Deryni Checkmate (14 page)

“Shteady does it, mate,” Derry slurred, helping the man back to the bar and guiding his mug to the surface. “Here, you finish mine. I gotta get shome shleep.” He poured the remnants of his drink into the man’s mug, purposely slopping half of it over the side, then patted the man reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Now, you drink up, m’friend,” he said, pushing himself away from the bar again. “An’ I wish you a pleashant—g’night!”

“Aw, yer not leavin’ yet, are ye, ol’ buddy? Ish early.”

“Come on, Johnny-lad. One more fer th’ road?”

“I thank you, no,” Derry replied, shaking his head and drawing himself to exaggerated attention. “I am too drunk. I ha’ had enough, an’ thash that.”

He attempted a precise pivot, stumbled against another man behind him, then managed to weave his way to the door without major mishap. He kept an eye out as he staggered through the door, hoping he wasn’t going to be followed. But no one except his former drinking partners even seemed to notice he was gone, and they were fast forgetting he’d ever been there.

As the noise of the raucous Jack Dog Tavern faded into the distance, Derry’s hearing gradually began to return to normal. As he lurched along the street, he tried not to collide with too many pedestrians—at least none bigger than himself—but when he reached a darkened alley, he ducked into the shadows and peered back the way he had come. He had just about decided it was safe to drop his drunk routine when he heard a footstep in the alley behind him.

“Who’shat?” he grunted, dropping into character again as he turned, and hoping it wasn’t necessary. “Who’sh there?”

“Hey, fella, are you all right?” said the man approaching him, his voice sounding strangely smooth and cultured in the filthy alley.

Damn!
thought Derry, as he recognized the man. He had seen the fellow in the tavern earlier this afternoon, drinking rather quietly with another man in the corner. Why had the man followed him? And where was his drinking partner?

“I rememmer you,” Derry said, slurring his words and pointing at the man rather shakily as he tried to decide how he was going to handle this. “You were inna tavern, weren’t ya? Whash matter? Can’t pay yer bar bill?”

“My friend noticed you were awfully wobbly when you left,” the man replied, stopping several paces from Derry and studying him carefully. “We just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Yer frien’?” Derry questioned, trying to look around without seeming too coherent. “Whysh yer frien’ so worried ’bout me?” he asked, craning his neck suspiciously as he saw the other man approaching from the street side. “Wha’ ish thish anyway?”

“Don’t be alarmed, my friend,” the first man said, moving closer to Derry and taking his arm. “We aren’t going to hurt you.”

“Now, lishen,” Derry began, protesting more loudly as the man began shouldering him further into the dark alley. “If it’s money ya want, fergit it. I spent my lash copper back a’ th’ tavern.”

“We don’t want your money,” said the second man, grabbing Derry’s other arm and helping his companion propel their quarry deeper into the shadows.

Mumbling and whining under his breath, Derry continued to play his drunk role to the hilt, stumbling and falling with every other step to slow them down while he tried to form a plan. The men were obviously up to no good, but whether they suspected him for what he really was or merely wanted to roll him for his money was immaterial right now. What was important was that they believed him to be drunk. He guessed by the way they held his arms that they didn’t think him any serious threat. Maybe there was still a way to salvage the operation after all.

“This is about far enough,” said the first man, when they had dragged him, stumbling and staggering, some thirty or forty feet into the alley. “Lyle?”

The second one nodded, producing something small and shiny from his tunic. “This won’t take a minute, my friend.”

It was too small to be a weapon, Derry decided. As he watched the man fiddling with it, he realized it was a vial of some murky orangish liquid. He feigned bleary curiosity as the man tried to worry the stopper out with his fingers, again revising his appraisal of the situation.

They were going to drug him—whether to kill or to interrogate, he didn’t know, but he didn’t particularly care to find out. The first man was holding both his arms, but his grip was only firm enough to support a supposed drunk. With luck, that would be their fatal mistake.

“Whash that?” Derry murmured amiably, as the man pulled out the stopper. “Ish a pretty pink.”

“It is, indeed, my friend,” said the man, bringing the open vial toward Derry. “This will just help to clear your head. Drink it down, now.”

It was the moment for action.

In a sudden movement, Derry wrenched his arms away from the man behind him and dashed the liquid over his shoulder into the man’s face. At the same time he dropped slightly and kicked the second man in the groin, then rolled with the force of the kick and came up on his feet, sword half drawn.

Before he could clear the scabbard, the first man was already grabbing for his arm, wrenching the blade from his grasp. As he struggled to regain control of the weapon, the second man launched himself into the fray and landed on his partner’s back, thinking it was Derry in the dim light. The first man went limp, the sword falling from his hand; the second jumped back cursing, then lunged at Derry again.

Now the odds were more to Derry’s liking, though it still would not be easy. While Derry knew he was most decidedly not drunk, neither was he entirely sober. His reflexes were definitely impaired, and the man before him was obviously an expert with a dagger.

Derry whipped his own dagger from his boot top and sparred with the man briefly, each feinting several times. Then they closed. After a frenzied scuffle, Derry managed to disarm the man and get him into a choke-hold, finally feeling him go limp. But even as he eased the unconscious form to the ground, he realized that he would have to kill his attacker. He didn’t dare leave him in the alley this way, nor could he allow him to talk. The man would have to die.

Crossing quickly to the first man, he felt for a pulse, but the body was already growing cold, a gaping wound in its side. That, at least, saved one killing. But the other . . .

