The Last Enchanter (16 page)

“What?” Marcus stood and faced Kelvin. His shoulder throbbed from where he'd been hit with the chair, but he
did his best not to show it. “
I
barely escaped! If you hadn't come in when you did, he would have killed me.”

Kelvin glared sharply at Marcus. “You know the trouble the rebels have caused. We've taken every precaution to stop them, and then you come face to face with one! But instead of calling for help, or better yet, capturing him yourself, you let him get away!”

“
Let
him get away?” Marcus was getting angrier by the moment. “How do you think I should have stopped him?”

Kelvin's rage was so obvious now, his teeth were clenched and his face pale. “Magic!” he shouted. “Or have you suddenly forgotten you're an enchanter's apprentice?”

Kelvin's words cut deeper into Marcus than any blade ever could. Magic. Yes, he could have used magic against the Agoran, and under the circumstances he should have used it, no matter how much pain it caused him. The realization that he had failed his brother, failed in the very purpose of his visit here, sickened him. What must Kelvin think of him now? Worse yet, what would Zyll think of him?

Across the room, Jayson finished wrapping a strip torn from his own tunic around the guard's burned arm. He helped the guard to the chamber door where two additional guards now waited. One was dragging away the dead sentry. The other took the injured guard's arm around his neck, bracing him as he walked.

“Take him to his room and call for the doctor,” Jayson instructed. “Then send someone for the other man's family. They'll want to tend to him themselves.”

Once the guards had gone, Jayson turned to his sons.
“So the rebel escaped,” he said, kicking at the broken chair. “How?”

“He just vanished right before our eyes,” Kelvin answered. “He must have used some hidden door in the wall.”

Marcus suddenly felt as though his legs might buckle. He leaned against Kelvin's desk for support.

“What is it?” asked Jayson. “Are you hurt?”

The hidden door!

The pain in his shoulder, his bloodied face, even the ever-present ache in his chest was nothing compared to what he felt now. For a moment, he almost convinced himself that the reason he didn't use magic against the Agoran was because he was afraid, but that wasn't true—not completely.

He looked from Jayson to Kelvin and back again, shame burning inside of him.

“I didn't use magic,” he said, “because I recognized the Agoran who's been attacking the Fortress. His name is Eliha,” said Marcus. “He's probably been using that tunnel to get into the Fortress all along.”

On the day the Hestorians invaded Dokur eight months ago, Kaië had led him through the tunnel into this very room. They had freed Bryn from the prison, freed Eliha as well, and then escaped the same way they had come in. Marcus was about to explain all this when Chancellor Prost appeared at the door.

“What's going on here?” he asked, taking in the damaged room at a glance. “I demand to know what's happened!”

“An Agoran rebel attacked Marcus,” Kelvin explained. “We think he escaped through a secret door. Do you know anything about that?”

Prost gave an irritated
humph
before crossing the room and pressing his hand against the wood trim. A section of the wall swung open, revealing a dark hollow beyond.

“No one but those closest to Fredric ever knew about this,” said Prost. “If an Agoran has been using it, then it's fair to say it isn't a secret anymore.”

Jayson came up behind Prost and Kelvin and peered into the tunnel. “So,” he said, rubbing at his chin, “which one of us is going to go catch him?”

Forty-four

T
he Dragon's Head Inn stood in a part of Dokur that still carried the scars of the invasion. Despite blackened roofs and patched-up walls, business was good, perhaps too good. Here was where the poor, the nonhumans, and the criminals gathered. Jayson knew it was the most likely place to find someone who did not wish to be found.

When Jayson entered the inn, his senses were repelled by the heavy odors of human sweat, spirits, and filth. No one even glanced up to take notice of the cloaked visitor, and Jayson took advantage of this fact to study each face in the crowded room.

At the tables, men haggled over pyramids of upturned shot glasses. Others stood by the fireplace gazing
dreamily or unhappily into the flames. Still others sat hunched over the bar, their hands clenched around half-empty glasses of ale. Jayson searched for the one face here that would stand out from all the others.

He walked toward the bar and pulled back his hood. The clatter in the room fell silent as, one by one, all eyes turned to him.

“You, barkeeper,” he said, leaning one elbow atop the bar, “tell me—any Agorans here tonight?”

The barkeeper, a young man with straight, dark hair down to his shoulders and eyes equally dark and wide, wiped a glass with a towel and set it on the bar in front of Jayson.

“I don't judge any man by his looks,” he said, “only his wallet. What'll it be?”

Jayson plunked a coin onto the bar and waited while the keeper filled his glass. Seeing that he wasn't a threat, the men in the room went back to their haggling and drinking.

“I've heard rumors that someone's been causing problems at the Fortress,” Jayson said, “and that the new king has a ransom out for the man responsible.”

“Aye,” said the keeper, “some of the servants come here on their days off and tell us the tales. Just before Fredric died, mysterious things started happening. Guards found with their throats slit, the treasury ransacked, messages scrawled in blood on the walls. Two of the navy's ships were burned and sunk.”

“That can't all be the work of one man,” said Jayson,
wiping the condensation from his glass with his thumb. “Can it?”

“Who's to say?” answered an older gentleman sitting beside Jayson. “You're not among the king's most loyal subjects here.” The man burst out laughing and swayed so far to one side that Jayson thought he might fall off his barstool. But instead, the man dropped his head onto the bar and fell asleep.

At the far end of the bar, a figure dressed in a gray cloak stood up and turned toward the staircase at the back of the room. Jayson eyed him for a moment. Something about the smoothness of his movements made Jayson stand up, too.

