Priest (Ratcatchers Book 1) (29 page)

“I’d take him back to Celkirk,” Heden said, making a half-turn in his chair to stay oriented on his rival.

“Good,” the Polder said, and fished some coin from out a purse at his belt.

“Giving you plenty of opportunity to kill him,” Heden said, getting coin from his own purse.

“Yes,” the Polder said bluntly. He watched as Heden put down three crowns covering the drink he hadn’t touched.

“Why do the people you work for,” Heden said, hoping the little man noticed he never asked who those people were, “want to kill a knight who murdered a knight?”

The polder reached out and picked up Heden’s nearly full glass as though it were his own drink, and drank half of it.

“I have no idea,” he said, stifling a belch.

“That bothers you,” Heden said, saying nothing about his drink.

“I’m used to not knowing,” the polder said without contradicting Heden.

“No you’re not,” Heden said, looking at his drink in the polder’s hand. “You’re used to being sent to kill someone without knowing why, but this is different. This time they couldn’t even tell you who, they expected you to figure it out yourself, which is not your strength.”

Heden was being confrontational, pushing the polder to see how he’d respond. It was a risk, but it paid off.

The little man didn’t bat an eye, showed no signs of feathers ruffled. Heden’s respect for him grew.

The polder drained the rest of Heden’s drink, put the glass back, wiped his mouth with the hairy back of his hand.

“I’m not doing bad so far. I know who you are, and I know what you know, and you don’t know who I am and don’t know what I know.” The polder pointed to the glass as he turned to walk away. “Plus, I got your drink off you, free. So…I win.” He started to leave.

About ten paces to the door, he half-turned and, without looking at anyone, obviously uncertain and confused at his own uncertainty, the polder said; “My name is Aimsley.”

He stood there, having said that, stared widely out the window for a moment, shrugged to no one, and left.

Heden stood up, poured himself a drink from the bottle the polder had left, half-empty, and drank it in one gulp. His throat burned and tightened up, but he clenched his jaw, grimaced and forced it down.

He watched the people around him, the townsfolk, the villagers and farmers and it was clear the inn was emptier than the last time he was here. Some people would never leave their homes, even should the World Below erupt and vomit forth its legions. The drink slowly spread out, warming him and relaxing him. He imagined it loosed the knot in his mind.

He thought about everything that had just happened. Tried to order it. The polder had been sent from Celkirk. Probably hired -his guild would have no interest in the order. And he knew Heden had been sent here. Followed him. Got here faster than a horse could bring him, probably meant magic.

Why would someone want the Polder to kill anyone? Surely the only person anyone might want dead was already dead. The polder seemed satisfied that nothing was happening with the order. When he found out they were sitting around doing nothing, likely to do nothing, he immediately became very relaxed. Even helpful. Heden saw it.

The polder didn’t care about the murderer. That was just a ruse to keep Heden convinced of his own cleverness. He was sent to make sure the order didn’t leave the priory.

The urq, the sack of Ollghum Keep, the Green Order, were not just an obscure problem at the edge of civilization. Someone wanted to destroy the order, and sent Aimsley the polder assassin to make sure they didn’t leave the priory. Didn’t do their duty.

Heden felt manipulated, but he couldn’t tell by who or what. But he knew that if the Green Order fell, then the people who hired Aimsley won. Had beat him.

Shaking his head at the absurdity of what he was about to do, he vowed to try and save the Green Order one last time.

He walked out of the Steaming Turnip, and looked up at the Iron Forest looming over the keep.

“Alright you son of a bitch,” Heden said to the forest. People passing him looked up to see who he was talking to. “Let’s try this one more time.”

From the air, Heden could see the knights standing outside the priory. Their pinions flying, their mounts readied, preparing for something. He circled overhead. The knights all looked up at him, but none of them seemed to give him more than a moment’s thought. As though men on flying tapestries were something they saw all the time.

They gathered around the line of posts that marked the jousting field. Heden landed the carpet on the large, grassless circle of the melee.

He stepped off the carpet and noted each knight. Sir Brys was walking toward him. The other knights ignored him. Isobel, Taethan, and Nudd were on one side of the joust, the three dastards on the other. Taethan and Nudd were helping Isobel with her armor, Cadwyr and Dywel were helping Idris with his. Aderyn was nowhere to be seen.

“This is how you found us?” Sir Brys asked, looking at the carpet. “When the forest would permit none?”

“No,” Heden said, rolling it up. “I could only use this once I already knew where the priory was. Or once I’d already proven myself to the forest, either way.” It seemed to Brys like Heden was never sure about anything.

“And how did you prove yourself to the forest?”

Heden paused in rolling the carpet up and looked at Brys. He considered telling the knight to go fuck a pig, but then he’d be a hypocrite.

“I got on a horse,” he said, “let the reins fall slack across the horse’s neck, and let the horse guide me.”

Brys was impressed at Heden’s insight.

“First a horse and now this,” he said, nodding at the carpet. “Why come back?”

