Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (59 page)

‘Shh,’ Sairead pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Let’s not concern ourselves with the problems just yet? Please, let’s just rejoice together.’

‘Very well. Then let’s be comfortable.’ He turned to pull her back on the bed—

The door crashed open and the cottage was filled with men Micah vaguely recognised. Instantly he reached for the sword he always left beneath the bed, but a single gesture from the lead man made him stop.

These were Malachi, and a sword would do him no good.

Sairead took a step until she was in front of him, her shoulders back, chin raised, ready for defiance. He had never loved her so much.

‘What are you doing, Uncle? Did you follow me here?’

The man she addressed looked around the room, three of his men ready behind him. The others, Serin only knew how many, had gone back outside. Micah could hear them moving around, probably looking for tracks.

‘You’re my niece; I don’t need to follow you.’ The man turned back to her, looked Micah up and down once, then turned away, moving to stand before the fireplace where the flames abruptly flared brighter. ‘This is really very cosy, isn’t it?’

‘Uncle Gilbert, please let me explain—’

‘Trust me, Sairead, there’s nothing you could say that would make any difference. After what I’ve witnessed tonight …’

Micah held his breath, tightening his grip on Sairead’s hand. ‘What do you want?’

Gilbert turned slowly and faced them. Once more his attention sat firmly on his niece, his expression appraising. Then he met Micah’s gaze. ‘I want no more than what you want.’

‘Am I to trust that? After what’s happened here?’

He got a smile for that, a wry, displeased smile. ‘I gave you my word, Micah. Now is not the time to doubt me.’

‘If you were in the area, why didn’t you stop them?’

‘I had only four men with me, and I can’t afford to make an enemy out of either Nash or DeMassey. You know that.’

‘I knew this was a bad idea.’

‘But it’s too late to back out now.’

‘Micah?’ Sairead was frowning at him. ‘You two know each other?’

‘Yes, my dear, we do.’ Before Micah could stop him, Gilbert added, ‘Micah and I have become allies. Didn’t he tell you?’

Her gaze didn’t move from his face, her eyes pale and deep and full of half-imagined wrath. He would pay for this secret, as he’d paid for all the others – but he hoped that this time, the price would not be another life.

‘Micah?’ Her pale whisper sliced into the room. ‘Please tell me this isn’t true.’

He took her hand, pressed the back of it to his lips. ‘Very well. Just remember that I love you.’

‘I didn’t know! I promise you, I didn’t know anything about this until a week ago and it’s taken me all this time to get the answers you needed. Do you really think I would lie to you after all these years?’

The hand around Osbert’s throat tightened fractionally, cutting off the air supply. His face felt overlarge and swollen, his eyes ready to pop out of his head – and then just as suddenly, Nash released him and stepped back, his expression as dark as Osbert had ever seen it.

Free, Osbert brought his own hands to his throat in tardy protection and kept his silence as Nash turned away, pacing back down Osbert’s study like a predator prowling for prey.

And just as it had been with Robert, Osbert could almost feel the power in the room with them, felt again the physical evidence that this man was a sorcerer, and more evil than he’d ever imagined.

Had he felt that same thing with Robert? He could hardly remember now. It had all become tangled up in a week and a half where he’d worked harder than ever before in his life, had struggled to give Godfrey some kind of weak explanation for his hours of incarceration, and then pushed himself to practise, rehearse and repeat the denials, go over any and all questions Nash might ask him, to memorise and engrave into his own mind the lies he would need in order to guarantee his survival, and indeed, that of the Guildehall.

He had waited until Nash came to him, waited until the information was forced from him with reluctance. Nash would believe nothing else.

He stood now, at the end of Osbert’s table, hand on the polished timber, gaze fixed on the garnet ring he always wore, the stone of which seemed almost to glow in the wan afternoon light. He no longer bothered to wear the robes of a Guildesman,
nor even the gold badge of a Governor. Instead, his clothes were as rich as any King’s, the dark green fabric and black velvet trim displaying workmanship as fine as any Bishop’s. The cloak sitting about his shoulders was lined with silky black fur, a diamond and gold brooch holding it at his throat.

