Chapter 26
An old slave, his pockmarked face looking especially gruesome in the dim light of the barn, shuffled by her hiding place.
Once he was past, Repentance sprang from the shadows and poked him in the back with the pitchfork. "We need to talk," she said.
He stopped and turned around, his arms held out to show he meant not to fight. "Who are you?" he asked warily.
"I want to save you and your button mate and your young ones."
"A pitchfork in the gut is to be my salvation?"
She lowered the fork a trickle. "You can't kill the king. Once the prince takes the throne, he won't leave you for a witness. He'll need someone to blame. You know that. You'll hang for an assassin."
"What are you babbling about? I know nothing of killing the king."
"So the trooper was talking to someone else. Is that it? Another assassin named Consecration is hiding behind that wall?"
The old man narrowed his eyes. "You are entering deep waters, child. Be careful you don't drown."
"You and I are going to the king so we can tell him the whole plot. Because letting the prince ascend to the throne will be worse for me than drowning."
He shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
She jabbed at him with the pitchfork. "Turn around and start walking. I'm not going to sit here all night and bandy words while you look for a way to disarm me."
He headed for the double doors. She followed, the pitchfork at his back.
"The king will reward you if you tell the truth," she said as they left the barn.
"How would you know that?"
"I know him. He's a just man."
"You are gambling with the lives of my young ones. With my goodwoman's life. Put the pitchfork down and let me go."
"Be a man," she said. "Make your young ones proud. Dare to change the course of history. Maybe your children will see the day when there are no more little slavelets." She spit the hateful word out. Tears stung her eyes as she thought of the bodies of the boys hanging in the square by the slave market. It wasn't right that boys should be born into slavery and killed at the whims of other men.
"You are ill, child. You speak nonsense. Whether I kill the king or not, my young ones are still slaves. What I do tonight won't change the course of the kingdom's history. But it may change the course of my own family's history. If I don't kill the king, the Prince will have me killed and my family as well."
"Think, man!" She jabbed the pitchfork at him.
He jumped forward.
"Think!" she said again. "Why would the prince have a slave for an assassin? He's a rich and powerful man. Why go to the trouble of smuggling you into the palace? Why didn't he have his trooper kill the king?"
He stopped and turned to look at her, the moon throwing light on the pain in his eyes. "I know they will hang me for an assassin. You cannot let a well-loved king be killed without finding and punishing the killer. If Prince Malficc were to take the throne without punishing someone, the people would never forgive him. I still have hope that he will spare my goodwoman and our young."
Tears slipped down Repentance's cheeks. It was so unfair. "You'll go to Providence with the king's blood on your hands. You don't want that."
"Of course, I don't. Better that than having the prince slaughter my family, though."
She lowered the pitchfork a trickle. "I'm sorry to force you. But I can't let you kill the king. You'll see. It will all turn out in the end. We'll tell the king and he'll believe us."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he might be praying, then set off again.
"Up this way," Repentance said, poking him toward the track she always took to the washroom door.
He shook his head. "The prince left the door open on the king's porch. At his library."
He shuffled off across the icy courtyard, bathed blue in the light of the moon.
She followed without argument, anxious to reach the shadows that pooled along the palace walls.
When they arrived at the wall, she breathed more freely.
The slave led the way around the back of the palace, ducking under the windows he passed. He slowed, walking close to the wall, and inched his way up to a door from which issued a sliver of yellow light. The king's library, apparently. Repentance and this assassin were going to walk right in and tell him that his nephew was trying to kill him. And if she had to spear the old slave to make him talk ... well, she was prepared to do that. Maybe. She sent a prayer to Providence. She wasn't above taking help from any quarter at that point.
The slave stopped to peer through the crack in the door. Repentance eased up behind him. The king was sitting at his desk, his back to the door.
She prodded the slave with her pitchfork.
He pushed the door open, and stepped into the room.
Repentance plunged in after him.
It happened so quickly—an arm shot out from the side, grabbed her hair, and jerked her off balance. Someone wrenched the pitchfork from her hands.
She cried out as she lurched forward, trying to keep her head from being ripped off her shoulders.
The king stood and turned to face her, his face as white as his hair.
Anger burned in his eyes. And something else. Pity? Disappointment?
She wanted to yell. To warn him. But she was too late. Obviously the old slave wasn't working alone. Others were here to help him.
"What did I tell you, Uncle?"
Repentance
