Devlin's Luck (2 page)

The palace dominated the central hill of Kingsholm. As Devlin approached, he felt a growing sense of his own insignificance. The palace was larger than many of the villages he had passed through on his journey.

This was no place for him, a simple man from a poor country. The residents of that splendid palace had no need for such as he. They would mock him, disdain his quest. He should turn back.

But there was nothing to turn back to. And so he plodded on.

At the end of the boulevard was a wide iron gate that opened onto the palace grounds. As in the city below, the gates stood wide open, but here they were flanked by two guards dressed in dark green uniforms.

“Halt,” the guards said in unison, each leaning his spear so that they crossed in the middle, thus barring the way. The guards were both young men. Their uniforms were so well kept they looked new made, with every buckle gleaming. In addition to their spears, they wore short swords in their belts. They eyed him watchfully, but their posture was relaxed, indicating that they thought him no real threat.

Devlin came forward till just a single pace separated him from the guards. Then he stopped.

“State your business,” the guard on the left said.

Devlin looked them over. The guards appeared to be the same age, but the one on his left wore a silver cord on his sleeve. At this range he could see they were very young indeed. Both their faces were unlined, and their eyes lacked the hardness that came with having seen battle.

“I am come for the Chosen One.”

The two guards exchanged glances. “Another beggar,” the younger guard muttered. “Will they never learn?”

“There is no Chosen,” the senior guard said. “So be off now, and do not waste our time.”

Devlin bit back an oath. He was hot and tired, and he could feel each of the miles he had walked in the aching of his legs.

“I will speak with Captain Drakken,” he said. He was in no mood to argue his business with these young guards, only to have to repeat it again to their officer.

The senior guard shifted his arm so his spear was pointed slightly toward Devlin rather than simply blocking the path. Devlin knew better than to suppose this was by chance.

“Captain Drakken has better things to do with her time than to nursemaid the likes of you,” the guard said scornfully. “There is no Chosen. Hasn’t been one in months. So why don’t you go back to whatever hole you crawled out from and tell your people that they’ll have to find someone else to solve their problems?”

The senior guard had made a mistake when he shifted the spear, for now the way to the palace was no longer blocked. Devlin eyed the distance between himself and the guards. They had let him get in too close, and they were too relaxed, not expecting any trouble. If he moved swiftly, he could take the spear from the first guard, then use it to disable them both. Neither man would have a chance to draw his sword.

But he had not come here to teach guards the folly of trusting in appearances. No matter how foolish or discourteous they were.

“Captain Drakken,” he repeated softly. He fixed the senior guard with his stare, letting the young man feel the strength of his determination.

After a moment the guard looked away. “Private, go fetch Captain Drakken,” he ordered.

“She’s not going to like this.”

“Not our worry. If she’s angry, let it fall on him.”

Devlin said nothing. It was enough that he had gotten his way.

The guard stared at Devlin, not bothering to hide his scorn. Devlin hadn’t seen a mirror recently, but he supposed that he was an odd sight. Despite the summer heat, he still wore a long blue coat in the style of the Caerfolk. The coat was ripped and stained from travel, but it was as easy to wear as it was to carry. His boots were so dusty it was impossible to determine their original color, and the soles were as thin as parchment. In his left hand he held a long wooden staff. A tattered leather pack and transverse bow were slung over one shoulder. Underneath the coat he wore the shirt and trousers he had bargained for a few weeks back. The shirt was too big, and the trousers a couple of inches too short, but at the time they had been an improvement. His dark hair was indifferently cropped, and his complexion weathered from his journeys.

All in all he supposed he looked the part of a vagabond. He wondered what Captain Drakken would think of him, or how many other people he would need to see before he accomplished his mission.

The young guard returned, and with him came a woman who carried herself with such authority that he knew at once she must be the Captain. Her plain features gave the look of one who would brook no foolishness, while the gray in her blond hair spoke of years of experience. Her uniform was similar to the guards’, save that her sleeve held two gold cords, and unlike them she wore no helmet. She carried no spear, but wore a long sword strapped to her waist. He had no doubt that she knew how to use it.

“You asked to see me?” She assessed him with a glance, but unlike the guards he could not read her opinions in her face.

“Yes,” he said. “You are Captain Drakken, of the City Guard?”

She nodded, her fingers drumming impatiently on her sword belt.

He hesitated. Once he said the words there would be no taking them back. But the time had come. He could feel it in his bones. “I am come for the Chosen One,” he said.

“I told you already, there is no—”

“Wait.” Captain Drakken ordered, holding up her hand to silence the young guard. “Continue,” she said, nodding in Devlin’s direction.

The tradespeech was tricky at best. He tried again. “I know there is no Chosen,” he said. “I am come to
be
the Chosen.”

The two young guards stared at him, mouths agape. If he had been capable of mirth, Devlin would have laughed at the expression on their faces. As it was, he merely felt a grim satisfaction.

Captain Drakken rubbed her jaw with one hand. “And you think the Gods have called you to this?”

“Yes.”

The young guards turned their faces slightly away, but she continued to look directly at him. “Well there is no doing anything today. It is Festival, in case you hadn’t noticed. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll take you for the oath.”

“No.”

The two guards stiffened, as if they were not used to people contradicting their commander.

“No,” he repeated. He had not come this far to be turned away. Besides, not once in the ballads had they said the Chosen One had arrived, only to be turned away because it was not a convenient time. “I am a stranger in town, and have no coins to my name. There is not an inn or tavern in all of Kingsholm that will take me in.”

