Devlin's Luck (9 page)

She had seen her share of deadly wounds, in the days before the King had confined the Guard to patrolling the city. But never had she seen anyone live who had been half so grievously hurt. By all the Gods, the man standing before her should have been dead a dozen times over.

She opened her mouth to ask Timo where he had found such an unlikely helper. Then the man turned, and she recognized the face of the Chosen One. She was shocked, then angry at herself for not having recognized him. Devlin Stonehand had declared himself a metalsmith only the day before. She should have known him at once.

But the man in the forge was not the same man that she had seen in the palace that morning. This man looked infinitely more sure of himself. And infinitely more dangerous.

“Captain Drakken,” he said, inclining his head in the manner of a King receiving an audience.

“Chosen One,” she replied, giving him the formal salute for the first time since the ceremony.

Her eyes were drawn back to the scars that were visible on his chest. Running in parallel tracks, they had the look of claw marks, although she fervently wished never to encounter a creature that could make those kinds of wounds. But apparently Devlin had, and somehow survived. And recently too. She would wager her Captain’s rank that those scars had been made less than a year ago.

Her gaze seemed to discomfit him. He reached for the shirt that lay discarded on the workbench, then shrugged it on. She longed to ask him what had caused those scars, but sensed that this was not a question he would answer.

“The bolts are finished, although you will want to check them yourself after the last set has cooled,” Devlin said, addressing Master Timo.

The smith nodded, but did not speak.

“You wished speech with me?” Devlin asked.

She shook her head. “No, I came to speak with Master Timo about what we discussed this morning.”

“Then I will leave you to your duty. Master, I thank you again for the use of your forge and your son’s tools.”

Master Timo turned his head so he did not have to meet Devlin’s gaze. “The Chosen One has only to command and whatever you need is yours,” he said stiffly.

Devlin’s face grew shuttered. He gathered up a handful of crossbow bolts from the bench, then picked up what appeared to be an axe, with the axe head wrapped in linen. “Let me at least pay you for the steel,” he said, reaching into his belt pouch.

“I do not want your coin.”

Devlin held out a silver coin, but the smith refused to take it. With a curse, Devlin threw the coin into the far corner. “Tell your son it is for the use of his tools,” he growled. Then he stalked out of the forge, without a backward glance.

Master Timo’s rudeness surprised her, as did Devlin’s angry reaction.

“So that was the Chosen One,” Master Timo said. “He is not what I expected.”

“Nor I.” Devlin Stonehand continued to surprise her. Even after the ceremony she had dismissed him as another who would do more harm than good in the short time before he met his death. Now she was forced to revise her opinion. The man who bore such scars might have skills that she could use.

Turning her attention back to Master Timo, she explained her concern over what other mischief the traitorous smith might have caused, and commissioned him to seek out and replace anything that might have been tampered with.

“It will take weeks, if not months, to do this right. And cost more than you have in your budget for a year’s worth of weapon work.”

“Leave that to me. And if the steward complains, I will tell him that this is done by orders of the Chosen One.”

The smith grimaced at the mention of the new Chosen.

“You do not like him? But you let him use your forge.”

“That was before I knew who he was.”

“And now?”

“Yesterday, when you told me of a man who had known that a sword was flawed simply by listening to the metal, I knew it must be a trick. Yet today, having seen him work, I cannot deny that he is a man of skill. Perhaps even a master, in his own country,” Master Timo said grudgingly.

“And?” So Devlin had some skill as a smith. She did not see why that would make Master Timo angry.

“So why would a man with hands like that decide to become Chosen One? Any smith in the city would have gladly taken him on as a journeyman, even a partner in time.” Timo shook his head. “I don’t like it. It doesn’t make sense. A waste of good talent, that’s what I think.”

It made no sense to her either. At first she had thought Devlin a farmer fallen on hard times, who had decided to try his luck as Chosen One. Yet from what Master Timo said, Devlin could easily have found work as a smith. So it had not been mere poverty that drove Devlin to seek the post. She prided herself on her ability to judge people, yet Devlin Stonehand continued to surprise her.

Perhaps she should stop trying to puzzle him out and simply make use of the tool that the Gods had placed in her hand. She would give him a task, and let him make of it what he would.

Five

DEVLIN RETURNED TO HIS QUARTERS AS THE SUN was setting, carrying under one arm the newly reforged axe and the bolts which he had fashioned. The memory of the forge master’s scorn lingered bitterly in his mind. Always before, a forge had been a safe haven for him, the one place he was sure of himself. But now even that was denied to him. Master Timo had made it clear that there would be no welcome for any man who bore the title of Chosen One.

As he turned down the hall that led to his quarters, a wave of hunger swept over him, and he realized he had not eaten since he had broken his fast that morning. Any hope of a quiet dinner was dashed by the sight of a liveried servant standing outside his door. The woman bowed as he approached.

“My lord Chosen One. The Royal Steward sends his compliments, and begs that you join the household in the Great Hall for the evening meal.”

Devlin eyed her askance. He doubted very much that the haughty steward had ever begged for anything in his life. No doubt this was just a courteous turn of phrase.

“I am grateful for the honor,” Devlin said carefully. “But I would prefer a quieter repast.”

