I Know Not (The Story of Fox Crow) (18 page)

      The young man staggered to his feet, his hands twitching for the grip of his sword, but I was so very close, and the dagger in my hand was so very sharp.

      “He should be in his quarters.”

      “And those are?”

      “His is the first door west past the barracks.” Palmer said, somewhat churlishly I thought. After all, I could have just cut out his eye and listened to him scream the answer.

      “Take me.” I said in a voice that stated very clearly that even though it looked like I was putting the knife away, it would forever be in my hand.

      Thankfully, he behaved himself as we traveled upwards and trough the halls to the outer courtyard. This was fine by me, because I was working the painful knots left out of my left shoulder by the rooftop rope escape. I still had little doubt I could maintain control of the idiot until we turned the blind corner to the rear side of the Grand Sage. Furthest away from the gate the barracks sat next to the stables, the drafty, yet perversely unventilated wooden structures virtual twins. the reason they were back here was simple: Vital to life and security they may be, it would be awful for the nobility to have to see where the horses shat or the dirty soldiers slept. It also, and I am not certain that this was by accident, it allowed guards to mount up out of sight of the street and any guests to quickly respond to any threat. And by threat I mean something big enough that simply shutting the door to what amounted to a castle wouldn’t do it on its own.

      Apparently this was one such time. Guards, shucked of heavy mail and shield and armed only with swords, worked alongside stable boys to sling saddles onto the backs of trembling horses, only to mount them the very instant the cinches were tight. They left in waves of five or six, necessitating the Lieutenant and I hug the castle wall as they rode forth like a rushing wall of thunder.

      Palmer forgot himself for a moment and asked, “Where are they going?”

      “To search the roads for the good Captain.” I said, moving again.

      “Why would the Captain be on the road?”

      I sighed, because I needed Palmer along to give me the illusion of being escorted, but I’d much prefer him tongueless, “Let’s say if you arrange for all the guards to be busy at the time an assassin tries to sneak into the castle, it is probably wise to be elsewhere no matter what else you had planned for the evening.”

      The good lieutenant reached like a upper crust matron walking in on country boys swimming nude in a city fountain, “The Captain would never do such a thing! He is the most loyal man in the barracks.”

      “I would bet he’s the one that ordered the servants to bring the drinks to the roof.”

      My opposite frowned at me, “What proof do you have, cur?”

      In response I just motioned to the chaos all around. Another officer called out to the next group of soldiers mounting up, “Sorrow Road, boys! Keep your lamps bright and your edges sharp!”

      And then they stormed off, giving me enough cover in the confusion to loop around the crowd even in the comical cloak. The doors to the long building for the enlisted men was open and soldiers were constantly coming in and out. Beyond there were five doors to much smaller buildings, apartments for the officers. The first one, belonging to the Captain, had been messily kicked open. With no guard, and all the commotion behind us, it was simplicity itself to just walk in.

      “The Captain is an honest man. I’d stake my life on it.”

      “And if someone gave him a waterweight of gold?”

      “Never!”

      Behind him another officer was rallying his hunting crew, “His Grand Lordship only needs the head back, gents. Gold coins to those that carry it!”

      Meanwhile I fixed the Lieutenant with a hard stare, “How about three waterweights?”

      At least that shut him up. The sparse room had the luxury of privacy, and little else. Snow was tracked over the floor where the door kicker had come in, looked under the bed and in the wardrobe, and then left. I opened drawers as the Lieutenant made mute protest, and fingered through his wardrobe and chest. So much had been left behind, as if the Captain would be back any second. I poked around, and found what was missing almost as telling as what was left behind: Every bit of heraldry or military equipment for sure.

      Finally, lost in thought, I sat on the edge of the bed and considered the facts as I knew them. The heels of my light, climbing boots clunked against something under the blanket and I lifted it, exposing large, reinforced boots not unlike those I had worn all through the Sorrow Wood. These, however, were made of leather dyed in Horatio’s colors, like those worn by all armed men in his employ. Boots like those would take a man across the kingdom and not give up when the average street boots would have your feet covered in blisters and splitting at the seams after six days cross-country. Heavy boots were worth more than two months wages to any guard, even an officer, and it usually took days to cobble a fresh set.

      Just then the Lieutenant lost his patience, “The Captain is not here.”

      “No, and he will not be found on the road.” I murmured.

      “What did you say?”

      And then I remembered I was not talking to Miller, Godwin, Theo, or Jon. Gates as impenetrable as any in the kingdom slammed shut inside me and I exited the Captains apartment. “You are free to go, Lieutenant. Do stay out of trouble.”

      Color flushed his cheeks as he realized he was chasing me like a lost puppy, begging for scraps of knowledge, “In the name of the Grand Duke, I order you to tell me what you know, peasant!”

      “Try not to get on my bad side until I’ve had time to develop a proper hatred for you, Lieutenant.” I tossed the acid words over my shoulder, not bothering to turn but keeping a keen ear open for the rasp of a blade being drawn.

      Instead, another soldier, slightly more senior than Palmer from the looks of him, came and grabbed my puppy by the elbow, “Lieutenant! I need you to lead a party here -.”

      “But sir, the man from the roof-.”

      But of course, I was already gone in the crowd. One of my more useful skills.

