Alex Bledsoe - Dark Jenny

“I was commissioned before you, soldier,” the taller man said with a quavering attempt to pull rank. “That’s a fact. So you stay here and wait until someone relieves you.”

The taller man departed. The remaining guard stood with his back to the door, hand on his sword hilt, and watched me with what he assumed was an ass-puckering glare. I smiled, closed my eyes, and settled in to wait, a skill I’d mastered long ago.

Finally big Robert, who knew the names of all the guests, came into the room. His expression was grim, and he loomed over me with practiced intimidation. His muscles bulged under clothes about half a size too small. I got the feeling that, if he grew angry enough, arrows would bounce off his bare skin.

He slapped my foot off my knee and said, “If you’re looking for trouble, wise guy, I come from where they put the edge on it. So your best choice would be to answer my questions truthfully and completely.”

“I agree.” I deliberately crossed my leg again. He was using a standard tactic: make the suspect think only the interrogator stands between him and certain death. It worked, unless the suspect was someone like me.

“So who are you?” he demanded.

“Like I already told you, my name is Edward LaCrosse. I’m on your guest list as Edward, the Baron Rosselac.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why the alias?”

“I’m here on business.”

“What kind of business?”

“A tail job. There was a slight chance the man I was hired to follow might have heard my real name, and I didn’t want him to see it on the list. Seemed harmless enough at the time.”

“A sword jockey,” Sir Robert said disdainfully. The reaction didn’t surprise me. Soldiers who’d bought into the system had little use for people like me, who knew the system but worked outside it. It annoyed them that we used our job skills in our own service, not that of the local monarch. The argument that the skills belonged to the soldier, not to the king or commander, generally fell on unsympathetic ears.

“A man’s gotta eat,” I said.

“Who were you following?”

I shook my head. “That’s confidential.”

“Somebody’s been killed here, pal. Don’t get cute.”

“I can’t help that,” I deadpanned. “But my guy had no more to do with it than I did.”

Sir Robert didn’t smile. “How’d you get an invitation?”

“My client arranged it.”

“And who’s your client?”

“Like I said, that’s my business.”

He grabbed the manacle chain and pulled it until I was forced to lean forward. “I could make your business my business.”

“You wouldn’t like it, the hours are awful.”

He was silent, but his face flushed red, revealing the white lines of old scars. He released the chain, and I put my hands nonchalantly behind my head. The hanging metal disk tapped the chair back. “Harrigan,” he said to the young man guarding me, “step outside.”

Harrigan blinked uncertainly at this breach of procedure. “Uh… you know, maybe I shouldn’t-”

“Maybe you shouldn’t question a direct order!” the big man roared. “Don’t they teach you that here?”

“Yes, sir,” the youngster said, and went into the hall. His last glance did not bode well for my immediate future.

My interrogator kicked the door shut without turning away from me. “It’s just you and me now, sport. So why did you kill Sam Patrice?”

“I didn’t kill anybody and you know it. And you can lay off the psychotic-troll act, I’ll cooperate as much as I can without compromising my client.”

He smiled, an expression about as friendly as a bone saw. “A sword jockey with a conscience. I should tell you that the Bodice Brigade in the banquet hall is already howling for your hide. Maybe I should just hand you over to them. Under all that lace and powder they’re vicious little bastards, especially in a mob.”

“So if I cooperate, what then? Do you plan to just keep me in this closet until they all go home, then send me on my way?”

“Depends on what you tell me. Give me the truth, and then I’ll decide what to do.”

I put my manacled hands back in my lap and thought this over. I felt bad for betraying my client, but under the circumstances protecting a cow pie like her husband seemed pointless. Plus I got a good vibe from Sir Robert, who seemed decent enough under the gruff: he hadn’t hit me with an iron bar or heated up any metal tongs. “Okay,” I said at last. “I was hired by Fiona, the Lady Astamore, to follow her husband around and catch him dipping his ladle in the wrong vat. It wasn’t difficult. I delivered his wife’s warning, planned to grab some free food courtesy of Queen Jennifer, and then leave to report to my client.”

“Anyone here who can confirm that?”

“Sure. Lord Astamore. But he probably won’t. He was the soloist in the choir singing for my blood.”

Sir Robert cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “So why should I believe you?”

“My angelic smile. Or because I had no motive to kill the dead guy. I didn’t even know his name until you told me just now.”

“You say.”

“Yeah, I say.”

He scowled thoughtfully, and a long moment hung silently between us. Finally he said, “The ‘dead guy’ was Samuel Herbert Patrice. He’d only been a knight for a few weeks. Graduated from the previous class here, so it was a big deal for him to come back for this ceremony. He got to show off for all his underclassman friends.”

“Did you know him?”

“I know them all. Wiped most of their noses at one point or another. Sam was no better or worse than any of them.” Sir Robert leaned back against the wall. “Okay, if you’re who you say you are, then you had no motive.”

“Or opportunity,” I said, pressing my advantage. “He ate a poisoned apple that, according to your own queen, hadn’t been out of her sight since it left the tree. When could I have tampered with it?”

He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “There is that,” he quietly agreed.

“Yeah. So now that I’ve told you everything I know, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just quietly slip out the back door and get out of here.” I held up my wrists. “You’ve got an internal crime here, and I’m glad to be an outsider.”

He frowned and made no move to unlock the manacles. “Why do you say it’s ‘internal’?”

“It’s pretty clear that someone wanted to kill the famous Thomas Gillian. He’s the one with the fruit fetish, and he’d also be the dead one if Patrice hadn’t snatched that apple at the last minute. And I’ll tell you something you missed: poisoning takes both cowardice and a certain level of intelligence. They say it’s a woman’s weapon, but in my experience men are just as fond of it. If I were you, I’d look over your guest list for a well-educated minor official who might have once crossed paths with Gillian and still holds a grudge.”

I shook the manacle chain slightly to get his attention. He ignored it and said, “What makes you think the killer’s here? Why not just poison the apple back at Motlace and send it on its way with the queen?”

“Human nature. Someone who goes to all this trouble would want to be on hand to see it play out.”

Sir Robert looked impressed. “You’re right, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I make my living understanding people’s worst tendencies. Now will you please take these bracelets off me?”

“Maybe.” Again his eyes grew narrow. “Or maybe you’re the kind of guy who poisons people and then acts like the kind of guy who doesn’t poison people.”

I laughed. He got bonus points for tenacity. “Yeah, I could be. And I bet you didn’t get to such a high rank by being a bad judge of people, Sir… Robert, is it?”