Morticai's Luck (11 page)

Fenton brought cups to the table nearest them. He was about to pour into Dualas’ cup when Morticai quickly placed his hand over it. Fenton stopped and looked sharply at Morticai.

“What’s this?” Fenton asked.

“I am afraid that my friend Dualas shall not be drinking with us,” Morticai explained.

Fenton gave Dualas a suspicious stare.

“Why?”

“Because he is a knight of the Faith.”

One would have thought Morticai had told Fenton it was Droka himself sitting on his floor. Fenton jumped back and, seemingly from nowhere, his free hand produced a long knife. Dualas could see that the hand was shaking.

Morticai stretched his hands out, palms upward.

“Friend Fenton, I mean you no harm and neither does my friend Dualas. And you
know
that you do not want to cross blades with me.”

“Dyluth, what is this trick?” Dualas could see that the man was almost in tears. “Why would you bring such a person here?”

“I say again, we mean you no harm. Please, put your knife away. You know my skill with the blade.”

“I know.”

“I shall drink with you.”

“You will?”

“Yes.”

Slowly, Fenton sheathed the knife. Dualas watched him replace it in the wide sash wrapped around his waist. Fenton poured himself and Morticai cupfuls of what Dualas now suspected was
vallemo
. Fenton immediately picked up his cup and downed it. He poured himself another but waited, watching Morticai. Morticai drank, and then Fenton began to take normal sips from his cup.

“Why have you come?” Fenton asked.

“To ask about Burnaby Manor,” Morticai replied.

“Who told you to ask me about Burnaby Manor?”

“I will not tell you. It is privileged.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What has been going on there? Why was I told that you might know something about it?”

Fenton sipped his cup and watched Morticai suspiciously. Morticai drained his cup. As though it were a signal, Fenton began to talk.

“The man who used to provide my
vallemo
used Burnaby Manor as his home for a long time.”

He began pouring Morticai another cup. Dualas glanced at Morticai in alarm. Morticai did not look happy either, but returned Dualas an even stare and said nothing. Again Fenton drained his cup, poured himself another, and waited for Morticai to drink. Morticai drank, and the conversation continued.

“One day,” Fenton said, “I went there to find the door locked, which was not right. I spoke with some people in the Pit; they told me that the Manor was haunted. Of course, I laughed.”

Fenton stopped talking and again performed the ritual of refilling the cups. Dualas noticed that Morticai looked like he did when he’d had too much to drink—it took him too long to blink, and he swayed ever so slightly. The knight wondered how far this could go, and when, or
if
, he should try to intervene.

Fenton continued. “So, I hired me some boys from the Pit—good ones mind you, tough—and told them to investigate the Manor for me. They did. And they died.”

“They … died?” Morticai asked.

“Yes. They were found the next day on the docks. Every one of them. Cut to pieces. Me, I don’t need to be told twice—Burnaby Manor is haunted.”

Again Fenton poured for them, but this time Morticai did not drink.

“Fenton,” he asked, “is that it?”

“That’s it. All of it.”

“Are you sure?”

Fenton pointed to Morticai’s cup. Once again, Morticai drank.

“There is one small thing, but I swear that I’ll hire you killed if ever it comes back to me.”

“And that is?”

“When people whisper about Burnaby Manor at night, they say that it’s haunted with the Droken. They have seen dark things there.”

“What kind of ‘dark things’?”

“Dark things that wear armor.”

Morticai nodded, a little too deeply, in reply.

“You have my word, Fenton, that this shall not come back to you.”

“Your word has always been good, Dyluth.”

Fenton rose. Dualas rose, glad to be off the floor, and then had to help Morticai to his feet.

“I would have thought you could hold
vallemo
better than that, Dyluth,” Fenton said, eyeing Morticai.

“Out of practice,” Morticai muttered in reply.

Fenton led them to the front door.

“I am curious why you ask such questions, Dyluth. And I am curious why you feel that you must bring a bodyguard from the Faith with you. But I do not know if I wish to hear the answers.”

