The Scarecrow (Master of Malice Book 1) (17 page)

“I saw him move closer to the edge, still clasping his arms tightly about him, still moaning. Then he opened his arms and threw them wide. He screamed most horribly as he cast himself out from the rock with a mighty leap. By the time I reached this point, there was no sign of him.”

Sullyan stood in silence, contemplating what the Frar had told her and gazing once again at the scene of the Baron’s final act. The three men held their peace and did not disturb her deliberations, all of them thinking their own thoughts.

Finally, she stirred. “I am grateful to you, Frar Durren, for your willingness to relive what must have been a disturbing experience. I now have a much clearer picture of what occurred here.” She glanced at the elderly cleric. “Might we now prevail upon you to convey us to the Baron’s rooms?”

Durren nodded, cast the cowl of his robe over his bald head, and edged past her in order to retrace his steps. Sullyan followed him and the two swordsmen came behind, neither able to resist a final appalled glance over the sheer precipice to the sea far below.

“Will we find the Baron’s rooms unchanged, or have they been taken by someone else?” queried Sullyan as she walked beside the cleric on the easier descent. When he answered, his voice appeared disembodied coming from the depths of his cowl and it was clear he was tiring and wished to be done with her questioning.

“The room was cleaned of blood, of course, and the Baron’s personal effects were collected, but that was all. No one else has taken up residence.”

Sensitive to the effort he had made to accommodate them, Sullyan asked him no more. She dwelled on her thoughts as he conveyed them back toward the order’s habitations. Just as he reached them, he veered to the right and they entered a narrow and uneven stair winding gently down through the rocks. At the end of this stair was a doorway carved into the rock face, and as Durren opened the wooden door, they found themselves inside the volcano.

Durren left the door open behind them and the daylight allowed them to see where he led. A long, straight corridor through the rock was studded at various intervals by iron-bound doors. Sullyan surmised these led into living quarters and storerooms, and the intrinsic heat of the volcano’s magma far, far underground permeated the stone, doubtless rendering the usual necessity of fire within the dwellings superfluous. The air was mild—even warm—and they soon pulled off their cloaks.

Frar Durren stopped outside an open doorway and waved them in. As they stepped past him to enter, he turned and left with no further speech. Sullyan regarded his retreating back speculatively before turning her attention to Frar Varian, who had appeared to greet them.

“I enjoyed your contribution to our service this morning, Colonel,” Varian smiled. “I hadn’t realized you were familiar with our form of worship.”

“The Paean to the Sun is widely used in services throughout Albia, Frar,” she returned easily, “although I must admit, I have never experienced it so deeply before. But I have sung the office many times during worship at the Manor.”

Varian raised his brows, but made no comment. He waved his hand round the room in which they stood. “These are the quarters of the Baron, where he lived once he was released from the cell we were forced to confine him in when first he came among us. Apart from the obvious, there has been no change since his death. You’re welcome to look for yourselves.”

With a gesture, Sullyan sent Cal and Tad to look through the suite, investigating the other small areas that led off the central space. One was the sleeping room, the other a small cooking room. The walls were bare rock, although smoothed and rounded. Thin rush matting covered the floor, and the furniture, such as it was, was plain wood and simply made. The facilities were primitive and frugal, in keeping with what they had heard of the order’s lifestyle.

Varian watched them move about the room and turned a quizzical smile on Sullyan. “You do not enquire as to the construction of these dwellings, Colonel. Most people’s first reaction is to ask how they were formed, how many years of tunneling it took to hew them from the rock.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “These are magma chambers off a branch pipe. Even without the heat from below, the smoothness of the walls would have told me that.”

He looked surprised. “What do you know of magma chambers?”

She smiled gently. “I am an Artesan, Frar, a Senior Master. My mastery over the element of Earth allows me many insights into the properties of rock and stone. I sense the emanations from the bones of our world very clearly, and this ancient rock speaks most eloquently of its volcanic origins. Either of my men here could have told you how these chambers came to be, as they are also Artesans. Now, if you would be so good, would you please tell me about the pool of blood you found here on the night the Baron disappeared?”

