Inheritance (36 page)

The priest who let him in took his cloak. He was smiling.

“Your message said it was a matter of utmost urgency,” Northam said. He pretended to look around. “I see no emergency.” The voices from the kitchen broke into laughter. “I certainly hear no emergency.”

The priest did not look remotely apologetic. “Believe me, your Grace, it is an emergency. Please come into the kitchen.”

Trying to look patient rather than cross, Northam followed the priest down the hallway, through the chapel proper and into a brightly lit room. He smelled more than porridge now. Cider and bacon, as well, and fresh bread. The priest had two guests. The primate cursorily inspected their faces and then froze.

“P-p-primate Northam!” Prince Olio stood to greet him. “How wonderful you could join us.”

“We will make a merry company,” Prelate Edaytor Fanhow said, rising as well and shuffling sideways along his bench seat to make way for the newcomer, something made difficult by the prelate’s girth.

“Your Highness! I had no idea! And Prelate Fanhow!” He looked at the priest, who was grinning from ear to ear. “This is a surprise…”

“God’s teeth, Father, sit down,” Olio ordered, and waved at the space Edaytor had made for him. The primate did as he was instructed. “We have a wonderful p-p-plan to help those in Kendra, but it needs your cooperation and… well, silence.”

“My cooperation
and
silence, your Highness?” he asked. The priest placed a spoon and an iron bowl filled with porridge still bubbling with heat in front of him. Northam tried to hide his discomfort. He felt like a rabbit who had been invited to tea with a wolf. He looked up at Olio’s smiling face. Well, a genial wolf, perhaps, but were they not the worst kind?

“Eat your p-p-porridge, man,” Olio commanded. “Edaytor and I want to set up a hospice.”

Northam gingerly tasted the porridge. It had been laced with honey and made him feel warm inside. He swallowed a whole spoonful. He had forgotten how good porridge could taste, especially on a cold, wet day. “A hospice? Where?”

“Right here,” Edaytor said. “This is the largest of your chapels in the old quarter.”

“But who would run it?”

“Ah, that’s where you come in,” Olio said. “We need an extra cleric. Or a lay servant if you can spare one.”

“Your Highness, forgive me. As much as I admire your wish to help the poor of Kendra, one priest cannot do much by himself, especially for the seriously ill. You need surgeons for that, and in the whole of Kendra there is only one with any skill and that is Trion, and he already does what he can at his own hospice.”

“That’s true,” Olio admitted. “But the p-p-priest would have assistance.”

“Assistance? From where?”

“From the theurgia,” Edaytor said. “I will supply magickers to deal with the healing.”

Northam dropped his spoon in the bowl. “Magickers? Since when do magickers heal the sick?”

Edaytor and Olio looked at one another as if they were sharing a private joke. “The magickers would not be healing the sick,” Edaytor continued. “At least, not by themselves.”

Northam sighed. “You are playing games with me, Your Highness.”

Olio laughed lightly, and his soft brown eyes seemed to shine. “Not at all. I will p-p-provide funds for the hospice to operate, and pay for any herbs and m-m—medicines it will need. And for the seriously ill, well…” He slowly pulled out from underneath his shirt the Key of the Heart. “… I will deal with them.”

The primate stared at the prince for a long moment. “Your Highness, you can’t be serious.”

“I have never b-b-been m-m-more serious in m-m-my life.”

“The Healing Key is for only the most sacred duties, your Highness.”

“And what is m-m-more sacred than saving life?”

“But how do you know it will work? You’ve never used it…” His voice trailed off as he saw the expressions on the faces of Olio and Edaytor. “You have used it, haven’t you?”

“A few days ago, down at the docks,” Edaytor said. “The Key worked when both the prince and I used it together. We saved a man’s life. Well, the Key saved his life.”

“I am a p—p-prince of Grenda Lear with p-p-position and great wealth,” Olio said. “And yet I have no p-p-power to assist the people of that kingdom. At least, I thought that was the case.”

“You cannot spend your life down here, your Highness. You have duties in the palace—”

“I have no intention of spending all m-m-my time in the hospice. I would only visit when the m-m-most serious cases needed the power of the Key.”

“You cannot heal all the sick and dying,” Northam said sternly. “How will you choose who to save and who to let die?”

