Blackveil

  The two were now returning home after a shopping trip to acquire supplies useful to their forthcoming journey. With Yap’s seafaring background to guide him, Amberhill purchased hardy oilskins and had shoes made that would be more suitable for being aboard ship than his fancy riding boots. He purchased woolens and even a brimmed hat to keep the sun off his face. Yap advised him to expect every type of weather once they were out to sea.

  Other parcels that filled the carriage contained more new clothing for Yap, including a pair of shoes. Yap had proven strangely resistant to the idea of shoes and stockings, but he caved when Amberhill insisted.

  “Sorry, sir,” Yap had said at the shoemaker’s shop. “Just been without for so long that barefoot is the most natural thing in the world.”

  He showed Amberhill the bottom of his feet which were textured like hard leather. Impressive though this might be, without shoes his appearance as a gentleman was incomplete, and that wasn’t even considering the state of his toenails.

  Amberhill gazed absently out his window at the traffic in the street, at all the wagons, riders, and pedestrians going about their daily business of buying and selling, building and crafting. His driver expertly guided the carriage around slower going conveyances, but their progress was still sluggish and Amberhill mourned not having his Goss to ride through the crowds. It was much easier to maneuver through the traffic on horseback than in a carriage pulled by a pair of horses, no matter how fine the pair or expert the driver. Alas, he’d sent Goss home to the Amberhill estate for breeding and the stallion would soon be having a jolly time covering mares. His offspring would, Amberhill hoped, provide some of the finest stock ever seen in Sacoridia and propel his stable to prominence.

  They passed a rickety old cart pulled by a swaybacked mule and with a jolt of surprise, Amberhill recognized the driver: Galen Miller, the old man he’d saved from the thugs outside the Cock and Hen. Galen Miller guided his mule up the Winding Way at an agonizing plod, his hands trembling and twitching as he held the reins. His expression was grim and intent.

  Amberhill wondered what his business was and if he’d made good use of the silvers he’d been given. But Amberhill did not call out to Galen Miller. He’d been of the shadows that night, in a different role, and he preferred not to be recognized. In his current role as a nobly born gentleman, it would be unseemly to call out and wave to someone of such obvious low station.

  Galen Miller’s cart fell behind and Amberhill shrugged. He had little interest in the old man’s life story, but he couldn’t help being curious about what had brought him to Sacor City, or being concerned about the continuing welfare of a man he’d gone out of his way to assist.

  Just as well, he thought. I’ve enough with which to occupy myself.

  With surprising ease he dismissed Galen Miller from his mind and busied himself by going over his various business affairs and deciding which required his personal attention prior to his departure, and which did not. Truly, there was not much he could come up with, for his man-of-business was very efficient and capable.

  Presently they entered the noble quarter and the carriage picked up speed down the less crowded street that fronted many a large and extravagant manse. Yap’s open-mouthed snore provided counterpoint to the sharp clip-clop of hooves.

  When they arrived at Amberhill’s more modest house, Brigham—who no longer paled every time he saw Yap—greeted him at the door.

  “There are several parcels in the carriage that need to be brought in,” Amberhill informed his manservant. “Mister Yap will assist.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, while you were out, this letter came for you.” Brigham handed him an envelope then stepped outside to where Yap had begun to unload the carriage.

  Amberhill curiously gazed at the envelope, his name scripted in gold. The dual seals made him raise his eyebrows. When he looked inside, he saw it was an invitation to the masquerade ball Lady Estora had mentioned to him, in which she included a personal note: I realize you must be nearly ready to embark on your journey, but I hope I may persuade you to delay your departure for a few days yet. It would make Zachary and me very happy if you could attend our ball.

  Amberhill’s immediate thought was to send her his regrets, but then he reconsidered. It had been several years since his last masquerade ball and he remembered enjoying the mystery of it all, the ability to hide behind a mask and take on another role. As a man who once wore a mask regularly and moved in the shadows, a masquerade held special appeal. Who else might be in attendance? What secret trysts might occur? What undercurrents and intrigue would transpire that would not otherwise be present with unmasked guests?

