Devlin's Justice Page 8

  “Halt,” one commanded. “State your business.”

  His stomach felt queasy, and he hoped fervently that none of his nervousness showed on his face. The guard who had spoken was a stranger to him, but his companion was one Stephen knew well: Private Thornke, a decent fiddler, who had often accompanied Stephen on those occasions that he entertained the guards. Stephen had covered his hair with a woolen hat and wore common clothes, but such a disguise would not fool one who knew him well.

  “Silks for Lady Vendela. From Merchant Tansey,” Stephen said, holding the chest before him.

  “Put it down and open it up,” the first guard commanded.

  Stephen set the box on the ground, kneeling down beside it, then undid the clasps. He raised the lid, revealing the top layer of crimson silk. It had been all he could afford, and underneath the silk he had piled common muslin. The chest was worth far more than the price of the goods inside, but the guards had no way of knowing that.

  The first guard reached down and extended one hand.

  “Stop!” Stephen said indignantly, mimicking the high pitched tones of a trader he knew. “Your hands are unclean, and that silk is worth more than you earn in a season. If you ruin it Lady Vendela will have both our hides.”

  The guard hastily withdrew his hand. Lady Vendela’s temper was well known.

  “Summon a chamberman to bring the chest to Lady Vendela,” the guard said.

  “No,” Thornke replied.

  Stephen held his breath as Thornke’s eyes widened in apparent recognition.

  “No,” Thornke repeated. “If he’s so concerned about the silks, let him lug it up to Lady Vendela’s rooms. The labor will be good for him.”

  His chest eased at the unexpected reprieve.

  “Do you know the way?” Thornke asked.

  Stephen picked up the chest and rose to his feet. Despite his burden, he made a half bow. “Yes, sirs.”

  “Go then, and be quick about your business,” the first guard ordered. “Tradesmen are not allowed in the palace after sunset.”

  Stephen nodded. He walked slowly past the guards, though his instincts screamed at him to run. He muttered fervent thanks to Lord Kanjti that it had been Thornke who recognized him, and not another. Thornke had kept his secret, whether out of friendship or loyalty to Drakken. If it had been anyone else, they might well have chosen to obey their standing orders and arrest Stephen for questioning.

  He hoped that his luck would hold, as he made his way across the courtyard and into the palace. He passed another pair of guards and several servants, but no one paid attention to him, as he kept the chest raised before him and his head bowed low.

  Lady Vendela was not in her chambers, but her maid accepted the chest and promised to convey Merchant Tansey’s compliments to her mistress. No doubt Lady Vendela would be surprised when she opened the box to find that it held a mere yard of silk. The merchant would be equally surprised at Lady Vendela’s complaints. But by the time they realized they had been hoaxed, Stephen would be long gone.

  As he exited Lady Vendela’s chamber he turned left and made his way to the very end of the corridor and up one flight of stairs. Luck was with him, for there was no one about as he made his way to the third door on the left. He drew a deep breath and knocked.

  There was no answer. He paused for a moment, then knocked again.

  This time the door swung open.

  “Yes?” Solveig asked. Then her eyes widened as she recognized him. She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the room, shutting the door swiftly behind him.

  “Stephen, you bloody great fool,” she said. But her disparaging words were belied by the fierce embrace in which she held him.

  Stephen wrapped his arms around his sister, giving himself up to the reassurance of her touch. For a moment he wished with all his heart that he was once again a small boy, that his eldest sister could make everything right.

  She clung to him for several heartbeats, then finally she released him, but she kept hold of his hands.

  “You look terrible,” she said.

  “I am pleased to see you as well.”

  “You should not have come here. Didn’t Captain Drakken warn you?”

  “Yes.” Stephen’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “Captain Drakken gave me her orders, and Didrik forbade me as well. But I had to see you.”

  “You took a great risk. The guards have orders to bring you before the King’s Council for questioning.”

