The Death of Dulgath (32 page)

“This can’t be the
best
you can find,” Christopher said.

“Trust me on this,” Knox replied.

But Christopher didn’t trust him. He’d learned not to trust anyone, least of all men like Knox.

“Meestah Melborn think da Blade cannot keel? Me show Meestah Fancy Shoes.” Shervin stood up and threw open the curtain that served as a door to his hut. “You look.”

Christopher didn’t want to. He didn’t want to take one step toward, much less enter, that hut with walls woven from branches of bleached driftwood like a bony nest of some giant bird. An easy impression to reach, as several large gulls circled and many actual bones surrounded the shack. The skull of a great horned beast hung from a nearby post along with smaller skulls of squirrels or perhaps rats.

“Here,” Shervin said, entering and waving for Christopher to follow. “Come see.”

Knox shooed him forward, and Christopher felt compelled to follow or be seen as weak or frightened. He was scared—a little. Christopher didn’t think anyone could be at ease in the presence of such a strange fellow as Shervin, who when standing was bigger than expected. Tall and lean, the man had muscles that stood out too much and looked the way Christopher imagined a shaved cat might. Only then did he realize…
the man has no hair.

Shervin wasn’t just bald, but hairless. No beard, no mustache, not a strand on his arms or legs. Not even his armpit showed a single thread of hair. There were, however, tattoos. Shervin had plenty of them. They weren’t depictions of anything recognizable, just designs and symbols wrapping his arms and thighs.

Christopher gave in, and, with a hand on his sword, followed Shervin inside. He’d skewer the shaved cat if he tried anything.

The place didn’t smell, which surprised Christopher; he expected it to reek with the stench of dead things. Instead, the interior was clean. Oddly, it smelled pleasantly of sandalwood. An extinct fire pit in its center was bordered by a neat bed of rocks. The rest of the space was filled with baskets of varying heights and widths, but none of this was what Shervin wanted him to see. The bald, hairless man with the tattoos directed Christopher’s attention to the walls, where a variety of tools hung: an ax, a massive scythe, two primitive spears, and a wooden club with a big knob on the end.

“Dees are what I do me keeling wit.”

“What killing?”

“I hunt and slay da Old Ones.” He pushed out the curtain again, stepped outside, grabbed one of the rat or chipmunk skulls, and held it up. “Dees what’s left after I chopping ’em.” He made a cutting motion across his neck. Then he turned and glared again at Rissa Lyn. “But da Blade only keel da Old Ones—not men, not weemeen.”

“What’s an Old One?” Christopher asked, escaping the hut and feeling better for it.

“Day be da leftovers of da ancient world, driven to da corners and da edges where to hide in shadows from da light of men.”

Christopher gave up trying to gain sense from Shervin and turned to Knox. “What are we talking about here?”

The sheriff shrugged absently. “Ghosts and ghouls.”

Shervin was nodding. “And leshies, goulgans, and manes.” He pointed to the surf. “And selkies. Lots of bulbane selkies. But not weemeen. Da Blade is not a murderer.”

“She’s not a woman.” Rissa Lyn spoke up then. Her voice shook a bit but was loud and forceful.

“What den?”

“Lady Dulgath is a demon.”

Shervin put the little skull back on the post, then puckered up his lips and began to shift them from side to side as he focused on Rissa Lyn. The only thing Christopher could think was that
da Blade
was contemplating how she might taste slow-roasted with a pinch of salt.

Rissa Lyn appeared to be thinking along the same lines as she wrapped her arms around herself, sending worrisome glances at Knox and Christopher.

Still sucking on his lips, Shervin began to nod. “Yes,” he muttered.

“Yes, what?” Rissa Lyn asked, both defiant and concerned.

“Dis man here”—Shervin pointed at Christopher—“Meestah Fancy Shoes is a dry well. Meestah Knock-Knock.” He pointed at the sheriff. “He a bucket ah blood. But you…” He shook his head again. “You are clear water from da mountain stream.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rissa Lyn asked, her face perplexed as she struggled to determine if she should be flattered or insulted.