But it was the face which gave so much away: those unremarkable features that had fooled Osbert and so many others into believing that Nash was what he seemed to be: innocent, unambitious, self-effacing, willing to serve for the honour of it. Osbert could take no comfort in knowing that he’d not been the only one caught in this trap. Now he watched those black eyes narrow, watched a hand run through short black hair – and he noted that the scars of his fight with Robert had disappeared completely.

Osbert almost flinched when Nash looked up at him again, the edge of a vicious smile playing about his mouth. ‘And you looked?’

‘Everywhere. I had men go through every book in the library in case they’d been hidden there under different covers. I’ve had all the mortars checked, the roof spaces searched, every room, every dormitory. I even had men probing the courtyard garden in case a chest of something had been buried there.’ Osbert said no more. Too much elaboration would ruin the lie. Not that there was too much of a lie involved. After all, he
had
ordered a thorough search. He’d just already known before-hand that nothing would turn up.

A thread of fury was barely contained in his tight voice as Nash said, ‘Then how do you explain the rumours?’

Osbert spread his hands. ‘I cannot. Perhaps it’s just the old fear of sorcery coming in after all those Hermit visions. I can tell you that they have nothing to do with the Guilde, or any books here. Or perhaps …’

Nash grunted, ‘Perhaps?’

‘Has it occurred to you that perhaps the rumours were begun by your enemy, Robert Douglas?’

At the look of surprise in Nash’s eyes, Osbert almost wept with delight.

There was a moment of total silence, where even the noises of the city faded completely. For a time he stared at Osbert, dark eyes glinting with some neatly hidden anger. Then he nodded once, turned and stalked out.

Osbert almost wept with relief.

*

By the time they got DeMassey onto the bed, the bandages were ready to come off. Releasing his held breath, he eased himself back, rested his head against the wall and hoped the dizziness would wear off quickly. He heard one of his men shut the door on the tavern noises, another rummage in a saddlebag for more medicines and dressings.

He would be safe in here, they’d told him. The Two Feathers stood under the protection of the Malachi contingency at court, and all of them would swear allegiance to the Master of the D’Azzir long before they would to Nash or Kenrick.

So he was safe for the moment. But he was also in pain. He bore the usual minor cuts and burns, not unlike the men who had brought him here, but he also suffered a deep cut in his chest, which made breathing difficult, and which gave him a raging fever most nights. They’d begged him to wait, to rest a little before he returned to Marsay. Others, more quietly, had begged him to avoid Marsay altogether and head directly back to Karakham.

He could do neither, for he had sworn allegiance to Valena on the day he had given her his heart. He could no more abandon her than he could his own soul.

He hissed when they removed the old bandages and closed his eyes when fresh salves were applied. Then he watched them, these men, his trained D’Azzir – those who had survived to bring him back. They brought him a Healer who looked over his wounds, gave his advice and left a tonic and a poultice, but the glint in his eye said more than words.

The door opened again and Rayve, his youngest warrior, brought a tray of food in for him as the rest of his men quietly moved out. They would wait downstairs and do their best to protect him from whatever trouble might come in his direction.

As Rayve set his tray down, DeMassey shifted in his bed, finding a hand ready for him, eager to help.

He’d brought his people into this nightmare alliance with Nash – and yet they still showed him such blind loyalty it made his throat hurt.

Rayve held a cup for him to drink ale, broke off some bread and placed the bowl on his lap so he could soak it in juices from a wine-flavoured stew. He ate what he could, but swallowing was difficult and his stomach rebelled at every turn.

‘That’s all I can manage,’ he said after a while, waiting until Rayve took the bowl away before sipping the ale once more.

He had choices. He could go to Nash now, giving up all hope in the process – but that would mean breaking every promise he’d ever made. He could run, get Valena away and hope that Nash might never find them – but that might mean he would lead Nash straight to her. Or he could try braving it out, and hope that Nash would not kill him for his failure.

