The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (51 page)

The poppy seed cake had been good, matured to perfection so that instead of the invigorating kick of the new seed which was here and gone in a candle length this cake had made him feel numb and warm all over. With any luck the effect would last well into the day and perhaps even carry him through to the evening when he would have to pay for his indulgence with a pounding head and the taste of grunter shit in his mouth. It didn’t matter, with any luck he would be asleep before the backlash hit him and then he would sleep through the worst of it.

As for now he would have liked to have stayed in his bed for another candle length or two, enjoying the bed’s softness and the gentle warmth. However, he’d told the two guards from the lower level to report at the end of their duty and he wouldn’t impress upon them the heinous nature of their crimes if he was still abed when they arrived. Sharman pulled on his boots and jerkin, strapped on his sword and made his way to the guardroom, the place where all soldiers feared to be when officers were on the rampage.

When he stepped into the small outer room the smell of herb tea permeated the air reminding him of his days as Guardcaptain and adding to his good mood. He poured himself a steaming mug of the tea, added a blob of honey and shared the time of day with the new guardroom steward who looked vaguely familiar. As he was trying to place the man a squad leader poked his head around the door and said that an off duty guard was looking for him.

He marched into the guardroom trying to look as stern as he could but was surprised to see just the one guard, the one he’d spoken to the night before. The guard stood to attention and fixed his eyes on the further wall looking pale and nervous. Sharman hadn’t realised how young he was, barely old enough to shave once a seven day and he felt a little sorry for giving the youth a hard time. The missing guard was entirely another matter, not turning up to report would earn him more than just a talking to.

“Where’s your mate then?” he asked, coming to stand in front of the boy.

“Don’t know, sir. ‘E aint come back from where ‘e went.”

Sharman scowled in disbelief. “You mean he is still down there taking a piss?”

“No sir, I mean yes, sir. ‘E’s still down there but ‘e aint taking no piss. ‘E said ‘e ‘erd something.”

“And you didn’t bother going and finding out what was taking him so long?”

“No, sir. You told me to stay at my post and then come and report at the end of my duty, which I am doing.”

For a moment he thought the guard was being cheeky but then decided that the boy was too terrified of him to do that. If the guard was still down there then there was probably something wrong and he had better go and investigate. He poked his head around the guardroom door looking for the steward, but he’d disappeared, so he shouted for the squad leader and when he appeared had a quick word with him. In moments he had half a squad running behind him as he made his way into the palace and down the stone steps to the lower levels. It was probably nothing, in which case the guards would have a laugh at him and word would get out that the old codger had lost his marbles. On the other hand, if the guard had banged his head or something he might just save a life.

Sharman led his little troop down to the very lowest level where two fresh guards stood. Neither had seen or heard anything so he lit a spare torch and led his men down the dark passageway where the missing guard was meant to have gone. The passageway was longer and more twisting than he’d expected and the rough floor dipped downwards and turned sharply at the end.

He turned the corner and stopped dead as the light from the torch picked out the prone body lying face down on the floor. Even in the flickering torchlight he could see the pool of blood which had leaked from the man’s gaping throat. Behind him the young guardsman vomited adding to the stench of urine and rotting flesh. The squad leader came forward with another torch, lighting up the area where the guardsman had died, the stone walls and the wooden door at the far end.

“Do you know this place?”

The squad leader shook his head. “No, there are all sorts of passageways and disused cellars beneath the palace from the time when the old palace stood here before it burnt down. It could be anywhere but by the smell I would say we are somewhere near where they park the night soil cart.”

Sharman nodded absently, something itching at the back of his mind which he couldn’t quite scratch. “See if you can find the weapon that killed him.”

They both stepped around the body searching for a weapon but all that Sharman could find was a bundle of old rags. He kicked them to one side and the smell almost choked him.

“Hey, sir, I think you should see this.”

The squad leader lowered his torch to the floor where a segment of dust had been swept to one side and piled into a neat, straight line. Clearly the door had recently been opened. It was then that everything fitted into place; the two foreigners and the guardroom steward in the seedy inn, the beggar with the bundle under his arm, the smell of piss and rot.

