Have they gone out yet?
In truth, he had no way of knowing if Alec and Micum had understood the import of his message.
Surely Micum would have found some way to get word in to you if he hadn’t?
Unless the Lerans found some way to gather Alec and Micum up in their web, too.
The two of them were certainly tempting targets: both foreign born, both known friends of an accused traitor. Even Nysander could be implicated on the basis of their long relationship. Seregil’s imagination, not always a kind companion at such times, was soon busy painting alarming scenes of forged letters, sudden arrests, and worse.
Throwing aside the blankets, he stretched his stiff muscles and paced the now familiar confines of the cell—three strides and turn, three strides and turn again. It was doubtful that word would come before dawn even if things went as planned.
He paused at the door, rising on his toes to peer out the grille. Was it midnight yet? An hour before? Two hours past? The blank, silent corridor told him nothing.
Damnation! he raged silently, resuming his restless vigil. By now I’d have done the job and be back home in front of the fire!
Unless, of course, he’d been wrong about the apothecary’s involvement in the first place.
• • •
Alec and Micum met Myrhini in a darkened square near Hind Street. She’d wisely put aside her uniform in favor of a plain tunic and breeches under a dark cloak, though she’d kept her sword. Unrolling an awkward bundle, she handed them two pot-brimmed helmets like those worn by the City Watch.
“Where did you come by these?” asked Micum, trying his on.
“Don’t ask. If things do go wrong, you can pass for some of Tyrin’s men in the dark.”
“This Tyrin of yours, he’s up to this?”
Myrhini nodded. “He has ten men in an alley across from your man’s tenement and two lookouts in the courtyard. They’ve been told to move at the first sign of disturbance inside. I just hope Alec can manage it without getting caught.”
“If I can get in, then I can get out again,” Alec said quietly, tucking his helmet under his arm.
Leaving their horses tethered in the square, the three set off together for Hind Street. Slipping into a narrow alley beside Alben’s building, they took stock of the situation.
The lower floor showed no light between the shutters, nor was any apparent on the upper level, where Alben’s chamber would be. A small window overlooking the alley appeared to be the best point of entry.
Pulling off his boots, Alec climbed onto Micum’s shoulders and peered through a crack in the shutters. The room beyond was quite dark and no telltale sounds of breathing or snoring warned of anyone within. Jiggering the latch inside as quietly as he could, Alec opened the shutter and climbed through.
He smelled candle smoke in the darkness, felt bare floor beneath his feet. Faint candlelight showed at the top of a stairway across the room. As his eyes adjusted, Alec realized with relief that he was in the very room he’d come to burgle. But someone, presumably Alben, was still awake upstairs after all. A creak of floorboards came from overhead, followed by a muffled cough. The sitting room fire had been banked, however, meaning the master of the house was not coming down again before morning.
Alec took a lightstone on a handle from his tool roll and shielded it with one hand as he crept to the door leading to the shop. It had been closed and bolted for the night.
Alec fumbled a leather cone out of his pouch and fitted it over the stone to shield the light.
It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. Running his fingers over the carved moldings that framed the fireplace, he soon struck a loose edge on the thick square base of one of the decorative posts. Working the tip of his dagger under it, he uncovered a deep, narrow cavity in the stonework of the fireplace. Inside lay a long iron box secured with a heavy lock. Hunkering down, he picked the lock and opened the box. Inside were several bundles of documents. His skill at reading was by no means great but he knew Seregil’s large, flowing script and signature well enough to recognize them among the others. One entire packet was made up of letters in Seregil’s hand, some complete, some half finished. There were eleven in all, and several were clearly duplicates of others.
Got you, by the Maker! Replacing the documents, he returned the casket to its hiding place, carefully leaving the concealing bit of stonework slightly askew.
This accomplished, he picked up a small footstool and went back to the window. With one leg hooked over the sill, he tossed the stool into the center of the room with a loud thump and dropped down into the alley. Poised for flight, he and the others listened for an outcry to be raised.
