Dark Jenny Page 13
That comment set my mind working. “Bob … who would benefit if Marc lost the crown?”
“No one. He doesn’t have an heir.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
Kay shrugged. “It’s not from lack of trying, believe me. Those two are all over each other. It just hasn’t happened yet.”
“Then he has no next of kin?”
“Just his sister. She’d never be accepted as a ruler, though. And neither would her son. I hope she’s dead in a ditch somewhere on the mainland.” He looked up. Although the moon was still overhead, the sky to the east was growing visibly lighter. “You should really get going. If anyone from the castle sees you, this’ll all be pointless.”
“All right. I’ll be back as fast as I can.”
“You’re coming back? I thought you’d drop off your message and then haul ass back home.”
“Well, with the threat of Tom Gillian hanging over me, I have to follow through to the end.”
“Right,” Kay said with a knowing little smile. “It has nothing to do with a certain feisty castle doctor, does it?”
“Nothing at all. But if you happen to see her, tell her to be sure to remember the ow until I get back.”
“Inside joke, I assume.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll tell her.”
We reached the horse. She was a beauty, dark with a few white patches. In the dim illumination I couldn’t see if her base color was brown or black. She tossed her head in either greeting or intimidation.
I was, in the estimation of my old riding instructor, a piss-poor horseman, probably because I hated horses. They were too big, too smart, and too enigmatic for me to ever trust. This began in childhood, and at the time nothing had yet changed my opinion. In fact, most of my experience reinforced it.
Once I’d seen a cavalry officer, Colonel Bierce, approach an obstinate stallion that kicked him in the head so hard it actually tore away his jawbone and sent it flying out of the corral. From the upper teeth to the throat it left a great red gap fringed with hanging shreds of flesh and splinters of bone. The worst part was that the injury wasn’t immediately fatal; the poor bastard never even lost consciousness.
The road was deserted as I started the long trip to Blithe Ward. Many things bothered me, not the least of which was that I still didn’t know who really killed Sam Patrice. I was sure Jennifer Drake didn’t, and that gave me the moral clearance to take this job; but the list of suspects had otherwise gotten no shorter. And how had Mary the apple girl ended up miraculously healed and dead in the sewer?
The greatest crimes are always the small ones; a man who kills his unfaithful wife in a moment of passion will arouse the outrage of all, while a man who orders the death of thousands will barely rate a comment for it. Before this was over, a relatively simple murder would become a legendary bloodbath. And I would always live with the thought that, had I been just a little bit smarter, I might have prevented it. Because I’d just seen the crucial clue, right in plain sight, and hadn’t understood what it meant.
chapter
FIFTEEN
Someone tossed a fresh log on the tavern’s dying hearth fire. The popping sparks and surge of fresh warmth reminded me that these things I was describing happened years ago, and that I could no longer change the outcome. Nevertheless, in telling the story I found myself wishing I’d been smarter, more courageous, better somehow. I wished I’d been worthy of the dream of Grand Bruan, even though I understood now that its failure was inevitable.
The group gathered around me was larger, too. I’d been so engrossed in my tale that I hadn’t noticed the newcomers arrive. For someone in my profession, that kind of obliviousness was not reassuring.
They all watched me expectantly, their faces scrunched in concentration. I had no idea I was such a riveting storyteller. Then again, the subjects of my story were Marcus Drake, Elliot Spears, and Ted Medraft, who carried many less worthy tales told on cold winter nights. Even seven years after that fateful day, peddlers still brought new broadsheets recounting more and more outlandish adventures of King Marc and the Knights of the Double Tarn. At least my outlandish adventure had the virtue of being true.
Finally Callie broke the silence. “So was he really as tall as they say?” she asked softly.
“Who?” I asked.
“King Marcus,” she said with the same reverence I’d heard priests use to invoke their gods. “One of Tony’s songs says, ‘His crown tapped the ceiling beams.’”
