Sora's Quest (19 page)

She caught sight of a familiar man, and her eyes widened. It was the ugly, bulbous giant from the market. He sat opposite them, close to the door, creating an uproar with his shouting, drunken companions. They laughed and sang, thunking their tankards on the table. He caught her eye and raised his mug to her, ale sloshing over the side, a rosy tint on his cheeks. She grimaced and turned away.

Dorian led her across the room. Sora kept her head bowed, avoiding the side glances she got from different tables. When they reached Burn's corner, she piled all her stuff under his chair, then sat down on an empty stool, relieved to give her legs a rest. Her feet were ridiculously sore, her toes rubbed raw by her leather boots.

Three other travelers sat at their table—an older serf in a worn linen shirt, a man who was perhaps his son, and a narrow, dark-eyed fellow with a blackened front tooth. Burn shuffled the cards as the men guzzled their drinks. None of them attempted to make conversation beyond the card game.

Then Burn put a massive hand on her shoulder, as if he was a warm, solid rock. "Have you eaten?" he rumbled, giving her a lion-fanged grin. Sora was momentarily startled by his long canines, which protruded past his lip. She shook her head numbly, and he signaled for a waitress to come over. "A bowl of stew for the lass," he called, and patted her shoulder again. Sora felt a small earthquake pass through her body. Then he turned back to the game, dealing the cards swiftly around the table. His hands were surprisingly dexterous.

Sora couldn't stop thinking about Crash and his mysterious payment. She had to find out who this middleman was...and if he was connected somehow to Lord Sinclair.

"I need to use the privy," she said suddenly. She looked up, meeting Burn's and Dorian's eyes, and a few disinterested glances from the other card players. "I'll be right back. Is it down that hall?" She pointed to a hallway just beyond their table, which might or might not lead to the rear of the building.

Dorian's ear twitched. He regarded her sternly. "Aye," he finally said. Then he glanced back at his drink. "I take it you can handle yourself, sweetness?" he muttered. "This game just started warming up...."

Burn looked at his smaller companion. "You should go with her, keep an eye on her," he grumbled.

Sora studied the two men, sizing up their body language and the number of empty glasses on the table. Well into their third or fourth drinks, she guessed neither of them would want to trundle through the packed common room just to stand in the cold hallway, waiting for a girl to finish her business.

She gave them a fierce look. "If I'm not back in a minute, you can tie me to the chair for the rest of the night."

The thief and the mercenary glanced at each other. Dorian sighed, leaning back. "I can see down the hallway from here," he grumbled. "Be fast about it, sweetness. If you're not back in a minute, I'll do more than just tie you down."

His words were slightly slurred. Sora knew what drunkenness looked like, even if she herself had never been drunk. In fact, she didn't like the taste of wine.

"I'll be right back," she said, trying to look appropriately cowed. Then she slipped from her chair and darted away from the table before the men could change their mind.

She entered the dark hallway only a few yards to their left. She could feel Dorian's eyes on her as she stepped into the shadows, barely illuminated by a smoky candle high up on a shelf. The privy was marked by a half-moon carved into the door. She glanced over her shoulder; at this angle, Dorian could barely glimpse her.

Sora entered the small, dank closet, holding her hand to her nose. She didn't close the door completely behind her. Instead, she gazed through the slight crack, waiting for Dorian to look away; that didn't take long. The smaller thief laughed and looked down, distracted by his cards. She quickly slipped out of the privy and down the hallway, as quickly as her sore legs would carry her.

An exit. I have to find an exit!
She would steal a horse from the rear of the inn and be on the road in minutes, riding bareback if she had to. She would return to her manor, call the King's guard and have Lord Sinclair firmly interrogated for murder....

Whumph!
Something was pulled over her head.

Sora struggled, her hands flying to her neck, where a cord tightened. Someone had pulled a bag over her head! She tried to scream, to suck air into her lungs, but the nasty cloth firmly smothered her mouth. Then her arms were twisted behind her, and a large body—a juggernaut, for sure—lifted her clear off her feet. She was aggressively shoved forward, slammed against the sharp edge of a door-frame and then out into the coldness of the night.