Nothing happened.
“How could they not have heard that? I heard it!” whispered Myrhini.
Micum shrugged. “You’d better give it another try.”
With another boost from Micum, Alec peeked over the sill. The faint glow of candlelight still showed in the stairwell but there was no sign of life.
Climbing in, he briefly considered setting another fire but dismissed the thought; at this time of night the whole place might go up before enough water carriers could be roused. Casting around, he spotted a glazed jar on the mantelpiece. That would do nicely. He smashed it against the fire irons.
This produced an admirable crash and drew startled shouts from upstairs and down. Satisfied, he lunged for the window, caught his foot on the overturned footstool, and went sprawling.
“Is that you, Master Alben?” a quavering voice called from beyond the shop door.
“Damn and blast you, Durnik!” an outraged voice screeched somewhere above. “What in the name of Bilairy’s Bitch are you doing down there?”
Scrambling to his feet, Alec glimpsed a pair of bony ankles at the head of the stairs. He threw himself out the window and tumbled into Micum’s waiting arms.
“That did the trick!” Micum chuckled, clapping the helmet on Alec’s head as the boy hastily pulled on his boots. Together, they hustled off down the alley, while Myrhini disappeared in the opposite direction to make sure of Tyrin’s support.
Stopping at the far end of the alley, Micum and Alec heard Alben cursing his befuddled servant. The shuttered window banged open, then slammed shut again. A moment later they could hear soldiers hammering at the front door of the shop.
The alley window opened again and this time an ungainly figure in a long nightshirt clambered out.
“Bloody hell!” Micum exclaimed in disgust. “Don’t tell me every damn bluecoat is going in the front door?”
The street running behind the building did appear to be unguarded.
“Quick, draw your sword!” Alec whispered, doing the same. His left hand found the lightstone he’d jammed in his pouch and he held it over their heads, hoping the helmet brims would shade their faces.
“You there, stop where you are!” he shouted in the deepest voice he could muster.
Alben clutched the damning strongbox to his chest as he blinked wildly at the sudden light. Panicked by the sight of swords and helmets, he turned tail, rushing down the alley and into the arms of several of Captain Tyrin’s more enterprising men.
Alec quickly covered his light again as Micum called out, “We caught him shinnying out the back window!”
In the ensuing confusion, they slipped away with no trouble at all.
28
A MIDNIGHT INQUISITION
Thero answered the summoner’s knock just before midnight. Accepting the rolled message, he carried it downstairs to Nysander, who was dozing in the sitting room armchair.
Thero shook his master gently by the shoulder. “The Queen’s sent for you.”
Nysander’s eyes blinked open, instantly alert. “Was there a message?”
Thero handed him the little scroll.
Nysander read through it quickly, then rose and brushed the wrinkles from his blue robe. “Nothing of use here, only that I should come at once. Well then, we must simply hop
e for the best.”
“Shall I come with you?”
“Thank you, dear boy, but I think it best for you to remain here for the moment. If something has gone awry, I shall need you available to Micum and Alec.”
At the Palace Nysander made his way alone through the familiar corridors. Despite its rich tapestries and murals, the place had none of the Orëska’s spacious ambience. Part royal residence, part fortress, the walls were thick, the corridors labyrinthine, the doors heavily strapped with ornate metalwork.
The judgment chamber was more forbidding still, and intentionally so. The long room was empty of furnishings except for a black and silver throne on a raised platform at the far end. To approach it, one crossed a chill expanse of polished black floor under the marble gaze of the royal effigies lining the walls. Iron cressets cast a grim, shifting light over the small group already gathered around the throne.
Idrilain acknowledged Nysander’s bow tersely. She wore the crown and breastplate of office tonight, and her great sword lay unsheathed across her knees. The Vicegerent and General Phoria stood on either side of her, looking equally dour.
