Myrren's Gift (35 page)

“You know I want it,” Wyl admitted.

“It is yours. The price is exorbitant, of course.”

“Naturally.” Wyl said, amused. He exchanged the sword for the pair of knives.

Wevyr looked towards a hessian dummy hanging fifteen or so paces ahead of them. “Try them.” he said.

Before he even threw. Wyl knew they would land true. Romen’s skill with throwing blades was already obvious to him but the knives themselves were as perfect as their larger counterpart and they moved sweetly through the air. one landing in the dummy’s face, the other in the gut. He had not even taken aim but spun on a heel and thrown from instinct.

“If you lose these, Romen Koreldy, don’t ever come to Orkyld again.” With his purse significantly lighter, Wyl felt renewed at the feel of the sword by his thigh. He had purchased a special crossover body belt recommended by Wevyr for the knives. The clever part of this soft, malleable belt was that it was designed to be worn inside the shirt so the knives could be concealed.

He could lift the blades from their holder in the blink of an eye and, although Wyl knew he probably did not need to, he was looking forward to practicing with them in the woods behind Orkyld.

Wyl had changed into his new shirt and was getting used to the feel of the belt next to his skin. He was beginning to feel comfortable yet something nagged at him through the evening, which he spent leisurely in the common room of the Old Yew Inn. He knew the thought was there. His keen soldier’s sense combined with Romen’s naturally suspicious nature tried to make him sit up and take notice of it. The trouble was he was feeling especially relaxed on this night as a half-decent musician sang a lament in one corner and the kitchen served up his favorite dish of steamed fish. The vague notion of danger dissipated instantly when a particularly good-looking woman strode up and slapped him hard around the face.

“Romen Koreldy, you dare to sit at this table!”

Wyl rubbed the stinging mark of her hand and, with his mouth wide open, watched her flounce off, magnificent in her anger.

Other patrons laughed, enjoying the spectacle and his embarrassment.

Another girl sidled up to clear his table. “Arlyn is really cross this time, Romen,” she warned.

“So I can see,” he said, wondering what Romen could have done, although he could probably guess.

“Can I make it up to her?”

“I don’t know—how do you make it up to a woman who was preparing for her wedding?” asked the girl.

It was worse than Wyl had first guessed. “I can explain,” he offered, feeling helpless.

“Not to me, Romen, to her!”

“Where can I find Arlyn later?”

The woman rested his dishes against her hip and said with no little exasperation, “Forgotten already?” He sighed. “Life’s been a bit hard for me lately—I just thought she might have—er—”

“No, nothing’s changed. You’ll still find her working her hands to the bone out the back.” Wyl nodded and thanked her although it did him little good. He needed to sober up and so decided to take some fresh air.
Perhaps I might find a place to buy Arlyn a gift as a peace offering
.

On the rare occasion his parents had had cross words, his father had always made the first move to reconciliation, usually with some beautiful item that he knew would please his wife and hopefully soften her toward his spoken apology. Wyl felt helpless at being held responsible for Romen’s fault—all he could do was try to remedy the slight by making Arlyn a Thirsk-style apology. Also at the back of his mind was the notion that this excuse to meet with Arlyn and make his peace offering might give him an opportunity to learn more about the man whose body he walked in.

Wyl left the inn and strolled into Orkyld’s main street. It was a busy enough town. Apart from its fame as a place to buy weaponry, it seemed to be a busy hub for people moving into the north. Walking without clear direction he began to consider how to make amends with Arlyn without finding himself trapped.

“Marriage! Shar’s Wrath!” he murmured. It was the last complication he needed.

They had been careful. Jerico was not a man to take chances and following Koreldy had been challenging. The mercenary’s trail had disappeared at Farnswyth and, although Jerico hated to do it he split the men up into four groups. They were handpicked by him; all trusted cutthroats who would slit the jugulars of their own grandmothers if paid enough coin.

At Farnswyth he had briefed them all with care and then sent them off in different directions. He and two other men had traveled north. His only reason for this direction had been the small item of information he had gleaned from a conversation he had overheard between the King, who was then still a Prince, and Koreldy.

