Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations Page 7

  “Any chance the prince might review our sentences on account of all this?” a weaker, younger voice asked. “I mean, it’s possible, isn’t it?”

  This question was met with a lengthy silence, more coughing, and a sneeze.

  “The guard said they stabbed the bastard in the back right in his own chapel. What does that say about his piety?” a new, bitter voice questioned. “Seems to me he was asking for a bit too much from the man upstairs.”

  “The ones that done it are in our old cell. They moved me and Danny out to make room. I saw them when they shifted us—two of them, one big, the other little.”

  “Anyone know them? Maybe they was trying to break some of us out and got sidetracked, eh?”

  “Gotta have some pretty big brass ones to kill a king in his own castle. They won’t get a trial, not even one for show. I’m surprised they’ve lived this long.”

  “Gonna want a public torture before the execution. Things been quiet a long time. Haven’t had a good torture in years.”

  “So why ya think they did it?”

  “Why don’t you ask ’em?”

  “Hey, over there? You conscious in that cell of yours? Or did they beat you stupid?”

  “Maybe they’re dead.”

  They were not dead but neither were they talking. Royce and Hadrian stood chained to the far wall of their cell, their ankles locked in stocks, and their mouths gagged with leather muzzles. They had been there only for the better part of an hour, but already the strain on Hadrian’s muscles was painful. The soldiers had removed their gear, cloaks, boots, and tunics, leaving them with nothing but their britches to fight the damp chill of the dungeon.

  They hung listening to the rambling conversations of the other inmates. The conversation halted at heavy approaching footfalls. The door to the cellblock opened and banged against the interior wall.

  “Right this way, Your Royal Highness—I mean, Your Royal Majesty,” the voice of the dungeon warden said rapidly.

  A metal key twisted in the lock, and the door to their cell creaked open. Four royal bodyguards led the prince and his uncle, Percy Braga, inside. Hadrian recognized Braga, the Archduke and Lord Chancellor of Melengar, but he had never seen Alric before. The prince was young, perhaps no more than twenty. He was short, thin, and delicate in appearance with light brown hair that reached to his shoulders and only the ghost of a beard. His stature and features must have come from his mother, because the former king had been a bear of a man. He wore only a silk nightshirt with a massive sword strapped comically to his side by an oversized leather belt.

  “These are the ones?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Braga replied.

  “Torch,” Alric commanded, snapping his fingers impatiently as a soldier pulled one from the wall bracket and held it out for him. Alric scowled at the offer. “Hold it near their heads. I wish to see their faces.” Alric peered at them. “No marks? They haven’t been whipped?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Braga said. “They surrendered without a fight and Captain Wylin thought it best to lock them up while he searched the rest of the castle. I approved his decision. We can’t be certain these two acted alone in this.”

  “No, of course not. Who gave the order to gag them?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Braga replied. “Do you wish their gags removed?”

  “No, Uncle Percy—oh, I can’t call you that anymore, can I?”

  “You’re the king now, Your Majesty. You can call me whatever you wish.”

  “But it isn’t dignified, not for a ruler, but Archduke is so formal—I’ll call you Percy, is that all right?”

  “It’s not my place to approve of your decisions any longer, Sire.”

  “Percy it is, then, and no, leave their gags on. I have no desire to hear their lies. What will they say except that they didn’t do it? Captured killers always deny their crimes. What choice do they have? Unless they wish to take their last few moments of life to spit in the face of their king. I won’t give them the satisfaction of that.”

  “They could tell us if they were working alone or for someone else. They could even tell us who that person or persons might be.”

  Alric continued to study them. His eyes focused on a twisted mark in the shape of an M on Royce’s left shoulder. He squinted and then, out of frustration, snatched the torch from a guard and held it so close to Royce’s face that he winced. “What is this here? Like a tattoo but not quite.”

  “A brand, Your Majesty,” Braga replied. “It’s the Mark of Manzant. It would seem this creature was once an inmate of Manzant Prison.”

