Five
DIDRIK GAVE A SIGH OF RELIEF AS THE ROAD widened and he caught his first clear view of Kingsholm. The high walls were gray and forbidding, meant to discourage potential attackers, but to him they were a welcome sight. These were his walls, and this was his city. He knew every yard of the long walls, and every one of the streets and alleyways. Blindfolded he could be set down in any part of the city and instantly know where he was using just his hearing and sense of smell. The city had its dangers, but those were things he understood. And there, at least, he had a reputation of his own that made him formidable. Not to mention the full weight of the Guard behind him.
He felt as if he were coming off a duty shift that had lasted months, not mere hours. The long trip to Duncaer had demanded his constant vigilance. And even the return had been tense, though the presence of Saskia and her sword arm had been a welcome addition to their party. Jorsk was his homeland, but there were those among his fellow countrymen who wished Devlin ill, and it had been Didrik’s responsibility to keep him safe. A charge he had failed when he foolishly allowed himself to become injured. Instead of watching over Devlin, he had become a burden.
He understood why Devlin had left him behind, though he had chafed mightily during the week that the healer had kept him in bed. And even when they resumed their journey, Stephen had insisted on a slow pace, coddling Didrik as if he were a cripple. Didrik had protested, but allowed himself to be overruled when it became clear that he did not have the strength for a full day of riding. Still, he had grown stronger with each day, and they had agreed to press on in hopes of reaching Kingsholm by sundown.
He urged his horse to a faster pace, ignoring the curses of the few pedestrians who had to scurry away or risk being stepped on. Had he been in a proper uniform they would have yielded at once, but the hardships of the journey were reflected in his garb. He wore a dark blue cloak that had been gifted him in Duncaer over his much-abused uniform. Stephen had acquired plain but serviceable clothes for them both in Kronna’s Mill, which they had worn for the past fortnight. But Didrik’s pride insisted that he appear in his uniform when he made his report to Captain Drakken.
At last he was forced to slow, when their way was blocked by a knot of people. The southern gate was only partially open, forcing those entering and leaving to file through a narrow gap that was flanked by a pair of guards. Didrik waited their turn with some impatience.
“I’m for a hot bath, a fresh-cooked meal, then I’ll sleep for a week,” Stephen declared.
It was a tempting vision, but Didrik had his duty. He had to seek out Devlin and inform him of his return. Then once Devlin released him, he would have to make his report to Captain Drakken. It would be many hours before he would be free to seek out his own quarters.
“You’ll be at the Singing Fish? Or staying with your sister at the palace?” Didrik asked. It was possible that Devlin might wish to speak with Stephen, though unlikely.
“At the Fish,” Stephen replied. “Solveig would insist on hearing every detail. Time enough to see her on the morrow.”
At last they reached the front of the queue.
“Anders Kronborn, you wretched sod, what are you doing here?” Oluva called out.
Didrik, who had opened his mouth to greet her, closed it firmly. Her left hand was resting on her sword belt with two fingers pointed down, the hand sign for caution.
He looked over at the other guard, but the man was a stranger to him. Too old to be a novice, yet what else could he be? The leather of his sword harness was unworn, and his cloak unstained by weather or the exigencies of service in the poorer quarters.
Was it her comrade Oluva did not trust? Or the possibility of spies in the crowd? What was going on?
“It’s been a long time. I never thought you’d have the nerve to show your face,” Oluva continued.
“A man has a right to go where he pleases,” he said, scratching his chest with his left hand, as he signaled explain.
Stephen, for once, was silent, and he gave thanks for the minstrel’s quick wits.
“I can’t believe you kept your old uniform. Captain Drakken isn’t going to be happy to see you. We may be taking on newcomers, but there’s no room for a man who cheats his bunkmates.” Oluva’s hand made the signal for an unknown enemy.
