The Jack of Souls (15 page)

Blue-black blood, and skin the same.

Moreover, his breastplate had been punched to accommodate a substantial belly, and his armored legs seemed so comparatively scrawny they might have belonged to his tailor.

Harric stared as the old knight swabbed his sunburned pate and fished out a fat roll of ragleaf from a saddlebag.

“Think you could find me a spark around here?” said the knight, in a voice hoarse and weary. “Might as well have a quiet smoke while I can.”

Hawkers and emigrants who hadn’t fled out the gates or crammed the already crowded porch now peered from crannies between stalls or from rooftops of the sturdier booths. Heads massed in windows above, drawn to the sudden silence in the market. The air became eerily still, as all ears strained for the conversation at the cart.

Before Harric could move to fetch the old knight a flame, Caris emerged from the crowd on the porch, a burning spitfire punk in hand. The rider raised a bristled eyebrow at the sight of her, apparently taken aback by her size or unfeminine clothes. Nevertheless, when she halted at his stirrup without fear or flattery, he leaned down to receive the flame.

The creak of his leather harness pierced the stillness. “Much obliged, girl.”

The old knight puffed his ragleaf to life, and sighed. He sat back and regarded the Sapphire and his men where they now stood across the market at the south palisade, blocking his retreat to the ferry. It seemed they expected him to continue north on the Hanging Road, as they did not block the north gate. The Sapphire returned the rider’s gaze, unmoving.

Since the old man was not an immortal, Harric reasoned, he must have stolen the Phyros. The Sapphire, in turn, probably intended to steal it from him, or why else would his company travel with identities concealed?

Harric felt a surge of admiration for the old knight. What gall he had to steal a Phyros! It was a deed itself worthy of a ballad.
The ballad of the Jack-Knight and the Sapphire.

The old thief clamped the ragleaf between square, smoke-stained teeth, and dug a purse from his saddle. He grimaced, sending a web of wrinkles from his eyes. “Looks like the market’s closed down for me, but I have a great need, at present, for a pair of feed sacks.”

From across the market, the Sapphire locked gaze with Harric. The nobleman moved his head just perceptibly to the side, as if to remind Harric of his order. To Harric it seemed not a nobleman, but his mother, who glared imperiously from the blue enameled armor.
A hanging, Mother?
he asked her memory.
Was my sin so great you doomed your only son to hang?

The old anger burned, and his lip curled involuntarily.

“Where do you want the sacks?” he said, shifting his eyes to the Phyros thief.

“In the saddle packs, son. On the second pony.”

Harric slipped off the cart and hefted a sack of oats to his shoulder, nodding to Caris. She shouldered another sack of oats, and he followed her to the pony. As she passed the Phyros, the rider hauled the beast’s head to the other side and held it there, snorting and champing its bit, as if it might otherwise lash out in fury. Caris never flinched. She seemed oblivious to her danger, scanning the beast greedily, perhaps with horse-touched senses Harric could only imagine, eyes wide, nostrils flaring to scoop every particle of information from the legendary creature. For someone more attuned to horses than fellow humans, he guessed it was a dream for her to be so near. She’d probably sensed its approach all the way from the stables, and come running.

Once past the Phyros, they approached the two mortal ponies that followed on tethers. The first was a gangly spare mount draped from nose to crupper in a tournament caparison made from the same faded green as the half-cover draping the hindquarters of the Phyros. The last was a stocky pony with saddle packs and a rider who appeared to be hiding under a blanket. A captive? Drugged and bound to the saddle?

Harric quelled an urge to peek under the blanket, and dumped the oat sack in the saddle pack.

This was his time to flee. Rudy and his men were paralyzed. The Sapphire was still at the south end of the market. The deserted north road beckoned, but he couldn’t run; curiosity and ambition held him thrall. What if the old knight would help him? How much better to ride out with a Phyros as escort?

Harric clambered back onto his cart and met the old man’s gaze. “I helped you. Now I need your help. Take me with you. Just far enough to get me out of Gallows Ferry. I could ride your spare mount till we gain the next valley.”

The old man gave a sad smile. “No one rides her, son. She’d throw anyone who tried. But you’ll find your way. You don’t look like a marked man to me.”

“Funny you should say that—” Harric began, but the old knight cut him off with an impatient wave, and the Phyros started walking.

