Exile's Children (75 page)

Arcole attended the governor as the two officers were ushered in. He served them brandy and pipes, and was dismissed by Wyme with a curt wave. He knew, from his clandestine investigations, that Corm had led the column of mounted infantry. He thought the man looked shocked, as if he had witnessed horrors his mind could not encompass.
On Spelt's grave face he read concern. He closed the door and contemplated eavesdropping, but Benjamyn was abroad and worrying about dinner: Arcole returned to his role of dutiful servant.

Wyme would add to his records, he thought, as he set places at the table, and all well unwittingly share them. He placed the silver platters and the crystal glasses with a smile that his fellow servants attributed to a settlement with Flysse.

They were not entirely wrong in their assumption.

The two officers sat late with the governor, and Wyme sat later still in his study. Arcole was required to help him there and bring a cushion for his withered legs; see the brandy flask filled and a glass set near, a pipe primed. Celinda was long abed, attended by Flysse.

Arcole stood rigid behind the crippled man as Wyme arranged the papers on his desk. He struck a lucifer as Wyme picked up his pipe and was rewarded with an absent nod.

“Thank you, Arcole. You may go now.”

Arcole bowed—God, it was still so hard to do that!—and asked, no harder, “Shall I await you, 'sieur?”

Wyme ducked his head: “I'll ring, do I need you.”

Like summoning a dog, Arcole thought, but I'll wait and read those papers when you're done. And then I'll know what you know—and use your knowledge.

He bowed again, though Wyme did not look up, and quit the room.

Flysse was alone in the kitchen and he told her. “Something's afoot. Corm and Spelt are gone, and Wyme's greatly troubled. I'm to wait for him, but once he's abed …”

Flysse nodded and said. “Mistress Celinda was much troubled.” Then her eyes clouded and she asked, “What think you?”

“That we stand ready,” he said. “Tell Davyd to prepare us those guns.”

“Save only it be safe for him,” she returned.

“Save that,” Arcole agreed. “But things go on, Flysse. Corm wore the look of a man bearing bad news.”

“And you'll go find it out, eh?” She startled him then, when she reached across the table to touch his hand—a triumph, that—and said, “Take care.”

It was hard not to snatch up her hand, to kiss it, but he thought he
could not bear further rejection. When she was ready, she would open her arms to him, and then he would go to her eagerly. But for now he only nodded and waited.

Long past midnight the bell rang, and Arcole went to Wyme's study.

Grostheim's governor was in his cups, and even had he not needed crutches to walk, still he should have needed a hand. Arcole lifted him onto the sticks and held him upright as he staggered bedward.

Wyme muttered, “Bad news; very bad. Measures must be taken. Strict measures, I tell you.”

Arcole thought that he would regret such admissions—did he remember them—come morning. He saw Wyme to his chamber and settled the drunken governor on his bed. He tugged off Wyme's boots and helped the man out of his clothes—the while wondering how many times servants had done the same for him, and he as unthinking as the sodden baggage he now undressed. He felt ashamed, for what he did now and what he had done then.

As soon as Wyme began to snore, he left the governor and hurried to the kitchen.

“Are we the only ones awake?” he asked Flysse.

She said, “I think so. I've seen none else.”

“Then I'm to the study,” he said. “To discover what news Corm brought.”

“Take care,” she said. “I'd not see you caught. Not now.”

It was hard to resist the concern in her blue eyes. Easier to turn back and hold her, and make better what grew again between them; but what lay ahead might depend on what he found, and he'd live free with Flysse. He grinned and went away.

It was stark news Wyme had noted down: confirmation of Davyd's dreams, Arcole thought. He studied the scrawled notes with a frown, snatching paper and pen from the governor's desk. So many holdings ravaged. A troop of fifty mounted infantry slain, save for Corm. And worst of all, the final ragged notes:

The demons vow to attack us. Slay us all. They shall come, they say, and kill us because it is their land. I do not doubt it. Too much has happened—we are not alone here. I must send to Evander for more soldiers. An Inquistor; my hexes are not strong enough. Surely an Inquisitor can defend us
.

