Brute (6 page)

Brute didn’t know how to answer that. He licked his lips nervously and fought the urge to shift his feet. His bladder was full to bursting, and the glimpses of the sea he could catch through Lord Maudit’s window weren’t helping.

“Not very chatty, are you?” the lord said. “Good.” He folded the paper and slapped it against his thigh before tossing it onto his desk. “Wait here.”

“Please!”

Lord Maudit was nearly to the door when Brute blurted out his plea. The little man turned, eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

“I need to—is there an outhouse? Milord,” Brute added hastily.

“Garderobe’s through there,” the lord said, waving at a narrow door in the corner. Brute made what he hoped was a dignified dash for it while the other man left through the main door.

To reach the garderobe he had to climb a set of very narrow, winding stairs. The stairs dead-ended in a rounded little chamber with tiny slits for windows. The room contained a wooden seat with a hole in it and a small table bearing an earthen pitcher of water. Fumbling his laces open one-handed seemed to take forever, but eventually he managed to get his trousers undone. He emptied himself with a long groan of relief. At least he hadn’t lost his good hand, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. The gods only knew how he would have managed to get himself undressed then.

Lacing back up again was even more troublesome, but at least his need was no longer quite so urgent. He just wished he could have managed to find a way to pour the water in the pitcher over his hand to cleanse it.

Lord Maudit’s office was empty when Brute descended the stairs. Brute resisted the temptation to poke around—he had an eerie feeling that the man would somehow
know
—and instead admired the view from the windows and then a large painting of a hunting party chasing a stag.

“Hideous painting, isn’t it?”

Brute jumped at the voice and whirled around. Lord Maudit had returned, but it was his companion who had spoken: Prince Aldfrid, attired in riding clothes and smiling broadly. The prince showed no sign of limping as he crossed the room. “I’m glad you’ve recovered enough to make the journey,” he said to Brute. “How are you managing?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

Brute pulled his stump out of his cloak pocket, which made Lord Maudit’s eyes widen. Apparently the prince’s letter hadn’t mentioned that Brute was maimed. “Your Highness, are you certain—” the lord began.

“Yes,” the prince interrupted sharply. “Completely. He’s the man for the job.”

“The job, Your Highness?” Brute asked.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I could just give you a sack of gold and send you on your way—you’ve earned it—but I’m guessing you’re not that kind of man. You want to be… useful.” His laugh sounded a little sad. “More useful than a king’s fourth son.”

Brute took a moment to consider the prince’s words. A sack of gold. He’d never have to worry about his livelihood again. He could buy a little cottage somewhere, have some clothing made that actually fit. He could eat decent food every day. And then… what? Sit by himself and wait to grow old and die? “I would like to be useful,” he confirmed. “But I don’t know what I can do for you, sir, not like this. I’m sorry.”

“Have you any skills at all?” Lord Maudit asked. “I suppose it’s too much to ask that you know how to write.”

Brute hung his head, ashamed. “I wanted to. Had no money to pay the schoolmaster.” After his parents were dead, when his great-uncle would send him scurrying around the village to fetch this and carry that, Brute used to pass the little schoolhouse now and then, and he’d pause long enough to gaze at it enviously. Once he’d even dared to ask his great-uncle to send him—Brute had promised to work twice as much to pay for it—but his great-uncle had cuffed him hard enough to send him sprawling, then growled that Brute was too stupid to learn.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Prince Aldfrid, pulling Brute out of the bad memory. “I have something perfect for you.”

“Aldfrid, you’re taking an enormous risk.” Lord Maudit sounded irritated with the prince, but in a resigned sort of way, as if he was used to conversations like this.

“He’s the one, Maud.”

“But the king—”

“My father, if he notices at all, will see that a very large and not especially bright man—sorry, Brute; I know you’re no idiot—has been put in place. That’s all.”

