Lord of the Rose (20 page)

The lady had brought a spyglass, and the two women took turns looking through the device. Selinda was amazed at the effect—when she focused the lens, she felt as though she were looking down from a low rooftop right in the neighborhood instead of from this lofty vantage high up on a castle tower.

The knights could be observed making their way in three columns. The gleaming silver armor of Caergoth’s mounted finest reflected the bright sunlight as the Knights of the Rose headed down a wide avenue. The princess couldn’t help but notice the Sword knights of Solanthus, and the Crown of Thelgaard, looked shabbier in comparison. Their armor, even when metal, barely glinted in the daylight, and their horses were thin, often scarred,
by comparison to the huge, well-groomed war-horses of their host’s detachment.

“That’s Thelgaard’s men in the middle,” Lady Martha explained, though the black banner displaying the white crown gave clear enough proof of their allegiance. To the left, the blue pennant with the image of the silver sword flapped in the wind as the knights of Duke Rathskell swung around to the left flank.

“What is that wretched place down there?” asked Selinda, perceiving that the three detachments were encircling an area of flat-roofed shacks, lean-tos, and other hovels along a strip of waterfront.

“We call that the ghetto,” Lady Martha said, a trifle embarrassed. “It
is
wretched, and no respectable human would go there. For a long time it was inhabited only by Aghar and criminal scum, though since the War of Souls it has become a sort of haven for gnomes. In fact, they’ve built it up a bit since going there—making stone houses, that sort of thing. Poor little folk—they suffered as much as anyone during the years of the Scourges, so my husband has been gracious enough to let them have the place. Indeed, they are better neighbors than the gully dwarves!”

“No doubt,” Selinda agreed, acutely aware that her father’s men had virtually eliminated the filthy little Aghar from Palanthas. Those glimpsed by her escort were seized and, she assumed, expelled from the city.

Her eyes wandered beyond the ghetto to the great docks that serviced the ocean-going galleons. She spotted her father’s ships, nine in all, serenely at anchor in the great port. The tenth—her flagship,
Pride of Paladine
—was securely lashed to the wharf. The voyage from Palanthas to Caergoth had been reasonably comfortable, she recalled, and the food served to her and the few noble-ranking officers who had shared the captain’s table, excellent. No trace of seasickness had bothered her, and she relished the salty breeze, even the occasional burst of spray splashing across the deck.

Yet now the prospect of re-boarding the galleon for the long return trip home suddenly terrified her. She couldn’t explain her
feeling, but she shuddered at the sight of the big ships, quickly pulled her eyes away, looking off to ascertain the progress of the arrest. In her heart, she knew nothing would compel her to board the vessel home. Such a trip would be disaster—this much she knew as the Truth.

It was possible to return to Palanthas overland, but how could she make that happen? Captain Powell would never understand her apprehension. She would have to give the matter some thought.

At the fringes of the ghetto, she saw, the knights were dismounting, leaving their horses in the care of squires as squads of armed and armored men deployed into the neighborhoods. They started into the squalid neighborhood streets and alleys, weapons drawn. There was no great hue and cry, however—even the bright banners were tucked away as the men started their search.

Selinda could see throngs of little people—gnomes, she guessed—prodded at sword point into the small squares and plazas that dotted the ghetto. Occasionally she heard the bark of an indistinguishable, but forceful, command. More than once she saw a gnome or some other wretched denizen squirming in the grip of a strong knight. For a long time this methodical search proceeded, as a a great many citizens of the ghetto were corralled, interrogated—sometimes roughly—then restrained in the increasingly crowded open spaces.

“They must have learned something—look!” cried Lady Martha breathlessly, as the individual parties of knights all hastened toward a small corner of the ghetto. The hapless gnomes left behind swiftly vanished into the tangled lanes, going inside and shutting their doors. Since her hostess was clutching the spyglass in her hand but not using it at the moment, Selinda grabbed the device and put it to her eye.

The knights were forming lines of battle. In addition to the gleaming swords Selinda scanned ranks of archers, less heavily armored then the swordsmen but readying their deadly crossbows. One by one the streets surrounding a small area were cordoned off, and archers deployed behind the ranks of
swordsmen, all of them moving with methodical discipline. A wider ring, comprised of Caergoth’s Rose knights to judge from the immaculate armor, stood back from the attacking formations, presumably to intercept the Assassin if he should try to slip through the encirclement.