  “I know.”

  Captain Drakken had shared a copy of the decree with them. It had not named Stephen or Didrik as traitors. Instead the orders directed that the two were to report to the King’s Council with all haste upon their return to Kingsholm, and that any member of the Guard or army who encountered them was to take them prisoner if they refused to come under their own volition. And without Captain Drakken’s warning, reporting to the council is precisely what Stephen would have done. And then they might well have become two more of the missing.

  “Come, sit a moment, and let me take in the sight of you. Can I offer you wine? Citrine?”

  “Wine,” Stephen said absently. He paced around the sitting room before taking a seat by the cold hearth. Solveig filled two glasses with pale wine and handed one to him.

  “May the Gods watch over you,” she said, raising her glass in salute. It was an oddly solemn toast for what should have been a joyful reunion.

  “May they watch over us all,” Stephen said, raising his own glass before taking a sip. The wine was sweet for his taste, but far finer than anything he had drunk in the past weeks. He took a hefty swallow before setting it aside.

  “What news have you?” he asked.

  Solveig sat in the chair opposite his. She looked older than he remembered, her face drawn, and though she was not yet thirty, there were traces of white amid the gold of her hair.

  “I have told Captain Drakken all I know,” Solveig said. “There is no news of Devlin’s fate. Indeed no one speaks his name anymore. At least not where the King or his spies may be listening.”

  “Do you believe he is dead?”

  He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

  Solveig hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “I pray that he is not, but surely he would have found some way to get a message to us if he was alive.”

  He released his pent-up breath in a heavy sigh. It was not the reassurance he had hoped for.

  “Devlin may not know that the soul stone was taken,” Stephen argued. “He may assume that we know full well where he is.”

  “I hope you are right.” She glanced up at the sand clock over the mantel, then rose to her feet. “I cannot stay much longer. There is a court dinner this evening, and I dare not stay away.”

  “How is the mood of the court these days?”

  “Grim,” Solveig said.

  He tossed back the rest of his wine and stood up, following his sister as she entered her bedroom. Solveig peered at her reflection in the mirror over the dressing table, then opened her jewelry case, rifling through it till she found a pair of pearl earrings. She put them on, then nodded, apparently satisfied by what she saw.

  “I thought the court would be rejoicing,” Stephen observed. “Empress Thania has honored the alliance, we have troops from Selvarat protecting the northern coast against invaders, and with our own army reinforcing the border with Nerikaat, it seems the threat is over.”

  Solveig nodded. “So one would think. King Olafur has gotten what he wanted, but it has not made him happy. Instead, he seems possessed, a man starting at shadows. He sees conspiracies and threats against him everywhere. Those who question his judgment find themselves banished to the countryside, if they are lucky, or detained on suspicion of treason. Even Lady Ingeleth was nearly undone when she questioned the arrest of Lord Branstock. Only her fervent apologies to the King allowed her to keep herself out of the dungeon.”

  Lady Ingeleth was one of the most respected members of the court, and a firm suppor
ter of the King. If she was not safe, then no one was.

  A sudden fear gripped him. “What of you? It is well known that you were friends with Devlin. Are friends,” he hastily corrected himself.

  Solveig smiled reassuringly. “These past weeks I have publicly distanced myself from Rikard, and from Devlin’s most vocal supporters. I find it best to remind everyone that our mother was born in Selvarat. They do not welcome me to their councils, but neither have I fallen under suspicion.”

  “Yet,” Stephen said. “I think it would be best if you retired to join Father and Mother in Esker.”

  Her hand reached over to cup his face. “Shall I be less brave than you? There is no warrant for my arrest. And as for Mother, she is still in Selvarat. Madrene has married the youngest son of Count Bayard, and Mother elected to stay and help Madrene settle in her new home.”

  “Madrene? Married?” It was not possible. She would never marry, not without the blessing of their father. It was not possible that she had chosen to make her life in that foreign land. At the very least, she should have brought her new husband home to Esker, to be presented to the family.

