Devlin's Justice (9 page)

“What of Devlin?” Didrik asked.

“I’d hoped he was with you, though logic told me elsewise,” Captain Drakken said softly. “But in truth, I believe he is dead. Murdered on the very night he returned to the city.”

Stephen protested, insisting that Devlin must be alive. Didrik kept silent, though she could see that he, too, clung to the hope that she was somehow mistaken. She could not blame them. It seemed a cruel trick of fate that had struck Devlin down just at the moment he was poised to return in triumph. Devlin had been killed in the one place where he should have been safe.

Didrik’s face grew grim as she recounted her tale. How the soul stone had told of Devlin’s return, but she could find no one who had seen him. Frantic searching had revealed no sign of Devlin, until a frightened maid came to Drakken with a tale of the new carpet on the floor of the King’s private audience chamber. When she’d rolled up the new carpet to sweep, she’d found a strange stain underneath.

“Being a dedicated worker, she brought a bucket and scrubbing rag to clean the marble floor. But when water hit the stain, it turned red and smelled like blood. Frightened, she replaced the carpet and came to me with the tale.”

“What did the King say?” Didrik’s voice was rough.

“The King no longer speaks directly with me,” she said. Indeed her position at court grew more perilous every day. “After some discussion the Royal Steward agreed to let me inspect the room. He explained that the carpet had been replaced because it had been stained when a chamberman dropped a bottle of Myrkan red. I checked the floor, but it had been scrubbed with lime. You can see the outline of a stain, but whether it was made by wine or blood no one can tell. The maid apologized for her foolishness and the waste of my time.”

“And was she a young girl, given to flights of fancy?”

“She had served at the palace for nigh unto thirty years. After the incident she quit her post and was said to have joined her family. I hoped to speak with her once she was free of the palace walls, but have been unable to find any trace of her, or of this so-called family.”

The maid was not the first of those to go missing. Two of the guards who had been on duty the night of Devlin’s return had failed to report to the barracks after their shift had ended. She had used their disappearance as an excuse to search the city, but so far her efforts had yielded nothing.

“But what of the soul stone? Surely that will tell us where Devlin may be found,” Stephen said.

“Robbers broke into the Royal Temple on the day after Devlin returned. They stole the gold vessels, and the silken robes worn by Brother Arni on the high feast days. The mosaic was chipped, as if someone had taken the soul stone, but there were also traces of dust on the floor below,” she said.

When the Chosen One died, the soul stone crumbled into dust. In itself it had no value, so there was no reason for the mosaic to have been vandalized. Not unless someone was trying to conceal the evidence that Devlin had been killed.

Common thieves should not have been able to enter and leave the palace compound without being discovered, which argued that they had had help from someone inside the palace. Perhaps from some of the guards that she commanded.

Didrik had reached the same realization. “There is a traitor in the Guard.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “A traitor? There may be dozens. There are few left that I can trust. Embeth. Lukas. Oluva. It is not just the new recruits; many of the veterans appear to have divided loyalties. Even Lieutenant Ansgar is suspect, for he is the one who commanded the watch on the night Devlin was to return.”

Didrik blinked in disbelief. “Ansgar? When did he become a lieutenant?”

“When his predecessor was killed. King Olafur recommended promoting Ansgar, and I was forced to agree.”

At the time, Ansgar had seemed a safe political choice. An unimaginative man, but one who would scrupulously follow every regulation. She had not thought he had it in him to turn traitor.

Yet Ansgar had been the one to approve the change of the watch schedule, allowing two new recruits to man the western gate, despite her standing orders that the novices were always to be paired with a veteran. When questioned, Ansgar had explained that the guard originally scheduled for the watch had taken ill, and he had simply assigned the first person he could find to cover her watch. He had not realized that he had assigned two novices together until she had called his attention to it, at which point he had profusely apologized.

