Myrren's Gift (40 page)

“Can this spy also kill?”

“Better than any man alive, sire.”

“Have it done! Pay whatever he asks.” Celimus commanded, before stalking away.

Jessom smiled to himself. It was perfect that the King assumed the spy was a man.

Well, she would enjoy hearing of this.

Chapter 24

Elspyth regained her wits first.

She awoke to find herself on a horse and tied securely to the man who rode it. It was a clear night and so chill that she knew immediately she was nowhere near home. Only in the Mountains would it be this cool.

She had not seen the men who hit her. had no idea what she was doing here, but somehow she did know it had nothing to do with her. This was all about the stranger from the south. Romen Koreldy was the reason she was freezing on the back of a horse, tied to a man and heading higher and deeper into the forbidding Razors. Elspyth had sensed Koreldy would bring trouble. Her thoughts fled to her aunt. It came back to her now. She remembered that the old woman had fallen into one of her trancelike stupors.

She would sleep deeply, probably all night and possibly most of the next day. She would rouse and feel so weak she might not be able to support herself. She would be thirsty rather than hungry, exhausted and unable to move easily. Elspyth felt her grief snap to anger.

How dare they! How dare they come onto her land and strike her out cold and then cart her off like some animal. She tried to piece it all together. Why had they stepped outside? Ah, that’s right. The stranger felt lightheaded. She had thought he might collapse and did not feel like moving his dead weight around her cottage. She had suggested going outside more as an excuse to get him out and off the property. If he fell over inside she would have had to care for him and she did not want to be involved with Koreldy.

Elspyth had been so starved for male companionship she often wondered if she would ever have the joy of living and lying with a man. Marriage was not so important to her. But family was. She was alone except for her aunt. When the old woman died, that was it. Just her and the cottage. But to share it with a family—that would be her idea of an idyllic life.

Her smoothing friend had breathlessly described her client to Elspyth. But no. not Koreldy, even though his eyes had looked over her with appreciation; she would not risk her heart being broken by a flirtatious man such as him. She tried to look around surreptitiously for where he might be. Ah, over there on the spare horse. He was trussed to its back. She wondered if he too had regained consciousness—possibly not with the blow he’d taken.

“If you’re awake, you can stop leaning on me,” the man in front of her growled.

She immediately sat back. “Who are you?”

“The name’s Lothryn.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“Nor should it,” he said. Then he spoke briefly to his horse, encouraging it to take the higher of two paths they were approaching.

“Why am I here with you?” she demanded.

“Why not?”

“I mean why have you brought me here against my wishes? We have no argument.”

“Unless you keep bleating on.”

“Answer me!” she said, furious.

“I didn’t think we needed to leave behind a witness.”

“You left behind my aunt!”

“I didn’t think she’d care for the ride into the Mountains.”

“Well, neither do I.”

He laughed and said nothing more. She saw that he had two other companions.

They were strong-looking men, all of them. The odds were stacked against escape. But they wanted Koreldy, not her.

She tried a more placatory approach. “Why not let me go? It’s him you want.” He remained silent.

“I have no goods, no money. I have nothing of any use to you.” At this Lothryn chuckled deeply. “Myrt over there may well argue that,” he replied.

It was Elspyth’s turn to become silent. She had not considered such a turn of events. How stupid was she? Three lonely men. Mountain Dwellers too. Why not? Who would even care? Suddenly Romen Koreldy was the only friend she had.

Lothryn seemed to read her thoughts. “Don’t worry. No one will lay a finger on you. Not yet anyway.”

“Until what?” she dared ask.

“Until—and only if Cailech sanctions it.”

Elspyth became still. Cailech! King of the Mountain Horde. There were so many stories about him, and she believed he was stuff of legend only. No one in Yentro had ever seen him but then how would they know if they had? Increasingly more members of his race were ignoring the Legionnaires and finding ways into the border towns. She herself had seen them brazenly coming into and out of Yentro. They kept to themselves, caused no bother, and so the people of Yentro began to relax around them. Trust was not the right word but their gold was as good as any in the taverns and other merchant outlets. Their interest, of course, was trade; selling their skins and furs, utensils and jewelry.

