Murder in LaMut: Legends of the Riftwar: Book II Page 9

  He shivered.

  Kethol shook his head. ‘I tell you, there’s a storm coming.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not today, and not tomorrow, but soon. Too soon.’

  Pirojil shook his head. With any luck, they would be out of LaMut with their pay warm in their pockets, but he had the feeling that luck wasn’t going to be with them.

  Not this time.

  Shit.

  FOUR

  Cold

  The sky was clear again.

  The air seemed to have warmed a little–Durine could no longer quite feel the snot freezing in his nose–but it was still far too damned cold as they rode away, accompanied by both the Morray and Mondegreen relief troops destined for service in LaMut.

  Maybe this ‘thaw’ was actually coming. That would be a good thing.

  It was a much larger party than the one that had ridden out to Mondegreen, and would have been even without the Morray contingent: half again as many Mondegreen troops were being sent into the earldom’s capital as had been rotated home, although why that was, Durine didn’t know.

  None of his business, really.

  His business was to keep an eye out for Baron Morray, and prevent Kethol’s and Pirojil’s intention of guarding Lady Mondegreen from screwing that up, if they ran into trouble.

  At a fork in the road they met up with Lord Verheyen and a company of his own soldiers, accompanied by a trio of Natalese Rangers, several hours out from Verheyen’s keep.

  The Rangers were, as always, dressed in their traditional dark grey tunics, dark grey trousers, and equally dark grey cloaks. Durine never quite understood how legendary woodsmen would not want to adapt their clothing–their cloaks, in particular–to their surroundings. While he and Pirojil and Kethol travelled light by necessity, he had always accepted Kethol’s notion that a cloak was more than just protection from the cold, more than something to sleep in, more than the basis for a stretcher to carry a wounded comrade, if you had that inclination and luxury: the three of them always made it a point to procure cloaks that were suited to the season. Even somebody as big as Durine was practically invisible in wooded country, if he was standing motionless and wearing the right cloak.

  On the other hand, since it was almost impossible to see a Ranger unless he wished you to, they must know something Durine didn’t. He turned his attention back to the approaching noble.

  Luke Verheyen drew his horse to a halt. ‘Hail, Ernest, Baron Morray,’ he said formally.

  Verheyen was a powerfully-built man, his hair and beard blond almost to the point of unhealthy whiteness, in stark contrast to his sun-darkened skin. His lips were twisted in a smile, and the creases along the side of his mouth and around his eyes suggested that he smiled often and much. He and his soldiers had thrown back their cloaks to reveal brown tabards quartered by a red cross, the only other device visible being a golden falcon on the upper left quarter, over the heart. Durine noticed the sword at his side was well cared for and well used, the hilt more suited for fighting than being a decoration. This was in keeping with his reputation as one of the deadliest blades in the West.

  Morray nodded back. ‘Hail, Luke, Baron Verheyen,’ he returned. ‘A cold day for travelling.’

  ‘That it is.’

  You might have thought that the two men were, at worst, friendly acquaintances from the amiable way they were chatting, but only if you didn’t watch their eyes. Durine was carefully watching their eyes, until the leader of the three Rangers rode to the front and attracted his attention. The Ranger was a tall, slender man, who cut an almost absurd figure on his small pony, which from the easy way it moved under him, was surely sturdier than it seemed.

  The Ranger greeted the Baron, then let his eyes slide past the soldiers in Morray, Mondegreen and LaMutian livery and settled on the three men who weren’t in uniform.

  ‘Hail, stranger,’ he said, his eyes fixing on Kethol: as usual, there was something about the way Kethol looked that had made the Ranger think he was in charge. ‘I am Grodan of Natal. I recognize the livery of the others, but I don’t recognize yours.’ His eyes indicated that ‘yours’ meant all three of them.

  Despite their formal use of language, Natalese Rangers had, during his few encounters with them, always reminded Durine of constables–they watched everybody sceptically and pried for details that were, in any reasonable sense, none of their business.