Brute stood there mutely, slightly surprised at the obvious familiarity between the men and not having the vaguest clue what they were talking about. But then the prince clapped him on the arm and grinned. “It’ll all work out. You won’t be seeing much of me, Brute, but if you need anything, just get word to Maud here and he’ll take care of it.” He smirked at Lord Maudit and sped out of the room.

Maudit briefly closed his eyes, as if he were in pain. “Scrambled your brains a bit more on those rocks, didn’t you, Friddy?” he muttered. Then he glared at Brute. “Follow me.”

It seemed that everyone was saying that to him today. But Brute shrugged and did as he was told.

He was led through another dizzying arrangement of corridors and stairways. Once he caught a glimpse of an enormous room—by far the largest he had ever seen—with a polished marble floor, gilded pillars, and a ceiling fresco considerably more elaborate than the one he’d been admiring while he waited. But he didn’t get a chance to enjoy it, because Maudit dragged him along at a pace surprising for a man with such short legs. Guards saluted when Lord Maudit passed, and various well-dressed functionaries and servants all tried to look more industrious. Maudit ignored them.

They eventually left the building—through a different door than the one by which Brute and the guard had entered—crossed an oblong grassy area where several women in colorful gowns sat and embroidered, and entered a narrow passageway between two buildings. The passageway dead-ended at a grim little building of dirty stone. The windows in the building were simply narrow vertical slits, and even those were covered by iron bars. The door was iron as well—arched and sporting a heavy bolt—with a bored-looking guard stationed outside. The guard snapped to attention when he saw them coming.

“Has everything been readied?” Lord Maudit snapped.

The guard nodded sharply. “Yes, milord. The maids just left.”

“Good. This is… well, Brute. Obviously. You’ve been told of his duties?”

“Yes, milord.”

“If he needs anything, make sure he gets it. I’ll be checking on him.”

The guard looked slightly horrified at the prospect but nodded again. Then he unlocked the door and waited for Maudit and Brute to enter.

This time, Brute found himself in a small hallway with a ceiling so low he almost had to bend his head. The walls were rough plaster, dirty and cracked, interrupted now and then by doors made of thick dark timbers. The building smelled of damp and age, with a faint sickly sweet undertone, as if something had rotted long ago.

“What—” Brute began.

“In here.” Lord Maudit pressed the latch on one of the doors; the hinges squealed in protest. Brute stepped inside and saw, to his astonishment, a somewhat dim but comfortable-looking apartment. The ceiling was higher than that of the hallway, although he could still have brushed it with his fingertips. The room contained an oversized bed piled with quilts, a chest of drawers with an actual mirror on top, a solid table with two equally solid chairs, and a matching wardrobe and bookshelf. The window was tiny, of course, but the walls were hung with colorful tapestries that depicted scenes of beasts in the forest and creatures under the sea. A small stove with dark green tiles was tucked in one corner, but not lit today because the weather was far too warm.

And in one wall, over near another corner, was a door constructed of heavy iron bars, with only darkness visible behind it.

“Welcome to your new home,” said Lord Maudit from the doorway.

“But… what?”

“His Highness has decided that you will be a very specialized sort of guard, with only a single prisoner to watch over.”

“Prisoner?” Brute’s eyes strayed back to the barred door.

Maudit twitched one shoulder. “See for yourself.”

With some degree of trepidation, Brute crossed the room.

The bars separated the apartment from a small cell. He had to squint to see inside—there was no window slit in the prisoner’s space—but there wasn’t much to see. Bare walls, bare floor, and in the corner, a dirty pile of rags. But as Brute stared, the rags shifted slightly and chains clanked, and a matted mass of hair appeared from under the edge of the fabric. A man, Brute realized. He was looking at a man huddled under a blanket. Chains sounded again, and Brute noted the metal collar around the man’s neck, manacles on his wrists, and shackled ankles fastened by chains to bolts in the floor. It was impossible to make out any details of the man past his rat’s nest of hair and tangled beard until the prisoner lifted his head slightly. Brute gasped at the man’s obvious blindness: eyelids closed over sunken, empty sockets.

