The Scarecrow (Master of Malice Book 1) (44 page)

Dexter’s lads gave a rousing cheer and Robin saw Lerric’s four men glance at each other as if amazed permission was needed.

“But,” continued Robin, and the voices fell away, “if any one reports for duty tomorrow the worse for drink, he’ll suffer the consequences. Am I understood?”

Dexter came to his feet and snapped a salute. “Yes, sir.”

The other men followed his example and Robin nodded.

“Very well. I’ll leave you to your evening. All to be counted in by midnight, Captain, and it’s your job to pick those who’ll remain behind on guard while the rest enjoy themselves.”

Dexter acknowledged the command and the Major turned on his heel, hiding a smirk. Dexter was doing a sterling job of playing the role he’d been assigned. Robin could already hear him whispering his discontent to Lerric’s startled men. Dex would bewail the unfair position Robin had put him in and would wriggle himself out of guard detail. The men he would “select” to remain behind were already picked and had their own set of instructions. Dex would slope off to the tavern with his new friends, allowing them to draw various other instances of ill use from him. Robin knew he could rely on Dexter’s sharp wits to stay out of serious trouble, and to see the other lads did too.

He made a swift pass by the stables, satisfying himself over the horses’ care, and stayed to give his stallion, Tobias, the piece of dried fruit he’d saved from Lerric’s table. The young mahogany warhorse took the treat with soft lips and blew down his nose as Robin stroked his satiny neck.

Pleased with the horses’ conditions, Robin made his way back across the courtyard toward the tower stairs. A few of Lerric’s men were already making their way out of the palace toward the town, their heavy cloaks, tattered and dingy, wrapped tightly against the biting wind. He heard Dexter’s voice rise in triumph as the Captain won a hand of cards, and he also heard the disappointed murmurs of the players who’d lost. He grinned. Trust Dex to make himself at home among strangers. He continued on, his sharp eyes coming to rest on the walled-up windows and what appeared to be a recently fitted door to the supposedly unsafe lower floor.

There was no one in the courtyard, the last of Lerric’s men disappearing into the darkness beyond the gate. His own men would wait for Dexter to win as much as he could before joining the others in the tavern. Robin was unobserved.

He moved closer to the fresh masonry filling what had once been a perfectly good window. He stared at it, wondering why it should bother him. He listened intently, but no sounds came to his ears. He even employed his Artesan senses, casting them through the empty spaces beyond the walls, feeling for anything that might be out of place. He stepped up to the stout wooden door and tried the latch. It was locked fast. He examined the door for possible peepholes, but whoever had done the work had done it well. There were no gaps in the woodwork or between door and jamb to see through. And anyway, it was dark.

Robin shrugged, as much to cast off the niggling feeling of unease as to indicate his lack of success. Nothing threatened and nothing lurked within the walls of the lower floor that he could sense. It was empty and deserted, as Sofira had said. He would mull over his reaction later and maybe discuss it with Sullyan when he reported to her later that evening.

The men were coming out of the barracks now. Dexter was being harangued good-naturedly by both his own lads and Lerric’s for his multiple wins, and he promised them ale as compensation. Robin mounted the tower stairs to avoid being seen. Dex had created a mood and Robin’s presence would spoil his hard work. He slipped through the tower door as the men spilled out into the courtyard cursing the cold.

The red-haired man fingering something deep in his pocket didn’t warrant a second glance.

+ + + + +

B
y the time Ardoch finished giving his account of the day’s slaughter to Colonel Vassa and Lord Levant, the mob at the gates was in a frenzy. The noise rose to Levant’s private suite. It seemed the longer they had to wait for information, the more convinced they were it wasn’t forthcoming. And the common people knew there was only one reason for their betters to withhold information. There must be seriously bad news which would affect their lives, their businesses, or their safety. Maybe all three.

As the sound swelled again, Levant gazed between Vassa and Ardoch. He sighed. “I suppose it had better be me.”

Vassa grimaced in sympathy. “I’ll send a company with you.”

Levant shook his head. “They’ll only think I fear them.”

