The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (49 page)

As the man walked passed him he realised that the pain had subsided. Perhaps the smell was masking the pain or perhaps the spirit was really the potion he’d come for. He waved to the pot girl, slapped two silver gellstart onto the table and received a greasy skin with a poorly fitting stopper in return. What his master would say if he rolled back to the barracks blind drunk he didn’t care to think, but if he kept the skin to hand and took a couple of quick swigs every now and then when the pain got bad, he might just get away with it. He stood, carefully this time, gave the occupants of the corner table and the beggar one last glance and left the inn clutching the skin.

The pain hit him again when he was two streets away from the inn, a sharp, jagged thrust that made him curse. He propped himself up by a wall, pulled the stopper from the skin with his teeth, took a long swig and then spat the contents out in a spray of  liquid and spit. The stuff tasted like gnawer’s piss and had the kick of soggy wool. The bitch had cheated him but he wasn’t going to stand for that. He’d make her drink the bloody contents. He pushed himself away from the wall clutching the greasy skin in his hand and marched back the way he’d come, ignoring the ache in his side. When he turned the corner he practically collided with the beggar from the inn who pushed him out of the way with one hand growling curses under his breath.

Sharman watched him march away with a frown on his face. He’d seen a few beggars in his time and had even taken one or two of them into his troop and made good soldiers of them, but he’d never seen a beggar walk tall and miss a chance to plead for a few copper gellstart. Deep in thought he rubbed the bruised place on his chest where the beggar had pushed him away; the man was not only strong but fit as well. Now that was unusual; a fit, strong beggar who didn’t beg but consorted with the court’s low life. For a moment he thought of following him but he would be streets away by now. Instead he shrugged and carried on to the inn. He had business with a pot girl.

The inn hadn’t changed in his absence; it was still dirty and smelly with broken furniture and filthy straw strewn across the floor. He slapped the skin down on the plank that acted as the inn’s bar and glowered at the pot girl who was collecting money from the two northerners. She took one look at him, shrugged and disappeared through a side door. When she returned she had another skin in better shape than the first and a small pot in her hands which she put on the bar beside him. He poured himself a good measure and threw it back, coughing as it burnt his throat. It was vile stuff but at least it was what he’d paid for.

Now all he needed was his money back so he held out his hand and with an obscenity the girl fished around in her blouse, pulled out two silver gellstart and slapped it into his hand. He thought of asking for some more, perhaps even a grope and a tumble in the back room for his trouble, but he was as likely to get the pox as he was any enjoyment from the experience, so he pocketed the coins, picked up the skin and left the inn.

Outside a thin drizzle had started to fall from a dark, miserable sky so he pulled his hat further down over his head and hurried back in the direction of the palace. Up ahead the three men from the inn were hurrying in the same direction. He could have overtaken them if he’d wanted to but he was suddenly curious about who they were and what they were up to, so he hung back and watched them.

Just before they reached the palace gates they stopped, and he ducked into the shadow of a doorway whilst they talked in low, urgent whispers. They shook hands as if they had reached some sort of agreement and the lordling, or whoever he was, hurried away into the darkness. The other two stepped up to the gates of the palace, received a smart salute from the gate guard and crossed the courtyard to the guest wing. Now that was curious.

They must have been men of importance after all to be housed in the palace. Finding out who they were was simple; the guards on the gates were Malingar’s own men and were happy to tell him the visitor’s names and where they were from. Figuring out why two envoys from Vorgret’s court would want to meet with the lordling and a filthy beggar in one of Dartis’s seedy, back street inns was another matter and one which he would have to look into when he had time.

When he arrived back he found out that he was right, Malingar was unimpressed with him returning to the barracks on unsteady feet and smelling of back street inns and cheap grain spirit. If he’d been a lowly guardsman he would have been on double duty for a moon cycle but he wasn’t so instead he was assigned to check the guards on duty in the lower corridors of the palace. It was the most boring duty imaginable and Malingar had picked his punishment well.