Abruptly, noises of smashing wood, cries of alarm, and other sounds of violence carried upward. Selinda spied knights and gnomes running to and fro. A rank of archers raised their weapons, and sunlight reflected from the silvery darts as they arrowed down a narrow street. Overhanging roofs blocked the targets from the ladies’ line of sight, but Selinda saw a small party of fugitives break for a small alley—apparently the lethal arrows had missed their targets. Focusing in more tightly, she glimpsed a dwarf. The fellow was dirty, covered in soot and brown muck, but she got a very good look at his face when he turned around to shout some imprecation at his pursuers.

Beyond him a tall swordsman came into view, and Selinda felt a tingle of recognition as she glimpsed blue flames, quickly extinguished, flickering along the edge of that mighty blade.

“Giantsmiter!” she gasped. The man turned to confront his pursuers, his face taut. Yet from the glimpse she got of him, he showed no fear. In spite of the warm sunlight on the parapet, the princess shivered with unexpected terror and excitement.

“What’s that—by the gods, not a fire, I hope!” Lady Martha exclaimed, also sounding half alarmed, half titillated.

Selinda swung the glass and spotted a churning cloud of foggy vapor, swirling thickly in the middle of the street.

“White smoke,” the princess noted. “Not likely from a fire.”

But what was it? The cloud of mist spun and whirled, masking the fugitives. Knights closed in on the small alley from both directions, their hoarse battle cries echoing in the still, midday air. The Assassin and his accomplices were trapped, Selinda realized—there was nowhere for them to go.

Yet why were the knights milling around, now, in apparent confusion? The cloud slowly dissipated, and angry outbursts, accusatory shouts, rose from the tangled streets. Once again
knights were dashing around everywhere, smashing down doors, pulling gnomes out into the street. The searching was frenzied, undisciplined. Many knights remounted, and three distinct columns—minus half their number, who remained behind to continue the search—started back up to the castle.

“Did they manage to kill him somehow?” Lady Martha asked breathlessly. “I couldn’t see! I don’t spot any captives!”

“I fear he may have escaped,” Selinda replied.

“But how? No, that’s impossible—they had him surrounded!”

“Shall we go down to the great hall and hear what happened?” suggested the princess.

The two ladies descended quickly from the lofty parapet and were waiting at the huge conference table as the doors to the hall burst open. Duke Rathskell and Jarrod were the first into the chamber, each followed by a dozen or more of his retinue.

“—your scouts must have been asleep at their posts!” snapped the thin, wiry Rathskell. “To let them slip by like that!”

“Pathetic lies!” roared Jarrod, flexing his huge arms. “It was your men who scattered at the first taste of steel!”

“Nay—they stood firm and drove the scoundrel into your line. Did your men grow faint at the sight of the blazing sword?” Rathskell demanded. His tone was quiet but menacing.

“Mine followed orders—I have one dead and three wounded to prove it!” answered Jarrod. “What blood did you spill?”

“What happened?” Lady Selinda asked, the calmness of her voice cutting through the bickering.

“We had him dead to rights, my Princess,” explained Rathskell with a bow to Selinda. “Until my ‘peer’ ”—he sneered at Jarrod of Thelgaard—“failed to perform his duty in the face of the enemy.”

“Lies, I tell you!” bellowed the Duke of the Crown. “He was long gone by the time we closed in.”

“My Lord, Lady Princess.” The speaker was Sir Marckus, interjecting quietly. The venerable knight’s calm tone seemed to soothe the level of tension in the room—at least, for the moment.

“Yes? What is it? Do you know something?” asked Caergoth eagerly.

“Not personally, Excellency, no, but I have heard whisperings among the men. One of them claims to have spotted the White Witch.”

“The White Witch! Could she be in league with the killer?” Duke Crawford wondered. “Her sorcery could help explain that miraculous escape.”

“If by the ‘White Witch’ you mean the Lady Coryn of Palanthas,” Selinda said sharply. “I have heard her called thus, but I will not stand for such inferences in my presence. She has done good work in the cause of Solamnia over the last few years. She could not possibly be involved—why would she help an assassin who slew one of our most noble and esteemed lords?”

