The Scarecrow (Master of Malice Book 1) (49 page)

Sullyan pursed her lips. “Perhaps I had better send you two companies from the Manor. I will speak to the General about it. Meanwhile, I will go to the infirmary and see what I can do to help Taran. I will stay here until the King returns, and I will be here to honor Denny and his men.”

Her voice broke and she turned away, too saddened to say more. The funeral pyre for a company of twenty men would stain the air black and do nothing to reassure Loxton’s people. Yet it couldn’t be helped. The mortuary couldn’t keep the bodies long enough for the city to forget the tragedy, and those brave, loyal swordsmen deserved their due. She left Levant’s rooms with a tired, heavy heart.

The day’s events ran through her mind as she made her way to the mortuary. She was beginning to suspect she might have made a mistake thinking Bordenn was the place to look for clues as to whether their old adversary had resumed his vindictive activities. The city now seemed to be the focus of attention, and although she was pleased Elias was out of the way, she knew she would never convince him to stay away, to stay safe. Not until she could prove beyond reasonable doubt Reen was behind these harrowing incidents.

The King’s safety was paramount and she would do everything in her power to ensure that either General Blaine remained by his side, or that she was appointed to the duty herself. Unconnected though these events seemed to be, still they pricked her mind with insistent fingers, telling her there was a pattern, something to be read from the tragedies, even though she might not yet see it.

She woke one of the mortuary attendants, demanding to see where the bodies of the slain were laid. The sleepy attendant showed her to one of the lower rooms, kept constantly cold by its depth below ground and aided by the snow and ice brought down by the mortuary boys.

She stood in silence beside the row of lifeless corpses—all laid out the same, all cleaned and ready to be dressed in formal uniform for their final journey, all draped in shrouds bearing Elias Rovannon’s sun-circled crown. The gold and red of his colors contrasted starkly with the gray of their unresponsive features, and the flicker of lamps in the windowless crypt lent a cruel semblance of life to their dull, staring eyes.

She moved along the line of men, standing at the foot of each, remembering the deeds and character of every individual, saying farewell to those she’d known as friends. Finally, she came to the end. There, slightly apart from the others, his sword laid carefully on his breast, was the corpse of Owyn Denny.

Sullyan’s sight blurred as she gazed on his familiar features, recalling his quick and easy humor, his light laughter, his zest for life and gambling, and his warm but fickle heart. His good-natured face and his slim but muscular body had won him many admirers among the nobler ladies of Loxton, and not a few would bewail his demise with genuine sadness. He had broken a few hearts in his time by refusing to commit himself, but she knew his easy manner and free ways had ensured none of them harbored any bitterness.

Her own heart jolted with sorrow as she stroked one finger gently along his cold cheek. She remembered the cocky young cadet who befriended her, who never quite got to grips with the discipline demanded by his superiors. Nothing seemed to touch Denny, although Glinn Parren tried his vicious best, often causing Denny to be given punishment details he didn’t deserve. Parren even tried to sabotage Denny’s final tests, the failure of which would have seen him dismissed from the Manor. But Sullyan had succeeded in foiling Parren’s plans, and she and Denny became firm friends, despite her constant rejections of his hopeful advances. Finally, he got the message and they found a level of friendship that survived.

Tears rolled down her face as these memories replayed. Absently, she drew the sumptuous shroud from his naked chest, wanting, for reasons she couldn’t name, to see the wound that had stilled the beating of his youthful heart. She hissed in shock and anger when she saw the ragged wounds in his breast—four of them, all caused by crossbow bolts.

She was stunned. She hadn’t yet heard the details of the attack and she’d assumed his company had run into a large band of brigands and fought a losing battle. But crossbows meant ambush and organization. Fleeing brigands, whether on foot or horseback, had no time to wind and load crossbows. Indeed, it was rare for casual ruffians even to carry crossbows, as the powerful weapons were cumbersome.

Swiftly, her mind reeling from the ugly implications of what she’d just seen, she examined the other men. Her face was drained and bleak when she was done. Turning from the silent corpses, she almost ran from the room.