Tony was Callie’s no-account minstrel boyfriend, addicted to giggleweed and other girls. He left before the first snowfall, promising to return and marry her. She was the only one who believed him.
“He was a big guy,” I agreed. “He had to be, to swing Belacrux. That sword weighed a ton.”
“So you handled his sword?” Angelina asked, deliberately sarcastic. It was her default mood when she wasn’t sure how to respond, and I knew it for the defense mechanism it was. That didn’t stop it from annoying me.
“Angie, please,” Liz quietly scolded. She was the only one in the room who’d dare stand up to Angelina in her own tavern. I squeezed her hand where it rested on my leg. She winked.
“So did you really get to hold Belacrux?” Ralph the leatherworker asked, childish eagerness making his voice go high. “Did it really have a pommel made of emerald?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I did. And, no, it wasn’t really covered in jewels. They wouldn’t stand up to as much pounding as that sword got. It was just a big sword for a big man.”
“But it was sharp enough to cut a butterfly’s wing, right?” seamstress Esme asked.
I felt like a nanny explaining a bedtime story. “I didn’t get a chance to try that. But it seems unlikely.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed.
I tapped my ale mug, which I didn’t remember finishing, either. “My throat could use some lubrication.”
“This story isn’t that good,” Angelina muttered, but gave me a refill anyway.
I took a long drink from my fresh mug just as the door opened to admit yet another new listener. Sharky Shavers quickly closed the door and blinked in surprise at the group gathered around me. “Did I miss something?”
“Eddie’s telling us about King Marcus Drake and the Knights of the Double Tarn,” Callie said. “He knew them.”
“Really,” Sharky said skeptically. “So this doesn’t have anything to do with the coffin outside I nearly tripped over?”
“I’ll get to that,” I said.
“Yeah, he’ll get to that,” Angelina said, “about the time this keg runs out, I’m sure.”
“Good, I’m curious about that, too. The boy who delivered it asked me where to find you,” Sharky said.
I sat up straight. “Boy?”
“Yeah, he came up the river trail about three hours ago. Rode a big horse pulling that coffin. Looked about sixteen or so; his voice hadn’t changed all the way, even. Had a little scar on his cheek. Knew the name of the town, and your name, and that was all. I told him your office was here.”
Liz turned to Gary Bunson. “You said it was an old man.”
“It was an old man,” Gary said defensively. He was used to being on the defensive, usually because some white lie had collapsed beneath him. But I sensed his outrage was sincere. “Why the hell would I make up something like that? Wasn’t it, Eddie?”
The click in my head as everything fell into place was so loud I’m surprised no one else heard it. I wanted to laugh, but not because it was funny; it was the sheer unbridled audacity of it. I’d looked the old man right in the eye and hadn’t seen it. Back when I’d been on Grand Bruan, I dismissed all the claims of magic that tried to intrude into my theories. Now, after some of the things I’d seen the past few years, I knew better. But still …
Liz noticed the change in my expression. “What?” she asked softly.
I grinned and shook my head. “I’ll tell you later.” I took another drink and said, “All right, let’s ge
t back to the story. Up until now everything had happened pretty much in one place, Nodlon Castle. Now I was about to cross almost the whole island. Being outside, on a fast horse and with a goal to accomplish, felt great after all that court intrigue. But…”
chapter
SIXTEEN
I saw a painting once, hanging in the castle of a king who’d hired me to verify his chamberlain’s honesty, called Sunrise on Grand Bruan. It depicted the aftermath of the Battle of Tarpolita far differently from the tapestries in Nodlon Castle. In the painting bodies covered the slope, while at the top young Marcus Drake stood leaning on the pole that bore his standard. He was realistically depicted as weary and wounded, and the sun cast a red glow over everything that simultaneously hid the real blood and made the whole image look blood-soaked.
That same sun rose before me as I headed due east toward Blithe Ward, showing me fields and forests of blood. I was too preoccupied to recognize it for the omen it was.
