Flamecaster

  “We will hope and pray that’s the case, Your Majesty,” Destin said. “How did you learn that the girl is in Delphi?”

  “We don’t know for a fact that she is still there,” the king said. “We know she lived there as a child. It’s exceedingly important that no one knows who you are looking for. We don’t know what the girl knows. There are a hundred holes to hide in, in Delphi. We don’t want her to dive into one of them.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Destin said, trying to focus his turbulent mind.

  “One more thing—we need her alive and unharmed, understand?”

  “So, we’re not being asked to assassinate this girl?”

  “Precisely.”

  Things were looking bleaker and bleaker. Destin knew from experience that it was much simpler to kill a person than to capture and transport him without damage.

  Destin wasn’t sure just how far he could push, but he needed all the information he could get. “Do you know what the symbol signifies? Or what she looks like? That might make it easier to—”

  “I have no idea,” Montaigne said and shrugged, as if this omission were inconsequential. “If you find the girl, we’ll get some answers directly from her.”

  “Of course, sire,” Destin said, his mind racing. It was either a blessing or a curse that the king had chosen him for this task. He just wasn’t sure which.

  “You’ll be working with Marc Clermont, the captain of my guard in Delphi. He’s a man who’s willing to take decisive action when it’s required, and yet, still that town has never been entirely subdued. There are uprisings every month or two, trouble in the mines, sabotage, smuggling across the border with the Fells. Recently, there was a direct attack on a squadron of guards, killing several. I want you to find out what’s going on.”

  So you want me to spy on your commander in Delphi, Destin thought. And, he, in turn, will be spying on me. There’s something to look forward to.

  “I’m just wondering. This girl. Does she have a name, at least?” That last sarcastic sentence was out before he could clap his mouth shut.

  Montaigne fixed his glacial eyes on Destin. “Her birth name was Jenna Bandelow. Perhaps she’s still using it. Her parents were Bill and Erien. They were old when she was born. They would be quite old now, if they’re still alive.” He paused. “The girl may have been born in Ardenscourt. At least her birth was recorded here, but her parents took her to Delphi when she was still a baby.”

  The Malthusian friars at Ardenscourt kept meticulous records of births, of people of all stations, complete with birth measurements and identifying marks. That must be how the girl had been discovered.

  “Why would anyone move to Delphi?” Destin muttered.

  “Perhaps they were looking for a place to hide,” Montaigne said. “And Delphi would do nicely, don’t you think?”

  13

  THE WAY-FARRIER

  It was a nasty trick Ash had pulled on Lila, and he knew it. It was an especially low blow after she’d saved his life at Oden’s Ford. The truth was, he didn’t trust Lila Barrowhill. There was something about the story she’d told that hit his ear wrong, and he’d learned to trust his instincts. She’d seemed overly eager to join up with him and drag him back to the Fells. Maybe she was looking for a reward, maybe not. Ash had other plans.

  It seemed that Gerard Montaigne was bent on murdering the entire royal family of the Fells, whether they were in the royal line or not. That meant that his mother and sister were in danger, and he knew of no sure way to protect them, save one.

  He was on his way to Ardenscourt, aiming for the heart of the beast. He planned to stay until Gerard Montaigne was dead. Or Ash was dead. Or they were both dead. He tried to shut down the voice in his head that said neither his mother nor his sister Lyss would make that trade.

  Well, then. He’d make no promises, but he’d survive if he could.

  He rode into Ardenscourt one morning two weeks after he’d left Lila sleeping in the woods. Unlike the mountain towns of the Fells, tucked into valleys, framed by the uplands, Ardenscourt sprawled for miles across the plains of Arden like a Tamric lady’s lurid skirt. Ash always found that featureless flatness disorienting.

  He planned to apply to work with the healing service in the palace. Hopefully that would bring him close enough to the king for his purposes. Since most itinerant healers would not arrive astride a military mount, Ash left his horse in a livery stable on the outskirts of town. It took him half a day to walk from the edge of town to Citadel Hill, Gerard Montaigne’s stronghold overlooking the Arden River.

