Flight From Blithmore (32 page)

“Do
ya have money?”

“You
owe my uncle the favor.”

“If
ya had come during the day, it would be free. In the middle of the night, the
favor is me answering the door.”

Ruther
smiled and removed two double crowns from his pocket, though he still had more
inside. The man scowled when he saw it.

“You’re
a miser. This better be an easy job.”

From
his other pocket, Ruther removed the red lumpy cloth and handed it to the man.
“Please, Quincy, can you fix this?”

Quincy
took the lump and unwrapped it. Maggie’s necklace gleamed in the light of the
lantern. He picked it up gingerly and examined it. “Who made this, may I ask?”

“I
don’t know,” Ruther answered, impatient in the cold, “but I’m short on time.”

“Alright!
Alright! Go around back, and I’ll let ya in.”

Ruther
followed Quincy’s instructions, and the back door opened to him.

“I
never thought I’d be seeing ya again, ya know? And I won’t lie, it’s good that
I did.”

“Thank
you.” Ruther couldn’t help grinning. “It’s been almost twelve years, hasn’t
it?”

Quincy
grunted his affirmation as he busied himself at building up a fire in the
bellows. Ruther took a seat on a bench and watched the sturdy old man work in
his small but tidy shop. It reminded him of the many hours he had sat in the
same place doing the same thing as a lad. In those days, a bowl of soup had
rested in his hand, compliments of Quincy’s wife. Each day Quincy would ask
Ruther to make up a story and tell it. Then the jeweler picked each tale apart
after Ruther finished.

Quincy
looked over his tools through weary eyes. His thin, gray hair was tousled in
parts, flattened in others. “So what are ya doing here, boy?”

“It’s
a long story,” Ruther replied.

Quincy
chuckled at the remark. “So what are ya waiting for?”

“Can
I trust you to keep a few secrets?”

Quincy
glared at him as he began blowing air into the fire.

“Sorry,”
Ruther responded.

He
missed having a bowl of soup in his hand as he told his story. Quincy’s wife
was a fine cook, and Ruther’s stomach grumbled at him. He started his tale by
giving Quincy a brief history of his life in Richterton: how his uncle used his
last connections to get Ruther a place as an apprentice with the late Mr.
Vestin, his education there, the blunders that led to being kicked out by Mrs.
Vestin at age seventeen, and finally deciding on becoming a traveling
storyteller.

As
Ruther spoke, Quincy went to work on the necklace, fixing the broken links and
adding touches here and there to make it look better than the day it had been
cast. Ruther paused only when the jeweler held up his hand and stared angrily
at a bit of gold. He would mutter comments of frustration to himself, then say,
“Go on now, boy. Go on.”

Ruther
felt like he was ten again. The acrid smells of molten metal and the hissing
sounds of water and fire comforted him. The jeweler stopped him to ask
questions every so often, just as he had when they were both over a dozen years
younger.

“Hard
to believe you got caught up in all this nonsense with the Emperor of Neverak.”

“I
know.”

“It
sounds to me like you’ve become a lot like your uncle whether ya wanted that or
not.”

Ruther
frowned. “What? Why?”

“Don’t
act like a shocked woman, Ruther,” the jeweler said. “Look at yourself: no
wife, no job, I can tell ya drink too much because you’re so fat, and I’ll bet
ya gamble, too. Probably up to your ears in debt.”

“I’m
not my uncle.”

Quincy
pointed his metal tongs at Ruther’s gut. “Yes, ya are. Ya loved your uncle,
didn’t ya?”

“You
know I did.”

“Then,
confound it all! Why would ya become him? That’s the last thing he’d have
wanted for ya.”

“I’m
not my uncle,” Ruther repeated.

Quincy
held up the necklace with all the love and tenderness a jeweler could show a
string of gold. “Ya love her?”

“No,”
Ruther answered without hesitation.

“Then
ya are your uncle,” the jeweler told him, “because he couldn’t love either.”

“He
loved me.”

“He
liked ya,” Quincy said, still inspecting the necklace with eyes too old to be
so keen. “As close he could to loving ya, but he never did. He told me that
once.” His eyes slowly moved from the necklace to Ruther, whose face had
fallen.

“I
don’t believe you, Quincy,” Ruther said before thinking. It wasn’t Quincy’s
place to say such things. “He—he told me he loved me.” As he said this, he
searched his memory for a specific instance when his uncle had told him this.

