Betrayal at Falador

Aware that the delay had cost him time, Bryant ran quickly on.

A few seconds later, the red-hooded man turned the corner once again, this time following the peon’s path, even though the young man was no longer in sight. He found his way easily to the apothecary several streets away, as if following an invisible trail that only he could see.

He watched the youngster through the murky pane as a list was handed over to the apothecary, and he noted, too, how the shopkeeper’s eyes widen as he read the list.

“I hope your knight knows what he is about, master peon,” the older man said grimly. “If he mixes these in the right doses, then he will come up with a rather nasty poison.”

A look of confusion swept over Bryant’s face.

“He does know-he must, for he often uses potions as a salve for his ancient injuries. Many of the older knights do.”

“Be that as it may, master peon, you just remind your knight of what I’ve said.” Then the apothecary disappeared, hunting amongst his jars and powders to fulfil the needs of the list in his hand.

Several minutes later, Bryant emerged from the shop, closing the door behind him and looking downcast. The apothecary had charged him more than he had expected, and Bryant had not had enough money to pay him. Knowing he was a peon of the knights, however, the kind apothecary had given Bryant all he had asked for, on the condition that he would return that same day to pay the outstanding sum.

“You have my word, sir!” Bryant had told him as he left.

In his disappointment, knowing he would have to make another trip and have to explain the embarrassing situation to his tutor, he failed to notice the tall man in the red robes who was concealed in the shadows of a large doorway, watching him depart.

“I trust you, boy” the figure muttered to himself, unheard by all. “You will return to the apothecary today and in an hour it will be dark. Then I shall have my bait!”

Red eyes glowed under the hood.

THIRTY

Doric had spent five hours asking about the “mad old beggar lady” and had narrowed down her place of residence to all but a few streets. But the deeper he got into the Dens, the less people were willing to volunteer information, for their poverty formed a bond between them that was hard for an outsider to penetrate.

It will be dark soon, he thought. He hefted his axe from his shoulder and leaned on it, deep in thought, and as he did so some coins chinked in his tunic.

They may not volunteer information to an outsider, he thought, but they will very likely sell it.

He considered briefly going back to the castle to see if Theodore had become available, but his mood soured when he remembered the morning guard.

I will go back to him when I have something conclusive, he decided. So he lifted his axe once more to his shoulder and approached the nearest door to renew his search.

Bryant arrived in the courtyard entirely breathless, his face bright red. He had wanted to return to the apothecary before the afternoon grew dark, but it seemed as if the low clouds and ailing sunlight were deliberately mocking him.

Sir Finistere and Sir Erical were touring the courtyard and reminiscing. The peon always thrilled at hearing their stories, for their words took him back to a glorious time.

“I remember the first time I ever stood here, Sir Erical,” Sir Finistere said, casting his fond eyes to the daunting heights of the white towers. “First as a peon, then as a squire, and finally as a knight preparing for battle. We lost a lot of good men in those days.” The men lowered their eyes.

Then Sir Finistere noticed Bryant labouring for breath nearby.

“Ah, boy!” he said. “Did you get everything on Sir Balladish’s list? He does have some very odd requirements.”

“I have it all here, sir!” Bryant’s words tumbled out. “The apothecary said that he must be wary of mixing them, for they could be blended to make a poison! I promised to inform him.”

Sir Finistere’s eyes narrowed.

“That is interesting” he commented mildly. “I’ll be sure to tell him when I give him the ingredients.”

Bryant handed Sir Finistere the brown box that he had been given, and prepared to run to his trunk to retrieve the money necessary to pay back the apothecary. He dared not ask a knight as distinguished as Sir Finistere for the funds. But as soon as he turned to leave, the knight stopped him.

“Where are you going at such a rate, lad?”

Breathlessly, Bryant told him how he intended to make things right with the apothecary.

“A noble cause, but you should know this-knights do not run about the streets looking red-faced and desperate. We must take pride in our appearance. Here!” He flicked Bryant a coin and took him by the shoulder. “That should cover the expenses. But before you return to his shop, I want you to run some water over your face and have a ten-minute sit down. And when you do return, you will walk and not run. Not for a single yard!”

With that, Sir Finistere turned his back on Bryant, nodding to Sir Erical as he passed him. “I will deliver this to Sir Balladish. Good evening, Sir Erical.”

The old knights exchanged genteel nods, and Bryant walked slowly away, intent on obeying Sir Finistere’s words to the letter.

A quarter of an hour later, having washed himself down and regained his breath, Bryant walked confidently across the courtyard and out of the castle.

I shall wait a while, until the right moment, the man thought to himself. Deftly, he ducked from one doorway to another, following the boy expertly. I am not so old yet that I cannot overtake a mere peon, he thought. His right hand massaged the hilt of the curved dagger that he had tucked into his belt.

It will be quick, he mused, but that is the only promise I can make, for the boy has learned enough to reveal my treachery.

Even if he doesn’t know it just yet.

The apothecary was about to shut the shop for the evening when he spied the peon crossing the street. He smiled and waved to him. It was good to know there were people in the world that could still be trusted. Whatever others might think of the knights and their fanatical devotion to Saradomin, he at least was thankful for their presence in the city.

The boy named Bryant apologised again for not having enough money in the first place, and then thanked him for his trust, even bowing as he left the shop.

How polite they are, as well, the apothecary thought as he watched the peon walk swiftly back the way he had come. Then he cast a wary eye skyward as he felt the first drops of rain on his bare face, and noted the hurried footsteps of all those citizens who were still out of doors as they rushed to get home before the downpour came in earnest.

He hardly noticed the tall figure in the red robes who stepped swiftly after the vanishing peon.

An ominous feeling crept into the traitor’s heart. It was a feeling born of experience that had kept him alive and undetected throughout his long career.

He watched Bryant enter the apothecary’s, and he observed the figure in the red robes standing on the opposite side of the street.

Something was very wrong. He did not know what it was, but his senses remained honed enough to detect another intelligence focusing on the boy. He stepped back into the shadows of the doorway and watched, waiting for a moment as Bryant paid the apothecary and emerged with a satisfied look on his young face. There had been too many people on the streets for him to strike during the journey so far, but he hoped that the winter darkness would give him his opportunity.

Now Bryant walked briskly across the street and back the way he had come.

The handle of the dagger was slippery in the traitor’s grasp. The anxiety of what he had to do was causing