“We have come into possession of certain documents which may clear Lord Seregil’s name,” Idrilain informed Nysander, laying her hand on a long iron box that lay open on a small table at her elbow. “I thought you should be present at the proceedings.”
“Many thanks, my lady,” Nysander replied, taking his place at the foot of the dais.
Looking up at her eldest daughter, Idrilain motioned for her to proceed.
“Bring the first prisoner!”
At Phoria’s shout, a side door swung open and two guards dragged in a querulous old man in a stained nightshirt. Nysander allowed himself a brief brush across the surface of the accused man’s mind and read a panicked craftiness, a fury to survive.
They were followed by three others: an officer of the Watch, a woman in the robes of the Queen’s High Bailiff, and a young wizard of the Second Degree named Imaneus. Nysander knew this last one well, a talented mind adept frequently called in as verifier at such trials.
The Vicegerent stepped forward and turned a bleak eye on the prisoner.
“Alben, apothecary of Hind Street, you stand accused of forgery and possession of personal papers belonging to a member of the Royal Kin. How plead you?”
Cowering on his knees, Alben mumbled a whining plea.
“Repeat yourself,” the bailiff ordered, leaning closer to listen. “My Lord Barien, the accused maintains that there has been some mistake.”
“A mistake,” Barien repeated tonelessly. “Alben the Apothecary, were you not apprehended by Captain Tyrin of the City Watch while fleeing through a back window in the dead of night with this box in your arms? A box found to contain letters, documents, and missives penned by members of the nobility.”
“A mistake,” Alben whispered again, trembling.
Lifting a sheaf of papers from the box, Barien continued, “Among the documents in this box found upon your person at the time of your arrest are letters and copies of letters. In short, forgeries. Specific charges against you are as follows: first, that you were instrumental in the slander and wrongful condemnation of an innocent and loyal servant of Her Majesty, Queen Idrilain the Second.” Barien paused to select two letters. “Found in your possession is the duplicate of a letter purportedly written by Lord Vardarus í Boruntas Lud Mirin of Rhíminee, the very letter which sent Lord Vardarus to the block. With it, secured with a wax seal identified as your own, was found another, nearly identical letter entirely lacking in the details which damned him.”
Barien lifted another bundle of papers from the box. “Secondly, you are charged with collusion to perpetrate the same heinous crime against Lord Seregil í Korit Solun Meringil Bôkthersa. I myself received a letter identical to the one which I hold here, a letter bearing Lord Seregil’s signature and sealed with Lord Seregil’s mark. In this letter are statements which suggest he was plotting sedition and treason against Skala. Yet here, in addition to the duplicate, I find another letter bearing the identical salutation, signature, and seals, which is in every way innocent in content.”
Honed by years of practice, the Vicegerent’s voice echoed around the cold chamber. “I caution you to speak the truth, Alben the Apothecary. How plead you in the face of this evidence?”
“I—I heard a noise. Last night I heard a noise!” stammered the wretched man. “I went down and found that box. Someone must have thrown it in my window! When I heard the soldiers I panicked, great lord, most honored Queen!”
Standing behind the accused man, Imaneus shook his head.
Impassive as the marble statues of her ancestors, Idrilain signaled to the bailiff, who strode to a side door and knocked. Two warders escorted in an immensely fat woman in a garish brocade night robe.
“Ghemella, gem cutter of Dog Street,” announced the bailiff.
Catching sight of Alben, Ghemella screeched out, “You tell ’em, Alben, you tell how I only did the seal work! You miserable bastard, you tell ’em I didn’t know no more of it than that!”
The accused man buried his face in his hands with a loud moan.
“Bailiff, speak the sentence for forging the documents or seals of a noble,” the Queen ordered, looking sternly at the miserable pair trembling before her.
“The sentence is death by torture,” announced the woman.
Alben groaned again, rocking miserably on his knees.
“My Queen, I am here at your own summons. Might I speak?” asked Nysander.
“I always value your council, Nysander í Azusthra.”