For all she knew. Cailech could unobtrusively slip into and out of the border towns without anyone knowing who he was. How right she was in this assumption.

“Forgive me,” she said, a little intrigued despite her perilous situation. “I didn’t believe he was real.” Lothryn snorted. “Trust me.”

Wyl was heartily sick of being knocked unconscious. This time he deliberately kept the fact that he had regained his wits to himself. It was night, very cold, and he was lying on the ground; mercifully he was near a small fire but his hands and legs were bound. He could see Elspyth was sipping something. She was lost in her own thoughts, staring into the flames. Nearby he could hear, but not see, men speaking in low voices. He wondered how many there were.

Realizing he could get no further information from his prone position, he shifted his body around.

Elspyth looked over. “At last.”

“My head hurts horribly,” he admitted, after which he felt the blade at the back of his neck. “I don’t have the strength to do much more than lie here,” Wyl said and the pressure of the sword was removed.

He was hauled into a sitting position, and his mind swam with dizziness.

“Drink this,” Elspyth said, handing him a cup. “This is Lothryn, by the way. ” Wyl blinked the blurriness away and looked across at a large, barrel-chested man who grinned at him.

The man was familiar.

“Sorry about the club. Didn’t think you’d come willingly,” he said.

“You might have tried asking first,” Wyl suggested.

Lothryn nodded. “Aye, I might have.”

“Why did you bring the girl?”

“He didn’t want witnesses, apparently,” Elspyth chimed in.

Wyl thought of the Widow, knew Elspyth would be worried. “Let her go.”

“I can’t now,” Lothryn admitted. “No spare horse, too far to walk, too dangerous—can’t have you dying in the Mountain, can we?”

“Only in the fortress, I suppose,” Wyl countered and won a smile from the big man.

“Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor, Romen,” Lothryn said.

“You know him?” Elspyth exclaimed at her captor. “How nice for you both!” she snapped and was infuriated at the way the big man grinned at her waspish response.

Wyl racked his mind for any detail from Romen’s memory. None came. There was a sense of familiarity about the man but no information bubbled to the surface. There was also a sense of foreboding at the suggestion of the fortress. Wyl could not put his finger on why he felt so suddenly fearful. Romen had given him the distinct impression that he and Cailech had been on reasonably good terms.

Elspyth’s expression was as fiery as the flames that lit it. “Neither of you care about me anyway, so let me go—I’ll worry about my own survival, thank you. The Mountains don’t frighten me.”

“They should.” the man replied. “They kill without remorse.” She was not to be deterred. “You want him!” she said, jutting her chin toward Wyl. “Not me. I have to get home to help my aunt.”

Lothryn shook his head sadly. “Myrt checked on her. She was dying then. Is probably already dead.” The words hit like a slap. “You lie!” she spat.

He said nothing. Just stared at her with dark eyes. She hated that she sensed compassion in them.

Elspyth threw the contents of her cup into the fire and left the warm spot. She would not gratify them with her tears. Myrt followed her like an obedient dog.

“Why am I here?” Wyl said.

Lothryn glanced at him in surprise. “Did you think he’d allow us to sight you again and not bring you in?

You were stupid to return to the north. Romen.”

Wyl felt the twist of fear again. What was it? It had to be Cailech whom this fellow spoke of. “So Cailech ordered my capture?” he confirmed, hating feeling so lost for information.

Lothryn nodded.

“And how far have we come?”

“You’ve been out for the best part of two days. Sorry, we kept you drugged. We reach the Cave tomorrow. Now eat, we saved you a share.”

Two days
. Combined with the couple of days’ traveling to Yentro, Wyl assumed the box containing the severed head had been delivered to Celimus by now. He smiled to himself although there was little satisfaction in it. This diversion into the Mountains could cost Valentyna her realm. He needed to escape—and fast. They untied a hand so he could eat and relieve himself and then, still feeling the effects of the blow, which had left a lump the size of an egg near his ear, he drifted again into a fitful sleep.