Quite sober now, he dragged the second man over beside the first and turned him faceup, then went through his pockets quickly. He found another vial like the one they’d tried to drug him with, some papers he didn’t have time or light to read just now, and some gold coins. Morgan would be interested in the vial, and possibly the papers, so he pocketed those. But the coins he replaced; he was not a thief. Whoever found the bodies in the alley later on would hopefully think the men had killed each other over the money. At least, they would not be looking for a robber. A search of the other man’s clothing turned up a similar set of papers and more money, but again Derry kept only the papers.

The unconscious man moaned, starting to come to, and Derry was obliged to silence him again. He found himself feeling rather squeamish as he picked up the other man’s knife, for he had never killed a man in cold blood before. But his own life was in danger if he did not; there was nothing else to be done. He must look upon it as an execution.

Taking a deep breath, Derry pulled the man’s head back and set the blade against the throat, then drew it across in one quick gesture. Then he dropped the knife by the other man’s hand, picked up his sword, and fled down the alley. He had seen and heard men die before, and by his own hand. But then it had been in battle, in open warfare. He had never thought he would become a killer in the dark.

He staggered out the other end of the alley and into the street, forced himself to resume his previous role of a drunk. He got about another block before he had to stop and retch over a gutter. Passers-by glanced at him in disgust or sympathy as they walked by, thinking he was just another drunk.

But Derry knew better. And by the time he reached his room at the Crooked Dragon, he was a very sober young man.

 

IN Coroth, Morgan leaned back against the tall headrest of the carved chair and closed his eyes. He was in his tower room, and he was alone. He could hear the fire crackling in the fireplace to his right, could feel its warmth on his face and hands; and if he opened his eyes, he knew he would see the darkened skylight in the vaulted ceiling, the seven bars of green glass set high in the surrounding walls that gave the place its name—the Green Tower. In front of him was the shiral crystal, softly aglow on its gryphon stand in the center of the table. His hands rested lightly on the chair arms as he relaxed and cleared his mind. Someone knocked at the door, but he did not move or open his eyes.

“Yes?”

“It’s Duncan. May I come in?”

Morgan sighed and looked at the ceiling, then sat forward so he could turn to glance at the door.

“The door is open.”

He saw the latch turn; then the door opened and Duncan slipped through.

“Lock it,” Morgan said, turning and leaning back in his chair once again.

Duncan crossed to the small round table and sat in the chair opposite Morgan. His cousin’s face was calm, serene, and Duncan realized he must already have been casting about for Derry’s signal.

“May I help?” he asked quietly. “It’s still a bit early, you know.”

“I know.” Morgan sighed. “I don’t want him to try early and get discouraged, though. This is all very new to him.”

Duncan smiled. “And it isn’t exactly routine to us, either, is it?” He leaned his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. “Are you sure you won’t let me link with you and augment your power? It will save energy and another telling. And Derry will have to know about me sooner or later anyway.”

Morgan grinned halfheartedly. “True enough.”

“Whenever you’re ready, then,” Duncan replied. “Go ahead. I’ll follow right behind.”

Morgan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then sat forward and cupped his hands around the shiral crystal. Another deep breath keyed a return to trance, and he closed his eyes. After a moment of silence, the shiral crystal began to glow more brightly. At that, Duncan reached across and lightly grasped Morgan’s wrists, his own arms resting easily on the table to either side of the crystal. Then he, too, exhaled—and joined Morgan in trance.

The glow of the shiral crystal intensified slightly, then took on an indeterminate smoky amber hue. Neither man gave any sign of being aware of that fact.

He’s getting ready,
came Morgan’s clear thought.
He’s thinking about forming the link.

I feel it,
Duncan responded.
Where is he now? Do you know?

 

IN a tiny room at the back of a rather dowdy village inn, Derry sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and doused one of the two candles in the room. He had read the papers he took from his two would-be assailants, and what he had learned had removed some of the guilt of having killed in cold blood. For the men had been agents of Torenth, sent on special commission to ferret out information concerning Morgan’s troop activities—precisely what Derry was doing, but on the other side. They had only been on their way through Fathane, but that was enough. And they would have killed Derry, had their positions been reversed.

So now they were dead, and he was alive instead. It would take a while for the local authorities to identify them without papers. But once it was discovered that they were royalist agents, the hue and cry would be raised in tiny Fathane, and all strangers would be suspect. Derry didn’t see how he could be linked with the deaths, but he must be on his guard. Stranger things had been known to happen, and he was totally alone in Fathane.

No, not totally alone,
he reminded himself, as he lay back on the bed and pulled the medallion Morgan had given him out of his shirt. At least he would be able to tell Morgan what had happened, give him the information he had gathered thus far.

He cupped the medallion in his hands and studied it for a moment, then closed his eyes and murmured the words of the spell Morgan had taught him. He felt a fleeting sense of dizziness as he slipped into that strange and almost frightening state that was not quite sleep. But then he was aware of a familiar presence surrounding him, backed by another known almost as well. The spell had worked!

A great deal,
Derry replied, smiling widely even though he knew his commander could not see the expression.
One, Torenthi royalist troops are gathering somewhere north of here
—
about five thousand strong, if rumor is correct.

Where is “here”?
Morgan interrupted.

Sorry. I’m in Fathane
—
an inn called the Crooked Dragon, for some reason I haven’t yet been able to fathom.

Which is also a good cover for you,
Morgan agreed.
How about our situation here in Corwyn?