The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (8 page)

Chapter Seventeen

The
air shimmered in the simple room in the poor quarter, and with a wave of his
hand Savan Retrice, agent of the hierarchy, once spymaster to the Thane of
Naeth, and newfound friend to the Thane of Kar, made the vision before his
glowing red eyes vanish.

            He
was troubled. For days now he had failed to contact his subordinate. The Thane
of Kar was getting restless for news, and he could only stall for so long. He
hated to admit it to himself, but his contact was gone. He had not been killed
– at least in no normal manner – for the magics he used were attuned to his
body. If he were dead, the spell would hone in upon his corpse and his fate
would be known.

            No,
it was as if he had ceased to exist. He remembered the strange wavering, the
insubstantiality the last time he had succeeded in casting the spell. This was
some strange new magic, unknown to him. For the tracker to disappear so
perfectly there must be magic in play.

            It
was something his superior would wish to know about. But he was loath to
contact him, because the failure of the tracker reflected badly on him.

            Still,
without further assistance he could not get into Orvane Wense’s good graces,
and he needed to be well placed for the hierarchy’s plans to come to fruition.
He knew where the man was going, and he had a good idea as to why, but he
needed to keep track of the Lord Protector. The unknown was to be feared. The
hierarchy horded knowledge for knowledge was power, and here was the greatest
future threat to his superior’s plans since the last king had been killed.

            That
line was clouded and could no longer be followed by prognostication – and yet
at the moment of the king’s death the line had not been cut, but had shattered
into a thousand shards. They could not follow the king line’s destiny, but they
knew should it resurface there would be a reckoning for their kind.

            No,
the best they could do now was ensure that the nation of Sturma, fated to be
their enemy come the return, would crumble long before that time, so that
should a king rise to take the crown again there would be no nation for him to
rule.

            In
order to do that, they needed to be able to manoeuvre the Thanes. They had
already tried the most powerful of Thanes, Redalane and Hurth, and while Hurth
had been successfully manipulated, ultimately all that had been left was
confusion. There was some power or powers opposing their plans, as reticent to
reveal itself as they were themselves.

            His
master would not be pleased at this turn of events. It was becoming a habit;
these troublesome humans opposing them and winning despite the odds and the
power facing them. It was a habit that he didn’t have the luxury of getting
into. He had the sense to realise that if he failed to find Roskel Farinder
that his tenure on Sturma would be short.

            Savan
Retrice prostrated himself upon the floor and called up the vision.

            He
was a hierarch. He had no fear. But he was not stupid. As he called upon his
master, his voice shook.

            'My
lord Hierophant…I have ill news,' he said, his face turned to the floorboards.

            'Speak,
Savan, and know my will,' said the voice of the Hierophant. He did not sound
pleased.

*

Chapter Eighteen

Roskel
sank toward insensibility for a time, a day after arriving at Year’s End. He
woke himself sometimes from a heavy, fevered sleep with his own mumblings.
Durnborn watched from the door, concern on his face. The man had a fierce fever
and threw the covers from himself even though the day was chilly. Durnborn was
loath to do so, but he entered the room and pulled up the covers high.

            'The
hierarchy are here!' shouted Roskel suddenly, grasping the man’s wrist; much to
the landlord’s surprise. He gently pried the bard’s fingers free and tucked his
unresisting hand under the sheets. Then he fetched an extra blanket from a
shelf and laid that over the man, too.

            What
the bloody hell was a hierarchy? His curiosity was tugging at him, but to
listen to a man in a fever just wasn’t right. A man’s innermost thoughts could
come out when he knew nothing about it. It wasn’t meant for anyone else’s ears.
It would be just as bad as sharing another man’s dreams. Some things were meant
to remain private.

            He
closed the door and left the bard tossing and turning beneath the sheets.

            The
landlord went back in at dusk with a drink. His guest was sleeping deeply, but
would not stir beyond a mumble. He tipped a cup against the man’s chapped lips
and forced him to take some drink. He wasn’t getting paid extra for the service
as a nurse maid, but he didn’t want a guest dying in his inn.