“You can bunk down in the guardhouse for tonight,” she said, with a strange half smile. “And tomorrow I will take you myself for the oath swearing. Fair enough?”

Despite his impatience to have the deed done, one more day would not matter. “Fair indeed,” he said.

The senior guard raised his spear so Devlin could pass through the gate. His face held a strange mixture of pity and contempt. The younger guard would not look at him, but instead stared fixedly at the ground as Devlin passed.

The Captain set a brisk pace as she led him around the perimeter of the palace. They passed through a formal garden, an open courtyard whose purpose he could not discern, and then the stable block where his companion was greeted cheerfully by the grooms.

On the other side of the stable block were two buildings. The first was a long low structure of whitewashed plaster, with a row of small windows. He guessed it was a barracks of some kind. Adjacent to it was a small square building made of bricks, with only a few narrow windows set high up in the wall. A storage house, he surmised. But to his surprise the Captain passed by the barracks and led him to the smaller building.

She paused at the door and turned to him, letting him see the same wry smile she had given him at the gate. “The guardhouse,” she said.

He looked at her, and then at the small building. Now he was close enough to see that the windows of this building were barred with iron. It did not take a scholar to realize that his knowledge of tradespeech had once again tripped him up. The guardhouse was not where the guards stayed. It was where they put those they wished to keep their eyes on.

It was a gaol.

The door swung inward, confirming his guess. Two men sat across from each other at a table in the center of the room. One man was a soldier, and he stood to attention as the Captain entered. Looking around, Devlin could see that the building held six small rooms or cells, two on each of the three sides. The fourth side held the door through which they had entered, with a variety of manacles and weapons hanging on hooks.

Wooden doors, banded with iron, hung open, revealing that the cells were empty.

“I trust you have no objection to my hospitality?” she challenged.

He saw no reason to object. The place looked clean enough, and he was so weary that he would have cheerfully bedded down in the stable with the horses. “This will serve,” he said.

Her eyebrows rose a notch and she looked at him, as if he had confounded her first impression.

“Sergeant Lukas, this one is a guest,” she told the guard. “He can come and go as he pleases.”

So he was not a prisoner. He had wondered about that, in a dim sort of way. Not that he cared one way or another. He had used up all his strength to reach the palace, and now that he was here, he found he had no will to go farther.

“What about me?” the second man asked, standing and giving the Captain a courtly bow. He seemed more boy than man, despite the bruises that marred his countenance. He had a narrow, thin face, with light brown hair that hung down to his shoulders.

“
You
are going nowhere. You caused a near riot yesterday, and my guards have better things to do than rescue your sorry hide. You will stay put until Festival is over, or I will deal with you personally. Understood?”

The young man flushed. “Understood.”

Captain Drakken turned her attention back to Devlin. “The Choosing Ceremony will take place tomorrow at midday. I will come for you then. But if you are not here, there is no shame.”

“I will be here.”

The Captain left, and Devlin found himself the center of attention. The soldier Lukas, a middle-aged veteran, regarded him warily, while the young man appeared fascinated.

“You are here to be Chosen?” the young man asked.

Devlin ignored him. Shrugging the pack off his shoulders, he set it down in the empty cell on his left. Then he untied his cloak and hung it on a hook. Entering the cell, he sat down on the bed and began to unlace his boots. Each movement was deliberate, requiring all of his concentration. It should have worried him, but it did not. He chalked up his weariness to the length of his journey, and to the strange sense of anticlimax he felt after having come so far, only to be greeted with less than welcome.

“Any hope of getting something to eat?” Devlin asked.

“You can go fetch something yourself, or they’ll bring a meal here round sunset,” the soldier said.

Devlin nodded. He pulled off his left boot, then his right. Those shreds of fabric around his feet had once been socks. He would have to do something about them. But not now.

“Wake me when food comes,” he said, stretching out on the cot. After weeks of sleeping in fields and barns, his body eased itself into the welcome softness. By habit his right hand rested on the dagger he wore at his side.

“But wait. You can’t go to sleep. Not now. It’s midday. And I have so many questions to ask you,” the young man said.

Devlin closed his eyes, and then his ears. The young man’s voice was a distant hum, and then there was nothing at all.

When he woke, sunlight was streaming through the narrow slit window high up in the wall, crossing the small cell and bouncing off the wooden door. The door was closed, but through it he could hear the sound of voices. Devlin sat up, rubbing the last of sleep out of his eyes. A quick check showed that he still had all his weapons. His pack appeared undisturbed, which meant either they trusted him to a foolish degree, or whoever had searched his belongings was an expert at his job.

His boots were on the floor where he had dropped them earlier. He tried not to look too closely at his feet as he forced them back into his boots. Even his blisters had blisters.

Devlin rose and went to the door. He did not remember shutting it earlier. But it opened freely at his touch.

The veteran soldier and young man were seated at the table in the common room, along with another soldier whom he had not seen before. The young man had his back to Devlin, and was strumming a lute.

The veteran soldier turned as Devlin left the cell. “Good morrow,” he said.

“And you,” Devlin said courteously.

The young man put down his lute and turned to face Devlin. “Good morrow. I’ve been waiting for hours for you to waken. You scarce said two words at supper last night, and then you seemed like to sleep for a thousand years. I thought you were sick or dying, but Sergeant Lukas here said you were simply tired and I should not disturb you.”

Devlin kept his face still. He did not remember anything of yesterday, after he had reached the guardhouse. And yet according to the minstrel, he had risen and supped, without ever truly waking. He must have pushed himself harder than he knew to have reached such a dangerous point of exhaustion. Worse yet, he had not realized it at the time. Such carelessness was foreign to his nature.