The Dragonstone (39 page)

*   *   *

“So, milord,” said Egil, “King Bleys is not even in Pellar at the moment.”

Revor shook his head as he hastily examined papers, stuffing a few into saddlebags and placing others back among the piles upon the desk he stood behind; as he had told them, he would be shortly sailing northward across the bay to deal with a matter of high justice concerning the garrison in the Fian Dunes, but he could spare them a moment. “No. Bleys is to the north. No sooner had he come back from breaking the Rovers’ blockade, than word came of the Lian campaign against the
Rûpt
—”

“Campaign?” burst out Arin. “What campaign?”

Revor looked across at her. “It seems that some of the great trees of the Larkenwald were cut down by the Foul Folk, and the Lian took up arms against the tribe of
Spaunen
that did it.” Revor glanced at Arin. “From the message that came, Elven vengeance was swift, milady, utterly without mercy, as it should have been. Chilling examples were made of the axe wielders, and their remains are even now being displayed to the
Spaunen
kindred in their mountain haunts. At times battle ensues, and the Lian hew down those
Rûpt
who take up arms. That is where High King Bleys is: he rides with the Lian.”

“What does the felling of trees have to do with Bleys?” asked Delon.

“Why, eldwood trees are protected by edict of the High King,” replied Revor, returning to his task. “Too, King Bleys is not one to stand idly by when there are arms to wield.” The steward gestured at the piles of paper and scrolls yet awaiting his scrutiny. “He’d rather leave the administration of the realm to others. In any event, as soon as he returned from breaking the Rovers’ blockade, he and Phais and a small warband rode off to join the Lian on their ride through the Grimwall.”

“Phais?” asked Egil.

“She is the High King’s advisor,” replied Revor. “A Lian herself, she was outraged when the word first came.” Revor paused in his scrutiny. “Huh, last October it was, a year past. But then Bleys was readying the fleet to sail against the Rovers, and although he gave Phais permission to ride to the Larkenwald, she stayed by him. Now he fares at her side. They rode to join the Lian in late July—three months past.”

“Milord, how goes this war?” asked Delon.

The steward shrugged. “Other than the original message, we’ve no word.” Revor stuffed a last paper into his saddlebag and buckled it shut.

He looked across at them. “But here, you did not come to speak of war; it was to see the High King instead.” Now he gazed directly at Arin. “You seek aid, Dara Arin of Darda Erynian, the Blackwood, representative of Coron Remar. How may I help you?”

Arin glanced at Egil, then said, “We’ve come looking for a ferret in the High King’s cage.”

Revor’s eyes widened and he sat down. “And this is your urgent business?” His tone was sharp.

“Aye, ’tis the rede of a prophecy we follow…one thy High King should now know about, given that he has met up with any who rode with me to Black Mountain.”

“Prophecy?” Revor took a deep breath and blew it out. “Milady, the High King keeps no ferrets.”

“Are there any in Pendwyr?” asked Delon.

The steward shook his head. “None I know of. I am afraid that if your mission calls for the finding of a High King’s ferret, you are to be disappointed.”

Aiko spoke for the first time. “Has the High King any cages?”

“He kennels dogs,” replied Revor, cocking his head at her unfamiliar accent. “Falcons and the like.”

“May we examine them?”

Revor blew out his breath again. “I’ll arrange for someone to escort you, though you’ll find no weasels, stoats, ferrets, mousehounds, or other such within.”

“Does Bleys keep cages elsewhere?” asked Egil.

Revor shrugged. “Perhaps some at Challerain Keep, though I would be most surprised if any contained ferrets.”

The steward looked from one to another. “Is there aught else you would ask of me?” None replied, and Revor stood and threw on a cloak and hat, and took up his saddlebags. “There is a tale here for the telling and would that I could hear the whole of it, but I, too, have urgent business.”

As the steward led them toward the door, Delon said, “There is one other thing you could do for us, milord.”

Revor looked at him and cocked an eyebrow.

Delon said, “You could give us permission to speak to the prisoners in the jail.”

“Huah,” grunted the steward. “But for a few drunkards, the rest are to be hanged at sundown.”

Delon shrugged. “Nevertheless…”

Revor snorted and then his eyes widened. “Oh. I see. It is the High King’s cage. Certainly.”