  ‘My name is Kethol,’ Kethol said, pulling back his cloak to reveal his plain green tabard. ‘I’m in the employ of the Earl of LaMut, as are my companions, Pirojil and Durine.’

  Grodan nodded. ‘Strange times make strange acquaintances.’

  ‘So I hear,’ Morray put in. ‘As for us, we’re accompanying the Lady Mondegreen to LaMut, for the same baronial council that Baron Verheyen is going to attend. Conduct of the war is important, but the earldom still has its own needs, and we’re required–’

  ‘Really?’ Verheyen’s smile broadened. ‘I thought, perhaps, that I’d be of more use at the general staff meeting in Yabon City, but…’ He trailed off with a shrug.

  ‘Well, if you feel that you’d be welcome in Yabon City,’ Morray said flatly, ‘then you should point your horse north and west, rather than south. With these Rangers here to guide you, I’m sure you’ll only be a few days late, if you ride hard.’

  ‘I think not.’ Verheyen spread his hands. ‘I’ve always found that when my opinion differs from the Earl’s as to what is best, it’s better to do as he wishes.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Grodan arched an eyebrow and leaned forward. ‘Did I correctly hear you say it’s the Lady Mondegreen in the coach? Not the Baron?’

  Kethol shook his head. ‘The Baron–’

  ‘The Baron,’ Morray interrupted, shutting Kethol up with a quick glare, ‘is indisposed, and unable to travel at the moment. I’m not entirely sure why that’s any concern of yours, Ranger.’

  Durine didn’t see any point in trying to keep Baron Mondegreen’s fatal condition a secret. The old man would probably be dead within weeks, if not days. But nobody was asking him.

  ‘No offence is intended,’ Grodan said. ‘As I said, strange times make for strange alliances.’

  The Rangers were eyeing the LaMutian soldiers with expressions that were not particularly friendly, despite the fact that they were allies. Granted, it was a necessary alliance, not one born of brotherly love; after all, it had been the present Duke of Crydee’s grandfather who had sacked Walinor and laid siege to Natal while attempting to conquer what had once been the Keshian province of Bosonia. Many in the Free Cities viewed the Duchy of Crydee as lands lost in that war. Durine knew that memories were long and people who felt a grievance normally could not be counted on to make distinctions between one duke or another, or one generation and the next. A curse of history, he judged. Sometimes it was better not to know things.

  Durine could see there wasn’t going to be a fight, grudging or otherwise, but if there were, it would be interesting to see how many of the locals the Rangers took down before they were overwhelmed. However, as the Ranger had said, war made strange alliances. This one would probably hold at least until a solid two or maybe three days after the last of the Tsurani were eliminated–if that ever happened. Or maybe for an entire week; Durine liked to look on the bright side of things.

  ‘Well, then,’ Grodan said, ‘I think we had best accompany you all the way to LaMut.’

  Morray nodded. ‘I’ll be grateful for your company, of course, and more grateful if the three of you will scout ahead. We had some minor trouble with Tsurani stragglers on the way out to Mondegreen, and it would be good to have some warning if there are any more such about.’

  Good for him, thought Durine.

  Kethol had never seen LaMut so full of soldiers–or nobles, or just plain people, for that matter. Everywhere he went, there seemed to be a plethora of baronial tabards, each bearing a different crest, although he knew that there were only a dozen or so barons that were fealty-bound to
the Earl of LaMut. And everywhere you went, there seemed to be some noble or his lady, each with his or her own personal guard. For every landed baron, there appeared to be a couple of court barons, which meant there were dozens of squires, pages and other servants hurrying from one place to another, each wearing a mark or badge which he considered worthy of deference, but which was summarily ignored by everyone around him. He saw one scuffle between two young men who should have known better over who got to walk through the door of an inn first. The LaMutian constables walking by were more amused than annoyed and took evil delight in cuffing and kicking the two young ‘nobles’ to their feet, if not their senses.

  Kethol made a point of staying out of their way; he had already had more than enough exposure to the nobility and their self-important servants for a lifetime, and all in a single week.

