Luck in the Shadows (51 page)

Nysander’s eyes blinked open, instantly alert. “Was there a message?”

Thero handed him the little scroll.

Nysander read through it quickly, then rose and brushed the wrinkles from his blue robe. “Nothing of use here, only that I should come at once. Well then, we must simply hope for the best.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“Thank you, dear boy, but I think it best for you to remain here for the moment. If something has gone awry, I shall need you available to Micum and Alec.”

At the Palace Nysander made his way alone through the familiar corridors. Despite its rich tapestries and murals, the place had none of the Orëska’s spacious ambience. Part royal residence, part fortress, the walls were thick, the corridors labyrinthine, the doors heavily strapped with ornate metalwork.

The judgment chamber was more forbidding still, and intentionally so. The long room was empty of furnishings except for a black and silver throne on a raised platform at the far end. To approach it, one crossed a chill expanse of polished black floor under the marble gaze of the royal effigies lining the walls. Iron cressets cast a grim, shifting light over the small group already gathered around the throne.

Idrilain acknowledged Nysander’s bow tersely. She wore the crown and breastplate of office tonight, and her great sword lay unsheathed across her knees. The Vicegerent and General Phoria stood on either side of her, looking equally dour.

“We have come into possession of certain documents which may clear Lord Seregil’s name,” Idrilain informed Nysander, laying her hand on a long iron box that lay open on a small table at her elbow. “I thought you should be present at the proceedings.”

“Many thanks, my lady,” Nysander replied, taking his place at the foot of the dais.

Looking up at her eldest daughter, Idrilain motioned for her to proceed.

“Bring the first prisoner!”

At Phoria’s shout, a side door swung open and two guards dragged in a querulous old man in a stained nightshirt. Nysander allowed himself a brief brush across the surface of the accused man’s mind and read a panicked craftiness, a fury to survive.

They were followed by three others: an officer of the Watch, a woman in the robes of the Queen’s High Bailiff, and a young wizard of the Second Degree named Imaneus. Nysander knew this last one well, a talented mind adept frequently called in as verifier at such trials.

The Vicegerent stepped forward and turned a bleak eye on the prisoner.

“Alben, apothecary of Hind Street, you stand accused of forgery and possession of personal papers belonging to a member of the Royal Kin. How plead you?”

Cowering on his knees, Alben mumbled a whining plea.

“Repeat yourself,” the bailiff ordered, leaning closer to listen. “My Lord Barien, the accused maintains that there has been some mistake.”

“A mistake,” Barien repeated tonelessly. “Alben the Apothecary, were you not apprehended by Captain Tyrin of the City Watch while fleeing through a back window in the dead of night
with this box in your arms? A box found to contain letters, documents, and missives penned by members of the nobility.”

“A mistake,” Alben whispered again, trembling.

Lifting a sheaf of papers from the box, Barien continued, “Among the documents in this box found upon your person at the time of your arrest are letters and copies of letters. In short, forgeries. Specific charges against you are as follows: first, that you were instrumental in the slander and wrongful condemnation of an innocent and loyal servant of Her Majesty, Queen Idrilain the Second.” Barien paused to select two letters. “Found in your possession is the duplicate of a letter purportedly written by Lord Vardarus í Boruntas Lud Mirin of Rhíminee, the very letter which sent Lord Vardarus to the block. With it, secured with a wax seal identified as your own, was found another, nearly identical letter entirely lacking in the details which damned him.”

Barien lifted another bundle of papers from the box. “Secondly, you are charged with collusion to perpetrate the same heinous crime against Lord Seregil í Korit Solun Meringil Bôkthersa. I myself received a letter identical to the one which I hold here, a letter bearing Lord Seregil’s signature and sealed with Lord Seregil’s mark. In this letter are statements which suggest he was plotting sedition and treason against Skala. Yet here, in addition to the duplicate, I find another letter bearing the identical salutation, signature, and seals, which is in every way innocent in content.”

Honed by years of practice, the Vicegerent’s voice echoed around the cold chamber. “I caution you to speak the truth, Alben the Apothecary. How plead you in the face of this evidence?”