Frar Varian recovered his composure. He moved farther inside the room and indicated a spot on the floor. “This is where we found the blood. It had soaked into the floor and stained the rush matting. The eating knife that caused the wounds lay at the edge of the pool, about here.” He pointed to his left foot.

“Can you show me the pool’s total extent?” she asked, and he proceeded to indicate a wide area in a roughly circular pattern. When she saw how large the stain had been, she cast a significant look at Cal and Tad. “What became of the knife, Frar?”

The cleric shrugged. “I believe it was disposed of. There are others just like it in the cooking room.”

He fetched one at her asking and passed it to her. She took it in a practiced hand, running the ball of her thumb over its edge. The blade barely dented the skin, although the tip was sufficiently sharp to penetrate flesh had she pressed hard enough. She regarded the knife narrowly. Definitely no use for slashing, but effective enough for stabbing. She handed it back to Varian.

Neither Cal nor Tad had seen anything worthy of note within the smaller rooms, and Sullyan thanked Varian for his trouble. She excused him from escorting them back to the Patrio’s dwelling. They were familiar enough with the place by now to find their own way. They left the elderly cleric to close up the suite and walked through the corridor toward the light of day. Sullyan had seen more than enough to convince her of the truth behind the Baron’s reported suicide. Once their courtesy visit with Ruvar was done, she was eager to return to the mainland. She now had one more task to undertake.

+ + + + +

S
eline dressed with care that frosty morning. She was so excited and nervous she even let Bessie help her dress for the first time in weeks. But she did not allow the nursemaid to choose what she would wear. She’d already decided on that.

Despite knowing kidnap by her mother was highly unlikely, Seline wanted to be ready for anything. It was very cold out and if she should find herself bundled into a waiting carriage or whisked away on a fast horse in some loyal swordsman’s arms, she would need to be warm. So she chose a green velvet gown which had thick underskirts but wasn’t so cumbersome it would hamper her movements. On her feet were fur-lined boots, and over the gown she cast her white silk and velvet mantle, trimmed with white fox fur. The mantle had a matching muff to keep her hands warm.

She was forced to wait while Bessie completed her own dressing and fussed about, checking they had everything they’d need.

“Oh, hurry
up
, Bessie, I’m getting tired of waiting for you! If you don’t come this minute I’m going to leave without you.”

Bessie came puffing into the nursery where Seline stood impatiently by the door. “All right, Madam, I’m here now. No need to take that tone.”

I’ll take whatever tone I like!
thought Seline, but she refrained from speaking aloud. Another row with Bessie would only delay them further, and she’d burst if she didn’t find out soon what her mother had planned. At least she had finally persuaded Bessie to refer to her as “Madam,” even if the nursemaid always put that infuriatingly condescending tone on it.

Seline swept out of the nursery, Bessie trailing behind. The Princess fully intended to walk Bessie’s plump legs off her today. At least then she would be tired out this evening if Seline needed to visit her mother’s rooms again.

The city thronged with people, as it always did on fair or market days. Seline loved the press of townsfolk, the sellers’ cries, the lure of the stalls, and the thrill of making purchases. She ignored the nursemaid, whose breath was already laboring after the long walk down the avenue through the castle parklands and from the effort of pushing through the bustle of crowds. That was another benefit of not having one of Major Denny’s hulking swordsmen tagging along, Seline thought in satisfaction. They always cleared the way for her when she walked the streets of the city, and although normally she’d be irritated by the throng, who really ought to know better than to jostle their Princess, today she enjoyed the anonymity the lack of a bodyguard allowed her.

Not that she wasn’t easily picked out as high-ranking nobility. Her clothing alone saw to that, coupled with the regal bearing she never permitted herself to drop. Anyone who chanced to turn their head as she approached stepped out of her way, and Bessie was wide enough to forge a way through those who didn’t.

She led the puffing nursemaid through the craftsmen’s quarter, pausing every now and then to look into shop windows in case there was anything she fancied purchasing on the way back. But she never stopped for long and certainly never long enough for poor Bessie to catch her breath. As soon as the nursemaid caught her up, Seline moved on again. She ignored Bessie’s frequent pleas to stop and rest.