“There’s my thanks, son,” he said, tossing a purse to Harric. “Go north one day. And when you do, ask for me, Sir Willard.”

A drunk on the porch guffawed at the joke. “Sir Willard! The Champion!”

As the old knight rode north from the market and through the north gate, Harric sprang from the cart to sprint after, but Rudy’s cronies had snapped back into position and stood ready for him. He slid to a halt and spun to run south for the servant entrance beside the porch, only to see the Sapphire’s squire had spurred his horse from the south gate to meet him.

“Pox!” Harric veered for the crowd on the porch stairs, which began to part for him.

“You let him pass, and you’ll
all
hang!” Rudy bellowed from above.

The crowd panicked. Hard hands repelled Harric, who whirled to face the squire as he reined in behind. The squire’s horse danced sideways amidst the tinker’s ironware, blocking Rudy’s cronies from the north side, but also blocking the road for the Sapphire, who left the south gate in pursuit of the Phyros.

To Harric’s astonishment, the squire seemed interested not in Harric, but in someone on the stairs—Lyla, it seemed, whom Harric had not noticed among the others on the lower stairs.

“Pursue!” the Sapphire commanded his squire, pointing after the Phyros.

The squire showed no more awareness of his master than of Harric. With a wild look in his eye, he planted his lance in the crotch of his armor and beckoned to Lyla, grinning. When she turned to flee up the stairs, he swept the lance in her wake, caught her skirts from behind, and lifted them high.

At that moment the Sapphire drove his horse into the squire’s, making a grab for his reins. The squire maneuvered aside, but the jostling of his horse thrust his lance with more force than he’d probably intended. The spear lifted Lyla’s skirts past her ears and over her shoulder, pitching her face-first into the stairs, where the spear bit deep in the planks and pinned her. The squire burst into laughter, even as his master swore. Had the Sapphire simply forced his way past his squire through the cluttered bottleneck, he’d have been well on his way to the north gate, but he clearly hadn’t anticipated his squire’s rebellious behavior.

Just as astonishing was Caris, who leapt from the top of the stairs to land with both boots on the lance, snapping it with a loud report.

The squire blinked in surprise as she slapped the stub aside and seized his reins.

“Was that noble?” she spat. “Was that knightly? You cob! You runt!”

Harric had never seen her speak so many words in public. But even as he marveled at the change, his own spirits buoyed with a sudden sense of gleeful invulnerability. His heart swelled, muting his thinking and compelling him into motion like a leaf on a stream. He turned and marched up the now emptied stairs to Lyla’s side, where he wrenched the broken spear from the planking and freed her dress. The moment she gained her feet, she rushed weeping into the lodge.

Caris stared, eyes unfocused, in a horse-touched trance clearly directed at the squire’s horse, which began to kick out at the Sapphire’s stallion, forcing him to retreat. When the squire reached to draw his sword, Harric leapt to prevent him. He’d been standing at the same height on the stairs as the squire in his saddle, so his leap brought him near enough to grab the hilts of the weapon with one hand. Holding tight, he crashed against the horse and hung against the stirrup, one foot flailing for balance as the other just skimming the mud.

The horse bucked, nearly unhorsing Harric and the squire together, and drawing a string of curses from what Harric assumed was the Sapphire.

The squire beat at Harric’s arm and tried to pry his fingers from the hilt.

All but a tiny corner of Harric’s mind rejoiced, lifted by an invading glee. Only that tiny corner was his own, and that corner was horrified. It watched helplessly, unable to affect his will. Then the euphoria abandoned him as quickly as it had come, and the spectating corner snapped back to the fore.

He let go of the squire and stumbled backward into the stairs.

The squire looked just as bewildered as Harric felt. The youth stared about, hands trembling, eyes wide. When his sapphire master finally grabbed the squire’s reins and hauled him toward the north gate, the squire stammered apologies. With one hand he groped absently for the spear cup, as if he couldn’t recall where he’d put his lance; the other felt for the purse no longer hanging at his side.

A stab of panic hit Harric.
Gods leave me…did I lift his purse?

Harric passed a hand across the cargo slip in his sleeve, and found the familiar weight of a coin purse against his skin.
In front of all those eyes! How could I do that?
His mother’s most basic lessons as a child screamed against such a lift. Even if no one saw the act itself, the squire would surely guess who took it, which would be as good as proof to the lord.