“Where’s Kavalen’s body?” Heden asked, ignoring him.

Brys shook his head with what seemed to Heden like pity. “You know we won’t help you, why ask?”

Heden took a deep breath. “Decided to try and save you idiots whether you like it or not,” he said. “If I find the body, I might be able to figure out how Kavalen died. That’d be something. Better than nothing at least. Figure out how he died, maybe that’s the road to who killed him. Why.”

He looked at Brys and let this sink in. Brys seemed wary, as though Heden might figure it all out on his own, and was afraid of what that meant. That was a good sign.

“I don’t need you to perform the ritual,” Heden explained. “I just need to know how Kavalen died, and why. Halcyon can decide what to do about it, and who replaces him. If she still gives a shit about you people.”

“She cares,” Brys said.

“Sure,” Heden said.

Brys, looking at the ground, expression not changing, asked “How did you know to mount a horse and let the reins fall slack?

Heden took a deep breath and accepted the change of subject.

“My da used to tell my brothers and me stories about knights when we were young.”

Brys nodded.

“The stories of Cilydd and his knights,” Brys said.

“Yeah, that’s them. I remembered how the Knights Errant found their quest.”

This seemed to satisfy Brys.

“And which was your favorite?” he asked, thinking an answer would provide insight into the man in front of him.

“I was five,” Heden said, apparently ignoring him. “And my brothers all older. They loved the stories,” he said. He looked at Brys and answered his question. “I thought the knights were all prideful, hateful, selfish idiots.”

Brys took this in, watching him wordlessly. Heden continued stuffing the carpet into his pack. It was a laborious process, and evident even before he began that there was no way the huge tapestry could fit in the pack he carried. Brys watched as the pack slowly consumed the tapestry.

“That is a useful pack.” Brys let Heden’s comment about the legendary knights pass.

“Yeah,” Heden said.

“Why a tapestry?”

Heden worked to stow the thing away. Once he was done, he slung the pack over his shoulder, straightened his breastplate and stretched his arms. Then he looked at Brys and shrugged. “Why not?”

Brys frowned at him. Heden realized he was being an ass.

“It was a gift from a friend. From Qartoum.”

Brys shook his head. The name meant nothing to him.

“It’s a desert land,” he said. “Not sure why carpets or tapestries are significant. Never thought to ask.” Heden looked up at the blue sky and the thin wispy clouds. “Seems strange now that you bring it up. Seemed perfectly natural while I was there.”

Brys accepted this.

Carpet stowed, Heden looked at the field. Saw Idris, now fully outfitted in plate from head to toe, being helped onto his horse by Cadwyr and Dywell. Isobel was waiting patiently on her horse, lance ready. It was a long, lethal thing, with a sharp gleaming point.

“I thought she canceled the tournament,” Heden said.

Brys stood next to him, also watching.

“She did,” Brys said. “This is not part of the tournament.”

Heden didn’t understand.

“This is a quarrel between knights,” Brys explained, folding his arms over his chest.

Heden looked at Brys. He was a hard and pragmatic man. Not driven by hubris or idealism. Of all the knights, Brys seemed the most sensible. Heden had to remind himself that this perspective and intelligence was not on Heden’s side. And Brys wanted to command the knights. This put him at odds with Isobel at least, and possibly Taethan and Idris as well.

Heden wondered what kind of man Kavalen must have been, to have kept this motley band together. He doubted any of the knights could take his place. Maybe they each knew it.

Brys was ignoring him. He didn’t seem particularly happy with what was going on, and Heden decided not to ask him.

Heden strode across the field to Lady Isobel. Taethan challenged him with a look, but said nothing. Nudd stood silently behind the lady knight.

“What’s going on?” Heden demanded.

Lady Isobel had her helmet on. Still covered in twigs and moss and small mushrooms, her armor looking green and opalescent in the sun, she looked down at Heden from her horse, imperiously.

“What hast thou done with mine squire?” she asked.

Heden looked around. He knew Aderyn wasn’t here, his reaction was reflexive.

“I left her in the forest,” Heden said.

“And why wouldst thou do such a thing?”

Heden grabbed the reins of her horse, pulling it toward him.

“She wanted to come back here and warn you about the urq. I went and told your sister that you weren’t coming.”

This obviously wasn’t what Isobel wanted or expected to hear.

“How did…” Isobel began, and then stopped. “What was my sister’s response?”

“Does it matter?” Heden said. “She’ll be dead soon anyway.”

It was a calculated gambit. Heden didn’t have much in the way of leverage over these knights, and he wanted to see what Isobel would do if denied something she wanted.

She stared at Heden for a few moments, and Heden had no idea what she was thinking. Then she looked across the field at her opponent, preparing.

“Thou art surely right,” she said, composed. No reaction. There was nothing she could do from here, there was no point in being sentimental about it. And she had an enemy to face. And that was that.

The wrong sister became baron
, Heden thought. If this woman was back at the keep, the urmen wouldn’t stand a chance.