“Believe me, you don’t.”

“So be it.”

Fenton unlocked the front door. As they left, Fenton reclosed the door and locked it behind them. Morticai took a few unsteady steps and then fell against the tunnel’s wall for support.

“Oh, Glawres, my head,” Morticai muttered.

“You used me, friend ‘Dyluth’,” Dualas said acidly. “And how long have you been using
vallemo
?”

“You assume too much, Dualas. I used it first as a child. I have never used much of it, never had to have it, and do not use it now. I bought it from Fenton when Coryden and I were helping Lewis quit using it. As you can see, it wouldn’t have helped if he’d had to buy it for himself.”

Coryden ran up the tunnel towards them.

“Morticai! What happened? Are you all right?”

“Well, not at the moment. I’ll be fine in a bit.”

“What happened?” Coryden asked Dualas.

“He drank four cups of
vallemo
in exchange for information.”

“
What
? And you let him?”

“It’s not his fault, Coryden,” Morticai interrupted. Cautiously, Morticai began moving down the tunnel, using the wall as an anchor. “It was an unusual situation. I thought I could get by with two cups, but it took longer because Fenton was scared. I would be in a lot better shape if someone had let me eat first.”

“You knew this would happen?”

“I knew it was a strong possibility.”

“Damn!”

Dualas moved to Morticai’s side. Morticai gratefully accepted the additional support.

“Oh, quit worryin’, Coryden,” Morticai continued. “You and I have crawled back to Northgate in worse shape after a night’s drinkin’. Besides, wait ’til you hear what we found out.”

* * *

The main reception hall of Dynolva Manor filled slowly. The crystal chandeliers cast their scintillating light not on the exquisite attire of Watchaven’s nobility but on the livery of the manor’s servants. Many had their spouses and children with them. The group spoke in hushed murmurs, and parents kept a tight rein on their children, but nonetheless, the noise level was climbing steadily.

Lord Danvek stood at the far end of the room on the raised platform that usually held a table laden with appetizers. The table had been moved, and the lord of the manor stood quietly with his hands clasped loosely behind his back as he watched the last of the servants enter. As expected, when the doormen closed the large doors, a momentary silence fell across the crowd. It was his cue.

“If I might have your attention,” he began, “there has been a great amount of concern among all of you these past few weeks. There have been many questions as to what has been and still is transpiring between Dynolva and Watchaven. It is much to your credit that rumors concerning recent events have been kept to a minimum. Unfortunately, the trade war with Watchaven not only continues, but worsens.”

A murmur rose and fell among the crowd. As it passed, Lord Danvek continued.

“Because of the deteriorating situation, I have found it necessary to request your presence here this evening. Until this situation is resolved, I am requesting that all of the staff remain at the manor.”

Again, the crowd reacted, some with gasps, some with nods of fulfilled expectation.

“I know that this will be difficult. Unfortunately, we all know that humans can be terribly unpredictable. It is my belief that the city is no longer safe. You are welcome and encouraged to bring your families here. Those of you who are currently living in the city will no doubt be concerned about your possessions. I am afraid I must ask you to leave your furniture behind, but you are welcome to bring all of your other possessions here. We are preparing the stables so that we may provide a place for storage.”

“The underground storerooms are empty now that Light Season has come upon us,” he continued, pacing the length of the platform. “It shall be up to all of you to help us fill it again. All food that you bring shall be placed in the storerooms. We must be prepared to stay here for a long while—or to leave in a hurry, if need be. We have worked out rooming arrangements. You will find them posted beside the doors.” He gestured toward the back wall. “Are there any questions?”

“Lord, are we going to war?”

“We do not know. Not yet. Hopefully, not ever. But, we must be prepared, and I shall not tolerate any injury to any of you.”

“What about supplies other than food?” another asked.

“We shall send special groups out tomorrow to gather what we need, but they will be armed and will number no less than ten. Any other questions?”

The crowd murmured amongst themselves, but no more questions were forthcoming.

