The Palace (Bell Mountain Series #6) (12 page)

“I don’t know that story, sir,” Jack said, which was true. He wondered what Obst would think of this man pretending to be a student of the Scriptures.

“Well, never mind,” said Goryk. “One of these days I’m sure you’ll read it. But in the meantime—” he paused, and seemed to lick his lips—“how would you like to be the king of Obann, Jack? Just for a little while, I mean: to help me and the councilors of Obann end the war. Just to make peace possible again. Would you like that?”

“Oh, yes—jump right into it!” Jack thought. “What kind of nitwit does he think I am?”

But at that moment he thought of another boy, Fnaa, who’d played the king—and how, for a long time before that, Fnaa had kept himself safe in a wicked master’s house by playing the fool. Only it was the great traitor who was the fool, Jack thought: “He doesn’t even know there’s already a make-believe king!” But it struck Jack that he, like Fnaa, might find some security in playing the fool. It might be his only hope.

“Wouldn’t I get into a lot of trouble, sir?” he said. “I mean, wouldn’t people find out I’m not the king?” He was careful not to ask, “What about the real king?”

“You’ll be perfectly safe. I’ll protect you,” Goryk said. “Just do everything I tell you to, and there will be no trouble—not for you or me or anybody else.”

“I’ll do everything you say, sir,” Jack said, “if you’ll just let me go back home when we’re finished.”

Goryk smiled at him carnivorously. “Of course I will!” he said. “You’re a good boy, and I’ll take good care of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jack said, but he was thinking of the creaking noise the loaded gallows made when the wind stirred the bodies.

CHAPTER 12

The Assassin

Martis almost ran right into Ysbott and his men coming back from Silvertown. Wytt warned him in time, and he hid himself in a thicket alongside the road.

They slogged right past him. Coming down from Silvertown, they went at a much slower pace than they’d set going up—the difference between anticipating a great reward and receiving a small one.

Martis didn’t recognize them at first, but Wytt knew them at once by their scent. Except for the Boy and the Girl, Wytt found Big People to be hopelessly dull and slow. He whispered urgently into Martis’ ear, and even tugged on it. To the man, Wytt sounded like a mouse scolding her babies in the nest, but eventually the tone made his meaning clear enough.

“So there they are, eh?” Martis said, when the outlaws had passed out of earshot. “No Jack, though—which means they must have left him in Silvertown.”

Wytt chirped indignantly. How Martis wished he could understand him!

“I’d give just about anything to capture one of those skruks alive,” he said to Wytt. “I’d have some questions for him! But how to do it …” One against eight, he thought, would make it difficult.

Wytt understood most things that you said to him. When Martis spoke of capturing a man, Wytt got excited, jabbing the air with his little sharp stick. “He must be more intelligent than I am!” Martis thought.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s try it. It’ll be dark soon, so they’ll be making camp. They won’t go much farther.”

They followed at a safe distance, Wytt going on ahead to keep the men in sight. They’d never see him unless he wanted to be seen. Well before sunset, Ysbott ordered a halt.

His men were tired from their grueling march to Silvertown. Having been disappointed there, they hadn’t decided where to go next, or what to do. They were used to letting Ysbott do their thinking for them, but he hadn’t thought of anything yet. Their spirits were low. Why toil down the mountain at any but a snail’s pace, when you didn’t know where you were going? So they made a camp beside the road. Maybe someone would come along with a wagon, and they could rob him.

Martis crept carefully through the trees and underbrush—he’d learned a little bit from Helki about the art of silence—until he was close enough to hear some of the outlaws’ talk. He didn’t see Wytt, but he knew the Omah was nearby.

“I just don’t see the use of going back to Lintum Forest,” said one. “Sooner or later, Helki will get us. But where else can we go?”

“I’ll think of something,” Ysbott said. “And while I’m thinking, the rest of you can gather firewood. It’ll be chilly tonight.”

Martis retreated. It wasn’t dark enough yet to allow him to take any kind of risk. He could only wait to see what kind of opportunity might present itself—conscious, all the time, that Jack was alone in Silvertown and very likely in danger. Martis prayed he wouldn’t regret having turned aside for this adventure. “I’ll move in while they’re sleeping,” he thought. It was a poor plan, but he had nothing better.

He’d once seen Helki, single-handed, attack ten men and put them all to flight. That time it was Martis who’d been rescued. But it was no good wishing for Helki now.

Almost before he knew it, night descended on the hills. Ysbott and his men had a roaring fire in their midst, to keep off the cold, and some of its light penetrated even to Martis’ hiding place. He listened to their talk die down to a murmur and eventually cease altogether. They’d sounded very tired: good. Martis crept a little closer.

By and by, one of the men stood up with a yawn and stumbled a little way into the woods to answer a call of nature. Providentially, he came straight in Martis’ direction, then turned around, clumsily, to face the fire. His movements were sleepy and sluggish.

