Blackveil (23 page)
“It’s ... it’s too much,” Lady Estora said.
“Nonsense. When I saw it, I knew it must be yours.” He did not tell her he first saw it in the bowels of a pirate’s corpse. His jeweler had grimaced when Amberhill gave it to him to clean, but the man did a marvelous job, and fixed the clasp on the chain as well. He also asked no questions.
“Where did you find this piece?” Zachary asked. Did he sound a trifle suspicious? Or better yet, a little jealous?
Amberhill half-smiled. “Same dealer as I got my ring. He’s a good eye for fine antiquities, and so do I.” He wondered, as he did over many of the pieces he’d recovered, to whom the necklace originally belonged. Was she as lovely and kind as Lady Estora? Or was she wicked and cruel? As he gazed at it now in the lady’s palm, it seemed to him it could have been made only for her.
“Will you put it on me?” Lady Estora asked.
“No, my lady,” Amberhill replied. “That’s my cousin’s duty.”
Caught unaware, it was a moment before Zachary stood and bowed to the lady and took the necklace to clasp around her neck.
Amberhill had chosen well. The chain sloped delicately around her neck, and the pendant dangled just above her cleavage. The facets of the sapphire sparkled and burned with flames of gold.
“Ah,” he said. “You are Aeryon come to the Earth to walk among us lowly mortals.” With the radiance of the gem adding to her natural glow, he could not help but think the sun goddess was truly in the parlor with them. She certainly favored Lady Estora.
“You overstate it,” she said with a laugh.
“No, my lady,” Zachary said with an uncertain smile, “he does not. But I knew that even before the necklace.”
His pronouncement was met with silence. Lady Estora was plainly stunned to hear the words, and Zachary looked stunned to have spoken them. Amberhill privately applauded his cousin. Funny what a nice piece of jewelry could inspire.
“Now, I am afraid, I must take my leave.” He stood and bowed, and kissed Lady Estora’s hand. He admired the pendant close-up as his eyes roved over her breasts.
“Are you sure you must leave us—the city—so soon?” Lady Estora asked. “I am planning a ball, a masquerade ball, and we would love for you to attend.”
“I hope to make my departure as soon as I may, though I will see what I can do about the masquerade. No promises, however.”
There was nothing else to say, so the couple wished him a happy and prosperous voyage, and he wished them a happy and prosperous marriage. He had no idea of what lay in the east for him, he just knew he needed to go, and by the time he returned—if he returned—Zachary and Lady Estora would be well into their union together.
In the meantime, he had a late night ahead of him.
A GOOD TURN
T
hough the Raven Mask was “dead,” Amberhill maintained his skills, roaming all quarters of the city in the dark of night, silently sinking into shadows.. He listened to rumors in the streets from those who gossiped about the betrothal of Zachary and Lady Estora, to those who expressed uneasiness about a gathering darkness in the world. He observed lovers strolling by, whispering words only lovers could whisper.
hough the Raven Mask was “dead,” Amberhill maintained his skills, roaming all quarters of the city in the dark of night, silently sinking into shadows.. He listened to rumors in the streets from those who gossiped about the betrothal of Zachary and Lady Estora, to those who expressed uneasiness about a gathering darkness in the world. He observed lovers strolling by, whispering words only lovers could whisper.
Mostly what he heard in the night was ordinary folk grumbling petty complaints about the weather, the price of grain, and one another. Still, he preferred that to his dreams of the unceasing roll of waves, the sea calling to him, calling him till he ached.
He took a deep breath as the throb built within him, and another until it eased. Cloaked and hooded in black, he stood in the shadow of a close. Few were out at this hour, mostly drunks and vagrants. Dim light filtered from the grubby windows of the Cock and Hen. Rumor had drawn him here to the lower city; rumor of a pair of unsavory characters who visited the most disreputable inns and taverns. There was a familiar ring to the details he heard about them.
As he watched and waited, the clip-clop of hooves preceded a mule cart driven up the Winding Way by a man hunched over the reins in his fists. The cart wheels creaked and wobbled as though the whole contraption was about to fall apart. The mule looked no better, underfed and swaybacked. The man reined the mule to a halt in front of the Cock and Hen. When he set the brake, he painstakingly climbed down from the cart. His limbs shook and jerked seemingly without control.
No sooner had he planted his feet on the ground than two toughs—not the two Amberhill had been awaiting, alas—appeared from around the inn’s corner. Among the rumors Amberhill heard, these two figured prominently, for they sought fights unbidden and robbed the weak. They’d probably been following the old man for some time, sizing up their prey. Considering the condition of mule and cart, it wouldn’t have been difficult for them to keep up.
“Hey, old man,” one said, sauntering up to the cart. “What you got to give us?”
“Go away,” the man said. “I’ve got nothing.”
The second tough peered into the cart. “Not much back here,” he said. “But look at this bow.” He withdrew a longbow from the cart.
“Leave that be!” the old man cried.
“What else you got?” the first tough asked.
“Nothing, I tell ye! Give me my bow.” He reached for it with a shaking hand, but the second tough held it just out of reach and laughed.
Amberhill saw the glint of a knife as the first one drew it from his belt.
“You got some coins, old man?” He waved the knife in the man’s face.
Amberhill knew these thugs would think nothing of killing the man for no other reason than it amused them, which just would not do, so he swept out from the close, his cloak billowing behind him. He drew his rapier in a movement as natural as breathing.
