Luck in the Shadows (58 page)

“Now that’s a damned shame,” Micum sighed, holding up the hem of his cloak as he squatted down beside the girl. “She can’t be more than twenty. Do you see her wrists?”

Seregil fingered the brown bruises circling the pale wrists. “She was bound, and gagged, too. See here, how the corners of her mouth are raw?”

Shivering with nausea, Alec forced himself to watch the examination. The past few hours rolled over him like an oppressive nightmare, leaving him sickened to the core.

The front of the body was unmarked except for the bruises. When they rolled her over, however, they found a single small wound between her ribs just to the left of the spine.

“A professional job,” Seregil muttered. “Through the great vessel and straight up into the heart. At least it was quick. Where was she found, old mother?”

“Poor lamb! They pulled her from under the docks, end of Eel Street,” the Scavenger woman replied. “I took her for a doxy. Is there family to collect her?”

Seregil laid the body gently back into place and stood up. “I’ll look into it. See that she’s kept a day or two longer, won’t you?”

Outside again, all three sucked in lungfuls of the tar-scented
air, but the stink of vinegar on their hands and faces seemed to keep the stench of death about them.

“I want to jump into the sea with all my clothes on!” said Alec, casting a longing look toward the glimmering of water visible at the end of the street.

“Me, too, if we wouldn’t come out of that water dirtier than we are now,” said Seregil. “A good hot tub will put us right.”

“That’s your answer to just about everything,” Micum observed wryly. “In this case, however, I have to agree.”

“At least we know for certain that we’re on the right track,” Alec said hopefully. “I wonder where Teukros and Marsin will turn up?”

“If they ever do,” answered Seregil. “For all we know, it could have been them who did away with the girl, in which case they could be halfway to anywhere by now. Then again, they could both be floating dead in the sewers. Between this and Barien’s sudden death, though, I think it’s safe to assume that we’ve got more enemies out there somewhere and, whoever they are, they’ve got the wind up their tails now. Teukros spilled something to someone!”

T
wo days had passed since the Vicegerent’s suicide. At noon Barien’s body was to be publicly dismembered, a symbolic execution of the self-confessed traitor. Micum flatly refused to attend. While Seregil finished dressing, he wandered out onto the bedroom balcony to watch Alec at his morning shooting in the garden. Patiently gauging each shot, the boy sent shaft after shaft unerringly into his current target, a sack of straw wedged in the crotch of a tree.

The previous night Alec had halfheartedly offered to accompany Seregil, but they’d managed to dissuade him.

“There’s nothing there you need to see,” Seregil had told him, kindly leaving unsaid the fact that Alec had shouted himself awake every night since their charnel house tour.

The boy’s relief had been obvious, but this morning he’d moped through breakfast in guilty, hangdog silence, then retreated to the garden with his bow.

As Micum watched now, a sudden gust of wind blew a lock of hair across Alec’s eyes, spoiling his last shot. Without the slightest show of impatience, he merely brushed it back and went to collect his arrows for another round.

It’s a pity you don’t have as much patience
with yourself as you do with your shooting
, Micum thought, stepping back into the warmth of the bedroom.

Seregil was trying on a broad-brimmed black hat in front of the mirror. Tugging it to a more rakish angle over one eye, he stepped back to judge the effect. “What do you think?” he asked.

Micum ran a critical eye over the plain grey velvet coat Seregil wore under a cloak of darker grey. “No one’s going to mistake you for a wedding guest.”

Seregil tipped his hat with a humorless smile. “Well turned out but austere, eh? Good. Never let it be said that Lord Seregil doesn’t know how to dress for any occasion. Is Alec still shooting?”

“Yes. You know, maybe you shouldn’t have talked him out of going. I think he feels like he’s let you down.”

Seregil shrugged. “Probably, but it was his decision in the end. You saw him the other night; he forced himself into the charnels because he knew it mattered. Today it doesn’t and he knows that, too. He’s just kicking himself for being squeamish. Hell,
I
wouldn’t be going if I didn’t have to. The way word has spread around Rhíminee, they’re writing ballads about me already; the poor exile unjustly imprisoned and all that sort of horse shit. So it matters and I’m going. At least the poor bastard did us all the favor of killing himself. When the condemned is alive, I have nightmares myself.”