Ardoch grunted. “Well, you’ll not go alone. That’s an ugly mood they’re in. I’d not trust them. If you’re going to let some of them in, you’ll need our lads to stop the rest from barging in too.”

Levant wanted to argue, but could see it would do him no good. He gave a curt nod. “The sooner we convince them there’s nothing threatening the city, the sooner they’ll return to their homes. The pickpockets and thieves must be having a field day with this crowd and all those homes left unattended. There’ll be a barrage of complaints to the constables tomorrow, Jerrim, mark my words.”

“As if we didn’t have enough to worry about,” Vassa said morosely.

“Come on, then, Ardoch. Assemble your men and let’s get this over with. I’ll see twenty of them, no more. Any that try to force their way in can spend the night in the garrison cells. See if that cools their heads.”

+ + + + +

P
rincess Seline had managed to give Bessie the slip. It wasn’t hard to do. Bessie was in the infirmary when the commotion started, caring for those who’d been burned in the fire.

When she heard about the mob at the gates, she went to look for her charge, but the Princess was nowhere to be seen. Bessie was irritated but not entirely surprised. The girl had been increasingly intractable since winning the argument with her father over going to the market without an escort. Bessie understood the King’s motive for allowing his daughter her own way, but feared he had set a dangerous precedent. The Princess was growing more headstrong by the day, and without her father to reprimand her no one could gainsay her whims.

Seline, when informed of her father’s trip to Bordenn, predictably demanded to go. Equally predictably, she was refused. Bessie didn’t think for one minute Seline expected Elias to take her. A winter journey was rare enough—no one traveled far in such dreadful weather without a pressing reason—and to take a young child would have been folly. Yet even had it been summer, Elias would never have allowed Seline to go to her mother, and the young Princess surely knew it. It was Bessie’s opinion the girl only wanted to prove a point, to argue with her father, to remind him she was growing up and would no longer be treated like a child. And she had wanted to make him feel unsettled and angered, to pay him back for his treatment of her mother.

In that, she’d succeeded.

Bessie eventually went back to the nursery, hoping Seline had returned there. But her room was still empty and Bessie swore in frustration. She was growing very tired of the girl’s petulance and lack of respect for her elders. Something would have to be done once Elias returned.

Bessie knew how it would pain the King when she told him of his daughter’s latest misdemeanors, but she had no choice. She was responsible for the Princess while her father was away, and if Seline wouldn’t obey her something had to be said. Sighing in vexation, Bessie left the nursery to do yet another round of the castle, searching in vain for her wayward charge.

+ + + + +

S
eline watched the angry crowd from the safety of a window. She’d found an unoccupied room on the lower floor that looked out on the park gates and slipped inside unnoticed. She was unlikely to be disturbed. The room she stood in was one of the unallocated offices, and most of the day’s business was concluded. Elias’s ministers would be changing for dinner or returning to their homes. If they could get out of the castle grounds.

Seline watched in apprehension. Even from her distant vantage she could feel their rage. She had never seen such an angry crowd. The mob looked like a single entity; she couldn’t see individual faces or bodies. They were too far away and it was too dark. Many of the people carried torches and the flickering flames cast weird shadows over their forms, blending them together. She was thankful to be safely behind walls. She wouldn’t care to be out there facing that baying mob. She found herself admiring the swordsmen on guard duty, putting up with thrown missiles and hurled abuse. She imagined her hero, Tad, coping with such ferocity and pictured him using his firm, gentle voice to reason with the crowd and turn aside their fury.

She was still lost in her personal fantasy when she realized the angry cacophony had stopped. Her eyes snapped back into focus as she scanned the parkland. Movement near the castle courtyard to her left caught her attention as a small party came into sight. She recognized Elias’s First Minister, Lord Levant, surrounded by thirty or so of the King’s Guard led by Master Ardoch. They made their unhurried way toward the gate, fixed by the crowd’s collective stare. She considered going outside, the better to hear and see, but the risk of discovery was too great. Bessie was bound to be seeking her, and if any of the castle servants saw her alone they’d run and tell her irritating watchdog. The idea of being found and hauled back to the nursery before this was over was enough to hold her still.

She stood and stared, fascinated by the scene playing out before her.