Nash had never liked him, had always resented having to ask for help in the first place so many years ago. And there had always been the issue of Valena, something that had stood between them for more than twenty years.

Rayve moved to leave and DeMassey stopped him, making a decision in the space between one heartbeat and another. ‘I want you to do something for me.’

‘Of course, Master.’

‘Sit.’

The boy returned to his stool and watched DeMassey with cool brown eyes. He’d done well on this mission, followed orders, hadn’t panicked, had done his best to fight and protect his brother D’Azzir. He was the right man to trust with this task – the task upon which might rest the fate of both the Malachi nation and this entire country.

‘I don’t know how long I can hide out here,’ DeMassey began carefully. ‘If I’m lucky, I might get two days’ rest before word will reach Nash of the fire at Maitland. After that, if I don’t go to him, he will hunt me down.’

‘We will protect you, Master. This failure was not yours.’

DeMassey couldn’t help smiling a little at his passion. ‘Nash
will not see it like that. However, no matter what happens in the coming days, I want you to make me the most solemn oath, that you will carry out my instructions as though your very life depended on it. You must share this with nobody.’

Rayve’s eyes widened at this. He sat up straighter, squared his shoulders and asked, ‘What do you wish me to do?’

‘If I’m dead, I want you to find Archdeacon Godfrey.’

‘The priest?’ Rayve asked faintly, as though DeMassey had just requested the moon in a handbasket.

‘Yes, the priest. Find him and ask him to say prayers for my soul.’

‘Prayers, Master?’ The boy was schooled enough to show no more than a little surprise at this request. DeMassey offered no more information. Even trusting Godfrey was hard enough as it was. But he had to. This was not something he could force any of his own people to do, no matter how loyal they were.

And much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t be
absolutely
sure that all of his men were loyal. It would take only one traitor for him to lose more than just his life.

‘Do I have your promise?’

Rayve nodded slowly. ‘Of course, Master.’

‘Thank you.’ DeMassey rested back then, closing his eyes. He barely heard the door close behind the boy.

He would decide in the morning. He would not give in, but if he was rested enough, he would consider the possibility of running.

*

One peal of the bell followed another, long and deep, in time with Godfrey’s heartbeat. He could feel it deep in his chest, rattling through his entire body, infecting him with the same air as the hum of prayers echoing about the bedroom.

It was almost crowded in here now. Though the doctors had been officially dismissed, they remained in the background, perhaps wishing to be present at the passing of a Bishop, a historic occasion at the best of times.

But this had never been the best of times. This moment would, he knew, remain for him as the worst of times.

The Archdeacons, Deacons and Abbots had come from
across the country, warned of what was to happen. The most senior knelt at the foot of the great bed, hands clasped together, chanting prayers. Beyond the open doors stood the others, holding candles in vigil.

Godfrey had long before found himself alone beside the bed, only Francis attending him from one hour to the next as they all waited, his solitude testament to their agreement that he would take up the mantle as Brome had demanded.

Like a terrified child, he watched each rise of that chest, each fall, hoping for the next rise, but knowing each one could be the last.

And then it was the last. Brome was dead.

The cloying scent of incense hung heavily in the room. Godfrey watched as one doctor came forward, placed a hand against Brome’s throat, left it there for another long time. Then he stood back.

Godfrey bowed his head and tried to ignore the change in the prayers. He closed his eyes, but felt the movements around him as one priest after another came close to the bed, blessed Brome with the sign of the trium before filing out into the antechamber. Even so, he knew precisely the moment when he was alone.

He got to his feet, feeling his knees complain and wishing for the humour to argue with them. Without a qualm, he turned to Brome’s still body, his memory extracting for him the promise he’d made to this man. His hand reached out, traced a final trium, saying farewell. Then he turned and faced the open doors and the solemn priests who awaited him.

Though no words had been said to him, he knew they would have made preparations for this moment. He knew how important this was, how urgent that he step into those shoes with the utmost expediency. And, strangely, now that Brome was dead, though he’d prayed this day would never come, he wanted this done as quickly as possible.