In the Eye of Heaven Part 9

Some tempting fiend turned Durand's thoughts to escape. With a little work, he could slip from Mulcer and take his chances on the road. He had sworn no oaths yet. If he left the packhorse he rode behind, his sin would be a small one.

Just then, Gol appeared. "All right Mulcer, I've got to talk to your new friend here." He grinned. "And, Durand, lad, I'll need that nag you're riding."

With a glance to Mulcer, Durand climbed down. Gol joined him in the road. The captain took the reins of Durand's pack-horse, and offered the reins of his own gray hackney instead.

"Get up, boy. We're trading horses. You're to take us in.""Sir?"

"They don't know you round here. Climb on, get up front, and lead us in."

Durand obeyed, cantering his borrowed horse to the front of the line where Sir Radomor had stopped in the process of changing cloaks. It was hard to imagine any trade of cloaks disguising this man. There was a banked fury in him that made a man think of savages beyond the Fiery Gulf.

"Lord Radomor," Gol said. "This lad's the one chased our monkey down from your mill."

Lord Radomor leveled his gaze on Durand.

"And it was him that heard our friend Fulk," Gol added. "Durand, from the Col of the Blackroots, he says. Knows no one inside. He'll take us into Ferangore. I don't think anyone will bother about the black eyes."

"Do it," growled the lord. His eyes were chips of flint."Yes, Lordship," Gol answered."Yes, Lordship," echoed Durand.

Bowing their leave, the two men rode to the very head of the column, past any hope of escape, where the captain made to leave Durand behind.

"What'll I tell the guards?" Durand asked.

"Something'll come to you," Gol said, and took his place in the line.

Two dozen hard faces stared at Durand, looking round the nasals of old helms or watching from under ragged hoods. Breath steamed in the air. And, for a moment, greater questions were driven from his mind.

At the head of a conroi of armed men, Durand cantered for the hill city. He guessed at what the gatekeepers might say: Who was he? What was his business? He cursed, seeing slammed portcullises and shot bolts in his mind's eye. A quick glance at the thugs behind him told him the truth: The sentries on the gates would be as likely to shoot as slam the doors.

He swore again.

And then they were at the gate, and an apish man in a brimmed kettle-helm was scrambling out of a low door inside. Helmets blossomed on the battlements twenty feet overhead.

"What in the h.e.l.ls are you lot up to then, eh?" said the ape. "We was about to close up." There was a crossbow in the man's fists.

Gol's horse snorted steam, tossing its head.

"Well?" The ape gestured with his crossbow. Idly, Durand considered that at this range, the bolt would either blow right through his throat, or he'd end up with a wad of wet feathers tucked under his chin. Either would serve him right.

From behind, Gol whispered, "Go on."The steel head of the bolt winked like a penny.

"What's your business here? You selling turnips? The duke don't like no trouble in his town. Right?"

The duke. Durand s.n.a.t.c.hed at that flicker of inspiration."Right," he said. "No trouble. We're here to see the duke."

The crossbow wavered. Now, if the man's hand twitched, the bolt would snap Durand's femur or maybe just kill Gol's horse.

"What?" the guard drawled. "Looking for work?"That sounded good."Aye. Work. We hear there's work."

The ape nodded. "Only the duke ain't here. He's off to Mantlewell on the pilgrimage."

Mantlewell. Durand stared at the little man, wishing he had a chance to punch him. Radomor would be watching. Gol was on the packhorse right behind.

"We'll wait, then," Durand snapped. "Or talk to the captain of this watch."

"By rights I should show you out...." The gatekeeper lowered the crossbow, but remained conspicuously in Durand's path. Slowly, the fellow c.o.c.ked his head.

And Durand realized that the man was after coin. Durand shut his eyes. He didn't have a penny to throw the wh.o.r.eson. He could feel the hot pressure of Gol's stare on the back of his neck.

Durand had a flash. He turned to Gol. "Boy, throw this man a few pennies for his patience." There was a cool locking of stares for an instant, then the captain plucked the purse from his belt and tossed it to the man.

"Happy?" Durand said.

"Thanks very much, Captain," the gatekeeper said. "Go on through, but you be sure your boys make no trouble, or it'll go hard on all of you. This is a clean town."

Durand grunted and kicked Gol's horse under the heavy gates and into the city, wondering if Lord Radomor would string up the gatekeeper.