Before he’d done anything though, he’d had a bath to get rid of the cloying smell of the beggar and the unwelcome visitor which must have changed residence when the man had bumped into him. The bloodsucking parasite had been washed away but the smell still clung to him. Despite his dislike of bathing he’d quite enjoyed the hot water warming him through. He seemed to feel the cold more these days, perhaps because he was getting old or it could be because he was getting thinner now that his appetite had faded away to practically nothing.

Whatever the reason, by the time he’d dried off and had put on fresh clothing, he felt better than he had for days and set off stoically on his rounds. Malingar had set guards on each of the lower level corridors where one intercepted another. If his master had asked him he would have told him it was a waste of time, but he guessed if you were responsible for the safety of a king who sat on another man’s throne which you had taken by force, then you would be over cautious. He descended the stairs beneath the palace and stopped at every post to talk to the guards.

They all looked so young, but he supposed that compared to him they were. So he gave them some advice about staying awake on night duty, scared them witless with stories of what had happened to guards who had fallen asleep on duty and then took their reports. Apart from the usual servants going about their business and the comings and goings of envoys and trade delegations inspecting the goods they had brought as samples, everything was quiet. After the second circuit Sharman had had enough. His feet ached, his side hurt and his throat was as parched as a Sandstrone river bed. He told the last guard on the circuit where he could be found if there was an emergency and retired to his rooms.

Rastor had also returned to his room, hiding the bundle his contacts had given him in the corner of his shelter where he’d cleared away the filthy straw. The time wasn’t right to bathe and change yet; that would come when he had no further need of his malodorous disguise. He scratched at one of the sores under his armpit where some bloodsucking thing had bitten him and the scab had gone bad, and pulled the ragged cloak which protected his hovel from the worst of the wind closed. Inside it stank even worse than he did, but he didn’t mind; a rank smell and a floor alive with vermin was a surprisingly good deterrent against nosey neighbours. He rummaged in the straw for his belongings; a skin of grain spirit, two bags of gold coins and the knife.

The knife felt solid in his hand. He could almost feel it sliding up between Borman’s ribs and see the look of surprise on the King’s face as he realised who it was who had come back from the dead to end his life. It wasn’t just any old knife either, but the identical one to the blade that Malingar carried. He had sent to Northshield to have it made and stamped with Malingar’s house crest and had then carried it to Vinmore to lay his plans before Vorgret. Of course, if enquiries were made it would be identified as a fake but by then it would be too late. Tomorrow he would take it into the palace in Dartis and plant it in Borman’s treacherous heart and Malingar would be executed for the crime. For now he needed to rest so he pulled the dirty straw over his body, closed his eyes and waited for the nightmares to come.

The subject of Rastor’s plans banged his goblet of wine down heavily on the massive table in front of him, took a deep breath and closed his eyes whilst he controlled the urge to throw the heavy goblet at the man who had brought him this latest piece of unwelcome news. The Goddess knows he was a patient man but this was enough to make even the Goddess pull her hair out in frustration. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there had been room for him to shout and stamp about and slam a few doors to relieve his irritation but the palace in Dartis was so damned small.

He wasn’t sure why it should be so. Their royal family had enough wealth to live in opulence but whilst it looked grand enough from the outside, the rooms were only half-sized boxes. What’s more the inside walls were so flaming thin that he only had to raise his voice above a whisper and everyone in the palace and the city beyond knew his business. If he was berating his Guardcaptain about something as sensitive as this he didn’t want the entire population of Dartis to know about it.

“How in hellden’s name did my prick of a cousin manage to survive so long in Tallison's hands and not only survive but be part of the rebellion that ended in the Rale’s death?”

“I don’t know, My Lord, the details are somewhat sketchy.” That was an understatement. Malingar was going to stop there but the dangerous look Borman gave him made him continue. “The envoy from Sandstrone, one of their ruling council, was reluctant to give details but it seems that your cousin and a magic worker interrupted some sort of ceremony during which Tallison was killed and the people took the opportunity to take control of the kingdom for themselves.”

