Flight From Blithmore (29 page)

“Who
would have misplaced it?” Ruther countered. “Brandol? The kid is more afraid of
losing his life than anyone. He guarded it like a dog.”

“But
not Wilson,” Isabelle said.

“Who,
then? One of his children?”

“I
don’t know, but—”

“His
wife?”

“We
don’t know, but we trust him!” Henry shouted.

Ruther
jerked back as though Henry’s words had burned him. “It was only an idea,” he
mumbled, then led Ghost and the pack horse past them.

Isabelle
remembered what James had hinted at earlier to Henry. Her brother had been
right. There was something deeper going on between these two friends. The rest
of the party was thrilled to see Ruther return. Maggie even smiled, a rare
thing where Ruther was concerned. That small act made Isabelle realize that
things were not hopeless despite losing the writ of passage. They had enough
food to last to Bookerton and, thanks to Wilson, a good knowledge of back
trails that would keep them far from prying eyes. Over the following days, a
sense of cautious optimism returned to her, and also to the camp. Henry was the
exception, but despite Isabelle’s pleas, he would not tell her what troubled
him.

A
chasm had grown between the two best friends. She saw it in their small talk,
in the way Ruther looked at Henry with a sad smile, and in how he accepted
Henry’s decisions without debate or sarcastic remarks. It wasn’t the Ruther she
knew, yet for all the hurt it was causing them, Henry wouldn’t talk about it.

They
followed Wilson’s paths for two more weeks until they were near Bookerton. As
Wilson promised, the party encountered no trouble. It put to rest the argument
between Ruther and Henry of whether or not Wilson could be trusted. What it did
not put to rest was the question still on everyone’s mind: where had the writ
of passage gone?

Thirty-Four
-

Tightening the Noose

One
week after
the meeting between General Attikus and the King of
Blithmore, the carriage driving the general moved steadily southward toward New
Germaine, a town in the dead center of Blithmore. This was the place where
Attikus would command the Elite Guard forces until he received information
directing him where to go next. In the carriage, sitting across from him, were
his two lieutenants: Wellick and Kressin.

Both
men had begun their military service back when Attikus had served as general
under the former Emperor, but the majority of their rise in the ranks had been
under General Derkop. They had been a part of every decision executed under
Derkop’s leadership for the past several months. Attikus had come to learn over
the last few weeks that General Derkop could not have run an effective campaign
in the search for the Emperor’s enemies.

“Lieutenant
Wellick,” he said, when their discussion had ended and the time for orders
began, “you will take your half of the Elite Guard directly to the southeastern
port cities and towns. You will coordinate the efforts with your captains. I
know the leaders of your companies, there won’t be problems. On your way, every
town, village, and community is to be addressed. Detailed descriptions and
sketches of the criminals should be placed at every inn, marketplace, public
house, church, and any other place where you find large groups of people.”

“Yes,
General,” came Wellick’s sharp reply, still too formal for what the general was
used to from his old lieutenants, but these men were still under the influence
of the rumors about him. He wasn’t amused by the way they watched him closely,
trying to discover which, if any, of the rumors were true.

“You
will do the same, Kressin, but in the southwest. If they plan to leave the
country, we want to be certain they have nowhere to go. We may send a small
contingency out to watch the Iron Pass, but only on my orders.”

“Yes,
General.”

“I
will remind you again, the Emperor wants both Isabelle and Henry alive. If they
are killed, there will be very serious consequences for those
involved—imprisonment or worse. The other criminals can all be killed.”

“General,
may I have permission to speak?” Wellick asked.

“Yes.”

“What
is to be done if the King’s soldiers find them before we do?”

“The
Emperor has not answered that question yet. I suppose it will become a battle
of diplomacy.” Though Attikus spoke these words, he did not believe them. His
suspicions were that the Emperor would go to great lengths to protect his
investment and have revenge on his assailant. He preferred to not think about
those aspects of the royalty he served; it made sleeping easier.

“General,
will we receive further instruction when we accomplish our assignments?”
Wellick asked.

