David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

He realized they were all looking at him, either blatantly or through the corners of their eyes. In his heart, he felt something harden, as if he wanted to prove them wrong, to show he didn’t care what they thought. But what did it matter? Why did he go out? What might he accomplish? He remembered Deathmask’s biting words.

As if your five years of trying to singlehandedly conquer the thief guilds has worked out so much better.

Something clicked in his head, several pieces tumbling together as the idea took form. He looked to them, then out the window. No, there was nothing out there for him, not this night. Come the day, he’d find Deathmask, assuming he still lived. Perhaps there was a chance to have a legacy opposite his father.

“You know,” he said, feeling a great weight lift off his shoulders. “I think I will stay here tonight, if you’ll have me.”

“Pull a seat up at the table,” Senke said with a smile. “You bet your ass we will.”

I n the dark of Felwood’s dungeon, Oric shivered. He sat on a wood cot and listened to the water drip. Where it dripped, he didn’t know. To pass the time, he’d tried to guess, but the echo always seemed to change on him. His cell was completely dark, without a single shred of light. He’d scoured the floor with his palms, but everywhere he touched was wet, and a drop never landed upon him. Still, the search did better to pass the time than thinking about his fate. Anytime he thought of that, or of how long he might be in the total darkness, his head swam and his heart lurched into his throat.

He’d tried talking to anyone else, a guard or fellow prisoner, but his voice only echoed through the emptiness, never answered. For some reason, that always made it worse. Without light, company, or a single meal, time was meaningless. At least two times he slept, and in his dreams he saw color, women, friends. He wished he could sleep more often.

A loud creak startled him from a doze. Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Orange and yellow flickered along the walls, at first a wonderful sight but soon painful in their brightness. Holding a hand before his eyes to block the pain, he felt a wretched sight as John Gandrem stepped in, soldiers at his side.

“Stay seated,” he said, “otherwise my guards will open you up in many places.”

“But a man should always rise at the arrival of a lord,” Oric said. He held back a cough. His voice felt scratchy, dry. He remained sitting despite his protest. With how light his head felt, he thought he’d pass out if he stood too quickly.

John crossed his arms and looked down at him. In the yellow light, his skin seemed like stone, old and unmalleable. His eyes looked even worse. For all the stories he’d heard of Lord Gandrem’s kindness, he’d yet to hear a story describe those eyes. Mercy didn’t belong in them, not now, maybe not ever. Perhaps this was the lord of the dungeon, a different man than the lord of Felwood.

“Before we start, there’s a few things you should know,” Gandrem began. “First, I have talked extensively with the boy, Nathaniel. His story is consistent, and most damning. Second, the man Ingram thought he killed, the farmer Matthew, is not dead. Third, my men have already worked over Uri, and how he sang, Oric. I know what you did to that farmer’s wife. The idea that you could claim they assaulted a caravan and held Nathaniel hostage is laughable.”

“I never claimed it. That was Ingram’s stupid idea.”

The faintest hint of a smile stretched at Lord Gandrem’s lips, but then vanished.

“Perhaps. A shame I cut his throat before I could tell him the farmer lived. I plan on ensuring Matthew is well rewarded, as is his wife. But the question remains now, what do I do with you?”

“Well, between the rope and the ax, I think I’d prefer the ax.”

“In time, Oric. In time. See, my biggest problem is not with you, but with your master, Arthur Hadfield. Mark Tullen visited me before meeting with you and Nathaniel in Tyneham. I know he was escorting the boy back, and I’m not a damn fool. Everyone knows he was a potential suitor of Alyssa, and Arthur wanted him gone. Proving that, however, is another matter.”

His soldiers rushed in and grabbed Oric by either arm. Up went his hands, back and above his head. Chains rattled, and then he felt clamps tighten about his wrists. With him safely shackled, John sat on the small cot and pulled his heavy coat tighter about him.

“Now I don’t mean proving it to just Alyssa,” he continued. “She’s a bright gal, and there’s too much here for her to ignore. However, Arthur’s long held those mines at the edge of my lands, always refusing taxes. I want those lands. It is my knights that have protected them. It is my lands his traders travel across to Veldaren. It is on my roads he ships his gold and sends for his supplies. By all rights, they should be mine, and would have been if not for the Gemcrofts.”

“What could I possibly have to do with that?” Oric asked. His shoulders were starting to cramp, and he had a creeping feeling it was about to get a whole lot worse…especially if they left him like this for several hours, if not days.

“King Vaelor has rejected every claim of mine for taxes, no doubt because he fears the Trifect more than he fears me. That, and their bribes. But Arthur has no heir, and he’s never written a will in case he does have a son. Doesn’t want anyone feeling jealous of the brat, or thinking he suddenly stole their wealth. If he dies as such, his lands will be joined with the closest lord’s.”

“You. But you aren’t the one holding Arthur. Alyssa is. You think she’ll make him foreswear his lands before she strings him up?”

“I have no doubt she could,” John said. “But she’ll only do that if she discovers what happened. Now do you understand? I hold all the control here. Arthur won’t dare challenge me about your deaths, for the truth gets him killed. He can only keep his mouth shut and pray for the best. I, however…”

Oric tried to flex his back, but he was held too closely to the wall. He rolled his neck back and forth, and it popped loudly. Minutes. It’d only been minutes, but he already wanted out. Far better to shiver freely on the floor than sit unable to move half his body. He didn’t want to think about hours. Or days. Or gods forbid, years.

“I hold Arthur’s life in my hands, and yours as well. I might have used Uri for this, but he didn’t take well to my low servants’ questionings. We had to ensure he spoke the truth, of course. So it is down to you. Where do your loyalties lie, Oric? You deserve death, we both know this. What might you do to be spared that fate? Help me, or otherwise…you said it yourself: rope or ax.”

Oric couldn’t believe his luck. He thought that he’d have nothing of value to offer, but if he could roll on his former master and somehow escape with his head…

“What is it you want from me?” he asked.

“I need you to kill Arthur before he can discover things have gone awry, and before Alyssa might realize his involvement. Before you do, I want you to sign a statement I might use in the king’s court detailing every bit of yours, and Arthur’s, involvement.”

“What do I do once I kill Arthur?” Oric asked. “What happens then?”

This time lord Gandrem did smile.

“A man of your talents? Surely you could disappear into a crowd afterward, and then, well…Ker’s a long way away, and Mordan even farther. I also hear the sailors in Angelport often need a good sellsword aboard their ships.”

“What about the farmer?”

“He’s injured, and my healers say it will take several days for him to recover. We should have this concluded before he can be of any concern. Besides, these matters are far above his station, and his word in any court would be suspect at best, being just a low-birth simpleton.”