What Remains of Heroes (24 page)

She found one of the chairs and after pulling it closer to the fire she sat. “I am a keeper of the Old Faith, Prefect, as difficult as that has been of late.”

“I am honored to know that, my queen. We members of the Sanctum live to serve the Crown, and thereby Rune, and it is always inspiring to learn someone in the Bastion is praying with us.”

She nodded. “I may be the only one. The Bastion is not a place of devotion, Prefect, unless the devotion is to the throne. It is power that is worshipped there, not principle.”

Gamghast sank into a chair and adjusted his robes. He knew not how to address Queen Reyis, nor could he guess at why she would call upon him. He decided to remain quiet.

Queen Reyis was quiet as well, her blue eyes fixed upon the flame at the center of the room. Her shoulders slouched, and in this light Gamghast could see her face was creased with worry.

“Forgive me if I overreach, my queen, but something troubles you?”

She smiled, warmly and brilliantly, though Gamghast guessed that was from practice rather than genuine emotion. “Why ever do you ask, Prefect?”

He scratched his knee. It still ached from kneeling. “A midnight visit to the Abbey by Queen Reyis of Rune is not a common distraction for me. I am guessing there is some purpose behind it, some counsel sought here that is not found in the Bastion. I am here for you.”

“I was told you were a wise man, and your insight does not disappoint.” She leaned closer. “I was also told you were trustworthy. You understand no one can ever know I was here, nor can you ever speak of what I am about to tell you. My bodyguards are outside, Prefect, and they can be a most vicious lot.”

Always threats these days. Have people forgotten favors are asked, not demanded?
His shoulders sagged. “You have my word.”

She looked at her hands twisted in her lap and her smile vanished. “You have heard of my… difficulties, yes?”

Gamghast nodded. “The health of the Crown is of utmost importance to us, my queen, even if High King Deragol does not call upon our services as often as the High Kings of old.” He cleared his throat. “The answer is yes, my queen. We know of the miscarriages.”

“Eight,” she said, looking away and holding her chin high. Gamghast thought there was the glint of a tear welling in her eye. “Eight miscarriages.”

Gamghast’s thoughts turned to the scullery maid’s note:
“The King is being poisoned
.
That’s why he’s making no babies and he is in grave danger.”

“The pregnancies never lasted more than three months.” She scowled and shook her head. “Then I would burn with an unbearable pain, and bleed and bleed until I was near death. I learned to dread every pregnancy, to fight away tears when I missed my first cycle.”

He felt a sudden need to reach out, to comfort her, but withdrew. “I know it can be troubling, my queen. We have various things in our apothecary, roots and herbs and concoctions to place the mind at ease, to give a person a feeling of well-being.”

Queen Reyis turned back to regard him, a thin smile on her lips. “I am pregnant once again, Prefect. I am in my fourth month, further along than I have ever been.”

“This is most excellent news, my queen! I congratulate you!”

“Perhaps it is excellent news, but I have lost hope. I still check my bed sheets every morning for blood. I’m afraid, Prefect. I’m afraid I will prove a disappointment to my husband and my kingdom once more.”

“With prayer, with the grace of Illienne, anything is possible. You must not despair.”

She pressed her hands against her belly, smoothing the loose clothing to reveal a swell. “I cannot bear such a loss again, and everything we tried previously ended in failure. Thus, with your consent, I will call upon you regularly. You can monitor my progress and provide what ministrations you can. Yours is said to be an order of healers, and I ask for the application of your skills. As well as your earnest prayers.”

Gamghast nodded as earnestly as he could.
If I am to help save Rune, it seems it will be as its most unlikely midwife.
“I would be honored, my queen.”

“It is settled then,” she said, rising to stand. “We will be discrete, as I have not made this news public nor have I even told my husband. You will call upon me regularly at the Bastion, under other auspices.”

Gamghast remained in his seat, knotting his hands together. He breathed deeply. “That poses a concern, my queen. The last time I entered the Bastion, Chamberlain Alamis denied my request to call upon His Majesty.”

“Did he, now?” asked Queen Reyis, her expression one of genuine surprise. “Has he grown so bold?” She was quiet for a moment before speaking. “I will provide you means of visiting me secretly.”

“That would be useful. The chamberlain has threatened me with charges of treason.”

She frowned and her hands clenched into fists. “Worry not, Prefect. The royal family still has some sway within the walls of the Bastion. I will deliver word to the guards I trust most, and you will be granted a means of entry. And I have long been friends with the Magistrate-Examiner. If Alamis makes good on his threats, I’ll let the Magistrate-Examiner know what the Crown thinks of the charges.” She rose to leave.

“Thank you, my queen,” Gamghast said. “Just one more thing. Take none of the medicines or elixirs given to you by members of your staff, or of the chamberlain’s. Be careful even with your food and drink. It is imperative you trust no one. I will arrive tomorrow with my ministrations.”