Lady Isobel looked down through her helm at Heden’s hand on the reins of her horse, and Heden let go. She spurred her horse on, and the large animal trotted away.

Idris and Isobel were taking their positions on either side of the jousting run. They looked like two knights in a dream, each in full plate. Their lances long and deadly. Their horses towers of muscle and speed.

Taethan had joined Brys by the melee but now Brys was walking to Sir Nudd, leaving Taethan standing there alone. Heden eyed Sir Taethan, gritted his teeth, and walked over to the knight.

Taethan said nothing to him, just watched from a distance as the two knights sat atop their horses, lances pointing skyward. Neither moving.

Heden turned and watched as well. He and the knight now standing next to each other.

“You’re wasting your time here,” Taethan said. Heden glanced up at him. He looked like a saint. Noble and powerful. Heden turned back to Idris and Isobel.

“My time to waste,” Heden said. Neither of the knights were moving. The sun beat down. “Where’s Kavalen’s grave?” Heden saw no reason to waste time. He didn’t think Taethan would tell him anyway.

Taethan raised his eyebrows in reaction but did not look at the Arrogate.

“There is a ceremony, and the dead knight is accepted into the heart of the forest. There is no grave, as you think of it.” This was essentially what Aderyn had said.

Heden imagined the dead knight’s body being consumed by moss and vines like Sir Perren’s body. Or being absorbed by the soil and turned to peat. It was a nightmarish thought. But Taethan did not appear to be lying.

“What’s Sir Nudd doing” Heden asked, covering his eyes in the bright summer sun and looking at the Knight Silent gesticulating at the Knight Lieutenant.

“He pleads with Sir Brys to stop the joust,” Taethan said without looking.

“Doesn’t look like Brys is going for it,” Heden said. He forgot the knight’s title, but Taethan didn’t seem to mind.

“Brys says he cannot stop the joust,” Taethan said. As though he could hear them. “He has not the power and if he had the power he has not the right. And if he had both the power and the right he still would not.”

“Lot of bloody minded people around here,” Heden observed.

Taethan looked down at him. “Your time to waste,” he threw Heden’s words back at him, but without malice.

“Okay,” Heden admitted. Nudd looked like he was giving up on Brys. He tramped over to Cadwyr and Dywel, the bald spot at the top of his head red in the heat.

Lady Isobel and Sir Idris still sat on their horses.

“Everyone else drops the cant, except her,” Heden said.

Though it was not a question, Taethan answered. “She’s been a knight for forty years,” he said. “And a Squire for twenty before that. I don’t think she remembers how to talk like a modern person.”

“Doesn’t seem to be a problem for you,” Heden said, watching the knights. This was the first time the two of them had talked alone and Heden winced at his own acerbic attack.

Taethan looked at him. Every time he did, Heden felt like an interloper. A criminal.

“Do you think I’m proud of that?” he asked. “I spoke only the cant for fifteen years, do you think I didn’t dream of being an old man having forgotten there was any other way to speak?”

Heden shut up, and sucked his upper lip in. He hadn’t considered this. The death of Kavalen caused this man to drop the cant, part of his whole way of life. After a moment, he thought better of silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said, half turning to Taethan, not looking directly at him.

Taethan nodded curtly, once. Apology accepted.

Taethan said “You have no interest in the joust?”

Heden glanced at him, and then turned to look at the two knights facing each other across the jousting field.

“It’s a sport for rich idiots,” Heden said.

“You speak of the tournaments they have in the south,” Taethan said.

“Yeah,” Heden said. “In the south.”

“It is different here.”

“I can see that,” Heden said. He’d been watching the two knights for what seemed an entire turn. “How long are they going to sit there?” he asked. “Isn’t there a trumpet or a scarf or something?” Heden looked around to see if anyone was acting as anything other than a spectator.

“The true joust is a test of mind as well as body,” Taethan intoned. “There is no signal to react to. Only knowing the other knight. Neither wants to run first, neither wants to run last.”

“Why not?” Heden asked, interested in spite of himself.

“Running early gives your opponent more time to watch you on approach, more time to react. Forces you to commit to a strategy before he does. Running late means your horse will not reach full gallop and therefore your blow will not be sufficient, should it land.”

Heden thought about this.

“So what do they do?”

Taethan smiled. “They watch each other,” he said. “And think.”

“Exciting,” Heden said.

“They study each other,” Taethan continued, ignoring him, “and when the moment is right, they will both run.”

“At the same time?” Heden asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Because each will know in the instant, that it is the right instant.”

Heden was intrigued.

“It is hard to explain,” Taethan said. “Squires run early or late. Knights never do.”

Heden watched the two knights, each sitting stock still on their horse, lance up, each gazing at the other. The sun beat down. Baking them in their armor.

“You have seen the joust before?”

Heden nodded. He didn’t bother saying that the last time he’d been the guest of the king. It was the kind of thing Taethan wouldn’t have cared about in any case.