Frostborn: The Master Thief (19 page)

“And another Magistria,” said Calliande, stepping forward, “says he does not.”

For the first time Imaria paid attention to her.

“And who are you?” she said, her eyes moving back and forth between Calliande and Morigna. “He travels with two women? Both his whores, I assume?”

Ridmark scowled. “They are not.”

“I am Calliande, a Magistria of the Order,” said Calliande.

“Anyone can claim that,” said Imaria, “but the penalty for impersonating a Magistria is death. Run along, girl, before you earn the wrath of your betters.”

Calliande smiled and lifted her hand, a ball of white light shimmering above her palm. “If I am impersonating a Magistria, I am doing a rather good job of it. And I say that Ridmark has committed no crime and can go.”

“You think to stand against me?” said Imaria. She spun her horse to face the waiting men. “I will give a thousand golden marks to the man who brings me Ridmark Arban’s head.”

A few of the men started forward, and Kharlacht and the others raised their weapons. Calliande looked back and forth. It seemed a fight was inevitable. Could…

“There is another way,” said Ridmark.

Cortin looked at him. “Yes?”

“Your father is the Comes of Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “and I suggest we take our dispute to him for resolution. Else I fear it shall come to bloodshed in the streets.”

“No,” said Imaria. “Take him now!”

“Do not be a fool, Magistria,” said Cortin. “You see his companions are clearly ready to fight for him.” He gestured at the dead Mhorites. “And given their prowess, it would be folly to raise arms against them. Especially since I doubt they are in the wrong. So be it, Ridmark Arban. If you will consent to accompany us, my father shall hear your dispute with Imaria tomorrow.” 

Ridmark nodded and stepped forward.

“You will, of course, come alone,” said Cortin. 

“I shall accompany him,” said Calliande. 

“By what right?” said Imaria.

“By the right of the Magistri,” said Calliande, “which I possess. And Brother Caius shall accompany us, for spiritual guidance.”

“I have no objection to that,” said Cortin. 

“And Morigna, as well,” said Calliande. 

Imaria scowled. “The wilder woman?” She gave Morigna’s tattered cloak a disdainful sneer. “Why?”

“She is my maid,” said Calliande.

The look Morigna gave her was just short of murderous, but she nodded. 

“Well,” sniffed Imaria. “You have peculiar taste in servants. Sir Cortin, if you are set upon this idiocy, then let us move at once.” She gave Ridmark another icy glare. “I have no wish for this murderer and his deluded lackeys to breathe free air any longer than necessary.”

“I should accompany you as well,” said Kharlacht. He was leaning on his greatsword, his face strained and tired. 

“No,” said Ridmark. “You shouldn’t have even been on your feet yet.”

Kharlacht snorted. “The Mhorites disagreed.”

“Stay here and watch over the baggage,” said Ridmark. “Gavin, too.” The boy nodded. “I will return soon enough.”

“You had best do so,” said Kharlacht. “Death in battle is one thing.” He glanced at Imaria. “Death from the vengeful spite of a child is quite another.”

Imaria hissed. “You dare to insult…”

“Magistria, please,” said Cortin. “Let us depart.”

“Very well,” said Imaria, turning her horse. “Bring them.”

“Sir Ridmark, if you please,” said Cortin.

Ridmark nodded and started forward, Calliande, Caius, and Morigna following him. The knights and men-at-arms closed around them, and they left the Outwall behind, heading for Coldinium’s southern gate.

###

Jager crouched behind a table in the common room and watched the confrontation. 

Apparently the white-robed Magistria he had seen with Tarrabus Carhaine had quite the grudge against Ridmark. As he watched, he realized that the woman was Imaria Licinius, and Ridmark had married her older sister Aelia Licinius. All the stories Jager had heard claimed that Mhalek had slain Aelia, or Ridmark had slain them both.

But Jager had his own problems. 

This was his chance. He felt a pang for abandoning Ridmark and the others. They had fought boldly, and they had committed no wrongs against Jager. But he needed the soulstone. Without it, Mara would die…and if Jager was honest with himself, he would sacrifice every single man and woman upon the street to save Mara’s life. Such an act would haunt his conscience, he knew, would change him forever.

But he would do it anyway.

Fortunately, if he made haste it wouldn’t come to that. 