“Oh dear Goddess, the King!” Sharman turned and ran back the way he had come scattering guards and shouting orders to bring reinforcements. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

Malingar stood to attention and for a moment thought that Borman was going to strike him but instead he thrust a crumpled piece of parchment at his chest which he just managed to catch before it dropped to the floor.

“Explain that,” snarled Borman.

Malingar read it carefully trying to keep the shock off his face and at the same time desperately searching for an explanation which would sound reasonable but his head was full of wool and he couldn’t think straight. “It’s a lie, My Lord.”

Borman took a threatening step forward and held up the pendant. “And this? How do you explain this?”

Malingar recognised that. He’d seen the whore he had hired as a lady’s maid place it around Tarraquin’s neck. “They must have found it somewhere. It couldn’t come from the lady, she is dead.”

“No, Malingar, you lie.” Borman took another step forward, his face red with anger and hit Malingar so hard that it made the Guardcaptain stagger backwards.

It was the opening that the two envoys had been waiting for. In an instant they took up position either side of Malingar and whilst he was still stunned the taller of the two took his arm and wrenched it behind his back whilst the other kicked him in the bend of his knees making him drop to the ground. The man pulled Malingar’s head back and placed the knife he’d concealed in his boot against his exposed throat.

Borman stared in disbelief, the colour draining from his face. No one ever drew a knife in his presence, particularly not some foreign scum. If they had the audacity to come into his rooms and put a blade against his Guardcaptain’s throat then what would it take for them to turn the knife on him? He stepped back, away from the threat, and instantly stopped as a hand clamped over his mouth and the tip of a blade cut through his elaborately embroidered jerkin and drew blood. The calloused hand stank of filth and rot and Borman gagged at the stench.

A rough voice hissed in his ear and the hand dropped from his mouth to his throat. “What does it feel like, Your Majesty, to have a knife pressed against your flesh and know that at any moment that knife is going to cut into you and end your life?”

“Rastor?”

“You thought that you would never hear from me again, that I was dead, but you were wrong. I’ve lived for this moment, to see you beg for your life and then to see you bleed out on the floor with him watching. It’s a pity you won’t be here to see what happens to your lackey when he’s found guilty of your murder, stabbed by his knife in front of witnesses. His death will be slow, painful and public, as a warning to others. He will have been set up, of course, but then again, so was I.” Rastor pulled the blade upwards, slicing through the skin and muscle of Borman’s back and making him cry out. “Now beg, Borman. Beg for your life.”

Sharman didn’t bother to stop and explain the situation to the two door guards or to knock on the door and request permission to enter. If he barged in whilst the king was sharing a flagon of wine with his guests then he would look a fool and would probably spend the rest of his life cleaning out the waste pits or emptying the night soil cart. On the other hand if he politely announced his arrival and the king was in danger they would have ample time to slit his throat and he would end up spending the rest of his life in a dark, dank cell below the palace for his failure. In either case he was doomed unless, of course, his hunch was right.

He threw himself at the door, shoulder first before the two door guards had time to react and snapped the delicate lock and hinges so that the door crashed downwards into the room. His momentum and the sudden disappearance of the door’s resistance sent him rolling forward into a ball where he crashed into the back of the man holding the knife to Malingar’s throat. The man stumbled forward dropping his knife and with one swift movement Malingar swept it up and plunged it into the throat of the man who held his arm behind his back. Blood sprayed in an arc as the man gave a gurgling scream and clutched at the blade with both hands before collapsing in a spreading pool of his own blood.

Rastor hesitated for only a moment before plunging the knife into Borman’s back aiming to slice into his lungs and up into his heart but Borman reacted a fraction before him, thrusting his elbow into Rastor’s ribs so that the grip on his throat eased for a moment allowing him to throw himself sideways. The knife cut through his flesh and scraped along his ribs leaving a deep cut but missing its mark. Rastor cursed, turned and ran for the panel which remained open in the wall behind him but he made it only three steps before a hand span of steel burst through his chest slicing his heart in two. He only had time to look down at it in resignation before he died.

