The Scarecrow (Master of Malice Book 1) (30 page)

Lerric raised his head from the parchment and regarded Wil. “When will his Majesty arrive?”

Wil noted Lerric’s lack of protestations over Elias’s timing and hid a smile. “The High King and his escort expect to arrive at your gates an hour before noon on the morrow, your Majesty.”

Lerric’s face tightened as he turned to his daughter. “Sofira, would you be so good as to inform the chatelaine of the need for extra provisions tomorrow? She will also be required to organize a feast in the High King’s honor tomorrow evening. Tell her I authorize the huntsmen to take the hounds out if necessary. This damned weather may well have left the kitchens short of meat.”

Sofira nodded stiffly, but made no move or reply. Lerric turned back to Wil, who hadn’t missed the inference that Elias’s visit would seriously discommode Lerric’s household. “You have discharged your duty, Corporal. You are free to find what lodgings you may with the men of my guard. No doubt they can be prevailed upon to feed you, although their rations haven’t been plentiful of late. My servant here will show you to the barracks.”

Wil bowed himself from Lerric’s presence and returned to the hallway. The servant guided him to the Captain’s rooms and the swordsman soon had what he most wanted, despite Lerric’s gloomy warning: warm lodgings, hot food, and passable ale.

+ + + + +

L
erric stared at his trembling daughter in shock. Her quick, shallow breaths, just audible over the crackle of logs in the hearth, were the only other sounds in the room. Her right hand was pressed to her mouth; apart from that, she hadn’t moved.

Lerric’s voice was tremulous. “What do you suppose he’s up to? Do you think he knows—?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Father! How could he possibly know?”

Lerric stared at his overwrought daughter, seeing her chalky complexion, the fear behind her eyes, and the slight tremor of her fingers. She held out an imperious hand for the parchment.

“What does he say? Let me see that.”

Lerric passed her the note and watched while she read it.

She snorted. “Elias didn’t write this. That’s Blaine’s hand.”

“His damned general,” Lerric muttered, and Sofira nodded curtly. Lerric pursed his lips. “But he’s … you know … one of those—”

“The term is ‘Artesan,’ Father,” she snapped. “And yes, I know. What of it?”

Agitated, Lerric rose. “But they’re who Reen’s hiding from! What if they’ve got a way of finding him? What if they suspect he’s here? They must know he’s escaped the island by now. What if they don’t believe the suicide story?”

His daughter watched him pace before the fire, her expression scornful. “Why should you instantly think Elias’s visit has anything to do with Hezra? Why should he think of coming here even if he didn’t believe the clerics? Hezra and I didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, if you remember, and Elias could hardly suspect
you
of helping the man who impeached your daughter and robbed her of all she had!”

Sofira’s spiteful, angry tone caused her father to cease pacing and stare at her. He hadn’t heard that aggrieved note since she had recovered from the immediate grief of leaving her children. He had certainly never heard it directed at the man she professed to still love.

Aware of his gaze, Sofira collected herself. She gave a vexed sigh and rose from her chair. “I really don’t think you’ve anything to fear, Father. And you’d better not show this craven nervousness while Elias is here or you’ll trigger his suspicions. Now, I must show this parchment to Hezra and tell him of the King’s visit. He won’t be pleased, I imagine, but at least contingency measures have already been taken to deal with such a situation. We only have to follow his instructions and all will be well.”

Sofira swept toward the door, her stiff, unbending back a silent reproof to the doubts and fears of her father—almost, Lerric thought, as though her own fears didn’t exist. Yet he knew her too well to miss the telltale signs.

She halted, her hand on the latch, and turned to face him once more. “Has it occurred to you, dear Father, that the reason for this sudden visit may not concern
you
at all? Elias and I were married, you know! We have children, and one of them, at least, misses her mother. Has it not occurred to you that this visit might just be about
me
?”

With that final, spiteful shot, Sofira swept from the room, leaving Lerric worried and doubtful, staring at the space she had occupied.