When the Prince’s spies had first noted Koreldy arriving in Morgravia, he had been requested to meet with Celimus. It just happened that Jerico was attached to a network of spies that Celimus paid handsomely for information and, although Koreldy had not seen him. he had been present during their first meeting. Celimus had asked the mercenary directly about what he was doing in the realm. Koreldy had been guarded, had tried to laugh it off and hold on to the mystery, but the Prince had persisted and finally the mercenary had admitted he was escaping the clutch of a woman determined to marry him.

Jerico recalled how Celimus had laughed at this.

It could have been a ruse but Koreldy’s sour tone suggested otherwise. And so, with no other ideas to follow, he and his murderous companion had headed to Orkyld, where Koreldy had mentioned the scorned woman lived. Jerico’s intense joy at spotting the mercenary walking into Orkyld with a lame horse held no bounds. He had even let out an inadvertent whoop of surprise before cupping his hands over his mouth. Koreldy had looked his way but the glance had understandably slid over him. They had never met, fortunately. A large part of Jerico’s success in his trade was the fact that he was so ordinary-looking and thus forgettable. Not a single feature of his person would ever win comment. He was neither thin nor fat. tall nor short. His hair was sandy-colored and his face hardly handsome but then it was not especially ugly. His voice was low and unremarkable. But his mind was quick and he had no qualms about killing.

He had given over the day to observing Koreldy. A room at the Old Yew and a hearty meal of pigeon.

Following him to the baths was easy enough and then to purchase garments. Jerico had then expertly shadowed him to the famous blademaker, Wevyr, but although he saw him enter the man’s workrooms, he did not see him leave and after waiting what he considered was long enough, he made his furious way back to the inn. hoping he had not lost his prey.

The killer had been rewarded with the information that the man had recently returned. He had waited, toying with a jug of ale. His companion meanwhile kept a watch outside in case Koreldy decided again to take a back door out of the inn this time. Later Jerico surmised that obviously their quarry was not suspicious, for he had descended the stairs into the common room in the evening wearing a wide grin for the serving girls and a fine new sword. Jerico’s companion had returned to sit beside him.

Jerico had admired the sword from a distance and promised himself the fine weapon as a special prize after killing Koreldy.

“He’d better not have spent too much of his gold on that sword,” his companion had murmured, his back deliberately turned toward Jerico so they were not taken as friends.

Jerico had snickered. “I couldn’t agree more, but remember there’s only the three of us now to split the spoils.”

“Shame we can’t split that sword into three.” the man grumbled.

Jerico smiled to himself; he had decided against mentioning to his companions that the King had offered to double the figure on Jerico’s return to Pearlis. should he be successful in ridding Celimus of Koreldy.

“I’ll tell you what, you can take a bigger share of the gold he’s carrying, as I have need of that sword.” The man had nodded. Jerico had returned to his ale and his observation of the mercenary. He spent the time considering whether to cut off Koreldy’s ring finger while he was still alive so they could enjoy the screams or whether to do it after he was dispatched and silent. Jerico favored live torture and thus had begun to hatch his plan for capture when a voluptuous woman had appeared from the back of the inn and belted Koreldy hard enough that everyone heard the slap. He had noticed the angry words she muttered before her departure and then the low conversation between Koreldy and the other serving woman.

Jerico had downed his cup of ale as Koreldy stood and righted his sword, and then he followed his prey out of the inn, giving a low whistle to the other of his companions.

They watched Koreldy now as he strolled off but were in no hurry. Jerico, ever cautious, heeded the fact that he had been present at the funeral feast for Wyl Thirsk. Just in case Koreldy had seen him, he suggested to his companion to go ahead of their victim while he brought up the rear.

“Any plan?” one of them asked.

“Play it by ear. although your talents might come in handy as a distraction. We’re looking to catch him unawares in one of the side streets or better still an alley. And listen!” he warned. “It won’t be done here.

The woods will give us the cover—and privacy we need,” he added.

His partner smiled grimly and set off, digging into his pockets for the distraction his companion had referred to.

