Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (54 page)

Marik needed no soul searching to know why his thoughts
were so grim.  It was not the first time that day.  Their blacker shades grew
from the slowly growing certainty that the four mercenaries had miscalculated.

He, Dietrik and Ilona had started earlier yesterday,
as planned.  They investigated eight shops from the list, each ending when they
felt grudgingly satisfied that while it might be a shop to be wary of, it was
not a shop selling black market magical artifacts.

Ilona had elaborated on their cover story over the
night.  Supposedly she and Marik were a team; she a nimble thief able to climb
and crawl, he a magician knowledgeable in spells that aided her felonious
activities.  While he enjoyed this as it allowed him to act in a familiar
manner with her, it left him puzzled as well.  She had swung from violently
spurning everything to do with him to practically treating him as an equal. 
And yet out in the streets, Ilona still retained the familiar biting comments
he knew so well.  Her instantaneous fluctuations left his head reeling.

Then there was the magic.  He had not imagined it
after all.  Anytime the slightest pretext arose, she would make him pretend to
cast spells across the shop.  Only in two shops had he felt his threat actually
needed to be displayed.  After asking her about this, she told him that setting
the tone early on would avoid unnecessary trouble later.  True…perhaps…except
her answer struck him oddly.  Surely she had other reasons for making him jump
though hoops like a trained animal.

Dietrik had warmed toward her, at least.  Marik appreciated
that, so he kept his unfounded doubts behind his teeth.  Asking Dietrik for his
take on her bizarre actions would only set his friend’s back hairs up all over.

The other eight men in the archer line left the field,
Delouen still furious with rage.  His face reddened, presumably still cursing
the officials, the gods, the bow maker, the fletchers…anyone who happened to
cross his mind.  Though the man’s words were beyond his ken, Marik recognized
many of the oaths being hurled from the defeated noble’s lips.

An official brought out a fresh arrow bundles. 
Hilliard and Crossley soon readied their next flight, each concentrating on the
far away target.  Marik held his breath as the red flag dropped.

Both arrows streaked toward their straw men.  Hilliard
struck his target low in the leg.  No possibility that he had scored on a
higher point rewarding area.  Crossley, though, might have done exactly that. 
His shaft protruded from either the neck or the lower head.  Hard to tell from
where Marik stood.  If the arrow had sailed high enough, it would score on the
two point target of the straw man’s head.

The official darted to examine Crossley’s strike. 
After an eternity, he finally made his decision and raised the white flag.

“Whew!” exhaled Kerwin and Marik together.  The
gambler continued, “That was too close.”

“He is still jerking the bow at the moment of
release,” Landon critiqued.  “It’s only a slight movement, but it’s telling
over the long shots.”

The two readied their next flight.  Marik leaned
forward on the balls of his feet.  Hilliard closed one eye to sight along the
shaft, a habit Landon had tried to break him of.  Still, it was the shooting
style familiar to him and he chose to stay with the familiar during this
critical moment.

They released.  Hilliard came as close to missing as
possible.  The arrow struck on the arm’s lowest curve.  Rather than impaling
straw flesh, the arrowhead tore into the hanging cloth on the Nolier uniform,
becoming entangled.  Forward momentum swung the arrow under and around so the
fletching struck the backside, then the arrow dangled limply like an end of
rope swaying in the breeze.

Marik hoped the official would count that as a strike,
especially since Crossley’s shaft went wide off the mark.  Rather than burying
in the mock Nolier, it bit into the wall of straw bales.

Three officials went to examine Hilliard’s straw man
this time, spending long moments in quiet conference.  Of course, they could
have shouted their words at each other and escaped being overheard.  They pulled
their heads apart.  The regular raised his white flag for Hilliard, signaling
one point.

Marik breathed a deep, relieved sigh while his stomach
did flip-flops.
  Five more days.
  Crossley shook his head in
disappointment.  He still grasped Hilliard’s hand all the same.  The four
mercenaries walked over to congratulate their charge.  Ferdinand Sestion beat
them there.  All four tensed when they watched the future court baron
deliberately step over to Hilliard.

Before they reached Hilliard, Ferdinand departed
without fuss.  He seemed in high spirits, despite having come in second to
Keegan as in the horse race.  When they reached Hilliard, Marik asked, “What
did he want?”

Hilliard, a question in his eyes, replied, “He?  Are
you referring to Lord Ferdinand?”

“Who else would I mean?  What did he say?  Another
party?”

“Not at all.  He wanted to offer his congratulations
that I succeeded in advancing through the third event.”  He glanced from face
to face, reading the concern in each.  “Why are you worried?  What is amiss?”

“Nothing at all,” Dietrik hastily asserted.  “We just
wanted to know.  Though,” he added, casting his gaze around, “I don’t seem to
notice him saying so to any of the others who advanced as well.”

“He also wanted to apologize for what happened the
other night,” Hilliard revealed.  “I imagine he is still upset over that
horrible event.  Anyone would feel so, after an invited guest was attacked
under their very roof.”

“Yes,” Landon agreed.  “I’m sure that is why he
singled you out this time.”  Marik suspected the archer might harbor other
feelings.  Was Ferdinand truly above suspicion or reproach?

A man in an event official’s vest came to collect
Hilliard’s bow and return it to the stored equipment.  Hilliard had explained
this to them during their travels when they asked why he carried no equipment
other than his sword.  All equipment, from horses to armor to bows, would be
provided by the crown to ensure equality.  Skill alone would determine the best
man to win.

Dietrik suggested leaving the field behind.  Hilliard
agreed without fuss.  The only positive note from the last attack was that it
drove home to the young man how serious the threat against him was.  Until his
close brush, the possibility that the previous trouble might only be the work
of overzealous back-alley thugs had been seductive in the face of the sprawling
festival’s temptations.