L
evant walked confidently in the midst of the King’s Guard, not wholly reliant on their presence for his air of calm purpose. Rendan Levant was no craven. In his capacity as First Minister, a post he had held for many years, he’d faced down countless dangerous opponents. In his younger days he’d been a creditable swordsman, serving in the King’s Guard until injury forced him to leave. He wasn’t intimidated by the crowd’s size or anger.

Besides, he reasoned, these were ordinary townspeople. They weren’t revolutionaries; they had no axe of oppression to grind. They were simply merchants, traders, and businessmen who had seen troubling things and heard more troubling rumors. They only needed reassurance. Levant had to admit that the assassination of Neremiah, the dreadful fire in the night, and the sight of a whole company of crack troops slaughtered were enough to spook anyone. It was only the catalyst of numbers that had caused this anxiety to escalate.

He walked quietly and stood openly before the mob when he reached the gates.

The crowd fell silent. The swordsmen moved away from Levant, showing trust in the crowd’s restraint, and Levant stood forward to speak. The crackle of many torches was the only sound until he spoke, his eyes ranging over their faces, his clear voice ringing out over their heads.

“Good people of Loxton, you’ve come here in search of answers. You’ve seen and heard of troubling events in the city and you are understandably concerned for your welfare. Rumor has taken hold of you and you’re unsure what to believe. So hear me now when I tell you there is no cause for alarm. Nothing threatens the city or your safety, and nothing threatens our King. He is away from the castle for a few days visiting with one of his subject kings, and my latest information is that he’s safe and well. I ask you now to disperse and return to your homes. The recent sad events that have taken place in our city are unconnected and are being dealt with. Trust us to clear things up as you always have. Please. Go home.”

Levant’s speech was a good one and his unruffled demeanor encouraged quite a few to do as he suggested. It was cold, despite the press of bodies and warmth from the flames, and some of them were probably thinking of their shops and business premises, vulnerable to casual thieves. Gradually, from the back of the crowd, people began to slip away.

But at the front were those most aroused by the troublemakers’ goading, who still muttered poison into gullible ears. The muttering rose in volume until someone spoke up.

“We’re not going until we get some explanations. How do we know you’re telling the truth? How can you say nothing threatens the city? A senior churchman ripped to pieces in his own Minster—that sounds like a threat to me! And now a whole company of King’s Guard slaughtered like cattle, just after a violent attack on a noble and his wife! Not to mention that fire last night. Safe, are we? We don’t believe you!”

The crowd jeered and catcalled, lending vociferous support to their unofficial spokesman. They jostled nearer the gates and some small stones were thrown from the back of the crowd. The missiles came nowhere near the party from the castle, but they enraged Ardoch. He had just been through one of the worst afternoons of his life and thoughts of his friends laid out cold and dead on mortuary slabs pricked at his conscience. He was in no mood to pander to foolish townsfolk who didn’t have the sense to know when they were well off.

Ignoring Levant’s warning glance he drew his sword and raised his voice, a voice well used to reducing recalcitrant Guardsmen to gibbering wrecks. He used it to good effect.

“The next person to show his disrespect will get a taste of my steel. First Minister Levant has come here out of concern for your welfare to talk with you, and all you can do is accuse him of falsehood. I’d think twice about your response if I were you. Me and the lads are just itching for some action after finding our comrades slaughtered. A rabble such as you wouldn’t even count as exercise. Do you hear me?”

There was sullen silence. Ardoch’s reputation was well known among the townsfolk. He had been a popular figure in the King’s Guard for more years than some could count and his devotion to duty was legendary. There wasn’t a man among the rabble who wanted to cross words with him, let alone swords. The silence dragged on while the Torlander’s gaze swept over the shamed faces before him.

Levant broke the hiatus with a discreet cough, trying to hide a smile. “Er, thank you, Swordmaster. Good people, I can see your concerns run too deep for me to assuage by a simple statement here at the gates. If you would care to choose twenty of your number to represent you, I will grant that group free audience at which they may air your anxieties. I will answer all questions openly and honestly and see what I can do to reassure you. Will that content you?”