06 - Rule of Thieves (14 page)

The Praetor made an impatient motion. “Then he is of no consequence, and we will speak no more of him. Tell me instead of my brother’s death. You have said before that you were orphaned and have implied your parents died in the cleansing?”

I tried to discern why he was asking for this information. To mourn? To gloat? His cool expression gave nothing away.

I gave a brief account of the night the soldiers had come for my family. I described my mother’s final instruction for me to carry the brooch for protection. I spoke woodenly, aware of the betrayal of sharing my parents’ last moments with the man who had brought them about. A man to whom remorse would be a foreign and impossible concept.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t painful. Even his aloof silence as the tale unfolded failed to wound me. I was curiously numb to such feelings. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from my recent ordeal.

At the end of my account, quiet descended. When at last I gathered the will to look and see whether I would find victory or regret in the eyes of my parents’ murderer, I found neither, for his chair stood empty.

He had slipped secretly away during the telling of my story. Why? Certainly he was not ashamed to face me. Perhaps the results of his deeds bored him too much to hear them described to conclusion.

I told myself I didn’t care which was the answer. But I snatched up the brooch he had left behind and squeezed it until it cut into my hand. Against my palm, I felt the ridged lettering of the inscription I knew by heart. FIDELITY and SERVICE. The motto of the house of Tarius, my father’s house, seemed to mock me.

My recovery from the poisoning wasn’t immediate. At first I was too weak to stand and spent several days in bed being waited on by Jarrod and Eisa, the mute servant. Occasionally the Praetor’s healer looked in to check my recovery, but Praetor Tarius himself did not return. My thoughts were in no better condition than my body. I was confused a great deal and faded in and out of sleep, dreaming vividly. Sometimes it was hard to tell where the dreams ended and reality began.

Once, after a nightmare about a Skeltai attack on the castle, I awoke drenched in sweat, heart pounding. Shakily, I crawled out of my blankets and fell onto the cold floor, where I dug around under my bed until I found my bow, still concealed in its hiding place. The moment my hands closed around the lightwood, the weapon glowed softly to life. It's presence was reassuring, and I felt regret when I had to return it to its place.

Another time, I awoke in the night to find the candle near my bed had burnt down to a nub. Earlier, someone had tied back the tapestry covering my window to let fresh air into the sickroom. They must have forgotten to close it again when the sun went down, because now cold air swirled into the room, its gusts nearly putting out the dying fire in the fireplace. A shadow moved across the pale moonlight filtering through the window. Instantly, my thoughts went to assassins. Had the person who tried and failed to destroy me returned so soon to finish the job?

I thought of my knives and attempted to remember where I had stowed them. I contemplated making a dive for my bow but suspected in my weak state I would not reach it in time. So I kept still and waited as the dark figure crossed the room.

He didn’t approach me. Instead, he went to the window and drew closed the tapestry, blocking out the wind. Then he went to the fireplace and fed kindling into the embers until they blazed to life again. I could only see him from the back, outlined by the red of the flames. But I knew the set of his shoulders and sensed the familiarity of his presence. Terrac.

I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I were dreaming again. When I looked again, he was gone, the door to my room closing softly behind him. I lay awake and wondered whether he had truly been there at all or if my mind was playing tricks on me again.

Gradually, the fog receded from my thoughts over the following days and I began to feel like my old self. My legs regained their strength. The morning came when the rising sun slanting through my window found me out of bed and pulling my clothes on. I shook off a brief spell of dizziness as I sat on the edge of the stool, lacing my boots. I had wasted too much time in bed, letting the trail of my would-be killer grow cold. It was time I was up and nosing around, asking questions.

On leaving my chamber, I was surprised to find an armed Fist standing guard outside my door. He didn’t try to prevent my leaving. Apparently his instructions were only to protect me from further attempts on my life.

“Who did this order of protection come from?” I asked.

The guard was surly, as Fists generally were. Obviously he didn’t like being questioned by my sort. But I could imagine the thought crossing his dull mind that there was no telling how far my influence with Praetor Tarius extended. It might be unwise to insult me.