“Thank you for your service and attendance tonight.”

Later that night, Lord Danvek sat in his study, quill in hand.

“Your Majesty,” he wrote, “I regret to inform you that I have had to require that all our personnel remain at the Manor. The situation within Watchaven is becoming untenable and several injuries have already occurred. I have been informed by my inside source on the Trade Council that Watchaven plans to continue its current policies. I have noticed a tightening of security about the city and cannot help but wonder if it is a prelude to war. Has any word been received concerning where the Northmarch shall stand if it should come to war? We cannot stand against both Watchaven and the Northmarch, but then, neither could Watchaven stand against us if the Northmarch were to side with us. Please keep me advised as to your wishes.

Your humble servant, Danvek.”

His next letter was more difficult, but then, Lord Danvek had always found the Droken codebook to be a great bother.

Chapter Eight

Rylan Glaedwin had just laid the results of his research on the table when a knock sounded at the door. Geradon returned with a frown on his lips and a piece of paper in his hand.

“What is it?” Rylan asked.

“A message from Richard,” Geradon replied. “This is the second night in a row that our three Droken hunters have left together. I tell you, Rylan, those three are up to something.”

“You think Sir Dualas withheld something?”

“No, he told me what he knew—at the time. My thought is that they are pursuing something new.”

“Surely not!”

“I would not put anything past Morticai.”

“Perhaps you should go to Northgate and have a little chat with them when they return.”

“I suppose I should. I am sorry, Rylan, I was hoping to work with you this evening.”

Rylan smiled. “Well, in a few days the ‘Inquisitor’ shall
officially
arrive and then I shall have a few words with them myself. Be careful. I shall wait up for you.”

* * *

“You actually grew up in this section of town?” Dualas asked as he cautiously eyed their surroundings. They walked toward Burnaby Manor, skirting the edge of the Pit. Ahead, shadowy figures ducked into doorways as they approached.

“Yeah,” Morticai replied. “Of course, it wasn’t this bad then.”

“How much farther to this place?” Coryden asked.

“Oh, uh, just a few blocks now. Ya see, Burnaby Manor isn’t really in the Snake Pit, it’s on the edge.”

“That is comforting to hear,” Dualas noted as he eyed the rat pacing them along the top of a nearby wall.

The alley before them suddenly narrowed. The rat disappeared into a hole. Morticai stopped.

“All right, we’re getting close. The alleys around the Manor are tight and there are a lot of turns. That’s why this was such a great place when I was small—it was good for hiding from big folk. With the current rumors about the manor, I doubt anyone will bother us.”

Coryden glanced heavenward. Dualas nodded in silent agreement and made a gesture of blessing. They had taken only a few steps when Morticai stopped, looking back at them disapprovingly. Coryden and Dualas exchanged glances, uncertain why he had stopped.

“Think you could put your hoods up? It’s bad enough that your armor can be heard three blocks away—let’s not flaunt it any more than necessary.”

Coryden and Dualas raised their cloak hoods. “I wish you’d worn more than that damned Tradelenor armor!” Coryden complained back at Morticai. “It won’t stop anything—it’s women’s armor!”

“You’re wearing armor?” Dualas asked in surprise.

Morticai smiled and raised his shirt cuff. Beneath it, a finely wrought chain armor shirt shimmered in the moonlight. “Yes. And Coryden is wrong. It’s not ‘women’s armor.’ True, it won’t stop a broadsword but that’s not what it’s designed for—it’s designed to stop lighter weapons like knives, and it does quite well for the City.”

Morticai turned and started away again. Coryden looked at Dualas and shook his head in disagreement.

They passed quickly through the tangle of alleys. Morticai put an arm out and stopped them as the alley opened onto a small plaza. Ahead, Burnaby Manor lay, awash in Bemalor’s moonlight.