Olio’s face darkened. “I will depend on your p-p-priest for advice on this. I know I cannot help all. The old m-m-must be allowed to die in peace, but even there the hospice can help. It will give them a place where their p-p-pain can be eased. But many die unnecessarily, from disease or accident, or worse. These I can help. These I will help. I will be a p-p-prince to them.”

Northam regarded Olio with new respect and something like awe. He sighed deeply and said, “It is one of the great burdens of our calling that we cannot do more for the poor and the ailing. Since the end of the Slave War, it has sometimes seemed to me that the church has been seeking a new cause to further its mission. Perhaps you have given it to us. You will have your priest.”

There were no shouts of joy from the others, but Northam sensed a feeling of quiet relief. “There were two things you needed from me. The first was my cooperation. You have that, and gladly. The second was my silence. Silence from whom?”

“M-m-my sister,” Olio said, as if the answer should have been obvious. “And anyone involved with the court. Can you imagine what would happen if Areava found out what I was doing?”

“She would commend you heartily!” Northam declared. “Do you doubt the queen’s mercy?”

“Of course not. But she would insist on giving m-m-me an escort. People would come from everywhere to see Olio do his m—m-magic. The hospice would become a circus, not a p-p-place of healing. My p-p-part in this m-m-must be kept secret.”

“But you will need some protection,” Northam insisted.

“Why? Why would anyone suspect I was involved with the hospice? And if I was in any danger, there will be Edaytor’s m-m-magickers around to p—p-protect m-m-me from any harm.”

“You must be discovered eventually,” Northam argued.

“I m-m-must insist on this, Father,” Olio said firmly. “I will do this m-m-my way.”

Northam nodded, but his face showed how unhappy he was with the situation. “If you insist, Your Highness, I will keep your secret, though in the end I think it will do you little good.”

Olio reached across to take the primate’s much larger hand and patted it like a child comforting his father. “We will worry about discovery if and when it happens.”

It was a woman’s scream that woke Kumul. He leaped out of bed, dressed only in his linen undergarment, and rushed into the inn’s main room with his sword drawn and ready. The room was empty. He heard sobbing from the kitchen.

Ager joined him, more completely dressed and similarly armed. “Lynan’s not in his room,” the crookback said tersely.

Kumul cursed loudly, and together they went to the kitchen, fearing the worst. They found the body of Yran slumped on the floor, a thick pool of blood surrounding him like a halo, his throat cut from his left ear to the middle of his larynx. Ager knelt beside the body and touched the man’s neck and hands. One of Yran’s kitchen helpers had collapsed into a chair and was crying uncontrollably.

Kumul rushed out the kitchen door, but Ager called out: “No point, Kumul! The man’s been dead for hours. His neck and fingers are stiff as bone.”

Kumul ignored him.

Ager grabbed the kitchen hand by the arm. “When did you get here?”

“Not five minutes ago, sir! I started the scrubbing outside, and came in to get the saucepans and found Master Yran lying there! Oh, God, it’s horrible…” Her voice started rising in a scream again, but Ager shook her hard.

“Listen to me! Do you have a grieve?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get him, and quickly. And get whoever was working here last night!”

“Yes, sir,” she repeated, and scrambled out of the kitchen, her tears stopping now she had something to do.

Kumul returned, his face filled with fury. “There were three horses tied around the side of the inn, and four sets of footprints in the mud, about five hours old.”

“Was Lynan’s among them?”

Kumul shrugged. “I can’t be sure. We should never have left him alone last night!”

“There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

“Jenrosa and I can carry out a wider search.”

“Better get dressed first; you don’t want to frighten the townspeople. By the way, I’ve asked the women to get the grieve.”

“What if he recognizes us?”

“For God’s sake, man, what if he suspects us of killing Yran? At least by helping find out what happened, we may avoid that.”

Kumul looked as if he was about to argue the point, but then nodded and left to get Jenrosa. A little while later, a short, round man wearing the orange sash of a grieve entered, out of breath and flustered. He carried an old dress sword as if he did not know what to do with it. He ignored Ager and stooped over the dead innkeeper, sucking his teeth and shaking his head.

