The Plague Knight and Other Stories Read online

  “I hope so.” Baltes waved his hand. “The room is this way.” Tregan, Marissa, and I followed him, and an assortment of his kinsmen and servants traipsed along after us.

  The remaining gifts--begemmed goblets, gold plates and trays, rings, bracelets, armor, glazed jars of spice and unguents, furs, and bolts of velvet and silk--glowed in the candlelight. Relatives, political allies, and trading partners had sent presents from as far away as Yanla.

  I’d walked a warrior’s path my whole life long, first as a mercenary, then, primarily, as a master-of-arms, though I still occasionally rented out my blade if the job didn’t require actually riding off to war. So perhaps it was no surprise a splendidly crafted broadsword, with emeralds gleaming in the hilt and scabbard, caught my eye. I hankered to pick it up and try a cut or two, but that would have been gauche and inappropriate.

  So I kept my mind on the task at hand, wandered about, inspected the heaps of gleaming treasure, and tried to think of something useful. “Are we certain,” I asked, “that only the tiara is missing?”

  “Yes,” Baltes said.

  “I need to confer with my colleague,” I said. “We’ll only be a moment.” Conscious once more of the animus with which so many of Baltes’s people regarded me, I led Marissa into the next room.

  “What have you figured out?” she whispered, brushing back a strand of her short black hair.

  “Nothing for certain.”

  “Curse it, Selden, I’m the one who urged them to send for you. Don’t make me look a fool.”

  “Believe me,” I said, “I want to unmask the killer and recover the bauble as much as you do, and not just because Baltes will reward me. To lay the feuds to rest for good.”

  For years, the nobles of Balathex had divided themselves into factions. Each of the five disliked the others, but the Green Peregrines and Snow Lynxes, the most powerful, detested one another with extraordinary virulence. When the fire elemental’s depredations fanned their mutual hatred and suspicion, their enmity nearly plunged the city into outright civil war.

  Strangely enough, that turned out to be a good thing, because it threw a scare into every noble with a particle of sense. In the aftermath, Pivor, a leader of the Snow Lynxes, led a campaign to quell the factions. The forthcoming wedding represented the culmination of his efforts. When Baltes, a widower, married his youngest daughter Lukinda, it ought to lay the rivalries to rest for good and all.

  But only if the wedding came off as planned. On the surface, there was no reason why the murder and burglary, no matter how unfortunate, need prevent it. But my gut warned me that, if left unresolved, such an alarming, inexplicable calamity could bring the old malice and mistrust creeping back.

  “So,” said Marissa, “what did you want to talk about?”

  “First, tell me about Venwell. Did you train him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he an able, seasoned swordsman?”

  “Very much so.”

  I sighed. “I was afraid of that. Now I need to know how hard I can push these folk. I have things to say they won’t like. I won’t mean to asperse their honor, but some may take it that way.”

  She snorted. “Wonderful. Because they don’t like you.” Understandably so, I supposed, since for years, I made my living teaching Lynxes how to kill them. “I don’t know that you dare push them very hard at all.”

  “Damn it, I have to do the job they brought me here to do. Will you back me up?”

  She made a sour face. “Well, I did get you into this, even if I’m starting to regret it.”

  “Let’s rejoin the others.”

  “What do you have to tell us?” Baltes asked.

  “Milord,” I said, “I’m no sage--far from it--but as Marissa told you, sometimes I have an eye for what’s odd about a particular situation. We have several oddities here. For starters, neither the sentries nor the watchdogs outside detected an intruder, nor have we found any sign of forced entry.”

  “What of it?” Tregan asked. “As I understand it, there are thieves skillful enough to sneak into any house.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But consider this, also. Venwell died of cuts to the chest. He saw his killer. Yet he perished without even trying to draw his blade.”

  “Perhaps,” Tregan said, “he froze.”

  Marissa shook her head. “No. I schooled him too well.”