It was as large as the finest estates that stood by the palace. Years of neglect had destroyed much of its former beauty, but the carved pillars and intricate architecture cried out in memory of its faded majesty. The gate was a pile of rotted wood, but the granite pillars still stood as silent sentries to either side of the portal. Despite the crowded conditions of the slums around it, no one had dared to build so much as a lean-to on the Manor’s lawn of rubble and weeds. Coryden and Dualas both stopped, impressed by the unexpected sight of the ruin.

“It must have been tremendous in its day,” Dualas whispered.

“Yeah, so they say,” Morticai replied. “Come on, I want to see if something is still here.”

They cautiously circled the Manor, ducking in and out of the alleys that fed toward it. The streets began to slope, and it was only then that Coryden and Dualas realized that the Manor was built on a bluff. Because of the crowded buildings that surrounded it on three sides, they had not noticed the night sky behind it. Its upper floors must have offered a grand view of the harbor.

As they came to the rear of the Manor, the wall of rock that rose up beside them obscured their view of it. Rock had fallen from the edge of the bluff, and loose piles of rubble and brush choked the narrow alley. Several times, Morticai stopped and looked around carefully. Finally, Coryden could stand it no longer.

“Are you lost, Morticai?” he whispered.

Morticai looked back, surprised. “Of course not!”

Coryden did not know whether or not to believe him. They eventually stopped, however, as the short corryn turned his attention to the bluff beside them. With a flourish he brushed aside a tangle of honey-star vines to reveal a rough-hewn tunnel that stretched away into the rock. Broken hinges were all that remained to indicate that the entrance had once had doors to protect it. Although not large enough for a carriage, the tunnel was certainly large enough for a horse to enter.

“Aha! It’s still here!”

“You’re not going in there, are you?” Coryden asked.

“It’s better than knocking on the front door.”

Coryden and Dualas exchanged uncertain glances.

“This leads into the Manor house itself?” Dualas asked.

“Well, it used to. I honestly don’t know if it still does or not. It’s been about fifty years since I used it.”

“Did you bring light?”

“Light is easy.” Morticai reached down and quickly wrapped a bundle of dried brush together around the end of a stick. Pulling out his tinderbox, he quickly lit the brush. “See? Instant torch. Now, I promise I won’t go into the Manor itself. I just want to see if the tunnel is still clear. Y’know, it may not be worth our time. But, if it is clear, it will not only save us a lot of time, but it may be a lot safer than the way Fenton’s friends used to get in.”

“How do you know they didn’t use the tunnel, too?” Dualas asked.

“I don’t, not for certain. But I doubt it. It’s amazing how few people have ever known about it. And this alley still looks as abandoned as ever.”

“Can we hear Grandhaven clock from here?” Coryden asked.

“I heard it,” Dualas announced.

“Then,” Coryden continued, “if it chimes twice and you’re not back, we’ll come in and find you.”

Morticai sighed. “Okay. This shouldn’t take long.” He entered the musty tunnel as Dualas and Coryden watched. He’d only taken a few steps when he stopped and looked back at them. “Watch out for falling rocks,” he said. Then he turned and continued down the tunnel.

“How heartening,” Dualas remarked, glancing upward.

“You know, Dualas,” Coryden said as he let the vines fall back over the tunnel’s opening, “I used to think I was mad for letting Morticai involve me in things like this.” He smiled. “At least now I know I’m not the only one.”

Dualas regarded him a moment, but before he could answer, the ringing clash of swordplay issued from within the tunnel. The peals were quick and sharp—someone was pressing a strong attack. They both tore the vines aside to enter, but Morticai was already at the mouth of the tunnel, quickly backing toward them and desperately defending himself against his attacker. As soon as Morticai came into the moonlight, he threw his makeshift torch to the ground to draw his dagger.

It was a corryn who emerged behind the long sword that flashed so quickly about Morticai’s blade. Without hesitation, the swordsman included the waiting Coryden and Dualas within the pattern of his fast sword strokes. The man was taller than Dualas, and he wore his silver hair pulled back and braided. He wore no armor, but he carried a shield on his well-muscled left arm. He flicked the shield up and down, easily blocking Dualas’s blows.