“Leave,” he said.
“Who’s this?” one of the toughs asked, unimpressed.
“I’ve told you to leave, but you do not listen.”
The thug opened his mouth to speak, but before any words crossed his lips, Amberhill’s rapier flicked across the back of his hand and the knife clattered to the street. The thug cursed and held his bleeding hand close. Amberhill pivoted just in time to knock a knife from the other man’s hand. He held the tip of the rapier to the thug’s throat.
“Return the bow to its owner.”
“All right, all right. Just watch it with that sword.” He handed the bow to the old man.
“Now leave,” Amberhill commanded. “If I catch you bothering this gentleman again, or anyone else, I shall be far less polite.”
This time the two listened and ran off down the street. The old man wiped his brow with a trembling hand. He gripped the bow so tightly with the other his knuckles turned white. Amberhill noted it was indeed a handsome bow, with graceful curves and intricate carvings decorating it.
“I ... I don’t know how to thank ye, sir,” the man said. His accent was of the west.
“No need to worry about it. Those two have been asking for trouble for some time.”
“Name’s Miller. Galen Miller.” He offered his hand and Amberhill shook it. It was a bowman’s hand and he was taken aback by the strength in it, despite the man’s apparent infirmity. Galen Miller then straightened; rose to his full height. He was tall and broad shouldered, but he could not control his trembling. He reminded Amberhill of an uncle of his who suffered from the shakes and declined over the years, his body deteriorating, his mind afflicted with senility, until eventually he wasted away, not at all resembling the proud, strong man he had once been.
“My pleasure to meet you,” Amberhill said, not offering his name in kind. “This is not the safest of neighborhoods to linger in after dark.”
“I’ve traveled a long way,” Galen Miller said. “Aye, a long way. I am lodging at this place.”
“Here?” Amberhill asked, thinking the accommodations very rough.
“It is the right place,” the man replied with conviction. He raised his gaze toward the roofline. “Aye, the right place.”
“If you find it not to your liking, these will help you find better.” Amberhill folded three silvers into the man’s hand.
Galen Miller’s eyes went wide. “Sir, I couldn’t! It’s too much.”
“It is but a trifle. A welcome for a traveler to the city.”
“Th-thank ye. This ... this means a great deal.”
Amberhill nodded, wondering how to gracefully conclude the conversation so he might slip back into the shadows and resume his vigil.
“You must try the bitter ale,” he said. “The inn is not the finest, but it has the best bitter ale in the city.”
The man nodded. “Thank ye again.” He glanced at the inn, and while his attention was diverted, Amberhill melted back into the concealment of the shadows. He watched Galen Miller turn around as though to speak to him, then scratch his head at his absence. With a quavering shrug, the old man folded into himself again before entering the Cock and Hen.
Amberhill smiled. He had not often gone out of his way to aid someone in need. He’d mostly been about helping himself, but after the debacle of Lady Estora’s abduction, something had changed within him. Maybe it was that he saw how one deed could affect others for good or ill. Maybe because he witnessed how the king’s Weapons and Green Riders—especially that G’ladheon woman—selflessly endangered themselves both out of duty and the desire to do the right thing. A part of him thought them mad, and another part of him thought them admirable.
He’d wronged Lady Estora, but tried to rescue her when he realized what he’d done. He helped the G’ladheon woman escape the torture of Second Empire thugs and found ... he found he rather liked it, this helping others. He’d liked helping Galen Miller tonight.
He smoothed his hand down his shirt as though stepping beyond the bounds of his own self-interest made him nervous. He wasn’t sure what he liked about it, but maybe it was the thrill of danger, like when, as the Raven Mask, he’d scaled the wall of some manse in the depths of night to enter a lady’s bedchamber to steal her jewels, and perhaps other things, even while her husband slept in the next room.
Yes, there was that. The danger, the excitement.
Yet, there was more to it.
A glow of light flickered to life in the uppermost room of the Cock and Hen—perhaps the attic—and someone moved around in it. Galen Miller? Amberhill could have chosen to leave the old man to the toughs here on the street. There was a time when he probably would have. But now? He shook his head. There was the thrill of chasing the toughs off, no matter they were no challenge to him, and there was the pleasure of being the object of the old man’s gratitude. Yes, he liked that.
Maybe this was also a little step in the direction of finding redemption. Amberhill could never right the wrong he’d committed against Lady Estora, and really the ripples of that wrong radiated out to her family and clan, to king and country, magnifying it a hundredfold, but he could at least take steps to redeem himself in his own eyes.
Besides, one never knew what a good deed could lead to. Maybe Galen Miller would in turn come to someone else’s aid in some way. Amberhill smiled at the thought.
PEARLS AND BONES
A
mberhill maintained his vigil into the early morning, listening as the city bells struck the hours. Patrons of the Cock and Hen came and went in varying degrees of drunkenness. He yawned, thinking he’d misheard the rumors and that maybe he’d do better to call it a night and go to bed, but just then two men staggered up the street toward the inn.
mberhill maintained his vigil into the early morning, listening as the city bells struck the hours. Patrons of the Cock and Hen came and went in varying degrees of drunkenness. He yawned, thinking he’d misheard the rumors and that maybe he’d do better to call it a night and go to bed, but just then two men staggered up the street toward the inn.
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