  As Ash navigated through the twisted, crowded streets, he assessed conditions in the enemy capital with a practiced eye. Soldiers were everywhere, in uniforms of every color, bulling their way through throngs of people, clustering on street corners, spilling from inns and hostelries. Members of the King’s Guard were thick, too, in their black uniforms, hands on the hilts of their swords, eyeing the crowds for signs of trouble.

  And, everywhere, the Church of Malthus, its crowlike priests swishing through the streets, the keys to the kingdom swinging at their waists. The city bristled with temple towers, grim and forbidding.

  Pickings were slim in the street markets he passed, and prices high, though it was harvest season and the flatlands of Arden and Tamron had once been the breadbasket of the Seven Realms. Street urchins were everywhere, shaking their begging cups, crying out to passersby. Ash knew better than to give them his coin—they wouldn’t be allowed to keep any of it. Besides, any traveler with coin in his pockets became a target for footpads and slide-hands.

  Ash had no stomach for killing thieves. He was hunting bigger game.

  The blackbirds grew thicker as he neared the citadel gate. A line had formed there, seeking admission to the castle close. Ash merged into it. The southern sun was hot, even in this season, and Ash was grateful for the broad-brimmed hat he’d bought to cover his newly mud-dyed hair. The line crept along, processed through by a clutch of blackbirds and a long-nosed steward who checked off names on a list. Most people were being turned away.

  When Ash reached the front of the line, the officer in charge demanded his name and business.

  Ash kept his eyes on the ground so that his hat shaded his face. “Adam Freeman, healer, seeking work in the royal service, sir.” Ash touched the brim of his hat.

  The steward scanned his list. “There’s no Adam Freeman on here,” he said. “As for the infirmaries, Master Merrill prefers to choose his own apprentices.”

  “Of course,” Ash said. “If I could just speak with Master Merrill, perhaps he—”

  “Do you have a letter of recommendation?” the steward demanded. “A diploma from the Temple School?”

  “I’ve attended Spiritas, the healer’s school at Oden’s Ford,” Ash said, thinking that Taliesin would be unlikely to give him a recommendation just now. “I’ve not graduated yet, but I do have some skill with—”

  “Merrill is a busy man,” the steward snapped, eyeing Ash’s bulging bags. “He does not have time to entertain every traveling herbalist who wants to see the big city. Perhaps one of the country estates would be better suited to your credentials. Or lack thereof.” He looked over Ash’s shoulder. “Next?”

  One of the blackbirds gripped his arm, meaning to hustle him on, but Ash set his feet. He was not about to be turned away when he’d waited in line for so long. “What about the stables?” he blurted.

  The steward shifted his eyes back to Ash. “What about them?” he asked in the manner of a man who had lost patience a long time ago.

  “I meant, do you need help in the stables?”

  “Make up your mind, boy,” the steward said. “Are you a healer or a muck-shoveler? Or both?” The blackbirds all snickered.

  “I’m a healer of horses as well as people, and a farrier, too.” Ash patted his carry bag. “I do have a letter of recommendation from the stable master at Fetters Ford.”

  The steward was already shaking his head, but o
ne of the blackbirds spoke up.

  “Lord Pettyman,” he said. “Marshall Bellamy was complaining last night that the regular farrier got kicked by a horse and now he’s got nobody until the man wakes up. If he ever does. Might be this one could fill in.”

  Pettyman took another look at Ash. “What was your name again?”

  “Adam Freeman.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Tamron. But I’ve traveled to all parts of the Seven—of the empire.”

  The steward heaved a great sigh. “Well,” he said in a foot-dragging way, “I suppose it couldn’t do any harm to let you talk to Bellamy. But if he says no, you will be on your way, understood?”

  “Of course.”

  The blackbird who spoke up was detailed to lead Ash to the stables. And, presumably, to boot him back out of the gate if the master of horse said no. As Ash passed through the outer gate into the bailey, the back of his neck prickled. He’d come there on purpose, but still—he couldn’t help but feel like a trap was closing around him.