“Sooner,
most likely,” Attikus answered.

That
was another difference between Attikus and Derkop. Derkop rewarded his men too
often with short periods of leave and rest. Not Attikus. He demanded that his
men always be doing something productive. Wellick, he guessed, would flourish
under his form of leadership. With Kressin, however, it remained to be seen. If
Kressin needed replacing, Attikus already knew of three good men who could
easily take his place. “With the number of rider stations we have established,
you’ll be able to reach me by post within two or three days’ ride.”

The
carriage slowed, a glance out the window told Attikus that they had arrived at
the outpost in New Germaine. He nodded to his men. “You have your orders.”

Both
men saluted the general and muttered the motto, “For the glory of Neverak.”

Attikus
returned it with vigor and exited the carriage. The Elite Guard companies were
already in New Germaine, waiting to be put to use. Wellick, if anyone, would be
successful in capturing the criminals. Attikus knew Blithmore extensively. If
the criminals hadn’t already found some hole to hide in forever, then they were
headed south, most likely following the Drewberry River.

According
to the reports of the King’s Guard and the regular soldiers, several companies
had been sent searching all along the river. If his hunches were right, then it
was only the fortune of the criminals or the blundering of King Germaine’s army
that had preserved them until now. His mind’s eye stretched out forever,
imagining himself to be one of the criminals, desperate and hunted, and it was
with this pretense that he made his decisions. Where would they go? Would they,
as he imagined, try to leave the country? If so, would they indeed leave by
boat? None of the criminals held any real loyalty to the throne but the
guardsman, James, yet the Emperor’s spies said he had been dishonorably
discharged from the King’s service just weeks before the attack on the Emperor.

Their
other options of emigration were northward into Neverak, heading west over the
Great Mountains, southward by sea, or eastward through the Iron Pass into
Pappalon. Going into Neverak or trying to cross the mountains so late in the
year were suicidal. As for the pass, Attikus knew the stories and did not
believe they would take such a risk. Certainly they would make for the southern
shore and hire a boat. Though the Emperor had brought him into the hunt a few
weeks late, Attikus still had time to beat them to the ports.

He
remembered the first execution he had witnessed as a boy living in a hovel with
his parents who raised sheep, pigs, and goats to sell as meat. In Neverak,
executions were considered special occasions, particularly in small villages,
and everyone came to see them. The sentenced man, Keaton, had been the leader
of a band of robbers whose swift demise came when they stole a crown jewel en
route to the King of Avalon.

The
Emperor at the time released the might of Neverak to hunt down the band. The
Elite Guard spared Keaton only long enough to make a public statement to any
others who dared to defy the royal family. Attikus attended with his mother and
father, though he was too small to see above the backs and heads of the people
in front of him. A strange scent permeated the air, and young Attikus
recognized it as the fervor of the crowd around him. It was a rudimentary
sensation—a salty, bitter flavor.

Pushing
his way to the front of the crowd, Attikus watched as the executioner took a
harmless piece of rope, something so commonplace, and knotted it into a weapon.
Its shape fascinated him. Children played games with ropes every day, and yet
the same toy could be used to end life. The noose was the part of the rope that
held the power. The rope ended in the simple shape of a circle, but the noose
allowed that circle to shrink and shrink until the circle had fastened itself
so tight around the victim that escape—and breathing— became impossible. From
where he stood, Attikus could see individual fibers of the noose, how they
quivered from the criminal’s fear, then went still once Keaton the criminal had
lost his life.

The
noose was a lesson he had never forgotten, but only one among the thousands
assimilated into his intellect. In his mind’s eye, he saw Wellick marching
through Furnton, Dermatosh, Boggermon, Grubbingville, Strandling, Treebush, and
finally Bookerton, with a dozen more smaller villages along the way. With every
town they passed, the noose grew tighter and tighter. He knew it was possible
that he had been summoned into this affair too late—but that was unlikely. If
the timetable he had set for Wellick and Kressin was kept, Wellick would be at
Bookerton in three weeks’ time. Then any chance of leaving by port would be
sealed off by Kressin.

