Priest (Ratcatchers Book 1) (27 page)

As he looked for a likely spot, not watching where he was going, his foot snagged on a root and he pitched face-first into the dirt. He pushed himself up and brushed himself off, turning to look at what had tripped him, and saw it.

He’d come back the same way they’d left, and here was Sir Perren, still sitting against the tree. He could see him clearly now in the daylight.

But now he was dead. Had been dead for what appeared to be weeks. Heden was certain he was still flesh and blood last night. But now his face was a withered, desiccated husk of skin pulled tight over a protruding skull, the only part of him now visible. His body, his arms and legs, were all covered in thick ivy at the base of the tree.

Vines were growing out of his gaping mouth and eyesockets. They were already flowering, drinking in the sun. They were beautiful.

He feared what it meant. It was an omen, and more, a terrible reality. A knight had been killed here and as far as Heden could tell, the murderer surrounded him.

The forest itself.

Heden spoke a prayer, and five men, each red-faced, shouting, holding various improvised weapons, in various stages of drunkenness, fell to the ground. The inn went silent as all eyes turned to Heden, everyone thinking he’d just killed five men.

In concert, the men on the floor all started to snore loudly. The inn relaxed.

Renaldo had frozen in place as his attackers slumped before him, his rapier still pointed where the lead ruffian had been standing. He had one leg on the back of a chair, another on a table with food and drink now scattered over it, and his off-hand reaching up for the candleholder than hung from the ceiling.

“There were only five of them!” he objected.

Heden walked up to him, gingerly stepping over the sleeping idiots, as Renaldo uncurled himself from his fighting pose.

“Playtime’s over,” he said to the Riojan troubadour.

Renaldo looked away, disgusted, and then turned a scowl on Heden. “Good entrance,” he admitted reluctantly. “Terrible sense of timing, though.” He sheathed his rapier and smoothed the ruffles out of his expensive silken tunic, the red vest matching his red hose.

“It’s time for you to get out of here,” Heden said.

Renaldo’s look changed. He stared at Heden.

“If it were anyone but you saying it, friend. Give me time to collect my earnings. There are many in town who owe me for a week’s gambling profits.”

Heden grabbed his tunic and pulled the little man forward. Initially, Renaldo tried to object but once Heden started to whisper in his ear, Renaldo stopped struggling and listened.

“There are five thousand urq less than two days march from here.”

He released Renaldo. Taking time for one perfect, comedic beat, Renaldo replied; “They can keep their money. When do we leave?”

“We?” Heden said. “No.”

“We!” Renaldo said, turning and gathering his lute. “Yes!”

“No, I’m serious,” Heden said. “You can’t go where I have to go.” For one thing, Heden hated flying two on the carpet. He looked around the packed room at the people still seeming to enjoy themselves. “You don’t seem to have had much effect on these people.”

“No?” Renaldo asked. “I doubt there is a man here who was present last time we met. These are farmers and tradesmen from outlying villages, newly arrived. I have spent my time inspiring the citizenry to take matters into their own hands and travel south to safer lands.” He stopped suddenly, looking past Heden, mouthing the words he had just spoken. His hands assumed positions on the fretboard and strings of his lute and he mimed played a few fictitious notes as he mouthed the words again, his head moving back and forth.

“Not bad,” he said, and looked back at Heden. “In any event,” he slung his lute over his shoulder and draped his cape over one hand. He pointed accusingly. “You owe me a tale, and as I surmise you are not yet dead, it is not too late.”

“Listen, Renaldo,” Heden said. “That army…I just stopped here to tell the baron the order isn’t coming. And give you the word so you could get out.”

“How did the baron react to that?” Renaldo asked.

“Don’t ask,” Heden said darkly. “Let’s just say it’s me here telling you to leave and not the baron telling everyone to leave. I’m caught up in this now so unless you
really
hate urmen and want to kill a few before you die, you’ve got to get out of here.”

“You’re staying?” Renaldo asked, suspicious.

“I’m…it’s complex.” Heden didn’t know what he was going to do.

“You and I against five thousand urq?” Renaldo pondered the issue. Heden was getting impatient. “I know many withering insults in urqish.” He appeared to make up his mind. “You don’t happen to know three more dependable men? I would feel more comfortable with five against five thousand. It is more...dramatically it has…” the Riojan waggled his hand. “You understand.”

Heden stared at him.

“I’m leaving,” Heden said, turning to leave. “You’re on your own.”