The landscape outside Nodlon was ripe and full with late-summer produce. Prior to Drake’s rule no one would have dared plant such huge fields with a single crop, fearing they’d be set alight as part of some military action. Now I saw at least one barley field stretch to the horizon.
The horse Kay had provided was pure muscle and single-mindedness, bred and trained to carry messengers. I was heavier than she was used to, and my horsemanship was dire, but she had a strong sense of professionalism and didn’t let me slow her down. We made astoundingly good time.
Part of this was the ease of the road itself. It was paved with flat, even stones, with ditches on either side for drainage. At first light it filled with horses, men, and wagons loaded with produce and trade goods, all heading toward Nodlon Castle. Eventually I passed the tipping point, and traffic began to flow with me toward whatever awaited ahead.
As the sun peeked over the top of the forest, I noticed a distant, obviously man-made cloud hanging in the morning air. I couldn’t tell if it was smoke or dust. It was to the northeast and grew larger as I watched, which meant it was coming this way. If it was smoke, it was a hell of a fire; if it was dust, then it was a hell of a lot of people. Either way, it was a long way off and I’d be well gone before it reached the road.
I stopped at the first messenger transfer station, a small building attached to a corral where a half dozen horses milled about. Smoke curled from the chimney, and a man stood outside smoking pensively on a pipe. As I rode in and dismounted, the horses all came to the fence, eagerly jostling to be the next one selected.
The man on duty looked at the seal on my message, then at me. After a moment he gave a shrug and, with little wasted movement, took the saddle and bridle from my horse and put them on a new one. I was on my way within minutes. “Ride like the wind, messenger,” he said flatly, by rote.
I passed through a small town where the day’s market was just being set up, the destination for all that local produce. At least if it was market day everywhere, I wouldn’t stand out on the road so much. People waved at me in that guardedly cheery way rural folks greet strangers. On the other side of town a few late farmers headed in with their produce. They also waved.
I galloped over a hill and down into a low stretch. To my left I glimpsed a small burst of flowers along the otherwise grassy shoulder. From the midst of them protruded what looked like the hilt of a sword. I figured I was making good enough time, so I wheeled the horse around and returned to look it over.
It was a sword, old, weathered, and driven deep into the ground among the planted flowers. Several pieces of vellum, some so old the rain had beaten them into the dirt, were tied to the hilt. I dismounted and knelt so I could read them.
The first read, We miss you, Daddy. Another, in a child’s hand, said, Sleep well, Grandpa. I wondered how the honored dead had met his end.
This isolated and empty stretch of road seemed perfect for bandits, but I saw none. My horse whinnied impatiently, anxious to return to work. I also had a sudden flash of Thomas Gillian sharpening his sword while he watched an hourglass drain away my time, so I returned to the saddle.
I topped a hill and saw a line of wagons impeded by something. With the barest tug on her reins, the horse hopped the ditch and proceeded along the shoulder as if this were nothing unusual. The ground was too soft for the heavily laden carts to take the same detour, so they had to wait for the way to clear. The farmers and peddlers glared jealously at me as I passed them.
Finally I reached the reason for the backup: a cart bearing new flagstones, and three men watching a fourth as he replaced broken ones in the road. Slowly.
“Come on, guys, my taxes pay for this!” one farmer yelled from the seat of his two-wheeled cart. It had no visible effect on the workers.
“You can’t travel five miles on this goddamned road without getting caught behind construction,” the farmer said. I heard murmurs of assent from his fellow travelers. I doubt it sped things up.
We returned to the road, which was clear all the way to the next low hill. I felt the morning wind on my newly bare cheeks.
* * *
AT midmorning I arrived at a crossroads village where two of the stone thoroughfares met. A sign announced it as Astolat, and the road that crossed at its center traveled north/south just as mine did east/west. Farmers and merchants busily sold their wares at the edge of town, but the few buildings were quiet. The tavern was open for business, though.