A simple, reasonable explanation. Ordinarily she would have thought no more of it. Except for the fact that the mix-up had occurred on the night she believed Devlin to have entered the city. So had it been an honest mistake? Or was Ansgar playing a deeper game?

Her suspicions were enough to make her fear for the future of Jorsk, and of the people she served. But that was all she had so far. Suspicions and coincidences. She needed tangible evidence if she was to back up her claims.

It was no light thing to accuse a king of murder.

“I do not believe Devlin has been killed,” Stephen said. It was at least the third time he had made that claim. “Not until you bring me proof. Show me his body and that of Saskia. Only then will I believe.”

“Saskia?”

“A peacekeeper from Duncaer,” Didrik explained. “She led the unit that escorted Devlin to the border of Jorsk, and when her troop turned back, she insisted on making the rest of the journey. She was a fierce fighter, and she vowed to guard Devlin with her life, which is why Stephen stayed behind with me.”

His eyes were haunted, and she knew he was wondering if matters would have turned out differently if he had accompanied Devlin instead of entrusting his safety to others. Much the same thoughts had run through her mind. If she had been on duty the night Devlin returned, if she had been at the gate to greet him, would Olafur have still dared have him killed? Would she have sensed the trap in time to protect him? Or would she have become merely another of those who disappeared?

“This Saskia, can you describe her?” she asked.

Didrik nodded. “Tall, perhaps two fingers taller than I, with a wiry build. Short black hair, close-cropped, and blue eyes.”

Damn.

“A body matching that description was pulled from the river two days after Devlin’s return. She’d been knifed and the body stripped, so we took it as a robbery. None of the Caerfolk seemed to know her, but at the time I suspected they were simply protecting their own.”

“Was there a scar on her right thigh? A healed slash from a sword, about two hand spans in length?” Didrik asked.

She nodded.

Didrik’s shoulders slumped. “Then that was her,” he said.

“This doesn’t prove Devlin is dead,” Stephen said. “It could have been Saskia’s blood that was found on the chamber floor.”

On the contrary, Saskia’s death seemed proof that Drakken was right. There was no reason to kill Devlin’s escort, unless it was to prevent her from bearing witness against the conspirators.

“We need to find Baron Martell’s men. The commander called himself Sundgren. Pers Sundgren,” Didrik said. “Find him, and we’ll find the truth of what happened when Devlin and Saskia arrived in Kingsholm.”

“Would you recognize him by sight?”

“I would,” Stephen said.

“Then it is you we must protect. Both of you. The council has given orders that you two are to be brought in for questioning. If you are taken, it would be far too easy for you to disappear.”

Once she would have sworn that she knew everything that went on in the palace, from the top of the battlements to the deepest cellars. Now she knew better. It was quite possible that Stephen and Didrik could be arrested by guards acting on secret orders, and she would be none the wiser.

Last week her search for Devlin had taken her to the cellars that ran below the oldest part of the palace, where the old kings had once kept their enemies in cramped cells far from the eyes and ears of the court. The cells had not been used in living memory, so it was no surprise to find them empty. But it was a surprise to find that the rusting lock had recently been replaced, and there were fresh torches in the wall sconces, ready to be lit.

The King was preparing, but for what she did not know.

“But what should we do? We cannot hide here for long. And I will not stand idly by,” Didrik said.

“You should be safe for a few days, at least. Let me try to find what happened to Martell’s armsmen. And I will speak to Solveig and Rikard, see what they advise. For now, you can help most by staying out of sight.”

She rose to her feet, conscious that she had already lingered longer than she intended.

“But wait,” Stephen protested.

“I cannot. I have stayed too long already. I cannot afford to raise suspicions. Not now.”

It was growing late and she had yet to visit the healers’ hall. Just in case Ansgar checked on her story.

Stephen picked up the nearly flat waterskin and shook it thoughtfully, but heard only the faintest sloshing sound. They would need more water soon. Removing the cap, he took a few mouthfuls, then offered it to Didrik.

