~Chapter Twelve~
Loose Lips and False Truths
The Castle’s Shadow, Caras
Kingdom of Cedirc
7th Day of Pendelius
Evening
Rabberick could not suppress a wince as he passed through the marble arch of the Lower Gate from the Ascent as he beheld the source of the clamour and commotion that been increasing in volume over last several minutes of his trip down the winding path that connected the Roost to the rest of the island city. He halted just on the other side of the arch, finding himself within a cordon of Talons that stood shield to shield on the other side to prevent access to the gate from without to survey the scene before proceeding.
A large crowd had gathered in the plaza that served as the end of Gryphon’s Way, the main boulevard that ran unerringly straight from the Lower Gate of the castle compound to the bridge that connected the city to the Cedircian mainland across the waters of the River Elan. Hundreds of people of all ages and walks of life, from peasant children wearing the barest scraps of clothing to the aged nobility were all pressed together facing the company as they marched out of the gate, which had been opened just enough to allow them to walk two abreast. Several smaller groups of individuals were gathered throughout the plaza, some near the large fountain that centered the plaza, others under the shade of the large oaks that towered over the boulevards, and still more groups standing outside the many boutiques and shops that lined each side amidst the inns and taverns.
A torrent of scents and odours assailed his nostrils as his eyes scanned the multitude, perfumes and colognes of the highborn mingling with the sour smell of unwashed bodies and clothing in a confusing olfactory assault. He could not quite suppress a grimace at the odd mix of smells as he searched the faces around him for signs of intent.
To his relief, though he saw many faces red with anger, puffy-eyed with sorrow, or sullen in disbelief, he could see none that were openly hostile. He had known as soon as they made the decision to close access to the Roost that rumours would begin flying almost immediately, and so was not overly surprised to find the crowd here. The sheer number of people present had caught him off guard, but as he considered it further, his surprise faded.
In spite of the inarguably negative response to the treaty, Alfred remained loved by the majority of his subjects, after all.
They would not be pleased at the attempt on his life.
Conversations hushed and heads turned to regard the commander as more citizens noticed him and his escort. Rabberick was a known person within most parts of the city. Beyond any doubt, he knew that his sudden appearance here with an armed escort had just offered some validity to some of the circulating rumours.
Those same hushed conversations sprang to life once more all around him as he surveyed the crowd, filling the air with the buzz of renewed conversation as those in the crowd who recognized him began speculating as to the reason for his presence here and now. Snippets of conversations reached his ears as he continued peering about.
“What do you think he’s here for?”
“The Commander of the Talons? Must be serious business to bring him out at this hour!”
“And not just him, but a full squad of Talons too!”
“He must be searching for the King’s killer!”
“First the High Mage and now the Commander?”
“What is going on at the Roost?”
Above the renewed murmur of conversation that now surrounded him, Rabberick could also make out many shouts and curses emanating from one of the smaller gatherings in the northwestern part of the square. He swung his regard that way, not surprised in the least to see men and women jostling about the double doors of the inn that stood there. He had been told where he would find the source of the disturbance, after all, though he allowed himself a brief moment of regret that it was to be found in this particular establishment.
Glancing to the captain at his side, Rabberick gestured towards the tavern and immediately the broad shouldered, bearded, tall and sour-faced man began pushing through the crowd in that direction, clearing a path for Rabberick and the others to follow behind in his wake. The commander muttered a curse under his breath as he and the remaining eleven Talons he had had brought with him from the castle began making their way through the restless crowd, the loud clack of their boots on the cobbles underfoot barely audible above the noise of the crowd about them.
Even before they left the shadow of the gate, hearing the heavy portal slamming shut behind them, Rabberick was wishing he had brought more of his men and women with him, but there had not been time.
Following Malute’s departure from the castle following their visit with Malute, Rabberick had decided that his time would best be spent on an inspection of the soldiers on duty within the castle. His intent had been to ensure that all were at their posts and in a state of readiness, as well as to try to foster an air of normalcy about the fortress, though he had known all too well that that last hope would end in utter failure; the men and women in the Talons were far to clever to be fooled by his pretense. Even were they not, word of the previous night’s events had already spread within the castle—and without, clearly.
No, he had been hoping to distract himself from his worries more than anything else, he knew. And tit had worked, for time.
He had alleviated the fears of some of the Talons, as well as several castle servants and blacksmiths when they crossed his path, all of whom seemed to have heard that the King had indeed been killed. Rabberick had been all to pleased to put that dark rumour to rest, though he had also not hidden the fact that Alfred was fighting for his life still. The news that the King lived, however bare that life may be, had seemed to hearten many he talked to, and in spite of himself, Rabberick had found himself feeling better about the whole situation, however slightly. Alfred remained in dire straits, after all, and any relief he himself felt was short lived as the reality inevitably crept back to him.
Still, he had managed to pass most of the late afternoon and early evening without completely surrendering to his fears and despair, and that was something.
He had at last made his way to the stables, to speak to Estram Raim and some of his workers about the condition of the youth who had been kicked by the startled horse during the assassination attempt. The youth, he had learned, had spent the night at the Temple, but had sent back to the stablehand’s quarters shortly after dawn to rest. His broken arm had been mended as best the priests could, having been set and splinted, and now it would just take time to heal. The healer the boy had seen had been more worried about the blow to his head, and had worked some magic on that part of the youth, deciding that was of more concern than a broken bone. The youth had tried to convince him to heal his arm as well, but the priest had refused each time, though he had declined to offer an explanation for his refusal. Estram had been quite vocal regarding his displeasure at that, complaining that the priest’s refusal meant the boy would be sitting around even longer to recover.
Rabberick had suspected that he knew the reason the priest opted to leave the bone to mend on its own, but did not say anything to Estram, instead letting the squat, brusque man rant about the selfish clerics of Aegoth. Ketch and Birch, the two dim-witted but loyal stablehands who had worked under Raim for many years, had been almost too pleased to join in voicing their displeasure with the clerics, and the commander had found himself wanting to defend the followers of Aegoth. While Rabberick was impartial towards worship of most deities, Aegoth included, he still held the priests of the order in high esteem, seeing that they did the best they could to do the most good they were able to.
The stable-master and his workers did not share that regard.
In fact, Rabberick had been in the midst of scouring his mind for some plausible excuse to excuse himself from Estram’s company when a runner had shown up, bearing a message for him. He had been dressed in the garb of the royal messenger service, the bronze gryphon clutching a letter in it’s talons glimmering slightly in the late day sun on his chest against the purple and black cloth of the tabard. Any relief he may have felt at the timely interruption had dissipated almost immediately upon hearing the messenger’s news.
Thankfully, the young man had not been sent to inform him of a worsening in Alfred’s condition, though that had been all but certain from the fact that it was not an acolyte of Aegoth who came to him. Rabberick was certain that should anything change with the King, Herocas would not entrust the news to any but one of his order—likely Orneth or Valencia, given their earlier conversation.
