What Remains of Heroes (46 page)

“Prefect Gamghast,” she said, her chin raised but her voice quavering. “You once offered me shelter. Does your offer stand?”

Gamghast shook his head, confused. “Of course, my queen. The Sanctum is ready to assist you by any means available to us.” He patted at the mad wisps of his beard. “Something has happened?”

Queen Reyis drew a deep breath and seemed about to speak when she choked back a sob. She waved a hand as though asking for a moment.

The cloaked figures about her moved hurriedly to her sides, whispering comforting words and placing hands upon her. “I-I cannot…” she breathed. She stumbled forward but was caught by her companions.

The tall figure near the queen threw back its hood. It was Tannin, the castle guardsman who’d allowed him passage through the castle sewers during his last visit to the Bastion. There was a bloody mess where his left eye should have been and his bent nose was caked with dried blood. He came near Gamghast and placed a firm hand upon his shoulder. “Prefect,” he said stoically, “the High King is dead. We need your help.”

The High King of Rune? Dead and without an heir?
Gamghast inhaled sharply and swooned, squeezing his hands against his staff. It was too much, though, and his hands were too old and wrenched by age. He fell, smacking his head upon the floor.

Tannin grabbed him and slapped him and Gamghast’s eyes fluttered open to see the thick-necked guardsman’s one remaining eye peering at him intensely from a face nearly ruined.

“Get up, old man,” Tannin said firmly. “Death is the only rest we can count upon in days such as these.”

29

Chance

“
T
hese are deep
wounds,” Paddyn said, a tremble in his voice. The rough lad moved his hands hesitantly above Karnag’s unconscious form, seemingly unsure what to do. “He’s bled like this for days. How is it he still draws breath?”

Fencress Fallcrow said nothing, for she had no decent answers to offer. Karnag lay unresponsive upon the bed before them, as he had for days now. Blood wept from many vicious rents, and shimmered crimson in the frail candlelight. They’d tried everything they could, all to no avail.

“He needs a healer,” said Drenj tiredly as he stared out the room’s paned window. “It is late in the evening and I can do no more. I fear he’ll die before morning if he doesn’t have the help of a skilled healer.”

Fencress laughed ruefully. “The best healers in Ironmoor are the members of the Sanctum. I don’t reckon they’ll be keen on doing us a favor after the bloody mess we made of their Abbey.”

“What, then?” said Paddyn. “He’s sure to bleed out soon. We just stand here and watch him die?”

Fencress shook her head and sighed. She couldn’t say ‘nothing,’ because that sounded like surrender and she couldn’t bear the thought of giving in. Karnag meant too much to her and she refused to relinquish her hope he’d survive, her hope he’d become his old self again.

“And where could we go to fetch help?” Paddyn said. “The city guard won’t forget what we did. We’re trapped in this city, and certain to be found if we stay.”

“He’s right,” said Drenj. “There’s no help for Karnag here. We should leave him here and sneak out. The three of us could manage it, Fencress.”

“I’ll not leave without him,” said Fencress firmly.

“So that’s it?” Drenj said. “We stay, your friend dies, and the three of us rot in chains or worse.”

Fencress held her head high. She needed to make a show of things, lest the boys think she’d gotten soft.
There is always a chance. There has to be
.

“Well?” said Drenj, his voice cracking.

She turned away from Karnag and paced about the spacious room they’d rented at the inn. “Boys, I’m a damned good killer, a light-handed thief, and a performer of some renown. But in my heart I am first among all things a gambler. Chance is by definition a fickle thing, yet it’s been my experience that a string of bad dice is inevitably followed by a fortunate roll. It’s a strange notion, but you learn to
trust
chance. You trust that somehow, someway, the dice will turn in your favor.”

Drenj looked to her with eyes wide. “What?” he spat.

“Faith, you mean,” said Paddyn.

Fencress stopped and fingered the small wooden sun she kept strung about her neck. She needed to believe this, these words of hers. “No, I mean chance. We’ve tried everything we know, done all we can to hedge our bet, so to speak. Now we let the dice roll and hope for a good turn. There is something inside our friend Karnag that we don’t understand, and I reckon the odds he’ll make it through this aren’t so long as we think.”

Drenj snorted. “So we
are
going to just stand here and watch him die. Then wait to be captured ourselves.”

Fencress paused. She couldn’t bear watching Karnag like this, all weak and wheezing and bloody. Nothing would change his condition so long as they idled about this room, and they were risking capture just as the boys had said. They needed a way to escape the city and save her friend.

“We don’t just stay here, do we?” said Paddyn, his eyes pleading.

“By no means,” Fencress said. “I am not going to just stay here. I am going to venture downstairs to the bar and enjoy a libation or two, and wait for whatever chance has in store.”

“Have you gone completely mad?” said Drenj, waving his arms. “It’s the busiest time of evening! Don’t you think it’s a poor idea to lounge idly about the inn’s common room when it’s certain to be crowded with patrons? We need to keep out of sight! We’re wanted criminals, Fencress!”

Fencress glared at him. “We’re killers for hire! Of course we’re wanted! What is it about that notion that suddenly seems novel to you?” She snatched her black gloves from a table and tugged them on. “I’ll be downstairs.”

Drenj rushed to grab the door just as Fencress moved through it. “Madness,” the Khaldisian muttered, just before slamming it shut.

The common room of
The Wolf at the Window
wasn’t crowded, and no eyes lingered on Fencress overlong as she descended the staircase to its center. The innkeeper, a stout fellow with a neatly-trimmed red beard and an easy grin, manned the bar now, and gave Fencress a knowing wink as he pulled a draught of ale from a cask. Fencress nodded in reply, and found an unoccupied table near the rectangular room’s crackling hearth.