“Ahp!” Renaldo held up one hand, interrupting Heden. Heden gave him one last chance.

“Now before you turn and stride away purposefully like a man exiting stage left, which you are very good at, I might add. You’re a natural entrance and exit man, audiences love that. Before you go I want to point out that I am a far more subtle and clever man than you. More handsome as well, but that is no matter.’

“What?” Heden asked, confused.

“I would never grab you in front of all these people to whisper some point critical to the plot in your ear. Far too obvious.”

Heden stared at him for a moment, parsing what he just said.

Renaldo’s eyes flickered almost imperceptibly behind Heden and to his left. There was no way anyone else in the room could have seen it even if they were looking for it.

Heden didn’t acknowledge Renaldo’s meaning, but Renaldo smiled widely as he realized Heden had it.

Heden grabbed a passing patron, easy to do in an inn packed with townspeople and refugees, pulled out his hand and plunked a crown in it. “Get to the stables,” he told the bearded farmer, “and get me the fastest horse in town. There’s another crown in it for you if you’re back in half a turn.”

Heden didn’t even pay attention to the man’s response but having turned to stop the man, used the opportunity to look as discreetly as possible in the direction Renaldo indicated.

There was, among the press of people, a small table in the corner at which sat a polder. A small man-like creature about three feet high. He had a mass of curly blonde hair atop his wide face and appeared to be sleeping, his head lying back against the wall, his mouth open, a half-empty bottle of strong liquor in front of him.

Heden would have thought nothing of it, but for the fact it was the only table at the inn with only one patron at it.

Heden turned back to Renaldo.

“Okay,” he said. “Now it’s time for you to go.”

“Very well, if you insist. I heard tell you were a Prelate,” Renaldo said. “Where are you from?”

“Celkirk,” Heden said. He didn’t bother telling Renaldo about the Hammer & Tongs. He’d enjoy finding out on his own more anyway.

“I have not been there. A week’s ride on a fast horse, I hear. Too far, I think. Perhaps I shall continue east.”

Heden extended his hand.

“I hope we meet again,” he said awkwardly.

“Oh we will,” Renaldo said, doffing his elaborate cap and taking the proffered hand. “The gods are terrible at second drafts. And once they cast a man in a role, they never change their minds.”

With a smile and a discreet flourish, the Riojan troubadour was gone.

Heden sat down at the table and for a moment, the polder pretended to wake up, then saw who was sitting across from him and clucked his tongue. All pretense gone.

The little man gestured for a barmaid’s attention and indicated he and Heden would both have a drink. Heden noticed he was ordering another drink without having finished his own.

The polder was short and fat, typical of his race. He had dark green eyes and a small button nose in the middle of a face framed by blonde locks. He looked young, but his skin was weathered. Most polder couldn’t grow beards, but this one had light blonde stubble on his chin and jaw.

“Figure you know who I am,” Heden opened. He didn’t ask the polder’s name and they both knew why.

The polder looked around the room, taking a reading of it. He registered everything and everyone. Heden had seen it before.

“The minstrel,” the polder said. His voice was an odd mix of age and youth. Weary in expression, light in tone.

Heden nodded, confirming the polder’s suspicions.

“Figures,” the little man said.

The barmaid brought their drinks. Heden studied his opponent. There were many reasons why someone might send an assassin to kill him. But this was more like a spy making contact.

“Why don’t…” the polder stopped to reconsider what he was saying. He finished his first drink while he talked. Downed it in one smooth gulp. It didn’t appear to have an effect on him. Heden noticed a degree of unease. Unfamiliarity. Probably not faked. “Why don’t you tell me what you know about the Green Order?” he asked.

The Green Order.

How many people knew Heden was up here working on the order? And of those people, who could possibly care? No one had heard of them in…Heden cut the thought off. Obviously someone
had
heard of them. Kavalen’s death was more complex than Heden guessed. It was a situation he already had only a tenuous grip on, and now for the first time in many years he felt like he might be in over his head.

Heden stared at the little man. ‘Man’ was, he knew, technically incorrect, but people treated polder as smaller humans, even though they were no more humans than the urq.

Heden picked up his glass and took a drink. It was powerful stuff. He coughed once, discreetly, and put the glass down.

“You’re from Celkirk,” Heden made an educated guess.

The polder didn’t say anything. He just sat there, eyes wide and bright, waiting.

“Someone in Celkirk hired an assassin to come look into the order,” Heden said. The reality of what he was saying, the sheer enormity of what was happening around him, was too large to take all at once. He had to break it up into little bits.