“That is an abomination and against all the laws of the Goddess. Who was this magic worker?”

“I don’t know, My Lord. The envoy from Sandstone said that Tallison had named him Callistares.”

“That is impossible, Callistares died a long time ago and is entombed in the centre of the maze in Wallmore. It must have been some charlatan who had taken his name for the effect it would have on the minds of such a simple and uneducated people.”

Borman thought about it for a moment. Another possibility could be that the magic worker was some unknown, renegade magician with no king to answer to. If that was the case he was a danger to the six kingdoms unless, of course, he could bind the magician to his service before anyone else did. He needed to know more. “Where is the envoy now?”

“He awaits an audience, Your Majesty.”

“And where is the magic worker?”

“Somewhere in the north I believe.”

Borman sighed in irritation. “When I ruled from Northshield I had spies in each of the six kingdoms and knew what was going on in every kingdom before it had even happened. There wasn’t a king who could fart and I wouldn’t know the when and where of it. Now whole kingdoms change hands with peasants having the audacity to think they can rule themselves and I’m the last to know about it.”

“The world changes, My Lord. Then you ruled your own kingdom and your people obeyed you without question. Now you rule other kingdoms and the people there resent your rule.” As soon as the words were out Malingar knew he’d said the wrong thing and wished them back again.

Borman swept the goblet off the table with the back of his hand and Malingar winced at the trail of red wine, looking too much like spilt blood left behind on the white stone floor. “You dare to question my right to be king of Leersland and Tarbis? You are a fool, Malingar, as well as being incompetent. Even that idiot Rastor managed to keep me informed of what was going on and what do I get from you? A court full of foreign scum who wheedle their way onto the list of people you think I should receive so they can tell me how upset their king is or, blast them to hellden’s halls, how concerned their council is with my latest conquest. Rastor would never have admitted them!”

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and a new thought crossed his mind. He leaned forward and glared at his Guardcaptain. “If I find that you have been taking bribes I will have your balls, the same as I did Rastor’s. Now get out of here and don’t come back until you have learned how to do your job properly.”

Malingar bowed and backed to the door in case the king decided to throw something at him. Outside the two guards stood to attention, their faces as devoid of expression as they could manage. “If one word of that conversation gets out I will have you both digging waste pits for the rest of your lives.”

He marched off down the corridor silently fuming at the unjust reprimand and sick to death of hearing how wonderful Rastor had been. Borman had no idea what it was like trying to keep Tarbis from bursting into flames. It was bad enough dealing with the resentment of the locals at having a foreign king on their kingdom’s throne and a foreign army in their land. On top of that he had an army made up of men from three different kingdoms who were kicking their heels and squabbling from the boredom. It was like sitting on a tinder box with sparks flying all around it.

As well as all of that, there were the veiled threats from Vinmore and Sandstrone. He was trying to use diplomacy to keep that situation under control, but Borman didn’t understand what diplomacy meant and didn’t care. It wouldn’t take much to set the whole thing ablaze and with so much fuel around it was going to be a bugger to put out once it started.

Malingar walked along the corridor deep in thought, ignoring those he passed. He would have liked to have shared his thoughts with Sharman and see what he had to say, but his steward and friend now lived in the barracks instead of the palace. Apart from that the last time he’d seen him he hadn’t looked too well. Of course that could have been due to him spending too much time in Dartis’s inns, but it could also be that he was getting too old for active duty. He stopped and changed his mind about going to the barracks and apologising for the dressing down he’d given his friend earlier; the man was probably asleep so he would do it in the morning instead.

When he entered his rooms he checked his weapons stacked in the rack by the door out of habit, wishing the king would let him wear at least a knife in his presence. The Goddess knows what would happen if the king was attacked and he was unarmed. In his work room he poured himself a goblet of wine from the flagon on the dresser, which tasted slightly musty. Then he settled down to deal with the stack of documents that had been placed on his desk wondering how Rastor had coped with the never ending administration. After a candle length and another goblet of wine he gave in, his head feeling full of soggy wool and his stomach feeling queasy.