Betrayal at Falador (22 page)

“You have my word, sir!” Bryant had told him as he left.

In his disappointment, knowing he would have to make another trip and have to explain the embarrassing situation to his tutor, he failed to notice the tall man in the red robes who was concealed in the shadows of a large doorway, watching him depart.

“I trust you, boy” the figure muttered to himself, unheard by all. “You will return to the apothecary today and in an hour it will be dark. Then I shall have my bait!”

Red eyes glowed under the hood.

THIRTY

Doric had spent five hours asking about the “mad old beggar lady” and had narrowed down her place of residence to all but a few streets. But the deeper he got into the Dens, the less people were willing to volunteer information, for their poverty formed a bond between them that was hard for an outsider to penetrate.

It will be dark soon,
he thought. He hefted his axe from his shoulder and leaned on it, deep in thought, and as he did so some coins chinked in his tunic.

They may not volunteer information to an outsider,
he thought,
but they will very likely sell it.

He considered briefly going back to the castle to see if Theodore had become available, but his mood soured when he remembered the morning guard.

I will go back to him when I have something conclusive,
he decided. So he lifted his axe once more to his shoulder and approached the nearest door to renew his search.

Bryant arrived in the courtyard entirely breathless, his face bright red. He had wanted to return to the apothecary before the afternoon grew dark, but it seemed as if the low clouds and ailing sunlight were deliberately mocking him.

Sir Finistere and Sir Erical were touring the courtyard and reminiscing. The peon always thrilled at hearing their stories, for their words took him back to a glorious time.

“I remember the first time I ever stood here, Sir Erical,” Sir Finistere said, casting his fond eyes to the daunting heights of the white towers. “First as a peon, then as a squire, and finally as a knight preparing for battle. We lost a lot of good men in those days.” The men lowered their eyes.

Then Sir Finistere noticed Bryant labouring for breath nearby.

“Ah, boy!” he said. “Did you get everything on Sir Balladish’s list? He does have some very odd requirements.”

“I have it all here, sir!” Bryant’s words tumbled out. “The apothecary said that he must be wary of mixing them, for they could be blended to make a poison! I promised to inform him.”

Sir Finistere’s eyes narrowed.

“That is interesting” he commented mildly. “I’ll be sure to tell him when I give him the ingredients.”

Bryant handed Sir Finistere the brown box that he had been given, and prepared to run to his trunk to retrieve the money necessary to pay back the apothecary. He dared not ask a knight as distinguished as Sir Finistere for the funds. But as soon as he turned to leave, the knight stopped him.

“Where are you going at such a rate, lad?”

Breathlessly, Bryant told him how he intended to make things right with the apothecary.

“A noble cause, but you should know this—knights do not run about the streets looking red-faced and desperate. We must take pride in our appearance. Here!” He flicked Bryant a coin and took him by the shoulder. “That should cover the expenses. But before you return to his shop, I want you to run some water over your face and have a ten-minute sit down. And when you do return, you will walk and not run. Not for a single yard!”

With that, Sir Finistere turned his back on Bryant, nodding to Sir Erical as he passed him. “I will deliver this to Sir Balladish. Good evening, Sir Erical.”

The old knights exchanged genteel nods, and Bryant walked slowly away, intent on obeying Sir Finistere’s words to the letter.

A quarter of an hour later, having washed himself down and regained his breath, Bryant walked confidently across the courtyard and out of the castle.

I shall wait a while, until the right moment,
the man thought to himself. Deftly, he ducked from one doorway to another, following the boy expertly.
I am not so old yet that I cannot overtake a mere peon,
he thought. His right hand massaged the hilt of the curved dagger that he had tucked into his belt.

It will be quick,
he mused,
but that is the only promise I can make, for the boy has learned enough to reveal my treachery.

Even if he doesn’t know it just yet.

The apothecary was about to shut the shop for the evening when he spied the peon crossing the street. He smiled and waved to him. It was good to know there were people in the world that could still be trusted. Whatever others might think of the knights and their fanatical devotion to Saradomin, he at least was thankful for their presence in the city.

The boy named Bryant apologised again for not having enough money in the first place, and then thanked him for his trust, even bowing as he left the shop.

How polite they are, as well,
the apothecary thought as he watched the peon walk swiftly back the way he had come. Then he cast a wary eye skyward as he felt the first drops of rain on his bare face, and noted the hurried footsteps of all those citizens who were still out of doors as they rushed to get home before the downpour came in earnest.

He hardly noticed the tall figure in the red robes who stepped swiftly after the vanishing peon.

An ominous feeling crept into the traitor’s heart. It was a feeling born of experience that had kept him alive and undetected throughout his long career.

He watched Bryant enter the apothecary’s, and he observed the figure in the red robes standing on the opposite side of the street.

Something was very wrong. He did not know what it was, but his senses remained honed enough to detect another intelligence focusing on the boy. He stepped back into the shadows of the doorway and watched, waiting for a moment as Bryant paid the apothecary and emerged with a satisfied look on his young face. There had been too many people on the streets for him to strike during the journey so far, but he hoped that the winter darkness would give him his opportunity.