  As soon as he set foot in the stables, Ash could tell that it was well managed. The bedding was fresh, and the horses well fed, bright-eyed and alert, poking their heads out of their stalls as he passed by. The horse marshall was outside the granary, arguing with a tradesman.

  “This is not what we agreed on,” Bellamy said. He opened his fist, displaying a handful of oats crawling with weevils. “You told me this shipment would be clean and free of chaff and straw and dirt. This looks like you scraped it off the floor.”

  “This is the best I could find,” the broker whined. “You try and find quality feed anywhere in the empire. The army swallows it all up.”

  “It’s your job to find it, not mine,” the marshall replied. “I paid a quality price, I should get quality grain. I wouldn’t feed this to my worst enemy’s dogs. Now take it away.”

  The broker turned away, still muttering excuses.

  “Lord Marshall,” Ash’s blackbird said, giving Ash a push forward. “This boy says he’s a farrier.”

  “Does he now?” Bellamy looked Ash up and down. “Where have you worked before?”

  “Oden’s Ford and Tamron, sir,” Ash said. Digging in his bag, he produced his letter of recommendation.

  Bellamy scanned the page, then handed it back. “It sounds like you’re some kind of miracle worker,” he said drily. “If so, can you conjure up some good grain?”

  Ash shook his head. “I wish I could, sir.”

  “Well,” the marshall said. “Let’s have a look at your work. Come with me.”

  When the blackbird made as if to follow, Bellamy put up his hand. “I’ll nanny this one,” he said. “I promise I’ll toss him back if he doesn’t suit me.”

  He led Ash to a box stall in the rear. As they drew near, a horse poked his head out, ears flat, eyes wide and rolling, snorting his distrust. He was a rich blue roan with black points, not the standard dun color typical of Ardenine military mounts.

  Ash stopped a short distance away, setting down his bags. He could smell infection from where he stood. “What’s going on?” he murmured, more to the horse than to Bellamy. But Bellamy answered.

  “He’s a three-year-old, and he’s been out on campaign all summer,” Bellamy said. “Came back in a foul mood that’s just gotten worse. He’s favoring his right front leg, but nobody can get near enough to take a look. My farrier was the last one that tried, and he got kicked in the head for his trouble. Now he’s off his feed, and I’m worried he’ll go down for good.”

  The farrier or the horse? Ash thought of saying, but didn’t. “What was he like before he left in the spring?”

  “He’s a good horse,” Bellamy said, a bit defensively. “He was always willing if you knew how to manage him. Oh, you know, like most horses, he’d get away with whatever he could, but he was never mean-tempered. Not like this.”

  Ash liked the fact that Bellamy stood up for his horse. “How long has he been off his feed?”

  “Couple weeks.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Crusher.”

  Ash raised an eyebrow. “Crusher?” At the sound of his name, the gelding’s ears pricked forward.

  Bellamy grimaced. “He’s a warhorse, all right? Man doesn’t want to ride into battle on a horse named Daisy.”

  “You have a point.” Ash stood, hands on hips, studying the horse, noting his prominent backbone and ribs. “He’s lost weight?”

  Bellamy nodded. “I’d say so.”

  “Has anyone checked his teeth?”

  Bellamy rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Be my guest.”

  Ash laughed. He liked the horse marshall—he couldn’t help it. “Maybe later, after we’ve gotten to know each other.”

  “Anyway, like I told you, the problem seems to be in his foreleg.”

  Ash squatted and rooted through his carry bag, finally coming up with an apple he’d picked along the road. He crossed to the stall, moving slowly and deliberately, avoiding eye contact with the gelding. Still, the ears went back again and the roan showed his teeth. When he shied back, Ash could see how he favored his right foreleg.

  “Hey, now,” Ash murmured, keeping the apple out of sight. “Something’s hurting you, isn’t it? No wonder you’re snarly. But you know we’re just trying to help.” The ears flicked forward again and the gelding’s nostrils flared as he caught the scent of the apple. It was a good sign that he was still interested in food.

