Myrren's Gift (18 page)

Fynch had instinctively understood not to press further. “I am but a lowly gong boy. sir. but I am at your service at any time of the day or night should you need.”

“Gallantly said, thank you” he recalled the General saying and had flushed with pride at the remark. Then the soldier had added curiously. “I see. Fynch, that my hound has taken to you.”

“Yes, sir. We play together each day.”

“Is that right?” the General had commented, clearly surprised, adjusting his snoring friend into a prone position on the grass. “This is passing strange.”

“How so, sir?”

“Because Knave is deliberately contrary to all but a few. I can’t explain it better than saying he is just short of vicious to almost everyone.”

Fynch had nodded then. “That’s true, sir—to all but the people you love.” At this he recalled that Wyl Thirsk had stared at him, obviously taken aback and so he had quickly added, “I think he likes to protect you, sir.”

“Yes,” the General had admitted, “he is an odd animal but he likes you well enough, which pleases me.

for you are a good lad.”

“He hates the Prince, sir,” Fynch had suddenly blurted out. “I sometimes know when the Prince is near simply by the way Knave behaves.”

The General’s eyes had narrowed. “You notice much for a gong boy.”

“Perhaps I should not have said so much. Forgive me.”

He pondered now. as he came to the royal drophole and immediately set to shoveling, how Wyl Thirsk had smiled at this and then nodded. “Good night. Fynch. I’m sure our paths will cross again.”

“Sleep well, sir.” Fynch had said and then watched Wyl hoist a complaining Captain Donal and throw him over his shoulder.

He had continued watching until the General had disappeared after a few quiet words with the gatekeeper and had not been surprised to see a familiar shape reemerge from the darkness. Fynch had stepped back into the shadows as much out of sight of the guards doing their rounds as he could.

“Hello. Knave.” he had said quietly. “Come to say good night?” The dog had nudged his hand and Fynch had knelt then to hug his friend. A soft sound had issued from the dog’s throat. “I know. You want me to look out for him, don’t you. boy,” Fynch had said gravely, stroking the dog’s ears. “Though I don’t know how.”

The dog had nuzzled closer to the small boy and they had remained entwined for a few silent moments.

“You’d better go now, big fellow. I need some sleep too. I’m working on the Prince’s drophole tomorrow. He hates it if it goes beyond a day or two and I promised myself I’d clean further up the channel. Not very nice but it will be fresher for my efforts.” he had mentioned brightly to the dog.

Knave had then growled. Even the mention of Celimus made the dog’s hair bristle.

Fynch came out of his thoughts and sighed to himself. He had made the pact with himself that today he would get on with the muckiest of tasks. Ignoring the eye-watering smell he bent to look up the drophole that led to the privy attached to the Prince’s apartments. It was filthy and desperately in need of a good brushing out.

He put down his shovel and after casting a quick glance around he took off his shirt and trews to reveal his pale, painfully thin body. No point in getting his clothes all putrid; his sister would scold him harshly and at least he could wash the muck off his body in the nearby lake before he went home. He carefully folded his clothes and tucked them away in a small bundle.

At that moment. Knave padded up softly and Fynch brightened.

“Guard my clothes, boy,” he said seriously and was bemused to see the dog settle itself by his garments.

“I’m going up there. Knave.” he explained, pointing up the drophole. “Nasty work, so don’t distract me, all right? I need to get it done quickly and my body washed because the stuff up there stings my skin. But I’m very glad you’re here—it will help.”

Knave barked playfully once. Fynch was quite sure the dog understood.

“I’ll see you in a while.” he said, just stopping himself from waving at his friend.

He picked up his sturdiest brush and, naked, ducked into the opening. Indentations in the vertical tunnel had been cleverly hacked out by the stonemasons of ages gone for this very purpose of climbing to clean.

Fynch flinched as he felt the first cold touch of the slime covering the walls of the drophole. He smiled grimly in spite of it, taking a fierce pleasure that most gong boys only had a short lifespan at this job because they grew too big for it within a year or so. Not him, though. His all but skeletal frame still fitted Stoneheart’s dropholes with room to spare.