T
he vagrant made his way back into the city as the short winter day turned to gloom. There were guards on the Forest Gate, but none looked twice at a stooped and wasted tramp such as he. Beggars often went into the woods to collect what firewood they could to keep their bones from freezing. His mouth twisted in a sneer as he passed right under the noses of the King’s Guard and reflected that the Baron’s policy of periodically clearing out slum-dwellers had obviously been allowed to slip since his exile.

Well, that suited the vagrant and his master just fine. No one would suspect him of having the strength or the wit to kill the Arch Patrio, and even if he was searched, there was nothing on him to incriminate him. His bloody rags had long since been disposed of. No, he was safe, and now he could turn his attention to the other task set him by his master.

His thoughts revolved around the meeting he’d just had with a certain band of brigands in Loxton Forest. Neremiah’s offertory gold had purchased their willing compliance. The gold, and the promise of more once the job was done, went far toward overcoming their reluctance to spend the night in the freezing forest. The wastrel knew there were several caves deep within the woods which could be made tolerably comfortable even in the depths of winter.

He grinned. The promise of additional gold would never be fulfilled, and there was nothing they could do about it. They would end up doing his bidding for half the agreed sum and never find him afterward.

Satisfied, he made his way toward the city’s poorer parts. The streets here were narrow and dirty, full of gritty snow, rubbish, mangy curs, dead rats and live ones. The detritus of Loxton’s slums went unnoticed by the vagrant as he limped his way past the ramshackle houses, moldering wooden fences, and mean, tented shelters. He ignored the muttered curses and disgusted looks thrown his way by the slum dwellers; the barging shoulders and obstructing bodies melted away before the foul miasma surrounding him. It was growing worse, but affected him not at all, and he continued his way unmolested, heading for his next appointment.

Now the initial contact had been made it was no longer necessary for the Baron to exert himself and speak to Seth directly. The vagrant could afford to meet him in one of the slum taverns, as the manservant desired—no one would mark their hushed voices or conspiratorial attitudes. They would just be two more peasants among the many such infesting the city’s slums. With the King’s Guard occupied over the puzzle of Neremiah’s murder, attention would be concentrated upon the mason and his men. And before the furor surrounding the churchman’s death died down there would be other distractions to occupy their minds.

The vagrant smiled at the thought as he pushed open the rickety door beneath the rotting sign. He was immediately assailed by the smells of stale beer, rancid oil lamps, and too many unwashed bodies. The raucous sounds of the drinkers clamored about his ears, and he shouldered his way through the pack until he could make out the stained and greasy bar through the smoke-filled air. He caught the barkeep’s eye and grinned mirthlessly as he registered the paling of the sweaty man’s face. The barkeep recognized his unwelcome patron, but had learned better than to protest at his presence. Besides, the vagrant now had more acceptable forms of inducement with which to tempt the barkeep out of his revulsion.

“Ale,” he spat, slapping a whole silver bit into a sticky puddle of spilled beer on the bar. The barkeep’s bloodshot eyes widened and the silver vanished quickly into his fleshy palm. A full tankard of cloudy ale was pushed across the bar, and the vagrant ignored the greasy marks and the hard deposits on the rim as he took a long pull. Only then did he let his eyes roam over the patrons, searching for his contact.

+ + + + +

S
eth had been waiting half an hour and was beginning to feel sick. The dreadful ale curdled his stomach and the foul-smelling air crawled through his lungs like a fungal growth. His head swam from the noise and all he wanted was to be gone. He had almost made up his mind to leave when he saw the wastrel enter the bar. Fighting down nausea and revulsion, he waited.

The vagrant approached slowly, studying Seth. He pushed past two burly ruffians who turned to cuff him for his shoving and then fell back, hands across their mouths. Although how they could distinguish the wastrel’s stink from the room’s general fug, Seth didn’t know.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he snapped as the foul man sat down. Seth’s nostrils tried to close of their own accord and his eyes watered.

“I’ve more important matters to concern me than speaking with you.” The man spoke laconically, a thin line of ale running down his chin and soaking into the rough gray cloak he wore. “My master has many plans requiring my attention.”

Seth set down his own tankard, the ale within hardly touched. He had only purchased it for appearances; his stomach could take no more of the acid brew. “So what does my Lord Baron want me to do this time?”

