Scrivener's Tale (34 page)

‘What's more, you should be considering closely whether Briavel would support you. I doubt it, given what you've done to its beloved Saria … beware that the loyalty you have taken for granted doesn't turn on you. It won't take much for me to persuade a lot of powerful people that I would make a better queen. Let's face it, Florentyna, most Morgravians barely know you … it's me they meet at social events. You're invisible … a figurehead … a name. I am real to them. And they love me.'

She turned and flounced away.

All Florentyna could do was watch her shapely form disappear from the salon.

Burrage soon filled the space that Darcelle had left. ‘Majesty?'

Florentyna was too stunned by her sister's rantings to respond.

He stepped closer. ‘My queen,' he said, gravely, ‘she is still a child. She exaggerates everything.'

‘No, Burrage,' she said, her voice not much above a terrified whisper. ‘That's just it. She's not a child. And she doesn't see herself as one either. I'm sorry you had to hear what you did.'

Burrage lowered his gaze but risked discussing what might otherwise remain a topic never to be broached again. ‘She must have taken the right precautions.'

Florentyna knew exactly to what he referred. ‘I have no doubt Saria made sure she was well equipped with the right concoctions to prevent pregnancy while Darcelle turned into a whore for King Tamas,' she growled.

Burrage gave a hushing sound. ‘Please, your majesty. Understand this will never be discussed by me with anyone.'

‘I know, Burrage. I realise now that the sooner she is married the better,' she said, the shock of Darcelle's scorn still making her hair feel as though it was standing on end. She felt the hot scald of her sister's words burn at her cheeks, while at the same time the coldness of contempt from the only person she loved was leaking into her heart. ‘I will do as she wants. I will see her safely, happily married to the King of Cipres and then I will wash my hands of trying to guide Darcelle.' She felt her voice choke, could hear it too.

‘Your majesty, you are upset. Please, take some time these next few days. You need to be at your sparkling best when the king arrives.'

She looked away, nodding.

‘May I add on a personal note, your majesty …?'

Florentyna met his gaze. Burrage never got personal. Her pause gave him permission.

He cleared his throat. ‘I heard some of what was exchanged, forgive me. I wanted to be gone, but I didn't want any of the other staff to hear the princess's tirade,' he said hesitantly. Then he sighed. ‘What I really wanted to say is that as an outsider looking in — and especially one with as many years in Stoneheart as I — it is obvious that the princess is the one with the sense of inferiority. Risking your ire, majesty, may I say that you are none of those things she accused you of being. I think it's important you know that you carry yourself with grace and are beloved by
all
of us in your household. You have more than filled your father's shoes despite your young years. We are all proud of our queen, who we feel is destined to rule as wisely and magnanimously as her illustrious forebears.' He cleared his throat again. ‘Your sister covets your role, majesty. She deliberately hurt your feelings today. I hope you'll see it purely for what it was and not take any of her poisonous accusations to heart.'

She felt a sob racing towards her throat. Burrage was saying all that she needed to hear. His tender words reminded her all the more of how alone she felt without parents, without Reynard, without even a sister to count on. But if his message meant anything, it was that bleating like a lost lamb was not the path to take. Her people demanded strength and poise in all situations and that's what she would give them.

‘Thank you, Burrage. May I say that you and I have both had big boots to fill and you've quietly and modestly become someone I trust and know I can always rely upon.'

Burrage regarded her with a softening expression before bowing gently in response.

‘Is there any word on that man Fynch?' she asked, changing the subject and turning away to banish the emotion of the moment. Duty called and there were matters to attend to other than her silly sister's threats.

‘Nothing yet.'

‘There won't be either,' she replied with a tone of resignation.

‘I've cast a wide net. We'll catch something in it, I'm sure. And each piece of information leads to a new one. If he can be found, I will find him for you.'

Florentyna stared out of the window into the great bailey. It was a hive of activity in preparation for her royal guest. She realised it must be a very long time since Stoneheart had greeted royalty from another household, for the cobbles of the bailey were being scrubbed, a sight she had never seen.

‘When is Saria free to leave the monastery?' she asked, switching topics suddenly.