“Water?” he prompted, when Didrik made no move to take it.

Didrik shook his head. Except for that tiny movement, he might have been a statue. Or a corpse.

Since Captain Drakken had left, Didrik had neither moved nor spoken. Stephen had tried to speak with him but grew tired of talking to the empty air.

Stephen knew that Didrik was grieving over the news of Saskia’s death. The two of them had grown close during the journey. Closer than Stephen had realized at the time, for how else had Didrik been able to describe Saskia’s scar?

Didrik had lost a friend, and a comrade. No doubt he was thinking that if he had been the one to accompany Devlin, then it might well have been Didrik’s body that was found in the river. Saskia may have given her life to protect Devlin.

Such grief was to be respected. Stephen grieved for Saskia as well, but he would not let it paralyze him. Didrik and Captain Drakken might have given up all hope, but Stephen knew better. Devlin was still alive. He had to be. The Gods would not have led Devlin to the Sword of Light unless they intended for him to wield it.

Devlin might be injured. Imprisoned. Or off on a quest—one so secret that he had been ordered not to confide in Captain Drakken. It was up to his friends to find him, and offer him their aid. No doubt he would laugh if he knew that they were instead sitting passively in Kingsholm, mourning his supposed death.

“I am going out,” Stephen declared.

“No.”

“We cannot simply stay here. We need water.” He shook the nearly empty waterskin in Didrik’s face, then threw it into the corner of the tiny room. “We need food as well. But more than both we need information.”

“You heard what Captain Drakken said—”

“Captain Drakken is wrong. Even if you believe Devlin is dead, there is nothing to be gained by sitting here in the dark, pitying ourselves.” Stephen was proud that his voice did not shake. “You want to know the truth of what happened to Devlin? You will never find it by staring at these filthy walls.”

He kicked the bench with the toe of his boot and it began to sag alarmingly.

“I am leaving,” Stephen declared. He took his cloak down from the peg and swung it around his shoulders.

“No,” Didrik said, rising and grabbing Stephen by the shoulders. “You will not. If anyone goes, it should be me.”

His shoulders ached from the force of Didrik’s grip, but Stephen stood firm, glaring up at him. “You cannot stop me,” he insisted.

“I will tie you to the bench if I need to,” Didrik said, giving him a shake as if he were a recalcitrant child.

Stephen grew angry. Who was Didrik to order him about in such a way? Stephen was not one of the Guard, nor was he Didrik’s brother. He was a free man, capable of making his own decisions.

“If you leave here, you will be imprisoned or dead before sunset,” Didrik declared.

“Keeping me safe will not bring Devlin back,” Stephen said. “Nor will it make up for your failure to protect Devlin.”

Didrik flinched and pushed Stephen away.

Stephen staggered before regaining his balance. “I did not mean . . .” he began, searching for words to apologize for the unforgivable.

“You cannot hate me any more than I hate myself,” Didrik said. “I know where the fault lies.”

“I should not have said it. I do not blame you, no more than I blame myself. But the past is past. We cannot change it. We can only seize the present and do everything in our power to find Devlin. Wherever he is, he will need our help.”

“And if he is dead, I have sworn to bring his killers to justice.”

Didrik’s grim fatalism put a damper on Stephen’s natural optimism.
Devlin is alive, he has to be alive
, he thought, trying to drown out the small voice that whispered that Didrik and Drakken might be right.

“So what do you intend to do?”

“I have contacts of my own. People who look at me and see Stephen the minstrel. They may have heard things that Captain Drakken has not.”

Didrik nodded. “Be careful. I will make my own inquiries. Nifra proved herself loyal when she carried the message to Drakken. She may be able to tell me who else is to be trusted.”

It was not much of a plan. But it was all they had.

“Good luck,” Stephen said.

“And be careful,” Didrik cautioned. “You are no use to anyone dead.”

“Neither are you.”

Seven