Devlin's Justice (26 page)

S
OLVEIG STROLLED THROUGH THE MERCHANTS
’ quarter, as she had done each third day since the bazaar had reopened with the spring. Upon reaching the great square with its myriad of small booths, she wandered as if aimlessly, pausing first at a booth that sold gaily colored necklaces, then allowing her eye to be caught by a display of hair ornaments and elaborately carved wooden combs. She lingered over a comb-and-brush set, made of rare woods from the islands and inlaid with pearl, before regretfully shaking her head and moving on.

At the edge of her vision she saw a woman abruptly drop the belt she had been holding, then hurry to catch up with her. It was an insult to be followed by such a one. Then again, perhaps she should feel relieved that they considered her so little a threat that they assigned someone so inept to watch her.

If that was her only watcher. For all she knew the woman could be a diversion, while a more skillful comrade was assigned the task of watching every movement she made and reporting the names of all those with whom she conversed.

These days there was no privacy to be had. Living in Kingsholm was like living in a place with no walls. Every word said, every movement made was duly noted and reported. Even some of King Olafur’s most vocal supporters had developed nervous tics and the habit of looking around carefully before beginning a conversation. And it was little wonder. No one could be trusted. Anyone could be an informer. These days no proof was needed. A few whispered words of accusation, and the accused would find themselves confined to their apartments under guard. If they were lucky.

Others disappeared for a few days, to the dungeons that all knew were below the palace but no one spoke of aloud. When one of these unfortunates reappeared, he or she was suitably chastened.

Some disappeared and were never seen again.

Like Captain Drakken. Most believed she had been executed for treason, killed in secret before those loyal to her had a chance to react. Embeth was now acting Captain of the Guard, and she refused to answer any questions about her predecessor.

Solveig knew that Drakken had escaped, though it was hardly news that she could share. Drakken, her brother Stephen, and the others had last been seen at a stable just outside Kingsholm. Since then weeks had passed, and there had been no word.

She did not even know what she hoped for. If they rescued Devlin, what would he do? Would he raise a rebellion in the east? Or would he return to Kingsholm and confront the cowardly King who had betrayed them all? Was it fair to place all of their hopes of deliverance upon the shoulders of a single man? Devlin had courage aplenty, along with a strong sense of justice. But he was also a man betrayed. Even if Devlin were freed, he might well decide to abandon Jorsk to its fate, just as the King had abandoned him.

And if he did, she would not blame him. She, at least, remembered that Devlin was more than the title of Chosen One, more than the reluctant hero they had forced him to be. He was also a man, one entitled to make his own path, wherever that might lead. She admired Devlin, but she would not wish to trade places with him.

She stopped for a moment to watch a juggler, who balanced precariously on stilts while tossing a half dozen brightly colored balls in the air. Children squealed in glee as one of the balls turned into a white bird that flew up into the air. Each ball in turn was transformed, until the final bird appeared, circling around him thrice before flying off.

Solveig joined the applause and as he doffed his hat she tossed two coppers in it.

“I had not thought such entertainment to your taste.”

Solveig turned and saw that Councilor Arnulf had come to stand beside her while she had been absorbed in the juggler’s performance.

“I admire all skilled artists,” Solveig said. She turned to walk away, and Arnulf fell into step beside her.

Now this was an interesting development. The councilor was a pillar of the conservative faction of the court, well-known as King Olafur’s man. He was only of the minor nobility, but his bloodline could be traced to the earliest days of the Kingdom. And his family holdings were west of the Kalla River, in the heartland of Jorsk that had yet to be threatened by the invaders.

Arnulf had opposed Devlin at every turn of the council, calling the Chosen One brash and impetuous. He had voted against allowing Devlin to send troops to defend the borderlands, insisting that they be kept in the garrisons, ready to defend the heart of the Kingdom. Of all people, she had expected Arnulf would be pleased with the status quo. Instead, he had seemed increasingly unhappy and distracted.

“What brings you to the market this day?” she asked.

“This and that,” Arnulf said. “And yourself?”