  He did not wish to encumber himself with people making tiresome inquiries about his journey, and he’d already taken leave of Zachary and Lady Estora. However, since he wished to remain anonymous and avoid entanglements, he could respond to Estora saying he would be coming and yet not have his presence announced to the gathering. He would not have to remove his mask.

  His journey, he decided, could wait a few days. He glanced at his dragon ring and the quiet glow of the ruby. It did not protest and he smiled.

  At least it was not the broil of summer, Hank Fenn thought as he leaned on his pike in the Hanging Square. He stood guard over three corpses just lowered from the gallows and laid out on the paving stones. He’d drawn old blankets over them.

  Broil of summer. That’s what his gramma used to call it when the air was dense with moisture, there was no wind to move it, and the sun seared everything it shone upon.

  Not that it was like the old days when a criminal might hang for weeks, or was locked up in a gibbet till he rotted away to bone. Sergeant Corly, who’d been soldiering forever, said quite a stink used to fill the square back then.

  But it was not yet summer, not even spring, the air was still crisp, and King Zachary did not allow criminals to hang indefinitely and so ordered them cut down after execution.

  When Hank asked Sergeant Corly why, the old soldier shrugged and said, “King says it ain’t civilized to keep corpses hanging about.” Then he shook his head, muttering about the good old days and proper punishment for traitors.

  Hank was just glad he didn’t have to stand guard over stinking corpses, and if the king didn’t want them hanging about, well it was all right with him. Of course he had to wait out the day to see if anyone bothered to claim the bodies. He hoped someone did, so he and Snuff didn’t have to dig the graves themselves. Snuff was lazy about it and made the graves shallow. Hank wasn’t inclined to work too hard himself, especially for criminals, and these men had been bad. Mirwellians who followed the traitor Immerez. They’d helped abduct Lady Estora.

  A small audience had come to the hanging, but according to Sergeant Corly, executions were no longer the events they’d once been before King Zachary’s time. Nowadays they were held with little fanfare or public notice. A small crowd of people still came, though, like vultures. They spat on the condemned, hurled stones and insults at them. Although Hank saw true rage on their faces, he didn’t think they abused the prisoners because they had abducted Lady Estora or done some other specific criminal act. No, he thought they did it because they could. They could take out all their anger and frustration at the world for their problems, their poverty, on the prisoners who were the lowest of the low, who could be abused but could not fight back. Undoubtedly it made them feel stronger, more powerful, than their own wretched lives usually allowed. Hank never saw nobles or wealthy persons attend executions unless it was for one of their own.

  Snuff sauntered over and nudged him. “Look,” he said, pointing. “We may have one less to bury.”

  An old man entered the square leading a mule hitched to a ramshackle cart. He walked slowly, his shoulders hunched. When he halted before them, he drew himself up and briefly Hank was reminded of the archers up on the castle walls, for his shoulders were broad and his forearms thick with muscles. But then he started to tremble. Hank had seen those shakes before in his gramma
. Some had whispered she was possessed by evil spirits and he scowled at those hateful memories. She’d just been sick was all.

  “I come for my boy,” the man said.

  “Raised you a traitor, eh?” Snuff asked.

  Hank wished Snuff wouldn’t harass family members this way on the few occasions they came to collect their dead. It seemed to him they didn’t deserve to be punished, too.

  “This way, sir,” Hank said more courteously. He brought the man over to the trio of bodies and lifted the blanket shrouding the first one. Hanging was not a gentle death and the hanged were not easy to look upon.

  After a difficult moment the man shook his head. They went on to the next. Again the shake of the head. When Hank lifted the blanket of the third, the man shuddered and his eyes filled with tears. Hank’s heart sank for the hanging of this fellow hadn’t gone well. He’d fought them all the way to the noose, so it hadn’t been set just right. The condemned man did not die quickly and they all had to watch for painful minutes as he struggled and swung at the end of the rope until finally he ran out of fight and died.