That said, Rabberick was not certain that the news the young man had borne had been any better.
And so he had gathered a squad of the best men and women of the Talon that he could find on short notice and shortly thereafter they had begun making their way down the long winding hill upon which the Roost sat, overlooking the city below. The bridge over the chasm had been raised when Malute had left for the Spire and had been left in place until the magus’ return, so they had not had to wait for that, passing through first the gates of the castle compound and then the one on the opposite side of the chasm in short order at a brisk pace, just shy of a run.
They had then woven back and forth along the cobbled path, passing through the long shadows cast by the stone towers that stood at the interior of each switchback. Were the city to be attacked, those same towers would be filled with archers and crossbowman to harry any attacker, raining death from above on any army that dared assault Gryphon’s Roost. This day, however, a bare handful of soldiers occupied each tower to keep lookout, and Rabberick had been all to keenly aware of their curious eyes watching the company as they had hurried past on their way to the city. The commander knew there would be more than a few questions being asked following their passing—rarely did he rush off anywhere, and certainly not with an armed escort in tow!
The guards at the Lower Gate had moved to block the company as they had approached, as per the orders given by Rabberick himself earlier that day. They had hastily stood aside and saluted as they recognized that the Commander of the Talons was leading this particular group of soldiers, however, and even before the group had reached the gates the locking bar had been removed and the gate had swung open slightly, and he had stepped out to find the crowd held back by the cordon of soldiers.
As they pushed their way through the crowd, the brusque Captain Jayne shoving any who hesitated aside without a second thought, Rabberick once more wished he had brought more Talons with him. The crowd was larger than he had anticipated from the messenger’s words, not just in front of the inn, but in the plaza in general. Rabberick thought to chastise the man and have him be gentler with the crowd as yet another Carasian was pushed aside but realized that they had not the time to be gentle.
The inn loomed large in front of them as they approached—one Rabberick knew well from many nights of drinking and merriment.
The Castle’s Shadow was, after all, favoured amongst the men and women of the Talons for its close proximity to the castle and, more importantly, it’s relatively cheap ale and pleasurable company. Though it had started as little more than a simple tavern decades earlier, with naught but a large, open room with a bar and hearth with a few scattered tables and chairs within, it had grown much since it’s construction, with each subsequent owner and proprietor adding onto it and giving it some of their own personal flair. Though the original tavern still remained within, having been converted into the inns common room at some time in the intervening years, the structure now stood three stories high and boasted more than fifty rooms for rent, all of which were able to house three or four people in relative comfort.
The current owner had even seen fit to lean into the inn’s name, adding the facade of two wooden towers to either side of the original structure, painted white to resemble the marble the Roost was constructed of. The tops of both ‘towers’ were painted red to mimic the red slate of the castle’s roofs, and between the two towers the edge of the roof had been shaped to resemble crenelations. Though a far cry from the castle he had sought to emulate, the proprietor had managed to make a passable facsimile of Gryphon’s Roost, and Rabberick remained impressed whenever he looked upon it.
True to its name, which was declared only by a simple wooden sign that hung squarely above the doors to the common room, the building was positioned within the square so that, as twilight fell upon the city and the sun hung low in the sky, it would lie in the looming shadow of the Roost. Even now, most of the inn had fallen completely within the castle’s shadow as the sun kissed the horizon on the opposite side of the towering keep.
Rabberick at last managed to catch his breath after the lengthy jog from the castle, feeling a twinge of jealousy as he noted that several of the men and women he had brought with him seemed hardly to have noticed the jog at all. Most of those with him were at least ten years his junior—with a few being closer to two decades younger—and he found himself envying their youth. Being closer to fifty years of age than forty, Rabberick was beyond the prime of his life, and though he tried his best to find time for training and exercise, his position within the castle made that increasingly difficult. When Kyarra had been younger, they had sparred more often, but now she had her own duties to attend to, and their matches came fewer and fewer.
He belatedly wondered when his daughter would return with the DeCarrens. Given the state of the crowd around them, he hoped it would be soon. Given how quickly a gryphon could fly, Rabberick was hopeful that she would return with the dawn—if not sooner, should she decide to not rest the beasts before the return journey. Certainly, she had reached Aldar by now, at any rate.
She must have.
He ignored the glares and curses thrown their way as Jayne none too gently shoved his way to the two steps that led to the doors of the inn, beyond caring at that point as his thoughts dwelt on his daughter a moment longer. The commander came back to himself as he climbed the two short steps to the porch, realizing that there was no more resistance meeting them. He looked around to see that several of the inn’s bouncers now stood on either side of him, hefting heavy cudgels in their hands as they glared at the surrounding crowd as if daring one of them to make a move. Rabberick nodded at a couple of the burly men, recognizing them from his visits, and received two curt nods in response before they returned their attention to bustling people about them.
Knowing he had no choice but to be satisfied with that—and feeling more than a little trepidation upon seeing so many of the bouncers on the porch—Rabberick took a moment to prepare himself for what he would find within and then moved past the captain into the inn as Jayne held one of the twin doors open for him.
He was greeted by the odd mixture of the stench of liquor, the alluring scent of fresh baked bread and cooking meats, mixed in with the strong smell of smoke as they buffeted him as he stepped within the inn. The odours washed over him as he descended the four stairs that led down to the floor of the inns common room, and he allowed himself a moment to relish in the fond memories the familiar scents brought forth in him. He strode a couple steps in from the bottom of the stairs, hearing the thud of booted feet behind him as the Talons he had brought with him followed him within, spreading out behind him as he looked around the common room.
A fire blazed in the large hearth that was centered along one side of the large room, logs crackling as superheated sap burst through the burning fibres of the wood as it fed the flames. Its warmth was largely unnecessary in the early evening air of the fifth month of the year, but it’s presence did much to add to the homely aesthetic that the innkeeper so obviously strove for. Booths lined the walls to either side of him, save for a raised stage where mummers, bards, and other entertainers would perform on occasion, and tables filled the empty space in between. The stage was empty now, and as the doors to the Castle’s Shadow thudded shut behind him, Rabberick became aware that though nearly half the tables were occupied, the room was almost completely silent save for the pervasive crackle of the fire.
Normally the common room would be nearly full up by this time of day, and the food and ale would be flowing, but he saw little in the way of food or drink being served. In fact, even those bowls of stew and mugs of ale he saw sat in front of patrons seemed forgotten as their owners fixed their attention on a table in the far corner of the room, from which Rabberick could make out the drunken, slightly slurred speech of a voice he knew all too well.
He sighed, having hoped that the messenger had been sent needlessly, but thought he could not quite make out the words, he surely recognized the voice of Closden, one of the soldiers who had stood watch with him atop the central keep of Gryphon’s Roost the night before. And from the way the other patrons within the room had focused their attention on him, Rabberick was sure the rest of the innkeeper’s message was just as accurate.