“The Princess’s birthday approaches and I must find a suitable gift,” Solveig said. “As my father’s representative in Kingsholm, it is up to me to find a gift worthy of the people of Esker.”

Arnulf frowned. “Yes, of course. With all the, err, changes, I had nearly forgotten.”

Now this was interesting. A veteran courtier like Arnulf should not have forgotten such an important occasion. The Princess’s birthday was an opportunity to curry favor with the King. And with Ragenilda seemingly destined to be the wife of a Selvarat prince, any slight to her would be seen as a slight to their new masters.

“If you would be so kind, I would appreciate your advice on a gift I was considering,” Solveig said, pitching her voice loudly enough to be heard by their watchers.

“I am at your service,” Arnulf said. He extended his arm, and she placed her hand upon it. She guided him back to the cart where she had seen the brush-and-comb set.

Arnulf picked up the brush in his hand and turned it over consideringly, tracing the pearl inlay with the tip of one finger. “My daughters would have liked such a thing. When they were younger,” he said softly.

“And how are your daughters these days?” she asked, her voice equally low.

“I had word from Kallarne the other day. Lynnheid’s troops returned to the garrison, but she was not with them,” he said. He glanced around, before handing the brush to her. “She, along with a number of the other officers, was asked to remain behind to advise the Selvarat forces.”

“I see,” Solveig said.

So Junior Troop Captain Lynnheid Arnulfsdatter was a hostage. She was not the first that Solveig had heard of. Major Mikkelson had not returned with his troops, and there had been no word from him. Others of his key staff had failed to return as well. Solveig had mentioned their absence in passing to Marshal Olvarrson, who had explained that he had detached a small number of officers who would be advising their new allies.

Most of the court seemed to accept his explanation or knew better than to question it. No one mentioned the obvious. The officers chosen to stay behind had been selected not for their rank or knowledge but because of their bloodlines. Indeed the officer corps of the Royal Army was drawn from the noble families. Those who had no prospect of inheriting great wealth or noble titles, but who were nonetheless family. Which made them ideal hostages to ensure the compliance of their noble kin.

Like Lynnheid, Arnulf’s youngest daughter.

“You must be proud of your daughter,” Solveig said. “I am certain the Selvarats will value her advice.”

Arnulf shook his head. “She is a child.”

“She is a junior captain of troops,” Selvarat countered. It was the next rank above an ensign, meaning that she had at least forty soldiers under her command. True, like most officers in the army she no doubt owed her position to her father’s rank rather than her own skill, but that did not change her responsibilities. It was too late for her father to protect her.

“If you could speak to the ambassador, explain to him that Lynnheid is of more value at home, I would be in your debt.”

“Have you pled your case to the count yourself?”

“He refused to grant me a private audience,” Arnulf confessed. “But he will listen to you.”

Solveig spread her hands. “I think you overestimate my influence with Count Magaharan,” she said. Picking up the brush and comb, she gestured for the stall owner, who had been attending to other customers while they conversed.

“A silver latt, you said?”

“Three,” the woman replied, with a smile, ready to bargain.

“They are fine but—” Solveig began.

“Done,” Arnulf said. He pulled his purse from out of his belt and rooted through it till he found three silver latts, which he pressed into the hand of the merchant, who blinked with astonishment before closing her fist tightly around the coins.

The merchant wrapped the brush and comb set carefully in a scrap of velvet before placing them inside a carved wooden case. She tried to give the case to Arnulf but he waved his hand, so the trader gave it to Solveig instead.

As they moved away from the trader, Solveig chided Arnulf. “I cannot accept this. And what were you thinking to pay her so much?”

“They are yours,” Arnulf said. “A token of my friendship.”

So it was a bribe. A trifle clumsily done, but she could no longer doubt that he was genuinely concerned for his daughter’s safety.

“I can make you no promises,” Solveig said. She understood Arnulf’s fear, but there was more at stake here than the life of one junior troop captain.

“Secure Lynnheid’s release and you will have my gratitude—which is a thing worth having. Many in the old court owe me favors, and you may find yourself in need of such friends in the coming days,” Arnulf said.

A veiled threat wrapped inside a promise. Now that was the courtier whom she had come to know.