There was the crunch of gravel. Horses snorting and whuffing. Jingling harnesses. Rough hands throwing her over a high saddle. She tried to kick her feet and roll back onto the ground, but a heavy fist knocked her upside the head—
wham!
—and she went silent, stunned.

A minute later, they were galloping down the street.

* * *

Sora awakened with her hands tied. She was seated in a hardwood chair, the sack still over her head. She didn't know how much time had passed.

There was the sound of footsteps, a door opening and closing. And then....

"Really, Gunter! Take that blasted bag off her head! She is a Lady!"

"'pologies, My Lord," came the guttural response. Sora recognized the voice, having heard it once before, as belonging to the large man from the market.

There was another scuffle. The drawstring was loosened from around her neck and the bag was slipped off her head. She blinked; one of her eyes was swollen almost shut. The side of her face throbbed where she had been struck. Even the brush of air felt like fingers going across her cheek.

When she looked up, her first sight was of a narrow window with a glimpse of a red-tiled rooftop. She was in an attic, she guessed, or perhaps a second story. They were still on the Fallcrest side of town. She didn't know how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been more than an hour. The moon was full and heavy, bright stars fanning out like a silver skirt.

Her good eye combed the room, taking in corners with dust and cobwebs, old boxes and crates, a half-covered painting. She spotted Gunter's shadow in the corner, holding the black bag in his massive paw. She would have glared at him, but it hurt too much to frown. There was another man, slight of build, in the corner, sitting on a short stool with a piece of paper in his hand.

Then a tall figure appeared. He shifted, blocking out the pearlescent light of the moon. Sora turned to stare at him. He wore a very expensive blue cloak. Though the room was in shadow, he still looked dimly familiar; had he been at her Blooming? Remembering her clumsy performance, she paled at the thought. His hair, falling around his ears in wispy layers, was dark, yet flecks of gray glinted in the moonlight—he had been carrying too many burdens for his age.

"Jerith, light the candles, will you?" he said, irritated.

The small man in the corner stood up and shuffled to a tall candelabra. He struck a match and quickly lit the four white candles at the top. Sora's nose wrinkled as heavy smoke spewed into the air.

When she looked again at the man in front of her, she saw the silver emblem on his breast pocket, glinting in the candlelight. "A Seabourne," she murmured, surprised.

"Lord Gracen Seabourne, of His Majesty's Royal Guard," the man corrected. As he moved and blocked the window, his cloak fluttered about him like the great wings of a raven. When he looked down at her, she saw his gaze flicker over her swollen eye. He grimaced. "That was not intentional; my apologies," he said. "And I am very sorry about the death of your father, Lord Fallcrest."

Sora winced painfully at that, but said nothing. The death of her father seemed almost trivial compared to everything else she had been through: the abduction, the Cat's Eye, the monster in the forest, and soon, a trip through Fennbog swamp....

She let out a sigh of relief, some of her tension loosening. Well, at least now the madness would come to an end. She was amongst nobility again, people who knew and respected her title. It was time to set things straight. "My Lord, I have reason to suspect that my father was murdered," she said, raising her chin slightly.

"As do I," Lord Gracen replied.

Sora frowned, wondering what he meant. "Then you know of the assassin?" she asked, confused.

"I suspected there was an assassin, yes. Would you agree?" the Lord murmured. His dark eyes were unreadable. Sora opened her mouth to speak, then paused, suddenly suspicious. She didn't like his tone of voice. Just why had she been abducted from the back of an inn? If she had been rescued, then why was she tied to a chair—and why hadn't her captors been arrested?

Her eyes traveled to the giant man in the corner, Gunter. His massive, hairy forearms dangled almost to his knees, like heavy tree limbs. She guessed he was the one who had recognized her and brought her in. There was a large sack at his belt that bulged with coins. Her thoughts began to race, arranging and rearranging all of the little pieces of the puzzle.

"What's this about?" she finally asked.

