David Coe - Bonds of Vengeance

The lie just came to him, and it struck him as a strange twisting of the truth of his childhood. He had grown up in the court of his father, a viscount in southern Caerisse, and what he had hated most about it was the viscount himself.

Kalida seemed to ponder what he had said for several moments, absently playing with his hair. Then she shrugged, and said, “Well, then enjoy taking his money. It’s not like we’re going to live there. It’s one day, and nearly as much gold as we’ll make here during the rest of the waning.”

“You’re right. I should be grateful for the invitation. I’ll try to be.”

“You’re humoring me. There’s more to it than what you’ve said.”

Cadel smiled, looking away. “Yes, there is. But leave it at that, Kalida. Please.”

“Is this about Honok?”

He looked at her again. She hadn’t mentioned Jed since their first night together.

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. He once told me that his father didn’t think much of the courts either. And I know the two of you were good friends before whatever made you part ways.”

He pushed the hair back from her brow. “We’re still good friends, he and I. And no, this has nothing to do with him.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t ask you anything more.”

“Thank you. I promise you that I’ll sing my best. Whatever my feelings about the courts, they won’t hurt our performance.”

“They’d better not,” she said, pulling him down to her again. “You may not have an appetite for gold, but I do.”

Two mornings hence, they set out southward for the marquess’s castle. It was a bright, mild morning, a fine day for a journey. It seemed the planting winds had come to Wethyrn at last. The innkeeper had given them leave to miss their early performance in the tavern, but had made it clear that he expected them back in Ailwyck for the later one. From what he told them, it seemed a simple journey. Fanshyre Castle stood less than two leagues away, nestled in the northern reaches of the Grey Hills near the source of the Ailwyck River.

“If you leave early enough, you can be there before midday,” the innkeeper said. “And if you leave Fanshyre with the prior’s bells, you should have plenty of time to get back here, change your clothes, and earn your keep.”

He wasn’t a subtle man, but he knew the countryside. The company reached Fanshyre just as the midday bells tolled from the gates of the small village. They were greeted by the marquess himself, a short, rotund man with a broad grin and round face. His wife might well have been his sister, so alike did they look, and she welcomed them heartily before leading them to the castle’s hall. There, true to his word, the marquess made them honored guests at a simple but ample feast. Afterward, they sang for him, performing every song they knew, and, at the marquess’s request, repeating several pieces, including the Paean and, much to Jaan’s delight, the new piece the lutenist had just written. Usually Cadel did not like to perform the same piece more than once for the same audience, but Fanshyre had been kind enough to feed them, and, as Kalida reminded him once again on their walk to the castle, he was paying them handsomely for their music.

They left Fanshyre just after the ringing of the prior’s bells, gold jingling in their pockets, their spirits high. There had been only one Qirsi in the castle, the marquess’s lone minister, a frail old woman who appeared to nod off in the middle of their performance. Cadel felt confident in assuming that she wasn’t with the conspiracy and that his fears of this journey had been unfounded. As they made their way through the hills, he found himself joking with the others and singing along with Jaan to the bawdy Mettai folk songs the lutenist was playing.

He didn’t even notice the three men in the road ahead of them until the company had almost reached them. And by then it was too late.

They were still in the hills, though they couldn’t have been more than a hundred strides from more open land. Just here, however, the road narrowed and the rocky hills formed a steep canyon. The company halted and Cadel glanced behind them. Already there were two more men there, leering at them.

“I could hear the coins in your pockets from up there,” one of the thieves said, pointing toward the top of the nearest hill.

Jaan stepped in front of Anesse and Cadel did the same with Kalida. He had a dagger on his belt-Jaan and Dunstan did as well-and a second strapped to his calf inside his boot.

The thieves all carried blades, and the one who had spoken, their leader no doubt, carried a short sword as well, stolen from a noble by the look of it. He nodded at the others and they began to advance on the company.

Jaan reached for his belt, but Cadel held out a hand, stopping him.

“Don’t, Jaan. They’ll kill us.” Actually Cadel felt fairly certain that he could fight them off with just a bit of help from the others. But he was a musician now, not a killer, and he was willing to trade a bit of gold to keep all of them alive and preserve the secret of his past.

“We can’t just let them take the gold,” the lutenist said.

“Better the gold than our lives. We can always earn more.”

The leader stopped in front of Jaan, a smirk on his begrimed face. He was about Cadel’s size and he walked with the swagger of a man who had killed before and would do so again without hesitation. One of the others appeared far younger than he, and a bit unsure of himself, but the other three seemed just as confident as their leader. Two of them planted themselves in front of Cadel, their daggers drawn, and another stood beside Dunstan.

“Yer gold, old man,” the leader said to Jaan. “An’ that o’ yer friends.”

“Shouldn’ we take their blades?” asked one of the men by Cadel.

The leader shrugged laconically. “Sure, take ’em. They migh’ be worth something.”

The man who had spoken laid his blade against Cadel’s throat with one hand, and took the weapon from his belt with the other. In a moment they also had Jaan and Dunstan’s blades.

“Now, give us yer gold.”

Cadel, Dunstan, and the two women handed over their money, but Jaan, who carried his in a small leather pouch, took out his gold rounds and threw them over the man’s head into the brush on the slope of the hill.

“You want it, you bastard?” he said. “Get it yourself.”

The leader gave a short harsh laugh, glancing at his friends, but making no move to retrieve the coins. “Did ye see tha’?” he asked. “Th’ old man has some darin’.” He faced Jaan again. “No brains, though.”

And with a motion so swift that his hand was but a blur, the thief hammered the hilt of his sword into Jaan’s face.

The lutenist crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Anesse screamed out his name, but before she could even drop to her knees beside him, the man kicked him in the stomach.

Cadel made a motion toward the leader, but the two thieves beside him brandished their daggers, forcing him to stop.

Seeing this, the leader walked to where the singer stood, the same cruel grin on his lips. “Ye want t’ try too?” he asked, as if daring Cadel to hit him. “Ye want t’ end up like yer friend?”

“Just take the gold and go,” Cadel said, holding the man’s gaze.

“Well, ye know, I would ha’. But now I don’ think so.” He looked at the women, and with a quick glance back at Cadel, stepped back to where Anesse now knelt. She was sobbing and cradling Jaan’s head in her lap, trying to stanch the blood with a kerchief. The thief sheathed his sword, pushed Jaan away from her with his foot, and forced her to stand, stepping around behind her, one hand gripping her by the hair and the other grasping her breast. “How “bout it, boys?” he called to the others. “Feel like a bit o’ mutton?”