Not that he had doubted Horace Brigardsen to begin with.
Never that.
He had just hoped that the innkeeper had misheard or misjudged the situation.
Rabberick was grateful that the innkeeper had seen fit to stop more patrons from entering, though it surely had cost the man much business this night, based on the crowd being held back by the burly bouncers outside. Still, there were more within than he would have liked, though he did note that more of the Castle’s Shadow’s bouncers were mixed in with the remaining crowd, keeping an eye on those around them. Off to one side, he noticed two men that he recognized as Talons, though he could not immediately place them. Off duty and dressed in their own clothes, they too were eyeing the table in the far corner from which Closden’s voice droned on, their faces anything but pleased. One glanced his way and nudged the other, and both hastily through him salutes. He nodded to them almost dismissively as his eyes crossed to the bar at the back of the room, seeking the man who had sent for him, and at last his eyes fell on the proprietor.
The portly innkeeper was absently wiping a mug clean as he talked in hushed tones with a couple of his serving girls, looking none too pleased as the three of them stared at the crowd that had gathered. Horace, whose dark hair was graying at the temples, scowled as his attention flitted across the room, eyeing the forgotten mugs sitting on empty tables throughout the establishment.
Oh yes, it was clear the innkeeper was noting the lack of revenue, and Rabberick surely felt for him.
The innkeeper’s expression brightened momentarily as he locked gazes with Rabberick, becoming aware of the commander’s presence for the first time, it seemed. He nodded his head rather aggressively towards the crowd, his scowl returning as he once again regarded the mostly non-paying people gathered in the corner. Rabberick nodded his understanding to Horace and turned to issue orders to Jayne and his Talons. As the soldiers dispersed, pairing off to cover all the exits from the room. Horace’s lips thinned as he watched the armoured soldiers move through the room to take up their positions, clearly understanding their purpose and just as clearly not well pleased by it, but the innkeeper said nothing, instead grabbing another mug and beginning to wipe it clean.
Rabberick hoped that the soldiers at the exits would not be needed, but he also knew it was a necessary precaution. Once all the Talons were at their assigned positions, Rabberick gave a satisfied nod and motioned the remainder of his soldiers—Jayne and two others—to accompany him as he set off across the room, weaving through the maze of scattered tables with practiced ease and none too gently pushing empty chairs out of the way as they went.
Heads at the edge of the listening crowd turned as they approached, alerted both by the scraping of chair legs across the wooden floor and the tramping of booted feet drawing closer. Those who saw his grim expression hurried to remove themselves from his path, and so, unlike those gathered outside, the crowd of patrons within the inn gradually parted before him, clearing the way for him to approach the booth in the corner. The last two patrons blocking him reaching the table seemed not to notice him, and the commander took a page from Jayne’s book and grabbed each by the shoulder to roughly pull them back and to the side, removing them from his path and earning himself a few muttered curses.
He did not care, for he at last came into view of the source of the gathering: Closden, sitting in the booth, leaning his arms on the table as he clasped a mostly empty mug of ale in both hands, head lolling drunkenly as he spoke to his enraptured audience.
“… B-b-blood all o-over,” he was stammering as Rabberick came within earshot, spittle flying with every syllable as he continued telling all present of what her had seen.
Rabberick felt a surge of anger as he heard the man’s words. Horace had been right: the blathering idiot was expounding on the attempt on the King’s life!
How long had he been here?
He glanced into the faces of the crowd around him, seeing a wide range of emotions writ across them, from anger and despair to shock and disbelief. Most of those who had been listening to Closden now had their attention fixed on Rabberick, as if silently asking him to confirm or deny what the soldier had said.
What exactly had the fool said?
The drunken soldier continued speaking, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a sizable portion of his audience had been lost with the arrival of the Talons and the commander. He did not seem to even register the arrival of Rabberick and the soldiers, truth be told, as his partially glazed grey eyes remained focused solely on the mug he clasped in his hands before him, transfixed by the contents within as he swirled them about. Rabberick crossed his arms and coughed loudly as he stopped across the table from the man, trying to get the fools attention. As he waited for Closden to notice him he saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Jayne had begun pushing his way through the crowd, shoving people aside until he had made it to the far side of the table, coming to a stop directly behind the drunken soldier.
Knowing what the captain had in mind, Rabberick cleared his throat again, hoping for the drunken man’s sake that he would notice this time. When he still received no response, nor any hint that Closden had heard him, he nodded resignedly at his captain.
Sure enough, he had barely finished the nod before, without hesitation, Jayne cuffed the drunken soldier on the back of his head, hard.
Closden’s head slammed forward from the blow, his arms spreading across the table as his hands lost their grip on the mug, which tumbled across the table and spilled its remaining contents across the drink-stained wood. Jayne met Rabberick’s gaze across the table and shook his head in disgust as Closden slowly pulled himself up, rubbing his forehead where it had struck the table and muttering curses and threats against “whoever done that.”
The rain of curses stopped when he managed to focus his eyes after many, many blinks, eventually settling them on the commander, who remained standing with his arms still crossed and a dark look on his face as he eyed the soldier from across the table. Rabberick watched with satisfaction as confusion and annoyance was replaced slowly with recognition on the drunken soldier’s face, the colour draining shortly after as his inebriated brain made sense of what had just happened.
Enough of his wits remained about him to realizer that he was in trouble at least, then. That was something, at least.
Before the soldier could do more than begin to stammer incoherently as he pulled himself straight once more—well, as straight as he could, given his current state—Jayne grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled the man from his seat. The drunken man struggled futilely against his grip, managing to put up only the slightest of resistance as another Talon joined Jayne behind him, each man grabbing Closden under the arm, putting en end to his struggles altogether. The soldier, drunk though he was, clearly realized that he was not going to triumph over the two men who now dragged him bodily from the booth, and he sagged in their grasp has they hauled him to his feet.
The watching crowd parted in front of them as they pulled the stumbling man towards an empty table in the opposite corner of the room, Rabberick following close behind. The commander met the eyes of a few off-duty Talons who were in the room, along with the one remaining of the ones who had accompanied him from the castle and jerked his head towards the spectators. They one and all nodded their understanding and immediately moved to set themselves between the table Jayne and the Talon led Closden to and the remainder of the patrons. The commander threw Horace a grateful look as the innkeeper motioned for the remainder of the inns bouncers to join the line of Talons; the innkeeper simply nodded sharply in response and motioned for him to get on with it.
Several of the patrons, disappointed that they would not be hearing any more from the drunken soldier, began heading towards the door, only to be turned back by the soldiers posted there. A few that tried heading out one of the side doors which led to the inn’s rooms, only to find them similarly blocked. With a few curses thrown at the soldiers, who bore the insults without flinching, they settled back into chairs, watching the Talons with dark looks. One of the serving women began heading towards them, but they waved her off. At the bar, Horace sighed loudly and grabbed another mug to clean; Rabberick made a mental note to do what he could to compensate the proprietor for the inconvenience and, more importantly, the lack of profits being made this night.