Then Lord Revor frowned, as if chasing an elusive thought. But ere he could catch it, a page stepped through the doorway. “Milord, I am to tell you your ship awaits.”

Revor waved him away. “Yes, yes, lad. I’ll be right there.”

“Speaking of ships, milord,” added Delon, as they moved outside the lord steward’s quarters, “we’d like permission to speak to any prisoners in brigs as well.”

The steward shook his head. “The brigs are empty, lad; all are in gaol. Regardless, I’ll get you a pass to the prison.” Revor called a kingsguard to him and gave him instructions, then bade good-bye to his guests and, shouldering his saddlebags, strode away toward the bridge to the caer.

*   *   *

“Well, Lord Revor was right about one thing,” said Delon, “there are no ferrets in any of these cages.”

They stood in the High King’s mews, the birds unhooded, their jesses free, their eyes glaring.

“Ha!” barked their escort. “A ferret wouldn’t stand a chance with these beauties. Look at those claws, those beaks: what ferret could withstand such?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, back toward the kennels where the dogs yet stirred and yipped at these strangers who had
passed by. “Nor would a weasel or such last long with the hounds,” added the kingsguard.

“All right, then,” said Egil, “take us to the prison where languish the Rover captains.”

The guard looked at the sun, a handspan above the horizon. “Not for long,” he said. “In a candlemark or so they’ll be languishing at the ends of ropes.”

Out from the mews they stepped and past the stables. They walked across the central thoroughfare and toward the jail. Down the side street where stood the gallows there came the hullaboo of a crowd. Arin shivered in revulsion. “Mankind and his spectacle of death,” she muttered.

Egil took her hand as they strode toward the lockup. “Can you say Elves are any different?”

She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

“I mean, love, the Lian are even now displaying the remains of slaughtered Foul Folk to their kindred. If that is not a spectacle, I know not what is meant by the term.”

“But they slaughtered trees,” said Arin.

“And these pirates slaughtered people,” rejoined Egil.

For a moment they walked onward in silence, then Arin said, “Thou art right, Egil. The felling of people is of more concern than the felling of trees. Yet heed, the crowd down by the gallows has come to be entertained, whereas the warband of Lian seek only vengeance pure, and they seek only to prevent such from occurring again. They feel no joy in what they do; only justice.”

Now Egil fell silent, and as lamplighters moved along the street preparing for the oncoming dusk by igniting the oil lanthorns atop lampposts, at last Arin and her companions came unto the jail.

*   *   *

Upon orders from the desk warden, they laid their weapons aside. A guard searched them all and found Aiko’s shiruken; in spite of her low growls, he set them in the vestibule as well. “Care for them as if they were your children,” she said, “for if they are not here when we return, you shall father no offspring in the future.”

A jailor led them up a stone stairwell and in among enshadowed holding cages, dark with the coming of eve.
Through the barred windows the crowd waiting in the street below could be heard: hawkers selling their wares, children shouting and screaming in play, strident voices calling for the show to begin, a low mumble and mutter of people pressed together. Some prisoners peered out through windows at the gallows below, while others sat upon the floor and wept.

“These are them what are to be hanged,” said their jailor escort, gesturing at the cells to the right. “Pirates and cutpurses and such. Them others over on this side are drunks and debtors. Hang them too, says I. It’ll clear the city of such.” Then he turned to Arin. “Mind you now, you got to hurry. The rope dancing is about to begin, and me, I want a fair seat for the show. In fact, I’ll go get Rob to save me one. Take care now not to get too close to the bars and I’ll be back before you know I was gone.” With that he turned and hurried away.

Aiko prowled down the side holding the drunkards and debtors, her gaze searching the cells.

Of a sudden, Delon called out “Ferret!” his voice ringing throughout the pens.

There was no answer.

Slowly, Arin and Egil moved along the right-hand cages, peering within. Some of the prisoners were dark skinned; these were obviously the Kistanians—the captured Rover captains. Others were pale and trembling—“Cutpurses and thieves, most likely,” said Egil. Feral eyes turned their way and some prisoners spat curses at them in an unfamiliar tongue. Some captives turned their backs upon these gawking visitors, while others reached out through the bars, beseeching, pleading for the Dylvana to save them, tears running down their faces.

“Adon, deliver me from such a place,” muttered Delon, and he strode on ahead.