“Your
uncle only loved two things, and ya know what they were because neither of them
were named Ruther.”

Ruther’s
chest heaved twice and he stood up to calm himself. “I still don’t believe
you.”

“Now
don’t go blowing your lid, Ruther,” the jeweler said, almost amused. “Your
necklace is done.” Ruther moved to accept it back, but the jeweler pulled it
back. “Where did ya get it?”

“It
isn’t mine.”

“Then
ask her where she got it from.”

“It
was her mother’s.”

Quincy
gazed lovingly on it once more. “There must be some story behind this necklace,
for I’ve seen very few that equal it. Can’t you see how magnificent it is?”

Ruther
looked at the necklace closer. Other than the gold, he did not see what made it
so grand. “How much would you say it’s worth?”

The
jeweler pulled the chain away from Ruther with mock disdain. “I won’t tell ya
so as not to tempt ya.”

Ruther
made an impatient noise with his lips. “Really, Quincy, I wouldn’t sell it!”

“I’ll
tell ya if ya tell me why ya want it fixed,” the jeweler teased.

“Alright.
It’s a parting gift.” Ruther hated the guilt that stung his heart as he voiced
his intentions aloud.

Quincy
wrapped it gently in the red cloth and handed it back to Ruther with similar
care. “Depends on where ya sold it. In the south, ya’d get four—maybe three or
four hundred crowns for it. In the north, closer to Richterton, double or
triple that.”

Ruther
wished now he hadn’t asked its price. He was tempted. Did Maggie know this? Did
she even have a hint of its value? The jeweler saw all this in his face and
shook his head.

“You’re
one pathetic man, Ruther,” he said. “I won’t lie, I expected more of ya. I
expected ya to use your gift to tell stories and change the world.”

“I
do tell stories,” Ruther answered in a glum voice.

“Then
ya gamble and drink all your money away so nobody gives one lick about ya as a
man. Ya got no credibility.”

Ruther
shook his head. “Thank you for the reparation, Quincy. It will mean a lot to my
fr—my friend’s sister.”

Quincy
took Ruther’s hand in his and kissed it with dry lips, a Pappalonian custom.
“It’s good to see ya, Ruther. Real good. How old are ya, boy?”

“Twenty-two.”

Quincy
nodded as though he’d known this all along. “Then you’ve got plenty of time to
change.”

Ruther
gave the jeweler a small smile and pocketed the necklace in its cloth. “I don’t
know about that, Quincy. I don’t know about that at all.” It weighed heavier in
his pocket than before, far more than the additional repairs could have added.
When Quincy opened the door, Ruther saw a faint glow on the horizon and swore
under his breath.

“I’ve
been here far too long! I’ve got to go!” he ran for his horse and called out
over his shoulder, “Thank you again!”

Quincy
stood in the doorway waving at Ruther as he rode away. Ruther made the best
time he could on his way back, but knew he would be very lucky to find everyone
still asleep when he returned, especially with James’ cursed military habits.

Both
he and Ghost were exhausted as they came to the hill nearest where his friends
camped. He steeled himself for the worst, and it was a good thing he did.

Thirty-Eight
-

A General’s Post

Three
days after
Henry’s party escaped Bookerton, Attikus was deep in
council with his sub-Lieutenants when his daily post arrived. Attikus followed
the delivery boy with his eyes as the young man passed the window and let
himself inside Attikus’ small house. The boy held a small stack of papers and
envelopes, most of which were reports from his various subordinates throughout
the field, perhaps a personal note from a family member.

One
in particular caught his attention: an envelope near the top bearing the mark
of the Neverak seal. It was no great thing to receive parcels from the Emperor,
but this one was different. It was in a black envelope with a red seal. The
Emperor Ivan had carried over the tradition from his father: a letter inside a
black envelope with the red seal of the Emperor had to be read alone and burned
immediately after the recipient finished reading it.

“Excuse
me a moment,” he said as he stood.

The
other soldiers stood and saluted him as he left to return to his own quarters.
Rather than returning the salute, he accepted his mail and left. This was the
first black envelope he’d received since his reinstatement as general. He had
received only two during his entire service to the old Emperor.

He
closed the door to the adjacent room and locked it. By the light of the fire in
the fireplace, he checked the envelope for any signs of tampering. Satisfied
everything was in order, he opened it:

General
Attikus,

Your
order in regards to the “Richterton rebels” has changed. The carpenter and the
slave are still to be captured and delivered to the palace with no more harm
than is necessary, particularly on the part of the slave. However, the rest of
the party is to be allowed to escape, without exception, in order to preserve
the illusion that the rebels remain at large.