“I—I heard a noise. Last night I heard a noise!” stammered the wretched man. “I went down and found that box. Someone must have thrown it in my window! When I heard the soldiers I panicked, great lord, most honored Queen!”

Standing behind the accused man, Imaneus shook his head.

Impassive as the marble statues of her ancestors, Idrilain signaled to the bailiff, who strode to a side door and knocked. Two warders escorted in an immensely fat woman in a garish brocade night robe.

“Ghemella, gem cutter of Dog Street,” announced the bailiff.

Catching sight of Alben, Ghemella screeched out, “You tell
’em, Alben, you tell how I only did the seal work! You miserable bastard, you tell ’em I didn’t know no more of it than that!”

The accused man buried his face in his hands with a loud moan.

“Bailiff, speak the sentence for forging the documents or seals of a noble,” the Queen ordered, looking sternly at the miserable pair trembling before her.

“The sentence is death by torture,” announced the woman.

Alben groaned again, rocking miserably on his knees.

“My Queen, I am here at your own summons. Might I speak?” asked Nysander.

“I always value your council, Nysander í Azusthra.”

“My Queen, I suggest that it is unlikely that these two acted on their own, but at the behest of another,” said Nysander, choosing his words carefully. “It is certain that Lord Seregil was not approached for the purpose of blackmail, nor was there any such evidence in the case of the late Lord Vardarus. Had these two been acting on their own, surely that would have been their motive.”

Phoria bristled visibly. “Surely you’re not suggesting that it would in any way mitigate the severity of their offense?”

“Certainly not, Your Highness,” Nysander replied gravely. “I only wish to point out that the person who would orchestrate such a deception represents a far greater threat. Should it be determined, as I suspect it will, that the same person is behind the slandering of both Lord Vardarus and Lord Seregil, then we must learn what motivated them to so desperate a course of action.”

“We shall have that information out of these two soon enough!” Barien said, glowering.

“With all respect, my Lord Vicegerent, information gained under torture is not always reliable, even with a wizard in attendance. Pain and fear cloud the mind, making it difficult to read with any certainty.”

“I am quite aware of your theories regarding torture,” Barien returned stiffly. “What is your point?”

“My point, Lord Barien, is that this whole matter is far too grave to trust to such methods. Reprehensible as I find the actions of these creatures, they are inconsequential pawns in a greater game. It is their master whom we must run to ground at all costs.”

As he’d expected, Barien and Phoria still looked dubious but Idrilain nodded approvingly.

“And what is your alternative?” she asked.

“Your Majesty, I humbly suggest that should you, in your great mercy, commute the sentence of the condemned to banishment in exchange for a full and free confession, then we may be a good deal better off in the end. Imaneus can validate whatever information they give.”

Idrilain looked to the younger wizard.

“I have always concurred with Nysander’s opinions regarding confession under torture, my Queen,” said Imaneus.

With a humorless smile, Idrilain turned back to the accused, speaking directly to them for the first time. “What will it be, you two? Full confession for the loss of your right hand and exile—or a red-hot pike up your miserable backsides?”

“Confession, great Queen, confession!” croaked Alben. “I don’t know the man’s name and I never asked. He had the look of a noble but I’d never seen him before and he hadn’t a Rhíminee accent. But it was the same one both times, for the letters—forgeries, that is—against Vardarus and Lord Seregil.”

“The truth so far, my Queen,” announced Imaneus.

“What other forgeries did you execute for this man?” demanded the Queen.

“Shipping manifests, mostly,” quavered Alben, staring miserably at the floor. “And—” He faltered to a halt, trembling more violently than ever.

“Out with it, man. What else?” barked Barien.

“Two—two Queen’s Warrants,” whispered Alben, naming the document that allowed the bearer access anywhere in the land, including the Palace itself.

“You admit to forging the signature of the Queen
herself
!” Phoria burst out furiously. “When was this?”

Alben quailed miserably. “Three years ago, it must be now. They weren’t any good, though, when I delivered them.”

“Why not?” Barien’s voice betrayed nothing, but Nysander was surprised to note that the Vicegerent had gone quite pale. Phoria also seemed shaken.

“They hadn’t any seals yet,” whined the wretched man. “I don’t know where he meant to get them. I never kept any copies of the warrants, Your Highness, I swear! Let this wizard be my witness, I knew better than to mess with those!”

