Devlin's Justice (16 page)

“Sit, sit,” the Prince said. “It would be a shame to undo Master Justin’s hard work.”

The Prince took a seat in the carved wooden chair, and Devlin sank down on the bed.

“I am Prince Arnaud,” he said. “I am pleased finally to meet one of the Chosen Ones.”

Devlin was glad that he was sitting down. He had guessed that his captor was a prince of Selvarat. His dress and appearance had indicated as much. But Selvarat had numerous princes, since even second cousins of the reigning sovereigns were entitled to style themselves as royalty.

But there was only one Royal Consort, and he went by the name of Arnaud. His presence in Jorsk was a shock, if indeed Devlin was still within the borders of Jorsk.

Nothing made sense. He knew the King had resented Devlin’s influence and power, but why choose such a strange way of ridding himself of a rival? What deal had Olafur struck with the Selvarats? Had Olafur used them to dispose of an inconvenient enemy? Or had the Selvarats sought Devlin out for their own nefarious reasons?

“If you wanted to meet me, you could have come to Kingsholm. There was no need for all this,” Devlin said. He did not understand what was going on, but he would not let his captor see his confusion.

“I doubt I would be welcome there. Not today, although one day I will call it home,” Arnaud said. “And you will be the key to my victory.”

Devlin’s heart quickened. First Karel, and now Prince Arnaud. He did not know what they wanted with him, but he could not allow them to use him. His left hand clenched in a fist.

“The guards have orders to break your arms and legs if you so much as move in their direction,” the Prince said. “They will not kill you, but they will ensure that you are crippled. Do you understand me?”

Devlin gave a quick nod. The Geas insisted that he had to flee his enemies, but it was quieted beneath the voice of reason. He could risk death, since his death would prevent him from being used against Jorsk. But he could not risk being crippled, left helpless in their power. Better to be patient. In time he would find a way out of this trap.

The Prince turned his gaze on Karel. “See? Even the Chosen One is not immune to reason. Which brings me to the matter of your failures,” he said.

Karel blanched, while the female mercenary swallowed nervously.

“Guards,” Prince Arnaud called. Two soldiers came in. Unlike the others, these wore the uniform of Selvarat regulars. One stood behind Karel, and the other behind the woman. Karel began to shake.

“Cousin, I did my best. The spells did not work, and he fought us at every turn. Even with the drugs we could barely control him—”

Prince Arnaud waved his hand. “I have heard your excuses before. You were given a simple task and you botched it. Another two days of traveling and the Chosen One would have been beyond even Master Justin’s skills,” he said.

“I was only following orders,” the woman stammered.

“Indeed,” the Prince said. He rose to his feet and stood in front of her. Devlin held his breath, wondering would happen next.

The Prince nodded to one of the soldiers. Swiftly he looped a cord around the woman’s neck and yanked it back. She reached up, her hands scrabbling uselessly for purchase, but he placed his knee in her back, and there was a sharp crack as he snapped her neck.

Her head lolled to one side as the soldier released the cord. Then, grabbing the limp body under her arms, he began to drag her away.

The juice Devlin had drunk rose in his gorge and he fought the urge to vomit. He would not have hesitated to kill the woman in a fair battle, but this was cold-blooded murder.

Karel trembled, but he did not move from his place. Arnaud stood in front of him for a long moment. “Cousin, what shall I do with you?” he asked.

“I am your loyal servant,” Karel said. “I only wish to serve you.”

Prince Arnaud smiled. “And so you shall,” he said, leaning forward to kiss Karel on the forehead.

Karel stammered his thanks. He was still expressing his gratitude when Prince Arnaud gave the signal, and the soldier looped the strangling cord around Karel’s neck. He took longer to die than the woman, or perhaps it merely seemed so to Devlin, who forced himself not to turn away. There was no merciful neck crack, just a slow, painful struggle, as Karel’s features contorted, turning first pale, then red. At last his limbs ceased twitching, and he, too, was dragged away.

Prince Arnaud then turned toward Devlin, who flinched involuntarily. “Karel got his wish. He gave his life as an example. I do think it is best to make things clear from the start. There must be no doubt as to the seriousness of my purpose.”

