A Dance of Blades s-2 Page 33

  “You’ll take me to him?” she asked even as she exited the room.

  “But, yes…of course,” said Cecil, having to hurry to keep up.

  Alyssa couldn’t believe how giddy she felt. Everything the Watcher had said was true. Nathaniel was alive, and now she could go to him, could hold him, could keep him close for the rest of his life as he grew into the man to lead her fortune.

  Nathaniel was alive. No matter how many times she told it to herself, it never lost its impact. Nathaniel was alive, alive, praise the gods, alive!

  When she arrived at her room, Cecil respectfully remained outside. Hurrying about, Alyssa opened a closet and ran outfit combinations through her head. Someone else knocked on the door, and she told whoever it was to enter without a thought. In stepped a younger man, a distant cousin of hers named Terrance. His features were soft, his reddish-blond hair carefully trimmed. He walked into her room trying to put on a somber face, but he was clearly giddy with news. When he saw the joy on her face, his own lit up. He must have thought she’d be grieving Arthur’s loss, she realized. Foolish man.

  “Forgive me for the intrusion,” Terrance said. “When I heard about Bertram’s…betrayal, I went through his things. I’m learning my father’s trade, you see, and he works with accounts and…”

  “Hurry it up,” Alyssa said, yanking off her robes and pulling a loose dress over her head. The man flushed a deep red, and he stammered a bit, but he continued.

  “Anyway, rumors have it that you wouldn’t be able to pay the mercenaries, or to help with repairs. Bertram told my father, anyway, and several of the servants.” He saw the look she gave and so he skipped to the point. “Thing is, Bertram was lying. I found his ledger for the mercenaries’ payments, and it only comes to a third of your current wealth. Expensive, to be sure, but not near what he…”

  She kissed the man, laughed, and then tied a sash about her waist before flinging open another closet and searching for a thick enough coat for the ride north.

  “I need a replacement for Bertram,” she said. “And I have no time to search for one, so you’ll have to do, Terrance.”

  His jaw nearly hit the floor.

  “Me? But I’m still an apprentice, and my father says I can’t own my own store until I reach my twentieth year. To try and manage all this…?”

  “Well, you start today.”

  “But why? Where are you going?”

  Alyssa laughed again.

  “I’m going to get my son.”

  *

  Matthew Pensfield felt the first twinges of consciousness pulling at him, and he resisted. Dull aches felt like the only welcome awaiting him. His gradual awareness thawed from whatever cold sleep it’d fallen into, and he remembered fighting, protecting the boy, Tristan. Or was it Nathaniel? And how was he alive? He was alive, right?

  His eyes fluttered open, and there in front of him sat the boy with two names, his head in his hands as he stared at the floor.

  “Tristan?” Matthew asked, his voice coming out like a strained croak. The boy startled, but his surprise didn’t last long. A smile spread across his young face, and it lit up his eyes.

  “You’re awake!” he said.

  “I reckon so.”

  Tristan hugged him, eliciting a cough. It felt like half his body was full of fluid, the other half aches. He tried rolling over in bed, was denied by a terrible spike of pain from his shoulder. He glanced at it and saw an impressive amount of stitchwork in his flesh. A bruise spread from the wound all the way across his chest. Cut, that was right, he’d been cut down through the collarbone by that bastard at the castle gate.

  “What happened to him?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  Matthew grunted. “Never mind. You’re alive, and so am I, so must have worked out fine.”

  “Lord Gandrem’s said you should be treated as a hero.”

  “That so?”

  Tristan bobbed his head up and down. Matthew chuckled.

  “If this is how heroes feel, count me out. The plow fits me better than the sword.” He frowned. Tristan kept looking to the door, and his smile never seemed to last long.

  “Something the matter, Tristan? Well, guess I should call you by your real name, shouldn’t I? Not much point in hiding who you are now.”

  The boy obviously looked embarrassed, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “You can call me Tristan still, if you want, sir.”