Now Bryant walked briskly across the street and back the way he had come.

The handle of the dagger was slippery in the traitor’s grasp. The anxiety of what he had to do was causing him to sweat, despite the chill of the evening.

The red-robed man also turned to follow Bryant. The traitor watched with a growing realisation that this figure was the source of his ominous fear. He decided it would be best to watch, rather than to interfere.
Besides,
he thought,
Bryant’s information is only useful if I carry out my original plan.

Yet he knew also that if he did not act to silence Kara, then her knowledge of Justrain’s investigation would see him hanged for treachery.

He gripped the dagger tightly. If the opportunity presented itself, then the peon would die by his hand. Once he was dead, Kara would follow, and no one would have the knowledge to incriminate him.

The rain gathered strength and Bryant held his hand flat above his eyes to prevent the drops from obscuring his vision. People were beginning to huddle under doorways and to take advantage of whatever shelter they could.

His hair was becoming soaked and his clothing dishevelled. He thought of Sir Finistere’s words about taking pride in his appearance, and he knew he could not return to the castle in such a state. As he lifted his gaze to evaluate the rain, he decided its strength could not last. Surely it would exhaust itself in a few minutes. So he looked about for a place to wait it out.

Seeing that he was now nearly alone on the street, he identified several suitable shelters. He ducked into the nearest one available, beneath an overhanging rooftop that gave him easily enough room to avoid the inclement weather.

As he stood waiting for it to end, his thoughts turned to Lady Kara. He was envied by the other peons for having attracted her attention, and the title he had bestowed upon her had led many to think of him as one of her favourites. Although none would admit it, some were fervently jealous of his achievement. It was the first time in his life that he had actually outdone his fellow peons. Although they often were warned of the dangers of pride, he could not deny himself a congratulatory smile.

So caught up was he in his thoughts that he barely noticed the tall man in red duck under the overhang to share his shelter from the rain. Without a word, he moved along the wall to allow room for him.

Concealed behind a timber frame down the street, the traitor watched the two figures share their shelter. He observed the red-robed stranger step close to Bryant and noted with a feeling of sudden apprehension that the peon was in danger.

The rain suddenly sleeted toward him and he turned away from the street in order to draw his hand across his eyes. Above him the first thunder sounded, echoing off the high white walls and bouncing across the city rooftops. He blinked to clear his eyes and turned to look back toward the two figures.

But no one was there.

Bryant had vanished, and the red-robed man was disappearing swiftly into the darkness, visible only for a second as he turned and hastened down the nearest alleyway.

I cannot miss this chance.

He cursed in the darkness, running out into the street to where Bryant had stood only seconds before. His legs ached in protest, unused to such exercise and enfeebled by his age, but he ignored the pain with an angry grimace. He rushed into the alleyway to see the red-robed figure stoop, a heavily-laden sack slung over his right shoulder.

The sack didn’t move, but as the man disappeared amongst the buildings, the traitor saw a booted foot slip from the cover.

It was Bryant. The man had kidnapped him.

The traitor hoped that he was dead, but the fact that the man had taken him made it more likely that he was alive. Slavery had long been outlawed in Asgarnia, yet there were always rumours of children being carried off to the savage communities in The Wilderness, or even smuggled to Morytania by the wandering gypsy folk, where their fates were beyond the imaginings of even the darkest human mind.

The red-clothed figure moved quickly, from one shadow to the next, and the traitor had to run to keep up. It quickly became apparent that the kidnapper did not know Falador, for several shortcuts presented themselves which the traitor would have taken, if their roles were reversed.

As he followed the fleeing figure to the poorest quarter of the city, he knew it would not be long before the kidnapper’s base was revealed.

Then he would have to decide what to do.

The rain interfered with his sense of smell and it always put him on edge. He was certain he hadn’t been seen as he had pulled the sack over his unsuspecting victim and knocked the peon’s head against the wall, yet he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being followed.

The unfamiliar city further disconcerted him and he had decided that speed was the best option in making his way back to the old woman’s house.

But as he neared the house he caught a scent that he had not detected since the night he had scaled the castle wall: it was the smell of the dwarf. Doric’s odour lay heavily in the street, indicating he had walked up and down it several times.

“I have no time for that now!” the creature growled, his red eyes glowing in anticipation. He entered the house, bolting the door behind him. Then he tied the unconscious human down and gagged him roughly with a cloth scarf he had found in the woman’s cupboard.

He wiped the dried blood clear from Bryant’s temple. He had pushed his head into the stonework harder than he had intended in his rush to secure him, and he hoped he hadn’t caused too much damage.

For he needed the boy alive.

Doric was lost.

The city looked very different in the darkness and the rain, even to his night-attuned eyes that had spent long years in the perpetual blackness of the subterranean realms.

He had found where the old woman lived, and after a half hour of uneasy watching had decided to find Theodore and inform the squire of his story, whether he was willing to hear it or not.