  “It’s possible,” I said, feeling as if I were about to dive from a cliff, “he knew his slayer. If it was someone he trusted, that would explain why he took no alarm until it was too late, even though the killer had a naked sword in his hand. Similarly, if the culprit was someone who lives here in the mansion--or is currently a guest--he wouldn’t need to sneak past the guards and hounds, or break open a window or door.”

  For a moment, everyone just gawked at me. Then a footman said, “But everybody liked Venwell.”

  “That may be,” I replied, “but a thief still couldn’t afford to let him report that he’d seen him stealing the tiara.”

  “Ridiculous,” Tregan spat. “Ours is a wealthy and honorable house. No one here would steal the gift.”

  “Not even a servant?” I asked. “Or the least of your kin, perhaps burdened with gambling debts?”

  “No,” Tregan said, “I don’t believe it.”

  “Have you wondered,” I said, “why the thief took only a single article? A housebreaker could surely have carried away more. But if the murderer never left, if he needed to hide his plunder here in the mansion for the time being, he might have reckoned that the more he stole, the harder it would be to conceal. Or, if he’s a member of the household, it might have shamed him to take more than he reckoned he truly needed.”

  Skinny and sharp-nosed like Tregan but younger, a Keenspur named Dremloc stepped forth from the mass of observers and planted himself in front of me. Here it comes, I thought. At least it looked as if he meant to deliver a formal challenge. I had a fair chance of surviving that, as I wouldn’t if he and all his outraged relations simply assailed me in a pack.

  “You Snow Lynx bastard,” he said. “I say you’re a lia--“

  But just before he could articulate that unforgivable word, Marissa sprang between us. She glared into his eyes, and he flinched. Since she’d trained him, he knew how deadly a combatant she was, and accordingly feared her more than he did me.

  “Master Selden,” she said, “is under my protection. Is that clear?”

  Dremloc scowled, but also inclined his head.

  Baltes turned to me. “Do you have more to say?” he asked.

  I had a nagging sense that I should. That I’d missed things a sharper eye and brain might have discerned. But it would have only have undermined his confidence in me to say so. “You’ve heard my conjectures, Milord. They point to an obvious course of action. Search the mansion, find the tiara, and hope its hiding place reveals who took it.”

  The assembly growled at the prospect of having their quarters and belongings ransacked. Tregan said, “Ridiculous.” Evidently it was a favorite word of his.

  “No,” Baltes said, “it isn’t. Master Selden’s guesses are only that, but they seem plausible. We will search the house, if only to lay the suspicions he’s roused to rest, and you, brother, will try once again to locate the tiara with your sorcery.”

  We organized ourselves into search parties and formulated a plan. I cast a final admiring glance at the broadsword with the emeralds in its hilt, then set forth with my companions.

  The Keenspur mansion was enormous. It took well into the morning to complete our search, and even so, we didn’t look everywhere. Some hiding places simply seemed too unlikely to bother with, and I wasn’t bold enough to suggest that we rummage through Baltes’s or Tregan’s apartments, even if I’d believed it would serve a purpose.

  Our mundane search failed to produce the tiara, nor did Tregan’s divinations fare any better. At the end of it all, standing before Baltes, the magician, and their tired, irritated relations and retainer
s, I did indeed feel “ridiculous.”

  “I’m sorry, Milord,” I said. “I thought I’d reasoned my way to the truth, or a part of it anyway, but it appears I was mistaken.”

  Tregan sneered. “Will you now make inquiries among the robbers and knaves, as we told you to in the first place?”

  “Yes, Milord.” I certainly had no better plan.

  As I walked to the door with as much dignity as I could muster, I heard Dremloc and another young blade muttering in my wake. “This is like sending a weasel to escort the chickens safely into the coop,” my would-be challenger said.

  “What do you mean?” his companion asked.

  “I don’t claim to understand any of this, why the tiara was taken or Venwell had to die. But you can bet your last copper a Lynx is responsible.”

  The seed of suspicion was already sprouting.