  “Was it a love match?” he asked. As the fourth of the Baron’s five children, Madrene had the luxury of choosing her own partner. Unlike Solveig, who carried the burden of being their father’s heir, Madrene had no need to marry for political gain.

  Solveig’s next words shocked him to the core.

  “Knowing Madrene, she was bound and gagged through the ceremony. The marriage was a sham. Mother’s letter to me was all politeness, but it held the code words for danger. I believe that she and Madrene are hostages in Selvarat.”

  “I don’t understand,” Stephen said. Nothing made sense to him anymore.

  “Neither do I. It is a mosaic with most of the pieces missing. But I fancy I can see the vague outline of the picture, and it is an ugly one indeed.”

  In a world where the Chosen One might be murdered within the very walls of the palace, any treachery might well be possible.

  “What do you intend to do?” he asked her.

  “Watch. Listen. Learn what I can, and wait for opportunity to present itself. And you?”

  “I have sworn to find Devlin,” Stephen said. “He would do the same for me.”

  Solveig picked up a lace shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. “I must leave now, and you should go as well. I have reason to believe that my rooms are searched when I am absent.”

  Of course. “I will see you again,” he said.

  “Take no unnecessary risks. Captain Drakken is watched, but if you get a message to Master Osvald at the healers’ hall, he will pass it on to Brother Arni, who will give it to me. I have become quite pious of late, and find much comfort in my devotions.”

  Stephen gave his sister a quick embrace. Every instinct told him that she was not safe here and that he should urge her to leave. But she could no more ignore her duty than he could his.

  “Be safe,” he said, though the words seemed inadequate.

  “You as well,” she cautioned. “And trust yourself. I know you will find him.”

  She opened the door and stepped into the corridor, looking both ways before motioning him to join her.

  “Tell your master that I expect fair service,” she said, pitching her voice loudly in case there were hidden ears. “The silver set is a gift to celebrate my sister’s wedding, and the engraving must be done properly. I will not tolerate another mistake.”

  “Understood, my lady. I am certain you will be pleased with the final result.”

  “For your sake I hope so,” Solveig said.

  He bowed low and watched as she made her way down the corridor, toward the main staircase that led to the central part of the palace. Only when she had disappeared from view did he retrace his steps to the narrow servants’ stairs and make his own departure.

  The guards on duty had changed, but no one paid him any heed as Stephen joined a group of similarly dressed laborers who were departing the palace. Still, he did not relax until he had turned off the central avenue and the palace walls were no longer visible.

  He wondered why Captain Drakken had not mentioned that Lady Gemma and her daughter were being held hostage in Selvarat. Perhaps Solveig had held that news close, deeming it only suitable for family members to hear. Or perhaps Captain Drakken had feared that Stephen would do something rash.

  He wondered how his father had reacted to the news. Lord Brynjolf had a temper and was devoted to his wife. Upon reflection, Stephen was surprised that his father hadn’t already set sail for Selvarat, determined to take his family home by force if necessary.

  But surely Solveig would have told him if that was the case. Indeed, now that he had left, there were dozens of questions that he wished he had thought to ask her. It hardly seemed fair that he had risked so much for only those few stolen moments.

  Yet what he had learned from Solveig only made him more determined to find Devlin. He would rescue Devlin from whatever evil had befallen him, and Devlin would help him rescue his family.

  Eight

  DEVLIN’S WORLD NARROWED UNTIL ALL HIS focus was bent on the small circles of metal that bound his wrists. The left manacle showed no signs of budging, but the one on his maimed right hand had begun, ever so slightly, to yield. He never thought that he would be grateful to Duke Gerhard, but the duel that had cost Devlin two of his fingers also meant that his right hand was narrower than his left.