At the transfer station I climbed down and stretched my legs, wincing at the pain in my lower back. That had become more frequent the older I got and had nothing to do with how seldom I rode horses. It was the lingering reminder of a spine-crushing blow delivered by a club the size of a calf, wielded by a black-haired maniac against a cocky young mercenary who had ignored the advice of older, smarter soldiers. That mercenary, now a much wiser sword jockey, subsequently paid a lot more attention when other people spoke. And when he started to forget this lesson, his back reminded him.
I narrowly avoided being drawn into conversation with the young man on duty at the station. He wanted to know all about the situation at Nodlon, and I was amazed all over again at how fast and thoroughly bad news could spread. I made polite excuses and decided to take a quick break for a drink. Surely Thomas Gillian wouldn’t begrudge me that.
The tavern, called the Crack’d Mirror, was smaller and dirtier than anyplace else I’d been in Grand Bruan. When I walked in, I had to wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimness; there seemed to be no light other than the hearth fire, and what sunlight managed to pierce the cracks in the walls and ceiling. Luckily there were a lot of those, and in the hazy air the light shafts resembled chaotic prison bars.
I hung my jacket on a wall hook beside a hooded cloak, then sat at one of the tables. My butt and backbone were both grateful for something that wasn’t bouncing. I rested my injured hand on the tabletop, glad to no longer feel the weight of the cast tugging at my shoulder. Still, I was alert. Even coated with road dust I was overdressed for the place, and that could lead to trouble.
A large human shape moved back and forth behind the counter, but made no move to ask me if I wanted anything. No one else was in the room, so at last I whistled for his attention. When he turned my way, I said, “What’s a fellow got to do to get some ale in this place?”
He did not reply, but picked up a mug and opened the tap to a keg. I turned and nearly jumped out of the chair.
A woman had appeared next to my table. I hadn’t heard her approach or sensed her nearness, both of which were uncharacteristic of me. Were people in Grand Bruan just stealthier than anywhere else? I said, “If you scare me to death, I can’t pay my tab, you know.”
She put one foot brazenly on the chair beside me, which hiked her tattered skirt enough to show a smooth, surprisingly clean calf. She leaned down to give me a clear view of her admirable cleavage. “All by yourself today, stranger?” she said, her accent heavy, raw, and untutored.
“Yeah. Just stopping for a drink.”
I smiled and said nothing.
“My name’s Elaine. I’ve got all my teeth. Want some company, then?”
“No, thanks. I’ve only got a few minutes.”
She grinned and licked her lips. “I only need a few minutes, love. I can take you from trickle to fountain before you know what hit you.”
“No thanks,” I repeated.
She glanced at the silhouette behind the bar, who stood immobile. I couldn’t be certain he watched us, but what the hell else would he be looking at? “Please,” she said softly, her smile fixed and fearful, “look around. Nobody ever comes in here, and he takes it out on me. One day he’ll knock out my teeth, and then where will I be? I promise, you won’t regret it, I’ll let you do anything you want to me, just please don’t let him see you turn me away.”
The hairs on my neck stood up the way they always did to alert me to danger. I slouched in the chair as if trying to appear cool and sophisticated, when really I just wanted to get my good hand close to my boot knife. “You don’t look like he beats you.”
“He doesn’t do it where customers can see it,” she said, eyes down.
She could be telling me the truth; she could also be playing on my sympathies to get me alone and slip a knife between my ribs. “Why do you stay?”
She shrugged again. “He’s my father; where would I go?” She sidled behind my chair and began to rub my shoulders through my clothes. “Oh, you’re a strong one, aren’t you? You don’t look like you would be, all dressed up like that. Usually people in these sorts of clothes are soft as butter. Everywhere,” she added with a lascivious chuckle.
I didn’t like the idea of not being able to see her. “I’m full of surprises,” I said, took one hand, and pulled her back in front of me. I pressed a gold coin in her hand. “Show this to your father, it should make him happy. And then bring me my ale.”