  For the next week, I went about mostly in disguise, in the costumes of other lands or with false whiskers gummed to my chin, prowling all night and sleeping by day. Reasoning it would be difficult for a woman to wear the tiara in Balathex, I began my investigations among receivers of stolen goods who specialized in moving them safely out of town. When that availed me nothing, I moved on to the commoner sort of thieves’ market, and bribed whores and tavern keepers to tell if any of the city’s more accomplished housebreakers had lately boasted of a coup, started spending lavishly, or was lying low to avoid hunters like myself. That was of no use, either. If any of the city’s rascals had knowledge of the tiara, it would take a shrewder, subtler agent than me to tease out the information.

  Meanwhile, Balathex commenced a slide back into the hateful, bloody days of yore. Hotheaded young Keenspurs started wearing Green Peregrine tokens, their friends from other houses followed suit, and the fools among the supposedly defunct Snow Lynxes would have felt cowardly had they not responded by displaying their own badges. Soon the Gray Steels, Crimson Orchids, and Sons of the Comet took up the old practice, too. From there, it was a short step to insults, mockery, and scuffles in the street.

  Baltes, Tregan, Pivor, and other leaders of the noble houses did their best to quash the unrest, and at their behest, the City Guards assisted. Thanks to their efforts, the quarrels among the resurgent Snow Lynxes and Green Peregrines, and members of the lesser factions, ended short of grievous harm to any of the principals. But it was only a matter of time before our luck ran out, and I feared that as soon as it did, the blood-feuds would resume in earnest.

  All because a crime that, on the surface, had nothing to do with the grudges and rivalries of old. It was perverse, mad, yet it was happening.

  In due course, I trudged back to Keenspur House to report my lack of progress.

  Somewhat to my surprise, when a lackey admitted me to confer with Tregan and Baltes, I found the latter wearing the broadsword from the wedding gifts. It was contrary to custom to put such a present to use prior to the nuptials, but I could understand why he’d succumbed to the temptation.

  I explained what I’d accomplished, or rather, what I hadn’t. It didn’t take long, as accounts of failure rarely do, so long as a man resists the urge to make excuses.

  “I’m beginning to think,” said Tregan, sneering, “that your success in catching the salamander was a fluke.”

  I was starting to wonder myself, but still had enough pride left to resent his contempt. “Should I infer, Milord, that your efforts to solve our problem with wizardry have proved as futile as my own?”

  The question made him glare.

  “Tell me the truth,” Baltes said. “Is there any point in your poking around the slums any further?”

  I sighed. “I can’t be certain, but probably not.”

  “Then don’t. Tell me what I owe you for your time, and the steward will pay you on your way out.”

  Now that--his assumption that I wasn’t merely stymied but defeated--truly stung me, and perhaps it was the injury to my pride that finally goaded my brain into squeezing forth some semblance of a fresh idea.

  “Please, Milord,” I said. “I don’t want your coin, not until I earn it. I have a further course of action to suggest.”

  He cocked his head. “What?”

  “I’d like to take up residence here from now until the wedding.”

  “Why?”

  I didn’t know myself, really, but had to improvise some sort of answer. “Maybe if I become more familiar with the murder scene, some new insight will occur to me. Or, failing that, maybe I can at least stop the robber from returning and doing any more harm.”

  “Nonsense,” Tregan snapped. “You’re reverting to your first idiot notion, that one of our own family, or loyal retainers, is responsible for the atrocity. You want to spy on us in hope of identifying the culprit.”

  “No,” I said, and wasn’t sure if I was lying or not. I was halfway satisfied that none of the household was guilty, yet likewise suspected that some secret awaited discovery within these walls.

  “You’re aware,” Baltes said, “that the old folly of Green Peregrine and Snow Lynx has flared up again. I’m struggling to put the fire out, and I fear your presence here will feed it. You surely won’t feel particularly welcome.”

  “I can tolerate that,” I said. “Please, Milord. I want what you and Lord Pivor want, to put the feuds and factions behind us forever. If there’s even the slightest chance that my presence here will help accomplish that, or simply lead to the apprehension of Venwell’s killer, isn’t it worth a try?”

  “Perhaps,” Baltes said. “Stay for the time being, and we’ll see how it goes.”

