The White Mists of Power (12 page)

He listened as he walked, hearing the ragged clip of another foot, the off-rhythm sound of a person walking too far away to see his quarry. Afeno touched Byron’s arm and put a finger to his lips. Byron frowned, listening too, and then he nodded.

Afeno waved Byron ahead and dropped back. The street led out of the city. If this took him longer than he expected, the others would find their way to the east gate.

Afeno half ran to the side of the road. He hid behind a large stone gate corner. The stone was cold against his fingers and his breathing sounded rough in his ears. He took breaths shallowly and listened, hearing the shuffling of Byron and the others grow faint and the single footsteps come closer. He peered around the edge, careful to keep his head in shadow. A retainer in a brown and tan uniform–Lord Dakin’s colors–followed the path Byron had left in the road. Afeno swallowed. Retainers never traveled alone. Another had to be with him, guarding against an attack.

Afeno wiped his hands on his pants and thought for a moment. He had never done anything like this alone. Magic had always helped him, thinking up the operation and telling Afeno what to do. Afeno hadn’t done well on his own. The last person he had toughed had hit him and knocked him out.

If he and Magic were doing this, one would search for the hidden retainer, while the other attacked this retainer. But Afeno couldn’t do both. He had to find the hidden retainer, but he couldn’t let this one get away. But he wasn’t working alone. Byron had heard the footsteps too. If Afeno couldn’t take care of the first retainer, Byron would.

The retainer passed the gate. He moved just quickly enough to keep the group in sight. The other retainer had to be moving too, keeping his companion in view. Afeno waited, breathing soundlessly. The retainer disappeared, and so did the sound of his footsteps. Afeno’s body began trembling from staying in the same position too long. Then he heard it, an odd rustle that didn’t fit into the hum of the quiet neighborhood. He glanced down the street, seeing nothing, then seeing a movement in the nearby shadows. The retainer stepped out and darted along the edge of the road to duck in behind Afeno’s stone post.

They stared at each other for a moment–the retainer’s face was chubby and red from too much ale consumed over too many years–and then Afeno rammed forward, shoulder first, into the retainer’s stomach. The man fell back against the road, landing with an oof. The man reached for Afeno, knocking him over. They rolled for a minute, Afeno reaching, grabbing for something. He finally found a rock and clubbed the man on the side of the head. The retainer collapsed, his bulk on top of Afeno. Afeno pushed the man away. The man was out. Afeno went through his uniform and found four gold pieces and a dagger. Afeno slid the gold into his boot. Holding the dagger, he went after the other retainer.

Afeno ducked in and out of shadows, using the same method as the man he had knocked out. Within a few minutes he saw the retainer walking steadily in the moonlight. The retainer wasn’t as big as his companion, but he moved with an ease that suggested strength. Afeno caught up, then leaped on the man’s back from the shadows, and grabbed his mouth. The retainer tried to shake Afeno off, but he held tightly and pulled up on the man’s chin. The retainer grabbed for Afeno’s wrist, holding it, pulling down. Afeno maintained his grip. He brought the dagger up with his other hand and with one swift, deep, sideways movement he slashed the man’s throat.

Warm blood gushed on Afeno’s hand as he let go and jumped away. The retainer reached for his throat, making gurgling sounds as he spun. He fell to his knees and then toppled forward, the blood leaving a shiny black pool in the dirt.

Afeno wiped the dagger on the retainer’s uniform, then searched the man. He found five gold pieces, a few rounds, a dagger, and a sheathed sword. Afeno removed the sheath and tested the sword. It was too long to wrap around his hip, so he attached it to his waist. Then he stopped.

He had nine gold pieces, more than enough to keep himself for a while, and weapons to defend himself. And he had just proven to himself that he could work alone. He didn’t need Byron, didn’t need to leave Nadaluci. He slipped the dagger in his boots. He could survive here now, maybe wait for Magic and kill him if he returned.

Afeno turned and started down the hill. The other retainer was beginning to move. Beyond him, Afeno could see the torches still burning in the poorer sections of the city. He had nothing here and no one who cared. When the nine gold pieces ran out, he had no guarantee of additional money. Byron at least would pay him and take him somewhere new, somewhere interesting. Magic would never come back, and even if he did, Afeno wouldn’t kill him. He would probably work with him again until the next time Magic cheated him, a few months down the road.

He seemed to be doing circles in the dust. He turned around again and ran past the dead retainer. The blood was running along the side of the street, leaving a black stain in the quiet neighborhood. As Afeno reached the crest of the hill, he could see the others walking slowly in the moonlight. He ran down the street, kicking up stones and dust in his haste, and stopped when he reached them.

“Good,” he said and continued walking. Afeno felt some of the energy leave him. Byron hadn’t even asked for details. Magic had always wanted details. Afeno followed, keeping a small distance between himself and the others. Byron had trusted him to get the job done, and he had. That was enough–for now.

iv

When they reached the gate, dawn painted itself on the horizon. Red and gold wisps of clouds decorated the pale sky. No beggars lined the walls on the east gate, and the sleepy gatekeeper seemed surprised to let through such a tired party on foot.

On this side of the city the forest was thinner. The trees were scraggly and no overgrowth covered the ground between them. Byron kept them on the road. Seymour felt more relaxed now that they were away from the city. The air smelled fresher and the only sounds were familiar–an occasional twitter of a bird, the rummaging of an animal in the trees.