The low murmur of hushed conversation began to fill the room once more. Rabberick surveyed the patrons for another long moment before, satisfied that his men and women had the rest of the patrons well in hand, he returned his attention to Closden, who had been deposited none too gently at the table by Jayne and the other Talon, both of whom now stood to either side of and behind the drunken soldier. Closden had slumped forward over the table, drooling slightly in his stupor, though whether that was from his inebriation or from striking his head on the other table, Rabberick could not be certain. A disgusted look was plastered across Jayne’s bearded face as he glared down at Closden, shaking his head in disapproval.
Rabberick took several long strides to reach the table, looming over the slumped man. As before, Closden seemed not to notice him. The commander pulled the chair opposite the drunken soldier out roughly, scraping its legs across the floor before settling himself in it. Closden had winced at the rough scraping of the chair on the floor, but quickly settled back.
Sighing, and growing slightly impatient, Rabberick brought a hand down hard on the table near to the man’s head, making Closden jump slightly.
“Wha-whassis?” Closden slurred, blinking his eyes repeatedly as he tried to focus on the commander, but clearly failing to do so.
“What were you thinking, coming down here against my explicit orders not to leave the castle?” he demanded in a sharp voice, leaning in towards the confused soldier so he did not need to speak too loudly, keenly aware of the many ears straining to hear his words.
“I-I-I was jusht, uh, telling these people a-about the, uh, the King’sh death,” Closden managed to stammer, slurring his words considerably, “Th-they have a, uh, right to know,” he finished, looking rather pleased with himself for managing to string together even that many words in his current state.
His face fell when he noticed the incredulous look he received from his superior in response.
“Idiot,” Jayne muttered from behind Closden as Rabberick tried to think of a proper reply; Closden, for his part, did not seem to hear the insult, struggling to even hold his head up and meet the commander’s gaze.
“So, you took it upon yourself to leave the castle when it was under lockdown to spread rumours and falsehoods?” Rabberick pressed, feeling his irritation rising, “Even were such true, it would not be your place to spread that word, soldier!”
His voice had risen with each word he said, and he noticed that the murmur of voices behind him had lessened once more.
“I—Wh-what’re you talkin’ ‘bout, sir?” Closden’s face was screwed up in a look of complete confusion
That look did more to answer the question than the man’s words had, and it was not the one Rabberick had wanted, though he supposed Closden not remembering the command was better than the man completely disregarding his orders.
Not much, but a bit—though he still wondered when exactly the man had left Gryphon’s Roost. He suspected that Closden himself would be unable to answer that question at this exact moment. The man was having a hard enough time keeping his head up, let alone speaking, and Rabberick was not confident in his cognitive functions either.
“The King’sh dead, and they d-d-desherve to know,” Closden stated rather loudly, breaking the silence that had stretched while the commander considered his response.
The volume of that statement earned him another cuff on the head from Jayne, though this one was had less force behind it than the last one. Closden winced at the impact and raised a hand to rub the back of his head, turning to throw a glare at the captain.
More importantly, from Rabberick’s perspective, all conversation in the common room had once again ceased at Closden’s overly loud proclamation. The entire room seemed to be holding its breath in the silence that ensued, with only the crackling of the logs in the hearth making any noticeable sound.
“Is it true?”
The question, voiced from behind him, broke the silence.
Heaving a deep sigh as he inwardly cursed the soldier seated across from him, Rabberick slowly twisted his body about in the wooden chair to glance around the common room once more. As he had expected, nearly every head was turned towards him in the wake of the question as every patron waited for his response. Even Horace had stopped in the middle of wiping a mug, rag still within the confines of the vessel as if he had been frozen in place, unable to mask his concern any longer now that the burning question had been voiced aloud at last.
Throwing a last glare Closden’s way, Rabberick pushed himself up from his chair and moved to the inn’s entrance, ascending two of the stairs before turning about to face the inn’s anxious patrons and staff, his new position allowing all to see and hear him. He did not want to have to repeat himself. All eyes had followed him, and several of the patrons had taken a step or two towards him, but none made a sound as they waited for the commander to answer the question. He scratched the back of his head as he internally debated how best to respond. He had never been one for making grand speeches or statements.
How he wished he had Herocas’ penchant for eloquent words at that moment; the High Priest managed to keep an entire congregation entranced with his sermons, after all.
Better yet would it be if the High Priest were here himself, saving Rabberick the trouble of answer the question at all.
But he was not here, and Rabberick was.
He had to put the rumours of the King’s death to bed, but at the same time had to be careful not to share overly much about the King’s condition. Malute would know what to say in a heartbeat, Rabberick believed, and again he wished that someone else were delivering this answer.
Surely anyone would be better than he for this.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
But he may as well wish that Alfred had never been poisoned as wish for that, he knew.
Sighing yet again as he rubbed a calloused hand across his tired face, he opened his brown eyes and faced the crowd, who had begun to shift restlessly in his prolonged silence, glancing at one another. Many had crossed their arms as they leaned against support timbers or tables, waiting for him to speak.
“What this man,” Rabberick said, gesturing to Closden, “has told you is not entirely accurate. An attempt was made on the King’s life last night. That much is true, and I’ll not deny it. An assassin stole into the castle last night and was able to stab the King in the chest with his blade.”
Cries of dismay rang out almost immediately at his words, and Rabberick berated himself for not starting with the most important news of all, in light of Closden’s words. He held his hands up for silence, and did not have to wait long for the conversations that had sprung up to die down once more as they waited for him to continue.
“He is not dead,” he stressed the word, glaring once more at his subordinate, who had perked up a bit at his words, “King Alfred DeCarren lives!”
A few of those present gave out small cheers at his words, though they were quickly silenced by those who had noted Rabberick’s grim expression.
“B-b-but the blood!” Closden exclaimed, drawing the crowd’s eyes back to where the drunken man had staggered to his feet. He swayed slightly as he verily shouted, “Th-there was sho much of it! I shaw hish face, I did, and it were pale!”
Scowling even fiercer, if such was possible, Jayne put his hands on the man’s shoulders and forcibly sat him down once again, shushing the soldier loudly at the same time, with more than a couple threats uttered at the same time. The crowd’s attention shifted back to Rabberick once more once the soldier had been quieted.
“There was much blood, that is true,” Rabberick admitted, debating whether he should have Closden gagged before the fool could speak once more. He shook his head slightly, dismissing the thought as he added, “But I swear by Morith I do not deceive you when I say that he lives, and may the Cloaked One take me if I do not speak true!”
More than a few of the listeners spat over their shoulders at his oath, a common warding gesture towards the god of death. Behind the bar, Horace grimaced as their spittle landed on the floor, his eyes narrowing under his thick, bushy eyebrows once more.