            Night
came, and he checked in once more, but the bard was asleep, turning fitfully on
the bed. He closed the door quietly. After blowing out the candles around the
common room and putting the guard in front of the embers in the fire, he went
to bed himself.

            He
lay awake till the early hours of the morning. His guest was sickening. If the
man wasn’t well, come the morning, he feared he would be forced to do something
about it.

            He
turned onto his side and fell to sleep with a concerned frown on his face.

*

Chapter Nineteen

Morning
came and Roskel was no better. The landlord, Durnborn, watched from the door.
He had not eaten for longer than a day now, and with whatever fever ailed him,
that was not good. The man needed to eat, but he had no idea how to get him to
take his food. He had tried ladling some thin porridge into the bard’s mouth,
but it all just dribbled out again.

            There
was nothing for it. He left the door ajar – the room was beginning to ripen but
he dared not crack open a window for the day was once again chilly, an easterly
blowing hard across the plains between the sea and the mountains.

            He
pulled a heavy cloak around his shoulders. He didn’t usually take it from the
chest in his own room until the winter months, but it felt cold enough today,
and he had chills for other reasons. He had a man he couldn’t wake staying in
one of his two rooms, he had no idea if the man could pay, and if he died the
villagers were apt to blame Sam. They already looked at him funny sometimes
since the last time someone had died in his inn. He was beginning to curse his
luck. One dying, well, he could shrug that off. The villagers, superstitious
bunch at the best of times, would come back for their mugs and to break bread
when the weekday work was ended. Two deaths and the talk would turn from rumour
and superstition to fact.

            The
last man had been ancient, anyway. There had been nothing he could have done.
The old fool had died in the night, in his sleep. It wasn’t like he’d died of
starvation or neglect or a stealthy blade between his ribs for his purse.

            Sam
Durnborn was proud to think he dealt straight in his business. A man got what
he paid for.

            Well,
the bard had paid well, he would get what care Sam could give. If he couldn’t
pay further, he’d have to work off the expense.

            Sam
strode out onto the streets, dried out now from the frigid wind blasting
around, back to its usual cracked and potted appearance. He pulled his cloak
tighter and headed across the village at a brisk pace until he reached the
widow Lowboy’s one-story cottage. The thatch had taken a battering in the
storms, but the villagers would help her patch it up. They always did. The
widow was a treasure in the village. She alone had the knack of healing. She
always seemed to know which herbs would help which ailments.

            Sam
suspected a hint of witchcraft accompanied her pastes and potions, but he kept
quiet about it. People around these parts were funny about witches. Stories
travelled, and legends, and everyone had heard of Haritha the Black.

            He
knocked politely, and stood back to wait. After a time the door cracked open
and the old lady looked out. She had her cloak on.

            'I
was wondering how long it would take you to come calling.'

            Sam
smiled. The old widow obviously wasn’t worried about what he thought of her, or
she would have waited for him to state his business. The fact of her knowing
why he called didn’t bother him. She was a fine old lady, and he would never
give credence to any rumours about her. Where he came from, a witch was someone
to be treasured.

            'Morning,
Shana. I guess you know why I’m here.'

            'No
secrets between us, Sam. You just take my arm. I’d have been over sooner but
this old wind and this rotten road…well, I can’t afford a tumble at my age.
Mind your thoughts!'

            Sam
blushed and led her out. 'Nothing on my mind but the man in my bed…and mind
your thoughts too, old mother!'

            The
widow Lowboy laughed heartily. It was funny, now Sam thought about it, but he
didn’t ever remember there being a Mr Lowboy…best keep some thoughts to
yourself, he counselled quietly in his head.

            The
old woman didn’t actually seem to need Sam’s help, but he held her arm
dutifully and led her across the road, then held the door to the inn open for
her to come in.

            A
few people took note of the old widow crossing the road, and no doubt wondered
what sickness had befallen the man in the inn. The bard was no secret. You
couldn’t keep a secret in Winslow-by-the-Brook.

