By Divine Right (4 page)

The craft gift was the broadest of the gifts Aer had sent and could manifest into any number of professions depending on its intersection with the talent and temperament of the wielder: ironsmith, alchemist, or jeweler among countless others. But the profession tended to shape the gift so if an alchemist bestowed the gift on another it often manifested in that way again. If it went free then it could become almost anything within the craft family once more. Priests referred to the circumstance as Aer’s economy.

It wasn’t the answer I’d expected and, relieved, I let my worst fear fall from me. Almost all of the heads of the noble families held a gift of craft. That was how they made and maintained their fortune. If my suspicion had been correct, there would be no need to steal another gift of the same kind. But there were a few noble families that held other gifts, and they’d been talented enough over the centuries to build a fortune with them.

I muttered a curse as I sifted through my flimsy logic, winnowing speculations from facts. There were too many things I didn’t know. Custos’s expression pulled the next question from me. “What was her profession?”

“She was an alchemist.”

Lira had been killed too far from Bunard for me to have wandered that night, but perhaps I could get at the truth in a different way. “How did she die?”

“Stroke.”

I took a deep breath. “How old was she?”

Custos blinked, and I imagined somewhere in his mind he pulled a book from a shelf to read the answer. “Thirty-eight.”

My stomach lurched, my guts telling me that I’d dismissed my fear too soon. Old men and women died, but stroke or not, a son or daughter was usually there to receive the gift. Strokes in the middle-aged weren’t unheard of, but too many coincidences piled up for my comfort. What benefit could a noble possibly obtain from stealing a charism of craft that had been imbued with the talent for alchemy? Only one of the three temptations presented itself. Power. And they weren’t settling for half measures.

“Custos, what would happen if a man could assemble all the gifts?”

He blinked at me and licked his lips. “You sat in Master Orwin’s class, my boy.”

I didn’t feel like confessing how often I’d slept through the dusty lectures that could turn the most dynamic parts of history into stale bread. Yet I remembered one topic that captivated me despite Master Orwin’s monotone: the Gift Wars. More ballads and epics had been composed about the period than any other, and I’d listened with rapt attention to the tales of men, physically and mentally gifted beyond others, wading through fields of blood as they tried to bring the continent together under their rule. Their quest for power stood out in lurid detail even in Orwin’s dry monotone, the slaughter horrific enough to make the wars of the gift of kings that came centuries later look like a border skirmish.

“No one quite succeeded,” Custos said, “but a few came close enough to fuel speculation.” Then he leaned forward to tap the weathered book in my hands, the one filled with those few genealogies that had been given the right to rule. “There have been theologians throughout history—those who live and think on the fringe of orthodoxy—who believe the gift of the divine right of kings can be duplicated.”

Like so many rooms in the Merum cathedral, the one containing the catalogs of the gifted had only one entrance. For a moment I reflected on how nice it would be to live an existence where back doors weren’t needed or required. “Custos, I need two things. First, I need a list of noble families who don’t have the gift of craft.”

He ducked his head like an owl. “Done. It won’t take more than a moment for me to write them down.”

I waved a hand as he turned away. “Later. I’ve got to get you away from here for a while.”

He looked at me, waiting for me to explain. I was tempted to write it down so he would read it and never forget it. “The people who killed Ian Kells got their information from this room.”

His eyes widened, and he looked over each shoulder even though we’d closed the door behind us. “Foolish of me,” he muttered, ducking his head. “Always looking for the facts without thinking about the consequences.” He locked gazes with me, and the abstraction lifted from him for a moment. “You’re right, of course, but what if they’re watching now.”

I nodded. “If they try to follow us, we’ll have to lose them.”

Custos brushed the spine of the nearest codex with the tips of his fingers. “I’ve never left the cathedral for any real length of time. Even my sleeping quarters are here. How long will we be gone?”

“Until I can unmask whoever is trying to duplicate the right of kings,” I said. Out loud, it sounded as if I meant to take on Owmead’s army single-handed, and I felt my stomach drop a bit closer to my legs. “We’ll go out to the market as if I’m treating you to more of those dates you love. Hopefully, that will allay any suspicion that we suspect we’re being followed. If they think we’re coming back, they might just stay here.”

He nodded, but I didn’t believe my words for a moment. I was dealing with a noble who was amassing gifts, and I could only think of one reason they’d want to: they meant to be king. Men who took those kinds of risks wouldn’t countenance even a slight chance of
discovery. I tried to think past the surging rhythm of my heart. They’d seen me. Even if they didn’t know me, the reeve’s badge I wore at my shoulder would make me easy to identify. Custos wasn’t the only one who needed to hide.

“Let’s go.” I tried to nod confidently, but my head jerked as if I’d been blindsided. “Do what I tell you, and if I say run, go—and don’t waste time looking back.”