He crept up the stairs to the balcony, trusting in the shouts from the street to disguise his movements. Save for Ridmark and his companions, everyone else had fled out the back of the inn, even the owner. Apparently he did not feel like dying in defense of his ramshackle inn. Jager could hardly blame him.

He moved from door to door, peering into the guest rooms. At last he found one that looked like it belonged to Ridmark and his companions. Jager slipped inside and went to a set of knapsacks leaning against the bed. One held food and bread and jerky. Useless. Jager opened the second pack. Inside he found a sheathed dagger wrapped in a cloth. Why wrap it up? Ridmark and his friends needed all the weapons they could get. Perhaps it had sentimental value. Next to the dagger was a leather pouch, and inside…

Jager’s eyes widened, relief flooding through him. 

The pouch held a lump of white crystal about the size of a grown human man’s fist. Jager lifted it from the pouch, the crystal cold and rough against its fingers. A strange milky light flickered and danced in the stone’s depths, and Jager felt a sense of…potential from the thing. Like it was a seed. Right now, it was harmless. But if it grew and became stronger, it could have awesome power.

Power enough to crack the world in half.

The thing was the empty soulstone. It had to be. 

Alarmed, Jager put the stone into the pouch and tugged it closed. Just touching the thing had put strange thoughts into his head. He had never liked or trusted magic, and his experience since leaving Caerdracon had only confirmed that choice. He picked up the pouch, changed his mind, stuffed it back into the knapsack, and picked up the pack instead. 

Better to keep layers between his skin and the stone.

He slipped back into the common room. The argument outside had grown louder, Imaria shouting at Ridmark and Calliande. They did not notice him. Likely they would not notice if he set the building on fire.

But there was no reason to test his luck.

Jager slipped out the back. 

###

Gavin stood motionless among the dead, his shoulders and back aching from the fight. He watched as Ridmark and Calliande and Caius and Morigna departed with Sir Cortin’s soldiers, and he wondered if he would ever see them again. The hatred in Imaria’s eyes had not been rational. It reminded Gavin of the madness he had seen in his stepmother’s eyes.

And Morwen had been a spiderling. Imaria Licinius, as far as Gavin knew, was fully human. 

“Come,” said Kharlacht, snatching a cloak from a dead Mhorite to clean his blade. “I fear we can do nothing for them.”

Gavin sighed. “As you say.”

He looked around with a tired shake of his head. He had always talked about visiting Coldinium one day, had dreamed that he would wed Rosanna and take her here.

Gavin found himself laughing.

“What?” said Kharlacht, handing him the cloak. 

Gavin cleaned his sword off. “I always wanted to visit Coldinium. I just…I never thought it would be quite like this.” 

Kharlacht barked his harsh laugh. “Few things ever are. Still. By rights I should be dead. So I suppose I cannot complain.”

He watched the receding horsemen.

“Do you think they'll return?” said Gavin.

“Calliande and Morigna and Brother Caius?” said Kharlacht. “Certainly. But the Gray Knight…”

“You think they’ll kill him?” said Gavin. 

“I fear he wants them to kill him,” said Kharlacht. 

“Like you?” said Gavin. “After Qazarl was slain?”

Kharlacht grunted. “There is a difference. All my kin are slain, so while I do not fear death, I do not believe I deserve it. The Gray Knight, though. He believes he deserves death for what happened to his wife, and with his wife’s sister there to accuse him… he may not have the will to fight back as he usually does.”

“And we can do nothing for him,” said Gavin. 

“No,” said Kharlacht. “If a man wants to die, he will find a way to do it. I only hope Calliande and Caius can persuade him otherwise.”

“And Morigna,” said Gavin. “Likely she will berate him until he decides to live from sheer annoyance.” 

Kharlacht snorted and returned his greatsword to its sheath. “Aye, she would. Though I suspect Calliande’s opinion has more weight with him.”

“We should watch over the soulstone while they are gone,” said Gavin. “Calliande left it in her pack.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Kharlacht. “We should not leave such a dangerous thing unattended. Likely Calliande would have taken it with her, had she not been distracted.”

Gavin hesitated. “Should we attend to the bodies?”

Kharlacht shrugged. “I see no point. The residents of the Outwall will loot the corpses, and the militia will haul them away.” He scowled. “Though I would suggest we avoid the sausage makers of Coldinium for a few days.”

“Ghastly thought,” said Gavin. 

They climbed the stairs back to their rooms. Gavin opened the doors, checking them one by one. 