Byron walked beside him, the two boys a pace or two behind. “What’s bothering you, Seymour?” Byron asked. “You haven’t been the same since we entered the city.”

“Nothing.” Seymour trudged forward. He was tired. He hadn’t slept in almost two days. He had been frightened and on the move most of the time. He had carried the valise most of the way, too, and his arm was growing tired.

“If we’re going to travel together, we need to trust each other,” Byron said.

“Trust?” Seymour let out a chuckle. He concentrated on the trees ahead and the early morning sunlight filtering through the leaves.

“Hmmm.” Byron took the valise from Seymour’s hand. Seymour felt as if he had grown ten pounds lighter. “You think I told the Lady Jelwra the truth, don’t you?”

Seymour didn’t even nod.

“Well, I didn’t. I’ve been honest with you. My name is Byron and I was Lord Dakin’s bard. Before that I was bard to Lord Lafa. A bard must learn everything there is to know about a region. And there is a beautiful song about Kinsmail. The ballad tells the story I told the lady. I was a bit worried when she said I looked familiar. I sang for her often at Lord Lafa’s manor.”

Their boots scuffled against the dirt. A bird flew above them, chittering. The sunlight had grown warmer, but the shaded road was still cool. “Did the hounds chase you off Lord Lafa’s land?” The question sounded more sarcastic than Seymour had planned.

“No.” Byron’s smile held no warmth. “Lord Lafa was more creative. He used my reputation to get rid of me.” He shifted the valise to his other hand. “I had been in Lord Lafa’s service for nearly two years and during that time had had my share of women. I was willing if they were willing, but I was also very careful, if you know what I mean, Seymour.

“One afternoon, Lord Lafa called me into his great room. He sat there with three of his retainers and accused me of impregnating a village girl. The retainers swore they had seen me in her company and they probably had. I liked her, but she wasn’t interested in me. I found out why later. She already had a lover. Lord Lafa.

Seymour sighed. He wondered where Byron picked up his information. Seymour felt as if he had lived in darkness his entire life. He wasn’t sure he wanted to walk into the light. No one seemed to like Byron, and Seymour wanted to stay out of trouble. “Was your reputation the only reason Lord Lafa picked you?”

“I told you when you first met me, Seymour, that I’m a troublemaker.” Byron shook his head slightly. “I was no different then.”

The clip-clop of horses and the rumble of carriage wheels echoed behind them. The carriage was moving rapidly, and Seymour and Byron moved to the side of the road. Seymour glanced back to see if the boys had moved as well. They had.

The driver slowed the carriage as it approached. Seymour recognized the white horses and white banners flying from the carriage corners. His palms grew moist. He didn’t want the Lady Jelwra to know where they were. She might send word to Lord Dakin.

The carriage stopped when it reached Byron and Seymour. The Lady Jelwra opened the carriage door. Inside, Seymour could see plush white seats and bright blue trim.

“Although I was sorely tempted.” She laughed, a faint, tinkly sound almost like a wind chime. Seymour thought the laugh did not suit her. “Don’t you trust anyone, Sir Geoffry?”

“I trust quite a few people, milady. You are not one of them.”

Her smile faded to a pout, but her eyes still sparkled. “I’ve never had a man turn down a ride with me.”

“Lady,” Byron said, his tone husky, “someday I will ride with you. But not today. Think of it merely as an opportunity postponed.”

The lady stepped back into the carriage and closed the door. “I will,” she said, then tapped on the roof with her fan. The driver clucked at the horses and the carriage rode off.

Chapter 8

Adric leaned on his pitchfork. His side ached and he felt so tired. He hated the stable, hated pitching hay. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since Rogren found him. First the pain was too great, and then, when he was just starting to feel better, Rogren put him to work. Cassie was nice, but she couldn’t stand up to Rogren. Adric had barely been able to stand that first day, but he had managed to get some work done.

He sighed and dug his fork into the hay. The stable was clean, and the odors of leather, hay, and tack had faded into the background. He had even become used to the noise.

No one seemed to be looking for him. No guards showed up at the door, no questions on the street. He tried to send word through retainers and other customers at the stables that he wanted to see the king’s people, but no one came. He wanted to go home, but he was afraid to leave here, afraid that Rogren might not take him back. Then he would be out on his own with no protection.

Not that Rogren was much protection. He had beaten Adric one afternoon when he found the boy resting in the hay. Adric’s side had hurt much worse after that, but he never slacked off, he always worked.

The stable doors eased open, letting in a sliver of sunlight, and Milo entered, lugging buckets. Water sloshed over the sides of the wooden buckets and left a trail on the floor. Milo set them down and went outside for more. Adric kept working. He knew that Milo was working twice as hard to cover for his own inabilities. And Milo had been patient, teaching Adric how to pitch hay and clean tack.

Adric felt his heart in his throat. Milo poured one of the buckets into the trough. “They say he died of some disease,” Milo said. “There’s talk in town that the whole royal family has it and they’re all going to die. The royal consort has it and she lost the child she was carrying. So we’re going to have to work twice as hard today to enjoy tomorrow.”

“The prince is dead?” Adric repeated. They had stopped looking for him. They thought they couldn’t find him, so they declared him dead. And his mother lost the baby. All because of him.