Didrik shrugged, as if he were well used to such insults. Anders Kronborn had been thrown out of the Guard four years ago, after he had been repeatedly caught cheating in a game of dice. The first offense had earned him a stint in the guardhouse. The second offense had earned him ten lashes. Growing wiser, he had taken his games from the Guard quarters to the taverns, where his luck had finally run out. Caught cheating, his fellow gamesters had been for summary justice, but before they could carry out their sentence, Captain Drakken had intervened, dismissing him from the Guard and banning him from the city.
As an alias, it was a good choice, but he itched to find out why Oluva had felt such a deception necessary.
“That bitch Drakken may not want me, but there’s plenty of work for a man who can handle a sword,” Didrik declared.
“And who’s this?” Oluva asked, jerking her thumb toward Stephen.
“My cousin Jesper. My aunt asked me to ride herd over him, to keep him out of trouble in the city.” Didrik smirked.
“Setting a wolf to guard the lamb. Well, it’s none of my concern. Stay out of trouble and stay away from the palace.” Her eyes caught his and held his gaze. “You have no friends there, understand?”
Oluva made the handing for betrayal.
Didrik swallowed hard, not needing to feign his sudden fear. “I understand.”
“Enough chatter,” the unknown guard said. “Ride on, then, you’re holding up these honest citizens.”
Didrik nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He forced himself to ride off slowly, still slouched in the saddle, as if he was indeed the rogue he had claimed to be.
“What was that all about?” Stephen asked.
“Not now,” he growled. Not here. Not until he could find somewhere safe. And then he had to figure out what to do next.
His thoughts whirled around and around, but they kept coming back to Oluva’s grim face as she flashed that last sign. Betrayal.
It was his worst fear, come to life.
He could feel Stephen’s gaze boring holes into his back as he turned down the street that led toward the old quarter of the city.
Oluva had warned him away from the palace, and for now he would trust her judgment. But what had she meant by betrayal? Drakken was still Captain; her words had made that clear. If the palace was no longer safe, then why not? If there were traitors in the Guard, surely Drakken could set that to rights. More puzzling still, who was the target? Didrik? Stephen? Both of them? What possible threat could there be?
And where was Devlin in all this? A part of him longed to go back to the gate and shake Oluva until she gave him the answers he needed, flames take the consequences. If the new guard took objection to his tactics, Didrik could defend himself. But he knew that such was foolishness. He was not a raw guard, still flushed with the impetuousness of youth. He was a sober lieutenant of nearly thirty winters. Personal aide to the Chosen One. Oluva had warned him to caution, and cautious he would be, until he knew more of the situation in Kingsholm. Then, and only then, would he act.
Stephen suggested they lodge at the Singing Fish, but Didrik rejected that immediately. Stephen was too well known there. If someone was looking for them, it would be one of the first places they checked. Nor could Didrik turn to his own parents, who were bound to be watched as well. Neither of them could afford to go anywhere their faces were likely to be known.
A short distance from the gate, they left their horses at a livery stable. The owner, a woman of enormous girth called Selma the Fat, took one look at the shabby travelers and offered to sell the horses for them and split the proceeds. Didrik, his cloak drawn close to conceal his uniform, agreed.
He fully expected to be cheated by Selma, but that was all to the good. Selma would have no reason to mention just which two travelers had left the horses with her.
From there they made their way to a tavern along the river, though tavern was perhaps too fine a name for a place that could hold a mere dozen drunken sailors. But he knew there was an old storeroom, where the owner sometimes let folks down on their luck sleep. And indeed the serving boy reported that the room was empty, and he pocketed Didrik’s coppers without giving them a second glance.
As soon as the door swung shut behind them, Stephen’s patience ran out.
“What is going on?” Stephen demanded. “Why did Oluva call you by another name? And why can’t we go to the palace?”
Didrik dropped his saddlebags on the floor and looked around. There was a long bench against one wall and a tattered blanket hanging from a peg near a fire grate that looked like no fire had burned there for months. There was no pallet, nor any wood for a fire. Barely two paces across, and four paces long, the room was likely the safest place in Kingsholm. For now.
