Krondor the Betrayal (23 page)

off and went swimming. We almost froze to death; the water is all snowmelt running down the ridges from the mountains above. Ugyne got a pretty heavy whipping from her father, too. My uncle has never curbed his temper as long as I’ve known him.

‘‘But it still didn’t keep Ugyne and me from playing up there.’’

James asked, ‘‘How many know about the run?’’

‘‘Most of the locals know there are tunnels under the old keep. A few might even suspect there’s a bolt-hole under the waterfall. But I doubt anyone outside the family, the old guard commander, and maybe one or two of the older servants has any idea where it is. It’s pretty well hidden.’’

They continued on toward Cavell Village, arriving at midaf-ternoon. As they turned off the road and moved to within sight of the place, James said, ‘‘For a village it looks rather prosperous.’’

Owyn laughed. ‘‘I guess. It was a village for a couple of hundred years, but became a busy farming center about fifty years ago. Since the fire in the keep forced my uncle to move into the village, about three years ago, all business is conducted down here. I think he and his household account for a third of the houses here in the village.’’

‘‘Fire?’’ asked Jimmy as they reached the outer buildings.

‘‘What was that?’’

‘‘No one knows,’’ said Owyn. ‘‘The story is my uncle was having some work done in one of the lower chambers and a fire broke out, working its way up through the building, gutting it and making it unsafe to live in. There had already been a collapse in the lower tunnels, where my uncle was expanding his wine cellar. My cousin Neville died in that collapse. He was a few years older than Ugyne and me. He was an odd boy; it always seemed to me his father didn’t care much for him. Ugyne was always Uncle Corvallis’s favorite.’’ He was lost in memory a moment, then returned to the present. ‘‘Any-way, that basement was just sealed off, with my cousin’s un-claimed body still under tons of rock.

‘‘The fire started not far from there, and the maid who is blamed for starting it died in the flames, so no one is quite 156

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sure how it began. It burned up from below, weakening timbers and causing floors and walls to collapse. Uncle’s been telling everyone he was going to repair everything and move back in someday, but so far we’ve seen little proof of it.’’

They rode down the main street of the village, a broad thor-oughfare that ended in a large square, dominated by a fountain and three other streets which ran off at odd angles to the one on which they rode. ‘‘That house over there,’’ said Owyn, turning his horse so they could ride around the fountain. The afternoon market was under way, and the buyers and sellers ignored the three riders for the most part, though one or two gave Gorath a second glance.

They reached the front of the Baron’s house and a stableboy ran over, and said, ‘‘Master Owyn! It’s been years.’’

Owyn smiled. ‘‘Hello, Tad. You’re caring for horses now?’’

The boy, no more than twelve or thirteen years old, nodded.

‘‘Yes, sir. Now that we have no proper stable, the Baron’s keeping his guests’ mounts over at the inn.’’ He pointed to an inn directly opposite the Baron’s house. It was dominated by a sign of a wood duck’s head. ‘‘I’ll arrange rooms for you.’’

Owyn smiled. ‘‘You’re telling me my uncle won’t be happy to see me and offer me a room?’’

The boy nodded. ‘‘He’s not really happy to see anyone, these days, Master Owyn. If you were here alone, he might offer, but with your friends . . . ?’’ He smiled apologetically and said no more.

Owyn sent him off with the horses and instructions to get them one large room for the night.

They mounted steps to the large house. James glanced around, and said, ‘‘This house dwarfs the rest in the village.’’

Owyn smiled at the understatement. The rest of the village ranged from simple huts of wattle and daub with thatch to some two-story wooden houses with small gardens. The inns were the only buildings that matched the Baron’s residence.

‘‘It used to be an inn, but fell on hard times. My uncle bought it and converted it to his own use. There is a stable in the rear, but it’s occupied by his company of personal guards.’’

Lowering his voice, Owyn said, ‘‘Like many minor nobles, my uncle has more rank than money. The rents are modest, the 157

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taxes to the Duke of Cheam considerable, and my uncle has never been what you would call an enterprising man.’’

They knocked upon the door. The door opened a crack. A servingwoman of middle years peeked through, and when she saw Gorath in his armor standing before her, her eyes widened and her complexion turned pale. ‘‘Hello, Miri,’’ said Owyn, coming into her field of vision. ‘‘It’s all right. They’re with me.’’

The woman said, ‘‘Master Owyn,’’ and swung the door wide.

‘‘Could you please tell Uncle Corvallis we’re here?’’