“The King is alive,” Rabberick said once more, feeling the need to reiterate the point, lest some of those present doubt him. He could not quite suppress a quickly suppressed grimace as he added, “But he is not well. The attempt has left him weak and unconscious. However, the priests of Aegoth are doing all they can to heal him, and I am certain he will be back on his feet in no time.”
“But you cannot be sure of that,” a voice was quick to point out, and more than a few patrons nodded solemn agreement.
“No,” Rabberick admitted, “but I have faith that they will see him through.”
“Faith?” the same voice asked incredulously, “What good is that?”
Rabberick searched the sea of faces for the source of the voice but was unable to determine who was speaking. The crowd was beginning to get riled up by the unknown speaker’s words, though, sorrow turning to anger on many of their visages, and that the commander knew he had to calm them, and fast.
“Hope, then. Alf—the King is strong,” Rabberick caught his slip at the last moment, hoping none in the crowd had noticed his initial lack of honorific, “If any can survive the wound, it is he—especially with the expertise of all the priests of the Temple of Aegoth working on him!”
He saw with satisfaction that his words had had the desired effect, for he saw many nods in the sea of faces that stared back at him, and men and woman once again settled back a bit, though they were still on edge in light of the commander’s words. He regretted once more that he had been unable to speak to Closden alone without these prying eyes around.
“If he lives, why the secrecy?”
This time Rabberick was ready for the unknown speaker and so he was able to determine which part of the crowd he spoke from, though he was still uncertain who exactly was speaking.
He held up his hands to forestall any further comments or questions.
“We decided that it was best to wait until the heirs returned to the city, and sent a rider to retrieve them from Aldar,” he said, deciding honesty was in his best interest here. It was easier than deception, at the very least, and the truth did not seem so bad to him, “If all goes well, they should return this very night, or early tomorrow morning.”
“With the Eno’Kalian bastards in tow, no doubt,” the heckler spat, and this time Rabberick was able to determine the speaker, a shorter man with long dark hair and a crooked nose who leaned up against one of the rooms supports near the back of the crowd. Rabberick thought he looked familiar, though he could not place him at the moment.
The grumbles that followed his words were louder this time.
“The delegates will still be coming, yes. The treaty…” he trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished as he realized that mentioning the treatise was likely not the right move.
Alas, he came to that realization too late.
“Damn the treaty and damn those foreign bastards!” the man shouted, and many others gave shouts of agreement. The man met Rabberick’s eyes as he added, “For all we know, they were behind this attempt on the King’s life!”
Rabberick berated himself silently as the dark-haired man voiced his accusation. He had known the moment he said the word that he had erred greatly in mentioning the treaty, what with it being such a source of discontent with many in the city, especially among the merchant caste, who were less than thrilled at the prospect of more competition being introduced to the Cedircian market, in spite of the fact that the opposite was also true and they could find new profit by trading with the island nation.
Any hope he might have had that the dark-haired man was alone in his anger was dispelled by the chorus of shouts that rose from the crowd. Sorrow and disbelief at the notion that an attempt had been made on their King’s life had fast turned to anger when the commander had informed them that the King lived, and that anger had now found a focus.
Eno’Kalians.
While the commander fumbled for a reply, the dark-haired man pushed his way through the crowd, moving forward until he stood at the base of the stairs on which Rabberick stood, glaring up at him with green eyes.
“By your own words, the King lies near death, and you are worried about that blasted treaty?” the strangely familiar man demanded loudly.
“I would not see the King’s works undone, whether he survives or not,” Rabberick replied, returning the man’s glare with one of his own, “The treaty will benefit both our nations.”
More than a few of the onlookers scoffed at his words, and by the sudden gleam in the man’s green eyes, Rabberick knew he had played into the man’s hands.
“So, you do care more about the treaty than the life of our King, Commander,” the last words was said with disdain.
Rabberick clenched his jaw at the man’s words, grinding his teeth as he fought back his welling anger at the ridiculous accusation. Of course, he cared more that the King survived, but there was nothing he could do to help with that now. Herocas and his priests were his best hope now, along with whatever information Malute found on the poison.
“Some King’s protector you are,” the man added with a scoff, “It was probably you who let the assassin into the castle in the first place!”
Rabberick felt his jaw drop open at that remark, and he saw the same shock writ across the faces of both his Talons and many in the crowd. His fists clenched at his side, and he had to stop himself from stepping forwards to throttle the man.
He was saved from the need to form a response when a loud bang sounded from the back of the room, followed by an angry shout from a voice the commander knew all too well.
Horace.
“That is quite enough, Winston!” the innkeeper shouted, banging the cudgel he now held in one hand against the wooden counter-top in front of him once more for emphasis.
Heads swung about to regard the usually mild-mannered innkeeper, whose round face was red with anger as he stared hard at the upstart, who had turned a disbelieving look up on the portly fellow. Rabberick allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy the shock writ plain across the young man’s features—by the cut of his cloth, he was of noble birth, and the commander expected that he was not used to being talked to in such a manner, especially by someone of lower station—then took advantage of the respite to recompose himself.
“You dare to speak to me in that manner, Horace?” the dark-haired man—Winston, apparently—demanded.
“Ye’ll get more respect once you show it to others, boy,” Horace replied bluntly, leaning on the counter, unblinking as he continued to stare daggers at the other man, “That’s the Commander of the Talons ye just insulted.”
Rabberick had never heard the jovial innkeeper use such a tone before. It seemed out of place coming from him.
“A commander who let our king get poisoned!” Winston scoffed in reply, throwing Rabberick a mocking look.
The commander started at that comment.
How does he know about the poison?
“Stabbed, ye mean,” Horace corrected, not backing down an inch, though his eyes flitted to Rabberick momentarily; the commander gave a slight nod in response.
He saw that Jayne, too, had taken note of the noble’s seeming knowledge beyond what Rabberick himself had told the crowd here and, after making sure the other Talon had Closden in hand, had begun making his way towards the nobleman. For his part, the commander was certain he had said nothing about the poison, and was just as certain that Closden had been gone from the King’s chambers before any mention of it was made. So, either that had been a guess, or…
Or he knows more about this than he should.
The thought sent a chill down his spine.
For the first time since their interaction began, Rabberick truly took note of the man’s dark clothes. In the light from the roaring hearth, they appeared to be black.
Like the assassin’s.
Not that black was such an uncommon colour to be worn, of course.
“I—stabbed, yes,” the young noble frowned, then swung his regard back to Rabberick, apparently either not noticing or not caring as those around him took several steps back, leaving him by himself, “That does not matter. My point was that it was his incompetence that allowed the King to be injured in the first place!”
“Incompetence!?”
If Horace’s voice had been angry before, it was positively filled with rage now. The portly proprietor of the inn looked positively apoplectic, quivering as his fist tightened on his cudgel again.