  So began my sojourn in Keenspur House. As the head of the family had warned, few of his kin exerted themselves to show me hospitality. It might have been even more unpleasant if I hadn’t kept to my nocturnal habits, sleeping the mornings away and roaming the mansion late at night, looking for clues that had eluded me before, trying to imagine what had happened on the night of the murder.

  Any huge old pile, no matter how opulent, can turn into a shadowy, echoing, spooky place after the servants turn out the lamps and everyone goes to bed. So it was with the mansion, and perhaps it was that eerie atmosphere that prompted me to recall Venwell’s wide eyes and gaping mouth, and to infer what they actually signified.

  Marissa was wrong. The lad had frozen. Because he’d faced a supernatural assailant, and any man, no matter how well trained a swordsman, can succumb to terror in such circumstances.

  Yet Tregan swore the killing had nothing of the mystical or otherworldly about it, and much as he disliked me, he seemed sincere in his desire to identify the culprit, so what was I to make of that?

  I returned again to the suspicion that the thief dwelled within the mansion. I thought of our search, and one area we’d neglected. Because the family kept it locked, Baltes had the only key, and thus it scarcely seemed a likely or convenient hiding place. It was, moreover, the sort of place folk rarely visit by choice.

  But, though I still possessed no certainties, merely a collection of vague suspicions and intuitions, I decided I wanted to visit it, or at least inspect the entrance. I found an oil lamp that was still burning, lifted it from its sconce, and set off through the hushed, gloomy chambers and corridors. Portraits, busts, and statues seemed to glower as I passed, and suits of plate armor standing on display looked misshapen as ogres.

  Then a pair of figures skulked from the shadows to bar my path.

  It was Dremloc and his crony. Each was only half dressed, with feet bare and shirt unlaced. But despite the inadequacy of their attire, they’d taken the trouble to arm themselves. The flickering yellow light of my lamp gleamed on the smallswords in their hands.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I said. “I’m here to help your family, I’m Lord Baltes’s guest, and if that’s not enough for you, Marissa would take it ill if you harmed me.”

  They didn’t answer, just stalked forward, further into the circle of lamplight, and then I saw what I’d missed before: their eyes were closed.


  Happily, I didn’t freeze, though I admit a chill oozed up my spine. Retreating, I set the lamp down on a table, drew my broadsword, and yelled for help. The Keenspurs spread out to flank me, then rushed in.

  Somnambulism didn’t hinder their swordplay. The slender thrusting blades streaked at me, and I dodged and parried frantically, meanwhile striving to keep either of my opponents from working his way around completely behind me.

  Even if I’d wanted to kill them, I didn’t dare, for fear of their kindred’s retaliation. But neither could I simply defend and defend until one of them got lucky and slipped an attack past my guard. I feinted at the crony’s face, and he jumped back. His retreat bought me a moment to concentrate solely on Dremloc. I parried his next thrust, feinted high, then made a drawing cut to his knee.

  To my relief, the blade sliced his flesh precisely as I’d intended. His leg gave way beneath him, and he fell. But, barring ill fortune, he’d survive and even walk again.

  I heard rushing footsteps as the other youth charged at my back. I spun, parried his thrust, stepped in close, and bashed his jaw with my weapon’s pommel. Bone cracked. He reeled, dropped, and lay motionless, his trance knocked into true insensibility.

  It was then that help finally came rushing into the room, in the persons of Baltes, Tregan, and six of their household guards.

  “By the Seven Bright Angels,” Baltes said. He wore a robe, nightshirt, and slippers, but, like my assailants, carried a sword--in his case, the sword with the emeralds. “What’s happened?”

  “Milord,” I panted, “I regret this. But I had no choice. Your kinsmen attacked me.”

  “No,” said Dremloc, ashen, voice shaky, clutching at this bloody knee. No longer sleepwalking in any obvious way. “Don’t believe him. We found him looking at that jade statuette yonder as if mustering the nerve to pocket it. We told him to leave it alone, and he drew on us.”