The execution site lay a few miles north of the city. Known as “Traitor’s Hill,” the barren rise was distinguished by a broad stone platform on the crest of the hill. Overlooking a lonely stretch of the Cirna highroad, its gibbet arch and deeply scarred block presented bleak but potent testimony to the Queen’s implacable justice.

Riding out under a lowering sky, Seregil clapped his hat on more tightly and silently cursed the duty that forced him out on such a morning. The northern territories had been winter-locked for a month now, but the cold weather was only now settling in solidly here on the coast. A light dusting of snow had streaked the fields just after dawn; in the distance to his right, he could see mountain peaks glistening whitely.

A sizable crowd had already gathered at the execution site. The nobles sat their horses in a tight knot, slightly but definitively separate from the surrounding mob of idlers, ne’er-do-wells, and seekers of morbid thrills.

The latter formed a loose ring around the platform. laughing and jesting as if it were a Fair Day, they took their humble midday meal within the shadow of the gibbet and dared one another to stand close enough to get spattered by the blood.

Ignoring the sudden ripple of excited shouts and pointing his arrival elicited, Seregil rode to join Nysander and Thero on the fringe of the noble ranks.

Thero raised an eyebrow. “Alec’s not with you?”

Seregil tensed immediate, forever on guard against some thinly veiled barb from the younger wizard.

“Perhaps it is just as well,” Nysander observed quietly. “This is not an aspect of Skalan society of which I am particularly proud. The great pity is that it is so effective a deterrent.”

Nysander was looking more careworn than ever this morning. In spite of the irrefutable evidence, the wizard was still finding it difficult to accept Barien’s disloyalty. Seregil knew him well enough to understand that it went deeper than mere disillusionment; as an intimate of both the Queen and the Vicegerent, Nysander was reproaching himself for having been blind to a plot of such magnitude. Unfortunately, this was not the time or place to discuss the matter.

Maintaining a somber demeanor, Seregil politely rebuffed efforts by several curious nobles to draw him into conversation. Instead, he listened with a certain sardonic pleasure to the speculations being bantered about nearby.

Lords and ladies who’d feasted at the Vicegerent’s own table within the last fortnight now spoke darkly of suspicious circumstances suddenly recalled, or turns of conversation now construed as suspicious or telling.

The crowd grew increasingly restless as the dull sky gradually brightened toward noon. In response, blue-uniformed riders of the City Watch began to make their presence more visible.

Chilled and disgruntled, Seregil shifted in the saddle. “The procession should be in sight by now.”

“He’s right. Shall I cry for them, Nysander?” Offered Thero.

“Perhaps we—” The older wizard paused, shading his eyes as
he gazed back up the road toward the city. “No, I doubt it will be necessary.”

A lone rider had come into view, galloping hard in their direction. As he came closer, they could see that he wore the colors of a Queen’s Herald.

“Bloody hell, here comes someone to spoil the fun for sure!” someone shouted.

The assessment seemed a likely one and the crowd parted with a collective grumble to let the rider through. Dismounting, the herald climbed onto the gibbet platform, unrolled a scroll, and in a loud, clear voice proclaimed, “By order of Queen Idrilain the Second, the ritual execution of Barien í Zhal is postponed. There will be no dismemberment today. All hail the Queen’s mercy!”

Jeers and catcalls went up from the thrill seekers, but most of the nobles turned their mounts for town with expressions of relief.

“What’s this?” muttered Seregil.

“I cannot imagine,” replied Nysander. “I suspect, however, that a summons from the Queen may await me upon my return.”

Nysander was correct. Hastening to the Palace, he found Idrilain and Phoria waiting for him in the private audience chamber. Idrilain was seated, with Phoria at stiff attention at her left side. Both women looked very grim.

“Sit down, Nysander. There is something I wish you to hear,” Idrilain said curtly, motioning him to the only other chair in the small chamber. “Phoria, repeat to Nysander what you have told me.”

“Lord Barien was not a Leran,” Phoria began, her voice flat as a sergeant’s at daily report. “He died believing that he had unwittingly aided them, however, through commerce he and Lord Teukros had with the forger Alben.”