The polder screwed up his face.

“I’m not an assassin, man.”

Heden raised an eyebrow.

“You kill people for money?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” the polder said, annoyed. “I mean, sometimes. What’s that got to do with it?”

“If there’s any other definition of assassin, I’ve never heard it.”

The polder shook his head, his ringlets dancing in a manner that belied his serious bearing.

“My contacts were wrong about you,” he said. “Ah well.”

Heden raised his eyebrows. “A spy?” he asked.

The polder twisted his mouth and shook his head. “We’re terrible spies.” He meant members of his species. His people were stereotyped as jovial cooks and often…

“You’re a thief,” Heden realized.

The polder sniffed. “Proud to say it,” he said.

Heden nodded. Thieves and assassins hated each other and this little man obviously felt very strongly about the subject. This meant he was guilded. Unguilded thieves worried about guilded thieves, guilded thieves worried about assassins. There were only three thieves guilds in Celkirk, that narrowed it down.

“But you’re not here,” Heden said, “to steal anything.”

“No,” the polder said, starting on his second drink, “my vest buttons down over many duties.”

“Like killing people,” Heden said.

“Sure,” his opponent said, as though it weren’t an important point.

“But not me,” Heden said.

“You think I could?” the polder asked, cocking his head, smiling.

“No.”

“Pretty sure I could,” the polder said, smiling wider.

“Nope.” Heden explained. “The minstrel saw you. I don’t know what kind of thief you are, but I know you’re the kind who was sniffed out by a man who plucks a lute and begs for a living.”

The polder’s smile fell away. The room, though packed with drinking men and women, suddenly got colder.

Heden tried some more of the uske beet, but couldn’t down more than a sip. He wiped his mouth. “Drinking,” he said, “sloppy. Probably someone back in Celkirk I could tell about this and you’d be out of a job.”

              Heden realized he was putting his life in danger. The knights left him in a foul mood and he wanted to see how far the thief could be pushed.

The polder sat up and leaned forward, angry, scowling.

“You shouldn’t feel constrained by these people, all these innocent people,” the polder said, pointing around him but never taking his eyes off Heden. “Thinking they might get hurt if we went at it. Because I’m here to tell you that if you push me far enough you’ll be dead and I’ll be out of here and the only thing these people will know is that someone got stiffed on the bill.”

Heden was impressed. But he’d noticed something about the polder, and so pushed. He leaned back in his chair and put his right arm over the top of the high back, relaxing. Insulting the polder with his attitude. “You like talking,” he said, smiling, “If you were any good, you’d keep your mouth shut and then maybe I’d be afraid.”

The polder frowned at the insult with quiet confusion and outrage. He situated himself in his chair.

“Do you…” he stopped, looked at Heden anew, and started again. “Listen, I know what happens if one of us kills a priest, especially a Cavalite, but don’t think that’s going to…” he was flustered. Heden was right about him. “I know you’re not a priest, so whatever these ignorant pickfuckers usually give you because they’re too stupid to see that you’re…it’s not working on me. Forget it. You get nothing.”

Heden nodded. He had guessed the polder knew he wasn’t a priest.

“I’m not a priest,” Heden said.

“No,” the polder said. “You
were
a priest.”

“I was a priest,” Heden said.

“That’s what I just said,” the polder replied, looking around as though to see if perhaps no one could hear him.

“What am I now?” Heden asked, as though taking the trick in Tanip.

“What…” the polder started, and then sat back in his chair and gave Heden a respectful appraisal. “I don’t know what you are anymore,” he admitted. “I’ve never heard of anyone being annulled. Well, and being alive afterward.”

“I could tell you didn’t know,” Heden said, and it wasn’t an accusation. It was like talking to a friend.

The polder’s face lost none of its outrage and hostility. He sat forward again and stabbed a finger on the table.

“Well that’s the only reason you’re still alive right now.”

Heden relaxed and smiled a little. “I know.”

“You know,” the polder said.

“Yes. You wouldn’t try anything until you knew.”

“I wouldn’t,” the polder repeated.

“No,” Heden said. “Because you don’t know how to get into the forest,” Heden played his trump card. “That’s why you’re here waiting for me. You knew the forest wouldn’t let anyone in, but you heard about a prelate who maybe did it. You knew they meant me, even though I’m not a prelate anymore. So you wait for me, find out what I am and what I know. Maybe you don’t have to go in and find the order, maybe I’ll tell you something makes your whole trip moot.