“Incompetence,” Winston repeated, apparently unconcerned, “How else would an intruder get into the castle? Andy why else would they not have had some kind of announcement made, instead of barring the gates without any word of warning?”
“To avoid causing unnecessary panic in the city, as Closden has done here with his loose lips” Rabberick said, stepping down to the stair below him, deciding to let the comment about poison slide for the moment. Jayne was almost to the young man—they could ask him about that later.
“Well good job with that,” Winston said, his sarcasm apparently unending, “No wonder—Get your hands off me!”
This last was directed at Jayne, who had reached the nobleman at last and had placed a hand on his shoulder. The nobleman spun about, taking a step back as he did and brushing the captain’s hand off him. Undeterred, Jayne took another step towards him.
“Now would be a good time to shut yer mouth,” Horace said from behind the bar.
Winston threw him a dark look over his shoulder, looking as if he were about to say something defiant yet again. The sight of two other Talons moving up from that direction seemed to steal the words from his mouth, however.
“As I said,” Rabberick began, meeting the eyes of many of the crowd to show he was now speaking to them all now, “We had hoped to first inform the princes and princess of the King’s condition upon their return to the city before making it public knowledge. We did not wish for them to hear of ti from whispers in the streets. Besides that,” he stared hard at Winston as he continued, “We do not know anything more than what I have said here, and until we had more information, securing the castle seemed the most prudent action, though evidently some disagreed.”
“Th-they have a right—hic—to know” Closden argued from his table, glaring up at the Talon who kept him in his seat as he tried to rise, a hand on each shoulder.
Rabberick glowered at the drunken man for a long moment following the interruption before returning his attention to the silent crowd, “There was no intent to hide anything, only to slow the inevitable rumours that would begin when word of the attempt got out… which has happened sooner than we had hoped,” he paused a moment, then added in a firm, controlled tone, “You have heard the truth of what happened, and our reasons for not spreading word sooner. Now we must ask you to say nothing of this to anyone until after the Princes Rolan and Steffan and Princess Elenor return.”
“Ask? Or demand?” Winston glared defiantly at the commander, looking around Jayne who loomed over him.
“I am afraid we must insist,” Raberick answered firmly, looking first at Winston, then to the rest of the crowd.
To his relief, he saw understanding on most of the faces, and several nods. He almost dared hope that this was over.
Until, that is, the man named Winston spoke again.
“Very well,” the dark-haired man nodded slowly, a grin spreading across his pale face as he added, “I’ll keep your secret… for twenty gold pieces!
“Twenty—where’s your sense of loyalty, man?” Jayne demanded in his gravelly voice, bristling and taking a step towards the noble who, to his credit, did not flinch, “You would use this for your own profit?”
The same sentiment was echoed all about the room, even from some those who looked to be dressed similarly and of an age with the noble. The jeers grew louder as the noble worked his mouth, trying to form a response as the crowd turned on him. He had pushed too far, and Rabberick saw that realization dawning on his face as he looked about him for support but found none.
“Oh, sit down and be silent, ye fool!” Horace’s voice cut through the growing commotion, silencing the crowd once more.
To Rabberick’s amazement, the dark-haired man listened to the command, though he did shoot a sullen glare the barkeep’s way as he let Jayne and the Talons guide him to the same table Closden sat at, looking thoroughly unhappy at this outcome. Rabberick threw the bartender a grateful look; Horace simply nodded and placed his cudgel behind the bar, shaking head as he grabbed his rag and picked up another dirty mug.
The commander remained silent for a long moment, surveying the crowd as he waited for another disgruntled patron to speak up. Thankfully, all remained quiet, save for whispered conversations. Once he was satisfied that there would be no further outbursts—at least not at this time—he stepped off the stairs and strode to the table where the two men were seated, both looking displeased.
“Get Closden ready to move,” he whispered in Jayne’s ear, careful to keep his voice low so Winston, who watched him through narrowed eyes, could not overhear, “And make sure he will not say anything more. Do what you must but keep him silent.”
“And this one?” Jayne jerked his head towards Winston, who shifted his glare to the bearded captain.
Rabberick eyed Winston up and down, taking him in more fully as he assessed him from up close. He saw now that the noble-born was far to lean and lanky to have made the climb, his body far thinner than the intruder’s had been the night before. Moreover, now that he thought about it, this man was shorter than the assassin had been. No, it had not been this Winston who had assaulted the King.
That did not mean he was not involved though; there was still the matter of the poison.
“I am a loyal citizen of Cedirc,” Winston said sullenly, his glare softening as Rabberick appraised him, “I would never wish to see the King hurt.”
“Your words said otherwise,” Rabberick reminded him.
“Words spoken out of anger… and fright,” the noble said in a level tone, “I had just heard of an attempt on the King’s life.”
Rabberick considered him for few moments. Now that there was no crowd around them, the noble seemed a different person. And still he looked familiar. Even his name rang a bell, though Rabberick could not quite place him yet.
He debated asking the man why he had mentioned poison, but did not want to tip his hand and give away more information about the attempt on the King. He had already said more than he would have liked. To ask about that particular remark would no doubt indicate that Alfred had been poisoned. No, he could not ask about that.
He decided on a different tact.
“And so you decided to accuse me of betraying our King?”
Winston dropped his eyes to the floor.
“I… apologize for my words, Commander. As I said, I was not myself.”
Rabberick crossed his arms across his broad chest, still not sure what to make of this man.
“I’ll vouch for ‘im, Commander,” Horace said from behind him, startling the commander; he had not heard the man approach.
“You will?” he swung a confused look on the innkeeper.
Had he not just been berating the noble not a few minutes before?
“Aye, I will,” Horace nodded, a sour expression on his wide face as he looked at the noble, “He’s mostly harmless.”
“He tried inciting a riot!” Jayne protested, looking at the innkeeper incredulously.
“And he wouldn’t’ve known what to do if he had, “came the brusque response, “He’s just a fool who runs ‘is mouth too much, is all.”
Winston’s head jerked up at that, but for a wonder he remained silent, opting instead to shoot the innkeeper a dark look.
Rabberick considered it a moment, then nodded, “Very well.”
“Commander!” Jayne almost shouted, but Rabberick silenced him with a look.
“But he stays here tonight, along with all his friends,” Rabberick added as if Jayne had not interrupted.
It was Horace’s turn to protest, “But who’ll pay fer their rooms?”
“I will,” Rabberick said simply, “Just make sure they do not leave. We don’t need the rumours flying faster than they already are.”
“It’s likely too late for that,” Jayne muttered.
Rabberick did not disagree, but said anyways, “Let him go, Captain.”
Sighing, Jayne saluted and stepped back from the seated nobleman, who looked at Rabberick a long moment before rising, as if trying to decide if this was some sort of trick. Eventually, he seemed to decide it was not, and he began to move away, stopping only when Rabberick grabbed his arm.
