The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (7 page)

Nicholas bit his tongue to keep from swearing. “Anything else?” he said at last.

She shook her head, looking down. “No, sir.”

He opened a desk drawer and fished out a dralion. It was worth ten Hurn’s eyes. He tossed it to her, watching her eyes widen. “Don’t speak of this to anyone else,” he said.

She nodded. “No, sir, I won’t.”

He went to the wall and pulled the bell. A moment later Grimes opened the door. “Send Rawson to me immediately,” Nicholas ordered. “Take her to the kitchen and give her a hot meal.”

The door closed behind the messenger and Nicholas read the missive again, fear tying knots in his gut. Few knew how important the house at Oaksmere was to him—or why. Most thought it was just one of his summerhouses. But living at Oaksmere was his son, Carston. Nicholas had fanatically protected Carston’s very existence from almost everyone. Every servant at Oaksmere wore a cipher to prevent them from revealing who Carston was. As part of the settlement he’d made when taking custody of the boy, Nicholas had also required Dorinda—the boy’s mother—to wear one. He’d also had the minds of her family and servants majick-ally altered. He’d learned young that being a Weverton made him a target. As he grew older and had inherited the leadership of the Weverton empire and begun his campaign against the crown, the attacks had come more frequently. Carston was not going to be a pawn on the battlefield.

But something had happened at Oaksmere.

Cold fury thickened in Nicholas’s chest. If Carston had been captured, then there would be a ransom demand. If not, there was still time to help.
It had been five days already
. He thrust the thought away. Falke, Carston’s tutor, companion, and bodyguard, was clever and he would do anything for his charge. But either way, Nicholas was certain that Carston was alive. He did no one any good dead. Nicholas clung to the thought with all the desperation of a drowning man.

It was a half a glass before Rawson banged a hard fist against the door. He strode in. He was Nicholas’s arms master. Just over six feet tall, his frame was lanky, his bones wrapped in thick corded muscle. His face was leathery above his beard, and his eyes were a pale blue and hard. Around his neck hung a chain with a collection of what appeared to be charms—all were ciphers. He wore a sword on his right hip and a variety of other weapons secreted about his person. He’d no doubt left his crossbow in the vestibule. He was, in a word, dangerous. He gave a minuscule bow and waited for Nicholas to speak.

“There’s been trouble at Oaksmere,” he said grimly, passing the parchment to Rawson.

The other man examined it. “They’re after Carston, then,” he said in a soft, low voice.

“I can’t imagine it’s anything else.”

“I can take a full squad of twenty men. We can be on the road in half a glass.”

“Take the horses.” In Crosspointe, few could afford to own even a single horse. The feed was horrendously expensive on such a small island nation. Nicholas bred them.

Rawson’s cheek twitched and he shook his head. “The mules will hold up better. The roads are mud bogs. We’ll take dogs too.”

“Whatever you think best. Take this”—Nicholas pulled a pouch of coins out of a drawer and tossed it to the other man—“and buy provisions, bribes, and anything else you need. Do whatever you have to to get there quickly. Get Carston back and find out who’s done this—” He hesitated. Then said, “You should take a majicar with you. Klepeysian or Forzidel perhaps.”

Rawson chewed his bottom lip. “Can’t trust ’em—can’t trust their majick to work. Like carrying a cracked sword. It’s not whether it’s going to break, it’s when.”

“Still, the enemy may have majick and you’ll need to counter it with something. Take them both.”

“Yessir. Anything else?”

“Hurry. Bring him back to me alive.” Nicholas’s voice cracked on the last word and hot tears burned his eyes. He didn’t let them fall.

Rawson touched his forehead with his fingers in a salute and left without another word. Nicholas slumped in his chair, staring at the door. It would take days to get to Oaksmere and by then the raiders could have gone anywhere. It might be weeks before he discovered what had happened, if not longer. He closed his eyes, his throat tightening. Carston was his life. From the moment he was born, Nicholas had loved him. The boy was now six seasons old and full of curiosity, independence, and courage. Nicholas missed him terribly and found every excuse he could to visit Oaksmere.