Fynch had long ago learned to distract himself from the nauseating odor of his work. He had taught himself how to breathe through his mouth but nothing was more effective than his unique ability to lose himself in his thoughts. He glanced down and saw the outline of Knave’s dark head staring back at him and that made him think of the General again.

Climbing instinctively now with slow care he gave himself over to his “information,” as he liked to call it.

and delved into where he kept his details on the General. There was no way that General Thirsk should have lost that contest to the Prince. Even a dolt could see that Thirsk had the heir well and truly beaten and still he had yielded. And then that business with the fortune teller later in the evening. That was most odd. Fynch was sure she was only a fairground fake and yet something had happened in that tent to rattle the General.

He was not that far from the top now and he slowed down to consider the connection he had suddenly made between the General’s strange behavior last night and that equally odd moment when Wyl Thirsk had collapsed at the witch-burning and how his eyes had changed color. Fynch had to admit it.

Curiosities definitely surrounded Wyl Thirsk. not the least of which was his mysterious dog. He had gleaned from overhearing some of the soldiers talking that Knave was a special gift from the woman who had died at the stake, in exchange for his small kindness to her. As Fynch brushed away the slime he laid out tidily in his mind all of the information he had gleaned, including his disturbing experience when he first touched Knave.

His agile mind picked its way across all that he knew and finally, disturbingly, it crossed Fynch’s consciousness that perhaps the General was somehow touched by an enchantment. The woman who burned was called a witch, after all. Fynch did believe in sorcery, though he could never admit to such a thing to others. The idea of enchantment was whimsical, he granted, but it nagged. He continued his slow climb upward and as he toiled he came to the conclusion that Knave was somehow part of it. When all was said, Knave was the witch’s dog.

An enchanted General. A fanciful notion, he chided himself but one he could not let go of as he looked up to see dim light coming from the small windows hewn out of the stone walls of the privy above. Soon he would be able to slip his fingers over the lip of the drophole and start his more vigorous cleaning, steadily moving downward and back to Knave, whom he could sense was still watching him. Just as Fynch was about to heave himself to the opening, he heard an unmistakable low rumble coming from below. It was the dog. Knave made many sounds and, as strange as it seemed even to him, Fynch believed he could understand many of them. It was as though the dog were speaking to him. And this sound was unmistakably the growl that Knave reserved for Prince Celimus.

He was warning Fynch that the heir was near.

Fynch ducked to cower in the darkness. Surely the Prince did not need to use the privy now! Worse, he was afraid of Celimus and wholeheartedly shared Knave’s feelings toward the man. Carefully, Fynch began lowering himself as he too could now hear footsteps. His first thought was to let go and jump.

Whatever breaks or bruises occurred, so be it. He could not bear the thought of being caught like a peeping torn by the Prince—Shar alone knew what the man might do to him.

The growl intensified and then Knave fell silent and in that moment Fynch froze. He heard it too. Speech as well as footsteps—and it was not just one voice. Fynch recognized Celimus but he was talking to another man and they were in the privy.
Why
?

He carefully and silently lowered himself to where he thought he was in sufficient shadow to be hidden and then he listened intently. It was uncanny how clearly he could hear them.

It was the other man who was speaking. “—Yes. but why here?”

“Because it is the only place where I feel we can speak plainly without risk of being overheard.” Celimus warned. “The walls are made of thick stone, my friend, but most of them have ears.”

“All right,” said the other. “Your privy it is then. Why am I summoned, my lord?”

“Because my sources tell me you are the best.”

“I am competent in many things, your highness. I wonder to what you are referring?”

“Don’t be glib with me. Koreldy. You are a mercenary, am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“And an assassin for the right price?”

There was a pause and Fynch felt himself holding his breath for fear of them hearing even his heartbeat.

Finally the other man replied. “It depends on who and how much.”

“Several hundred crowns,” said the Prince without hesitation.

Fynch’s eyes widened in surprise. Even to the wealthiest noble, this was a fortune.

“You must want this person dead very badly, your highness,” said the assassin, politeness in his words although it was clear he was not daunted by the Prince.

“I make no jest. Will you do it?” Celimus sounded impatient and seemed not to have noticed the man’s direct manner.