‘Er, I believe that happens in three moons, your majesty.'

‘She must be squirming with rage to be missing Tamas and the pomp we must accord a visiting royal.'

‘The word from Brother Hoolyn is that they have an ogress in their midst.' Burrage chuckled quietly.

She turned, having made a snap decision. ‘Then I think it's high time I paid a visit to Rittylworth Monastery.'

Burrage's humour fled. ‘Whatever for?'

She swung around. ‘I'm not going to wait for my stepmother to make any moves. Before Tamas arrives I shall take Dowager Saria by surprise and propose that she go west with Darcelle. I shall leave her no choice — either Cipres, or the equivalent of banishment to Briavel. She will not be welcome at Stoneheart. Nay, she will not be permitted to enter the borders of Morgravia or the Razors. Let her be gone with her stepdaughter to live in Cipres and trouble me no more.'

As Gabe had suspected he would, Merchant Tentrell had dismissed his single manservant, Ash, and at sunset had called for Gabe to down his tools and come into the house. Cyricus gleefully guided his body indoors and, as reluctant as Gabe was, there was little he could do to prevent the inevitable. He shrank so tightly that he hoped he might shut himself away from seeing what his eyes were regarding. He couldn't close off the sounds of Tentrell dying beneath his hands, but he felt at a remove.

It was an ugly death, for Tentrell — as flabby and soft as he'd become — was nonetheless strong, if only because of his sheer bulk. Cyricus had been patient, allowing the man to flirt, to touch and to ply Gabe's body with wine, or at least believe that's what he was doing. Cyricus acted drunk very quickly, first managing to toss the best part of two goblets of wine into the bushes below the balcony where Tentrell had planned his seduction, and latterly spilling far more than he allowed Gabe's body to consume. While Tentrell was becoming soused, as well as more bold with his hands and lewd suggestions, Gabe sensed rather than saw the moment when Cyricus picked up a fruit knife and plunged it into the tender flesh at Tentrell's throat. It took several stabs for the man's grip around him to weaken. He was sickened by the knowledge that he was surely drenched in another's blood once again.

Now laughter boomed through his body. ‘There we are, my beloved,' Cyricus said. ‘Now we have the means.'

‘I thought you might travel in Tentrell's body. Surely he's more use in royal circles?'

‘I'll worry about that later. I told you, I like Gabe's body. It attracts the right attention. I can put it to good use for just a little longer.'

‘Won't they be looking for Gabe? The servant saw him, can identify him.'

‘We will be gone this night. By the time anyone can hunt down Gabriel, he too will be lifeless. I plan to be rid of this body within days.'

‘Good,' she replied.

‘It's time to ransack the house. I know Tentrell has lots of gold, as well as jewels, and I know just the person we shall attract with them.'

Days, Gabe thought mournfully, ignoring the sound of Aphra's sinister chuckling. That's all he had to come up with a plan. He became aware of Cyricus washing his body and selecting fine clothes to wear. It seemed Tentrell was vain enough to have kept his wardrobe intact from when he'd cut a slimmer figure.

Cyricus found rings to put on Gabe's fingers and then went hunting for the man's money and other valuables. It felt like an eternity before a safebox was found in a cunning recess in the wall behind a shutter, and it was dark by the time Cyricus finally walked Gabe's body out of the house and went looking for stables. He couldn't risk using Tentrell's horse.

Here the stable master was paid handsomely from the stolen gold and silver.

‘Good evening,' Cyricus said from the saddle and Gabe was surprised that he could remember how to ride. Those lessons in England when he was a child were paying off.

‘Hmmm,' Cyricus pondered as he eased the horse out of the stables.

‘What?' the mostly silent Aphra asked.

‘Strange …'

He walked the horse out of the town, guided by the burning torches lighting the streets.

‘Just for a moment,' Cyricus continued, ‘I could swear I wasn't in control of this body.'

Gabe mentally held his breath.

‘I don't understand,' she said.

‘No, neither do I. It was odd though. When we left the stables, I wasn't moving the reins, nor did I dig my knees in to get the beast moving. It was as though …'

‘As though what, Cyricus?'

‘Well, as though another had done so.'