A fair-skinned youth with dark brown, shoulder-length hair moved forward through the shadows to fetch up against the bars of a cell. As Delon stepped past, the youth reached out and caught at Delon’s sleeve. “Good sir, you called for Ferret?”

Delon drew back, away from the clutching fingers. “I did.”

The youth, alone in the cell, said in a low voice, “I am she, unjustly imprisoned.”

Delon’s eyes flew wide and he looked closely. “By Adon,” he gasped, “you
are
a female!”

She held her arms wide and pirouetted. Dressed in lad’s clothing, she stood a slender five feet three or four. Her enshadowed eyes were dark brown, matching her hair. She could be no older than twenty-one or -two.

“And you are named Ferret?” asked Delon.

She turned up a hand. “Yes.” She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and filled with as much maidenly virtue as she could muster. “Surely, sir, you can see that I am innocent.”

Delon looked rightward. “Dara!” he called. When Arin turned, Delon said, “This lady names herself Ferret.”

Arin quickly stepped to the cell. “Is this true? Thou art Ferret?”

“That’s what I am called, milady,” answered the girl-woman, “though my true name is Ferai. ’Tis Gothonian, as was my dear father, rest his soul.”

“Ferret, Ferai, regardless,” said Arin, “we must get thee free of this place.”

Ferai’s eyes lighted at these words, but no sooner were they said than the jailor came rushing back. “Time’s up. I’ve got my seat, and they’re ready to start the hangings. You’ll have to leave.”

“Wait,” demanded Arin. “You must set this one free.”

The warder stepped back, as if startled. “Her? Why, she’s one of the worst. Queen of All Thieves, that one. No, milady, she’ll dangle among the first, she will.”

“But I am innocent,” declared Ferret, attempting to summon up a tear but failing.

“Ha!” barked the jailor. “Guilty as sin.”

“Chien haleine bâtard!”
snarled Ferret.

“Guilt or innocence is not at issue here,” declared Arin. “Our mission is vital and she must go with us. Set her free.”

The jailor shook his head. “I’ll do no such, milady. She’s to hang, and that’s a fact.”

“This cannot be,” protested Arin. “Take me to the chief warden.”

“It won’t do you no good,” said the jailor. “He’s got his orders, too.”

“Even so,” said Egil, “we would talk to him.”

“Aiko,” called Arin. The yellow warrior had reached the end of the cells on the left. “Hurry. We must see the one in charge.”

Aiko swiftly came to Arin’s side, and with the warder leading in righteous indignation, they moved back down the corridor.

As Delon started to follow, Ferret plucked at his sleeve again. “Give me your belt.”

“What?” He looked down at the gaudy leather.

“Don’t question,” she hissed. “Just give it to me.”

As Delon slipped the iridescent belt with its ornate buckle from about his waist, she said, “Where shall I meet you?”

“Meet us?”

“Yes, you fool. Where?”

“Um, we are staying at the Blue Moon, but we have a ship at the docks: slip thirty-four; the
Brise.
”

She snaked the ornate belt through the bars. “The ship it is. Go now, before he turns.”

Delon hurried to catch the others.

After they retrieved their weapons, the warder escorted them to an office on the first floor. A tall, lean man in his early forties was putting on his hat as the Dylvana entered. He cocked an eye toward the warder.

“They insisted on seeing you, sir,” the jailor huffed. “Wouldn’t take my word, oh, no.” Nose in the air, he marched away.

“What do you want?” demanded the chief warden, gazing out the window where the sun lipped the rim of the world. “I am in a hurry.”

“There is a prisoner we need,” replied Arin. “One who must be set free.”

The chief settled a cloak about his shoulders. From the corridor there came the tramp of feet. “If it’s a drunk or a debtor, simply pay at the desk,” he snapped.

“Nay, chief warden, ’tis one about to hang,” replied Arin.

A jailor stood in the doorway. Arrayed in the hallway
behind was a troop of men—swords at their sides, manacles in hand. “We are ready, sir.”

The warden nodded and tossed him a ring of keys. “Go on up, sergeant. Take those in the first cell. I’ll be there in a moment.”

The jailor saluted and turned and called out a command, and the troop tramped away, heading for the stairs.

The warden took up a sheaf of papers. “I’m sorry, but you are too late. I have these warrants to execute. No prisoner to be hanged will be set free.”