We left the room, and a few paces later I drew to a sudden stop to adjust my cloak. There were a dozen people in the room besides the two of us—too many for me to remember. I turned my back to them as if I’d forgotten something. “Custos, can you remember everyone who’s in here?”

He blinked at me. “It doesn’t work that way,” he said with a smile. “It’s more like I can’t keep from it.” His shoulders lifted a fraction and then settled back. “It’s already done.”

I couldn’t decide whether to gape or smile, so I gave up. “Let’s go to the market,” I said out loud.

We worked our way through the visitors and acolytes toward the exit. None of them seemed to take any notice of us, but once we were outside on the flagstones, I dropped to one knee to adjust a boot. A moment later, an acolyte exited, his eyes sharp and searching.

“The hair,” Custos muttered. He did a good job of fumbling in his robe for another date. I never saw him look toward the young man following us. “Niels cuts the hair of all the acolytes who come to us.”

Niels had been old a decade ago. Even then his hands had been less than steady. None of the acolytes he barbered came out with such a neat cut. Those who came from nobility or wealth usually passed on the old man’s particular form of charity. “Let’s get to the market in the lower merchants’ section,” I said. “We’re just two men out for a stroll.”

I was counting on the fact that the man following us wouldn’t risk anything in public, but was hoping as well that whoever had killed Ian hadn’t set more than one person to watching the library. I needed that well-groomed acolyte to follow us.

To get to the lower merchants’ market we would have to walk the length of the nobles’ quarter and the higher merchants’ section as well. The expansive walls of the estates of the rich and powerful with their gatehouses and ironwork impressed, as always, but now they held an ominous feel as well. Behind the façade of well-manicured
peace and prosperity lurked a man or woman who intended to duplicate the divine right of kings and seize the rule of the kingdom.

King Laidir had impressed me as a man burdened with the interest of his subjects, high or low. I didn’t bother to speculate overly much on the nature of the one trying to replace him. Custos walked at my side as we crossed the arched bridge over one of the branches of the Rinwash. A funeral boat drifted under the corbeled arch, the body on its way to the sea far to the west. My theological training had erased most of my superstitions, but the hair on my arms lifted anyway. “It’s hard not to see that as an omen.”

“The church doesn’t believe in omens,” Custos said, but his words had the cadence of someone trying to convince themselves.

I dared a glance to see if our acolyte still trailed us. Twenty paces back a figure in white stood behind a cart, the hem of his robe visible beneath. “He’s still there.”

Custos bit his lip as if I’d given him bad news, and I reached out to give his shoulder a quick squeeze. “That’s a good thing.”

“I fail to see why having someone following who wants to kill us is to our advantage.”

I checked the daggers I kept in my boot and behind my back. I had no desire to fight someone whose level of skill was unknown to me, but I might not have the choice. “Because he wouldn’t have had time to report to anyone,” I said.

Fifteen minutes later we came within sight of the next bridge, this one leading to the largest section of Bunard—the lower merchants’ quarter. Here countless craftsmen, workers, wives, and children lived and plied their trade from their homes. “When we get to the market, we’re going to make a quick turn down the second alley next to Braben’s tavern,” I said quietly. “Stay ahead of me.” I knew the place and the owner well by virtue of my consistent patronage. On either side of Braben’s, narrow winding alleys led from the market street to the river.

“Are you going to kill him?” Custos asked.

The job of a reeve sometimes called for violence, and I’d had a share, but it had been nine years and a battlefield since I’d had to plot how to kill a man. The worn leather hilt of my sword, molded to my hand by countless hours of sweat and heat, felt warm against my skin. Even if the fake acolyte following us had managed to hide a sword under his robe, it would be a simple matter to dispose of him.

Something fierce and dark woke in me at the thought, a hunger that scared me with its ferocity and seduction. I shook my head. “I hope not.”

We walked past the front of Braben’s and turned down the second alley. Ten paces in I wedged myself into a lip in the wall where the main building, made of wood, met the stone part of the tavern, which housed the kitchen. “Keep walking,” I told Custos. He gave me a wide-eyed nod and continued down the alley. I focused on listening for the approach of the acolyte, and my sword whispered as I drew it from the sheath.

When his feet appeared, they were closer than I expected. I stepped from my hiding place. “Hold it right—”

I never finished. I had just enough time to shift the cross-guard of my sword to block a sweeping dagger thrust. Metal clanged against metal, and my attacker stepped in closer. I couldn’t maneuver. His blade came for my middle while our free hands grappled.

I couldn’t parry. I dropped my sword and jerked to my right, the thrust glancing off my jerkin. Fire cut my side as I caught his wrist, but I’d failed to surprise my attacker and I had no weapon.