Devlin looked long and hard into the face of evil. A monster with the manners of a prince, who had ordered the execution of his kin upon a whim. It was frightening to imagine what would happen if Jorsk fell under this man’s rule. As Chosen One, it would be up to Devlin to prevent that from happening. At any price.

Prince Arnaud resumed his seat, arranging his robe carefully around him. “Now let us discuss your future,” he said.

They came for her during the middle of the night watch. Drakken came awake at once, but from the grim look on Lieutenant Embeth’s face, she knew this was no ordinary crisis.

“What is it?” Captain Drakken asked, as she rolled to her feet.

Embeth had not come alone. Lieutenant Ansgar was with her, and Sergeant Henrik hovered just inside the door.

“We have orders to arrest you for treason,” Lieutenant Ansgar explained.

Drakken shot a look at Lieutenant Embeth, who met her gaze steadily. She had expected Embeth, but the presence of the others were a surprise. And the plans they had put in place were for days from now. Something must have happened.

“You must have gone straight to the King,” Drakken said.

“I did,” Embeth replied, lifting her jaw. “I, at least, know the meaning of the oaths I swore.”

She felt a moment of unease. Was Embeth simply mouthing these words for the benefit of these others? Or had she indeed changed her mind and decided to place her oaths to the King above her loyalty to her Captain?

Either way, there was nothing Drakken could do but play along and hope that she had not misplaced her trust.

“I always knew you were ambitious, but now I know you for a fool as well,” Drakken said, for the benefit of their audience. “You will not like how the King rewards loyal service.”

“Enough,” Lieutenant Ansgar said, stepping toward her. Both hands gripped his sword belt, as if to still them. “We are not here to debate. You will come with us.”

“Like this?” she asked, gesturing to her bare feet and the linen shift she wore to sleep in.

It was hard to tell in the darkness, but she thought Ansgar might have flushed. “Get dressed, but be quick about it,” he said.

Drakken took a step toward her wardrobe.

“No. Stay where you are.” Embeth turned to Lieutenant Ansgar. “She might have a weapon in there,” she explained.

“What do you suggest?” Ansgar asked. By rights Embeth was his senior, having served as lieutenant for these half dozen years. For all his newfound favor with the King, it seemed the habits of discipline still held.

“Henrik, find the Capt—,” Embeth stumbled. “Find Drakken some clothes to wear. Nothing fancy, and search everything for concealed weapons.”

Henrik pawed through her neatly folded uniforms and came up with leather pants, a linen shirt, and a pair of thick woolen socks. The latter was a kindness that she expected to have need of soon. Three pairs of eyes watched her as she stripped off her shirt and donned her uniform. Boots were searched, then offered. It would have been humiliating if she were not so furious.

“Hands,” Embeth ordered.

Drakken held out her hands, which were manacled before her. Then Henrik draped a cloak over her shoulders. He fussed until it hung just so, and for a moment she was touched by his care. Then she realized he was simply making sure that it hid her bound arms from any casual gaze.

“You will come with us and you will not call out or make any attempt to escape. Your cohort is already in custody,” Lieutenant Embeth said. “There is no need to confuse the other guards who have not yet learned of your treachery.”

They feared a riot if her guards saw her being led away in chains. A year ago they might have been right. Now she did not know what would happen. If even a veteran like Henrik would not lift a finger in her defense, then she did not know who would aid her.

Though it was hard to blame Henrik for his behavior. He was following orders, and the oath that he had sworn to serve the King. He had not seen what she had seen, nor did he know what she knew. Indeed, there was a part of her that envied his ignorance and the comfort that was to be found in blind obedience.

Lieutenant Ansgar led the way. Outside of her quarters were a dozen guards waiting to serve as her escort. Newcomers and troublemakers, there was nary a friendly face among them. Some smirked when they saw her. They formed a strange procession as she was led past the guardhouse where prisoners were normally housed and into the palace through a narrow door by the kitchen. Down through the wine cellar they went, down a narrow winding staircase, until they reached the lowest level and the newly refurbished dungeon.