“You’ll stay here the night,” he growled, “And keep your mouth shut.”
Winston gave him a curt nod as he pulled his arm from the commander’s grasp. He gave a last glare before he moved to rejoin his friends, rubbing his arm where Rabberick had grasped it.
No, that one was not made of stern enough stuff to infiltrate the castle.
“Get him ready,” he reiterated to Jayne, then turned to speak to Horace, only to find that the innkeeper was retreating behind the bar once more.
As Jayne saluted and turned to the drunken soldier, Rabberick followed Horace back to the bar, reaching to his belt and undoing the coin-purse he kept tied there. He dropped it on the counter in front of Horace as the portly man stopped across the bar from him. It landed with a thud, the metallic clinking that followed speaking of the coin within. The innkeeper eyed it for a moment, but made no move to grab it, instead leaning in closer to the commander.
“What madness made ye mention the treaty? Ye know the people’s thoughts on it,” he asked in a low voice.
“I do indeed,” Rabberick agreed, unable to stop a small grin from playing on his lips at the innkeeper’s blunt-as-usual question, remaining as irreverent as ever now that the common room had settled down. It was, he decided, refreshing after the day he had had, “it was a poor choice indeed. But recent events have left me… weary.”
Horace eyed him up and down, and nodded, unwilling or unable to argue the point. Rabberick knew he must look more worn than the innkeeper had ever seen him before. He certainly felt it. The commander rubbed his chin, feeling the rough stubble scratch his hand has he did. He could not remember the last time he had left his quarters unshaven.
Rabberick sighed, rubbing his tired eyes even as he fought to keep them open. Now that the riot had been quelled, his exhaustion had returned in full force, “I apologize for the disturbance my man caused here. I will find a fitting punishment for him, don’t you doubt.”
“I don’t,” Horace said with a slight chuckle as he resumed cleaning a mug, “Though I might suggest keeping him away from the drink fer a while.”
The commander nodded his agreement with the innkeeper’s assessment, “You need not worry about that, my friend. He’ll not be out of my sight for long after this,” he shook his head, then pushed the pouch towards the innkeeper.
Horace eyed it once again, but still made no move to pick it up, instead holding the mug up and closing one eye to better inspect a spot on it.
“Take it,” Rabberick insisted.
“I’ll not take payment for doing my duty,” the innkeeper replied firmly, “It ain’t yerself’s fault he came here blabbin’ as he did.”
“Horace.”
“I’ll not take yer coin, commander,” Horace said, meeting his gaze levelly, “That one can pay for ‘is own room, and those of ‘is friends as well.”
Rabberick followed his gaze to the dark-haired man, who was sitting sullenly at a table with a handful of other noble-born, staring at him, though he averted his dark eyes as Rabberick turned to regard him.
“Who is he?”
“Don’t ye know?” Horace balked.
Rabberick shrugged, “He looks familiar, but…”
“Winston Trekon.”
Rabberick felt his eyes widen, “Eldest son of Elboreth?”
“The same,” the innkeeper nodded, “That one has more coin than all of us put together, I’d reckon.”
“He probably does, at that,” Rabberick agreed, turning to regard the nobleman again.
Now that he knew who Winston was related to, he wondered how he had not been able to figure out who he reminded him of. Rabberick had met the now-High Lord of Aldar back during the Ilvarri War, though Elboreth had been sent back to Caras before the arrival of the gal’roth, having been injured in battle. He had seen Elboreth several more times over the intervening years, but less and less after he had been made High Lord of Aldar. The commander knew that Alfred trusted Elboreth with his life, interfering very little in the day-to-day workings of the port city. That was no small matter, since Aldar handled well over half of the trade that occurred within Cedirc, essentially meaning that House Trekon controlled the lion’s share of Cedirc’s economy.
More than that, Steffan DeCarren and Winston Trekon were reported to be good friends, with the younger DeCarren prince often going down to the city to drink with them. Rabberick had not seen much of the Trekon heir around Gryphon’s Roost, so had not had much opportunity to get to know who he was. He did know that, due to the fact that Elboreth spent the large majority of his time in Aldar due to his responsibilities there, Winston oversaw the day-to-day running of the Trekon Estate in Caras. That meant that the young noble had to have some understanding of the responsibilities of command.
Still, though Horace’s word counted for much with him, seeing as their relationship went back well over a decade at this point, Rabberick was not certain he trusted the young man.
There had been something in his eyes when he was mocking the commander that hinted at some deeper dislike of him. People reacted irrationally to bad news, there was no getting around that, and everyone reacted differently. Some got depressed, some got angry.
But what Winston had said…
Rabberick was not sure he could chalk it up to the noble being surprised.
Admittedly, a large part of his mistrust was based on his family name. The Trekon family had existed in Cedirc for hundreds of years—longer than House DeCarren had, in fact.
More than that, they had been on the side of the Tyrant-King during the Archonte Rebellion in the days before the Cataclysm. True, they had limped back to their holdings in Jagd in the Fareltzar Mountains after Mount Sildé erupted and had acquiesced to the judgment of the surviving Great Houses without much protest, but it was also no secret that the lords of that house had not been pleased with their fall from grace. They had been Polderian’s right hand in the last days of his reign, after all, and in the blink of a horrified eye, they had been knocked from their position of power, and watched as an upstart new house had taken over the throne of Cedirc.
Though that had been two and a half centuries ago, Rabberick was not as convinced that their lust for power had lessened, and now House Trekon was once again second only to the ruling family of Cedirc.
He was not sure how much longer they would tolerate that position.
With Elboreth’s influence in the economy, it would not take much for house Trekon to tip the scales in their favour. So far as he knew, they had not made any such overtures yet, but that did not mean they were not planning for it. The seemingly systematic lessening of communications between Elboreth and the palace seemed to indicate something was in the works behind the scenes. Alfred had never seemed concerned about it, but the commander knew Malute shared his concerns about the apparent decline in communication between Aldar and Caras.
But, the goods kept flowing, money kept being sent upriver from the port city, and Elboreth said and did everything right, so maybe his suspicions were for naught.
Maybe.
Though Winston’s actions this night had done little to convince him otherwise.
“You’re sure he can be trusted?” he asked, still eyeing the Trekon noble.
“Aye,” Horace said, though Rabberick noticed there had been a brief pause before his response.
Turning back to the barkeep, he arched an eyebrow.
“I believe he is loyal to the King, aye,” Horace said in response to the silent question, “He just has a tendency to run his mouth, is all.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Rabberick said dryly.
He sighed again, rubbing his tired eyes. He really did not have much of a choice here, he knew. Before Horace’s intervention on Winston’s behalf, he had been debating taking him into custody for questioning. Now that he knew that the dark-haired man ran House Trekon’s holdings in Caras, he knew he could not do that.
Not without definitive proof of wrongdoing.
An idle comment about poison was not that.