  Alric looked puzzled. “I didn’t think inmates were released from Manzant, and I wasn’t aware anyone has ever escaped.”

  Braga appeared puzzled as well.

  Alric then moved to inspect Hadrian. When he observed the small silver medallion that hung around Hadrian’s neck, the prince lifted it, turned it over with mild curiosity, and then let it go with disdain.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Alric said. “I really don’t think they look like the type to volunteer information. In the morning have them hauled out to the square and tortured. If they say anything of merit, have them beheaded.”

  “If not?”

  “If not, quarter them slowly. Draw their bowels into the sun and have the royal surgeon keep them alive as long as possible. Oh, and before you do, make certain heralds have time to make several announcements. I want a crowd for this. People need to know the penalty for treason.”

  “As you wish, Sire.”

  Alric started for the door and then stopped. He turned and struck Royce across the face with the back of his hand. “He was my father, you worthless piece of filth!” The prince walked out, leaving the two hanging helplessly awaiting the dawn.

  Hadrian could only guess how long they had been hanging against the wall; perhaps two or three hours had passed. The faceless voices of the other inmates grew less frequent until they stopped entirely, silenced with boredom or sleep. The muzzle covering Hadrian’s mouth became soaked with spit and he found it difficult to breathe. His wrists were sore where the shackles rubbed and his back and his legs ached. To make matters worse, the cold tightened his muscles, making the strain even more painful. Not wanting to look at Royce, he alternated between closing his eyes and staring at the far wall. He did his best to avoid thinking about what would happen when daylight came. Instead, his mind was full of thoughts of self-incrimination—this was his fault. His insistence on breaking rules landed them where they were. Their death was on his hands.

  The door opened, and once more, a royal guard, this time accompanied by a woman, entered the cell. She was tall, slender, and dressed in a gown of burgundy and gold silk, which shimmered like fire in the torchlight. She was pretty, with auburn hair and fair skin.

  “Remove their gags,” she ordered briskly.

  The jailers rushed to unbuckle the straps and pull off the muzzles. “Now leave us, all of you.”

  The jailers promptly exited.

  “You too, Hilfred.”

  “Your Highness, I’m your bodyguard. I need to stay to—”

  “They are chained to the wall, Hilfred,” she snapped, and then took a breath to calm herself. “I’m fine. Now please leave and guard the door. I want no interruptions by anyone. Do you understand?”

  “As you wish, Your Highness.” The guard bowed and stepped out, closing the door behind him.

  She moved forward, carefully studying the two of them. On her belt was a jeweled kris dagger. Hadrian recognized the long wavy blade as the type used by eastern occultists for magical enchantments. Presently he was more concerned with its other use—as a deadly weapon. She toyed with the dragon-shaped hilt as if she might draw it forth and stab them at any moment.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked Hadrian.

  “Princess Arista Essendon,” Hadrian replied.

  “Very good.” She smiled at him. “Now, who are you? And don’t bother lying. You’ll be dead
in less than four hours, so what is the point?”

  “Hadrian Blackwater.”

  “And you?”

  “Royce Melborn.”

  “Who sent you here?”

  “A man by the name of DeWitt,” Hadrian replied. “He’s a member of Duke DeLorkan’s group from Dagastan, but we weren’t sent to kill your father.”

  “What were you sent to do?” Her painted nails clicked along the silver handle of the dagger, her eyes intent on them.

  “To steal Count Pickering’s sword. DeWitt said the count challenged him to a duel here last night at a dinner party.”

  “And what were you doing in the chapel?”

  “That’s where DeWitt said he hid the sword.”

  “I see …” She paused a moment as her mask of stone wavered. Her lips began to tremble, and tears welled in her eyes. She turned away from them, trying to compose herself. Her head was bowed and Hadrian could see her small body lurching.

  “Listen,” Hadrian said, “for what it’s worth, we didn’t kill your father.”

  “I know,” she said, still facing away from them.