She was led past four cells that were empty, but whose filthy straw showed signs of recent habitation. The fifth cell held a figure lying on the floor, who lifted his head as the torchlit procession went by. Rikard.

Drakken was thrust into the very next cell. At Embeth’s gesture she held out her hands, and the manacles were released.

“The King has ordered you put to the question,” Lieutenant Embeth said. “A wise woman would recognize defeat and confess her crimes.”

“A wise woman would know better than to serve a stinking worm like Olafur,” Drakken replied.

The blow that snapped her head back came as no surprise. Staggering on her feet, she watched as the cell door was closed on her.

Booted footsteps echoed as they made their way out of the dungeon, no doubt eager to report their success to the King.

She dropped to her knees. The cell was small with a narrow door, and only a single torch had been left to illuminate the corridor outside. When the torch burned out, they would be left in darkness.

“Cap’n, is dat you?” a slurred voice asked.

“Oluva?”

“Aye,” Oluva said. Her voice came from the cell just beyond Drakken’s.

“Are you hurt?”

“Only pride,” Oluva said fiercely.

“So, how the mighty have fallen,” Lord Rikard called out. She could hear the rustling of straw as he moved in his cell. “Even your cowardice could not save your hide. How does it feel to be called traitor?”

Drakken ignored him. She sank to the floor on her hands and knees in the center of the cell and began a careful spiral search, gently sifting the straw. It was a tedious task, and an unpleasant one too, for she was clearly not the first to occupy this cell. She wondered what had happened to the other prisoners. It was too much to hope that they had been set free. But if Olafur were conducting secret executions, surely she would have heard at least a whisper of it.

Rikard rained abuse on her, as she continued her task. Finally, on her eleventh circuit, her left hand closed around a piece of cold steel. She picked it up, and reverently traced the shape with her fingertips.

Now she had but to wait.

Rikard finally fell silent when neither she nor Oluva would rise to his baiting. Drakken counted cadence in her mind, imagining a line of new recruits being put through their paces. After she was certain a full hour had passed, she rose to her feet.

She slipped the key into the newly oiled lock, and it turned soundlessly. Pushing the door open, she padded her way over to Oluva’s cell and unlocked that door. Oluva’s face was swollen with fresh bruises but her grin was undimmed as she stepped into the corridor.

Rikard’s eyes widened as the two stood in front of his cell, backlit by the flame from the failing torch.

“What?”

Captain Drakken held her finger to her lips, commanding him to silence.

“Rikard, I admire your passion but you make a lousy politician,” she whispered. “You have no sense of who your friends are.”

She unlocked his cell and swung open the door. With a wave of her arm she invited him to join them.

Rikard’s face, at least, was unmarred, but his movements were stiff and she spared a moment to wonder what injuries were concealed beneath his clothes. If he was too badly hurt, he would not be able to keep up with them.

“What is this?” he asked.

“We are leaving,” she said. “Come now; if we miss this opportunity, then we may never have the chance again.”

“I do not know what game you are playing at,” Rikard began.

“There is no time for debate. Are you with us? Or shall I leave you here?”

The door at the end of the corridor swung freely open at her touch, and she shook her head at this sign of laxity. A proper gaol would have a lock on that door, opened by a key that was different from the master key that opened the cell doors. She would have told them as much, if anyone had consulted her when they fitted up the dungeon.

Beyond the door were two lifeless bodies slumped on the floor, both wearing the uniform of the special detail that had been assigned to the dungeon. One lay on his back, and as she took in his features, her eyes widened in shock. With the toe of her boot she turned his companion’s body over. After weeks of searching, she had finally found her two missing guards. But they were dead, and with them went any hope of discovering the role they had played in Devlin’s disappearance.

It was disquieting to think that she had searched for them for weeks, only to find that they had been in the palace all along. She wondered what else had been going on under her very nose.

With a nod to Oluva, Drakken began stripping the weapons from the woman on the right, while Oluva took care of the man on the left. Drakken took the woman’s sword for herself, but handed the belt-knife to Rikard.

“Don’t use this unless you have to,” she said. “Not all those we meet tonight will be unfriendly.”