He’d kill the bastards who did this.

Slowly he rose to stand before the windows again. The storm continued to rage outside, matching the violent turmoil inside him. Who had done this? The obvious choices were the Ramplings and the regent. But Geoffrey was his ally. Nicholas had practically given him the regency. But Geoffrey would eat his own young if it would give him more power. The man was insatiable. The question was, what did he gain by kidnapping Carston?

As for the Ramplings—he didn’t know if Ryland or Vaughn were ruthless enough to steal children. But if not Geoffrey or the princes, who? He had plenty of enemies, and he would pay anything to get Carston back. But who would have the means to discover Carston’s existence?

It was dark before he retreated from his study to his private quarters. He was in no mood to attend the dinner he’d been invited to and sent his regrets. He poured himself a glass of dark Kalibrian whiskey, and tossed it back, the smoky burn of it searing his gut. He poured another and drank it just as quickly. With a curse he turned and threw the glass, shattering it against the wall. His attention was suddenly caught by the small parchment in the middle of the bed.

He stared at it, hardly comprehending it. It wasn’t possible. His security was impenetrable. And yet . . . there it was.

Slowly he moved to the side of the bed. He didn’t pick up the page. It could be poisoned or majicked. The writing was feminine. His heart leaped into his throat as he scanned the words.

He made a choking sound, gripping the bedclothes and wrenching them aside with a shout of rage. He knocked over the bed stand and threw a chair against the windows. They were majicked and did not break.

“My, my, my. Such a temper.”

He spun around, pulling the dagger from his belt. He held it ready. “Where are you?”

The woman laughed softly and slid from a narrow crease of shadow on the near wall. She wore close- fitting black clothing. A hood covered her hair and most of her face, leaving only a narrow band for her eyes. They were blue. She had two knives strapped to her thighs and another tucked into the top of her right boot.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you know of Carston?”

“I told you,” she said in a cold, cutting voice, “I know where your son is.”

Shock rippled through him. “How do you know he’s my son?”

“Does it matter?”

“Do you have him?” he said in a demanding tone.

The expression in her eyes was contemptuous. “I do not steal children.”

“What do you want? What is your price? Tell me where my son is.” He strode forward, standing over her. He wasn’t a tall man, but she was much smaller. Her head barely came to his chin. She looked up at him, not backing away. She was not frightened.

“Price? For the life of a child? Oh, no. That is your game, not mine.”

She reached up and pulled off her hood. Nicholas could only stare. Princess Margaret stood before him, but instead of the soft, porcelain doll he was used to seeing at fashionable functions, this Princess Margaret was made of ice and iron. Her body was tensed and fluid, like she was prepared to fight and knew how to kill. Her mouth was a flat line and her face was a mask of hate. He jerked back as if he’d been struck. He had spies everywhere—how did he not know what she was?

She snarled at him, the rage rolling off her in tangible waves, but her voice was quiet and controlled. “How many Rampling children has the regent stolen and sold into slavery? How many have been beaten and starved? How many have been chained to beds in brothels? You have done this. You made him regent—what he does is your fault as much as his.” Her face contorted and then smoothed into blandness. “Part of me says that your son deserves everything he gets—
you
deserve it. But I won’t leave even a child of yours in the regent’s hands if I can do something about it.”

“Geoffrey is behind this? But he doesn’t know I have a son,” Nicholas rasped.

“Doesn’t he?”

“You could be behind this; it could be a trap—a way to turn me against Geoffrey and win back the throne.”

She nodded and smiled with bright fierceness. “It could. But you’ll have to play the game to the end to find out. I know where Carston is. Come with me now and I’ll show you.”

Nicholas hesitated. It would take hours for a rider to overtake Rawson and bring him back. He didn’t think Margaret would wait.

“Just you,” she said and took a step back as if preparing to leave. “We go now.” Her brows rose in a question. Her eyes taunted him.

Nicholas swallowed and made up his mind. “Let me dress and leave a note for my staff. I don’t want them to raise an alarm. Geoffrey will learn of it and be wary, if he is the culprit.”