“General,”
a voice called to his right. Attikus recognized it as of one of his runners.
“An urgent letter from Neverak. From the Emperor.”

“I’ll
take it now, thank you,” Attikus replied. The boy no older than fifteen handed
it over, saluted like a man, and received the general’s returning salute.

Thirty-Five
-

Disaster at Bookerton

Four
miles northeast
of Bookerton, in a wooded area that provided
barely enough cover, Henry suggested to James they stop and hold council.

“We
need some ideas for our strategy in Bookerton,” Henry stated, “and I don’t have
any.”

“What’s
wrong with me going in by myself again?” Ruther asked.

“It
will look suspicious,” James answered, “if you’re going around with three
horses loaded down with packs of food.”

“Then
Brandol and I can do what we did back in Fletchersville—with the nobleman and
the squire.”

“You’ll
be the nobleman?” Henry asked.

“Of
course,” Ruther said, “and Brandol can be my charming, boot-licking squire.”

A
sharp clatter startled everyone as Brandol threw down his dishes. “I ain’t
going to Bookerton! I won’t do it. You ain’t makin’ me.”

Maggie
reached over and grabbed Brandol’s arm. “Don’t overreact. No one’s making you
do anything.”

Ruther
looked like he was on the verge of saying something very rude to Brandol, so
Henry interjected with a question. “Ruther, how many times have you performed
in Bookerton?”

“I
did two one-week stretches. The last one was well over a year ago.”

“You’re
no good, Ruther,” James stated. “Someone is bound to recognize you.”

“I’m
not wanted. It doesn’t matter if I’m recognized.”

“You’re
not thinking.” James tapped his own head as he spoke. “Bookerton is a major
stop for most travelers. There will be a lot of soldiers with nothing to do
except follow people who look suspicious. A storyteller from Richterton
wandering around with three horses laden with supplies is plenty suspicious.”

“Ruther
is the best chance we have,” Isabelle said. “He’s inventive enough to talk
himself out of any situation, no matter how strange it may look. I think he’s
right, he should go.”

Ruther
gave a grateful nod to Isabelle who smiled back at him.

Maggie
spoke up next. “As much as I loathe the idea of putting my life in Ruther’s
hands, I don’t see a better choice, either.”

“It’s
a bad idea to send him alone,” James commented. Henry knew those words were
meant for Brandol, even though James didn’t address the journeyman directly.
Brandol kept his gaze fixed on the ground. His face was white but his jaw set.
The conversation paused as everyone pondered the same question: Who would go
with Ruther?

“I
won’t allow Isabelle or my sister to go,” Henry finally said. To make certain
Maggie or Isabelle weren’t offended, he added, “Not because I think either of
you are incapable, but because I want you safe.”

“I
must disqualify myself as well,” James added, but he wouldn’t look at anyone as
he said it. “It’s likely I could be recognized by someone I served with during
. . . . ”

Ruther
held out his fingers and began counting. “So that leaves us with—”

Henry
threw a pebble at his friend. Despite all the awkward feelings between them
recently, Ruther batted it down with a smile. “Like old times, friend.” He
winked roguishly. “Always getting into trouble.”

“And
always getting out of it,” Henry answered with similar gusto, though he envied
Ruther’s reckless confidence. “I’ll need a disguise, won’t I?”

“My
blond wig will work.”

Isabelle
started to object to this idea, but Henry begged her not to with a simple look.
Her eyes communicated back to him her worries, and Henry silently told her he
understood, but this had to be done.

“It’d
be best to go first thing in the morning,” James said, “when the market is
busiest.”

“We
should have someone waiting nearby in case something happens,” Maggie added.

“I
agree. Who should it be?”

Again,
everyone was thinking of the same person, and this time Brandol raised his
hand, albeit reluctantly.

“Good,”
James said. “I’ll be the second point of the relay.”