"You don't know?" Lord Gracen replied, raising one dark, smooth eyebrow. "Or perhaps you are very good at playing dumb. There is a warrant out for your arrest."

"
My
arrest?" Sora shouted incredulously.

"Yes," Lord Gracen nodded, his voice grave. "On suspicion of murder."

"
Murder?
Whose murder?"

"Your father's."

Sora's jaw dropped almost to her chest. She stared up at Lord Gracen, too shocked to think.

At her stunned silence, the Lord began to pace. A long cane made of polished black wood emerged from his cloak. It clip-clipped against the hollow floor. "Where were you on the night of the murder?"

"A-at my father's house. It was my birthday. My Blooming," Sora said directly. Suddenly she recognized him and his broad, barrel chest. He had been sitting in the front row and had caught her scarf during the dance. "You saw me!"

"And afterward? After the skylight broke? Where were you the rest of the night and the following morning?" he asked aggressively.

"I was...I was kidnapped!" she exclaimed, sitting forward, straining against her bonds.

"By the murderer?"

"Yes!"

"Why? For ransom?" he barked.

"No...." Sora's voice trailed off, suddenly doubtful.

"For what, then?" he pressed.

"I...uh...." Sora tried to formulate her spinning thoughts. How could she describe the Wulven mage, the Cat's-Eye necklace, the magic? These were figments of lore and legend, impossible....

"There was an assassin," she started to explain again. "He kidnapped me in the hallway!"

"What assassin? Who is he?"

"I-I don't know! Crash, his name is Crash!"

Lord Gracen nodded to the corner where the young man sat with the roll of parchment. Sora saw him withdraw a long, fluffy quill. The young man bent over the paper on his knee and began jotting down her words.

She stared at the wiggling quill in horror, suddenly aware that she was in a confessional—that they were interrogating her for the murder of her own father. Here. Now. Every word recorded by the King's guard.

"The assassin came here to collect payment!" she blurted out. "He's planning to flee into Fennbog swamp!"

Lord Gracen gave her a sharp look. "Payment from whom?" he asked.

"I-I don't know...." Sora stuttered, her voice growing weak. Her story sounded terrible, full of holes. "He said it was anonymous. I...." She did something desperate, because she couldn't think of what else to do. "I suspect Lord Sinclair. He has never been fond of our family. He intends to acquire the whole of Mayville!"

"Indeed." Lord Gracen turned away from her and continued pacing around the room, his cane clack-clacking at a furious pace, his cloak swirling around his boots in a river of blue fabric. He appeared to consider her words. "It is quite a serious matter, to accuse another noble of murder. Have you any evidence, besides hearsay?"

Sora's eyebrows shot up. Evidence? "The assassin...maybe he'll lead us to his employer...."

"Or he might lead us in a big circle, right back to you," Lord Gracen muttered. "I've heard the serfs speculate about Lord Sinclair. But he is currently residing in the City of Crowns. Quite a ways away to plan an elaborate murder...."

Sora tightened up. She should have known Lord Gracen wouldn't believe her. He seemed set on believing her guilty of murder.

He paused, looking down, meeting her eyes, echoing her thoughts. "You want me to believe that Lord Sinclair orchestrated a murder from over a hundred miles away. That you were abducted, but for no ransom. And that now the killer has come to Mayville, the only village on your father's lands, to collect payment. With you in tow?" He paused, but Sora stayed silent. "I am no fool, Lady. I have come to learn that the simplest explanation is often the truth. All indicators point to you. Let's try another story."

Then Lord Gracen cleared his throat, perhaps enjoying the drama of the moment. "You became used to having your father gone in the City. When he decided to take suits and wed you off, you became threatened. You wanted the entire estate to yourself. So you arranged an assassination, and you planned to pay the killer here, in Mayville. That is why you fled from the manor so quickly after the Blooming. Sadly, you didn't expect me to be here, did you? Looks like your plans have fallen through." He knelt down in front of her, inches away, eye to eye. "Come now," he said quietly. "It is cold up here and the night wears on. Do you plead guilty?"