SOON THEY WERE high in the tiered city, standing before the black door of an alehouse, with Durand back among the ranks. Mulcer grinned with a glance at Gol. high in the tiered city, standing before the black door of an alehouse, with Durand back among the ranks. Mulcer grinned with a glance at Gol.

"Where?" Durand heard Lord Radomor say.

"There is a room," answered one of the preening Rooks. "I think you will find the chamber perfectly positioned."

When Radomor and the Rooks had disappeared, the others walked inside. The building was empty on a night when it should have been packed. Durand eyed a wooden stair at the rear. He heard footfalls on the floorboards overhead.

The men were left alone. Hands rested on the pommels of swords as though any moment might bring soldiers in through the windows. It looked as though the Rooks had hired the whole building just to spot this "sign" they'd wagered their little black eyes on. Durand felt dizzy. He felt the memory of Fulk's forehead throbbing between his swollen eyes. He tried to believe that the Rooks had seen their last night To ease the tension, Gol sent a couple of the men down the cellar to haul up something to drink.

"It's a real inn," one of the men called up the cellar's trapdoor. "Not some alehouse. There's nought but casks of wine down here."

"One," cautioned Gol, and the men at the trapdoor nodded. He crossed to the street windows. "Bar the door, boy" boy" he murmured to Durand. "We don't want no patrons walking in, stirring up questions." he murmured to Durand. "We don't want no patrons walking in, stirring up questions."

Durand swept up a bench and wedged it tight between flagstones and door handle. There would be no interruptions.

Gol was watching the ceiling. Mulcer had noticed the same thing.

"What is he-" Durand began.

"Ssh," hissed Gol. He looked to the others-now wrestling a long cask up through the trapdoor. "Shut up, all of you!" Hard men stood like startled deer. Gol's eyes turned back to the ceiling.

Over the street-side windows, boards creaked, sifting dust into the common room. Gol half-nodded and crossed to the shutters there. With a glance to the others, Durand found his own shutter and squinted out.

The inn would have been high on the old hill fort, but when Durand looked out he could see nothing but the pale sides of the buildings across the street. There was one tier above them, and it belonged to the duke. Beyond that highest wall were the precincts of the high sanctuary and the citadel of Ailnor, son of Carondas.

Durand waited for the sign the Rooks had promised- whatever it would be, and whatever it might mean. In the street beyond the shutters, the air sat heavy and cool. He could hear the men behind him slurping at cups and murmuring. The floorboards upstairs creaked. For a moment, Radomor's voice throbbed through the floor, then, quite suddenly, it was silent.

Mulcer gripped his arm.

In the street, there was music: pure notes singing high over the roadway. Durand moved his eye along the crack of the shutter, peering among the rooftops, certain he could find the source.

As two rooftops scissored apart, Durand saw a window high in a tower. A figure leaned there, silvered by moonlight. He saw the oval of her downcast face. There was hair like sable. G.o.d, he thought, what was this? She held a recorder to her lips. The tower was high in the castle of the dukes of Yrlac. She looked out, and seemed to stop. There was a little clap of her hands.

A roar shook the rafters of the inn, and Durand's guts froze.

Lord Radomor thundered down the wooden stair, the Rooks-or their black robes-flying behind him. "The bench, boy," said Gol, and Durand jerked the thing free just in time for Radomor to slam the doors wide and storm into the street. The frozen soldiers in the common room chased after. Few missed the dagger glint of the Rooks' wild grins.

At the uppermost gates, a man tried to hold the doors, but fell back when he understood whose way he barred. There was no one who would stand before Lord Radomor that night.

The uppermost tier of the city was a single courtyard: A hundred paces of cobblestones stretched below the tolling bells of the Ferangore's high sanctuary. Loping among Radomor's men, Durand saw the fortress beyond. Guards and servants ran to keep pace, some tugging on surcoats or hopping on one shoe. Soon, Radomor mounted the steps of the castle's keep, his Rooks swarming behind.

The fortress darkness was near total as Durand and the others chased their master inside.

"Where does he come?" Radomor's voice demanded.

"The well, Lord," simpered a Rook. "A shaft to the cisterns beneath the city. He enters at his townhouse. It's a bit of a swim."

"The well plunges straight into deep water." The Rooks were taking turns. "It might even be too narrow for a man to turn around."

"If we were to block it in ..." offered one."And fire the house, perhaps," said the other."-An oubliette, Lord. A place of forgetting.""He will arrive at any time."