  Royce and Hadrian exchanged glances.

  “You were sent here tonight to take the blame for the murder. Both of you are innocent.”

  “Are you—” Hadrian began, but stopped. For the first time since their capture, he felt hopeful but thought better of it. He turned to Royce. “Is she being sarcastic? You can usually tell better than I.”

  “Not this time,” Royce said, his face tense.

  “I just can’t believe he’s really gone,” Arista muttered. “I kissed him good night—it was only a few hours ago.” She took a deep breath and straightened before turning to face them. “My brother has set plans for the two of you. You’ll be tortured to death this morning. They’re building a platform where you’ll be drawn and quartered.”

  “We have already heard the details from your brother,” Royce said dismally.

  “He is the king now. I can’t stop him. He is determined to see you punished.”

  “You could talk to him,” Hadrian offered hopefully. “You could explain that we’re innocent. You could tell him about DeWitt.”

  Arista wiped her eyes with the insides of her wrists. “There is no DeWitt. There was no dinner party here last night, no duke from Calis, and Count Pickering hasn’t visited this castle in months. Even if any of that were true, Alric wouldn’t believe me. Not a person in this castle will believe me. I’m just an emotional girl. They’ll say, ‘She’s distraught. She’s upset.’ I can do no more to stop your execution today than I could do to save my own father’s life last night.”

  “You knew he was going to die?” Royce asked.

  She nodded, fighting the tears again. “I knew. I was told he would be killed, but I didn’t believe it.” She paused for a moment to study their faces. “Tell me, what would you do to get out of this castle alive before morning?”

  The two glanced at each other in stunned silence.

  “I’m thinking anything,” Hadrian said. “How about you, Royce?”

  His partner nodded. “I’d have to say I’m good with that.”

  “I can’t stop the execution,” Arista explained, “but I can see to it that you get out of this dungeon. I can return your clothes and weapons, and I can tell you a way to reach the sewers that run under this castle. I think they will take you out of the city. You should know that I have never personally explored them.”

  “I—I wouldn’t think so,” Hadrian said, not really certain he was hearing everything correctly.

  “It’s imperative that when you escape, you leave the city.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem,” Hadrian explained. “We’d probably do that anyway.”

  “And one more thing, you must kidnap my brother.”

  There was a pause as they both stared at her.

  “Wait, wait, hold on. You want us to kidnap the Prince of Melengar?”

  “Technically, he’s the King of Melengar now,” Royce said, correcting him.

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot,” Hadrian muttered.

  Arista walked back to the cell door, peeked out the window, and then returned.

  “Why do you want us to kidnap your brother?” Royce asked.

  “Because whoever killed my father will kill Alric next, and before his coronation, I imagine.”

  “Why?”

  “To destroy the Essendon line.”

  Royce stared at her. “Wouldn’t that place you at risk as well?”

  “Yes, but the threat to me will not be serious as long as Alric is thought to be alive. He is the crown prince. I’m only the silly daughter. Besides, one of us has to stay here in order to run the kingdom and find my father’s murderer.”

  “And your brother couldn’t do that?” Hadrian asked.

  “My brother is convinced you killed him.”

  “Oh, right—you have to forgive me. A minute ago I was about to be executed, and now I’m going to kidnap a king. Things are changing a bit fast for me.”

  “What are we supposed to do with your brother once we’ve gotten him out of the city?” Royce asked.

  “I need you to take him to Gutaria Prison.”

  “I’ve never heard of the place,” Royce said. He looked at Hadrian, who shook his head.

  “I’m not surprised; few people have,” Arista explained. “It’s a secret ecclesiastical prison maintained exclusively by the Church of Nyphron. It lies on the north side of Windermere Lake. You know where that is?”

  They both nodded.

  “Travel around the edge of the lake; there is an old road that rises up between some hills; just follow it. I need you to take my brother to see a prisoner named Esrahaddon.”

  “And then what?”