            'Thank
you, Sam,' said the widow. Her voice was firm and still quite high pitched for
an old lady. Sam wondered how old she was, but then that was none of his
business. She headed unerringly for the right room. Could have been chance, Sam
figured. There were only two guest rooms after all.

            The
room was chilly and smelled of man sweat, but the widow didn’t seem to mind the
smell. It was the smell of sickness, too, and to Sam’s nose it had gotten worse
over the last two days. The bard hadn’t seemed that sick when he had arrived,
perhaps a few sniffles. But then there was no telling how long he had been out.
There weren’t many places to shelter on the road and the storm had been fierce.

            'He’s
got a sickness in his lungs,' she told the innkeeper as she examined the man on
the bed. For his part, he didn’t seem aware of what was going on.

            'Have
you any smoke wheels?'

            'A
few,' replied Sam. 'Not much call for that sort of thing out in the sticks.
Narcotics is for city folk, I find.'

            'Maybe,
Sam, but you get me as many as you’ve got and bring them here. Go on now.'

            He
smiled. He wondered if the old widow had ever had children. She seemed to have
the knack of talking to a man like he was one. But he did as bid without
complaint, and came back into the room as quick as he could.

            The
old woman had taken some dried herbs from a pack and was shredding them by
hand.

            'It’s
not narcotic, so don’t fret. It’s just herbs, understand?'

            He
did, and nodded to say so.

            'His
lungs won’t get better on their own. Now, give me those here…'

            He
handed her the smoke wheels he had, then watched in silence as she stuffed each
one with the funny smelling herbs.

            'There’s
five here. If I’ve the right of it they’ll burn for an hour each. I want you to
burn each in turn, starting when I go – I can’t stand the stench of it. Keep
the door and the window closed. When one goes out, on the hour, you come in and
light the next. Now, you understand?'

            'So
he breathes in the smoke?'

            'That’s
right. This will clear his lungs. When his lungs are clear, the fever will go.
Every hour, mind you.'

            'I’ve
got you, old mother, you don’t need to harp on,' he said a little more sharply
than he intended.

            She
just smiled and nodded, her wrinkled old face screwing up as she did so.

            'No,
don’t expect I do. You come get me when this lot is done and I’ll come back.
He’ll be a-right come nightfall.'

            'I
don’t know if he can pay you, old mother.'

            'Well,
that don’t matter none because I’m doing this for you. This here man, well,
he’s important, but the favour is yours.'

            'Very
well…what is the price?'

            'Take
that look off your face, Sam, you know I’m no Haritha the Black and I doubt you
believe those stories, neither. We understand each other just fine, I think.
Just remember this, that’s the price. There’s going to come a time, and soon,
if my water’s got the right of it, when it’ll be dangerous to be a woman in my
line of work. You just remember what I do here today, and you remember all the
times like it to these simple village folk when the time comes. There’s hard
days a-coming for my kind. We’ll need folk to remember who we really are, and
what we do for them. Yes indeed,' she said, pursing her lips in thought.
'That’s my price. I’ll need a friend, and you’ll be it. Sound fair?'

            Sam
smiled. 'Sounds fair, old mother. It’s a bargain.'

            'And
don’t you worry no further. I’ll be paid in full, and this man here, well, he’s
got the means to be paying you, too. So don’t you fret. For all your grubbing
about after gold I see you better than you do yourself, Sam. You’d have looked
after this man for free, and deep down you knows it. So don’t go fooling
yourself no longer, and the village will come to forget, too. Things’ll soon be
back to normal for you.'

            She
looked like she was going to say further, but shook her head and rose.

            'You
know what to do. So do it.'

            When
she had shuffled out, Sam lit the first smoke wheel. The smell was heavy and
somehow spicy, but he didn’t risk staying to appreciate the aroma. He closed
the door with one final look in on the sleeping, tossing, mumbling man, and
left to find some small chore to do to pass an hour.

*