Guardsmen flooded into the room trapping the remaining envoy in one corner and holding him there at sword point whilst Sharman picked himself up off the floor, rubbing his bruised shoulder and went to see what could be done for the King. Malingar was already there, a trickle of blood running from his neck and the arm that had been twisted behind his back hanging limply at his side. Borman lay on his side where he’d fallen and Sharman gave a sigh of relief as the King cursed and gritted his teeth against the pain. The relief was short-lived though as Borman opened his eyes and glared at him.

“Next time knock, or I’ll have you shifting middin for the rest of your miserable life.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY

The Last Refuge

Sharman wasn’t used to being a hero and being patted on the back and congratulated by every guardsman in the city. It made him feel uncomfortable and he was certain that some of the older, more cynical guards were actually taking the piss. There wasn’t much he could do about it though, except to nod appreciatively and hope that nobody wanted to hear, yet again, how he’d worked out that the king was in danger. Still, the congratulations were better than the sour looks that he’d received from the innkeepers and the populace of Dartis on the one occasion he’d dropped in for a pot of ale. Every one of them would have given a bag of gold gellstart to have seen Borman skewered.

The one person who should have been really grateful had, so far, done nothing but complain that it was his fault that Rastor had lived to draw a knife on his king. Once the physic had sewn up the long, deep gash in Borman’s back, there had been a very uncomfortable conversation about the Lady Tarraquin’s pendant. Fortunately he and his master had had the chance to get together and agree what they were going to say whilst Malingar’s dislocated arm was put back in place.

Despite their very credible story, Borman was still suspicious and had dispatched a rider to Tarmin to check if the pendant was still locked away and the one the envoy had produced was a fake. It was a pity the man would never make it to his destination and back. Of course Borman would eventually find out the truth, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

Sharman stood to attention when Borman entered the underground room with his six new guards around him carrying so much weaponry that they looked like prickle hogs. He winced as the pain in his side jagged into him and for a moment his vision darkened and he thought he was going to pass out. Charging the receiving room door and rolling around the floor had done him no good. Even the red poppy seed cake he chewed was failing to numb the persistent ache. He blinked his eyes to refocus his vision and hoped that Malingar, who stood at his side, had not noticed his moment of weakness. The last thing he needed was for his master to start worrying about him or being sympathetic.

Borman looked at the two men who had saved his life and wondered just how loyal they really were. They had both put themselves into harm’s way to protect him, but he still had a suspicion that they knew something which they were not telling him. That is why he wanted them with him now, just to remind them what happened to traitors. He nodded to them in acknowledgement of their bows, then led the way through the far door and down the stairs to the lower levels. It was not his usual practice to watch his questioners do their work; it was inevitably a noisy and smelly process, but this was different. It was personal.

Of course his questioner had already softened the prisoner up so the man would be ready to answer the questions which would be put to him and wouldn’t inconvenience him too much. However, it looked like the questioner had sent for him too soon as the damage appeared to be relatively minor; just some bruises on his face, a criss-cross of burns on his chest and two missing fingers. It was nothing compared to the envoy who had been captured in his room and had died without saying a word. His head, minus his eyes and some other facial parts, had been dispatched to Vorgret and his body quartered and thrown to the grunters along with the remains of Rastor and the envoy Malingar had killed.

This one was different from the two envoys though, a local by the look of him who had been recruited by the others to poison the Guardcaptain’s wine and steal his knife. It was unlikely that he knew much but he only needed one name. He walked around the battered body stretched between two posts and nodded at his questioner to continue. The questioner ran a sharp knife down the prisoner’s back in about the same position that Rastor’s knife had cut his own back, slicing through the skin and the flesh and muscle beneath. The man screamed, a high pitched, womanish sound and Borman nodded in satisfaction. At least he hadn’t made such a pathetic noise.