“Glad
that’s all settled,” Ruther declared. “We should go to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

Soon,
six beds of ragged blankets were laid around the campfire. Isabelle pulled hers
close to Henry’s and draped an arm over him. Without even thinking, Henry
scooted himself closer to her, kissing her on the cheek.

“Are
you worried?” she asked him.

“No,”
Henry lied. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

He
didn’t think she believed him. She gave him her best smile and whispered, “I
love you,” in his ear.

“I
love you more,” he answered back, kissing her again, this time on the lips.

“Alright,
you two,” Ruther called out from the opposite side of the fire, “go to sleep.”

Henry
didn’t think sleep would come easily, but it did. Something about Isabelle’s
touch and her closeness soothed his mind. His sleep was deep and peaceful, only
briefly troubled when he dreamed Ruther was leaving camp again. In his dream,
he heard Ghost’s soft gait as he bore Ruther away from camp, but Henry’s mind
was too content to be alarmed.

When
he woke in the morning, he felt calm and optimistic. Ruther and James had
already eaten. They woke Brandol, who decided to leave without breakfast. The
morning was chilly, but they had traveled far enough south that the winter’s
bite had lost its teeth. The frost on the ground disappeared soon after the sun
rose. Henry guessed they had four or five hours yet until noon. Each man rode
on his own steed with Henry and Ruther bringing along the spares.

They
left James at the edge of a cotton field two miles away from Bookerton’s
markets. He had only his pack, his horse, and his sword. He waved to them as
they rode away. “God speed in the city to both of you,” he called out, “and
you, too, Brandol.”

Henry,
Ruther, and Brandol rode on. They had no need to speak now. Everything had been
discussed the previous night. The silence was uncomfortable, but Henry didn’t
break it. His mind was calm, strangely enough. He had expected to wake up
anxious or frightened, but no matter how much he thought about the danger, that
sense of calmness stayed with him.

Brandol,
on the other hand, wasn’t even paying attention to the road. His eyes roved
over everything, and he constantly looked over his shoulder to see if they were
being followed. Henry watched his journeyman with mixed emotions. Brandol would
rove around the outskirts of the market as though he was searching for
something, staying within distance of Ruther or Henry’s call for help. If he
heard it, Brandol was to ride to James. After leaving him to his post with
words of encouragement, Ruther and Henry rode straightway into town. As they
passed the houses and shops, Henry heard the locals speaking or yelling to each
other. Most of them had strong southern accents.

“Do
you think they’ll be suspicious of us?” he asked Ruther quietly.

“Nar,
I ‘ighly doort it,” Ruther said in a near-perfect replication of the accent.
“B’sides, they gert larts of viztors round ’ere, and you look mighty genteel in
that big yella wig o’ yours.”

Henry
chuckled and itched under the wig’s lining. “I think it better if I refrain
from speaking altogether.”

“A
wonderful suggestion, friend.”

The
markets were as James had said they would be: busy, even so close to winter. It
was one of the great differences between Richterton and Bookerton. In
Richterton, the markets were closed for almost four months out of the year. In
Bookerton, they never closed.

Before
entering the market, they dismounted and led their horses on foot as riding was
banned during the busy morning hours. From stand to stand, the streets were jammed
with people. It was impossible to move without brushing into someone, and the
crowds moved along slowly. Henry wanted to split up to cut the time it took by
half, but Ruther insisted on staying together.

“I
don’t trust you to not give yourself away,” he told Henry, still using his
Bookerton accent.

They
bought dried meat and fruit without incident. Ruther handled the transactions.
As they made their way toward the herb stands, Henry’s wig was pulled off by a
passing woman carrying a large basket on her shoulder. He turned back to see
his wig clinging to the brambles of the basket. The large woman didn’t even
notice it hanging there. Henry thought about stopping her when Ruther cut him
off.

“Best
to not make a scene.”

At
the grain stands, someone recognized Ruther. The merchant was a portly man with
a good-natured face and no more than a dozen hairs left on his head. When he
saw Ruther, his eyes lit up. In an accent so thick that Henry barely understood
him, he said, “Now, aren’t you that storyteller what ‘oo came ‘round not too
long ago?”