Coryden watched for an opening as he and Morticai pressed in, but the silver-haired corryn not only defended against their attacking swings, he replied with his own attacks, keeping them as much on the defensive as offensive. Coryden had seen many a knight lose in battle to Dualas’ smooth style; this man acted as though they could fight no better than children.

Then, the warrior took a step forward. Instantly, Morticai slid to the left to move behind the tall corryn. Coryden’s blow struck solidly against the warrior’s shield. In what looked to be a planned move, the tall corryn pivoted, his shield solidly defending against Dualas and Coryden as his bright blade swept down in a fast arc toward Morticai’s right side.

Morticai brought his dagger to the right. Coryden saw the enemy’s blade defeat the parry, slip by Morticai’s dagger, and slash into Morticai’s side. An instant later, Coryden found himself flying backward—the enemy had slammed his shield into his Coryden’s face with a force he’d not thought possible. Head ringing, he scrambled to his knees, only to see the silver-haired warrior disappearing down the alley. Morticai was on his knees, leaning against the rock wall, holding his side.

Dualas leaped over Morticai with apparent thoughts of giving chase.

“Dualas!” Coryden yelled. “Morticai’s been cut!”

Instantly, Dualas turned to Morticai, abandoning thoughts of pursuit. Coryden was there an instant later. Morticai’s eyes were squeezed shut and he breathed in small, shallow breaths.

“Morticai, let me see,” Dualas said as he tried to pry his hand away from the rent in the light mail shirt. Finally, Morticai complied. Dualas quickly inspected the wound and then clamped his own hand over it.

“It does not appear very deep, but it is bleeding freely. We need to bind it—soon.”

They helped Morticai to his feet, and with both of them supporting him, they started to turn to go back the way they had come.

“No … other way … it’s quicker,” Morticai whispered.

They turned around and began slowly moving north.

“Don’t get us lost, Morticai,” Coryden cautioned. “We can’t afford the time.”

“Go to … the … Cobblesend. It’s close.”

“The what?” Dualas asked.

“The Cobblesend,” Coryden replied. “I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard him talk about it—it’s a tavern.”

“How far is it?” Dualas asked Morticai.

“Not … too far. Take … the first left.”

* * *

Kithryl jumped when the sharp rap sounded at the back door.

“Who’s there?” she asked through the closed door.

“A knight of the Faith, very much in need, madam,” came the muffled reply.

A knight of the Faith
? she thought.
Here
? She cracked the door. “Dyluth!” she cried, flinging the door open.

Morticai looked up and tried to smile. The pain in his dark blue eyes was obvious. His attempted smile didn’t quite come off.

“Need some help … I’m afraid.”

Kithryl clasped her hands to her mouth and ran back inside the Cobblesend, leaving the door open.

Dualas and Coryden carefully maneuvered Morticai through the back door. Kithryl returned and threw a blanket on the kitchen floor.

“I’m sorry, but we have no beds here,” she apologized.

“This will do quite well,” Dualas replied as they moved Morticai onto the blanket. “Thank you, dear lady.”

Coryden supported Morticai’s head as Dualas laid Morticai’s cloak open—the bandages were blood soaked. Kithryl gasped.

“Quickly!” Dualas said to Kithryl. “We shall need something to use for bandages! Hurry!”

Kithryl jumped like a startled rabbit and ran from the room.

“He should not still be bleeding like this,” Dualas whispered. “He would not have made it to Northgate.”

Coryden sat back as the implication sank in. Dualas was quickly undoing the ripped section of surcoat they’d used as an emergency bandage. Kithryl ran back into the room, her arms laden with what appeared to be new tablecloths.

Dualas finished removing the bandage, Morticai’s slashed jacket, and the ruined chain mail. Coryden saw for himself that the wound was not deep, although it was over a hand’s width in length. It was still bleeding profusely—it had not slowed from when he had first glimpsed it in the alley. Without hesitation, Dualas grabbed a tablecloth, folded it, and clamped it tightly over the wound.