“And they never got no Queen’s Seal from me, I swear by the
Four!” Ghemella chimed in. Again, Imaneus indicated that the truth had been spoken.

“When did this occur?” Barien asked again.

“Three years ago last Rhythin, my lord.”

“Are you certain? Surely you’ve done hundreds of forgeries. How is it that you recall this particular one so clearly?”

“It’s partly the warrants, my lord. It’s not every day you get a chance at something like that,” Alben quavered. “But there was the manifest business, too. One of them was for a ship called the
White Hart
, registered out of Cirna. I recall it because I did a favor for my neighbor, putting his lad’s name on the crew list. Only, you see, the ship went down with all hands in the first of the autumn storms less than a month later. The boy was lost.”

“You’re certain of the name? The
White Hart?”
asked Phoria.

“Yes, Highness. I don’t recall the other vessels, but I know that one. I watched the port lists for months, hoping she’d turn up and the boy with her. My neighbor’s never spoken to me since over it. Anyway, this man who came to me? He wanted a few other things over the years, manifests mostly, until last spring. Late one night in Nythin he came saying he had a letter he wanted altered and could I do it? The very letter you have there, Majesty, belonging to Lord Vardarus. For one hundred gold sesters I made him two copies with the changes. Ghemella did the seals, like always.”

“And you made copies for yourself,” interjected Nysander. “In case you might use them yourself for future gain?”

Alben nodded silent admission.

“And did this man provide you with the letters of Lord Seregil?”

Alben hesitated. “Only the first one my lord. The rest came to me from Ghemella just recently and I sold them to that same man.”

“I bought them off chars,” the gem cutter put in hastily.

“What’s she saying?” asked Phoria.

“ ‘Char’ is the street parlance for a dealer in stolen papers,” explained Nysander.

“That’s so, your lordship,” Ghemella said, determined not to leave out any detail. “I got them from an old cripple named Dakus.”

Ah, Seregil, you outfoxed yourself that time!
Nysander thought
resignedly, knowing well enough who this “Dakus” was and where the second damning letter had originated.

“This fellow doing all the buying, he was pleased with the work I did,” Alben continued. “He said he’d pay well for any letters from nobles whose lineage went outside Skala.”

“Lord Vardarus’ great-grandfather was a Plenimaran baron.” Idrilain frowned, tapping the hilt of her sword. “And Seregil—well, that was certainly no secret!”

“And so you made the forgeries for him and once again kept copies for yourself,” Barien said. “What was his purpose in securing these documents?”

“He never said, my lord, and I never asked,” Alben replied with a hint of skewed dignity. “You’ll pardon me for putting it so, but a forger doesn’t last long without discretion.”

“That is all you can tell us, then?” Barien looked to the wizard still standing over the accused pair.

“It’s as much as I know of the matter, my lord,” Alben assured him.

Imaneus nodded again but Nysander forestalled him. “A few salient points remain to be established, the first being when the latest forgery was to be delivered and to whom. The second is whether or not the prisoners know of any Leran connection with this whole affair.”

“Lerans!” Barien grasped angrily at his heavy chain of office. “What have the Lerans to do with this?”

“I don’t know anything about Lerans,” Alben cried out, looking imploringly up at Idrilain. “I’m loyal to the throne no matter what your blood is, great lady! I wouldn’t have anything to do with that sort of thing.”

“Nor I, your ladyship, nor I!” Ghemella sobbed.

“They speak the truth,” said Imaneus.

“Their loyalty is so noted,” Idrilain observed sarcastically. “But what of Nysander’s first question? When are these new forgeries to be delivered, and to whom?”

“Tomorrow night, my Queen,” said Alben. “There were three this time, those you have there done up in the yellow ribbon. There’s a letter of Lord Seregil’s, one from a Lady Bisma, and another from Lord Derian.”

“All with foreign connections,” noted Phoria.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Alben maintained. “The gentleman only said I was to give them to no one but himself, just as
before. He always comes alone at night. That’s the end of it, my Queen, and by the Hand of Dalna, I can’t think of a thing I’ve left out now!”