He stopped at the room that Calliande and Morigna would have shared.

“Her pack’s gone,” said Gavin. 

“What?” said Kharlacht.

“The pack with the soulstone,” said Gavin. “It’s gone.” He hurried into the room and looked around, finding no sign of the knapsack. “She always puts it in that pack when she doesn’t carry it at her belt.” Had Calliande taken it with her? No, she hadn’t had the pouch with her departed with Ridmark. Or had she concealed it somewhere?

Then a memory clicked.

“Jager,” whispered Gavin.

He had seen the halfling fleeing from the inn during Imaria’s confrontation with Ridmark and Calliande. Jager had carried a pack with him, and Gavin had paid it little note at the time.

“That halfling,” said Gavin. “He left with a pack. I saw him.”

“God and his saints,” said Kharlacht. “That’s why he followed us from Vulmhosk. He must have learned of the soulstone and sought to steal it for himself. Did you see which direction he went?”

Gavin nodded. “Towards the docks.”

“Then we have no time to waste,” said Kharlacht, and they left the Crow’s Helm.

Chapter 12 - The Dux and the Magistria

The next morning the guards escorted Ridmark to the great hall of Castra Coldinium. 

The castra had stood upon this site for centuries, but the great hall was new. It had been built in the style of a Roman basilica of Old Earth, with thick pillars supporting arches and balconies. Tapestries hung upon the pillars, showing scenes from the scriptures and the history of Old Earth – the Emperor Constantine winning his victory at Milvian Bridge, the Dominus Christus healing the ten lepers, Arthur Pendragon dueling his bastard son Mordred at Camlann. Lead-framed windows of glass admitted the morning sunlight, spilling it across the gleaming tiles of the floor. A dais at the far end of the hall held the curule chair, an uncomfortable-looking thing of curved arms and legs, the formal seat from which the Comes of Coldinium pronounced his judgments. 

It was not as large as Castra Marcaine’s great hall, where Ridmark had first served as a squire and then as a Swordbearer in Dux Gareth’s court. He had met Aelia in that great hall. He had asked for her hand there. They had wed there.

And he had seen her die there.

The guards moved beneath the balcony, leaving Ridmark alone before the dais. Boots clicked against the floor, and Ridmark turned.

Tarrabus Carhaine, Dux of Caerdracon, walked towards him, flanked by a half-dozen knights. 

The Dux had changed little from their last meeting five years ago. He was still tall and strong, his blue eyes icy, his blond hair close-cropped. Unlike many of the southern nobles, he remained clean-shaven. He wore a blue tunic, trousers, and gleaming black boots, a sword waiting in a scabbard at his belt. 

He stared at Ridmark, his face blank and cold. 

“See that we are not disturbed,” said Tarrabus at last. “I would speak with the prisoner alone.”

One of the Comes’s men-at-arms stirred. “The Gray Knight is under the protection of the Comes.” 

Tarrabus gave the guard a mocking smile. “Oh, fear not. Your Comes’s precious honor is safe enough. Ridmark Arban will not die until after Corbanic finishes his little game. Go.”

The men-at-arms scowled, but moved to the edges of the hall with the knights. For a moment Tarrabus simply stared at Ridmark, and Ridmark met the Dux’s gaze without blinking. Ridmark remembered dueling him when they were squires together, remembered competing with him for Aelia’s hand. 

“You look terrible,” said Tarrabus at last. 

“I’ve been busy,” said Ridmark.

“So my men tell me,” said Tarrabus. “Saving Dun Licinia from the leftover Mhalekites. Fighting urdmordar and undead and mad wizards. And now you have the Red Family and the Mhorites angry at you. To say nothing of the last five years spent wandering the Wilderland in pursuit of the Frostborn. You really do look the worse for wear, Ridmark. A pity you are not dead.” 

“You did your best to arrange that,” said Ridmark.

Tarrabus’s smirk returned. “Angry, Ridmark? You deserve to die. You know that.”

“But not by the methods you have employed,” said Ridmark. “I know you hired the Red Family and sent them after me. The Red Family, Tarrabus? You are a Dux of Andomhaim, not a thuggish merchant!” 

“You have no proof of that, of course,” said Tarrabus. 

“How is Sir Paul?” said Ridmark.

“Better,” said Tarrabus. “Imaria healed him quite nicely.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t have him killed for his failure,” said Ridmark.