Dark Jenny (16 page)

I waved the lamp, and the vermin scattered. I knelt beside the body. Its hands were tied behind its back. The small fingers curled limp, and the ropes hadn’t bitten into the skin. That told me the corpse was bound after death.

I also saw it was a woman.

I slowly turned her over. The long, wet hair hid her face, so I had to brush it aside. I recognized her.

It was Mary, the serving girl.

Yet it
couldn’t
be. There wasn’t a mark on her face.

I stared at her for a long time. I was absolutely sure it was her. I’d watched her closely in the great hall, just before Patrice fell dead. Yet Agravaine had given her a black eye and a split lip just two days earlier. Those injuries simply
couldn’t
heal that quickly.

I ran my finger along her cold cheek. Her eyes were closed, and her features slack. She hadn’t drowned. Using just my good hand, I sought the fatal injury beneath her clothes and found it quickly enough: a single knife thrust between her ribs, no doubt angled toward her heart. The edges were white and puffy, washed clean of blood by the steady water.

Her joints were stiff; she’d been dead at least several hours. She could’ve been killed anytime after Iris said she left the infirmary.

But why was she
here
? I looked back down the tunnel toward the cliff grate, which blocked anything bigger than a rat. She couldn’t just wash out to sea, even if there was enough water flow to carry her. There weren’t enough rats to dispose of the body, or even render it unrecognizable. So the only explanation was that it wasn’t dumped here, but
stored
here. To be disposed of later.

I looked at her face, verifying the impossible truth that there was no trace of her injuries. The flesh was unmarked, unswollen, unsplit. There was still a touch of baby fat in her cheeks, and an innocence that had survived her death.

I’d mocked her possible future back in the great hall before the murder. At the time it had been the worst fate I could imagine for her.

I considered carrying her with me to meet Kay. She deserved better than this, lying facedown in a glorified sewer for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there were more undercurrents than just the water in this tunnel. Had I been set up to find this girl? Was a contingent of armed men waiting for me to emerge with the proof of my guilt tossed over my shoulder?

Against all my better instincts, I carefully put her back the way I’d found her. Wherever her spirit now resided, I hoped it understood.

*   *   *

THE
tunnel opened at the bottom of a small, empty pond. The even, bowl-like sides were lined with round rocks to prevent erosion when rainwater filled it. At the top of the slope, Kay sat smoking a pipe, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

He smiled as I emerged into the moonlight. “Well, hack off my legs and call me Shorty. You look ten years younger without the beard.”

“I’m in disguise.” I did not tell him about Mary’s body, or my run-in with the courtiers, or that I’d claimed to be the mythical Lord Huckleberry. Nodlon Castle was a surprising distance away, down the slight slope toward the cliffs. I hadn’t realized the tunnel was quite so long.

He fingered my jacket’s lapel. “You might be a little overdressed to be inconspicuous.”

“Once the road dust settles on me, I’ll be fine.”

“There’s your horse.” Kay indicated a nearby tree where the animal was saddled and tied. “She’ll do fine for a long, fast trip. And here.” He handed me a sword and scabbard.

“I guess you trust me now.”

“I’m not sending you out unarmed. But I should warn you: If you intend to leave Grand Bruan without completing your job, Marc will send Tom Gillian after you. And Gillian won’t stop until he’s found you, and one of you is dead.”

I sighed and shook my head. “I knew it was too easy.”

“Yeah. And here’s this.”

He tossed me a small money bag. From its weight I could tell it included more gold than I’d asked for. While the threat of Gillian’s retribution was definitely a factor, this was the real reason he could trust me. Not the money itself, but what it represented: my word. I said, “For what it’s worth, if I take payment for a job, I see it through.”

“I hope so. Because so does Tom Gillian.”

I put the money in my jacket pocket, then with great difficulty, thanks to the cast, I buckled the sword around my waist. Kay offered no help. When I finished, I said, “One more thing. Seriously, how will Spears take it when I show up and tell him to drop everything and come here?”

Kay snorted. “It’s Jennifer. If she says spit, he’ll ask how far.”

“So there
is
something to the gossip?”

He shook his head wearily. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe, once. When we were all a lot younger, we all did things we’re not proud of now. But it’s old news, and the people involved have made their peace with it. Bringing it up now does no one any good.”

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 get 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.