  “Is this your boy?” Hank asked.

  “Aye.” The man nodded, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. “This is Clay.”

  Hank helped the man load the body of his son into the back of the cart while Snuff watched with a jaundiced look. Normally, if family came to collect a body, there was more than one to take it away and Hank and Snuff left them to it. But Hank remembered his gramma and had pity for the old man.

  “My thanks,” the man told Hank, brushing a shaking hand through his hair.

  Hank nodded.

  “Good riddance to a traitor,” Snuff said loudly.

  The man started, but then turned his back on them, leading the mule away. The cart with its shrouded burden clattered over the stone paving.

  “Why do you do that?” Hank asked Snuff. “Why are you mean to the families? They aren’t the criminals.”

  Snuff spat out a wad of tobacco, just missing the nearest corpse. “Those criminals got made,” he said. “Someone raised them bad.”

  Hank watched the mule cart as it disappeared down the street. He understood what Snuff was saying, but he also could tell the look of a man who loved his son.

  PREPARATIONS

  All thoughts of the masque were shoved to the back of Karigan’s mind as plans for the expedition to Blackveil unfolded. Captain Mapstone called her, Lynx, and Yates to her quarters confirming Karigan’s suspicions about which Riders would be going into Blackveil with her. Lynx, with his wilderness skills, Karigan could understand. But Yates? Dear, lighthearted, funny Yates? He was an excellent Rider, but to her mind it was almost like tossing a tasty morsel to the lions.

  “Do you have to look at me like that?” he demanded.

  “Like what?” she asked, conscious of Lynx and Captain Mapstone gazing at her.

  “Like you think I won’t survive my first step into the forest. I volunteered for this duty.”

  “You volunteered?”

  “Don’t act so shocked. We can’t have you taking all the glory after all. I came to the captain as soon as I caught wind of the mission and offered my services.”

  Karigan glanced at the captain whose expression was unreadable. Karigan wanted to tell her to pick someone else, someone less ... innocent. Well, not that Yates was innocent if all the rumors about his conquests with the ladies were true. But there were others, she was sure, more seasoned to the type of dangers Blackveil presented. But who? Who would she choose? Maybe Beryl, but Beryl was off on some mysterious errand for the king. Who else? But as she thought about it, no one came to mind that she would want to send into Blackveil and she could only conclude all the Riders were dear to her. They were family, even Beryl the scary spy and interrogator.

  Now she understood in truth the difficult choices the captain had been confronted with and perhaps Yates’ volunteering had made the decision easier.

  But still ... Yates? It just seemed wrong.

  “You’ll need someone to see in the dark,” Yates said. “I hear Blackveil gets very dark.”

  His special ability was exceptional night vision and it was true it would be useful in the forest, but it would not repel the vicious denizens of the forest or prevent them from eating him.

  “But ... but it’s Blackveil!” she blurted. “It’s dangerous!”

  “Don’t worry,” Yates replied. “I’ll protect you.”

  Karigan’s mouth dropped open, but she could not manage a retort. It did not help that Captain Mapstone chuckled or that even taciturn Lynx smiled.

  They quickly returned to business. The captain gave them a list of instructions to help her Riders prepare for departure, which was coming up fast—next week.

  When they were dismissed, Lynx headed off on business of his own leaving Karigan to confront Yates just outside officers quarters. She cuffed him on the shoulder.

  “Are you mad?” she demanded. “Volunteering to go into Blackveil?”

  “If so,” Yates said, “then I am in good company.” He sauntered off whistling, leaving her on the pathway to stew. She was torn between running after Yates and asking him to change his mind, and returning to Captain Mapstone’s quarters to plead with her to reconsider. She did neither. Yates, for all his jokes and lightheartedness, was a man full grown and entitled to make his own decisions, and confronting Captain Mapstone might be construed as challenging her command.

