The Invisible Chains - Part 3: Bonds of Blood (27 page)

Finally there was his last and most important source of information. Or so he had thought. He had penetrated deepest in the inner circle of his son. But even to his best friends his youngest was scarce with real information. He still maintained this infuriating habit of only giving them bits of his plans — never the whole picture — and only on a strict need to know basis.

Even so, it didn't add up. He had gone over all the reports, and yes, they were thorough. Yes, they were to the point. Yes, they were informative. And they never told anything new. Everything in them was neatly ordered, stacked, summarized so as to make an impressive read, but when he stopped to think about it, he had known all the little bits out of different other sources. They never gave a complete picture, because they hadn't all the pieces of the puzzle, but when he put all of their scraps of seemingly unrelated facts together, he had been able to form a coherent picture out of them himself. Granted, at that stage it had always been mere speculation. Until the eloquently formulated, logically constructed analysis from his main informer had come.

He had been taken in he realized now, and he had underestimated the impermeability of his son's entourage.

That much was clear. Now that he came to think of it, could it be that Anaxantis had known, maybe even ordered the reports to be written the way they were?

He stopped as the thought struck him. He would have to go over them again, looking for clues. He shook his head. Tenax and Portonas wouldn't have an easy competitor in their youngest brother. Not to forget that the Zyntrean witch was standing behind him. Where the Devil's Crown would end up was anybody's guess, but one thing was certain: when all was said and done, the victor would have paid a hefty price to lay his hands on it.

He contented himself with the thought that, for the time being, the damned thing was still firmly on his own head.

The immediateeight=immbei problem was trying to find out whether his informer was thorough but slow or deliberately deceiving him and whether or not his son was in the know. He wouldn't put it past his youngest.

Nor past master Parmingh for that matter.

“We're being followed,” the baroness shouted to the queen.

“How many?” Emelasuntha inquired.

“I can make out at least five, maybe six,” Sobrathi answered, after having looked back.

“Can we outrun them?”

“Maybe.”

“Can we take them?”

“Maybe.”

The queen looked back herself.

“Damn it, Sobrathi, dear, didn't you see that the first one is wearing a green cap with a feather?”

They both reined in their horses and came to a halt.

“Completely overlooked that. Tribesmen,” Sobrathi panted.

They waited calmly, on horseback, for the men to catch up.

“Master Dram,” the queen called out amiably, “this must be very important for you to come this far from your base of operation. We're almost at the border. I never figured you to be a horseman.”

“I'm not, my lady,” the master of the Ormidonian House answered dryly. “However, my news is too sensitive to trust someone else with. Would you mind if we dismount? I'm feeling a bit stiff... in places.”

While a tribesman held their horses, the two women and Ffindall walked a few paces down the road.

“We're certain now who the traitor in his highness's inner circle is,” Ffindall Dram said. “Only three possibilities remained. The Theroghall merchant empire is as solid as can be. Not only are all of their businesses thriving, they have interests, sometimes cleverly hidden interests, in many firms of other families.

I doubt even the high king could bribe them... or touch them. Most of their assets are safely tucked away in neighboring independent city states. They own land in Zyntrea. I'm sure we've only scratched the surface of their wide spread network, and we have no idea how far reaching their influence really is. Furthermore, although he has relented a bit, Theroghall senior is a staunch supporter of Dermolhean values. Which means that a connection or involvement with a noble House, let alone a royal one would be very unlikely.”

“We can safely rule them out?” Sobrathi asked.

“I believe so. No indications, no conceivable reasons, no traces. Nothing.”

“The valiant cavalry general?”

“Well, this is the strange part. I told you that we thought we had encountered master Parmingh's ghost while investigating the Busskals. Initially I was convinced he was just covering his own tracks and trying to cast at least a shadow of doubt upon the general's reputation. In fact, to my surprise, I must admit, he was doing exactly the opposite. He has put a stop to the eternal financial problems of the House.”

“How?” the queen asked curtly.

“He bought the estate from under Busskal senior. He used, eh, convincing argumentnder B ar="8s. Not all of them ethical.”

“He bought the Busskal estate?”

“Actually, my lady, your son did. Without knowing it, I'm sure. The result is that senior can no longer endanger the family lands, because he can no longer use them as security for his unwise loans. Effectively, this ends the financial troubles of the general and his lady friend.”

“Still, he has been in trouble,” the baroness said.

“Yes, but until now he always managed to find a solution, thanks to the largess of his friend. By now we're sure no other money than hers was ever used to try to salvage the Busskal estate and name. And now, thanks to master Parmingh, she can save her money. Which is very strange, of course.”

“Yes,” the queen said slowly, “because... because by sheer elimination that leaves only himself as a possible suspect. We have ruled out all the others.”

“Exactly,” Ffindall replied. “Not only that. As luck would have it, we finally managed to gain some more information about his younger brother, Landar Parmingh. It has taken some doing and some, eh, serious persuasion. Landar Parmingh is held at fort Nira.”

“Ouch. Nobody has ever escaped from the dungeons of fort Nira,” the baroness said.