  “I guess I’ll let the habit linger, least until I can get out of this damn bed. What is the matter? You look like you’re expecting the executioner.”

  Something about the way Tristan’s face paled made him wonder what he’d said wrong.

  “It’s nothing,” Tristan said. “I just, it’s…nothing. I’m glad you’re awake. Really glad.”

  Matthew’s head felt groggy and stuffed with cotton, but he pushed through to see his surroundings better and to make sense of them. He was in a small room with stone walls, a single red carpet, and a large bed with sheets stained with what must have been his blood. Tristan wore fine clothing, far beyond anything Matthew could have afforded at his farm house (before that Haern guy dumped a pile of gold in their hands, anyway). It didn’t look like everyday attire, but then again, he was hardly knowledgeable about the ways of courts and castles.

  “They treating you well?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Tristan.

  “Something bothering you?”

  He looked once more to the door.

  “Is it…is it all right if we just talk for a while?”

  Matthew smiled. “Sure, son. You care about what?”

  When he shook his head, Matthew began discussing his plans for the farm. He prattled on about cattle, where he bought his pigs, and how if he ever should get into the business in the north, to never ever buy from the Utters in the middle of winter unless he wanted to bend over and let them have their way with him. Tristan remained silent, but it seemed as if the tension drained out of him, until at last his eyes sparkled and he laughed at what few lame stories Matthew had to tell.

  Every bit of that tension returned, though, when Lord Gandrem stepped into the room.

  “Milord,” Matthew said, tilting his head to show his respect. Getting up and bowing was obviously out of the question.

  “I’m pleased to see you well,” the lord said, though his voice hardly carried much pleasure. “You’ll be rewarded handsomely for protecting young Nathaniel here. Once I found someone who recognized you, I sent a rider to inform your loved ones of your stay in my care.”

  “Thank you, milord,” said Matthew. “My wife will much appreciate knowing.”

  “Rest, Matthew, and when you’re better, we can discuss giving you appropriate compensation. For now, I must borrow Nathaniel. We have matters to attend.”

  “I’ll talk to you tonight,” Matthew told Nathaniel. “Right now, I feel like eating a little, and then sleeping for a while, so don’t worry about me.”

  They left, and servants arrived immediately after, carrying bowls of soup and bread and changes of clothing. While they buzzed about, Matthew thought of Nathaniel, and he offered him a prayer for whatever trial seemed to await him.

  *

  Nathaniel followed after Lord Gandrem, feeling like an obedient dog. The thought was unfair, for he had been treated absurdly well. But already he heard the murmuring of the crowd as they climbed the stairs toward the front wall of the castle. The sunlight was glaring when they emerged, and the crowd of hundreds below cheered at their arrival. Four guards stood at either side of them upon the ramparts. Directly ahead, atop a retractable plank of wood, a long rope tied about his neck, was the man named Oric.

  Lord Gandrem waved his greetings to the crowd gathered to watch the execution.

  “This man was a coward and a traitor,” he cried out to them. “He dared lie to the lord of the lands, to mock the honor of Felwood! My allies, he struck against. This fiend, this foul murderer, even sought to coat his blade with
the blood of children. What fate does he deserve?”

  Those gathered below howled for his hanging. Nathaniel heard their cries and shivered. Lord Gandrem turned to him and beckoned him forth. His feet feeling made of lead, he approached. Oric’s face was covered with a black cloth, and his hands were tied behind him, but still he appeared dangerous.

  “He’s bound and gagged,” John said, seeing his hesitation. “And even if he weren’t, you should not show fear. The eyes of the people are upon you, and more than anything, they want certainty from those who rule their lives.”

  Nathaniel nodded.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  The older man guided him to where a lever waited, connected to various gears and wheels that would drop the platform Oric stood upon. It was as tall as him, and when he put his hand upon it, he worried he might be too weak to move it.

