Flamecaster

  I spelled him, so he should have been telling the truth. Yet he lied, with bits of truth mingled in.

  The truthteller claimed he didn’t know Destin’s mother’s name. But when asked what his own mother’s name was, he’d stumbled and said Frances.

  Destin’s mother’s name had been Frances.

  He debated. The boy was frightened as it was, and he did respond to pain. He could bring him back in, and lock the door, and it wouldn’t take much persuasion to get the truth out of him, if there was more to know.

  I see a ship. And a beach . . .

  A cold rivulet of fear trickled down Destin’s spine. He had his own secrets, after all, and there was no telling what the truthteller would reveal, if pressed. There were some truths Destin didn’t want told. He didn’t want to have to kill the boy.

  The boy wasn’t going anywhere, so he had plenty of time to make a decision before he returned to Ardens-court. Maybe he’d just leave the boy be, let him keep whatever secrets he was holding close.

  So. Should he go back to the Mug and Mutton? No. He preferred the Lady of Grace for a variety of reasons, including this private room in the back.

  When he returned to the main room, it was still crowded, but Lyle Truthteller was nowhere to be seen. Destin found the innkeeper clearing off some tables. He looked up, and flinched when he saw Destin. “Did the boy read your fortune, my lord? Were you satisfied?”

  “I was,” Destin said. “He’s very impressive. What can you tell me about him?”

  The innkeeper set a tray of glasses on the bar, turned, and faced him. “He works all the inns around here, and he always draws a crowd. He has a rude tongue in his head, though, and some think he crosses a line. If you’re concerned, my lord, I won’t have him back.”

  “On the contrary, I believe the boy has a gift. I hope you’ll keep him on here. In fact, I insist.” Destin made it clear that this was an order and not a request.

  The innkeeper nodded, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “If that’s your wish, my lord, I’ll see it done.”

  “What is your name, innkeeper?”

  “Will Hamlet, at your service.”

  “Will, I’ll be moving in here tomorrow. I’ll want one of your best rooms, with a door that locks, and board as well.”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Will Hamlet said, licking his lips. “We’re full at the present—”

  “Then kick someone out,” Destin said. “I’ll also be needing the use of your back room, for a few weeks, anyway.”

  “The—the back room? What for?”

  Destin forgave the question, since he could tell the innkeeper was terminally nervous. “I intend to cut some hair.”

  19

  FIRE IN THE HOLE

  It was late. So late that the last of the resident stable boys had already burrowed into the straw to sleep. Ash had assisted with a breech foaling of a mare down at the military barns and that had put him behind.

  It had been a week since he’d put the king’s gelding down. He’d insisted on doing it himself, by using magic to stop the blood as it rushed through the great artery in his neck. It was a painless death, as far as he could tell, but that didn’t make it any easier. It was a horse, but that didn’t make it less important. It was one more piece of evidence that there was no place to hide, in all of the Seven Realms, where the evil at the top of the Ardenine Empire didn’t percolate down.

  Ash might try to turn into somebody else—Ash Hanson or Adam Freeman, but the king of Arden would not. He wouldn’t stop killing until he’d extinguished the Gray Wolf line.

  Ash wished he had let Crusher kill the bastard. And he would have if he’d known who the rider was, and if it hadn’t meant risking Bellamy. He couldn’t afford to let those kinds of opportunities go by.

  Options? He could poison the river, but it was a stinking sewer already. Nobody drew water from the river unless they had no other choice. He might get at the cisterns and wells in the palace, but too many people would die, and still there was no guarantee he’d hit his target. He’d tried to get in to see Merrill, in the healing halls, again, and had been turned away. He’d applied for a job in the kitchens, but in a way he was a victim of his own success. Marshall Bellamy refused to allow a transfer.

  Someone else might lie in wait on the rooftops with a bow, but Ash was not that good an archer. He was used to working close. He’d be willing to give his life in a successful attempt, but the last thing he wanted was to hand King Gerard the kill he’d missed at Oden’s Ford.