Taking off his blue cloak, he hung it on a peg. Then Didrik knelt down by his saddlebags and pulled out the set of plain clothes. He placed them on the bench, then sat down.
“What’s wrong?” Stephen asked.
Didrik reached back and untied the leather cord that held his warrior’s braid. He began to comb his fingers through the long hair, separating it.
“I don’t know,” Didrik confessed. “Oluva gave me the hand signs for danger and betrayal.”
“And she warned you against the palace?”
“Yes.”
“She said you had no friends there.” Stephen’s voice was flat, as if with only a mild curiosity.
Didrik nodded. He gathered his hair with his left hand, then reached down and removed the dagger from his belt. With a firm stroke he began to saw through the hair that had been allowed to grow since he was first named a warrior.
“In the name of the Seven, what are you doing?” Stephen asked.
“We need information. If I leave this place looking like a guard, it is only a matter of time before they find me. But if they see a mercenary, I may be able to slip by.”
With a final jerk of his knife, he cut the remaining strands of his hair. He looked for a moment at the length held in his left hand, then tossed it in the fire grate. They would have to burn it.
Replacing the dagger in his belt, he tied the short strands that remained back in a simple tail, in the style of a mercenary or caravan guard. His head felt strangely light and he turned it from side to side, wondering how long it would take him to become accustomed to it.
“They may not be looking for me,” Stephen said. “I could go.”
“Or you could be the one in danger. Besides, you don’t know who to talk to.”
“And you do?”
“Maybe.” If his luck held. If the city had not changed beyond all recognition in the months of his absence. If old loyalties still held true.
“But what about Devlin?”
“I don’t know.”
Devlin should have arrived in the city over a fortnight ago. He’d had a full escort from Baron Martell, not to mention Saskia at his side. And if the Chosen One had been attacked, surely the news of it would have been on the lips of every person that Didrik and Stephen had encountered in their travels.
Had Devlin arrived in the city only to be dispatched on another errand? Had his duty called him elsewhere before he could meet with the King? What had caused Oluva to give the sign for betrayal?
Had Devlin somehow been betrayed? But that was unthinkable. Devlin had the Sword of Light, after all. Proof that he was the chosen champion of the Gods.
There must be some other mischief afoot.
“Trust me. I will find a way to get word to Captain Drakken. She will know what is to be done next.”
“And you are certain it is not Drakken herself that Oluva was warning you against?”
Didrik shook his head in instant denial. The thought had occurred to him, but only for a moment, then he had felt ashamed of his disloyalty. Drakken was his Captain, and she had proven herself worthy a hundred times over. He could no more doubt her than he could doubt the strength of Kingsholm’s walls, or the skill of his own sword arm.
“The Captain is loyal. I will stake my life on it.”
“It is more than your life at risk. It is all of ours,” Stephen pointed out. “Tread cautiously.”
“I will,” Didrik promised.
The hum of conversation mixed with the clatter of utensils against pewter plates as the guards consumed their noon meal. As Captain Drakken entered the hall those closest to the door put down their forks and prepared to rise, but she waved them back to their seats.
A few called greetings that she acknowledged as she wound her way through the long tables to the small square table by the window where the seniors customarily sat. As she expected, she found Lieutenants Ansgar and Embeth there, both about to start their shifts, along with Sergeants Henrik and Niclas.
Embeth, perhaps sensing what was to come, hastily crammed the last of her bread into her mouth and washed it down with citrine. Ansgar was far more correct, pushing his plate away and rising to his feet.
“Sorry to disturb your meal, Lieutenant Embeth, but I have an errand for you before you start your shift. Lady Vendela wrote to complain that the sentries assigned to watch the council chamber have been insolent and lax in their duty.” Captain Drakken reached into her belt pouch and withdrew a small scroll. “Here is her complaint. I need you to speak with her to find out the details. If there is any substance to her complaint, I want those involved disciplined immediately, understood?”
Embeth took the scroll and rose to her feet. “Understood, Captain,” she said, with a quick salute. “My report will be on your desk by the end of this shift.”