But Martis’ weren’t. Without a sound that any weary man would notice, he drew his dagger and came up behind the outlaw. He could have slit the man’s throat before his victim was aware of him. Instead, with an ease and efficiency born of long experience, he pulled the man off-balance, backward, and let him feel the sharp edge of the blade against his Adam’s-apple.

“Not a sound!” he whispered directly into the man’s ear. “Fight me, and you die.”

There was nothing the outlaw could do against a practiced assassin. Very slowly, Martis walked him deeper into the woods until he could see only the merest glimmer of the fire.

“Where is the boy?” he asked. “Keep it quiet, or I’ll cut.”

“In Silvertown!”

“Why did you take him there?”

“We thought he was the king. Ysbott said we’d get a big reward.”

“Did you hurt the boy at all?”

“No—I swear it! Ysbott wouldn’t let us!”

“Who told you he was the king?”

“Ysbott said so. But the man in Silvertown said he wasn’t. Said he’d seen the king with his own eyes, and this boy wasn’t him.”

“What man in Silvertown?”

“I don’t know his name! I never saw him. But they called him the First Prester.”

Goryk Gillow, Martis thought. That was bad. “When was this?” he asked.

“Just the day before yesterday.”

That was all the man could tell him. Ordinarily, Martis would have killed him then and left the body lying in the woods. One smooth slash would do it. He’d done it before, in Lord Reesh’s service, and to persons who had deserved it much less than this one did.

But he didn’t do it this time, and he knew why: God stayed his hand. He was not an assassin anymore. “Knight Protector” was his title. The honor meant little to him. Indeed, he was inclined to laugh at it. But God had spared his life on the summit of Bell Mountain, and now Martis did the same.

“Try to live a better life, my friend,” he said; and instantly, expertly, he delivered a blow with the pommel of his dagger that dropped the man unconscious, but alive, to the ground.

It was too dark to see much, but he cut off the man’s shirt, cut it into strips, and used the strips to bind and gag him. Eventually the fellow would work himself loose, but not until sometime in the morning.

Then, knowing that Wytt would be able to find him wherever he went, he put as much distance as he could between himself and Ysbott’s camp.

When Wytt was satisfied that Whiteface was safely out of range, he went back and attacked the camp. Why he did so would be difficult to explain to a human being.

The Big Men were all asleep. Wytt went up to Ysbott, whom he had decided was their chief, and with a shriek that would have awakened the dead, jabbed his sharp stick through Ysbott’s cheek. He would have preferred the eye, but at the moment the cheek was the easiest target.

Ysbott howled. His men sat up. By the light of what was left of the fire, they saw Wytt dashing and darting all over their campsite. To them it looked like half a dozen little demons, maybe more. They screamed hoarsely and fumbled for their weapons. But by the time they found them, Wytt had fled into the darkness.

“Did you see that?” cried one. “It was the Little People—at least a dozen of them!”

“We’re cursed! We’re cursed!”

“Will all of you shut up!” Ysbott bellowed, and they did. He held a hand to his cheek. Blood seeped through his fingers. “There’s none of them here now. Put some more wood on that fire!”

It wasn’t until much later that they discovered that one of their number was missing: probably dragged underground by the Little People, according to the superstition. But they couldn’t even try to search for him until the morning.

CHAPTER 13

Councilor and Prester

Ellayne came home with the patrol, without Jack. She went to see her mother while Kadmel reported to her father. Vannett held her in a hug.

“Martis is alive, Mother,” Ellayne said, when she could take a breath. “He’s all right; we found him. He’s gone on after Jack to Silvertown. Wytt went with him. The sergeant wouldn’t bring the patrol any closer to the city.”

“Thank the Lord for Martis!” Vannett said. “But to go on alone—it’ll be dangerous.”

“Well, someone had to!” said Ellayne. “They wouldn’t let me go with him. But Martis said he’d have a better chance if he went alone. He can get into Silvertown by pretending to be an outlaw. At least that’s what he says.”

“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” Vannett said. Ellayne had never told her mother a word about Martis’ career as an assassin for the Temple, but Martis had long ago confessed it to the baron. Ellayne was unaware that her father and mother knew all about Martis and his past. They’d never mentioned it to her.

Roshay Bault came into the parlor, accompanied by Kadmel. He kissed his daughter and commended her for obeying the sergeant’s orders.

“While you were away, Ellayne, I received a message from Lintum Forest—from Helki,” he said. “King Ryons and his army are going to go to Silvertown. They’re going to take it back from the Heathen—although how they’re going to do it without any siege equipment is more than I know. I’ll have to let them know that Jack is there. And the towns along the river will have to be made ready for defense. But don’t you dare breathe a word of this to anyone! People talk, and spies may be listening.”

“I won’t,” Ellayne promised. “So the war is on again!” she thought. And what would it mean to Jack, if he were now a prisoner in Silvertown?

Enith knew Jack had been abducted, and when she saw Ellayne again the next morning, she tried to worm the rest of the story out of her.

“It’s no good asking me,” Ellayne said. “I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

“Well, I was surprised that you came back without him. What’s the baron going to do now?”