They came eventually to the square housing the merchants’ market. It was a large and pleasant piazza, full of booths and stalls, bordered by shops and the homes of traders and dotted with trees. Seline stood and looked around the market, trying to spot the fruit seller.

She couldn’t see him, and she felt a sinking disappointment. Her face fell into sour, sulky lines. Was she wrong after all? Had her mother’s words been just as they seemed, an innocent memory meant to cheer her lonely daughter? Seline trailed disconsolately past the many booths, not taking much notice of what they sold.

Bessie trailed behind, her breath coming easier now Seline had slowed her pace. She was used to the Princess’s petulant moods and recognized the beginnings of temper. Seline sighed deeply. This would probably end in another row when Bessie tried to get her charge to return to the castle and rest. Despite her crushing disappointment, Seline wasn’t yet ready to end this day of freedom.

The nursemaid came alongside her.
Here it comes
, thought Seline, readying herself for battle. But Bessie was smiling and pointing.

“Look, Madam, there’s that dark fellow selling those strange-shaped fruits that come all the way from Beraxia. Do you remember how you loved them last year? You even brought me one to taste when I wouldn’t believe the way you described them.”

Seline’s excitement must have pleased Bessie no end, although she was clearly startled by the whoop of delight. The Princess suppressed it swiftly. She rarely deigned to show her feelings in public and was annoyed by Bessie’s private smile. She knew her nursemaid still considered her a little girl. Well, maybe soon she would have cause to revise that opinion.

Bessie bustled in front of her. “Now you wait there, Highness, and I’ll go and bargain with that young rogue. I want to buy a good amount of those fruits for his Majesty, and if the trader sees you he’ll hike the price way above what it should be. Don’t move, I won’t be long.”

Bessie left her standing there while she went over to the trader’s stall. Seline watched her, her heart hammering painfully in her breast. He
was
here! The reason she hadn’t seen him was because his stall had been moved and was partially obscured by the draper’s much larger booth. She moved a little sideways so she could see the entirety of the fruit seller’s stall, but there was nothing remarkable about it. Bessie stepped up to the trader and began selecting some of the odd-shaped fruits, shaking her head firmly at the trader’s initial price.

Seline’s eyes darted this way and that, ready for … what? She had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for. There were no handsome swordsmen loitering nearby, no obvious strangers that she could see, no one causing a disturbance in order to sweep her away. She turned back to Bessie, who had filled her basket with fruits and was wagging her plump finger at the trader as he grinned mischievously back at her.

Was that it? Disappointment dragged at Seline once again. She must have been wrong. Nothing was going to happen. Tears prickled her eyes and she irritably told herself not to be so childish. Bessie was coming back now; there was no more reason to stay. She turned sharply away, determined to take her bitter mood out on Bessie on the walk home. She nearly fell over the scrawny fellow standing just behind her.

The man put out a hand to keep Seline from falling. “Get out of the way, you stupid idiot!” yelled Bessie. “Don’t you touch her!” The nursemaid came up between them and gave the scruffy fellow a shove.

“Your pardon, noble Lady,” the rustic mumbled, shuffling awkwardly away from Seline. Bessie glared at him, wrinkling her nose at his disgusting smell. Seline was glad to be steered out of his path. He had a pale and shrunken, almost wasted, appearance.

Bessie gestured Seline ahead of her, grumbling about tinkers and vagabonds and threatening to turn out the garrison to flush all such layabouts out of the city. Seline wasn’t listening. She had thrust her cold hands inside her muff, and her fingers encountered something strange.

Exploring it with her fingers as she walked, her excitement mounted. It was a folded parchment. A letter, perhaps? Her breath hitched. Her mother had sent her a secret letter! That dreadfully filthy man must have slipped it inside her muff when she had stumbled against him.

Seline smiled and even allowed Bessie to set the pace on the way back, although her instincts were screaming at her to hurry, to open the letter, to read her mother’s words. Yet she schooled herself to patience. She had come this far; she wouldn’t jeopardize whatever her mother had planned by making Bessie suspicious. She knew the nursemaid would want a nap when she got back and, for once, Seline wouldn’t protest when she was told to lie down for an hour or so. At least, she wouldn’t protest
too
hard. It would not do to act differently or it might be remembered.