“You there!” shouted Jayson. In response, the man bolted with such speed that it took Jayson by surprise. The man leapt over the railing onto the staircase and fled up to the second floor. As he reached the landing, his cloak fell away, revealing an Agoran face. Jayson was after him now, taking the stairs three steps at a time. He followed the Agoran down the hall to an open window. The Agoran climbed agilely onto the window frame, preparing to jump out. But Jayson grabbed him by the neck with both hands and flung him backward onto the floor.

“Are you Eliha?” demanded Jayson. “Are you the one who's been breaking into the Fortress?”

The Agoran spit in Jayson's face. Jayson yanked him off the floor and threw him across the hall. The Agoran hit the wall and slid to the floor where he sat, staring icily at Jayson.

Jayson drew his sword and pressed the tip of the blade into the Agoran's throat.

“Do you know who I am?” shouted Jayson.

“Everyone knows who you are, half-breed,” said the Agoran. “You are a traitor to your people.”

“There is a price on your head, and I've a mind to collect it!” said Jayson. “Your little games have cost our people their lands. Because of you, there may be civil war.”

“Because of
me
?” said the Agoran, laughing a hollow laugh. “I don't see any scars on your back, Jayson. Where were you when your people were crushed under Fredric's whip? He drove our families to the swamps, forced our brothers and sons to wallow like pigs in his mine. He stole our dignity! And you say
I
have cost the Agorans their land?”

“Fredric gave you your freedom.”

“He
gave
us nothing! This new king will never
give
us what we deserve. We have to take it! I fight for more than just a bit of land. My cause will win us back our pride!”

“No cause can justify murder, Eliha.”

“You murdered us all when you married the princess, Lady Ivanore. You abandoned us that very day, Jayson. How can you justify that?”

Jayson had had enough. He punched Eliha square in the face. The Agoran went limp.

“Justify
that
!” said Jayson, rubbing his sore knuckles.

Forty-five

T
he kitchen was hot and steamy from the many vats of soups and sauces simmering over the red-hot iron stoves. Marcus carried two sacks of potatoes into the pantry and emptied them into the root bin. A cloud of dry, moldy dust coated his apron, and he flapped the empty sacks, trying to clear the air. His shoulder felt better today, but he couldn't hide the bruise on his face. He had to tell Zyll what had happened and, of course, had to endure two lectures: one from Zyll and one from Xerxes. He was glad when they were called to work, because it meant the issue could not be discussed further.

Marcus had to admit that working in the kitchen had grown on him. Maybe that was because he would get to see Kaië each morning when she delivered her pastries.
She arrived early that day and stayed for more than an hour, helping out where she could. Marcus was glad for the company, even if they were only friends.

Marcus closed the pantry and returned to the kitchen, passing Xerxes in the corner. The enchanted walking stick had been on his best behavior since being left in the room for dinner several nights before. At the counter, Zyll slid a pile of freshly chopped basil into a bowl. Beside him, Val, the head chef, explained the art of dicing vegetables.

“It's all in the way you grip the knife,” Val said, holding a large butcher knife up for Zyll to see. “And you curve your knuckles over the carrot, like this.” He demonstrated it by deftly slicing paper-thin circles from the carrot. Marcus thought it funny how Val's sparse mustache moved as he spoke, as if it were a live caterpillar wriggling around on his lip.

“That's right,” Marcus said as he passed behind Val, “this old man has never cut carrots in his life.”

From the grunt Val gave, Marcus could tell his comment was not appreciated.

“This is not some poor villager's stew,” he said with a huff. “This is a very special recipe for the king himself. Everything must be perfect.”

Marcus folded the potato sacks. There would be turnips delivered later, and he wanted the bags handy.

“I can just see it now,” mocked Marcus, plucking a wooden stirring spoon from a crock on the counter. “Kelvin lifts a spoonful of soup to his lips and—‘What's this?' he cries. ‘This carrot slice is too thick! Death to the
cook!'” Marcus tasted the invisible soup and then drew the spoon across his neck like a knife.

Val snatched the spoon away from him. “Laugh if you will,” he said, “but there is a good reason why I am the chef and you are the storage clerk. Now you, Marco, prepare my tea while Zit and I finish the stew.”

“Once again, I'm Marcus and he's Zyll,” said Marcus, rolling his eyes. Val had proven bad at names.

Suddenly the door to the delivery area swung open, and there was Kelvin's young page gasping for breath as if he'd been running. “They have caught him!” he shouted.

“What? Who?” asked Val, his knife poised over a parsnip.

“The Agoran who burned the ship and killed the king's guards!”

“How do you know this?”

“The gatekeeper just told me,” answered the page. “The guards are bringing the culprit before Chancellor Prost as we speak.”

Marcus looked at Zyll, but Zyll had already removed his apron and was heading for the hall with Xerxes in hand. Marcus flung the empty potato sacks across Val's shoulder, following Zyll.

“Wait!” called Val. “Where are you two going? And who will serve His Majesty's tea?”

* * *

The door to the throne room stood open when Marcus and Zyll arrived. The throne was empty, but Prost stood beside
it as usual and was speaking to someone else in the room.

“Kelvin has reconsidered his decision,” Prost was saying. “He has decided to honor Fredric's decree.”

“I see,” said a voice Marcus recognized as Jayson's. “I'm certain the Agorans will be pleased to hear of it.”

The attending guard announced Zyll and Marcus's arrival. Prost nodded, permitting them to enter. “Hello, Master Zyll, Marcus,” said Prost. “How goes it in the kitchen?”

“Splendidly,” answered Zyll, smiling. “I have learned that for the past fifty-seven years of my life, I have been defiling the very art of vegetable preparation. Ah, but we did not mean to intrude,” he added, bowing respectfully. “Please, continue.”

“Yes, of course,” said Prost. “Jayson, Dokur owes you its thanks in locating the Agoran rebels. They are now in custody and will be tried and condemned for their crimes.”