She nodded and gestured with her hand. “Be quick.”

He retreated to his dressing room and quickly changed his clothes, donning wool trousers, a heavy cotton shirt, tall boots, and a long wool vest. Over it he pulled a caped greatcoat and buckled on his rapier. The belt was made of two layers of leather, with three dozen dralions stitched between. He added a stiletto to each boot and hung another around his neck, turning it so it hung between his shoulder blades.

He opened his jewelry box and took out a necklace with several ciphers. As erratic as majick was acting these days, he didn’t know how useful these would be, but they couldn’t hurt. He slid the charms over his neck. One was for healing, another was a shield against majickal attack, and the third would give a boost of strength. He touched the shield amulet thoughtfully. But, no. Not yet. With majick so uncertain, he should wait to activate it.

Lastly he donned a hat, pulling the brim low, and tucked a pair of gloves into his belt. With that he returned to his bedchamber.

Margaret stood just to the side of the window, looking out. It was difficult to pick her out of the shadows, as if she’d faded and was no more substantial than a ghost. She turned to look at him as he went to the desk and took out a purse, tucking it into a pocket inside his vest. He then took out a parchment and pen and scribbled a quick note to Fawke.

He signed it with a flourish and took the time to heat wax and press his signet into it so that Fawke would know it was official.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded. “Where are we going?”

“First to get a little help.”

“Help?” His surprise was sharp.

She stared at him and her blue eyes weren’t as condemning and cold as they had been. “The two of us might be able to rescue the boy. But our chances would be better with a bit of support.”

“The two of us—,” he repeatedly stupidly, then shook himself. “You’re going to help me? Why?”

She smiled. It was as bitter as arsenic. “Because I am a Rampling and that is what we do—we protect the people of Crosspointe. Even cracking bastards like you. Besides, you will owe me, and I already have a price in mind.”

She strode toward him, graceful and deadly—like a wolf. She swept past and out into the passage. She smelled of wind and pine. He followed.

Margaret led him to an opulent set of rooms not far from his own. They would be his wife’s one day. The room was dusted and clean, the linens fresh on the bed. He had it kept as if someone might use it at a moment’s notice. Margaret didn’t call the lights, but went through the room as if she was a frequent visitor. Nicholas’s stomach tightened. Perhaps she was.

In the boudoir she opened the east windows that opened onto a narrow balcony. Wind buffeted through the opening and tossed the heavy drapes. Rain pelted the glass and drenched Margaret as she went out. Nicholas followed, letting the windows close behind him. She climbed up onto the balustrade, holding the downspout with one hand and glancing at him over her shoulder. “This part could be tricky. Try not to fall.”

With that she stepped out onto the ledge that ran along the side of the house. A hundred feet below, the wet cobblestone courtyard gleamed sleekly in the light cast out from the first floor windows. She eased along the ledge without hesitation, body pressed against the house. She found handholds in protruding bits of masonry and on window ledges. Forty feet away, she dropped down onto another balcony and turned, waiting for Nicholas.

He grimaced. Majick kept the rain from soaking his greatcoat and weighting him down, but he was bigger and heavier than Margaret, and clearly she had a great deal of practice. But she just as clearly wanted to take no chances that they would be seen leaving, and then, too, she no doubt enjoyed seeing him suffer.

Drawing a hard breath, he climbed up onto the balustrade and followed her path. The wind pounded him, pulling at the voluminous sweep of his coat like a sail. He clung to his precarious perch, sliding his feet over the slick stone. Inch by inch he crossed until he reached the balcony where Margaret waited. His arms and legs shook with the effort and cold turned his hands to claws.

“Come on,” she said and went to the other side. A tossing hemlock crowded close. From her waist she unwound a rope. It was hardly bigger around than his pinky finger and looked like it wouldn’t hold a child, much less a grown man. She tied it off and slung it over the edge.

“Go,” she ordered, pointing downward.

He looked at the rope and then back at her. It was a matter of trust. She could cut the rope and he’d fall to the pavement and kill himself. But, then, she could have killed him many times already. He’d thought his house well warded against intruders, but she’d broken through easily.