The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (41 page)

The thief hooked a fist to clout Temar’s ear but Temar raised arm and shoulder in an instinctive block. The thief grabbed his sleeve, trying to pull him off balance. Temar smacked his fist backhanded into the man’s nose and the thief let go, ducking backwards. Temar stepped in but the intruder met him with fists striking one after the other, spitting blood and fury. Temar took a blow on the ribs, another, a punishing blow to the stomach. The thief drew back his arm and Temar brought his knee up into the man’s groin. The intruder went down like a sack from a broken hoist, retching and gasping.

Ryshad and a couple of sworn men came running up as Temar rolled the thief over, twisting unresisting arms behind his back. “So we’ve got one at very least.”

“Got him in the stones,” Naer the gateward observed, seeing the man’s agonised grimace and drawn-up knees.

“Always a good trick, if you can do it.” Ryshad grinned approval at Temar.

“Those mercenaries been teaching you their trade, Esquire?” Naer asked, harsh voice not unfriendly. “Take a tip from a real warrior, eyes or knees is as good as stones and most men are slower to defend them.” He was searching the intruder as he spoke, rough hands brutally thorough. “Nothing on him but that means naught. Lock him up.”

“A good kick on the side of a knee can send a man spewing,” added one of the sworn men as they dragged the unresisting thief along the path. “We’ll show you, Esquire, if our pal here doesn’t give up his friend’s den. What do you say?”

But the thief was too sunk in his present misery to worry about any new threat, from what Temar could see. “What happens now?”

“He spends tonight in the gatehouse cell,” Ryshad replied. “He’ll face the Sieur’s justice in the morning. In the meantime, let’s find out what him and his mate were after. Naer! Me and D’Alsennin, we’ll check the shutters.” He turned to Temar. “Look for sprung hinges, loose slats, bent struts. Chances are it’ll be an upper window.”

“Halcarion be thanked for at least one good moon,” Temar murmured as Ryshad began a slow circuit of the residence.

Ryshad spat as they rounded a corner. “Shit!”

“What?”

“There.” Ryshad pointed to a louvred shutter where a strip of wood hung loose to cast an angled shadow over the rest.

Temar tried to work out what room might lie behind it. “That must be where they tried to get in.”

“You think Messire’s steward would let any shutter stay broken for Solstice, when half those bearing the Name come to stay and half the nobles in the city will be visiting?” asked Ryshad grimly. “And those two were on their way out, Temar, so chances are they didn’t just try, they got in. Come on.”

Temar followed Ryshad in through a side door, the chosen man giving his frustrations free rein as they went up a servants’ stair. “We can’t lock every door, every gate, not with so many people going in and out. It’s always the same at Festival, guests arriving right round the chimes, coaches calling to take visitors hither and yon.” He stopped suddenly as they were halfway up a flight of servants’ stairs. “And half the best men will be down at the sword school this evening, three-fifths drunk. Do you suppose that’s what the challenge was all about? Clearing the way for some theft here tonight? Curse it, I’m starting to sound like Casuel, seeing Eldritch-men conspiring in every corner. Here we are.”

Temar looked past Ryshad’s shoulder into a small room cluttered with everything the ubiquitous maids needed to keep the residence in good order. Glass from the window shone like fragments of moonlight on the shadow-striped floor and the catch on the casement had been broken clean off.

Ryshad pushed the shutter open, setting moonlight free inside the room. “We’d best set the valets and maids checking jewel cases. So, is this just theft or some new plot to discredit D’Olbriot? All these if’s and maybes could drive a man distracted!”

Mention of jewel cases turned Temar’s thoughts instantly elsewhere. “What lies beneath us here?”

He saw a reflection of his own fears spark in Ryshad’s eyes. “The library.”

Temar was out of the room, running down the stairs, Ryshad hard on his heels. They reached the library door together. Temar reached for the handle, praying it would be locked, his heart sinking as it gave way on silent hinges. “Raise some light,” he snapped.

Ryshad turned to take a lamp from a table in the corridor. The subdued glow was too feeble to reach the book-lined walls but was enough to show them an expanse of crumpled linen empty on the table, a few remaining trinkets scattered beside the gaping emptiness of the ancient coffer.

“Poldrion’s pustulent demons’ arseholes!” Temar felt entitled to echo his grandfather’s extravagant rages. “Come on.”