Wyl was lost in his thoughts. He looked up and saw a man juggling wooden balls—at least seven of them—and the juggling was skilled enough to stop Wyl in his tracks to admire the performance.

He watched for a while and laughed when the man performed a small jig while still not disturbing the rhythm of the balls. It occurred to him that this fellow might know where the sideshow alley performers might be in the realm.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where the fairground traders are right now?” Wyl asked. As he continued to juggle, the man screwed up his face in thought. Wyl pressed. “It’s just that I met someone at the Morgravian royal tournament and have a message for her.”

“Can’t say I do. sir. I’m just a wandering performer. I follow my own path.”

“Well, thanks anyway.” Wyl said, tossing him a coin. He made to move on and then turned back. “Oh; by the way. where can I buy a nice trinket for a very angry lady at this time of night?” The juggler expertly gathered in the wooden balls and a few passersby clapped as they walked on. He grinned at Wyl’s dilemma. “I believe I might know just the place, sir. If you’re prepared to pay a very small fee. I can take you there.”

“Oh? What sort of place?”

“Would a silversmith suit, sir? My cousin crafts very pretty jewelry at his shop just down the back here.

He’ll give you a good price too—I’ll see to it.”

Wyl was tired. He felt uneasy about Arlyn but was it really that important to settle Romen’s old scores?

He decided it was. now that he was to all intents and purposes Romen Koreldy. Tongues wagged and if he was going to wear this body, this face, for the rest of his life, then he certainly did not want women around the kingdom hating him. He sighed.

“Yes, why not? Is it far?”

“Not at all.” the juggler said with no little glee. “Just a minute or two. My, that’s a fine sword, sir, that you carry…”

Jerico smirked as he overheard the juggler making trivial conversation, leading their prey like an innocent animal to slaughter.

The world went dark for Wyl soon after.

Wyl came back to consciousness abruptly but he was badly disoriented. It took him several moments to realize he was hanging upside down from a length of rope tied to a tree and that he had been beaten very effectively. He hurt everywhere. The mournful hoot from an owl told him few sensible people would be abroad in these woods at night. The burning sensation on his face led him to believe his captors had emptied their bladders in an attempt to revive him.

Obviously it had worked. He shook his head, noted that at least his arms were free, and tried to get a bearing on his surrounds. Not far away lay his scabbard and the blue sword.
Damn them! They’re not
getting that
! He felt at his chest and realized with a tingle of relief that they had not yet discovered the concealed knives. He marveled again at Wevyr’s work—the knives were so slim and flat that he was not surprised his captors had not noticed them. He surreptitiously undid a button of his shirt so he could reach them.

The men turned.

“Time for some fun.” the juggler said.

Jerico walked closer.

“I presume you already have my purse and I see you’ve claimed my sword.” Wyl said in Romen’s calm manner. “Is my life that important to you?”

“Not to us,” Jerico replied.

Wyl felt a chill settle about him. So this was not about theft then. “To whom?” Jerico grinned. “Far higher-ranked individuals. We’re just the means to the end.”

“Well then, whatever he is paying you I will triple.” Wyl offered.

“No, Koreldy,” Jerico said firmly. “I have made a point of doing business with care. I never double-cross a client I have made a bargain with. This policy has kept me alive.”

“But not necessarily rich,” Wyl answered, playing for time as his mind raced. Romen’s instincts told him he had to get the three men a bit closer to him and to each other before he could risk a strike. But then even what was left of Romen reminded him that at best he could only cut himself down and take one of them out. At worst he could possibly injure or even kill one but remain hanging like a pig on a rope waiting for its throat to be slit.

The juggler laughed and walked forward. “How would you know, mercenary, what we are worth?”

“I don’t,” Wyl admitted.

“Well now,” Jerico said, taking a dagger from his own belt. “There is this ugly business of having to cut off one of your fingers.”

“Why?”

“The man who is paying for your death requires it.”

“Well, I suppose it keeps you lowlifes honest.”

Jerico stepped forward. “From one assassin to another, I take offense at the word ‘lowlife.’” The men were in range. He would go for the leader. No more time to think—at least he would die taking one of them with him.