  “This way,” said a nearby knight, gesturing the direction for him to push. Hurling his weight upon it, Nathaniel felt the lever budge, then lurch forward. The crowd gasped, and before he could look away, Lord Gandrem took hold of his shoulder and forced him to watch. Oric fell, the rope snapped taut, but as he swung, his feet still kicked. A sickening groan floated up to them, barely audible over the cheer of the crowd.

  “Bastard’s neck didn’t break,” said one of the knights.

  “Just following orders,” said the man beside him. “John wanted to send a message.”

  The words flowed over him, but Nathaniel refused to give them any meaning. Instead he just watched as Oric kicked, gagged, and swung from the castle wall, John’s hand holding him with strength frightening for his age.

  “Remember this always,” he said to him. “This is the fate that should meet all who challenge you. If you deny them this, then you become as cowardly as they. Besides, listen to that roar, Nathaniel. Listen to them cheer. Our people want blood, crave it. Every dead man hanging is a man worse than them. They’ll spit on his corpse when we cut him down, and they’ll unite in a hatred of something they hardly even understand. We are their lords. We are their gods. Never deny them the spectacle they deserve. So long as you believe your acts are just, they will follow.”

  Nathaniel nodded, his head dizzy, his stomach swinging side to side along with the convulsing body of Oric.

  Epilogue

  Haern found Deathmask and his Ash Guild back in their hiding hole, and they greeted him like a long lost friend.

  “Behold the legend,” Deathmask said, but his laughter cut with dark humor.

  “Gerand’s told me of the Spider Guild’s acceptance,” Haern said, not wishing to waste any time. “As for the Conningtons, some old man named Potts has assumed control while his relatives bicker and position themselves. Potts has also agreed to the terms. Only two guilds have refused, but they’re both currently leaderless.”

  “Already we move in on their territory,” Veliana said. “Same for the Spiders and the Wolves. Whoever finally takes control will readily agree, just to save themselves from a combined assault.”

  “So this is it then,” Haern said. He looked to Deathmask. “Gerand will arrange a set of terms to distribute payments to be divided equally among the five guilds. I imagine that much wealth will divide much better among you four than say the two hundred or so of the other guilds.”

  “That thought had come to mind,” Deathmask said, grinning. “It’s going to be rough these next few days. Everyone will be testing limits, seeing what they can get away with, and if you are capable of holding things in line. I’d say you normally could pull it off, but right now you look like an animal after a carriage has rolled over it a few times.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Haern said. “And I’ll be watching you as closely as any other guild. Don’t forget that.”

  Deathmask laughed.

  “We aren’t allies, Watcher, and I never intended to be. Keep your eye upon me all you want. You won’t find anything, and your blades will never touch my skin. Go worry about those who truly present a danger to this truce. We’ll be here reaping the rewards.”

  Haern bit back a retort and then left. With much of his business done until nightfall, he debated where to go. In the end, he went back to the closest thing he had to home. On the Crimson, he found a wagon sitting in front of the Eschaton’s place, half-loaded with trivial things. How none of it had been stolen yet seemed a miracle to him, until he remembered the very truce he’d just set up. Well, that was a start. He went to knock on the door, but it flung open. A tired, surprised Tarlak stood before him, a pile of books in hand.

  “Oh, you,” he said.

  “I’ve come to…”

  “Save it, Haern. I’m sure you did your absolute best, and I doubt Senke would have changed a thing. Well, other than him dying. He might have…look, the offer still stands. No speeches, no apologies, no nonsense requirements. I bought a tower on the outskirts of the King’s Forest, and I plan on making it a far better home than this dung hole. You want to come, be useful and grab a box.”

  Haern stepped aside, and Tarlak set his things on the wagon. Glancing inside, he saw Brug packing up various smithy tools. Delysia helped him, the two joking with each other in hushed tones. He could see the redness in their eyes even from there, but they were moving on best they knew how. The priestess saw him, and despite the loss of a friend, she smiled and beckoned him inside.

  “Why not,” Haern said as Tarlak came back to the door. He stepped within, grabbed a box, and hoped that just perhaps the newly titled King’s Watcher might finally have a home.

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