Ryshad moved to stop Temar storming out of the room. “Where to?”

“To see what that fellow in the gatehouse has to say!” Rage and dismay threatened to choke Temar. He’d had those artefacts, he’d held the means to restore so many people in his hands. How could this have happened?

“Justice within his own walls is a Sieur’s prerogative, Temar.” There was regret as well as reproof in Ryshad’s voice. “You can’t usurp it.”

Temar stared at him. “So what do we do?”

“The one we caught will go before the Sieur in the morning.” Ryshad looked round the library and Temar realised the man’s face was hollowed with exhaustion. “But the other man must have got away with the loot. Do you think Demoiselle Avila has any Artifice that could help us find him?”

Temar was silenced by the appalling realisation that he’d be the one telling Avila about this disaster. He swallowed hard as two hesitant maids and a footman appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and wondering.

“Find out if anything’s been stolen elsewhere,” Ryshad ordered them curtly. “Come and tell me as soon as you’ve checked your mistresses’ coffers, your master’s jewels. Go on!”

Temar found his voice as the servants hurried off. “Who would do this?”

“I don’t know.” Ryshad spaced his words with barely controlled anger. “Just like I don’t know who broke into the warehouse in Bremilayne. Just like we don’t know who stabbed you in the back, or who set me up for a sword in the guts today.”

“He was Den Thasnet’s man, wasn’t he?” Rage seared Temar’s throat. “Den Muret, Den Rannion, they were setting themselves up against us in the court. Can’t we just call out the barracks and challenge them to prove their innocence?”

“If it were only that simple,” Ryshad growled. “We need proof, Temar, something absolute, undeniable to tie a Name to all this. Something to lead us to the man who got away would be a start.”

“We have his fellow in the gatehouse,” cried Temar. “He can answer to the Sieur in the morning all well and good, but can we not at least get him to talk tonight?”

Ryshad looked at him for a long moment. “What do you suggest? Beating him? The Sieur will have Naer’s hide if he presents a prisoner with the shit kicked out of him. We don’t do that, not in this House.”

“Avila’s not the only one who can work Artifice,” Temar said, exasperated. “You know that. I could work the binding you were all treating so lightly before your courts for one thing. Then we will know if the man speaks the truth or lies to us.”

The unguarded distaste flickering across Ryshad’s face set Temar’s smouldering anger ablaze. “You’re going to have to come to terms with Artifice, Ryshad! Why not now? You cannot always just reject it out of hand because you were caught up in enchantment with me. Forget all this Toremal mistrust of mages—this is me, Ryshad, not Planir, not Casuel.” He burned with sudden determination to prove to Ryshad that some good could be wrought with Artifice. “Even with the few incantations I know, I may just learn something from this scum, his name at very least. That could be enough to find some trail before the scent goes entirely cold. What would that be worth?”

He bit off his words abruptly but wouldn’t drop his gaze. Ryshad looked away first. “All right, let’s see what you can do.”

Temar was taut with nervousness by the time they reached the gatehouse, neck stiff and tension pounding in his head. He realised he was rubbing his hands over and over each other and thrust them through the belt of his borrowed jerkin.

“Naer.” Ryshad nodded as they went into the watch room opening off the wide arch of the gate. “The Esquire wants to see the prisoner.”

Naer rubbed a thoughtful hand over his heavily shaded chin. “Don’t leave any marks on his face.” He tossed Ryshad a heavy ring of keys.

“This way.” Ryshad opened a far door on to an age-darkened stone spiral. Temar followed him down steps chipped and worn at the edges. “Watch your feet,” the chosen man advised him.

The stair opened on to a room divided with rough wooden partitions between the barrel vaults held up by thick pillars. A single lamp hung by the entrance, striking dull light from the chains holding the captured thief.

“Fair Festival to you,” said Ryshad pleasantly. “This shouldn’t hurt, not too much anyway.”

The man stiffened, chains chinking, defiance in his eyes. His lips narrowed, chin jutting forward as he braced himself.

Ryshad smiled again and folded his arms with slow deliberation. “Esquire?”

Temar did his best to equal Ryshad’s air of amiable threat. “Aer tes saltir, sa forl agraine.”

The prisoner’s confusion was plain to see. “What’s he say?”

“Never you mind,” said Ryshad with a satisfaction that only mystified the man further.

“His name is Drosel,” said Temar, trying to blend an offhand tone with an air of utter confidence.