“Means I will come and see dis demon. If an Old One, I will keel it.”

“How can you tell?” Christopher asked. He looked pointedly at Knox. “He’s not going to try to speak to Lady Dulgath, is he?”

Shervin grinned, showing clean white teeth. “Are you an Old One?”

“What?” Christopher scowled at him.

“Are you an Old One?”

“No.”

“How you know you not?”

“Because I’m not.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Same way—see?”

“See what? No, I don’t see anything.”

“Dis is because you a dry well. Empty buckets cannot see nothing outside demselves.” Shervin went into his stick house and returned with an oversized scythe.

“Won’t need that,” Knox said. “I have a better weapon.”

“Is no better weapon,” Shervin declared.

“Let me show you.”

Together the four tramped back through the village, past the two women and the pipe-smoking man. The women didn’t look up this time, but the pipe man watched with interest. They returned to the wagon, where Knox threw off the tarp and revealed the arbalest. With the bright coastal sun shining off the steel fixtures, the big crossbow appeared to be from another world.

Shervin’s eyes widened at the sight. “A bow!”

“You’ve seen one before?” Knox asked.

Shervin shook his head. “But you are right, dis is a better weapon. Bows are sacred tings.”

“This one is downright divine,” Knox said. “Let’s get a target up and you’ll see.”

Along with the arbalest, they had loaded a stuffed dummy and a pine post on a stand to hang it from. A long length of thin rope was cut to the required distance. Knox asked Christopher to carry the post while he grabbed the dummy and rope—giving one end to Rissa Lyn, who stayed by the wagon. Together they walked one hundred yards.

“You brought us all this way for a lunatic?” Christopher asked as they marched across rock and through tufts of grass, the seaside wind slapping their backs.

“Absolutely,” Knox replied. “He’s perfect.”

“I don’t see how. The man is ignorant
and
insane.”

“Exactly. Who else do you think we can get to murder the countess? Any sensible person would know it’s suicide. Besides, what do you think will happen after she’s dead? If Shervin Gerami tries pointing at us, who will believe a man who says he killed Lady Dulgath because she’s a demon?”

“And a man who calls me Royce Melborn,” Christopher said, nodding. “All right, I can see the logic, but he’s so
odd.
Do you think he can do it?”

“A woodchuck can use one of these. It’s accurate to three hundred yards. He’s shooting less than half that.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Wells dug it out of the castle’s attic.”

“Castle Dulgath has an attic?”

“Just what Wells called it. He knows every inch of that place. Once upon a time, Dulgath was a
real
castle and the walls were lined with arbalests. He picked out the best one for us. Although we’re thin on quarrels, so I hope Shervin doesn’t miss, or you and I will be searching these rocks for hours. It shoots a
long
way.”

They reached the end of the rope and set up the dummy, a servant’s tunic stuffed with fistfuls of straw. They tied a rope under the arms and hung the mannequin from the pine post, then started back.

When they returned to the wagon, Knox took down the arbalest and set it up. The weapon could be held in a man’s arms but was too unwieldy to use that way. Instead, it came equipped with front legs that held the nose up. The rear had a block that supported the butt as well. Using wooden shims, the archer could adjust the vertical angle in advance, aim it, and then let go. So long as the target wasn’t moving—and Lady Dulgath ought to be sitting—all Shervin had to do was squeeze the trigger lever. The arbalest also had a built-in hand crank lying across its top that drew the string back. Given that the bow’s prod was made of steel and had a wingspan of five feet, no one was going to pull it back with bare fingers and a foot in a nose stirrup.

Peering across at the target, Christopher felt a stab of worry. The dummy that was nearly the height of a man looked to be the size of a wineglass.

After a quick demonstration and a few dry launches, during which Shervin didn’t say a word, Knox loaded a quarrel. The things couldn’t be called arrows. They were heavy missiles thicker than a man’s thumb, with massive iron tips. Shervin crouched, then lay flat on his stomach, looking down the length of the stock. He lifted the butt and moved it.