They only stopped long enough for each to collect a
large, steaming beef pie, their flaky crusts still hot from the clay oven
constructed eightdays earlier.  Marik licked scalding gravy from his fingers,
regretting that he and Dietrik had foregone a meeting with Ilona today.  With
no idea when they might finish the archery match, they decided it would be best
to delay their search despite their urgency.

After he, Dietrik and Ilona had left the Standing
Spell the first day to search shops, the guards returned, exactly as Marik had
predicted they might.  They wished to ask further questions of the
establishment’s madam, questions regarding connections she might have to a
certain magical object.  Magical artifacts were strictly regulated by the
king’s law, and so the appearance of one during an attack on a noble-born drew
acute attention.  Six candlemarks of questioning ensued, ending with the
cityguards’ departure, along with the investigating magistrate, immediately
before Ilona returned.  Vashti had been exhausted and ready to hear good news
from her daughter.

Perhaps it was Ilona’s renewed need to find a culprit
she could hand over to the cityguard that prompted her to push Marik into
exhibiting his magical talent so often.  Time had become a precious commodity
for her.  Marik had no experience with these matters personally but he guessed
the cityguard would be under pressure to find those responsible for such a
blatant attack on the aristocracy.  Having the assassin in custody was nice,
though not enough to satisfy the higher-ups who mattered.  The longer this
dragged on, it was increasingly likely that the ton of horse manure hanging
over someone’s head would drop on the Standing Spell’s roof.

Still, there was time yet, and so they agreed to meet
the morning after the archery event.  But walking the streets with her today
would have been…
nice,
his mind supplied.  The possibly rain-laden clouds
had blown away the night after their first investigation.  With renewed vigor,
to compensate for the day off, the sun had baked Thoenar with relentless fury. 
It was summer, and the sun let it be known that it was not fooling around.

Though dressed lightly, Ilona had been no more immune
to the swelter than he.  A sheen of sweat had coated her tanned skin, adding an
oily glow to her body he would be content to spend the rest of eternity gazing
upon.  He could have relived that wondrous spectacle today if the officials bothered
to run this show with any concern to a specific time schedule.  Oh well. 
Perhaps tomorrow.

“Ahh!”  Lost in thought, he had squeezed the remaining
half-pie harder than he should have.  It folded, opening a crack along the
flaky bottom supported by his palm.  Hot gravy spilled into his hand.  He
frantically sucked it up before it could run down his arm.

“Problems?” Dietrik inquired.

“No, nothing.  I was lost in thought.”

His friend smiled in that crooked way he could
affect.  “I think it would take only minor talents at imagination on my behalf
to hit on where your thoughts wandered.  Or to whom.”

Marik started to instinctively deny it.  He stopped
short.  Why bother?  Dietrik was essentially correct.  Damn him…

“Let me just remind you that we haven’t discovered all
there is to know yet.  Bad men are still scurrying about.”

“Right.”  He forced Ilona, and her lovely, glowing
skin shining in the brilliant sunlight, from his mind with an effort.  They
still had half a city to traverse.  Assassins could lurk within every shadow. 
Marik stuffed his remaining pie into his mouth in three giant bites, then
walked closer to Hilliard, his hand hovering near his sword.

*        *        *        *        *

Huddled in the dark corner of a dispirited taproom sat
a spy.  Colbey saw through the man only moments after first spotting him.  He
took pride that his abilities were far superior to this lesser man’s, this
pretender to skills he had no right to assume himself capable at.  To judge
from his sitting stance, the man was Galemaran.

Colbey sneered.  This outlander had not bothered to
study the habits of the men who’s role he assumed.  He leaned back in an effort
to appear casual, oblivious to the fact that no others in the room sat so.  His
ankles were crossed and his hands steepled, elbows resting on the armrests. 
When a server handed him a plate of roasted chicken, Colbey saw the spy wore no
tattoo on his hand, real or forged.

He must be a Galemaran agent sent to ferret out
information.  How had he managed to cross the hostile territory and find his
way into Kallied?  Proof only that the gods favored halfwits.

The taproom was silent.  These were dark times for
Tullainia.  People walked with heads bowed, initiating no conversations as they
once had, only answering questions when asked directly.  There might as well be
a collar around their necks, Colbey thought with scorn.  It was contemptible,
this slave’s acceptance of their bondage. 
True
men and women, like
those of his village, would fight tooth and nail until they achieved victory or
until none remained standing.  Cowed slaves such as these were not fit to be
called men.  Not fit to be considered so.

Every moment spent among these downtrodden Tullainians
made his scorn grow fiercer. 
Until not one of us was left standing.  Not a
one.  Not one!

Except he still stood.  He still crawled through the
mud and slime of the world, assuring himself he worked to avenge his people
even as he huddled like a craven traitor. 
Rationalizing
his cowardly
slinking through the shadows as footsteps in the cause of justice.

Why did he not strike at the serpent’s lair?  Why
bother with wasting time finding a way in and back out unnoticed?  Why not
slide between these guards who thought themselves so dangerous?  Slip inside
and kill all the highest level officers.  The officers who had sent their
monsters into his home to slaughter every innocent in his village!

The mage,
his mind whispered, as it frequently did. 
He can aid you, as you planned. 
And you still assume too much.  Assumption is the root of nine in ten mistakes
made.  These officers may be the head of this weirdling army, but who stands
behind them?  Who pulls
their
strings?  You must learn more.

His thoughts sounded like Thomas’ advice.  That made
the words very difficult to ignore or argue with.  And the kernel of truth
buried within them made him want to snarl.  The rage in his heart had burned
brighter every day since first seeing these monstrous beasts in the flesh. 
Rage that demanded a release he could not yet allow.