“Then he recognized Alben, that night at the inquisition?” Nysander asked, recalling Barien’s strange expression.

Phoria shook her head. “No, he’d never met the man or heard his name. The connection was all through Teukros, who’d handled all the dealings with him.

“It all started three years ago. Lord Teukros was involved in
that massive land speculation in the western territories which failed so miserably.”

“I recall the scandal,” said Nysander. “I had no idea Teukros had any part in it.”

“He was ruined,” Phoria told him. “In the end he owed several millions to the man who’d backed the whole scheme, a Lord Herleus.”

“Herleus?” Nysander searched his memory for a face to go with the name.

“Killed during a boar hunt later that same year,” Idrilain informed him. “After his death, some evidence was found suggesting he’d been a Leran sympathizer, though nothing could be proven at the time.”

“Ah, I begin to see.”

“Teukros was ruined,” Phoria continued. “Even Barien hadn’t the ready funds to save him, and Herleus would not be reasoned with. Barien told me he’d advised Teukros to accept his shame and flee the country, and at first Teukros agreed. A day later, however, he came back to his uncle with a plan to save the family name.”

“And this plan involved the forging of certain documents which, after the Queen herself, only Barien had access to?”

Phoria nodded. “Apparently Teukros had gone to plead with Herleus one last time. It was then that Herleus suggested that Barien’s position would allow him to divert treasury gold from the Gold Road shipments. Herleus introduced Teukros to Alben, who could forge the necessary papers. The long and the short of it is, poor Barien couldn’t bear to see his spineless scoundrel of a nephew disgraced and agreed to it all. They needed my help in rerouting the gold and, for Barien’s sake, I agreed. We both regretted it after, but we thought the whole affair was over and done until Alben turned up in this business with Lord Seregil.”

Nysander stroked his short beard thoughtfully. “I must hear the details of the plan, of course, but I am still uncertain as to how Barien, whom you say knew nothing of Alben, made the connection between this creature and his nephew during the confession.”

Phoria sighed heavily. “Alben spoke of the
White Hart
. That was the name of the vessel the stolen gold was put onto at Cirna.”

Ah, and as high commander of the cavalry detachments assigned to guard such shipments, your approval was needed to reroute the gold. As was Barien’s to alter the treasury manifest. Both of you needed to know the name of the vessel, if little else.”

Phoria met his eye stonily. “I should have refused. I should have stopped him. I offer no excuse for my actions.”

Idrilain took a rolled document from the side table and passed it to Nysander. “This is Barien’s will, dated three years ago. You’ll find he left his entire fortune and holdings to the Skalan treasury. It’s more than adequate repayment.”

Slapping a hand down on the table, she rose to pace the room. “As if I wouldn’t have forgiven him or tried to help! That wonderful, damnable old-fashioned honor of his destroyed him and cost me the most valuable councilor I had, not to mention the trust of my heir apparent. And all on account of a young idiot not worth the price of the rocks to crush him!”

Phoria flinched visibly. “I shall relinquish all claim to the throne, of course.”

“You will do nothing of the sort!” shouted Idrilain, rounding on her. “With a war brewing and Lerans in the back pantry, the
last
thing this country needs is the uproar of an abdication. You made a mistake—a stupid, prideful mistake—and now you’ve seen the consequences. As the future queen of this land, you will accept responsibility for your actions and put the needs of Skala before your own. As the high commander of my cavalry forces, you will remain at your post and carry out your duties.
Is that clear?”

White-faced, Phoria dropped to one knee and raised a fist to her chest in salute. “I will, my Queen!”

“Oh, get up and finish your report.” Turning away in disgust, Idrilain dropped back into her chair.

Rising, Phoria resumed her rigid stance. “As far as I know, the gold was delivered to the
Hart
as planned. Barien never mentioned the matter to me again until the night of his death.”

For an instant a small tremor disturbed the masklike composure of her face. It was the first time in years Nysander had seen her show the hint of any strong emotion other than anger. It passed as quickly as it had come, however.

“Barien went to Teukros and confronted him, wanting to
know why he’d continued an association with the forger,” she went on. “Apparently Teukros denied everything having to do with the Leran plot and Seregil, but did admit to using Alben’s talents to facilitate some shady shipping deals.”