And so he admitted his order came, not from the Praetor as I assumed, but from the captain of the Iron Fists.

“From Terrac?” I was startled by the revelation. Considering the terms Terrac and I were on these days, I wouldn’t have thought he would be overly concerned with my safety anymore. Maybe my dream of him looking in on me while I was ill had been real after all. I felt an unexpected swell of gladness at the thought.

But my brief moment of joy was quickly eclipsed by annoyance as I discovered the guard’s orders were not limited to protecting me in my chamber. He insisted on following me at a distance as I went off down the hall. Rot Terrac and his good intentions. I couldn’t have a Fist following my every move all day. I would have to lose him at some point. But maybe not just yet. There was nothing secret in my current mission.

Ignoring the uncomfortable prickle it gave me between the shoulder blades to have a Fist watching my back, I continued on down to the kitchens.

There I found Jarrod busily occupied with scrubbing pots. He was surprised to find me out of bed but looked relieved as well. It seemed my sudden illness had cast him adrift with little notion what to do with himself. The head cook, apparently a fearsome character, hated to see a boy idle and had set him to work at kitchen chores.

When I questioned Jarrod about where he had obtained my food on the night of the poisoning, he dried his hands on his oversized apron and scratched his head in thought. “Like I already told that other fellow who came asking, the poisoned food came from right here in the kitchen. But I can’t be sure who prepared it.”

“Other fellow?” I asked. “What other fellow?”

“That redheaded counselor with the funny name.”

“Torg Branek?”

“That’s the one,” he agreed. “He came around before, asking questions. I told him, like I’m telling you, I only stuck my head into the kitchen and asked for two trays. There was a delay, and then they were handed out to me. Any number of people in the kitchen could’ve handled them before I got them.”

“But who gave them to you?” I prompted impatiently.

He rubbed his chin, a gesture that reminded me poignantly of his father. “It was a servant in black and scarlet,” he recalled.

I didn’t point out nearly every servant in the castle wore that livery.

He added it was a girl of about his age, and there was something unusual about her. She didn’t speak.

That caught my attention. “I know who you mean,” I said. “The mute girl is Eisa.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know her name but I’ve seen her around the halls and sometimes in the kitchen. She helped look after you while you were sick.”

It had to be Eisa then. I couldn’t imagine any possible reason why such a child should want me dead. But then, there had been no good reason for Martyn to want to kill me either, and that had not stopped him making an attempt on my life back in Cros. Whoever was the real enemy behind all these would-be assassins, he was adroit at turning people against me.

Upon asking around, I found Eisa sweeping out the old rushes on the floor of the great hall. She wasn’t alone.

As I approached, I saw a well-dressed man conversing with her while she worked. Or rather, he was doing all the talking, while she appeared to have no choice but to listen. There was something almost threatening in his stance. While I wasn’t near enough to hear his words, the wide-eyed expression on the girl’s face said she was afraid of him.

“Counselor Torg Branek, isn’t it?” I greeted the counselor, interrupting his conversation.

The copper-haired man turned on me, briefly startled. He didn’t bother to mask his annoyance at my intrusion.

“That is my name,” he allowed archly. “I do not believe I know yours.”

“I can think of no reason why you should,” I answered honestly, returning his measuring look. This was my first opportunity to see the man at close range.

It wasn’t Branek’s height or build that made him look sinister. There was nothing intimidating in his size or in his average middle-aged features. It wasn’t until I looked past his high forehead and slight jowls that his sharp eyes beneath sparse brows gave the first hint of a cool and cunning personality. If rumor was to be believed, it wasn’t any physical threat I needed to be wary of in dealing with the counselor but a dangerous mind fueled by ambition.

I saw a sudden glint of recognition behind his ice-blue eyes. “Wait,” he said. “I know you by description if not by sight. You are the infamous thief of Dimmingwood, are you not? The outlaw turned heroine, who battled the Skeltai with her magical bow.”