      I made it back to the suite with Her Grace. With dark thoughts orbiting my head loudly enough for all to see, Aelia’s party all avoided any contact. It wasn’t hard. I returned the cleric’s cloak, slept until dawn, and then was up and about. I stayed out all day, trusting the boys to keep the princess safe as I plied my lies to every ear that would hear.

      After all, it is not uncommon for an elder brother to inherit the father’s estate. And if that estate included a travelling business, the beloved older brother would need hardy travelling boots. As a devout younger brother, it would be an act of love to find out which cobbler was making said pair of boots and pay for them in secret. The shiny silver coins in the hand of the merchant would bring such trust that finding out where the boots were to be delivered was a detail too trivial to be remembered by anyone.

      The boots were to be delivered tomorrow.

      That’s why I was on a roof that night, freezing my ass off again. This place was not unlike the den of iniquity I had stashed Aelia during our first day in Carolaughan. Of course it did not appear at all homey from up here. It is still cold, it is still dark what has changed is my shirt, my camouflaged rags, my location, and my whole perspective.

      Soldiers do not change. Take a dozen and set them loose on a town with a pocket full of coin and they will be drinking anything that burns, bedding anything dazzled by coin, fighting anything that gets in their way and betting on any game they can lose. Reduce the number to one, and the roar of debauchery becomes a cats cry - more annoying than dangerous. This one, Captain O’Loinsigh, sat in his room all day. He paid hard coins for the serving boy to bring him at first the finest spirits, moving on to the strongest, in the run down little hole. No company; paid for or otherwise. No tips for the serving boy, either, which is why a few copper bits easily bought his habits and room location.

      I crept across the slate roof, careful of a thousand things that could send me tumbling over the edge to my death. I watched for a thousand more that could slip, tinkle, crack or shatter and give me away to anyone inside. Again I looped a rope over a chimney, but this time I brought the end with me across the top of the building to the overhang where his window lay.

      I tell you this: If a man is sitting around for a whole day, drinking progressively stronger libations you can assume three things. He is being consumed by sadness or fear. He is probably emptying his thunder mug out of the window every hour or so. Lastly, he’s extremely unlikely to remember to latch said window. A quick peek over the side confirmed at least the last of these, which is good because I was tired beyond reckoning of being wrong.

      Without guidance from my head, my hands twirled the rope flawlessly around one leg, cinched tightly by hand and knee as I gently rolled off the roof and expertly hung upside down just outside the window. My free hand poured oil out of a long, thin vial on the hinges, and then skillfully worked the pig skin shutters open a bit at a time to minimize any chance of a creak, groan or squeal. It opened onto a room with no less than four candles burning into pools. In the light, a still form sprawled in a lonely chair at a table strewn with bottles. My knee loosened as my hands pulled me inside with all the sound of a gliding owl. The soft boots Aelia had purchased for me, comfortable and useless for long treks through the woods, made little sound on the floor. I stalked forward and removed the heavy climbing gloves. Then I pounced.

      Sometimes you want quiet. Sometimes you want subtle. Sometimes however; you want to grab a sleeping man and tilt him back on the rear two legs of his chair to keep him off balance; you want your left hand to grab his right arm to keep him from grasping a weapon and slashing blindly at you; you want to grab him by the throat with your right hand to first squelch any cried but mostly so he knows that you are absolutely, irrevocably in charge. And if you had a bad experience with the last time you tried this, you wear a blade ring on that strong hand.

      “Tell me who paid you off.” You would say.

      And then he’d tell you.

      Unless you were me. Then, you would pull him off balance, grasp his hand with a fist seemingly made of steel, and grasp his neck to cut off any scream and let the blade ring nick his neck ever so slightly and say, “Tell me who paid you off.”

      That’s when you realize that you have been told that your target had been drinking all day, you had counted on it. But now that he wakes up, thrashing and drunker than you have ever been in your life all he can say is, “Wha? Girroff! Isumin. Iscampn da DUKE!”

      And while his lids droop and head lolls bonelessly, you silently scream out curses at every god you have even heard of. I should l know: I did.

      So I took the chance and let go of his arm to slap him across the face. The clap resounded in the tiny room, and it brought him around a bit, but it was clear that if the Duke’s army didn’t catch him, he would likely drown himself in drink. Still, I controlled his sword arm and throat as I enunciated very clearly, “You have the guilty thirst of a traitor, O’Loinsigh.”

      He reacted like a branded horse, or at least a drunken branded horse as he yelled, “Imma nottaraior. Iamma not. NOT!”

      But at least his anger was clearing his head slightly, “The Duke’s men are out there looking for you, O’Loinsigh. Tell me who paid you off and I may find safe passage west to the border.”

      The Captain leered at me knowingly anger fading back into the comfortable haze of alcohol, “Shove yooour safe passage. I’mma goin’ to Riagáinhead.”

      And it was as if he slapped me back, “The Grand Duke’s palace? Horatio O’Riagáin’s guards will kill you the instant you set foot on his land.”

      But he simply rocked further back in the charge, suicidally letting my bladed hand keep him from toppling over as he sung, “Ooooooooooopen arms. Oooooooooooooopen arms.”

      “You are mad. They will hang you from the walls as a traitor.”