The servant shook her head. “But my lord, you cannot. To do so would be discourteous. All the King’s court join in the weekly court dinner. It is the custom.”

Courtesy. Custom. The two words bound him with chains as firmly as any Geas. The rules of hospitality were as much a part of him as the color of his hair or the cadence of his speech. He could not deny her request.

“Then it seems I have no choice,” he said.

The servant woman smiled in relief, and Devlin wondered what would have happened to her if he had refused to comply. She reached behind her and opened the door to his chambers, then bowed, motioning for him to enter.

“I have laid out the garments for you to wear,” she said. “Shall I assist you in donning them?”

“No!” he said swiftly, then in a softer voice. “No, I can dress myself.”

He closed the door firmly behind him. A quick glance at the bed showed that she had laid out his formal uniform. First he placed the axe in the bottom of his wardrobe, then he opened his pack and stored the bolts in the holder within.

He stripped off his old clothes, piling them neatly next to his wardrobe. Then he turned his attention to his uniform, eyeing the unfamiliar garments with distrust. The gray silk shirt slipped over his head easily, and the buttons which held it closed were simple enough to figure out, though they ran across the shoulder rather than down the chest. Next he slipped on a pair of gray trousers made of leather that had been tanned to an unbelievable softness. The trousers were a bit loose, but a belt of silver links solved that problem.

But the gray half boots proved an impossible fit. His foot was too broad to fit into the narrow, pointed toes, and after two attempts he gave up in disgust. He would have to wear his own boots, no matter how disgraceful their condition. Fortunately the trousers were loose enough that he could pull them over the tops of the boots.

He regarded his appearance in the mirror next to the wardrobe. He looked like a damn fool. The shirt and trousers might be fit for a lord, but the weathered face and plain boots belonged to a countryman.

There was a rap at the door. “My lord? We must leave now or you will be late,” a voice called.

“I am ready,” Devlin said.

The servant woman escorted him through the castle. He recognized the hallway that he had seen that morning, but rather than turning right to the servants’ area, his guide continued straight ahead.

At last they turned the corner, and before he knew it, he was standing at the entrance to a vast hall. At the far end, a long table set on a raised dais faced the occupants. Below, at right angles to the dais, were a dozen lines of tables. The room was lit by chandeliers, which hung suspended from the high ceiling. Bright banners decorated the walls, and silver plate shone on the tables.

There was room for a dozen dozen to dine, he thought, and then realized that he had underestimated. Perhaps thrice a dozen dozen could be seated at the benches, not to mention all the servants required to wait on them.

But his guide would not permit him to linger. “Come,” she said, tugging on his sleeve when he proved reluctant to follow. “The steward instructed me to bring you to the gathering room, where you will join the others.”

The gathering room proved to be a small chamber to the left of the Great Hall. A guard came to attention as they approached, and after rapping once on the door, opened it. Devlin entered the room. When he looked back, he found that his guide had disappeared.

There were perhaps a dozen people in the room, standing talking in small groups. A few heads turned as he entered, but after a dismissive glance they returned to their own conversations.

“Finally. Have you no sense of time? His Majesty is expected any moment,” the Royal Steward said, breaking away from one of the groups. His eyes swept over Devlin from head to toe, lingering on the shabby boots, and his lips pursed narrowly.

Devlin returned his gaze evenly.

“Well, I suppose it could have been worse,” the steward said, shaking his head. “Come now, and we will fulfill our duties.”

The steward led Devlin toward a small group of nobles who stood in a semicircle around a central figure dressed in brilliant white. The object of their attention was recounting a story, and some smiled politely, while others sipped a pale wine from slender glasses.

The steward waited, Devlin at his shoulder, until the nobleman had finished his story and the laughter had died away.

The nobleman turned toward the Royal Steward and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Your Grace,” the steward said, with a slight bow. “It is my duty to present to you Devlin Stonehand of Duncaer, the new Chosen One. Chosen, this is Duke Gerhard, the King’s Champion and General of the Royal Army.”

Duke Gerhard barely glanced at Devlin. “I greet you, Chosen One, and welcome you to the King’s service.” The words were gracious, but there was no true welcome in his eyes.

Devlin decided that this man did not rate a proper greeting. Instead he used a phrase he had learned in his journeys. “The honor is mine,” he said, giving a short bow in the Jorskian style. Duke Gerhard acknowledged the bow with a mere inclination of his head, then moved away.

With the air of a man performing a distasteful duty, the steward introduced Devlin to the other occupants of the room. Devlin acknowledged each introduction with grave courtesy, then promptly forgot their names. To his eye, one richly dressed Jorskian noble resembled another.

Even his encounter with the King proved a disappointment, for his fine robes could not disguise the fact that the ruler of Jorsk was approaching middle age, with thinning blond hair and the beginnings of a paunch. The King wore the expression of a nervous and anxious man, and he acknowledged Devlin’s introduction with but a wave of one jeweled hand.

Or perhaps the wave had been a signal, for a moment later the steward beckoned imperiously and two Royal Guards opened the set of double doors that led into the Great Hall. The King proceeded through the doors, followed by his courtiers.

As Devlin entered the hall, a servant stepped from the sidelines and bowed to him. “Chosen One, I will show you to your place,” he said. Like the rest, he was careful not to meet Devlin’s gaze.