Devlin's Justice (21 page)

A servant pulled back the chair and Prince Arnaud took the place opposite Devlin’s. “I thought we might dine together and get a chance to become better acquainted,” the Prince said.

It was all a piece of his madness, but Devlin had no choice except to play along.

“Master Justin is a treasure, is he not? I found him serving a noble’s house. The noble did not deserve him, he had no idea how to make use of him. But I did. Just as I know how to make use of you,” Arnaud said.

“I have always believed a man should choose his own path,” Devlin said.

“Yes, but your path has hardly been of your own making, has it?”

The observation cut close to the bone, but before Devlin could think of a reply, the door swung open. A pair of servants brought out the first course, a clear fish broth and a plate of bread for each of them. Wine was poured for the Prince, but in front of Devlin was placed a tall tankard of what appeared to be ale.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Try it, and tell me what you think,” the Prince urged him.

Devlin lifted the tankard and took a sip. It was indeed ale from Duncaer. A touch bitter from the long journey, but far more to his taste than the finest wine would ever be.

“Is it good?” the Prince asked.

“It is decent,” Devlin said.

“Wonderful. My cook thought the cask spoiled and nearly threw it out, but I assured him you would like it.”

This was insanity. The Prince was behaving as if Devlin were an honored guest rather than a prisoner. If he had just met him, Devlin might well have mistaken the Prince for a man of honor and breeding. That is until he looked into his eyes. The Prince could smile and feign affability, but his cold gaze told the true story of his soul.

“Quite a pleasant country, really,” the Prince said, launching into an account of the day’s activities.

Devlin listened, making murmuring noises where appropriate. The Prince was remarkably frank with him, revealing that he had traveled to his encampment to discuss the disposition of his troops and to settle a matter of precedence between the allies. From his comments Devlin surmised that the occupying forces were composed of two disparate groups. The first were regular troops from the Selvarat army. The second was a contingent of mercenaries, loyal to the Prince. That matched with what he had witnessed himself, in the strange mix of soldiers surrounding the Prince.

Even Devlin could see the difficulty of requiring the two units to work together. The disciplined troops of the army would despise the mercenaries, whom they saw as feckless opportunists who would cut and run if faced with real danger. The mercenaries, for their part, would resent any attempt by the army to control them.

It was a useful bit of information to have. If one could find a way to drive a wedge between the two groups, it would hinder any plans the Prince might have to extend his dominion. He wondered why the Prince was speaking so freely in front of him. Was it because he still expected somehow to win Devlin over to his side? Or was it because he planned on killing Devlin before he had a chance to make use of this information?

The fish soup was cleared away and replaced by roasted lamb. Devlin’s portion had been neatly sliced into small pieces, as if he were a small child who could not be trusted with a knife. But while he had only two utensils, the Prince had the elaborate array of one eating a state dinner, including a set of three knives. Devlin glared at them. They were only a short distance away, but chained as he was they might as well have been in the next village.

Seeing the direction of Devlin’s gaze, the Prince smiled. He patted his mouth with a napkin and signaled to the servant, who refilled their glasses.

At last, the meal was over, and Devlin waved away the servant who had tried to set a sweet in front of him. He hadn’t really been able to do justice to the food, in part because of the strangeness of eating with his captor. And, in part, because he was dreading what would happen when the meal was over and the Prince tired of his sport.

The ale had been a temptation, but he had limited himself to a single tankard. He would need his wits about him.

“Tell me about the Geas spell,” the Prince said, after the plates had been cleared away and the last servant had left the room.

“You have been in my mind, and know what I know. You even know my taste for ale. Why should I tell you what you already know?”

“Indulge me.”

He hesitated. The Prince must have a reason for asking. He knew the Prince had accessed at least some of Devlin’s thoughts while their minds had been linked. But had that linkage been less complete than the Prince had implied? In which case it would be folly to give the Prince any information that could be used against him.

“Answer my questions and you will be allowed to return to your chamber to sleep. Undisturbed.”

The alternative was unspoken. He had no doubt that the Prince had even more creative ways to make him suffer.

Devlin shrugged. There was no harm in telling the Prince that which was common knowledge in Jorsk.

“A candidate to be named Chosen One presents himself at the Royal Temple,” Devlin began. “The priest prays and the mage chants the Geas spell. If the candidate is false, he is struck down and consumed by flames. If he is true, then he is named Chosen One.”

Some held that the Gods themselves were responsible for choosing worthy candidates to hold the post. But the cynic in Devlin believed that it was the spells cast by the mage that destroyed those who were deemed unfit.

“A position of power, second only to the King in the old days,” Arnaud mused.

“So I have been told.” Indeed, Stephen had recounted the lore of the great Chosen Ones so often that, despite himself, Devlin had learned their stories by heart.

“Yet they are so frightened by that power that they bind the Chosen One to his duty, using a spell so that you cannot betray your oaths. A strange thing to do to one who is called the champion of the Gods.”

“The Gods did not call me to champion. I volunteered for the reward,” Devlin said. At the time he had been able to see no further than the ten golden disks that were given to the newly named Chosen One. Now, two years later, it was hard to believe that he was the same man.

“So you claim. But how many times have you wondered if the decision was ever truly yours to make?”

Devlin jerked back in his chair. This was an abomination! The damn sorcerer knew more about him than even his closest friends. The secrets of his soul had been laid bare to this man’s prodding. And now the man was using that knowledge against him.

The violation outraged him, all the more because he was completely helpless. There was nothing he could do, no means to strike back at the Prince. He could only feign calm, and not give Arnaud the satisfaction of seeing how rattled he was.