The next morning Elspyth hardly uttered more than two words from the time they stirred and broke camp. She was deep among her unhappy thoughts and Wyl decided it was best to leave it that way. He too had plenty to consider, not the least of which was learning from his captors as much as he could about Cailech, the man who had ordered his capture.

The scenery about him was achingly familiar and Wyl found himself holding his breath. He sensed the darkness of Romen’s past was in the process of being brought into the light. The Razors were forcing it back to the surface, as though with each step closer to Cailech’s mountain home, another fragile bond holding that mystery in place was being broken.

Jessom waited patiently. The Old Plough at Sheryngham was a popular tavern with the merchants who plied their goods between Morgravia and Briavel. It was always busy, usually filled with strangers and the ideal spot for him to meet her. He ate, not bothering to stay alert for his guest. She would hardly announce herself anyway. She would just arrive, as was her way. The medley of roasted meats and buttery mashed parsnip was excellent tonight and he ordered a second helping to satisfy a ravenous hunger.

She had been watching the thin, wiry man for a while now, knew he would not bother to look out for her, but still she liked to observe. Knowing people’s habits down to their eating and sleeping preferences was a practice most in her profession would scoff at. But she was thorough in her work, studying her clients as much as her victims.

Jessom’s message had been curt. He preferred to deliver the instructions in person, which suggested to her that he planned to have someone killed rather than simply observed. So be it. As long as he brought gold with him, she had no qualms about her role. She could not help but marvel at the amount of food such a lean man was tucking into. After the second order was delivered and half-eaten she decided it was time to make herself known. Surreptitiously touching the fake hair around her face to check it had adhered securely she sucked on the foul-smelling pipe that hung from her lip and shuffled over to his table to sit down.

He looked up, unperturbed by what faced him. “Can I get you an ale?” She nodded.

“The disguise is impressive. I noticed the old man,” he said, his voice very approving of her talent, “but thought it too obvious to be you. I would enjoy knowing what you really look like.”

“Let’s talk business,” she croaked in a low voice, smiling and revealing blackened teeth.

He blinked, dabbed at his mouth with the square of linen he habitually carried, and pushed his food aside.

The ale was delivered and they raised their mugs to each other.

“To success.” he said.

She put her mug down and licked the froth from her lips, careful not to disturb the carefully applied beard that she had had made and shipped from Rostrovo. “What is the job and who orders it?” Jessom steepled his hands and rested his narrow, clean-shaven chin on them. “Highest possible source.”

“I see. And the money?”

“Left in the usual spot. Three bags this time, which I think might more than cover your fee.” He grinned and it struck her that he looked like a vulture.

She did not return the smile. “Let me be the judge of that,” she said in her affected voice. “Who is it?” Jessom became businesslike. He briefed her. “A noble from Grenadyn who in recent times has adopted mercenary status. Be warned, he is good. His name is Romen Koreldy, a skilled swordsman and canny soldier.”

“And how has he offended?”

“He carries dangerous information in his head, the sort that could damage the Crown. He also killed Morgravia’s commander of the Legion, General Wyl Thirsk.” At this she lifted her eyebrows. “I’d heard he died in dubious circumstances.”

“Koreldy also stole a ward of the Crown. Thirsk’s sister has disappeared with him.” She did not pursue this, considered it irrelevant. “And my instructions?”

“We believe he is likely to come into Briavel to make contact with Queen Valentyna. I want you to watch for his arrival. When the opportunity presents itself you are to kill him.”

“I will need time,” she said, sipping her ale again. “If he is as skilled as you say, a more elaborate disguise is essential. You will require patience.”

“You have it. I have never questioned your methods before.”

“You have never ordered someone’s death on behalf of a third party before.”

“True. Will you do it?”

“Describe him to me.”

Jessom did so. He too was an accomplished observer of people and before he applied to the King for the position he now held he had spent some time watching the comings and goings of Pearlis. most especially what was happening in and around Stoneheart. He had witnessed Romen’s arrival and subsequent departure with Wyl, although none, not even the King, knew this.