The woman nodded and hurried off. A few minutes later a tall man, affecting a velvet coat and lace-front shirt, with far too many rings, arrived and said coolly, ‘‘Nephew, we had no word of your arrival.’’ He cast a disapproving eye on James and Gorath.

‘‘That’s all right, Uncle. We intrude. We’ve already made arrangements to stay at the inn across the square. May I present to you Seigneur James, Squire to Prince Arutha, and our companion, Gorath. Gentlemen, my uncle, Baron Corvallis of Cavell.’’

At the mention of a relationship to the Prince of Krondor, Baron Corvallis’s attitude softened slightly. He nodded at James, and said, ‘‘Seigneur.’’ Looking at Gorath as if he didn’t know what to make of him, he said, ‘‘Elven sir, welcome.’’ He made a sweeping gesture, and said, ‘‘If you will join me in my parlor, I’ll send for some wine.’’ He signaled to the servingwoman, and said, ‘‘Miri, a bottle of wine and four goblets.’’

They followed the Baron into a hallway through what had been the old common room of the inn, now divided into several different rooms. The rear stairway to the upper rooms was visible at the end of the entrance hall, and James absently wondered if the old bar was still intact. Apparently he would never know, as they turned into a corner room with two large windows, overlooking the village square. The Baron indicated three chairs and took a fourth for himself. ‘‘What brings you to Cavell Village, Seigneur?’’

‘‘The Prince’s business,’’ said James. ‘‘There was some trouble down in Romney, and, as an outgrowth of that, we’re investigating rumors of Nighthawks returning to the Kingdom.’’

At mention of Nighthawks, the Baron almost levitated out 158

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of his chair. ‘‘Rumors!’’ he shouted. ‘‘They are not rumors.

There is wicked slaughter being done here in the North, and I have sent reports to my lord the Duke of Cheam. They have tried to kill me three times!’’

James attempted to look concerned. ‘‘It was those very things that brought me here. The Prince is adamant, as is his brother the King’’—Lyam probably had no idea what was happening, but James had long ago learned that dropping the King’s name from time to time was a very powerful thing to do—‘‘can’t countenance the idea of unprovoked assaults upon their nobles.’’

At mention of the King, the Baron seemed almost reassured.

‘‘Good, it’s about time.’’

James said, ‘‘Why don’t you tell us of your situation.’’

His face flushed with emotion, the Baron spoke quickly and with anger. ‘‘Three years ago a maid died in a fire that started near the abandoned wine cellar. At the time, I thought it was merely a tragic accident, but now I’m convinced it was but the first attempt on my life.

‘‘A year ago, while out hunting, a band of riders, all clad in black, appeared on the ridgeline and rode at us with weapons at the ready. Only a fox flushed by my hounds saved me, as the animal bolted across a field before the attackers, and the pursuing hounds caused their horses to falter. Lost my best hound that day.’’

He motioned to Miri, who had appeared at the door, to serve his guests. ‘‘Then last month, I was shot at by men from behind cover. The arrow cut my tunic, here.’’ He pointed to his shoulder. ‘‘A hand’s span lower, and I’d be a dead man.’’

James glanced at Owyn, who nodded slightly, indicating the Baron wasn’t exaggerating.

Baron Corvallis continued. ‘‘I dare not leave my own house, save perhaps to visit the inn with personal guards on all sides.

My daughter disobeys me and runs like a common child across the fields and consorts with all manner of questionable riffraff.

She should be meeting respectable suitors at her age, but instead she walks through the fields with . . . a despicable creature who woos her with sweet lies.’’

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Owyn tried to look serious, but was obviously amused by something. He said, ‘‘Who is this foul being, Uncle?’’

‘‘A man of commerce! Ugyne should be accepting court from the sons of Barons, Earls, even Dukes, but not a common merchant. My solicitor Myron loves her, and while lowborn, has some ties to nobility. I would suffer him to ask for her hand if she would settle down, but she’s filled with fanciful notions of romance and adventure, irritating enough traits in a son, but utterly unacceptable in a daughter.’’

‘‘Does this agent of chaos have a name, Uncle?’’ asked Owyn.

Nearly spitting, Corvallis said, ‘‘Navon du Sandau! I know he is a criminal. He wears clothing of costly weave and rides the finest black horse I have seen, yet he speaks little of his commercial enterprises. He claims to be a factor for several rich families and nobles, as well as an agent for trading concerns in the South and West. Yet I have never seen him on an errand of business; rather he is mysteriously absent or hanging around, wooing my daughter.’’

