ditch somewhere on the mainland.” He looked up. Although the moon was still overhead, the sky to the east was growing visibly lighter. “You should really get going. If anyone from the castle sees you, this’ll all be pointless.”
“All right. I’ll be back as fast as I can.”
“You’re coming back? I thought you’d drop off your message and then haul ass back home.”
“Well, with the threat of Tom Gillian hanging over me, I have to follow through to the end.”
“Right,” Kay said with a knowing little smile. “It has nothing to do with a certain feisty castle doctor, does it?”
“Nothing at all. But if you happen to see her, tell her to be sure to remember the ow until I get back.”
“Inside joke, I assume.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll tell her.”
We reached the horse. She was a beauty, dark with a few white patches. In the dim illumination I couldn’t see if her base color was brown or black. She tossed her head in either greeting or intimidation.
I was, in the estimation of my old riding instructor, a piss-poor horseman, probably because I hated horses. They were too big, too smart, and too enigmatic for me to ever trust. This began in childhood, and at the time nothing had yet changed my opinion. In fact, most of my experience reinforced it.
Once I’d seen a cavalry officer, Colonel Bierce, approach an obstinate stallion that kicked him in the head so hard it actually tore away his jawbone and sent it flying out of the corral. From the upper teeth to the throat it left a great red gap fringed with hanging shreds of flesh and splinters of bone. The worst part was that the injury wasn’t immediately fatal; the poor bastard never even lost consciousness.
The road was deserted as I started the long trip to Blithe Ward. Many things bothered me, not the least of which was that I still didn’t know who really killed Sam Patrice. I was sure Jennifer Drake didn’t, and that gave me the moral clearance to take this job; but the list of suspects had otherwise gotten no shorter. And how had Mary the apple girl ended up miraculously healed and dead in the sewer?
The greatest crimes are always the small ones; a man who kills his unfaithful wife in a moment of passion will arouse the outrage of all, while a man who orders the death of thousands will barely rate a comment for it. Before this was over, a relatively simple murder would become a legendary bloodbath. And I would always live with the thought that, had I been just a little bit smarter, I might have prevented it. Because I’d just seen the crucial clue, right in plain sight, and hadn’t understood what it meant.
FIFTEEN
Someone tossed a fresh log on the tavern’s dying hearth fire. The popping sparks and surge of fresh warmth reminded me that these things I was describing happened years ago, and that I could no longer change the outcome. Nevertheless, in telling the story I found myself wishing I’d been smarter, more courageous, better somehow. I wished I’d been worthy of the dream of Grand Bruan, even though I understood now that its failure was inevitable.
The group gathered around me was larger, too. I’d been so engrossed in my tale that I hadn’t noticed the newcomers arrive. For someone in my profession, that kind of obliviousness was not reassuring.
They all watched me expectantly, their faces scrunched in concentration. I had no idea I was such a riveting storyteller. Then again, the subjects of my story were Marcus Drake, Elliot Spears, and Ted Medraft, who carried many less worthy tales told on cold winter nights. Even seven years after that fateful day, peddlers still brought new broadsheets recounting more and more outlandish adventures of King Marc and the Knights of the Double Tarn. At least my outlandish adventure had the virtue of being true.
Finally Callie broke the silence. “So was he really as tall as they say?” she asked softly.
“Who?” I asked.
“King Marcus,” she said with the same reverence I’d heard priests use to invoke their gods. “One of Tony’s songs says, ‘His crown tapped the ceiling beams.’”
Tony was Callie’s no-account minstrel boyfriend, addicted to giggleweed and other girls. He left before the first snowfall, promising to return and marry her. She was the only one who believed him.
“He was a big guy,” I agreed. “He had to be, to swing Belacrux. That sword weighed a ton.”
“So you handled his sword?” Angelina asked, deliberately sarcastic. It was her default mood when she wasn’t sure how to respond, and I knew it for the defense mechanism it was. That didn’t stop it from annoying me.
“Angie, please,” Liz quietly scolded. She was the only one in the room who’d dare stand up to Angelina in her own tavern. I squeezed her hand where it rested on my leg. She winked.
“So did you really get to hold Belacrux?” Ralph the leatherworker asked, childish eagerness making his voice go high. “Did it really have a pommel made of emerald?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I did. And, no, it wasn’t really covered in jewels. They wouldn’t stand up to as much pounding as that sword got. It was just a big sword for a big man.”
“But it was sharp enough to cut a butterfly’s wing, right?” seamstress Esme asked.
I felt like a nanny explaining a bedtime story. “I didn’t get a chance to try that. But it seems unlikely.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed.
I tapped my ale mug, which I didn’t remember finishing, either. “My throat could use some lubrication.”
“This story isn’t that good,” Angelina muttered, but gave me a refill anyway.
I took a long drink from my fresh mug just as the door opened to admit yet another new listener. Sharky Shavers quickly closed the door and blinked in surprise at the group gathered around me. “Did I miss something?”
“Eddie’s telling us about King Marcus Drake and the Knights of the Double Tarn,” Callie said. “He knew them.”
“Really,” Sharky said skeptically. “So this doesn’t have anything to do with the coffin outside I nearly tripped over?”
“I’ll get to that,” I said.
“Yeah, he’ll get to that,” Angelina said, “about the time this keg runs out, I’m sure.”
“Good, I’m curious about that, too. The boy who delivered it asked me where to find you,” Sharky said.
I sat up straight. “Boy?”
“Yeah, he came up the river trail about three hours ago. Rode a big horse pulling that coffin. Looked about sixteen or so; his voice hadn’t changed all the way, even. Had a little scar on his cheek. Knew the name of the town, and your name, and that was all. I told him your office was here.”
Liz turned to Gary Bunson. “You said it was an old man.”
“It was an old man,” Gary said defensively. He was used to being on the defensive, usually because some white lie had collapsed beneath him. But I sensed his outrage was sincere. “Why the hell would I make up something like that? Wasn’t it, Eddie?”
The click in my head as everything fell into place was so loud I’m surprised no one else heard it. I wanted to laugh, but not because it was funny; it was the sheer unbridled audacity of it. I’d looked the old man right in the eye and hadn’t seen it. Back when I’d been on Grand Bruan, I dismissed all the claims of magic that tried to intrude into my theories. Now, after some of the things I’d seen the past few years, I knew better. But still…
Liz noticed the change in my expression. “What?” she asked softly.
I grinned and shook my head. “I’ll tell you later.” I took another drink and said, “All right, let’s get back to the story. Up until now everything had happened pretty much in one place, Nodlon Castle. Now I was about to cross almost the whole island. Being outside, on a fast horse and with a goal to accomplish, felt great after all that court intrigue. But…”
SIXTEEN
I saw a painting once, hanging in the castle of a king who’d hired me to verify his chamberlain’s honesty,
