Sharon Shinn: Reader And Raelynx

Dalcey stared after her, his hand still on the latch. She was wearing men’s trousers. And a knife at her belt. His own knives were on the other side of the room, closed in the armoire. “Who are you?” he asked stupidly.

She turned and smiled at him, but before she could speak a second figure shouldered into the room. It was a man, huge, dark-haired, dressed all in black, and he had his hands around Dalcey’s throat before Dalcey could think to scream. Dalcey fought, or attempted to; he flailed in the man’s grip, tried to land punches, tried to land kicks, tried to stomp on the floor to draw the attention of the proprietor or his staff. Outlaws! Robbing people here in your very inn! But he couldn’t swing hard enough to make an impression on the big man’s ribs. He couldn’t get a knee near the other man’s groin, couldn’t shout, couldn’t breathe. He felt himself starting to black out. Panic began to replace his first spurt of anger as he realized he was about to die. He clawed at the hard hands clenched around his neck, scratching desperately. No use, no use-

“Don’t kill him, Tayse,” he heard the woman say, and the strangle-hold loosened enough to allow him to suck in air.

Dalcey only had a second to consider mounting a counterattack before the big man spun him around and grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms and bruising his ribs and throat. Gasping for air, he tried to assess the situation. The woman was bending over the bed, tossing through his clothes, his maps, and his disassembled weapon. A third person was standing beside her-someone who must have entered behind the man called Tayse-a slightly built young man with a ragged shock of light brown hair.

“What do you want?” Dalcey wheezed, trying to draw in enough breath to shout for help. It was impossible that brigands could slip so boldly into such a respectable inn! Had they murdered the innkeeper and all of his staff downstairs? “My money is in my coat, on the back of the chair.”

The woman turned to look at him. She was actually laughing. In her hands she held the frame of the crossbow, the arrow, and the detached trigger mechanism. “Money?” she repeated. “I imagine you got paid so much money for this act of treason that you couldn’t possibly have brought it all with you.”

He was astonished. “Act of-act of treason ?” What could she possibly know? How could she possibly know?

She held up the parts of the weapon for him to see and then deftly locked them together with a couple of quick twists. Now he was both stupefied and very, very frightened. “Met a man from Arberharst once who carried one of these,” she said. “I would have paid him any amount of money for it, but he wouldn’t sell it. Nastiest thing I’ve ever seen for killing a man at short range.”

They had the weapon, they knew what it was, but they could have no idea what he meant to do with it. “Kill a man,” he blustered. “Why, I wouldn’t-how could you think-who are you people? How dare you come into my room?”

The young man had picked up the various papers littering the bed. “The castle, the city,” he recited. “Oh, and look. Here it is. His card of admittance to see the king tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” said Tayse, and his grip tightened so dramatically that Dalcey felt his ribs splinter inward. The woman watched him coolly as he contorted in Tayse’s arms, seeming to judge exactly how long he could survive without breathing.

“Tayse,” she said at last, and again the big man’s hold loosened.

“What do you want from me?” Dalcey panted.

She seemed to think about it. “Well, first, I want you to not succeed at killing the king,” she said in a mild voice.

“I-wouldn’t! How could you think-”

“And then I want you to tell us who sent you here to try,” she continued. “And then I want you to be thrown into a cell for the rest of your life, although I think Tayse would rather strangle you outright.”

They had no proof. The weapon, the maps, those could all be explained away. He tried for outrage, though he was too afraid to make it really successful. “How could you come here tonight-and accuse me of such heinous intentions! Who are you? Who do you think I am? I am a simple merchant from Arberharst who has been granted the favor of an interview with your monarch-”

The slight young man spoke up again. “You’re a Fortunalt man who has come to Ghosenhall to kill the king,” he said. “I could feel you the minute you started thinking about it. There’s so much violence in you. It came rolling out of you and almost knocked me over.”

Dalcey stared at him in disbelief. The boy was speaking gibberish. “You-what? You felt me- what ? Who are you?”

The woman clapped the young man on the shoulder. “He’s Cammon. He’s a mystic. He can read minds.”

“And your mind is a cesspool,” Tayse interjected from over Dalcey’s shoulder.

“I can’t actually read minds,” Cammon said.

Dalcey started struggling again in Tayse’s hold, feeling a sort of relief wash over him. Still no proof, just the crazy made-up ramblings of an idiot mystic boy! “You can’t possibly believe-just because this lunatic says-let me go! I demand to see a magistrate! I demand to see the king ! He will be incensed to learn how grievously I have been treated, an envoy from a foreign sovereign nation!”

The woman was laughing. “Cammon is never wrong,” she said cheerfully. “So Tayse and I believe you have come here to murder the king. And Tayse will find a way to make you tell him who sent you. And you may scream your head off, if you like,” she added, as Dalcey drew breath to do just that, “but no one in this inn will interfere with us.”

“With brigands? With outlaws?” Dalcey sputtered. “What kind of city is this where such atrocities are allowed?”

It was as if he had not spoken. “Tayse is a King’s Rider, you see,” she continued. “And his word is law in Ghosenhall.”

Now, finally, Dalcey believed he was truly caught. A King’s Rider! Fifty of them served the crown, fifty of the fiercest fighters of the realm, all of them fanatically devoted to their king. No one would gainsay a Rider-no one would believe a nameless man caught in questionable circumstances no matter how hard he argued his innocence.

He could not be tortured. He could not betray Rayson. It was a point of pride on Dalcey’s part never to leave clues that pointed to the men who had employed him. He would not buy his own skin by sacrificing someone else’s.

The candy. The poison. One piece of that and he would thwart the torturer. Time for meekness. “Where-where are you taking me?” he asked in a quavering voice, pretending that all the fight had gone out of him. “Will you allow me to bring my things? Will you allow me to contact my family?”

“Your family in Arberharst?” she asked with mock politeness. “I’m sure you’d like to get a message off to them.”

“Grab his clothes and let’s go,” Tayse said. “Cammon, check the dresser, see if anything’s there.”

Dalcey stood limp in Tayse’s arms, trying to appear utterly defeated, but he watched closely out of the corner of his eyes as the woman and the young man gathered and repacked his personal items. The maps and the crossbow, of course, were laid aside to be kept as evidence, but they seemed perfectly willing to turn over everything else to him. His gloves were tucked into the pockets of his coat, the newly pressed clothes were crammed back into the bag, and the silver box of candies was dropped in on top of them. Dalcey closed his eyes in unutterable relief. The woman glanced around as if to make sure nothing had been overlooked.

“Wait a minute, Senneth,” Cammon said, and pulled the silver box back out of the valise.