Owyn sipped at his wine, then asked, ‘‘Where is Ugyne, Uncle?’’

‘‘Probably out near the road, wandering the fields, waiting for snow to fall or Navon to arrive.’’

James took another drink of the somewhat indifferent wine, and said, ‘‘We’ve imposed upon your hospitality long enough.’’ He stood, and said, ‘‘We’ll investigate this as quickly as we can and see what can be done to end these threats on the peace of your village.’’

‘‘Thank you, Seigneur,’’ said the Baron. He said, ‘‘Owyn, give my regards to your father and mother when next you see them.’’ He nodded at Gorath as the moredhel walked past.

Unsure of what to say, he merely nodded again.

At the door, he said, ‘‘Owyn, if you’re in the village next Sixthday, do me the pleasure of dining with us. Bring your friends.’’

The door closed, and James laughed. ‘‘That gives us five days to find what we’re looking for and leave before he’s forced to make good on his offer.’’

Owyn said, ‘‘My uncle is a difficult man in the best of times, but he is genuinely frightened.’’

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‘‘Even I, who know not your race that well, could tell that,’’

said Gorath. ‘‘Yet one thought bothers me.’’

‘‘What?’’ asked James. ‘‘Only one?’’

‘‘Among many,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘If the Nighthawks had truly wanted him dead, he would be dead. The dogs interrupting the attack on horse, perhaps. But a near miss by an archer seems improbable.’’

‘‘Having faced the Nighthawks several times, I’ll agree,’’

said James. They entered the Duck’s Head Inn.

The common room was relatively uncrowded, it still being afternoon. The innkeeper crossed from behind the bar, and said, ‘‘You’re the gentlemen in to see the Baron?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ said James.

‘‘I’m Peter the Grey,’’ he said with a slight bow, ‘‘and I have the privilege of owning this establishment. Your rooms are ready anytime you are, and we have a full board and a choice of wines and ale.’’

‘‘Ale,’’ said Gorath. ‘‘I have little affection for wine.’’

James laughed. ‘‘Given the Baron’s choice in wine, I don’t blame you.’’

Owyn nodded. ‘‘You can’t imagine what it would have been had you not been a member of the Prince’s court.’’

Peter the Grey’s eyebrows shot up. ‘‘A member of the Prince’s court? Well, then, I best ensure we only serve the finest. A
member
, gentlemen!’’

As Peter hurried away, James called after, ‘‘And food, please.’’

They sat, and Owyn said, ‘‘Sorry you had to endure the ramblings of my uncle. Compared to the troubles we’re investigating, his woes must be pathetic by comparison.’’

James was thoughtful. ‘‘Perhaps, but there may be a connection here. I’m not quite sure what it is, but why would the Nighthawks harass your uncle, yet not kill him?’’

‘‘To keep him frightened,’’ suggested Gorath.

Just then Peter the Grey arrived with the ale and placed frosty mugs before each of them. James sipped and nodded with appreciation. ‘‘Wonderful.’’

‘‘Ale from the Grey Towns, sir, and we keep it cold.’’

‘‘You ship ice down here?’’

‘‘No,’’ said Peter. ‘‘There are deep caves not too far from 161

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here where I leave my barrels. I sell it too quickly for it to warm up before the barrel’s empty.’’

James smiled. ‘‘Situated as you are directly across the square from the Baron’s home, you must see him a lot.’’

Peter shook his head. ‘‘Hardly at all, truth to tell. The Baron only leaves his home rarely, and then always with armed guards.’’ He picked up his tray, and said, ‘‘I’ll bring some food straightaway, sir.’’

James said, ‘‘Something is eating at my mind, but I can’t quite pin it down.’’

‘‘Something to do with my uncle?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ said James, ‘‘but Gorath has pointed out the one thing in this that makes no sense: why go to the trouble of frightening the Baron, but not kill . . .’’ Suddenly James’s eyes widened. ‘‘Peter!’’ he called.

The patron of the inn returned in a hurry. ‘‘Sir?’’

‘‘What was it you just said about the Baron, about you not seeing him.’’

‘‘I just said the Baron leaves his home only rarely, and then with armed guards.’’

‘‘When did this start?’’

‘‘Right after the Nighthawks started hunting him, I guess.’’

‘‘You know about the Nighthawks?’’ asked James.

‘‘Well, we know what people say.’’

‘‘And what would that be?’’