I’d trained in close quarters in the last war.
“Surprise and
speed,”
my instructor had screamed at me day after day.

The acolyte pushed against me. Instead of resisting, I pulled with him, twisting so that I landed on him as we fell. I brought my elbow up into his face. Blood burst from his nose, and I saw his eyes widen in surprise and pain before going dark with anger.

His other hand darted for his robe, groping.

My boots scrabbled against the ground as I shoved, rolling his weight onto that arm. His knee found my groin and breath exploded from me. I clenched my knees together and head-butted him on his broken nose.

But the move shifted my balance, and he threw me off to the side, drawing a second dagger. I rolled, searching for my sword.

I saw my blade behind him and growled my frustration. Pulling the dagger strapped to the inside of my boot, I darted forward. Suicide. One dagger against two. I worked to his left and saw him smile beneath the ruin of his nose.

Left-handed.

And he’d tried to hide it.

I ripped my cloak from my neck and spun it around my left arm as he closed.

I thrust my left arm at his face and dropped. Kicking as hard as I could, I swept his feet. His dagger stroke went just over my head, and I saw his eyes widen as he fell.

Switching my grip for an overhand thrust, I leaped toward him for the kill, but he kicked out even before he hit the ground, one boot taking me in the knee and the other hitting my wrist. I watched as my dagger sailed away. I staggered, struggling for balance.

By the time I’d righted myself, he’d rolled back to his feet and came at me again.

I took a thrust that sank through most of my cloak, but he wrapped a leg behind mine, pushing. I fell to the stones of the alley with his weight on me.

Pinned with the point of his dagger against my chest, I locked my hands around his wrist, struggling to keep it from me.

I couldn’t get any leverage. His weight kept my arms pinned at my sides. A smile split his face as the tip inched closer. I could have put my thumb through his eye, but the moment I let go with either hand, I’d have eight inches of steel in me.

The heat of his breath washed over me as the tip of his dagger pushed against my jerkin. Any second the thick leather would give way, and then the blade would slip right through me.

I slammed my knees into his body, trying to make contact with something sensitive. He smiled at the weak blows, and the pressure on my jerkin increased. Somewhere in my mind I whispered the prayer for the dead. For myself.

The pressure eased. I blinked, saw my attacker staring through me, trying to focus. Then the flat of my sword blade swept down, hitting him again. Custos.

My attacker shook his head, trying to clear it, and the blade lifted from my chest. I shifted, extended my arms, and turned his wrist until something popped.

I covered his mouth as he drew breath to scream, grabbed his dagger and put it through his heart. The look of victory that had been in his eyes turned to shock as he looked down. By the time he fell to the side, he was already dead.

Custos stood over me and the dead man, holding my sword like a club, ready to strike again. “Is he dead?”

The abstraction I always felt in the presence of death came over me again. I brushed dark hair back from his forehead as I turned his face toward me and caught a hint of reflection off a glassy stare. The eyes. The gaze of the dead man captivated me, looking through me, focused on something so impossibly far away only eternity could comprehend it. “Tell me,” I whispered to him. “What do you see?”

“Willet?” Custos said in a voice that could have come from the next kingdom. “Is he dead?”

I blinked, the trance broken. My attacker, like all the others who’d died in my presence, hadn’t answered. “Yes, old friend. He’s dead.”

“It’s a shame you killed him,” Custos said. He flopped on the ground next to me, breathing heavily, sharing my exhaustion. “You could have questioned him.”

I shook my head. “Too dangerous for that one. I don’t think I could have gotten anything out of him that he didn’t already tell me.”

Custos’s eyebrows, the only part of him that hadn’t gone gray, rose in surprise. “He spoke to you?”

I shook my head. “Not in words, but when we were fighting, I moved to attack from his left. He smiled.” I nudged the dead man with my boot. “Now why would somebody left-handed try to hide it?”

It took Custos a moment to arrive at the same conclusion I had, but he got there just the same. “Family trait?” His eyes widened. “Orlan.”

I nodded as I shifted to stand. The second most powerful family in Collum had a preponderance of left-handed men in the line, a fact they’d used to their advantage in the clan wars in centuries long past. The spiral stairways in their keeps wound the opposite way from all the others, giving their defenders more room to maneuver.

I knew the history of Collum well enough to know it had been the Orlan family that had lost the gift of kings to Laidir’s ancestor, but why would a family that already owned a pure gift of craft take the risk of stealing something they already had?

The thought of pursuing an investigation into the Orlan family—to say nothing about the fact that I, a commoner, had just killed one of them—added several layers to my exhaustion. I could have slept for a week, but I clawed my way to a standing position and dragged the dead man into the shadows so no one would stumble upon it. “Let’s go inside. Braben is a friend. I’m sure he has a cellar where we can search the body.”