Devlin's Justice (8 page)

“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.

Six

T
HE UNNAMED TAVERN WAS ONLY A FEW YARDS
from the docks used by the fishermen to unload their cargo, and the smell of rotting fish mingled with the odor of raw sewage. Here, in the poorer quarters, the underground sewers had not been repaired in years, and as she walked down the alley the mud squelched suspiciously under her boots. And it was only spring. Come the heat of summer, this part of the city would be near unbearable.

Criminals disdained the area, able to afford better lodgings elsewhere. Only the poorest came here, or those who had worked the docks so long that they were immune to the stench. Few would think to look for one of the guards here.

In her quarter century of service, Captain Drakken had become familiar with every part of the city, and since becoming Captain she had made it a point to walk each of the patrol routes at least once a season. But routine patrols stopped at the docks. Only chance had brought the unnamed tavern to her attention, when Didrik was investigating a pair of sea captains who had taken to forcibly recruiting sailors. That investigation had been five years ago, and there should be nothing to connect this place to her. Which argued that the message she had received was indeed from Didrik.

She paused, glancing up and down the alley, but there was no one in sight. Even the feral cats scorned the place for better pickings elsewhere. In the daylight it was easy to see that the former storeroom had been tacked onto the tavern as an afterthought. The tavern was made of oak that dated back to better days, but the addition was made of lumber scavenged from packing crates and driftwood. The boards did not fully meet, and it would be a cold place in which to lodge.

She hesitated a moment. If the message was genuine, then on the other side of the door were those she had desperately sought for the past weeks. And if the message was a trap, then she would have delivered herself neatly into her enemies’ hands, providing all the proof they needed that the Captain of the Guard was ignoring the orders of King and council.

Either way she would have her answers.

Prudently she loosened her sword in its scabbard before rapping thrice on the door.

The door opened a crack, revealing the minstrel’s tense features. He nodded as he recognized her, then stepped back and opened the door wide to reveal Didrik standing beside him, his sword pointed at the door, ready to repel an attack.

At his gesture, Drakken entered the dark room, keeping a firm grip on the hilt of her sword.

Didrik waited until the door swung shut behind her before lowering his weapon. “You were not followed?”

“No,” she said. Her eyes swept the tiny room, but the two men were its only occupants.

“It is good to see you,” Stephen said.

She nodded, but her attention was elsewhere. “Where is Devlin? He should not be roaming the city alone.”

“What do you mean? My message was to you, not Devlin. Unless you invited him to join us here?”

His words destroyed the small hope that she had carried within her ever since receiving Didrik’s message. After days of private mourning for her friends, Didrik’s message had seemed a gift from the Gods. After all, if Didrik was alive, then surely Devlin was with him. Despite all evidence that proved otherwise.

It seemed her darkest fears had indeed proven true.

“I haven’t seen Devlin since he left the city on his quest,” Drakken said.

Didrik’s face paled and he took a few steps back, sitting down heavily on the bench as if his legs could no longer hold him.

“Devlin rode ahead, with a full escort of Baron Martell’s armsmen. He should have returned over a fortnight ago,” he insisted.

“There has been no sign of him. Nor of his escort,” Drakken said. “The baron himself arrived in the capital just two days ago. But there was no mention of the Chosen One.”

“What does this mean?” Stephen asked.

Captain Drakken crossed the narrow room, and took a seat on the bench not far from Didrik. Even in the dim light, she could see that his face was drawn, and he had lost more than a few pounds. Injured, ill, or perhaps both she surmised.

Stephen had seemingly fared better. If the hardships of the journey had aged him, it was an improvement. No one now would look at him and mistake him for a boy. She hoped he had grown in wisdom as well, for the news she had to share would lay a heavy burden on both men. Now was the time for reason, not for the impetuous folly of youth.