Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(55)

So. Should he go back to the Mug and Mutton? No. He preferred the Lady of Grace for a variety of reasons, including this private room in the back.

When he returned to the main room, it was still crowded, but Lyle Truthteller was nowhere to be seen. Destin found the innkeeper clearing off some tables. He looked up, and flinched when he saw Destin. “Did the boy read your fortune, my lord? Were you satisfied?”

“I was,” Destin said. “He’s very impressive. What can you tell me about him?”

The innkeeper set a tray of glasses on the bar, turned, and faced him. “He works all the inns around here, and he always draws a crowd. He has a rude tongue in his head, though, and some think he crosses a line. If you’re concerned, my lord, I won’t have him back.”

“On the contrary, I believe the boy has a gift. I hope you’ll keep him on here. In fact, I insist.” Destin made it clear that this was an order and not a request.

The innkeeper nodded, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “If that’s your wish, my lord, I’ll see it done.”

“What is your name, innkeeper?”

“Will Hamlet, at your service.”

“Will, I’ll be moving in here tomorrow. I’ll want one of your best rooms, with a door that locks, and board as well.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Will Hamlet said, licking his lips. “We’re full at the present—”

“Then kick someone out,” Destin said. “I’ll also be needing the use of your back room, for a few weeks, anyway.”

“The—the back room? What for?”

Destin forgave the question, since he could tell the innkeeper was terminally nervous. “I intend to cut some hair.”





19


FIRE IN THE HOLE


It was late. So late that the last of the resident stable boys had already burrowed into the straw to sleep. Ash had assisted with a breech foaling of a mare down at the military barns and that had put him behind.

It had been a week since he’d put the king’s gelding down. He’d insisted on doing it himself, by using magic to stop the blood as it rushed through the great artery in his neck. It was a painless death, as far as he could tell, but that didn’t make it any easier. It was a horse, but that didn’t make it less important. It was one more piece of evidence that there was no place to hide, in all of the Seven Realms, where the evil at the top of the Ardenine Empire didn’t percolate down.

Ash might try to turn into somebody else—Ash Hanson or Adam Freeman, but the king of Arden would not. He wouldn’t stop killing until he’d extinguished the Gray Wolf line.

Ash wished he had let Crusher kill the bastard. And he would have if he’d known who the rider was, and if it hadn’t meant risking Bellamy. He couldn’t afford to let those kinds of opportunities go by.

Options? He could poison the river, but it was a stinking sewer already. Nobody drew water from the river unless they had no other choice. He might get at the cisterns and wells in the palace, but too many people would die, and still there was no guarantee he’d hit his target. He’d tried to get in to see Merrill, in the healing halls, again, and had been turned away. He’d applied for a job in the kitchens, but in a way he was a victim of his own success. Marshall Bellamy refused to allow a transfer.

Someone else might lie in wait on the rooftops with a bow, but Ash was not that good an archer. He was used to working close. He’d be willing to give his life in a successful attempt, but the last thing he wanted was to hand King Gerard the kill he’d missed at Oden’s Ford.

Ash walked out into the yard for a breath of air before finding his bed. It was nearly Solstice, but the oppressive southern heat had scarcely abated. He found himself yearning for the breathless cold of the mountains, where life and death balanced on a knife’s edge. Was it snowing at home? Would his mother and sister take the sleigh out on their own?

The stable yard was deserted except for Hamon, the night baker, who sat on the edge of the well, drinking from the flask he carried with him everywhere. Hamon was just starting his shift. He’d be proofing the bread for breakfast in the middle of the night, so it would be ready for baking in just a few hours.

Ash had exchanged just a few words with Hamon, but he felt a kinship with him just the same. They were both solitary individuals, content to work alone.

That’s when he saw a slight figure emerge from the keep and cross the yard, heading straight for the stables. When he got closer, Ash realized that it was a boy, maybe ten years old, clad in rough breeches and tunic. He wore a rough jute belt at his waist and sandals on his feet.

Ash knew work coming when he saw it, and he thought of fading back into the shadows before he was spotted but it was already too late.

“You there!” the boy said. “Where can I find Marshall Bellamy’s healer?”

“That would be me,” Ash said, wishing he could deny it.

“You!” the boy said, looking him up and down with avid curiosity. “What’s your name, then?”

“Adam Freeman.”

The boy nodded. “You’re the one I’m looking for. I’m Sam, and I work in the kennels. The kennel master sent me here to fetch you.”

“Can’t it wait until morning? I was just going to clean up and get some dinner.”