“When?”

“Soon. I must arrange a few things to ensure your job is easier—see what a considerate employer I am?” said Celimus.

“And payment?”

“Half this very minute, if you agree. The gold is in my chamber.” Fynch heard the other man whistle low and softly.

“Who?” he finally asked.

“General Wyl Thirsk.”

Fynch felt the shock shudder through his tiny frame. He almost lost his grip on the slimy wall.

“Ah, I knew it could not be that easy to earn so much.” the man said, resignation settling into his voice.

Fynch could hear Celimus move around the confined space. He was agitated. “He is but one man and unsuspecting. Surely you can handle it?”

“Yes, of course I can handle it. your highness.” the assassin replied smoothly. “The trick is in feeling comfortable about doing it to a man I respect.”

“How about five hundred crowns—will that help ease your guilt?” asked the Prince, just a hint of sarcasm edged in his voice.

Again there was silence as the man considered.

Celimus filled the quiet. “You are falling for history, my friend. Wyl Thirsk is no more of a hero than you.

You’re from Grenadyn,” he pressed, “how can you care?”

The man replied so softly that Fynch’s excellent hearing had to strain to catch it. “My family is originally from Morgravia, sire. Before our families moved away from these parts, my grandfather fought with his. I hear old Henk Thirsk was a fearsome warrior and a fine commander—apparently this one takes after him.”

“You seem to take a strong interest in history,” Celimus said.

“I remain Morgravian at heart even though I was born across the oceans,” the man said coolly.

“Well, you hear tales. I’m afraid. This one is a coward who throws up his dinner at the sound of a bone breaking.” Celimus said.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Which is why I want him dead. He is useless to me and threatens the safety and security of Morgravia. As a mercenary I assume you have no allegiances?” Fynch presumed the man must have shaken his head because Celimus continued.

“Good, then you should feel nothing at his death and I am paying you a vast sum of money to suffer no regret. We follow a rather quaint and. if I might add. senseless tradition of promoting the Thirsk males to Generals without so much as a thought to whether they are any good at it. This one, it appears, does not bear comparison to his predecessor you speak of.”

“Can you not demote him. your highness?”

“Only when I am King.”

“I gather that may occur soon, my lord.”

“Not soon enough,” Celimus spat.

“I see,” the man replied, and again Fynch was amazed at how direct he was with the Prince. “Why not have him killed by one of your own. then? It seems extravagant to spend so much on a foreign assassin if the man is so incompetent. Surely one of your own soldiers would do your bidding for one tenth of what you would pay me?”

Fynch waited, willing his numb fingers to hang on. The mercenary was no idiot and the boy marveled at the man’s composure in front of the Prince, who intimidated most.

“It would not look good. I’m sure you understand.” Celimus answered, disguising his discomfort with a harsh chuckle. “I do not want Wyl Thirsk’s blood on any Morgravian’s hand. The Thirsk family is revered and closely connected with my own.”

Fynch imagined the canny mercenary’s eyes narrowing at this. The Prince’s reasoning sounded thin.

“What is your plan?”

“I will brief you shortly. In the meantime I have hired some foreign soldiers to accompany you.”

“Can they be trusted?”

“No. But they will do my bidding or they will not get paid. And they will be paid handsomely for following my direction. Greed alone binds them to us. They will have their own orders that do not involve you. Your task is simple: dispatch Thirsk.”

“Where must it happen?”

“Not on Morgravian soil.”

“Half now?” the man finally said.

“And the other half when I have proof that he is a corpse.” the Prince replied, the familiar slyness back in his voice.

“Agreed.”

“Good. Come, now, let us drink to our pact.”

Their voices began to recede and Fynch felt relief flood as he risked moving his body and flexing one of his hands. He heard the soft growl again and froze: the Prince had returned.

“Pour me one.” Celimus called. “I’ll be right out.” he added and proceeded to rid his bladder of its contents.

Fynch closed his eyes and quickly looked down just before the hot liquid hit his bent head, stinging his face. In his humiliation mixed with despair at this newly learned information, he barely heard the soulful ringing of the cathedral bells, the particular rhythm of which signified the death of a sovereign.