“There is no accounting for the ways of wizards,” the Duke of Solanthus declared forcefully.

For the first time Selinda noticed one knight, ashen-faced and perspiring heavily, had been laid upon one of the banquet tables near the door. He held his right hand, wrapped in a bloody bandage, tightly to his chest. Two other knights were borne into the room by comrades, each of them obviously wounded in the leg.

“Duke Crawford!” the princess said at once. “Those men are injured. Surely this debate can wait. Have you not a cleric who can aid them?”

“What? Oh, of course,” said the duke, looking with exaggerated concern at the wounded knights. “Patriarch Issel—see first to that fellow, there. The one with all the blood.”

“My lord,” said the cleric, materializing from the group of people who had suddenly crowded into the great hall. He was wearing his formal golden robe and bowed apologetically. “Of course. That is, I would if I could, but I fear the rigors of preparing for this conference have kept me from my daily meditations. I confess I lack the power to perform the necessary spells at this time. However, there are sub-priests at my temple who may be
capable of stanching the bleeding. They will not be able to save the damaged hand, but they can certainly save the lives of these noble knights. I will send word to my priests immediately.”

“Yes, please do so without further delay,” the princess commanded. She could not stop herself from adding, “In my father’s city, a high priest would attend to his meditations
before
worrying about the ceremonial requirements of a royal conference.”

The patriarch shot her a dark look that was noticed by everyone standing near. The dukes looked offended at her insult to the cleric’s authority. In point of fact, Selinda was not entirely sure what priorities should guide the time of a Palanthian priest. She kept her steely expression, even as she made a mental note to herself: Keep an eye on that high priest.

The two men with leg wounds were carried out, but the third man objected, shaking his head in despair.

“Leave me here,” the injured knight protested. “My hand is gone—I am no use to the Order of the Crown. Let me die!”

“Nonsense,” said the cleric, with a note of spite in his voice. “The Lady of Palanthas has decreed that your life be saved, and so it shall if at all possible. You men, offer him your shoulders. Bring him to my temple—it is just beyond the castle gate.”

“No!” cried the knight.

“Come!”
demanded the cleric. Even across the great hall, Selinda felt the hush in the room that followed this angry shout. There was a magic in that word.

“Bah—the fool may as well die for his failure,” murmured Duke Rathskell, as the knight was helped from the hall. “He had the assassin before him, six swords to one.”

“I tell you, it was sorcery that aided his escape!” shouted Jarrod.

“All I’m hearing are pathetic excuses,” sneered Rathskell. “If your men were half as fast with their swords as you are with your ale, they would have had the killer in chains by now!”

“How dare you?” barked the hulking lord. “Why, if you handled troops anywhere nearly as well as you handle that
wench you married, we would be planning a hanging right now! Instead, the assassin of Lord Lorimar runs free!” The bearlike Jarrod balled his great hand into a fist, and thrust it toward his counterpart.

“Watch yourself, my lord,” declared Rathskell, his rapier appearing in his hand as if by magic. The slender tip danced only a foot away from Jarrod’s keg-sized chest.

“Stop it—both of you,” demanded Selinda, stepping between them. The rapier almost brushed her cheek as Rathskell, with a grimace of irritation, yanked his weapon away. Jarrod of Thelgaard drew a deep breath and let his hands drop. She was surprised to see that the big man was trembling. His eyes were wild as he stared past the princess, as if he didn’t even see her. Suddenly she felt afraid but would not allow herself to back away, not in front of these lords whose respect she required.

The tension hung in the room.

“Enough!”

The command roared through the great hall. It was Sir Marckus, the tips of his trailing mustaches quivering in rage.

“By Joli, have your Excellencies forgotten our common cause?” Sir Marckus demanded. “You should be ashamed! The Assassin is loose in the realm! You bicker among yourselves like children while he gets farther and farther away from the justice he so richly deserves! Why …”

Marckus finally seemed to realize that he was addressing his liege, and his liege’s peers. With a visible effort he gained control of his tongue. Dukes Jarrod and Rathskell glared at him, but there had been truth in the captain’s words, and the tension was broken.