  “That’s it,” she said. “Hopefully, he will be able to explain everything to Alric well enough to convince him of what is going on.”

  “So,” Royce said, “you want us to escape from this prison, kidnap the king, cross the countryside with him in tow while dodging soldiers who I assume might not accept our side of the story, and go to another secret prison so that he can visit an inmate?”

  Arista did not appear amused. “Either that, or you can be tortured to death in four hours.”

  “Sounds like a really good plan to me,” Hadrian declared. “Royce?”

  “I like any plan where I don’t die a horrible death.”

  “Good. I’ll have two monks come in to give you last rites. I’ll have your chains removed and the stocks opened so you can kneel. You’ll take their frocks, lock them in your place, and silence them with the gags. Your things are right outside in the prison office. I’ll tell the warden that you’re taking them for the poor. I’ll have my personal bodyguard, Hilfred, escort you to the lower kitchens. They won’t be active for another hour or so. You should have the place to yourselves. A grate near the basin lifts out for sweeping debris into the sewer. I’ll speak to my brother and convince him to meet me at the kitchens alone. I assume you are capable fighters?”

  “He is.” Royce bobbed his head toward Hadrian.

  “My brother isn’t, so you should be able to subdue him easily. Be certain not to hurt him.”

  “This is likely a really stupid question for me to ask,” Royce said, “but what makes you think we won’t just kill your brother, leave his body in the sewer to rot, and then just disappear?”

  “Nothing,” she replied. “Like you, I simply don’t have a choice.”

  The monks posed little problem, and once dressed in their frocks, with hoods carefully drawn, Hadrian and Royce slipped out of their cell. Hilfred stood waiting just outside and quickly escorted them as far as the entrance to the kitchens, where, without a word, he left them alone. Royce, who had always had better night vision, led the way through the dark labyrinth of massive pots and piled plates. Dressed as they were with loose sleeves and long, disabling robes, they navigated this sea of potential disaster, where one wrong move could topple a c
eramic stack and cause alarm.

  So far Arista’s plan was a success. The kitchen was empty. They shed their clerical garb in favor of their own clothes and gear. They located the central basin, under which was a massive iron grating. Although it was heavy, they were able to move it out of position without making too much noise. They were pleasantly surprised to find some iron rungs leading into the void. In the depths below, they could hear the trickle of water. Hadrian found a pantry filled with vegetables and felt around until he located a burlap sack filled with potatoes. He quietly dumped out the spuds, shook the sack as clean as he could, and then rooted around for twine.

  They were still a long way from free, but the future was looking considerably better than it had only minutes before. Although Royce had not said a word, the fact that Hadrian was responsible bothered him. As he and Royce waited there together, the guilt and silence became overpowering.

  “Aren’t you going to say, I told you so?” Hadrian whispered.

  “What would be the point in that?”

  “Oh, so you’re saying that you’re going to hang on to this and throw it at me at some future, more personally beneficial moment?”

  “I don’t see the point in wasting it now, do you?”

  They left the door to the kitchen slightly ajar, and before long, the distant glow of a torch appeared and Hadrian could hear approaching voices. At this signal, they took their positions. Royce took a seat at the table with his back to the entryway. He put the hood of his cloak up and pretended to hunch over a plate of food. Hadrian stood to one side of the door, holding his short sword by the blade.

  “For Maribor’s sake, why here?”

  “Because I’m offering the old man a plate of food and a place to wash.”

  Hadrian recognized the voices of Alric and Arista and surmised they were now just outside the kitchen door.

  “I don’t see why we had to leave the guards, Arista. We don’t know we—there might be other assassins.”

  “That’s why you need to talk to him. He says he knows who hired the killers, but he refuses to talk to a woman. He said he will only deal with you, and only if you are alone. Listen, I’m not sure who to trust at this point, and you don’t know either. We can’t be sure who’s responsible and some of the guards could be involved. Don’t worry, he’s an old man and you’re a skilled swordsman. We have to find out what he has to say. Don’t you want to know?”