’s men. Even so, she sought her father with reluctance overcome by sheer determination. She feared her brother even more than her father and needed to gain his support before Eldalain returned.
After descending two flights, she crossed the receiving hall and stepped outside. The towering pillars surrounding Taladain’s private theatre cast long shadows. It was a circular area with a sunken marble floor in the middle. Stairs surrounded the floor and gave the area the appearance of an oversized bowl. At one end, a ten-foot-tall platform five strides across and just as deep split the stairs, jutting into the bowl like a tongue. Her father sat alone upon the platform. The man’s chair was coated in purple velvet in contrast to his golden robes.
A group of four performers occupied the bowl. Two juggled red balls, while another rolled a large, metal ball across his shoulders. The last performer balanced a cane on his forehead while circling the floor. Narine circled the area, passing tall, alabaster columns holding up nothing but air. When she reached the platform, a pair of servants emerged from the shadows, scurrying forward with a much smaller, simpler chair than the one her father used. With the chair placed beside Taladain’s, she sat. One servant placed a glass in her hand and filled it with water, before both hurried away.
The jugglers set the red balls aside and began to light torches, tossing them into the air and passing them between each other. The man rolling the ball across his body weaved around the jugglers in a figure eight, crossing the path of the flying torches with perfect timing.
Narine glanced at her father, who focused on the performance. His brow was furrowed, but otherwise, his face held little expression. The man had reportedly always enjoyed acts of grandeur from those more skilled than himself. According to those stories, he used to show enthusiasm while watching a performance such as this. In this and everything else, his display of emotion had waned over the years, but never to this level. His lack of response troubled her.
What has happened to him?
When she turned back toward the performance, the jugglers had added knives to the mix, tossing and catching them in turn with the burning torches. The blades flickered as they spun, black smoke trailing the twirling torches. The man who had been balancing the cane on his forehead set it aside and lifted a small wooden chair. Holding it up, he set one leg on his forehead and let go. Amazingly, it did not fall, but the man had to move about quickly to maintain the balance.
He moved one step too far, knocking into a flying torch and altering its path. A juggler tried to catch the torch but missed. It tumbled to the tiles. The distraction proved to be a fatal mistake.
The knife following the torch sliced the juggler’s hand. He pulled away, and the next torch also fell to the floor, the wood clacking on the marble. The juggler clutched at his bloody hand and grit his teeth. The man balancing the chair stepped onto the fallen torch, the cylinder rolling beneath his foot and causing him to slip. He landed on his rear, hard, as the chair fell with a clatter.
Narine laughed at the sight. Her father did not.
Taladain stood, his face red with fury.
“You call this a performance?” he bellowed. “A spectacle beyond praise, you claimed.”
Narine sensed the rush of magic before he lifted his hand. The glow surrounding him grew bright enough to force Narine to squint. She watched in horror as her father’s arm lashed out, a ball of fire bursting forth. It struck the man with the injured hand, who ignited in flames. Screaming, he stumbled about, flailing, while the other performers scrambled out of his way. The burning man fell to the tiles and ceased moving. The other three backed away in terror.
One of the men turned to Taladain. “Please, Your Lordship. I beg of you. Let us try again. We can do better.”
“Yes, you can.”
Taladain’s words were like ice, lacking the heat he had previously shown. It was even more frightening than his anger.
Taladain twisted his hand, and the air in the arena began to spin with it, instantly becoming a small, powerful tornado. The three remaining performers, the burning man, the chair, the balls, the torches, and the blades lifted off the floor, spinning in a circle, floating higher and higher as they spun faster and faster. The wind buffeted Narine, nearly knocking her off the chair. Her father’s robes flapped, but the man stood, unmoving, as if made of stone. Screams and cries came from the men trapped in the tornado.
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