Ruther
basked in the recognition. “Yes. Yes, I am.

The
large merchant grabbed Ruther firmly by the hand and said, “Yes, you are!
Richard, right?”

Ruther
clapped his hands with a laugh. “Yep, that’s it in one guess. Richard. What’s
your name, sir?”

“Willard.”

“Good
morning, Willard,” Ruther said, shaking Willard’s dusty hand heartily a second
time. “I am in need of grain today.”

“Just
a moment,” Willard said, then cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted,
“Gaffen! Now—Gaffen! Come ‘ere, Gaffen!”

Henry
and Ruther turned to see who Gaffen could be. Toward them peered a tall, pale,
and skinny man with a mop of gray-brown hair who’d been selling barley and oats
two stands over. The customers to whom he’d been speaking had all turned around
to see why Willard was yelling.

“Come
‘ere, Gaffen!” Willard shouted.

Gaffen
spoke a few more words to his customers and gestured for them to wait. Ruther
turned back to Willard and said, “Oh no, that’s fine. I actually don’t have
time—”

“Oh,
Gaffen thort you were the best thing to happen to him since his wife left him
fer a sailor. He’ll want to meet you.”

“Hmmm,
I—uh—I might have a moment to spare.” Ruther glanced back quickly at Henry, who
closed his eyes in frustration.

Gaffen
slinked his way through the crowd until he arrived at Willard’s grain stand,
pushing past Henry without a thought. Willard met Gaffen and turned him to face
Ruther.

“Remember
this fella?” Willard said with a gigantic grin on his face. “Don’t tell me you
don’t remember ‘im!”

Gaffen’s
face instantly showed recognition. “The best storyteller in Blithmer! Would I
ferget? Ferget Luther?” Gaffen grabbed Ruther’s hand and shook it like a dusty
rug. “I’m Gaffen. I sell raisins, oats, you name it . . . right o’er there.”

“Er,
no, Gaffen, it’s Richard,” Willard said with an embarrassed smile to Ruther.

Ruther
patted Gaffen on the shoulder. “Don’t fret, it’s been over a year.”

“You’re
back in town now, eh?” Gaffen asked. “Where will you be perferming?”

“I
won’t be, unfortunately. I’m passing through on my way west.”

Gaffen
finally noticed the horses and packs Ruther had brought with him, then his eyes
rested on Henry. “This fella with you, too?” he said, jerking a thumb into
Henry’s face.

“Uh,
no,” Ruther said. “Not really, I mean. He’s pointing me to the places I can
find the best grain for Ghost.” He patted his horse’s face affectionately.

“That’s
the finest compliment I’ve ‘eard in a while, young man,” Willard said to Henry
with another extended hand. “What’s your name?”

“Without
any intentions of being rude in my haste,” Ruther added, “I must be moving
along. I have many miles and too few days ahead.”

“O’
course!” Willard said, now moving as though he were twenty years younger to
satisfy Ruther’s demands. Gaffen, meanwhile, continued to stare at Henry.

“So
what is your name?” he asked.

Henry
pulled out the first name that popped into his head. “Jennifer—no—Brad.”

“Jennifer
Nobrad?” Gaffen repeated.

“Ain’t
Jennifer a girl’s name?” Willard asked.

Ruther
spoke before Henry had a chance. “Jennifer is actually from up north. Up there,
it’s becoming very common for folks to name their boys with girls’ names, and
girls with boys’ names.”

“I
always say them northerners are odd folk, don’t I, Gaffen?”

“That
you do,” Gaffen responded, still looking at Henry, “but I swear there’s
something familiar aboort this one.” The same thumb went back into Henry’s
face. More than anything, Henry hated being referred to as “this one” because
the men adored Ruther. “You certain you and I ain’t met b’fore?”

Henry
nodded, looking to Ruther for help.

“So
let me purchase that grain now,” Ruther said with an enthusiastic clap. “If I
don’t get out of here soon, I’ll be late for an evening tale.”