T
he vagrant waited another hour before judging it safe to move. He had heard nothing since Seline’s departure but the faint sound of his own jaws as he ate the food in the basket. Although the sustenance was welcome, he almost wished she hadn’t brought it. If he left the basket there it would be discovered, and she would be required to account for it. If he took it with him, it might hamper his movements. In the end he had no choice. Sighing, he picked it up as he moved to the door.

He hadn’t needed Seline’s instructions on how to find the east wing. As the Baron’s tool, he knew what Reen knew, and Reen was intimately familiar with Loxton Castle. Opening the door a crack, he peered out. No one in sight. The castle doors were closed against the cold, the guards no doubt huddled around their brazier. He wouldn’t get a better opportunity.

He slipped from the room, closing the door behind him. Keeping to the shadows, he ghosted up the stairway, his ears straining for the slightest sound.

The second floor was also deserted and silent. His feet made no sound as he drifted toward his goal—the locked door leading to the disused east wing. It was fortunate the King wasn’t in residence, for there was always a guard on his suite at the far end of the hall. It was a long way down, but the wastrel doubted even he could have reached this door without the guard seeing him. As it was, no one was about.

He stopped outside the door and listened intently. The apartments of Lord Levant and Colonel Vassa were on this floor, as was the nursery. But they were all farther down the long hallway and he heard nothing from any of them. He slid the key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. It turned easily. Seline must have been using the east wing often enough for the lock to work smoothly. The vagrant slipped through the door and closed it behind him, relocking it silently.

He stood in the total darkness, allowing his eyes to adjust. But he had no need of light; the Baron knew this place well, and his servant moved confidently into the dark to wait for the right time to complete his master’s instructions.

+ + + + +

S
ullyan headed for the garrison. She had intended to see Taran after paying her respects to the dead, but he would keep. He wasn’t going anywhere. This was more important. Her instincts, both military and Artesan, were thoroughly aroused by what she had seen on the bodies of the slain and she needed firsthand accounts of what had happened. She intended to get one from Ardoch.

She used a side entrance leading directly into the garrison courtyard. One of the King’s swordsmen on his rounds saw her as she emerged into the freezing night. Valustin must have alerted the garrison to her arrival because the man merely saluted her and continued on his way. She returned the homage before she entered the barracks.

Ardoch had a private town house but also kept permanent rooms above the barracks, where he could most often be found. She knew he wouldn’t be away from the castle on such a day. She mounted the wooden stairs to the officers’ quarters and approached his door.

The door was open. As she came abreast of it, she could see the old swordmaster sitting before his fire, nursing a glass of his favored tarn liquor, staring blankly into the flames. She entered quietly, so as not to startle him, and drew the door closed behind her. He glanced up, unsurprised to see her, but didn’t speak.

She crossed to his table and poured herself a small measure of the peat-colored grain spirit. Sullyan rarely drank alcohol, but the sight of those proud, brave men laid out in the mortuary left her feeling wounded and weakened. A shot of Ardoch’s liquid fire would warm her burdened heart. She took it to the opposite side of the hearth and seated herself.

She sipped at the burning liquor, trying not to cough. It wrought a trail of stinging heat down her throat and into her belly, and she savored its raw taste. They sat in silence, neither disturbing the memories of the other. Eventually, Sullyan stirred.

“Ghyllan, will you tell me how it happened?”

The old Torlander raised his grizzled head, staring at her from sore eyes. She had to lower her gaze from the explicit sorrow mirrored there. He clasped his hands about his glass, as if for comfort, and spoke in his gentle Torland burr, recounting the whole tale of the ill-fated patrol with military precision and attention to detail. She listened in silence until he was quite done.

“You were close enough to hear the start of it?” she asked. He nodded. “Yet by the time you arrived it was all over and the brigands were gone. So it was no chance occurrence. They were killed immediately, with no quarter or mercy. It was a carefully planned and efficiently executed ambush.”