Arcole stared at the alarming comments. The time had come, he
thought, and they could delay no longer. No matter how difficult, they must find a way out of the city. He would discuss it with Flysse and set a date, and when next they spoke with Davyd, he would tell the lad to take the last of their provisions and stand ready to flee. He recorded Wyme's commentary and the placements of the attacks, then dusted the paper and folded it into his tunic, set the desk in order, and pinched out the candle.

As he went toward the door, it opened and Benjamyn said, “What are you doing here?”

The majordomo held a candle in a brass holder. He wore a nightshirt and a tasseled sleeping cap. His legs were spindly and very white. He should have looked ridiculous were it not for the outrage on his lined face. Arcole saw Flysse standing a little way behind, her eyes wide with alarm.

“Well?” Benjamyn demanded, advancing a step.

Arcole took a pace back. His mind raced—this could mean the downfall of all his plans. He said, “I was tidying the governor's study, Benjamyn.” It sounded unlikely to his own ears.

To the majordomo it obviously sounded wildly improbable.

“At this hour?” Benjamyn came another step into the room. He raised the candle, eyes darting around, returning accusingly to Arcole. “Did the master order it?”

Arcole said quickly, “He did,” hoping Wyme's memory should prove too fogged with brandy to contradict.

Benjamyn's tongue clicked vigorously. To Arcole it sounded like the ticking of a clock that measured the time to his sentencing.

“What's that?” Benjamyn pointed at Arcole's chest.

Arcole said, “Nothing.”

Benjamyn said, “Show me.”

Arcole looked down, and saw a corner of paper protruding from beneath his tunic. He cursed silently. As best he knew, Benjamyn could read no more than a few words, but the paper alone should be sufficient to undo him. Doubtless the majordomo would show it to Wyme, and Wyme would immediately know his secrets stolen. Arcole had no idea what punishment that might entail, but he was certain it must unravel all his plans and likely see him parted from Flysse forever. He hesitated, racking his mind for some plausible excuse.

Benjamyn came another step closer, hand extended. Arcole saw Flysse framed in the doorway behind the majordomo.

“I stole a sheet of paper,” he extemporized. “I thought to make a sketch of Flysse.”

Benjaymyn's tongue clicked louder. “Then show me,” he insisted.

Arcole shook his head.

“You augment your troubles,” Benjamyn warned. “I find you ransacking the master's inner sanctum, and now you refuse to obey me? This shall go hard for you.”

“It's only a sheet of paper,” Arcole said.

“Then show me,” Benjamyn repeated. “Or is it more?”

Arcole was a gambler, but it was difficult to hold his expression calm. Perhaps it was lack of practice, perhaps it was the import of the occasion, but Benjamyn saw something that prompted his eyes to widen and his lips to thin.

“It is, no?” he barked. Then: “God, of course! You lay claim to having been a gentleman. You can read, eh?”

Arcole heard Flysse gasp. Benjamyn ignored her, his gaze intent on Arcole's face. “You read the master's papers!” His expression was horrified. “God, you spy on the master!”

He darted forward, snatching at Arcole's tunic; Arcole raised a hand to fend him off.

This, even more, it seemed, than the original crime, offended the old man. He shouted as Arcole's palm struck his chest, and swung the candle holder at Arcole's head. Arcole deflected the blow, and the brass holder was knocked from Benjamyn's grip. The candle came loose, rolling across the floor to drip wax and flame on the carpet. Arcole took hold of Benjamyn's wrists, twisting aside as a bony knee rose toward his groin.

He called, “Flysse—the candle!” And to Benjamyn: “For God's sake, be silent.”

The majordomo's reply was a shriek of unalloyed rage. Arcole let go one wrist and struggled to clamp a hand over Benjamyn's mouth. Benjamyn promptly employed his free hand in an attempt to claw Arcole's eyes. Desperately, Arcole wondered how long it could be before the whole house was woken and come looking for the source of the disturbance. No less—and no less desperately—he wondered what to do with Benjamyn.

Flysse stamped out the guttering candle and took up the holder. The room was dark now, save for the dull glow of the banked fire and what little light intruded from the hall. Benjamyn's white nightshirt lent him the appearance of a specter, attacking her husband. She saw Arcole clutching the majordomo's arm with one hand, the other seeking to shut off the old man's outraged yelling even as Benjamyn sought to rake his face.