“You don’t know me,” the thief said before he could stop himself. “You don’t know that. Who told you? Who gave me up?”

“No one gave you up, pal. Esquire D’Alsennin here, he can pick things like that right out of your thoughts. You’ve heard about the Esquire, I suppose,” Ryshad enquired casually. “He’s from Kellarin, you’ve heard of that? Nemith the Last’s lost colony, all the people sleeping away the generations under enchantment? Of course you have. Well, you’re going to learn a bit more than most people about ancient enchantments, pal. The Esquire here’s going to go looking for answers between your ears.”

Temar froze and hoped the shock didn’t show on his face. He couldn’t do that. Surely Ryshad wasn’t expecting him to work Artifice that complicated? He cleared his throat.

Ryshad raised a hand. “I know you want to, Esquire, but the Sieur’s a just man. We’ll give this filth one last chance to save his sanity before you turn his head inside out. You see, the problem is he can pick your wits apart but he can’t put all the pieces back together again.” He bent close to the rough bars and stared at the man, face grim with utter sincerity. “Believe me, you want to cooperate. You don’t want him inside your head, digging through every wretched memory you treasure. I saw this done to a girl once. She said she’d rather half a barracks had raped her and slit her ears and nose for good measure.”

Temar tasted blood inside his mouth as he bit his lip realising for the first time the depth of Ryshad’s antipathy towards Artifice. The chosen man turned away from the prisoner, the lamplight harsh on his drawn face, mercilessly highlighting unfeigned fear and pain in his eyes. Then Ryshad winked, taking Temar utterly by surprise.

“So Drosel, we’ll give you one last chance. The Esquire here will work a lesser enchantment, one that tells us if you’re telling the truth. I’ll ask a few questions, and if you tell us what we need to know we won’t have to put a leash and muzzle on you when we take you before the Sieur tomorrow.”

Noise turned Temar’s head and he saw Naer and a few of the sworn men on the stairs, peering round the stone curve with reluctant curiosity.

“Esquire?” Ryshad invited with a gesture towards the thief, who was edging back as far as his fetters allowed.

Temar cupped his face in his cold hands, eyes shut to concentrate all the better on the arcane words. He’d worked Artifice as complex as this once before and that was enough. He’d seen this done before his grandsire’s seat. His own father had been accustomed to administer truth bindings for the House, after all. If Avila said she could do it, Temar most assuredly could. It had to work, or Ryshad would never trust him again.

“Raeponin prae petir tal aradare. Monaerel als rebrique na dis apprimen vaertennan als tal. Nai thrinadir, vertannnan prae rarad. Nai menadis, tal gerae askat. Tal adamasir Raeponin na Poldrion.”

He spoke the words with slow determination, every fibre of his being concentrating on the cowering thief. Ryshad took a bare instant to realise Temar had no more to say and slammed a hand into the wooden partition.

“Right, Drosel, who put you up to this? Don’t lie to me, the Esquire will know if you do. Nothing to say? Sorry, if you play dumb, he’ll just rip your mind apart and we’ll get our answers that way.”

There was a strangled noise on the stairs and someone hurried away. Temar kept all his attention on the thief. The man opened his mouth, coughed and pawed at his throat with manacled hands.

“See?” Ryshad said coldly. “You can’t lie to us, can you?” He stared down at the man, face unyielding. “And now you’ve tried, I’ll tell you something else. Unless you tell us some truth, just a little one, you won’t ever be able to speak again.”

The thief’s jaw dropped and he looked at Ryshad with utter horror.

“Tell us,” Ryshad roared. “Who sent you?”

“Master Knife, that’s all he said,” the thief blurted out in panic. “At the Valiant Flag, the tavern on the Habbitrot. He sent us just for that one box, just for whatever was in it.” He hid his head in his arms, hunched over his knees.

Ryshad turned and raised questioning brows.

“That will suffice for the present,” Temar managed an even disdain in his tone. “We can always come back.”

The thief huddled into a tight ball of misery and terror. Ryshad jerked his head towards the stairs. Temar went ahead and found himself the focus of wary gazes from all sides of the watch room. Ryshad closed the door tight behind him and tossed the keys back to Naer. “See, we didn’t even have to unchain him.”

“What in the name of all that’s holy did you do?” Naer asked.

“Have you really scrambled his wits?” whispered a white-faced sworn man.