  Instead she went to the stables thinking Condor could use a good turn with a currycomb.

  Over the next couple of days the trio of Riders appeared at the quartermaster’s to get outfitted for their journey. Blackveil was a different kind of environment and they would be on foot, not on horseback. They were fitted with boots normally reserved for the infantry, and piled down with tents, spare woolens, stockings, and oilskin cloaks.

  Lynx was additionally presented with extra bundles of arrows, spare bow strings, and the haft of an ax. Most Riders bore sabers and long knives, but Lynx preferred his stout forester’s knife, longbow, and throwing ax. He checked the balance of the new haft and pronounced it acceptable.

  Then it was off to a briefing with General Harborough in his office in the administrative wing of the castle, and for the first time the Riders got a look at the others who would be accompanying them. They were two soldiers from the army, large and muscular, and a third man, more slight in stature, and introduced as Gillard Ardmont, a forester of Coutre Province.

  The general sat behind his oversized desk, medals on his chest gleaming in the lamplight and an attentive aide at his side taking notes.

  “When we enter Blackveil,” the general said, folding beefy hands on the desk before him, “our objective is largely one of observation.”

  “He going with us?” Yates whispered to Karigan with a mischievous glint in his eye.

  “You have something to say, Rider Cardell?” General Harborough asked in a booming voice that made Yates flinch.

  “N-no, sir.”

  “Good. Then listen up. This is no holiday jaunt you’re going on.”

  Maybe, Karigan thought, if Yates heard it often enough he’d reconsider his decision to volunteer.

  “The Eletians say,” the general continued, “that they want to see what has become of their land since the D’Yer Wall was erected, but express nothing further of their intentions. His Highness would like to know what more they are after, if anything. Keep in mind the Eletians invited us along and they have not yet shown themselves to be our enemies.” The general looked plainly skeptical on this point but continued, “I expect courtesy and diplomacy in dealing with them. Am I clear?”

  “YES, SIR!” the two soldiers bellowed, almost bowling Karigan out of her chair.

  This was followed by less emphatic affirmations from the Riders and the forester.

  This expedition, Karigan thought, was going to be interesting.

  “The king wants you to keep your eyes open to learn anything about the forest you can
, especially if it’s something that may help us against Mornhavon the Black when he returns. You will come back with detailed reports. You will report directly to the king upon your return. Take note of roads and ruins, the landscape and wildlife. I fear no maps of the region exist so you will be following the lead of the Eletians, an untenable situation to my mind. Therefore a vital facet of your mission is to make some maps. Rider Cardell?”

  “Er, yes? Sir?”

  “Your captain says you’re an able cartographer. I will expect detailed renderings.”

  Yates looked pleased, and now Karigan knew, beyond the fact he’d volunteered to join the expedition, why Captain Mapstone agreed to let him go. And like it or not, it was true he was a good draftsman. With all the new Riders that had joined their ranks, Yates had busied himself copying extra maps for them, and even instructing the Riders on how to read them. He’d in fact been, before the Rider call, an apprentice at his father’s press, which printed, among other things, maps.

  “Lieutenant Grant here is also experienced at documenting and surveying. He will assist.”

  “Yes, sir!” Yates replied.

  “That’s what I like,” the general said. “A good show of enthusiasm. Now perhaps Sir Karigan can provide us with some insight about what we might expect in the forest itself.”

  Everyone looked at Karigan and she looked back at them, surprised to be suddenly put on the spot.

  “You were briefly in Blackveil, were you not?” the general asked.

  “Yes, but ... but I don’t recall much about it. It was ... it was a difficult situation.” She was not ready to explain to the strangers in the room that she’d been possessed at the time by the spirit of the First Rider. And Mornhavon the Black, too.

  By the way the soldiers gazed at her she could tell her stumbling response did not impress them one bit. The forester’s regard was different, more intense. The general’s expression changed as he seemed to remember the nature of her one foray into Blackveil. Surely he’d been informed of the details. He cleared his throat.