“No!” Knox shouted over the wind. “I’ve already aimed it.”

“Aimed wrong.” Shervin held his hand up, pointing at the sky. “Wind.”

Knox looked angry, then hesitated as he considered the word. “If you miss, you’ll have to go fetch.”

Shervin didn’t miss. The quarrel traveled faster than the eye could see, and it seemed the moment Christopher heard the snap of the string a magnificent burst of straw flew up. A loud crack cut against the blow of the wind. A moment later he couldn’t see anything—not the dummy, not even the post it hung on.

Together with Knox, Christopher ran out to the target. The pine post had been split in half and fallen over. The dummy didn’t exist. They found the tunic a few feet away with a rip through the front and back. Straw was everywhere.

“What do you think?” Knox asked.

Christopher nodded. “Good choice.”

They left Shervin in his village. The man had rituals to perform—he pronounced it
writ-tools
—that would take all night. Knox balked about having to come back for him in the morning, but Christopher sided with da Blade of ant-trickery, which he finally realized was supposed to be
antiquity.
Christopher had his own ritual to perform, and he guessed it would be easier without Shervin Gerami along.

Christopher had dreams of the future but usually restrained himself from indulging too much in anticipation. Such things could jinx his plans. He’d seen it before: Schedule an early trip and the next morning it would rain. Novron didn’t abide prediction. The moment anyone made plans, the world changed, apparently out of spite.

Christopher also believed that it wasn’t wise to spend too much time in his head. Thinking too much was a mistake. Plotting was the antithesis of doing. The man who sits and schemes continues to sit while others achieve. Christopher fancied himself a man of action, but as his defining day approached, he found thinking ahead hard to resist. Such was the case with the village of Rye. He found he hated that pile of twigs on the sand. When he became earl, one of his first orders would be to raze it. Not
the
first order, not even the second. Christopher—who didn’t believe in making plans in advance for Novron to thwart—had at least a small list.

First he’d get rid of Knox and Wells. They were both too intelligent and too ambitious to keep around. Payne he’d have to live with, as an earl had no power over members of the church, and he wouldn’t dare provoke Bishop Parnell. After that would come the rebuilding of Castle Dulgath. The place was nearly a ruin. He’d have to raise taxes. From what he understood, they were nearly nonexistent, and the farmers could well afford to pay more. Once he had his house in order—and in the process of being restored—he would turn his thoughts inland.

Dulgath was the smallest of the Maranon provinces and largely ignored as a result. He intended to change that. Christopher saw no reason for there to be four provinces. Swanwick and Kruger were both vast holdings, while Manzar and Dulgath were insignificant in comparison. If Dulgath swallowed up Manzar, there would be three equal-sized neighbors. Having control over a prison where any detractors could disappear was an added benefit, but the real attraction came from the expectation of tax revenue the salt mine would produce.

He’d need an army to bring Manzar into line. At present, Dulgath lacked even enough full-time guards to properly staff the front gate. He’d change that, too. Every family would be required to contribute one son to his military, along with their increased taxes. With a land as lush as Dulgath, he’d easily subdue the rocky highland of Manzar, which lacked any real towns. Then he wouldn’t be just an earl—two full rungs above his father on the peerage ladder—but an important player in Maranon affairs. He’d have the ear of the king, even if he had to cut it off to get it.

As the wagon rolled and bounced along the twisting coastal road, climbing higher and higher toward the plateau of the Dulgath Plain, Christopher surveyed his new realm and nodded silently.

This will do for a start,
he thought.

When they reached the top of the ridge, Knox rested the horses, and the three got down to stretch their legs. This was the southwestern desolation of Dulgath, nothing but lichen rock, wind-tortured grass, and a grand view. At that height, they could clearly see the Point of Mann, the Isle of Neil, and Manzant Bay.