  Ash just kept talking, keeping up a gentle one-way conversation as he watched the gelding’s neck muscles relax. Finally, he extended his flat hand, the apple centered on his palm, and Crusher lipped it up and crunched it between his teeth, his whiskers tickling a little.

  Behind him, Bellamy released a long breath he’d been holding.

  Ash let Crusher snuffle the back of his hand, then scratched him all along his neck and withers, trickling soothing power through his fingers, relieving the white-hot pain that coursed through the horse. Before long, the roan was pushing with his nose, wanting more. After a few minutes, Ash unbolted the lower stall door, pulled it open, and stepped into the stall.

  Crusher’s tail clamped down, ears back again. “It’s just me,” Ash murmured. “You know me, don’t you?” Another ten minutes of work, and Ash had the halter on him and his head secured. After that it was a matter of persuading the gelding that it was a good idea to allow Ash to pick up his foot. It helped that he could all but eliminate the pain. Unfortunately, that required that he take it on himself.

  Fortunately, Ash had a high threshold for pain.

  He examined the hoof, which badly needed picking out. The shoes were nearly worn through. This horse had been ridden hard. The hoof was hot, the pulse fever-fast above the fetlock. Puss oozed from a crack along the white line and around one of the nails.

  Ash looked up at Bellamy. “It’s an abscess,” he said. “I’m going to drain it. If you look in my carry bag, you’ll find—not that one!” he all but shouted. Bellamy looked up, startled.

  That’s all I need, Ash thought, to have the king’s horse marshall pull an array of shivs and poisons out of my travel bag.

  “The other one. Look for a white bag labeled ‘horse mustard.’ Measure out a cup, thoroughly wet it with water, then bring it to me.”

  By the time he’d finished with the roan, Ash had a job in the stables and a cozy room next to Bellamy’s. He’d hoped to be housed inside the keep, and he’d rather it wasn’t next to Bellamy’s, but he could hardly complain.

  “It’s just a shame,” Ash said as he repacked his supplies. “This has been festering for a long while. If it had been caught early, it could have been handled and this horse spared a lot of pain. Now he’ll be out of commission for months. I intend to give the owner an earful about taking better care of his horse on the road.”

  “Well,” Bellamy said, a peculiar expression on his face. “It’s up to you, but I wouldn’t do that.”

  Ash stared at the marshall, surpr
ised. He didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d shy away from a hard conversation. “Why not?”

  “This horse belongs to His Majesty, the king of Arden.”

  14

  EXILED IN DELPHI

  Destin Karn was tired of looking for Jenna Bandelow. After a month in this hellhole of Delphi, he was no closer to finding her than when he’d arrived. He understood the price of failure; he’d claimed it often enough on behalf of the crown. The worst of it was, there was no guarantee success was even possible. There was no way to know if the girl was still alive, or still in Delphi.

  It occurred to him that the king had set him an impossible task on purpose, like in that old ballad where the elfin knight asks a maid to make him a shirt without thread or needle. Then Montaigne had sent him to do it in the most miserable place in the empire.

  And if he found the girl, what then? What would it mean for his own future—for the hope he still carried in his heart?

  Destin drained his tankard of ale and slammed it down on the table, the noise lost in the din of the room. The metal left a raw gash in the battered wood.

  Marc Clermont, the captain of the King’s Guard, laughed and signaled to the server to bring another round. “This place grows on you, boy,” he said, “like a nasty boil. The only thing that helps is ale and stingo.” He shoved his chair back and rested his hand suggestively on the hilt of his sword. “When things get really bad, I just kill a few Delphian rats. That never fails to raise my spirits.”

  An impossible task in a miserable place with despicable help.

  The only thing that might raise Destin’s spirits was to find a way to get rid of Clermont. Delphi was a dangerous place, after all. The thought made him smile, drawing a wary look from the captain of the guard. Destin raised his refilled tankard and winked at him. His mood was so black that getting murdered was beginning to seem appealing.