“My Queen, I suggest that it is unlikely that these two acted on their own, but at the behest of another,” said Nysander, choosing his words carefully. “It is certain that Lord Seregil was not approached for the purpose of blackmail, nor was there any such evidence in the case of the late Lord Vardarus. Had these two been acting on their own, surely that would have been their motive.”
Phoria bristled visibly. “Surely you’re not suggesting that it would in any way mitigate the severity of their offense?”
“Certainly not, Your Highness,” Nysander replied gravely. “I only wish to point out that the person who would orchestrate such a deception represents a far greater threat. Should it be determined, as I suspect it will, that the same person is behind the slandering of both Lord Vardarus and Lord Seregil, then we must learn what motivated them to so desperate a course of action.”
“We shall have that information out of these two soon enough!” Barien said, glowering.
“With all respect, my Lord Vicegerent, information gained under torture is not always reliable, even with a wizard in attendance. Pain and fear cloud the mind, making it difficult to read with any certainty.”
“I am quite aware of your theories regarding torture,” Barien returned stiffly. “What is your point?”
“My point, Lord Barien, is that this whole matter is far too grave to trust to such methods. Reprehensible as I find the actions of these creatures, they are inconsequential pawns in a greater game. It is their master whom we must run to ground at all costs.”
As he’d expected, Barien and Phoria still looked dubious but Idrilain nodded approvingly.
“And what is your alternative?” she asked.
“Your Majesty, I humbly suggest that should you, in your great mercy, commute the sentence of the condemned to banishment in exchange for a full and free confession, then we may be a good deal better off in the end. Imaneus can validate whatever information they give.”
Idrilain looked to the younger wizard.
“I have always concurred with Nysander’s opinions regarding confession under torture, my Queen,” said Imaneus.
With a humorless smile, Idrilain turned back to the accused, speaking directly to them for the first time. “What will it be, you two? Full confession for the loss of your right hand and exile—or a red-hot pike up your miserable backsides?”
“Confession
, great Queen, confession!” croaked Alben. “I don’t know the man’s name and I never asked. He had the look of a noble but I’d never seen him before and he hadn’t a Rhíminee accent. But it was the same one both times, for the letters—forgeries, that is—against Vardarus and Lord Seregil.”
“The truth so far, my Queen,” announced Imaneus.
“What other forgeries did you execute for this man?” demanded the Queen.
“Shipping manifests, mostly,” quavered Alben, staring miserably at the floor. “And—” He faltered to a halt, trembling more violently than ever.
“Out with it, man. What else?” barked Barien.
“Two—two Queen’s Warrants,” whispered Alben, naming the document that allowed the bearer access anywhere in the land, including the Palace itself.
“You admit to forging the signature of the Queen herself!” Phoria burst out furiously. “When was this?”
Alben quailed miserably. “Three years ago, it must be now. They weren’t any good, though, when I delivered them.”
“Why not?” Barien’s voice betrayed nothing, but Nysander was surprised to note that the Vicegerent had gone quite pale. Phoria also seemed shaken.
“They hadn’t any seals yet,” whined the wretched man. “I don’t know where he meant to get them. I never kept any copies of the warrants, Your Highness, I swear! Let this wizard be my witness, I knew better than to mess with those!”
“And they never got no Queen’s Seal from me, I swear by the Four!” Ghemella chimed in. Again, Imaneus indicated that the truth had been spoken.
“When did this occur?” Barien asked again.
“Three years ago last Rhythin, my lord.”
“Are you certain? Surely you’ve done hundreds of forgeries. How is it that you recall this particular one so clearly?”
“It’s partly the warrants, my lord. It’s not every day you get a chance at something like that,” Alben quavered. “But there was the manifest business, too. One of them was for a ship called the White Hart, registered out of Cirna. I recall it because I did a favor for my neighbor, putting his lad’s name on the crew list. Only, you see, the ship went down with all hands in the first of the autumn storms less than a month later. The boy was lost.”