The inn was certainly comfortable enough, near Ironmoor’s elegant merchant district. The chairs were padded, the candlesticks brass rather than iron, and the tapestry decorating the long wall was likely worth more than the going rate for assassinating a minor royal official. A serving girl with a full set of white teeth wandered among oak tables carrying trays of lamb and pheasant to the bejeweled patrons laughing over glasses—
real glasses!—
of red Khaldisian wine.

It was not at all the sort of place Fencress and her companions had grown accustomed to, but they’d been desperate when they’d stumbled upon its door. Karnag had collapsed soon after they’d stormed their way out of the Sanctum’s Abbey, and this had been very first inn they could find. Chance had fallen in their favor, though, as the innkeeper had seemed trustworthy enough. When they’d slipped a gold ingot into his hand in exchange for discretion, Fencress felt confident of the deal.

The man approached Fencress now, hoisting a ceramic mug crowned with golden foam. “Good evening, my lady,” he said, setting the mug before Fencress and taking a seat across from her. “What a rare pleasure to see you during the evening. May I sit for a moment?”

“Most certainly,” answered Fencress. She’d never given the fellow her name, nor would she. “Any man I trust is welcome in my company.” She swept the mug from the table and took a long drink, enjoying the crisp, fruity flavor of the ale. She licked the foam from her lips and smiled. “So, friend, have there been any inquiries concerning our stay at your inn?”

The innkeeper picked at an unseen tangle in his short beard and then leaned close. “Hard to say. That is, there’s all kind of talk of strange and terrible things afoot in Ironmoor, but for me to say whether any of it concerns you would require me to know the nature of your business here.”

Fencress took another draw of ale and studied the fellow’s green eyes. She’d learned a great deal from her many games of deadman’s dice, and found those skills as life-saving as any swordplay or footwork she’d acquired. There was always the chance of misjudging or getting a bad turn of the dice, of course, but at least she could get a decent read of the odds. This man’s eyes were calm and sincere—his help had been purchased with that gold ingot. “The Sanctum,” Fencress whispered. “Any word of the Sanctum?”

The innkeeper sank back in his chair. His red brow arched and his pink cheeks puffed and he exhaled slowly. “You
were
the ones!”

Fencress matched the man’s gaze but said nothing for a long moment. She thought of drawing one of her twin blades for emphasis, but figured she’d leave them sheathed since this seemed a respectable inn. “Let’s just say I’m the curious sort, friend.”

“Well, if you’re asking about the trouble there a week back, then yes, there’s been talk.”

She eased forward and encircled her gloved hands about the tall mug, just as she would a throat. “Continue.”

The innkeeper looked to his side and, after seeming to satisfy himself that there were no eavesdroppers among the sparse crowd of merchants, he pulled closer. “These days the Sanctum doesn’t hold much sway with the Crown. That said, murder so close to the Bastion is a serious thing, and there’ve been guardsmen making the rounds, questioning the proprietors of the local inns and taverns. They’re offering a reward,” he smiled timidly, “but nothing near an entire gold ingot.”

Fencress couldn’t help but smirk.
No matter what king men kneel before, money is ever their master
. “And what of the gates? Are the guards as discerning about what—or who—goes out, as they are who and what comes in?”

“From what I hear from the traders who come here, the war with Arranan isn’t going any better. With news like that folk have been trying to flee the city for days to head north or west. Problem is, the guards have been detaining people, mainly those stout enough to bear arms. The Crown says it would never have any part in conscription, and claims these restrictions on travel merely ensure Ironmoor’s citizens remain secure in the event the Arranese advance this far north. But, just as it’s always been, our rulers have a knack for telling us the knife at our back is just a gentle guiding hand.”

Fencress tugged at her gloves. “And those who don’t look like fighters? They’re allowed through?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Why would the Crown want them? Just more folk to feed, and that means something if the Arranese arrive at our gates and provisions become scarce.”

Fencress pondered this, thinking over the odds. Karnag looked awful, and she reckoned she and the young lads could make a good show of illness. “Do you have a wagon you could spare? Perhaps blankets?”

“I do,” he said slowly. “But such things are worth coin…”

She thought again of drawing her blades. They’d given the man an entire gold ingot, and had parted with another in order to gain entrance to Ironmoor just a week before that. She didn’t feel comfortable parting with any more of their fortune.

Just as she was about to offer the innkeeper a subtle threat, she heard it: that old, familiar sound of dice rattling across a table. She turned and spied two fat, silk-clad merchants huddled over a table on the room’s opposite side.

She turned back to the merchant. “Get that wagon and an armful of blankets ready. I’ll have the coin for you shortly, friend.”

Chance is a thing to be trusted, after all
.

Fencress studied the fatter merchant’s eyes, dark and heavy from much Khaldisian wine. Any skilled player knew it was not in the dice but rather the eyes where the game was truly played. This fellow’s eyes shifted nervously as Fencress stared.

He’s lying
.

She tilted her overturned cup a bit, just so she alone could see the dice she’d rolled. Three cubes, streaked and stained like bad teeth, showed two ones and a four on their upward faces. It was an outstanding roll-in-the-hole, with one pip being the best face a die could show. In the center of the table was a single die, a community die that counted toward both players’ cups. It, too, was a one, giving Fencress a total of three of them, or “the stocks” as it was known by experienced players of the game.

The merchant had just laid down a wager even fatter than he was, twenty silver crowns sloppily piled just next to his cup. It was a wager that, considering the stakes, spoke of an excellent cup. He was posturing as though he held the stocks or even more: the four ones that comprised “the racks.” The last community die had yet to be rolled, and five ones would make “the gallows.”