  Just to complicate matters, Second-day was a full market day in LaMut, and the lull in the war had filled the markets, despite the bitter cold. The lower city was crowded with merchants selling everything Kethol could have imagined–except for mercenary services and fresh produce. The latter would have to wait for spring and if there were any good LaMutian citizens who needed to hire people like Kethol, Pirojil and Durine, the city markets were hardly the place to find them.

  Near where a travelling farrier had set up his stall, a chicken-seller hawked his wares, clucking in protest against the cold in their wicker cages, already plucked and gutted and hanging from hooks where they were quickly freezing; or by the piece as they roasted on a hot spit over a fire. He was doing a brisk business with these, for the meaty, garlicky smells pried open pouches as quickly as a good pickpocket, and only iron self-discipline and the certain knowledge that hot food waited for him in the keep kept Kethol himself from parting with a few coppers.

  Others weren’t being quite so restrained. One stocky soldier, his cloak thrown back to display the Verheyen crest on his tabard, pushed to the front of the crowd, elbowed aside a pair of Benton men, and if the Watch hadn’t been in the market in full force, it was just the sort of thing that would have degenerated into a brawl, despite the cold.

  But the Watch moved quickly, so that the Verheyen man eventually passed on up the street, munching on a chicken leg, while the Benton men went down the street with a pair of roasted breasts and two baskets filled with eggs, suggesting that they had been on an errand for somebody.

  Kethol was recognized at the keep’s gate, and after a quick check of a list–mercenary soldiers did not come and go as they pleased within the walls of the Earl of LaMut’s castle, but usually resided in a barracks in the city below. He was conducted into the courtyard surrounding the keep itself, made his way across the parade ground that occupied much of that inner courtyard, through the mud-room and into the foyer of the residence’s west wing.

  The sergeant in charge of the guard detachment there blocked his passage. ‘I’ve been waiting for you–you’re late,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Kethol said. ‘I’m due to relieve the others, at the Bursar’s quarters. But that’s a matter between me and Pirojil and Durine–meaning no offence, but it’s none of your concern, after all.’

  Like most of the barons fealty-bound to the Earl of LaMut, Morray maintained a small residence in the earldom’s capital. Even in peacetime, the barons were frequently coming and going, doing whatever they needed to do in the capital besides working out a way to squeeze more taxes out of the peasants and franklins–which Kethol reckoned consumed most of their time and effort, although that probably wasn’t fair. Kethol tried to be fair, at least within the confines of his mind. There were other attractions in LaMut. While two of the three playhouses in the city had been shut down early in the war, LaMut was still the cultural capital of the earldom, as well as the political one, and it was understandable that the nobility would want to spend time in the capital for any number of reasons.

  In addition to his house on Black Swan Road, Morray also had been assigned a small suite of rooms in the Earl’s keep itself, probably both because of his status as the Bursar, and because he was one of the few people who knew the secret of the lock on the strongroom door. Gold and silver were sticky things, and if there ever was a noble fool enough to let just anybody have access to either the strongroom or the accounting books, Kethol would definitely have liked to have heard of him. He’d be first in line to stand guard all night at the strongroom door. For one night.

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘The other two can sit around with their thumbs up their arses watching the door for a while longer while Baron Morray takes his rest.’ It seemed that the three of them were quickly becoming as popular with the keep’s soldiers as they had become in Mondegreen. ‘The Swordmaster wants to see you,’ the sergeant went on. ‘Weren’t you told that at the gate?’

  There were, Kethol decided, many wonderful times in life when it was best to keep your mouth shut. If I had been told that at the gate, I wouldn’t be here right now, would I? he didn’t say. You made enough enemies in this business as it was, and Kethol had no wish to add another. ‘No, I wasn’t,’ he finally said.

  The sergeant frowned. ‘Hart, you’d better guide the freebooter up to the Aerie,’ he said, turning to a gangly soldier with shifty eyes. ‘He seems to have some trouble finding his way around to where he is supposed to be.’