“No, indeed, my lady. Landar Parmingh however is not held in the dungeons. He has a nice, comfortable apartment and is treated well. Very well. He regularly writes letters to his brother that he is kept in a barren cell, that they interrogate him, threaten to torture him if his older brother should refuse cooperation. All lies, of course, but master Parmingh has no way of knowing that.”

“No, he has no way of being certain, but doesn't he even suspect anything?” the queen asked, arching her brows.

“I think he stopped asking questions after he received his little brother's left pinky in a smart wooden box.”

“Ha, yes, that would convince the man something was seriously wrong,” Emelasuntha said. “But, this is a very strange situation. You said Landar is treated well. Are you sure it was one of
his
fingers they sent?”

“Positive. He had an accident when he was young and broke it. Since then he couldn't bend it anymore and the nail was deformed. His brother would have recognized it on first sight.”

“And been all the more sure—”

“That whatever came after this little package was the truth and nothing but.”

“So, what are we looking at here?” Sobrathi asked. “You said he was being treated well, but having a finger cut off is not what I would call very benevolent treatment.”

Ffindall shrugged.

“I agree. It doesn't make sense at first sight. It doesn't make sense, because we don't know everything as yet.

As it is, it has taken us months to learn this much. We managed to gain the confidence of one of the servants.

We had to make him drunk and show him a purse full of rioghals.”

“Money well spent,” the queen said.

“Not spent, my lady”, Ffindall said in a sober tone. “After he had talked it was too dangerous to let him live.

He could talk again. Not to us, this time. Nira is a garrison town. They found him in the prostitution sector.

With an empty purse, of course.”

“Very wise, master Dram, very wise,” the queen mused. “And very, ah, frugal.”

“Well, no need to squander the funds of the Tribe, my predecessor used to say.”

“Master Dram, we must inform my son post haste of what you've found out.”

“Which is why I've brought two living letters. You can simply give your message to one of them and he should be able to deliver it to our contact in Lorseth within ten days.”

The queen looked with appreciation, bordering on admiration at Ffindall.

“Why, master, the day I promoted you I must have been inspired by the Great Goddess herself,” she smiled.

Ffindall Dram bowed almost imperceptibly.

“However, master, I think I will use them both. I'm not going to take any risks. I'll give them the same message, and you'll send them to Lorseth by different routes,” she said after some thinking. “But of course you knew I was going to do that. That's why you brought two of them in the first place.”

It had actually been a happy coincidence, but Ffindall Dram saw no need to burden the queen with non— essential information.

“Out of my way, before I put your balls on honey,” Cariam snarled at a drunken patron of the Goat.

He put the tankards with beer on the little table in the dark corner he and Rullio were sitting at.

“Just one more, Rullio, and then we'll go home,” he said in a tone that brooked no contradiction.

“You're certain that these will be the last tankers of beer, my love?” Rullio asked.

“Oh, you never order the last tanker. That would be a bad omen, wouldn't it?”

“What were you going to do to that poor man's ball? Put them on honey?”

“Just a local expression, Rullio. Just a local expression. It involves castration though,” he grinned.

Rullio patted Cariam's belly.

“How is it, my love,” he asked, smiling, “that you're perfectly comfortable calling me Rullio — as you are most welcome to do — in most circumstances, but in bed you keep calling me my lord?”

Cariam looked at him through eyes that weren't quite focused.

“Well, you are a lord, aren't you? And I think it's hot having a noble dick in my ass. I think I'm going to call it the little lord.”

“No, you're not,” Rullio guffawed. “Or I won't punish you anymore.”

Rullio had continued his investigations as he had started them: in the taverns. The Cranky Goat was rumored to be the place where eventually all servants and officers of Lorseth Castle came to look for some harmless fun and relaxation.

The opinions of what had happened to the former lord governor were all as vague as they were superficial.

Nobody knew or cared too much about what had happened to ‘him’ or ‘that one.’ The current governor seemed to have done his job well. Some had reproduced, whispering in a conspiratorial tone, the absurdity of the older brother being on a covert mission. The exact nature of this mission was never madssion.neviale clear. All his interlocutors seemed to agree on was that it was all very hush-hush and extremely important.

Rullio's conclusion was simple. They knew even less than he did himself.

Getting nearer to the castle unnoticed proved harder than he had thought. There were no barriers or sentry posts on the roads, but he stuck out as a sore thumb. Most people were in a uniform of some kind except the servants, but he could hardly be mistaken for one of them. Furthermore the place was teeming with noble youngsters with inquisitive eyes who looked at him with a special brand of insolent curiosity which made him uneasy. After a very short while everything and everyone seemed to be silently asking what his business was.

So he left.

“I have been insolent to you, back in the tavern, haven't I, my lord?” Cariam asked with an undertone of hope and slurring his words a bit.

They were back in Cariam's room. Rullio was already lying down in the bed.

“Yes you have been,” he answered maliciously, “but I think I will forgive you just this one time.”

“Is that wise?” Cariam asked, dropping his pants.

“Hm,” Rullio murmured non-committal.

“Wouldn't it be better to pull me over your knees, rip off my underpants brutally and expose my impudent naked butt to thrash it sternly?”