17

The Short Odds

F
encress Fallcrow crept
in the darkness, her twin blades drawn. She moved softly between the trees, pressing her boots gently beneath her. She’d killed many this very way, quiet and quick. As shaken as she was by the events of the past few weeks, she reckoned she hadn’t lost the gifts of a true assassin.
Quiet as the grave
.

There ahead, no more than forty feet away, was the green-cloaked fellow, himself stalking in the darkness. Beyond him, perhaps another twenty feet distant, was Drenj, sleeping in the warmth of firelight. Fencress smiled, amazed at the Khaldisian’s recklessness in lighting a fire so close to the road and in the middle of a war.

The trees thinned and the brush grew heavier, stubborn stuff that was difficult to move through silently. Fencress breathed easy and found her rhythm, matching the man’s footfalls with impeccable timing. After escaping from slavery as a youth she’d trained as an acrobat and as a dancer—her steps were nimble and muted.
I will be no more than an
echo
.

As the green-cloaked man approached Drenj’s campsite he slowed. Fencress noted the man’s longsword was slung upon his left hip, suggesting he was right-handed. She was surprised the blade remained in its scabbard, but then the Khaldisian showed no signs of stirring.

The man moved into the glow of the fire and stood, seeming to appraise Drenj and perhaps his belongings. He appeared utterly unaware of Fencress’s presence, but Fencress made certain to silence her stride, dancing on tiptoes through the brush while she found the quietest path.
Careful, now
.

She looked toward the road, searching for Paddyn. The youth was damned good with a bow, but downright clumsy when it came to more intimate murder. She’d directed the archer to find a spot opposite the camp, and to put an arrow through the green man’s throat if things got out of hand. She saw no sign of him, but figured the short odds were the boy hadn’t run off and left her. It was no guarantee, but then Fencress was used to taking chances.

The green man sank to a crouch just before Drenj. Fencress reckoned his still-sheathed sword meant he had no intention of killing the Khaldisian, and if this were a robbery he would have been searching his purse rather than his expression. Regardless, the man had followed them for days, and good intentions rarely required stalking.

The man moved his hands over Drenj, as though warming them over a fire. His mouth shifted but Fencress could hear no words. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to assume some sort of trance.

Spellcraft?

Fencress wagered now was the time, guessing the man would have difficulty discerning the sound of footsteps from Drenj’s snore and the crackling campfire. She quickened her pace, making her way round the campsite so as to come at the cloaked man from behind.
Lickety-split, nice and quick
.

Her strides were smooth, and her feet found the quietest parts of the brush. She tugged at her cowl, pulling it low over her eyes, and figured the only parts of her that would catch the firelight would be her blades. The rest would be blackness.

She was close now, close enough for her to discern the rise of the man’s shoulders as he breathed, close enough to count the wrinkles in his clothing. She focused on the soft part of the head where the jawline met the neck. She would press her blade there, hard enough to cut flesh but not so vicious as to nick the jugular. She’d draw just enough blood to get the man’s attention.

Fencress came to the encampment’s edge, drew a deep breath, and charged forward. She made no more sound than a rush of wind. Yet, the man must have heard something as he whirled about, not to his right as Fencress had anticipated, but to his left.
Better still
. Fencress slammed into him with full force, pinning the man’s sword arm beneath him and driving his head to within inches of the fire’s glowing embers. She knelt upon the man with all her weight and pressed a blade to his throat, shaving clean a few dirty whiskers in the process. Fencress was by no means a big brute like Karnag, but she knew where bodies were weakest and what made them hurt. This fellow would not rise unless permitted.

Drenj gasped and scrambled about beside them, stumbling back several steps to get clear of the fray. “Fencress?” he said, his tongue thick with sleep. “What is this?”

Fencress gave the Khaldisian a wink before returning her attention to her prey. The man struggled dumbly beneath her, clearly caught off guard and shaken with shock. He kicked about, but then Fencress made use of her second sword. She pressed the point against the fellow’s jewels.
A right-thinking man won’t move if doing so means ripping his
jingles
.

She clicked her tongue, scolding. “Hush, now,” she said.

The man looked wildly about, into Fencress’s eyes, upward at the fire, downward to the blades. He pulled his head back, trying to pull his throat free of the blade, and Fencress let him. The man suddenly cursed and howled.

Fencress sniffed. “Awful odor, isn’t it, friend? Nothing has quite the same stink as burning hair. Forgive me for not warning you earlier, but your head is quite close to the fire. Then again, you probably sensed that already?”

The man struggled, desperately trying to work his right arm free from beneath him. He growled and glowered like some feral beast and then began muttering strange-sounding words.

Fencress shook her head in admonition. She withdrew the blade from the man’s throat for the briefest of instants, and popped the pommel hard into that small dip between the base of the neck and top of the breastbone. The man gasped, as Fencress knew he would, and then struggled for breath. Fencress smiled, then found a new, untouched part of the man’s throat to press her blade upon. “You’ll be shaved clean at this rate. I’d suggest you lie still, and not move that tongue of yours with any ill intent.”