The vagrant turned red-rimmed, cloudy eyes upon him. “You’re to be the lynchpin in a plan that’ll begin my master’s revenge on all those who’ve betrayed him. By tonight he’ll have within his power one or maybe two of his most hated enemies. Did you do as I bid you regarding the servants?”

“Yes.” Seth’s eyes were alight with the thought of serving his master. “Everything’s in place. There’ll only be the mistress and the housekeeper inside the mansion; the rest will be in their own quarters.”

“And do you have the items I told you to bring?”

Seth reached to the floor and brought up a wrapped bundle. He uncovered a corner and showed the wastrel what it contained. The foul man waved it aside.

“I don’t need to see, you fool! So long as they’re recognizable and appropriate, that’s all that counts.”

Seth opened his mouth to protest the fellow’s authoritarian manner, but the vagrant turned angrily on him. “Just do as you’re told and don’t start thinking for yourself! We have our instructions and we must follow them. Don’t for one minute think you’re important to my master. He’ll dispense with your services in an instant if he suspects you might not follow his orders.”

The man’s face was thrust unpleasantly close and Seth leaned away. He was hurt and angered by the implied criticism and was about to reply in kind, but the vagrant wasn’t done. With an evil leer at odds with the very real fear in his shifty eyes, the vagrant put his hands to the folds of cloth over his chest and parted them slightly. Seth gagged, his sense of smell overwhelmed by the charnel reek.

“Never doubt I mean what I say!” the vagrant hissed, his voice strangely altered, his eyes glowing red. “Serve me well and you shall be rewarded, but fail me only once and this shall be your fate.”

Seth stared in helpless horror at the ruined, crawling flesh he glimpsed beneath the shabby cloak. His hand flew to his mouth, but he was too late. The rancid ale and the stench of decomposing meat were just too much for his overburdened stomach. He lost its contents over the stained and filthy floor.

The cloak was closed, the vagrant gulping the sour contents of Seth’s tankard by the time the manservant recovered enough to sit upright. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and found he couldn’t meet those red-rimmed eyes in case the sullen ruby glow should still be there. He coughed, trying to force his irritated throat to form words, words which might deflect the anger, appease the suspicion, and reassure Seth’s lord of his unswerving obedience. Seth could think of nothing that might induce him to risk the fate this poor wretch had already suffered. He would do anything—even murder—to avoid such a consequence.

“Are you ready to leave?” The wastrel rose to his feet as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened. Seth raised his eyes reluctantly, but the manic red glow had faded. There was only the sardonic twist to the wastrel’s features that said he knew what Seth was thinking.

The manservant got shakily to his feet and reached for the bundle. The vagabond turned wordlessly and stalked from the tavern, his vile personal shield forging a way through the crowd and persisting long enough to accommodate Seth as he followed. They emerged once more onto the filthy, gloomy street, the younger man breathing thankfully of the outside air, which, under other circumstances, would have smelled rank.

“Where’re we going?” he asked when he could catch his breath. The wastrel shot him a glance, but didn’t reply. Seth was forced to follow with no idea where he was being led.

+ + + + +

S
ir Regus regarded his wife where she sat staring at him from her corner of the swaying carriage. He registered the set of her delicately-painted mouth and the characteristic tilt to her exquisitely-coiffured head. He sighed, heavily but inaudibly. He was going to lose the battle. Years of married life had taught him this, and they had also taught him the futility of what he was about to attempt. Why he bothered, he didn’t know. Was it some primeval male urge to dominate? Some deep-seated instinct to master? Was it the pack leader syndrome that took him over and subjected him to this ritual humiliation? He couldn’t say. Whatever it was, it was paramount, and Sir Regus obeyed its dictates every time.

His wife, Lady Corina, knew this well. They had been wed for forty-three years and she knew him better than he knew himself. She had discovered very early on exactly how to handle her husband and now the reactions were instinctive. She may even have enjoyed his futile struggles, but she never tried to analyze her actions. Had she done so, she may even have come to suspect he enjoyed their sparring arguments, but the thought never entered her head. She wanted something; he’d try to dissuade her. It was part of who they were together and neither could have altered it to save their lives.