The Jack of Souls (12 page)

“He shamed His Worship!” Rudy shouted. “Your Worship, see for yourself!”

The carriage halted before it had gone a pace. As Harric refocused his eyes, the lord appeared in the open window. Laughter from his recent triumph still lit his face. “What is this noise?”

“Your Grace,” said Harric, “this man’s a notorious drunk—”

Another head butt sent Harric’s ears ringing. A sticky hand clapped over his mouth.

“Worship, he’s been having you on. You look and see. He gots twenty of them charms under his shirt and they’re as cheap as dog teeth in these parts. When you leave he’ll bring ’em out and the whole porch will have a laugh.”

“That’s how he served my master,” said one of the saffron grooms. “Cheated at cards and stole away a prime slave.”

The lord’s smile faltered. His eyes flicked from Harric to the faces on the porch, and whatever he saw among the revelers made him flush with color. He rapped on the door and the driver descended to open it. The lord stepped across the gap to Harric’s cart, where he stood eye to eye with Harric, smoldering.

The porch fell silent.

“Is this true, bastard?” said the lord.

Rudy squeezed the voice from Harric. “Open his shirt, Your Worship, and you’ll see it’s true.”

The lord tore Harric’s shirt to expose a dozen additional charms on strings against his skin.

As if to confirm Rudy’s claim, a gust of laughter burst from the revelers.

Harric twisted his face from under Rudy’s hand. “These charms are of inferior quality—” he began, but Rudy bear-hugged the breath from him and left him mouthing the air like a fish.

The lord lifted the stones from Harric’s chest and examined the nuggets. His lips flattened in a tight line. “They are identical to the ones I purchased,” he said, very softly. Harric met the lord’s eyes, and in them he saw the game was up. The lord snatched back his purse of silvers.

One of the revelers guffawed. To the man beside him he said, “Pay up! It’s sunset, and he made twenty.”

“No, indeed,” said the other. “The fat man buggered it.”

“See there, Your Worship?” said Rudy. “They all knows it.”

Tears stung Harric’s eyes even as a ludicrous grin overspread his face. Had he triumphed over a death curse only to be hanged as a common jack by the likes of Rudy?

A stinging slap from the lord failed to wipe the grin away.

“You dare shame me, bastard?” The lord drew near, his voice barely a whisper. “As a full blood of your rank I can mark you. Yet you dare?”

“It isn’t you I gamed, Your Grace,” said Harric. “It’s my mother. It’s complicated.”

The ginger-haired lady clapped her hands. “Oh, mark him, brother!
Do
mark him.” She rose with a pot of green slave paint and held it out the window to her brother. “This is turning into such fun. I hope we meet other bastards we can paint. But don’t mark his hair, dear brother. He has such fine hair.”

The lord took the pot and plunged the brush deep in the bright green paint it held. “I thought to mark our new peasants with this, bastard, but since the Blood Purity Laws allow me to mark a bastard…”

Harric struggled in the stableman’s arms. “The Queen abolished the Purity Laws.”

“This is the frontier. There are no laws.”

“The
Queen’s
frontier.”

The lord smirked. He drew so near that Harric could see every pore in the skin of his high, sharp nose, and feel the warmth of citrus-scented breath on his cheek. “The Queen is weak, Bastard. Her reforms weaken. Maybe you haven’t heard up here, but she grows old and has no heir. There is many a strong lord ready to lead us back to the Old Ways when she goes. Indeed, in some parts the Old Ways and Purity Laws already rise again.”

“Your Grace—” Harric began, but Rudy clapped a hand over his mouth. The lord lifted a great glob with the brush, which he slopped in the hair of Harric’s forehead.

The ladies squealed in delight.

“You are marked for judgment,” the lord announced, loud enough for the porch to hear. “You will stay here on public display until the mark dries. And this fine man”—he nodded to Rudy—“shall be my deputy until a gentleman of greater than green blood arrives to carry out justice for the crime of”—the lord swirled the brush in the hair, leaving an algae-colored cowlick where Harric could see it—“the crime of lying to a lady.”