  Ash walked out into the yard for a breath of air before finding his bed. It was nearly Solstice, but the oppressive southern heat had scarcely abated. He found himself yearning for the breathless cold of the mountains, where life and death balanced on a knife’s edge. Was it snowing at home? Would his mother and sister take the sleigh out on their own?

  The stable yard was deserted except for Hamon, the night baker, who sat on the edge of the well, drinking from the flask he carried with him everywhere. Hamon was just starting his shift. He’d be proofing the bread for breakfast in the middle of the night, so it would be ready for baking in just a few hours.

  Ash had exchanged just a few words with Hamon, but he felt a kinship with him just the same. They were both solitary individuals, content to work alone.

  That’s when he saw a slight figure emerge from the keep and cross the yard, heading straight for the stables. When he got closer, Ash realized that it was a boy, maybe ten years old, clad in rough breeches and tunic. He wore a rough jute belt at his waist and sandals on his feet.

  Ash knew work coming when he saw it, and he thought of fading back into the shadows before he was spotted but it was already too late.

  “You there!” the boy said. “Where can I find Marshall Bellamy’s healer?”

  “That would be me,” Ash said, wishing he could deny it.

  “You!” the boy said, looking him up and down with avid curiosity. “What’s your name, then?”

  “Adam Freeman.”

  The boy nodded. “You’re the one I’m looking for. I’m Sam, and I work in the kennels. The kennel master sent me here to fetch you.”

  “Can’t it wait until morning? I was just going to clean up and get some dinner.”

  Sam shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself, but if Her Majesty’s favorite dog dies before morning, it’ll be your fault, not mine.”

  “Her Majesty’s dog?” Ash looked down at his heavy canvas breeches, muck-stained from the stables, and his shirt, covered in bits of straw and horse hair. “If it’s that bad, I’ll come, but I’ll need to clean up before—”

  “The dog don’t care how you look,” the boy said. “If you’re going to come, you need to come now. I want to get my own dinner and go on to bed.”

  Maybe the dog won’t care how I look, but he might have an opinion on how I smell.

  “All right,” Ash said. “Let me get my bag.”

  When they exited the stable, Ash expected to circle around behind the stables to the royal kennels, but instead Sam led him straight across the paved courtyard to a side door of the palace.

  “We’re going into the palace?” Ash said, again brushing at his clothes. “I thought we were going to the kennels.”

  “Her Majesty’s dog don’t live in the kennels,” the boy said, rolling his eyes. “Nobody’s going to see us, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’ll go the back way.”

  His misgivings growing, Ash followed the kennel boy up and down stairs, through twists and turns where the palace had been added on to. As they hurried down the walkway next to the kitchen, he felt the searing heat from the ovens. Hamon must be in there, getting ready to begin the baking for the next day.

  Though Ash tried to keep track of the turns they made, before long he was hopelessly lost. Sam was true to his word, leading him through back hallways and not the main corridors.

  Eventually, they descended to the cellar level. That was plain enough, dank and dark and significantly coo
ler, lined with roughly hewn stones. It was like walking a maze, up and down narrow passages, around barricades and through storage rooms.

  “Where, exactly, are we going?” Ash asked, sorry he’d agreed to come. “Don’t tell me the queen keeps her dog in the cellar.”

  “You said you didn’t want anybody to see you, right?” Sam said, circling around a puddle on the floor. “This goes under the courtyard and comes out by the queen’s apartments. It’s a shortcut.”

  The queen’s apartments? Ash’s heart quickened. Was there any chance the king would be there?

  The air was musty and carried the scent of standing water and old stone. The only light came from torches set into the walls at intervals, but those were few and far between.

  After being so chatty at first, Sam said little, except to offer direction now and then. He seemed a little nervous himself, crying out when a rat skittered along the wall, jumping at every little rustling in the dark. Once Ash touched his shoulder, and he flinched away like he’d been burned and made the sign of Malthus. Before long, Ash was jittery, too. He pressed his arm against his side, verifying that his shiv was still in place, and gripped his amulet, feeding it power.