  Kethol followed the soldier down the hallway and up the winding staircase to the Aerie. The three of them couldn’t be in serious trouble, he decided, or a detachment of troops would have met them at the front gate.

  The soldier knocked briefly at the door, then opened it without asking.

  ‘Ah,’ Steven Argent said, glancing up from some paper in his lap, ‘the tardy Kethol is finally here.’ He grinned. ‘I was thinking that I was going to have to send out a search party for you.’

  Steven Argent glanced down at Fantus. The firedrake had stretched out in front of the hearth, spreading his wings to absorb what heat he could. The whole castle was probably far too draughty for the creature’s tastes, but he had found himself a comfortable spot, at least for the moment, and a comfortable spot was something that Kethol envied as he stood not quite at attention.

  ‘Fantus, here,’ the Swordmaster went on, ‘is quite the opposite of you; he’s far too easy to find, underfoot, in front of my hearth. He keeps contriving to get himself down from the falconry loft where he belongs, and I never seem to manage to keep him out. If he weren’t the Duke’s wizard’s pet, Fantus would find himself out in the forest, and quickly, never mind how cold it is.’

  The drake stirred briefly, as if understanding the threat, fixed Argent with a baleful eye for a brief moment, then closed it, obviously contented with his lot. Kethol was now convinced Fantus had been some rich woman’s pet cat in a previous life.

  Argent allowed himself a rueful smile. ‘Or how he seems to grow on me.’ The Swordmaster looked up. ‘You weren’t quite so easy to find.’

  Kethol didn’t quite shrug. ‘I’m sorry that the Swordmaster was put to any inconvenience,’ he said.

  He hoped it was the right thing to say, and he relaxed a trifle when Steven Argent waved the matter away.

  ‘Not at all. Just give me a moment,’ Steven Argent said, gesturing Kethol to the other chair next to the hearth. ‘I’d better finish signing off on this report before it all flees my mind.’ He bent over the papers in his lap again. ‘It’s a sad thing when an honest swordmaster has to take up all the bothersome details of running an earldom. I’ll be almost as happy to see the Duke and Kulgan return to pick up Fantus as I will to see the Earl is back and I can return to my normal duties.’

  Kethol slowly lowered himself into the indicated seat, nervous around the firedrake.

  ‘He likes it when you scratch at his eye-ridges,’ Steven Argent said, not looking up from his papers. ‘You’d think he almost purrs.’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Kethol said, ‘I’ll just keep my hands to myself.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Argent said, still n
ot looking up, ‘but Fantus may have other ideas.’

  As though he had heard and understood the Swordmaster, Fantus slithered over to Kethol and presented his head for scratching.

  Kethol had never been this close to a firedrake before. Once, years before, he had caught sight of a flight of new hatchlings. It had been another war, not as cold, but muddier, and he had enjoyed the moment of bright colours in the sky, if only as an early sign of spring. Dragons, large or small, had always made Kethol nervous, and he had no inclination to get any closer than a long bowshot. Their eyes seemed to see too much: some people claimed dragons could speak like men, but Kethol didn’t care to engage one in conversation as an experiment. Even if they couldn’t, Kethol was pretty sure they were smart; certainly this one was smart enough to have wormed his way into the Swordmaster’s affections and into the Earl’s kitchen through a cold winter.

  Fantus craned his long neck to give Kethol a quick glance, then went back to spreading his broad wings in front of the raging fire.

  Kethol narrowed his gaze at the creature. Then he reached out a tentative hand and scratched where the Swordmaster had indicated. The drake stretched his neck a bit, then relaxed into a satisfied, almost blissful expression, which fitted with Kethol’s theory of feline reincarnation.

  Steven Argent finally set his stack of papers down on the small table to his right–away from both the firedrake and the fire–and sat back in his chair. ‘Well, I’m told you have a letter for me, and one for the Earl.’

  Told? Who would have told–Oh. Lady Mondegreen, of course. He tried not to sniff the air for her signature scent of patchouli and myrrh.