I winced. I still was not accustomed to hearing myself described as the “infamous” outlaw, where once that title had belonged to my old captain, Rideon. Aside from that, it seemed the rumors circulating about me were as numerous as those surrounding the scheming counselor.

“Where is this enchanted bow of yours, anyway?” Branek asked, a semimocking tone suggesting he had doubts as to its existence.

I fell back on what was becoming my stock response these days, “You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“Evidently not.” His fair eyebrows lowered. “I had heard you were at the brink of the grave after a deadly poisoning.”

I shrugged. “The poisoning was real enough, but the result has been exaggerated. I was confined to my bed for a few days, but the effects have passed and I am on my feet again.”

“So I see. A most miraculous recovery.”

There was speculation in his look. Did he wonder how I survived the attack? Was he disappointed the attempt on my life had been unsuccessful?

If so, he concealed his feelings well.

He said, “Praetor Tarius has assigned me the task of getting to the bottom of this unfortunate incident. I’ve questioned the household servants and ascertained this foolish girl was among the last to handle the contaminated food. The child professes ignorance, but what else could be expected?”

He turned a scowl on Eisa, who flinched beneath his gaze. “I have others to question, but I will be back for you later,” he told the girl. “Do not go far.”

With a curt nod to me, he stalked away and left the hall.

I didn’t need my magic to sense Eisa’s relief at his departure.

After he had gone, I tried to question the servant myself. But the girl didn’t seem to comprehend my questions about how the poison had found its way into my food. Or perhaps she understood more than I gave her credit for but was trying to protect someone. Herself? Or someone she was afraid of?

When she met all my questions with silent headshaking and shrugs, I gave up and left her to her work.

I roamed the long halls, letting my still-weak legs get accustomed to carrying my weight again. It was disturbing how quickly they wearied. But if my limbs were rusty, my mind was not, and my thoughts were hard at work.

Who had put Eisa up to poisoning me? Or at least frightened her enough to look the other way while they did the job themselves? Castle gossip had set my suspicions against Branek from the beginning. I wanted him to be the enemy. He seemed made for the part. But I had to face the fact he had no apparent motive to want me out of the way.

Who did? The Praetor himself? If so, he would have defeated his own purpose in saving me. His ward, Lady Morwena? I certainly didn’t trust her. But neither did I think her capable of killing. And again there was the question of why. Mentally, I ran down the list of other castle occupants who might have the means or reason to destroy me. There was that handsome Counselor Summerdale, who Lady Morwena seemed to fancy. And the retired military advisor Delecarte. I made a mental note to ask Terrac for information on the latter. As a high-ranking Fist, he must know a good deal about the man. I would tell Jarrod too to keep his ears open for talk surrounding Counselor Summerdale.

Jarrod.

I had been so busy considering my own safety that it occurred to me for the first time since the poisoning how easily the boy might have fallen victim to the attempt on my life. Whoever had arranged all this, they couldn’t have been entirely certain of the outcome of the poisoning. They couldn’t have known only I would eat the bad food and Jarrod would escape unscathed. Yet they had been willing to kill him to get to me.

The realization stopped me cold.

I had brought Brig’s son here to protect him, but now his very association with me placed him in danger. I cursed my hasty decision to bring him to Selbius. It was a mistake I would have to deal with before it was too late. There was no knowing when my hidden enemy might strike again, and next time the boy might not survive.

I went back down to the kitchens, where I quickly found Jarrod and pulled him aside. I hauled him into a small store room that smelled like moldy potatoes but kept us out of earshot of the other kitchen workers.

At his startled inquiries, I explained, “There’s been a change of plans. I’ve realized the castle isn’t a safe place for you after all. Somebody here wants me dead, and there are many other somebodies who wouldn’t exactly mourn the loss either. I should never have involved you in such a situation, but I guess I was arrogant enough to think I could shield you from whatever my enemies threw at me. But the trouble is, it may not be only me they target next time.”

Jarrod’s brows drew together in confusion. “What do you mean? Why would they want to hurt me?”