  They ended up in a warren of storerooms filled with barrels and casks and sacks piled almost to the low ceiling. There were rows of barrels of the lubricant used to grease wagon axles and carriage wheels, food supplies and kegs of kerosene for the stoves as well. Sam led the way through the storeroom toward a door at the far end.

  “I think you’re lost,” Ash said finally, as they passed a narrow staircase.

  “I’m not lost,” Sam said stubbornly. “It’s just up here a little ways.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ash said. “Let’s just go back to the main floor and ask someone.”

  “No, look, I got a map,” Sam said, fumbling with a pouch tied to his belt.

  “If you have a map, then why haven’t you looked at it?” Ash said irritably.

  Why, indeed?

  Sam turned and swept his hand up toward him, but Ash was already throwing himself backward, out of danger. Something shimmered in the air, but most of the glittery powder that was meant to hit him full in the face flew past his shoulder. When the trailing edge of it caught him in the face and in the eyes, it was as if someone had taken a torch to him. He screamed and stumbled backward, scrubbing at his face with both hands until his hands were stinging, too. He was nauseous and dizzy and disoriented, his eyes streaming with tears. When he opened them it was like looking into a dense black fog. He could see nothing at all.

  “I did it, Father!” Sam shouted. “I threw it in his face, just like you said. Now give me my money and I’ll go. I don’t need to see any demon-killing.”

  Ash heard the door at the end of the corridor open and close. The sound of fabric swishing over stone. A muffled cry, cut off, and the sound of a body hitting the floor.

  Oh, Sam, Ash thought. You mistook unholy for holy.

  He reached out his hands to steady himself and could feel the soft, splintered wood of the doors along the hallway on either side.

  “So, mage, I have taken your eyes,” a soft voice said. “We’ll see how well you do when I hunt you in the dark.”

  The powder was in Ash’s mouth. His tongue and throat burned, and he was choking, his airway constricted so he could scarcely get his breath. He could feel the tears running down his face, but he could see nothing.

  Ash kept moving backward, because he could hear the man advancing, his sandals slapping, somewhere out in front of him. “What . . . what is it? What have you done to me?”

  “Lord Darian’s stone,” the voice replied out of the darkness. “Ground fine.”

  The same as the assassins had used in Oden’s Ford. The stuff that snuffed out magic. That meant this man must be another of the Darian blade men. Ash shuffled backward as he desperately tried to think of a plan.

  “I’m going to cut your throat, mage,” the Darian said softly, conversationally, in case Ash had any doubt as to his intent. “I’m going to cleanse you of the taint and take the sacrament.”

  Ash gripped his amulet, extended his other hand, and attempted to send flame roaring down the hallway toward his attacker. He had no idea if it worked or not.

  “Is that the best you can do, demon?” The voice was even closer now.

  Ash drew his knife.

  When Ash could no longer feel the walls on either side, he knew he was in the large storeroom beyond the corridor. He turned and ran, hands stretched out before him, bruising his knees and hips on casks and barrels as he cut a crooked path through the obstacle course that had been laid for him. He moved as quickly as he could, hoping to outdistance the man stalking him, at least temporarily. He knew his only chance was to find his way back to the first floor, but there were not many staircases, and if he took the time to find one, the Darian would get to him first. If the brother followed him onto the main floor, Ash’s identity would be discovered for sure.

  He turned a corner and slid between what felt like two large barrels, and sank to the floor, hoping he was out of sight.

  “Do you think you can hide from me, demon? I can track you by your stench. I caught your scent a few times in the yard, but I could never find you.” The owner of the voice was coming closer. “You murdered five of my brothers at Oden’s Ford. Now you will feel the blade of Holy Darius.”

  Keep talking, Ash thought. That way I’ll know where you are. But then the assassin fell silent, as if he could read Ash’s thoughts.