“Oh, dear. We’ve had nothing like this for years. And Yran of all people! Oh, dear me.” He breathed through his nose like an angry bull.

“I’ve asked the woman who found him to bring back all the people who were working here last night,” Ager said. “They might be able to tell you something.”

The grieve looked at him in surprise, as if Ager had just appeared from thin air. He quickly studied Ager’s face, then his crookback, and then his face again. “Did you, my friend? Well, that was uncommonly straight thinking. And who are you?”

“A traveler. I was staying here last night with three companions.”

The grieve immediately looked suspicious. “Strangers, then?”

“Strangers who want to help,” Ager said quickly. “It’s possible that whoever did this also harmed one of our party. He is missing from his room.”

“Or did the deed and ran in fear for his life,” the grieve said.

“He had no reason to do this.”

“Yran was not a poor man. For some, a handful of gold coins is more than enough reason to kill an innocent.”

“Then maybe you should see if any gold coins are missing,” Ager countered.

The grieve shot up as if he had been kicked. “Dear me, more uncommonly straight thinking. I wonder where Yran kept his takings?”

Just then the kitchen hand reappeared, followed by some of the cooks and servers Ager had seen last night. They gathered around Yran like pups around a dead bitch, whining and lost. The grieve tried comforting them all, but his words only seemed to make things worse, and the whining turned into bawling.

“The money,” Ager reminded the grieve.

The man nodded. “Lewith,” he said, grabbing one young man by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Lewith. Where did your master keep his takings?”

“He’s dead, Goodman Ethin,” Lewith cried at the grieve. “God’s pain, he’s dead!”

Ethin gave the man a firm shake. “Now, Lewith, you must tell me. Where did Yran keep his takings? We have to know if his killers were thieves.”

Lewith pointed under the carving table, a huge wooden block on cast iron rollers. “Under there. There’s a loose floorboard.”

Ager did not wait for the grieve, but pushed aside the table and squatted down. He used the point of his sword to test the boards. He found one that lifted, prized it up and put his hand down the hole. He scrabbled around for a moment then stood up, his hand holding a rusted metal box. He shook it, and all could hear could the jangling of several coins.

“It needs a key,” Ager told the grieve.

“On a cord around his… his neck,” Lewith whispered, pointing now at Yran’s corpse.

Ethin hesitated, and Ager impatiently bent down by the body. He slipped a leather cord from around Yran’s bloody neck and used the key on it to open the metal box. He showed everyone that it was half full of coins, some gold, most copper.

“Is this about right for a night’s takings?” Ager demanded of Lewith.

“More, sir. That’s easily the money from two nights’ trade. He would have been taking that to Master Shellwith for safekeeping this morning.”

“Master Shellwith?”

“Our magistrate,” Ethin told Ager. “He has a strongbox in his office.” He met Ager’s stare and nodded. “So if it was not for theft, why was Yran killed?”

“To keep him out of the way while my friend was taken,” Ager said. “Another of our party has searched outside the inn. There are signs there of three horses but four sets of footprints, about five hours old. Yran has been dead for about that time. You can feel his fingers if you doubt me.”

The grieve shuddered. “I believe you, sir.” He said to Lewith: “I want you and the others to go into the dining room. Get a good fire started. I will come and talk with you soon.”

As soon as they had shuffled out, Ethin turned his attention back to Ager. “Now, my friend, why would anyone want to take your companion away from you? Is he worth a ransom? Did he owe money?”

“We come from a farming village, and we are not worth much more than the clothes we wear.”

“You don’t talk and act like a farmer.”

“I was a soldier once, as was another of our company; but the one missing is not much more than a boy, callow and unused to the ways of the world.”

“Then we come back to my question. Why was he taken?”

Ager could only shrug. He could think of no story that would convince the grieve; better to shut up and see how things played out. For a man who on first sight seemed particularly unsuitable to be a town’s keeper of the peace, the man had a habit of asking the most awkward questions.

Kumul—now fully dressed—and Jenrosa came into the kitchen, their boots caked with mud past the ankle. Jenrosa’s face was pale with shock. Kumul looked at Ager and shook his head. “The main road is mucked up badly after the rain, but there are three clear sets of horse prints heading north from the town.” Kumul nodded at Ethin. “You’re the grieve?”