  Something his captors had overlooked. No doubt they thought him helpless. For all he knew he had been their captive for weeks, instead of mere days or hours. There was no way to be certain how far he had been taken. Nor what was happening in Kingsholm.

  The thought spurred him to renewed efforts, and he twisted his right hand slightly and pulled. The muscles in his arm trembled with strain as the blood-slicked manacle slipped a bare fraction. It was working, though far too slowly for his tastes. He took a deep breath, counted to three, and strained again.

  So lost was he in his efforts that it came as a shock when light streamed into the wagon. He blinked, then tilted his head back, and looked straight into the face of a woman. She wore a necklace of bone teeth, in the manner of the sea folk from the Green Isles, over the brown tunic of a mercenary or fighter.

  “He’s awake,” she called, her gaze not leaving his face. It was the same voice he had heard before.

  As slowly as he could, he drew his right wrist close to his side, hoping that she would not think to check the security of his bindings.

  “Ni?” he muttered in his own tongue. It was not hard to feign confusion. What was one of the sea raiders doing with a noble from Selvarat?

  He let his eyes go wide and unfocused, as if staring through his captor. He kept his gaze fixed even as she crawled in the wagon beside him, giving silent thanks that she had taken position on his left, so she would not see his attempts to free himself.

  Through the sliver of the open flap he could see a campfire and the vague outlines of several people around it. They must have been stopped here for some time, while he had continued his struggles, oblivious to what was going on around him.

  A second form appeared in the opening. Karel of Selvarat.

  “He’s waking sooner and sooner each time,” Karel said.

  “Aye but he’s not in his proper wits,” the woman replied. She pushed Devlin’s cheek with her hand, and his head lolled to the right. “See?”

  A part of Devlin urged him to defiance, to let these folk know just what he thought of them. But reason told him that there was nothing to be gained by such an act. Patience and cunning would set him free, and then he would show them the folly of underestimating the Chosen One.

  The woman’s hand caught his jaw and turned his head back. He resisted a little as she opened his jaw, but allowed himself to be overpowered as if he were still under the influence of the drug.

  Now it was time to trust in his luck. Karel held a small bowl to Devlin’s lips and began to pour
the contents inside. The liquid smelled sickly sweet but tasted foul, and he gagged slightly. With her free hand the woman pinched his nostrils shut and Devlin was forced to swallow. Karel tipped the bowl up, ensuring it was completely empty. Next the woman pushed Devlin’s jaw closed, and covered his mouth. Then she released his nostrils, allowing him to breathe. Her movements had a practiced air, as if she and Karel had repeated the same maneuver dozens of times.

  Which might indeed be the truth. Devlin fought off panic as he could feel the drug spreading through him, bringing with it a strange lethargy. He let his eyes drift shut and relaxed all of his muscles, leaving himself completely vulnerable.

  He counted a hundred heartbeats before the woman released him, apparently satisfied that he would not reject the drug. “That should keep him quiet,” she said.

  “I pray you are right. I increased the dose of menas root, though at this rate we may have to buy new supplies. I’ve never seen someone so resistant to its powers.” Karel’s voice faded as he climbed out of the wagon.

  “You worry too much,” the woman replied. “We’ll pass through a good-sized town tomorrow, no? We should be able to get what you need there.”

  With a final pat on Devlin’s cheek, she climbed out of the wagon.

  “Have another dose ready, for when we feed him at dawn,” she said. “We’ll try smaller doses, more often. Keep him too dazed to know what is happening.”

  “He’ll sober up soon enough when he meets the Prince,” Karel said.

  The woman gave an unpleasant laugh. “I’m sure the Prince will live up to his reputation. Still I wonder what it is about this man that makes him so important? He’s only one man, and Jorsk has other generals who can take his place.”

  “I don’t ask those questions, and if you are wise, neither should you,” Karel said. “All I know is that this Devlin is the key to the conquest of Jorsk. Deliver him safely to the Prince, and we will both be rewarded well.”