A pulse of shame struck Harric at the thought Caris might be present. A glance found her easily at the rear of the crowd, head and shoulders above the others. On her face he saw a look of hurt and confusion, as if it were her he’d conned. She turned for the inn too late to hide a grimace of pain on her face. The sight stabbed deep into Harric.

Rudy was stammering, “Won’t you give justice yourself, Your Worship?”

“That is for one of higher blood than mine, sirrah. But fear not,” he said, raising his voice for the market to hear him. “Before nightfall, I promise you this: a waterwheel shall land with more lords of high color than this cesspit’s ever seen. Indeed, you shall find a Phyros-rider among them. One of the Old Ones, I believe?”

A murmur of shock rippled through the market. Several merchants near Harric began packing up their stalls. Emigrants behind the carriage agitated to squeeze past and win clear of the crowded gauntlet, which would be a trap to them if a Phyros should come.

The lord beamed with pleasure. “You will be great sport I’m sure, Sir Bastard. I would stay to see the famous Gallows Ferry gallows in action, but an Old One can be…unpredictable. Caution bids me go.” He tore most of the additional charms from Harric’s neck, and returned to his carriage, where he showered the stones upon the delighted ladies.

The carriage lurched into motion, trailing ladies’ laughter behind it.

Rudy released Harric and socked him in the side of the head. White spots dashed across Harric’s vision. His knees hit the planking, hard. “I’m keeping you right here, lord-boy,” said Rudy. “You heard what His Worship said. An Old One’s coming. And I ain’t never heard of an Old One that didn’t fancy a hanging.”

And first to be slain in the Cleansing.

Most hated was Bannus, the vilest despoiler,

Who fled to the Isle of Phyrosi.

—A Verse from
Oral Histories of the Cleansing,
collected and recorded by Sir Martin of Bege

Hexes & Hangings

W
illard urged Molly
from the beach onto the foot of the Hanging Road. In his left hand he held the ponies’ leads, so they would follow near the cliff wall, and so he could leave them in a crisis without untying them first from his saddle. The ambassador rocked in his saddle beneath his blanket, but Willard knew he was alert as a cat, the knots binding him to the saddle set to untie with a single tug in emergency. In his right hand Willard cradled
Belle,
the massive greatsword balanced over the front cantle of his saddle.

“This ought to be fun.”

Brolli chuckled. “Remind me to ask what in your language means
fun.
”

Iron-shod hooves rang from the stone as they climbed.

They were ants now, insects tickling the ankles of the mighty granite wall, tiny motes on a scratch above the water.

“Sun has set, yes?” Brolli said. “Your night hex is with us.”

“Yes. But that is no guarantee it will wake tonight. Can’t be sure until it gives a sign.”

“A sign?”

“A victim. We won’t proceed until we have one.”

The ponies strained up the steep-cut incline of the road, pulling against their leads in Willard’s hand. Even Molly snorted with exertion. Willard halted them some sixty paces below the Sapphire, and waited.
Ought to be close enough.
He’d seen his hex reach men from twice as far.

The nobleman’s company maintained their disciplined stillness, lances standing tall in the holders attached to their stirrups; Willard saw no drawn swords flashing. As he anticipated, the nobleman was not planning to attack. Not here, or now. Not yet, anyway.

Molly tossed her head, impatient.

“Soon, girl. We need a sign.”

Like Kogan, Willard had a healthy fear of his hex. It struck out randomly, often at him, or his friends. But unlike Kogan, he also recognized that, in a pinch, it could be a valuable ally, for it was generally as destructive to his enemies as it was to him.
Generally.
That was the problem. It was unpredictable. It might not wake at all, or it might strike
him
, which could scuttle the whole moon-blasted thing.

Roll the dice, old man.

“Ever wonder why this damned hex never strikes you, ambassador?”