As chance would have it, the very next day Solveig was invited to a private dinner with Count Magaharan. As ambassador the Count had a full suite of apartments within the royal palace, but he also maintained a separate residence in the city. It was here that he hosted lavish entertainments, and it was also here that he retired when he wished to be discreet. Some claimed that he maintained a mistress within, but it was more likely that he used the residence when he had matters to discuss away from the prying eyes and ears of the palace.

In the two years since she had been at the court, Solveig had cultivated a friendship with the ambassador. He had seemed to enjoy her company, or perhaps he merely enjoyed the pleasure of conversing with someone who spoke his native tongue. She had dined in private with him on several occasions, but this was the first such invitation she had received since the announcement of the so-called protectorate.

She dressed for the dinner with great care, choosing a dark blue silk gown that flattered her still-youthful figure. By contrast the only jewelry she wore was a gold pendant engraved with the seal of her father’s house. Magaharan was intelligent enough to read her message. She did not need jewels to proclaim her wealth, for she was the next Baroness of Esker.

When she arrived, a servant led her to a garden courtyard within the residence, where a table for two had been laid. Magaharan handed her a glass of pale yellow wine from his homeland, and then they took a short stroll among the flowers.

She could play court games as well as anyone. Solveig admired the blossoms, including the rare white snowflower from Selvarat, and inquired whether he had brought the delicate plant from Selvarat or if he had grown it from seed. Over dinner they discussed the difference in climates between the two lands, and whether it would be possible to have a water garden in Selvarat, as was commonly done in the south lands of Jorsk. Solveig opined that it could be done, perhaps if the garden was protected during the winter by glass, while Magaharan demurred.

It was all very civil. But there seemed no reason for him to have summoned her, unless Magaharan’s purpose was merely to call attention to the fact that he and Solveig had enjoyed a private dinner together. That would raise her standing in the court, and ensure that Councilor Arnulf wasn’t the only one who would be begging her for favors. But she could see no reason why Count Magaharan would grant her such a boon, unless he was expecting something of equal value in return.

So far he had granted her few signs of favor. She had repeatedly pressed Magaharan for news of her mother and her sister Madrene; but each time he had politely brushed aside her requests, saying that as a new bride Madrene was no doubt occupied in learning the intricacies of her role and making the acquaintance of her husband’s family. He assured her that in time Madrene would resume her correspondence and that her mother, the Lady Gemma, would return home in due course.

Solveig had taken the hint and stopped asking questions. When a brief letter from Madrene had arrived, she had made a point to mention it to the ambassador, and to tell him how Madrene had praised her new husband. She had not mentioned that Madrene had used the code phrases that indicated she was under duress and that her mail was being read.

Even the letters from her father were becoming more infrequent. She suspected that at least half of them were being intercepted before they reached her. Not that it mattered. The tone of them was the same. Lord Brynjolf, Baron of Esker, commended his daughter for her sense of duty but lamented her long absence from her own people. He urged her to return to her home.

Her father knew it was not safe for her in Kingsholm. No one here was safe. Solveig had her bags packed, and a steady horse stabled at an inn by the western gate, just in case she had to flee.

But if news came, it would come here first to Kingsholm. And so here she would stay, as long as she could.

Occupied by her thoughts, she was surprised to look down and see that the servants had cleared away the plate with her untouched dessert, leaving behind a cup of sweetened tea in the Selvarat style.

“Is there something on your mind?” Count Magaharan asked.

“It is a small matter, a trifle that I hardly feel is worth your time,” she said, letting her voice trail off into silence.

“Please, whatever it is you must share it.”

Solveig took a sip of her tea. As a rule she disliked sweetened drinks, but she made sure to smile as if in pleasure before setting the cup down. “I met Councilor Arnulf the other day in the market. He seemed quite anxious about his daughter, who is advising your forces in the east. I told him that he should be proud that his daughter is serving such a valuable role, but he seemed to think that she would be of more use to him back here.” Solveig shrugged delicately. “Perhaps he has a marriage in mind for her, or perhaps it is just the fondness of an old man for his youngest daughter.”