Caris uttered a low cry beside him. He turned in time to see her crash to her knees on the stairs and ball up like someone had slammed her in the gut. Her eyes clamped shut, hands pressed to her ears. He’d seen her react this way before, when something brought her abruptly from the world of horses to the world of people, or when the world of people confused or overwhelmed her. His hand went out to comfort her, but then pulled back, as he recalled a similar occasion when she’d rewarded his attentions with a boot to the shin.

The crowd around them muttered and pointed. Rudy emerged at the top of the stairs, poised to fall upon Harric, but the stableman held off when he saw Caris. Horse-touched as she was, she was bigger and stronger than he, and she wore a very large sword at her side. Rudy bit a lip, unwilling to approach even when she was clearly incapacitated. Harric crouched beside her, his eye on Rudy. When she finally lowered her hands and opened her eyes, she stared at Harric without recognition.

“You all right?” he asked, chancing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She nodded, just perceptibly. Then she climbed ponderously to her feet, pale as plague, and pushed past Rudy to stagger into the lodge.

Rudy grinned like a dog. Harric bolted.

He leapt over the porch rail and fled south down the market for a servant door in the side of the inn. A horseman blocked his path, and Harric skidded to a halt, nearly slipping beneath its hooves. Three others closed behind him, hard eyes and Sapphire liveries surrounding him. He’d been too panicked to notice the nobleman had left his grooms behind.

Harric darted for a gap between them, but a spear butt jammed his cheek, and he spun to his knees in an explosion of pain.

“Why’d you do it, boy?”

“Forget your bastard colors?”

“I was witched!” Harric choked. “It wasn’t me!”

The circle of horses widened and stopped. A half-dozen spear points angled in at him.

When three of the grooms dismounted, Rudy stepped forward to take their reins. “I been waiting nineteen year for this bastard to get what he deserves.” He crammed a podgy fist into Harric’s gut, doubling Harric to his knees. “No fancy words, lord-boy? What a shame.”

The grooms hauled Harric to his feet. Harric felt the eyes of friends and acquaintances on the porch as they pushed and dragged him into the stable yard. Once out of view from the porch, the largest groom slammed him against the side of the inn and stripped his purse from his belt. He opened the purse and peered inside. “Gods leave us! Look at the coin he’s got!” He showed the others, who gaped. A sly look entered his eye. “I’ll wager there’s more where that came from.”

A second groom flashed teeth that had gone orange at the roots with little jackets of tartar. He swung a fist at Harric’s head, delivering a knuckle punch to his temple. White fire shot through Harric’s skull. “Where’s your room, Bastard? Where do you keep your things?” The groom started a game of jabbing him in the ribs with pointed knuckles, which the others quickly joined, asking, “Where?” with every jab.

“Up there!” Harric said, gesturing to the garret.

“Tie his hands,” said the biggest groom, apparently the leader of the three. The third groom bound Harric’s wrists behind his back.

Harric knew what they planned. When they got to his room, they’d rob him blind. But in that indignity he also saw a glimmer of hope, for he knew more than one way in and out of the place. If they were going to imprison him somewhere, there could be no better place.

When the third groom tied Harric’s hands, the leader knuckled him in the ribs. “Show us.”

Harric limped across the yard toward the back entrance to the south wing. His eye felt like it was full of mud. His head throbbed, and his jaw ached when he clamped his teeth. With his tongue he felt a chipped tooth.

Out of habit, his eyes lit upon his mother’s solitary grave cairn where it stood at the edge of the cliff above the river. He’d piled it himself, a tower of stones as tall as he could reach. Now it seemed an accusing finger against the dying orange of the sky. Old anger burned beneath his breastbone, giving him new strength in anger.
Don’t celebrate, Mother. I haven’t joined you yet.

They entered the lodge and climbed four flights of narrow stairs to his room. Leader opened the door with the key from Harric’s purse and went in. The groom with tartared teeth grinned and shoved Harric after. When they were all inside, the third groom closed the door and leaned against it, arms crossed, as the others ransacked the place. They pushed aside dishes in the cabinets, cracking them to pieces on the floor. They dumped drawers, stripped his weather cloak from its peg, tore sketches from the walls.