“There is no hex curse among my people.” Brolli shrugged. “We are not human. Another sign of Kwendi superior, I think.”

Willard heard the humor in his voice, and smiled. “As far as hexes are concerned, it’d be damned hard to argue with that.”

The Sapphire stirred. He signaled his men with a wave of his hand, turned his horse, and rode away northward, with his men in tow.

“Ah, they leave,” said Brolli. “Is the hex not waking?”

Willard said nothing, his gaze still fixed on the place below the gallows where the Sapphire had been. He counted thirty heartbeats, and was on the brink of giving up when a trio of riders appeared again beside the gallows: a knight and squire, both armored, accompanied by a groom.

Willard smiled. “A silver says these men bring me my sign.”

“Make it two silvers, and you have a bet.”

“Done.” Willard dropped the ponies’ leads, and urged Molly into a slow walk up the steep shelf. “Wait here. It could be a trap. In any case, things could get messy, so stay alert. And remember what I said about my people’s opinion of magic—even so-called good magic—as there may be other witnesses up by the gallows.”

“I remember. I use it only if dying.”

As Willard neared the waiting trio, the harsh light of silhouette diminished, and he was able to ascertain the knight’s armor was enameled in an azure blue, a color signifying one of the highest blood ranks. Though not quite as high as Sapphire, Azure was considered “royal” blood by Westies, blood descended from an ancient prince of that isle. The knight wore an open-faced helm. Deep-set black eyes flashed above a neat black beard and fierce grin.

Willard did not hang back to parley, though the man held up his hand for it. Instead, he brought Molly almost nose to nose with the waiting riders. The trio’s horses stepped back and shied sideways in dismay, giving Willard time to glance around the corner to verify the Sapphire had not waited there in ambush; he found the lord already halfway across the mile of Hanging Road to Gallows Ferry. From his position he could see the entire expanse, including the sun-bleached buildings of the outpost, but there was no sign of Kogan’s caravan. The priest had made good time and already entered the settlement, so he’d be well past it by the time the Sapphire arrived.

That was good. Kogan would be in position to execute their plan.
Whether or not he has the brains to pull it off is something else entirely.

“The famous Sir Willard,” sneered the Azure, who had finally got his horse under control. “So it is true after all. You’re mortal, like the rest of us. I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my eyes. You truly have gone mad.”

Willard raised his visor, and spat. “Think you can defeat me, then. Is that it?” He nudged Molly so she danced a step closer, then reined her back in a way that always made her toss her head and roar. She did not disappoint, howling out a challenge that nearly blew the mane back on Sir Azure’s stallion. “Of course, Molly’s as immortal as ever,” Willard said. “But you knew that.”

The knight snorted. “Molly won’t give a damn when you’re gone.” He hauled a heavy crossbow from his side and aimed it at Willard’s chest, the armor-piercing bodkin glinting dully. “She’ll probably eat your sorry carcass.”

His squire and groom produced short-stocked spitfires with flint-wheel triggers and flaring mouths like trumpets. The squire wore a leather blast mask in the shape of a hawk’s head. The groom wore none, and bore the pockmarks of prior misfires on his cheeks.

“At this range you haven’t a chance.” The Azure’s grin showed the purple teeth of a blood-painter. “One bolt, down you go. Molly walks away, and I take the Queen’s wedding ring from your stinking pockets. Or you can hand them over now, and I let you go back to your ferry.”

“Ah! So you know of the ring, do you? And you know their power. I took you for a glory hunter, looking to slay the great Sir Willard, but now I see now your aim is much higher. You wish to use the ring to force the Queen to marry you! You wish to be king! I think your Sapphire friend will not like that you came back here to take them for yourself.”

“Tut! He is a fool. He will wait for orders. But I, too, am a prince. I, too, of royal lineage.”

“Not as high as sapphire.”

“High enough! Hand them over.”

Willard shrugged. “You’re too late. They could cause quite a lot of mischief in the wrong hands, you know. I flung them in the river as we crossed.”