Lord Maudit sighed. He still hadn’t actually entered the room. “Brute, meet Gray Leynham.”

“A
M
I
a prisoner here?” Brute asked.

Lord Maudit was pacing the hallway outside the small apartment, clearly eager to be somewhere else. “No. You can leave whenever you want. Just knock on the main door and the guard will let you out. In fact, you’ll have to leave to fetch meals, your own and his.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the dark cell. “And you’re free to roam the palace grounds, even wander the city if you like. We’ll give you a pass so you can get in through the gates, although I expect you’ll be recognized by everyone soon enough. You just have to make sure you’re here to give the prisoner proper care during the day. And you must always be here at night.”

Brute frowned, thinking about the chains and iron bars and guarded doors that stood between Gray Leynham and freedom. “I’m not here to keep him from escaping.”

Maudit barked a laugh. “Hardly. Make sure he eats. Empty his waste pail now and then.”

“And that requires me to actually live next to him?”

For the first time, Lord Maudit gave him a small smile. “You’re smarter than you look, aren’t you? No, those small chores should take only a little time.” He sighed. “Your most important task will come at night, actually.”

Brute frowned uneasily, shifting his eyes quickly toward the barred door. “Night?”

“It’s quite simple. If he calls out anything in his sleep—and you’ll know he’s sleeping because the words will actually be intelligible—take note of it, then hurry off and repeat it to the guard at the door. It’d be better if you could write it down, but I suppose there’s no chance of that.”

“Why do I have to do this?” Brute asked, not feeling at all comforted by these instructions.

“It doesn’t matter to you. Just do as you’re told. You’ll be paid outrageously well for your services, by the way. Room and board, of course, plus you’ll be kept outfitted in something more… suitable. And you’ll receive a silver coin each month, and an extra for the Festival of the Harvest Moon.”

Brute’s jaw dropped. As best as he could figure, a silver coin was nearly the equivalent of all the coppers he’d earn in a year of toiling for Darius. And not having to pay for his meals and the roof over his head! What would he do with such wealth?

Maybe Maudit didn’t notice his astonishment, because he continued speaking. “You won’t actually be given the coins. Too inconvenient. But you’ll be added to the exchequer’s books, and he’ll keep track of your earnings. You simply ask him if you wish to receive some of it in hand. I’d suggest keeping very little. It’s always easier to spend it when it’s jingling in your purse.”

“I… all right.”

“Fine then. Come along. I’ve real work to attend to today, you know. I’ll find someone to show you where to get food and such, and I suppose you’ll have to be taken to the tailor and the shoemaker.” He wrinkled his nose slightly. “Someone will show you the baths as well. And maybe… maybe a haircut would help. Or maybe not.”

Without looking at the prisoner or even acknowledging his existence, Lord Maudit led Brute from the apartment, down the hall, and to the front door.

“What did he do?” Brute asked quietly as he ducked to avoid an especially low beam. “Why’s he being kept here?”

“It’s no business of yours.”

B
RUTE
was handed off to a half-grown boy with a shock of fiery hair. Once the boy decided that Brute wasn’t going to tear him limb from limb, he attacked his role with enthusiasm, preening as passersby watched him giving the monster the grand tour. They went to the kitchens first but didn’t eat anything, much to the dismay of Brute’s empty stomach. He’d never imagined such an enormous place for cooking, or such vast quantities of food. “You’ll fetch your meals from here,” said the boy, whose name was Warin. “Three times each day. Just ask one of the scullery maids or pot boys and they’ll fill plates for you and… him.”

They left the kitchens through a side door, out into a courtyard that contained several brick ovens. Boys were carrying armfuls of wood and placing them under the bricks, presumably so the dinnertime breads could be baked. There didn’t seem to be much reason to tarry in this courtyard, but Warin walked slowly, and Brute realized his guide was enjoying the other youths’ gaping admiration. “Who is he?” Brute asked when they finally exited the courtyard and walked down a path of well-worn cobbles.