She laughed. ‘It wasn't me. I have no idea how to ride.'

There was a horrible silence during which Gabe shrank back, desperately frightened at the possibility of discovery.

‘Maybe there are remnants of memories left behind. And now I come to think of it, that makes sense. I know Wyl Thirsk inherited the memories of his victims when Myrren's magic went to work. I hadn't realised that we have no doubt inherited Gabriel's memories.'

‘I haven't been aware of them.'

‘No, that's odd too. I would assume we'd possess all or none.'

‘Magic changes, my love. Perhaps what you just experienced was an echo of Gabe's memory.'

‘I hope so. But search for them. Let's see if we can find any others. I want no sudden surprises that might be more troublesome than his memory of horse riding.'

‘I'll do that immediately,' she said.

And Gabe forgot about Tentrell's messy death, his memory of horse riding, and his determination to strike back at the interlopers who had stolen his existence. All that remained was a desire to remain alive long enough in this strange spiritual form to see them gone. He mustn't be found by Aphra. She was hunting for memories — he didn't know how to give them to her, but he deliberately thought about the apartment, making that picture of it come to life vividly. He thought about coffee, knowing she would recognise that as one of his passions. He thought about books, about the shop, about Paris.

Would he be able to hide from her? He tried to imagine himself disappeared and immediately the nave of Pearlis Cathedral surrounded him … and Gabe felt safe.

The man called Wevyr stood behind the counter of an otherwise bare shop. Cassien had been told by Hamelyn that the workshop was hidden behind the walls of this area. Wevyr was as tall as Cassien but broader, no doubt due to years of pounding metal flat and making beautiful weapons; his hands looked like a pair of mallets. Grimy, with sweat-streaks cutting through the smudges of dark grey, he glanced at Cassien's sword and Cassien noted recognition flash in the man's otherwise leaden expression.

‘I have no appointments,' he said flatly.

‘You are Wevyr?'

‘Jonti Wevyr, yes. I have a brother, Eldo.'

‘Which of you made this sword?' Cassien asked.

The man considered him carefully. ‘Forgive me, Master …?'

‘Cassien,' Hamelyn obliged, stepping forward. ‘Morning, Master Wevyr.'

Wevyr nodded at the boy, then reached for a linen and wiped his face deliberately. Finally, and without hurrying, he placed the linen down and looked at them again. ‘May I?' he asked, nodding toward Cassien's hip.

Cassien unbuckled his belt and placed the weapon on the counter. As the craftsman pulled the sword clear of its sheath, it seemed to Cassien as though he was holding his breath. After a silent and lengthy pause, during which Jonti Wevyr touched the blade reverently, sighted down its length, held it in various ways checking its balance, admired its hilt and the magnificent length made up of wavy lustre of metal, he sighed out the long breath he had indeed held. ‘Exquisite,' he breathed. Then he gave a wistful smile. ‘I have such a long way to go.' He looked up at Cassien. ‘You have come to the wrong place.'

‘Pardon?'

‘This is not my work, nor is it Eldo's.'

Cassien cut a glance at Hamelyn while Hamelyn frowned and began to splutter a query. Wevyr stopped him with a meaty hand in the air.

‘This is the work of my father, Ferrer. I'm intrigued for he has not worked on a weapon in many years. In truth I didn't believe he had the strength left to fashion such a sword, and yet this is irrefutably his work.'

Cassien produced the smaller blades. ‘And these?'

Wevyr let out a low whistle. ‘I'm lost for words. When did you get these?' There was a vague sound of irritation in his voice.

‘A few days ago,' he replied. ‘I need to see him.'

‘Master Cassien, my father is gravely ill. He is extremely old, past his eightieth summer, so Shar has been generous to him over the seasons. Even so, I doubt he'll make his next name day.'

Cassien frowned. ‘Is he sick because he's old, or is he sick because something has happened to him?'

At this Wevyr shrugged. ‘Both. He has paid his respects at the graveside of many friends. I suspect his own time is near. It's also true that two moons ago he seemed to be suddenly wearied. We had no warning. One day he was tending his herb garden, the next he could barely get out of his bed.'