“Good.” Captain Drakken turned her attention to her next victim. “Ansgar, you’re with me. The family of Goodwoman Katje Linsale held a banquet for her two nights ago, and half of the guests became ill, including the goodwoman herself. She is now claiming the wine was poisoned, but it seems more likely that it was merely tainted. Either way, I want to get to the bottom of this before panic sets in. If the wine was tainted, then there may be other contaminated barrels, and we’d best find them before it sickens anyone else.”
“And if it was poison?” Lieutenant Ansgar asked.
“If it’s poison, then the goodwoman’s relatives are to be brought in for questioning. We’ll find out which one of them was unwilling to wait for their inheritance.”
Ansgar gave a thin smile. She’d noticed over the years that he bore a resentment against wealthy merchants, perhaps because his family had been street vendors, barely more than beggars themselves. His attitude was never enough to interfere with his duty, but he was always cheerful when the opportunity came to bring one of the mighty to justice. It was just this character trait that she was counting on.
“Let us go. I’ve already informed Lieutenant Nevyn that he has the watch until your return.”
She had not raised her voice, but she knew that those at the tables around them had heard her instructions. Many of the diners watched as she left, with Ansgar at her heels. Her skin crawled, for she knew that not all of those eyes were friendly. Or loyal.
And it would be foolish to assume that it was only the Guard that was interested in her movements. As they left the palace, her street sense told her that other eyes were watching. She hoped Ansgar’s presence would lull them into a sense of complacency. Had it been Embeth by her side, some might have wondered what errand drew the Captain and her most senior lieutenant into the city. But as senior it was Embeth’s duty to deal with the contretemps at the court, and thus Ansgar was her logical deputy for the investigation of the attempted poisoning.
All according to routine, as if it were any other day. She wondered if she was fooling anyone with her pretense.
As they made their way through the streets of Kingsholm, she listened with half an ear as the normally reserved Lieutenant Ansgar offered his suggestions on the best way to interrogate Goodwoman Linsale and her household. He had a clear, logical plan, and despite her doubts about his loyalties, she was impressed at the thoughtfulness with which he approached the problem.
Had there really been an attempted poisoning, Ansgar’s methods would quite likely have identified the villain. But when they reached the merchant’s house, they found Goodwoman Linsale full of apologies for having troubled them. The healers had traced the illness to an undercook who had been hired to help with the banquet. The undercook had recently been ill, and though recovered had been warned by the healers that he could not work as a cook for at least a fortnight. He had ignored their orders, and the contagion that he carried within him had been passed to the guests.
Lieutenant Ansgar was visibly deflated by this prosaic explanation, and demanded to know why the goodwoman hadn’t informed the Guard. The goodwoman replied that she had sent a letter only that morning, which would no doubt be waiting for them when they returned.
She apologized again for wasting their time. Captain Drakken, after grumbling for form’s sake, finally accepted her apologies.
“These merchants think we have nothing better to do with our time,” Lieutenant Ansgar grumbled as the servants escorted from the house. “Next time she calls for help, we will not be so quick to come running.”
Captain Drakken nodded. “If we’d waited another hour, we could have saved ourselves the errand. You will likely find her scroll on the watch desk when you return to the Guard Hall.”
In fact she knew the scroll was there, for she had placed it on the desk herself. After first reading it, then resealing it carefully with wax. It had been just the excuse to leave the palace that she had been searching for all morning.
“You should return to the hall. Nevyn’s already two hours into your shift, and he’s back on again tonight.”
“And you?”
“I will go speak with the healers,” Captain Drakken said. “I don’t like it that this cook was allowed out to ply his trade while still contagious. There must be a way to keep this from happening again.”
She dismissed Ansgar with a nod and turned west, in the direction of the Healers’ Guild. Ansgar hesitated a moment, then began walking back toward the palace. Drakken took a winding path through the streets, turning sharply twice, until she was convinced that she was not being followed. Then and only then did she allow her footsteps to turn in the direction of the river docks. It was time to find Devlin.