“See to it that they have their fill of food and drink tonight. All they want,” Rabberick ordered the innkeeper, “Please,” he added belatedly as the innkeeper crossed his burly arms in front of him, unaccustomed to being told what to do within his own establishment and clearly not liking it.
Lips curling up slightly at the last second addition of the word, the innkeeper nodded his agreement. Grateful for the innkeeper’s levelheadedness after the tumultuous day he had had, Rabberick reached out and slid the pouch of coins towards him across the bar. Horace looked between the pouch and Rabberick several times.
“For their food and drink, at least. And to show the King’s gratitude,” Rabberick explained.
Lips thinning, Horace set his dishrag down and slowly reached for the pouch. He hefted it with a considering look in his eyes, then opened it and counted out few dozen coins, taking about half out before retying the pouch and sliding it back to the commander.
“This’ll more than cover the cost of their food and drink,” Horace said as Rabberick began to argue once more, his tone brooking no debate, “Winston’ll pay for the rest.”
Rabberick begrudgingly reached out to retrieve the coin-purse and tied it once again to his belt. He and the innkeeper exchanged nods again before Horace began to move down the bar to help some of his other customers.
“I’ll leave some of my Talons to help keep things under control here,” Rabberick said, stopping him in his tracks.
“Just make sure they’re not of the same stock as that one,” Horace jabbed a finger towards Closden without looking back.
The conversations clearly at its end, Rabberick turned and made his way back to the table where Jayne waited with Closden, keenly aware of the eyes following his progress across the common room. He saw that Jayne had gagged the man, and sighed, regretting that such was necessary but also not wanting to take the risk of him saying more as they brought him to the castle.
Jayne roughly pulled Closden to his feet as the commander approached, helping to steady the man on his feet as he swayed side to side. The sour stench of alcohol was strong on his breath as Rabberick inspected him for insignia or other sign of the man being one of the vaunted Talons. Satisfied that there was nothing to indicate him being a part of the guard, Rabberick stepped back and met Jayne’s eyes.
“Bind his hands.”
The black bearded captain blinked in surprise at the command, clearly caught off his guard, but did not question the order, pulling a short length of rope from his belt and grabbing the drunk man’s arms, pulling them behind his back. Closden offered what little resistance he could as his hands were bound but given that he was having a hard enough time standing up, Jayne was easily able to overpower him, and his hands were tied in short order. Closden winced as Jayne pulled the knots tight about his wrists, the coarse fibres of the rope digging into his skin.
Rabberick watched Jayne bind his hands, face expressionless. As with the gag, he regretted having to bind his hands, but he could not take any chances.
Closden had caused enough trouble for one night.
Satisfied that the man was secure, Rabberick gathered the men and women who had been sent to watch the exits. He explained the situation to them, and ordered half of them to remain in the Castle’s Shadow for the night to help Horace and his bouncers keep an eye on things and ensure that no one caused to large of a commotion. Rabberick had no doubt that the tavern would fill up quickly once they left, and in spite of his commands, it was only a matter of time before word began spreading once more. The Talons were to try to stave off that moment as long as they could. He emphasized the importance of keeping an eye on Winston Trekon and his friends above all others.
Not one complained about the orders, though it meant giving up their personal time, since their shifts were set to end at midnight. One and all, they understood the extraordinary situation they found themselves in, and so they saluted and moved off to keep an eye on things, settling down at tables throughout the room, one right next to where Winston sat.
Jayne grabbed Closden by the elbow and began pulling the disgraced Talon towards the door, the guard at the top opening one of the doors for them. As he reached the top of the short flight of stairs, Rabberick turned to survey the common room one last time.
Winston Trekon was watching him leave, and the dark-haired man winked at him from the table where he sat talking with the other nobles present in the tavern. Rabberick shot the nobleman a last look of warning before sweeping his gaze across the remainder of the room, coming to Horace last. The innkeeper was talking to his staff—more than likely explaining the situation to them, he knew—but saw Rabberick’s regard and gave him a nod. Rabberick gave him an appreciative look for all that he had done so far, and all that he would do in the night to come.
Rabberick was under no delusion that there would be more trouble that night.
Hoping that no one would do anything too foolish that night, Rabberick followed Jayne and Closden out of the building, followed by half the Talons he had brought with him initially.
The large crowd was still gathered in front of the lower gate, and the one in front of the Castle’s Shadow had doubled in size now that the sun had set completely. Torches and braziers had been lit, lighting their way as the company began making their way through the crowd, which parted in front of them without much prompting.
None spoke, one and all ignoring the questions that came at them from seemingly every side as they led one of their own bound and gagged like a common criminal towards the castle.
Until, when they were nearly at the gate, one voice rose above the others.
“Commander!”
It took him a moment to recognize the owner of that voice, for it contained far more excitement than Rabberick had ever heard in it.
Four hells, he had rarely heard such emotion in it at all.
The commander swung his regard to the left of the gate as they approached to see Malute walking hurriedly towards them, staff held at his side as the magus did not even try to use it. As with Rabberick and his Talons, the crowd was parting in front of the robed mage as he altered his course to meet them.
The magus’ display of excitement was not limited to his voice, he saw as the other man drew closer, for his tan face was less drawn than it had been earlier. Beyond that, Rabberick swore he could see something glittering in the magus’ dark eyes, something that had been entirely absent when they had gone their separate ways outside the infirmary a few hours before.
Hope.
Had the magus’ research paid off already?
He did not know if he dared get his own hopes up that such was the case.
Rabberick was not sure he could handle more disappointment that day.
But why else would Malute be here? Rabberick had not expected to see the mage until the next day, expecting him to be holed up in the Spire doing research on hazca razith until he had exhausted all options. Malute could be tenacious to the point of obsessive in normal times, and Rabberick had no doubt that would be doubly true under these exceptional circumstances.
“Were you successful?” he asked in a low voice that was barely audible to himself as the magus fell in beside him, keenly aware of the many faces watching them and knowing that many ears would be straining to hear what was being said.
“I believe so,” Malute replied, just as vaguely and in a similar tone, a hint of excitement still present in his voice, “I cannot be certain until I can test it out for myself, but I am… optimistic it will yield the desired results.”
Rabberick’s legs suddenly seemed less heavy, some of his weariness seeming to evaporate at the magus’ welcome but unexpected words. In spite of what he had said back at the Castle’s Shadow, he had not been feeling overly hopeful that the King would actually survive, let alone recover.
Herocas’ words had weighed heavily on him.
Despite his best efforts, he felt a small grin curl his lips at the news, though he quickly replaced it with a neutral expression. He was unable to deny the excitement that welled up in him at the magus’ words, though.
The commander yearned to question him further about this theoretical cure, but knew this was not the place. There were far too many curious onlookers about. He would wait until they were within the Roost once more, but no longer.
Still, it was good to feel hope again.
Even if it proved to be fleeting in the end.