The man gritted his teeth and shook his head, saying nothing. He stared at Fencress hard, right in the eyes like he meant something by it. Fencress realized then the fellow would not give up his secrets easily and she grinned. Breaking brave men was always more entertaining than breaking the weak ones.

“Kill him!” shrieked Drenj, his long hands flailing as though shooing away a ghost. “He meant to kill me!”

“Not just yet,” said Fencress. “I’ll not put an end to the drama so quickly. I spent much of my later youth performing in a circus, and I’ll not dishonor my old troupe by abandoning all sense of theater. What sort of sorry performance would that be? I want applause for my work.”

Just then there was a commotion in the trees and Paddyn emerged from the darkness. “Rope?” he asked.

Fencress nodded. “Good and tight. This lad seems to be a witch of some sort, so keep his hands bound and his mouth gagged. I don’t want him talking unless he’s answering my questions.”

Paddyn knelt beside them and cut a strip of cloth from the man’s cloak. Fencress eased the blade from the man’s throat to allow the archer to gag him, then eased her weight off him to allow room for the rope. At that moment, the green man shifted quickly to his side, yanking his right arm from beneath him and moving to bring his hands together.

Fencress acted swiftly, cracking the man’s temple with the hilt of the sword in her right hand and then pinning the man’s arm with the flat of the blade in her left. The man went limp and his eyes rolled back in his head.

“Well, then,” Fencress said, pulling herself to stand and sheathing her blades. “It appears we can work at our leisure. Our prisoner won’t be waking for a while.”

Drenj walked closer and kicked a clod of dirt at the man’s head. “He tried to kill me! What sort of monster tries to kill a man in his sleep!”

Fencress thought of the Lector and chuckled, but let the comment pass. She took time to inspect the man, noticing his sword was one of quality, and noticing the outlines of two other knives beneath his green jerkin. They were the sort of weapons that would be carried by one who knew how to use them. The man also seemed accustomed to roving far from home, as his boots were worn but well-tended and he had two satchels stuffed with durable provisions. He also had an odd band of black iron about his wrist, inscribed with strange symbols.
A sorcerer’s trinket?

“Remove that,” Fencress said, gesturing at the bracelet. “And Paddyn? Tie him up tight and blindfold him as well. Odds are this fellow’s trouble.”

“I’d guess another two leagues,” said Drenj, standing in his stirrups and peering down the narrow trail. “Assuming your directions are correct, and assuming the Arranese haven’t found the place already.”

Fencress walked beside Drenj and his horse, squinting in the morning sunlight. She pulled her own horse by its reins, as they’d slung their prisoner over the mare’s back. “They won’t find it. They’ll hold to the wider roads. An army can’t move through a forest this dense, so I reckon Old Crook will be just fine. A rugged old goat like that doesn’t suffer in war. He profits.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Paddyn from behind her. “But I should tell you I smell smoke on the air, and I’d swear the breeze is carrying the sound of war drums.”

Fencress sniffed at the air and also detected the faintest odor of smoke. “Perhaps that smell is just Old Crook cooking that terrible squirrel stew he used to make.”

“You know this man well?” asked Drenj.

“You could say,” said Fencress. “Old Crook ran
The Dead Messenger
years ago, back when I was a much younger lass. He was the one who invented the whole notion of the Blood Box, a way to keep patrons and those of us who did their dark work from ever having to meet each other. Folk felt safer that way, and Old Crook charged a percentage for playing the middle man. After a time he’d made so much coin he grew tired of hoarding it, and left the inn to Handsome and retired in the south. He kept his whereabouts mostly secret, telling only those few of us who’d helped him earn the bulk of his riches. Over the years it’s been a good spot to hide when things have gotten hairy.”

“Does Karnag know of it?” asked Drenj, speaking the name like a curse.

“Aye,” said Fencress. “Karnag made Old Crook more coin than any other, likely double. I’d have to say he was Old Crook’s favorite, as that old bastard admired that Karnag was never shamed by his work and never seemed to do it out of desperation. And by the dead gods he was good at it, the best killer in the whole of Rune. It was Karnag who first introduced me to Old Crook, more than a decade ago.”

“He’s stirring,” said Paddyn, gesturing to their prisoner.

Fencress smirked. “Best not talk of where we’re going, then. You boys will have to trust me.”

“Who comes?” called a rough voice from atop a wall of earth and timbers. “Best put your hands up, nice and easy, afore my lads loose their arrows.”

Fencress looked about the heavy forest surrounding them and saw three bowmen lurking amidst the trees. She figured there were at least twice that many elsewhere, judging from the many groans of bowstrings drawing.

She surveyed the surroundings and then stepped forward, bowing low with a flourish. “At ease, gentlemen! I am none other than Fencress Fallcrow, assassin extraordinaire, thief of great renown, and noteworthy purveyor of wit and wisdom alike. Tell Old Crook I’m here to collect an old debt.”