“You never for an instant considered making a move on me because if I don’t tell you what I know, then you go home empty handed, which upsets your guildmaster. Let’s say you kill me. You’d still have nothing, Your guildmaster is upset and you’ve got the church and all my friends are coming after you too.” Heden opted not to emphasize that his friends would be by far the most dangerous group to upset. “Better just to go home empty handed and report to your betters.”

The polder opened his mouth to object, let it hang open for a moment, then shut it and pursed his lips, nodding in approval at Heden’s reasoning. He looked around the inn. Then looked back and Heden and nodded.

“You’re good,” he said.

Heden shrugged. “Threatening people probably works most of the time,” he said trying to make the polder feel better.

“It really does,” the little man said smoothly.

“I’m pretty hard to threaten,” Heden said. “Probably about as hard as you,” he smiled. “Plus, I had an advantage.”

“What advantage?” The polder asked suspiciously.

“You’ve got half a bottle of cask strength uske beet in you,” Heden said nodding to the empty glasses.

The polder didn’t say anything.

“You think that means I can’t take you?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Heden held out his right hand, steady as a rock.

The polder just looked at it, Heden saw him clench his fist reflexively, trying to stop the small tremors he thought no one noticed.

After a moment staring at Heden’s hand, the polder said; “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Heden was done embarrassing him. He’d made his point. He pulled his hand back. “I’m an Arrogate,” he said.

The polder took a few deep breaths, not liking how Heden just confronted him.

“Okay,” he nodded, filing the term away. He composed himself. Happy to move on. “I don’t know what that is.”

“You could find out,” it wasn’t information to trade for, no reason to be secret. He explained the basic principle.

The thief accepted his description without question, just a nod.

“How’d you get into the forest?”

“Flying carpet,” Heden said. He chose not to reveal the real method, in case the polder could duplicate it.

The polder whistled, impressed.

“You said you were a Prelate.”

“I was before I was annulled.”

The polder was impressed. “That’s high up,” he said.

“Pretty high,” Heden nodded slowly.

“So how would you, ah…how would you deal with someone like me? Here?” The little man tested him.

“Well,” Heden said, playing along. “That depends on what I thought about you. Let’s say I hadn’t seen you down that drink like water.”

The little man gave him a look, which he ignored.

“You’d be fast,” Heden said. “Faster than me. And you’d be close to their best, if they sent you out here alone. So you have some talent,” he said, referring to the normal man’s ability to tap into magic with proper training. “Probably a mistake for me to get this close to you,” Heden admitted. This seemed to surprise the polder.

“So I’d call on a Dominion.”

“You can do that?” the polder said, impressed and a little alarmed.

“Yep,” Heden said.

“Quick enough?”

“I speak its name, that’s it. It’s not like speaking a prayer. The Dominion
is
the spoken prayer of Cavall.”

“How can you do that if you’re not a priest?” the polder asked.

“The church dismissed me,” Heden said. “Cavall did not.”

The polder nodded. This was something he had not considered.

“I saw a Dominion once,” the polder said. “In Celkirk.”

“Two years ago?” Heden asked.

The polder nodded.

“That was Radallach,” Heden said.

“You’re on first name terms with a Dominion of Cavall?” The polder was a little overwhelmed.

“No, Sir Radallach is the Medial Templar of the White Hart.”

“The Hart?” the polder said. “The Hart can summon Dominions?”

Heden nodded. “They’re sponsored by the king and the church. They’re a holy order as well as martial.”

“And you know this Radallach?”

Heden nodded. “And his master.”

“You have some powerful friends,” he observed.

“Radallach is a piece of shit and someone should have put him down years ago.”

“Okay,” the polder said. “You have some powerful enemies.”

“I just don’t like knights.”

“Well, me neither,” the polder said. “So there’s that.”

Heden smiled. The polder smiled for the first time. He looked idly at Heden’s drink.

“What about you?” Heden asked.

“What about me?”

“Let’s imagine you knew I’d been a Prelate and what I could do. How would it go?”

“Oh,” the polder said, and was now relaxed. He seemed to enjoy talking to Heden now, and Heden imagined he didn’t get to do it often. He rubbed his hands together briefly.

“You see, you think you have to be fast because I’m so close to you here.” Heden nodded agreement. “But really, distance is nothing. If I concentrate,” he snapped his small fingers, “I’m across the table, across the room, no problem. There’s not even a flash, just ‘blink’ and I’m there.”