  Ash put his fingers in front of his face and could see nothing. His mouth, his nose, his sinuses were still burning, and he had a raging headache. Every breath he took was like a flame inside his chest. There was no way he could use his power when he couldn’t even see his attacker. He would be dead before he knew the man was there. And given the effect of the Darian stone at Oden’s Ford, he might not have any power left to use beyond what was already stored in his amulet. He couldn’t afford to waste it.

  He could hear and see nothing, though he knew the man must be coming closer. He was aware of a rising panic, the smothering onslaught of the dark. His entire body tingled, every nerve screaming, awaiting the cold, intimate touch of the knife. He forced himself to breathe in and out slowly, to think.

  Then Ash remembered how he had detected the assassins at Oden’s Ford. He couldn’t see them in the dark, but he could feel their hunger. He let out a breath and tried to relax. Taking hold of his amulet, he pushed his power outward, seeking the man and his bloodlust. An image appeared in his mind, a bright figure against darkness. The priest was about fifteen feet away, and moving slowly in his direction, turning his head this way and that, as if to sniff the air. Ash couldn’t see anything else in the room, but he could roughly place the assassin.

  Ash palmed his blade, though he knew he’d fare poorly as a blind man in a knife fight. He would have to hope he could muster enough power to bring the man down. As long as the brother lived, Ash could be identified.

  He waited until the bright shape of the man was just opposite him. The assassin would turn in a moment and see him. Gripping his amulet, Ash swept out his arm, flinging out what he hoped was a spray of flames toward the priest. The gloom before his eyes brightened briefly. There was a scream of pain, and then the sound of something heavy falling. Ash didn’t wait. He scrambled to his feet again, circling to avoid treading on the man, and staggered across the storeroom. If he were indeed under the kitchen, there should be a staircase off the hallway at the far end.

  He heard movement again behind him, and the brother’s voice returned, thick with pain and menace. “For that, I’ll kill you slowly, mage, and drink your blood many times before you die. This will be our temple for an extended ceremony.” The man was still coming after him, but moving more slowly now, as if he were injured. Ash shoved over barrels, rolling them into the path of the hunter behind. He staggered to his left, as far as he could, until he found the wall. Then he followed along it, hoping to fi
nd the way to the stairway. In his mind, he could see the shape behind him, mad with rage and need. His groping hand found a small cask, stacked atop a barrel, and he lifted it and tossed it blindly over his shoulder. It smashed on the stone floor, and something splashed against his ankles. He caught the pungent scent of kerosene.

  Finally there was vacancy under his questing hand, and he knew he’d found the doorway. He launched himself through it. The stairway should be somewhere along the corridor to the left-hand side. Unless he was completely lost. Then he was a dead man.

  At least there were not so many obstacles in the corridor, and he moved along more quickly, trailing his hand along the wall to keep himself oriented. And then, once again, there was an opening. As he turned into it, something sang past his ear and clattered on the stone floor ahead of him. He flinched ineffectively, unsure which way to jump. His questing foot found a step. It was the staircase.

  He flung himself upward, half-stumbling, half-crawling up the stairs, afraid a misstep would send him tumbling backward. The blade man was close on his heels, his breath rasping in and out. Something slashed across his ankle and he felt a searing pain. The Darian was trying to cut his tendon to disable him, perhaps still hoping to prolong the kill. Ash kicked wildly, felt his foot crunch into bone, then turned and threw his knife. The priest shrieked, but Ash kept climbing, sucking down painful breaths until he crested the stairs. The darkness before his eyes seemed a little brighter, and he could feel the dry heat from the ovens. He must be in the kitchen.

  His hand struck a tall wooden vessel standing at the top of the stairs with a round, indented top. Another barrel. Apparently someone had brought it up the steps, but had not bothered to move it to wherever it was to be used. Ash grabbed its top, lifting and manhandling it into position. He gave it a shove and heard it bumping down the steps. The assassin screamed and then there was the sound of the barrel exploding as it hit the stone floor at the foot of the stairs. Ash sent what he hoped were balls of wizard fire rolling down after it.