It
is in the Empire’s best interest that the carpenter and slave are secured
without the knowledge of the Blithmore army and royalty. Furthermore, no
evidence should remain of their apprehension. Your orders are to remove any evidence
of their capture at any reasonable cost.

On
a personal note, your youngest son recently received his enlistment in the
Elite Guard. I do not doubt that your example will lead your son to a brilliant
career in the service of Neverak. My blessings are upon you.

For
the Glory of Neverak,

Emperor
Ivan Richter Krallick III

Attikus
burned the letter the moment he finished reading it. The heat of the crackling
fire consuming the parchment was nothing compared to the furnace raging inside
him. He wanted to scream the Emperor’s name in conjunction with every curse he
knew. The epistle had been an insult with every word, every sentence—a
backhanded slap across his face that would be never be forgotten.

Did
the Emperor think Attikus’ loyalty needed to be anchored to Neverak by veiled
threats against his children? Apparently. Furthermore, after years of
impeccable service to Emperor Peter Krallick, and years of teaching and
training Ivan swordplay and the arts of war, this Emperor rewarded the general
with deceit.

The
general’s own mistakes also glared at him. He had ignored what he knew resided
in the Emperor’s heart simply because he had loved Ivan’s father as a brother.
He had gone against the quiet voice in the back of his mind warning him to not
trust a man known to keep slaves and murder those who offended him. After a
lifetime of military service, where insults and back-stabbing were a common
occurrence as men climbed over one another to secure promotions and placements,
Attikus had seen this kind of behavior, but not from the man to whom he had
pledged fealty under any circumstance.

He
sat in his chair and overlooked a table filled with maps laden with small lead
figures that represented several hundred Elite Guard—his work. He wanted to
wipe everything off and throw the table across the room, but he knew it would
not improve his situation. Nor would it help to stay in his chair and let bad
thoughts stew. Then it occurred to him that he had not finished reading his
post. He returned to the pile, the ones which he deemed important he put in one
stack, the rest went into a second.

He
read report after report from his Lieutenants and sub-Lieutenants explaining
why they had no sign or trail of the rebels. Each of these reports would be
saved for future reference, although Attikus rarely referred to them. He
possessed the ability to recall anything he read, and kept reports only for
proof of the information he acted upon.

One
of the last pieces of post was not a report, nor was it an arrogant betrayal
from an Emperor. In fact, he did not know what it was. At first glance, he
suspected it to be a personal letter from his wife, but she did not use such
crude parchment for her letters. On the front was scribbled this:

to
the leader of the armies

Whoever
the writer was, he had scribbled this in haste, then folded the paper in half.
The penmanship inside was no different:

we
are going to iron pass. east Bookerton in hills. i have writ of passage.
exchange this letter for freedom.

Beneath
this cryptic passage, someone had scrawled a name he couldn’t decipher. Attikus
added the letter to the stack of important documents, wondering how credible
the information could be. After all, the Iron Pass was the place he least
expected the criminals to go. No sooner had this thought crossed his mind, a
knock came at the door. A rider of the Elite Guard waited outside bearing
another letter.

“General,”
the soldier said in salute, “urgent news from Lieutenant Wellick.”

Attikus
accepted it with thanks and began reading. The report left him very upset. It
detailed the capture of a man fitting the description of Henry Vestin by
Blithmore soldiers, his release by a member of a King’s Guard who did not
exist, but fitted the description of former-First Guard James Oslan. It
revealed details of an assault on a soldier by a monk wearing a robe identical
to the one Vestin had worn in The Glimmering Fountain.

Attikus
wasted no time. He collected his papers and returned to the council. If he
acted immediately, the criminals might be cut off. If Vestin’s party reached
the pass first, it would be impossible to take them at all.

He
re-entered the meeting to set forth a storm of action. First, he briefed his
sub-Lieutenants on the information, then he gave specific orders that two
independent companies should go to the pass taking separate routes, one through
the hills, and one on the roads. Whichever reached the pass entrance first
would camp out and scout, waiting for the other. Then, in private, he wrote a
reply to Lieutenant Wellick, ordering him to meet with one of the companies and
take over their operations, repeating to him the same instructions he had
received from the Emperor. Finally, Attikus sealed the orders, gave them to the
rider, and sent him away on the freshest and swiftest horse.