Ardoch ducked his head. “Looks that way. Only one poor sod out of twenty managed to get away before collapsing from loss of blood. Bastards must have seen or heard Denny’s company and realized they were being hunted. Must have lured them toward the road and cut them down to prevent themselves being taken.”

“You think it was arranged that quickly?”

Ardoch’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. “What’re you suggesting?”

She held his gaze. “It was a convenient coincidence, was it not? Patrols were sent out to scour Loxton Forest for Neremiah’s murderer and Sir Regus’s attackers. They thought to look for remnants of the haul and behold, remnants were found. Obvious tracks led down the south road. And at a sharp bend in that road, where visibility is at its lowest, an ambush was sprung. Twenty trained and experienced members of the King’s Guard cut down in the first volley—horses too—
by crossbows
. No chance of survival. And no sign of the culprits when you arrive on the scene not more than a few minutes after the bloodbath. Come on, Ghyllan! Does that ring true? Where is your nose for intrigue? I cannot believe this was a random attack. No, my old friend. This was a planned maneuver, formulated by a tactical mind. This was a deliberate act.”

Ardoch stared in horror. “Are you saying the two incidents are linked? That Neremiah’s murderer was involved in the massacre of Denny’s men? Why would he want to do that? Why wait around to kill one company of Kingsmen? Wouldn’t he simply flee the area, get as far away as possible?”

She didn’t relinquish his gaze. “It needs further thought, Ghyl, but that is exactly what I am saying. And if I am right, what of this terrible fire? What of the death of Lady Jinella?”

Ardoch’s face turned pale and his eyes widened, but he remained silent. She sensed his confusion and how weariness and grief had taken their toll on his usually sharp mind. He needed rest. She stood, placing her glass on the table.

“Try to sleep, Ghyl.” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Your experience and fortitude will be needed tomorrow when we say farewell to those who died. The men will take heart from our stoic acceptance of what we all know is a daily possibility when we take the King’s Oath. We must not show weakness. We will send Owyn and the others off with respect and honor.”

She left him, seeing the glitter of tears in his eyes and knowing the outward expression of deep grief was the beginning of healing, painful though it was. She closed the door behind her and made her way back into the castle.

It was too late to see Taran now. She was weary and heart sore and that was no condition in which to approach his wounded psyche, especially if what she suspected should prove true. She needed a clear head and strength of spirit if she was to help him deal with the pain of his loss. She made for the apartment kept ready for her, next to the one allocated to Taran.

Walking the length of the upper hallway, she passed the iron-bound door to the disused east wing. She was deep in thought, trying to sort through her suspicions and pin down the many niggling inconsistencies her tactical brain refused to let go of. She stopped moving and put her hand on the latch before she was aware of her actions.

The door didn’t give and it brought her fully alert. She stared at the stout oak planks in surprise. Why had she stopped here? Why had her feet turned toward this door when the one to her own rooms was not only twenty feet away, but also on the other side of the hall? She stood and listened, calming the beat of her heart, silencing the whisper of her breath.

Nothing moved, nothing sounded. All was peaceful. She cocked her head, remembering another time, nearly three weeks ago, when she had felt drawn to what lay behind this door. Perhaps she ought to take note of her instincts and investigate further. There must be a reason why she was suddenly affected by this section of the castle.

She shook her head and took her hand from the latch. She was tired and needed to rest. She would wait until she had leisure to deal with this, and that was likely to be after the King returned. Tomorrow would be a busy day. Let it wait till then.

+ + + + +

I
n the silence of deep night, once the stir created by the King’s escort died down, the scarecrow’s newest servant was summoned. The man called Othal made his glassy-eyed way to the Baron’s retreat, unremarked by any of his fellows. The man himself, red hair slick with grease and sweat, heart hammering painfully, was scarcely aware why he felt such terror.

The palace’s ground floor was in total darkness, the empty rooms deathly cold and silent. Only one room contained life of sorts, deep below this floor and protected from an Artesan’s senses by the solid rock from which it was hewn. And it was there that Othal was bound. He descended the stairs and approached the closed door with trepidation, his hand shaking as he reached for the latch.