“As for the Geas spell, I know not how it works,” Devlin said, returning to the Prince’s original question. “Not even Master Dreng understands it.”

More the pity. Dreng had sworn he would lift the spell if it was in his power, but experiments had revealed that it was not. Devlin would bear the burden of the Geas until the day he died.

“I wouldn’t expect your so-called mage to understand the spell. He can barely enchant a fire-starter,” Prince Arnaud said, dismissing Dreng with a wave of his hand. “If he had studied a bit more, he would realize that Geas was based on mind-sorcery. A far different skill than the petty magic he practices.”

The Prince toyed with his wineglass, seeming intrigued by the shifting patterns of light on the dark liquid.

“Unlike your petty mages and hedge wizards, I have true power. If I chose, I could free you from the Geas.”

“Then why haven’t you done so?” Arnaud had to be lying. It was a trick. It must be.

“It would require your cooperation,” Arnaud said. He caught and held Devlin’s gaze. “But think of it. Isn’t that what you have wanted ever since you became Chosen One? I could give you your life back. Your free will. You would once again be your own man, free to make your own choices.”

Devlin drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The Prince could have found no better bait for his trap. And surely this was a trap of some sort, even if Devlin could not see the iron jaws waiting to close on him.

He was tempted. Even knowing what he did of the Prince. Knowing his madness, his evil, and even with a body that still ached from the Prince’s care, Devlin was tempted.

Ironically it was the Geas itself that saved him. Devlin’s own wants were immaterial. The Geas understood only duty, and it would not allow itself to be destroyed.

“I must decline,” Devlin said, as if he had been offered a great boon.

“Do not be hasty,” the Prince said, rising from his chair. “Sleep on it and give me your answer tomorrow.”

“My answer will be unchanged,” Devlin said.

“I hope you are wrong. For both our sakes.”

Fourteen

S
TEPHEN PAUSED AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS,
struck by a sudden fit of nerves. This should have been a familiar place, for in his travels as a minstrel he had been in dozens of such small country inns. But then his only concern had been whether or not the patrons would care for his music. Sometimes the audiences had been appreciative, giving him copper coins and buying him glasses of dark wine. Other times they had been less friendly, including one memorable night where they had thrown crockery and driven him into the street. Such was the life of a man trying to make a name for himself as a minstrel.

But these days he played a different kind of game. He had left his music behind in Kingsholm. And now if he failed to play his part, the stakes would not be a lost dinner, but their lives.

He forced himself to move forward until he stood on the threshold of the common room, peering around for an empty table. The room was crowded, for they had reached town on the weekly market day. He watched a group of drovers rise to their feet; Stephen made his way quickly through the crowd to claim the places they had left vacant.

A young boy appeared out of nowhere, pocketing the coppers left on the table, then picking up the empty glasses and giving the table a halfhearted wipe with a rag.

“Just you?” the boy asked.

“My wife will be joining me in a few moments, and I expect my guards will come once they have finished their business,” Stephen said, keeping to the story they had agreed upon. “Bring a pitcher of wine and four glasses to start. And find out what the cook is serving for dinner.”

“It’s pork,” the boy said with a grin. “It’s always pork on market day. But I’ll ask Ma if there’s anything else.”

Stephen shrugged. “Pork will do. But not now. Wait till the others have joined me.”

The boy nodded and wandered off. He returned with the wine and the glasses just as Oluva arrived and took her seat. She frowned as she glanced around the room.

“Was everything to your satisfaction?” Stephen asked.

“Yes, quite a pleasant place. We must thank Ensign Romana for her recommendation,” Oluva said. But her eyes continued to scan the patrons of the inn, looking for trouble.

Their table was practically in the center of the room. A good spot if one wanted to be seen but a poor one for defense. Devlin would never have sat here, but in his assumed role Stephen could hardly call attention to himself by refusing the only open table.

Around them he heard scraps of conversation. On the surface it was the usual chatter of a small town, talk of bargains made, a swindler who had gotten his comeuppance, and a whispered scandal that seemed to involve the local priestess, a young man, and the gift of a pig. Sadly the speaker lowered her voice before Stephen could figure out what part the pig had played in the affair.

He shook his head, realizing that he had allowed himself to become distracted. It was not what these folks were saying that was of interest. It was what they were not talking about. No one mentioned the Selvarat troops, or the newly announced protectorate. Nor did anyone mention the King’s name. It was as if they were all trying very hard to pretend everything was normal. They were either deluding themselves, or they lived in fear of informers. If Stephen had to bet, he’d wager on the latter.

Folk continued to stream into the common room, pushing their way onto the few benches and standing when there was no room to be found. Stephen came in for his share of glares when he refused to give up the two empty chairs at his table, but no one challenged him. He’d heard at least one voice muttering the word half-breed, and so he knew that the tale he’d told the innkeeper had already begun to spread.

They were halfway through their second glass of heavily watered wine when Captain Drakken and Didrik made their appearance. Like Oluva they frowned when they saw the table, but there were no other places open and so they took their seats.

“I bought fresh grain for the horses, and the other provisions will be delivered tonight, sir,” Didrik said.

In keeping with the story he had told the ensign, Stephen was posing as the distant connection of a Selvarat family, no doubt hoping to use his family ties to improve his fortunes. Oluva was his wife. Didrik and Drakken were two unemployed mercenaries whom Stephen had hired as escort. The story would hold upon a cursory scrutiny. Stephen had his mother’s brown hair and in appearance favored her side of the family. But if he met anyone from the house of Narine, or, Gods forbid, his cousin Hayden, then the game would be over. Stephen son of Gemma would be unmasked as Stephen son of Brynjolf, Baron of Esker, and a wanted fugitive.