She acted without premeditation. It was as it had been when Armnory Schweiz looked to steal her honor, save now it was Arcole—her husband—she saw threatened. She raised the candle holder as she had raised the pewter mug, and brought it down against the back of Benjamyn's head.

There was an ugly sound, sharp and soft at the same time, like an ax falling against rotten wood. Benjamyn's shouting ceased abruptly, he grunted, and then the grunt became a failing whistle of breath. Flysse felt wetness on her hand.

She stepped back, staring as Benjamyn went limp in Arcole's grip. Her husband clutched at the majordomo, no longer fighting to hold him off, but only to hold him up. Benjamyn's head lolled forward onto Arcole's chest, and for a horrid moment Flysse saw the stain that spread across the wool of his nightcap. She dropped the candle holder. As it fell, she saw with terrified clarity that the edge was dented and turned back on itself.

She said, “Oh, God, what have I done?”

Arcole lowered Benjamyn to the floor and touched gentle fingers to the old man's neck. “Killed him,” he said.

Tears formed and began to spill down Flysse's cheeks. A sob took shape in her throat, cut short by Arcole's hands on her shoulders.

“No!” His voice was soft, but nonetheless urgent. “Flysse, don't cry! We've not the time.”

She stared at him, then down at Benjamyn. She began to tremble.

Arcole put his arms around her and pulled her tight against his chest. “Listen to me,” he said. “Flysse, do you listen to me? Our lives depend on it, and all our plans.”

It was hard to stem the shaking that gripped her, but she heard such urgency in his voice, she did her best. She raised a tearful face to his, and when he kissed her—gently—she did not resist, only held him close, seeking the comfort of his arms.

“I killed him,” she moaned.

“You had no choice,” he said firmly. “He left you none. Besides, you didn't mean to do it.”

She said, “No,” as if the single negative were a prayer of forgiveness.

“But if he's found like this,” Arcole said, “we'll both be blamed, both suffer. Listen to me, Flysse, we've likely not much time.”

He put his hands on her shoulders again and pushed her back. She had sooner he held her close, but he kept her at arm's length. Reluctantly, she looked into his eyes.

He said, “First, we must carry him to the kitchen. Do you understand, Flysse?”

Not sure she did, she nodded.

“None must suspect we were here.” He loosed his grip just long enough to gesture at Wyme's study. “All well, we can claim he fell. Yes! We'll spill some grease on the floor and say he slipped.”

Dully, Flysse said, “The floor's clean, Arcole. It always is; Dido has the scullions scrub it each night.”

He cursed softly and said, “Then he only slipped. God, he's old enough—and waking, he was likely doddery. But”—his grip tightened on her shoulders and he shook her gently—“does it come to accusations of murder, then I did it.”

“No,” she said. “I killed him. The sin is mine.”

“No sin!” Arcole snapped. “An accident, no more. Did you intend to kill him?”

Flysse shook her head. “I saw him attack you. I wanted to stop him, only that.”

“Then in the absence of intention,” he said, “you cannot be guilty.
It was an accident!
Is there sin, then I claim it. I came to Wyme's study, I involved you in my plans. What sin exists, Flysse, is mine. And do any suggest it was murder, then I claim that too.”

She stared at him aghast. “Do you love me so much?”

Solemnly, he ducked his head. “Yes. Have I not told you? You own my life, Flysse. My life and my heart and my soul.”

“But it was I hit him,” she said. “I cannot let you take the blame for that.”

“God!” He smiled at her savagely and tenderly. “Think you I'd not have slain him? He left me little choice, eh? But do you say aught to contradict me in this, then we shall both likely go to the gallows, or be sold off apart to wilderness farms. And then what shall become of Davyd, eh? He needs the one of us, at least. Far best only I be blamed for this. And better still if we can conceal it.”

She stared at him through eyes so filled with tears, his face was hazy. Could he truly love her so much? There now seemed little doubt. She said, “Arcole, I'm sorry.”

“No time for apologies now,” he said. “And I've my share of those, beside. Shall you do as I …” Almost, he said, “Tell you”; amended it to “Suggest?” And when she nodded, let her go and said, “Then pick up that candle holder and the candle.”