"Do it!" Radomor commanded. "If he comes, he has condemned himself."

Gol spun, his finger darting among the men: "You, you, and you." Durand had been missed. 'The keep? You know it?" As each of the men nodded, freeing Durand from this duty, relief was like open air.

"There's a grate on the wellhead. Drop it. Bolt it. And close the door to that room behind you." The men hesitated. "Go! And you'd best guard that door once you're out"

Gol's jaw knotted as he squeezed his eyes shut to think. The eyes opened.

"You two," he picked another pair of soldiers. "You know Ferangore as well as I do. Fire this Warrendel's house. As for the rest of you. I'll have four men on the front door. Draw the bar. The rest can keep the peace in the hall."

"I think," said one of the Rooks, "that His Lordship will want some men with him."

Gol nodded. "Mulcer, you, and you." This time he tapped Durand. "You'd best stick by me."

With his henchman finished, Lord Radomor stormed away, his cloak billowing to fill the hall. His wife, Alwen, would be somewhere in the dark castle, high above them, and unsuspecting. Durand tried to remember the dark-haired daughter of Duke Abrava.n.a.l of Gireth. It must have been ten winters since the wedding. He remembered a girl saying something about how a yard had many yards in it, either explaining or teasing the younger boys. Durand remembered thinking she was lying. Now they were coming for her.

Only they had not moved.

"We are counting on you, Sir Gol," said a Rook. "A man who intends to be a power under His Lordship had best-"

"Come on!" barked Gol and Durand charged after.

Faces crowded the benighted keep: silent eyes, big and gray as mushrooms. On the stair, Radomor was like ghosts and warhorses, vaulting high into the ancient fortress. Durand and the others bounded after the slap of hands and soles through the dark. Finally, Lord Radomor stumbled into a tower where the air was thick with lavender. And, from the stairwell above their heads, a thunderclap of rending wood split the dark.

Someone darted out: a pale form with something clutched to its chest. Durand caught an arm. For a moment, a woman looked up into his face, eyes desperate and black as ink. It was Lady Alwen.

Radomor looked down on Durand and his prisoner both. Mastering herself, Alwen straightened and climbed back into the tower room with her husband. The bundle in arms struggled weakly, and cried.

Durand stared into his own callused hand.THE WINDING STAIRWELL let out before a broken door. The baby wailed. let out before a broken door. The baby wailed.

Radomor said nothing, but, beyond the doorway, Alwen was speaking. Durand squeezed his swollen eyes shut in the narrow s.p.a.ce. His head pounded.

She confessed everything. Radomor was often away, and Sir Aldoin had smiled upon her. It had been nothing at first but a friendship. Aldoin was a friend to both of them, but then something had changed. In the summer. While he was on campaign. While he rode out at the Downs. She never meant to harm him.

Durand and the others waited outside the door.

Durand listened for any answer from Radomor, straining to read the mood of the man, but Radomor never uttered a word.

Alwen begged his mercy, until finally she, too, subsided into silence. Ages after, Lord Radomor appeared in the doorway, his face so stiff and dark that he drove even Gol into the comer of the room. There was no sound behind him but the baby's crying.

When their lord had gone, Gol turned to the others. "Watch here," he said. "And, as you value your lives, don't be poking your noses inside. She's naught to any of you, and we'll know the worst of it before long, don't worry."

With that, the captain followed Radomor down, and Durand was left in an alcove before the broken door of a strange room in a strange fortress leagues from Gireth with two soldiers and the sound of weeping. He should have starved on the road.

No man spoke or looked into the faces of the others. Durand could not imagine the rage of this man. Lord Radomor had been a hero in the king's host Now, he had lost the wife he had believed in, and a companion of his childhood. Where was vengeance?

The baby cried, and the three men stood. Two of an autumn night's long hours pa.s.sed. The unseen woman, only a few paces away, murmured comfort to her child. Durand steeled himself against the desire to meddle, knowing his interference would do only harm. Distant sounds carried up the stairwell. Shouts of protest reached them from fathoms down. Men roared. Once, a woman shrieked somewhere.

Durand looked into his empty hand.

Then, just on the feathered edge of his hearing, Durand caught shivers of a panicked voice, different from the others-he knew what it must be: Somewhere beyond a guarded door, the voice pleaded from the mouth of a well. If there had been any doubt...

A belt creaked beside Durand. Its owner muttered "G.o.d." "G.o.d." It was Mulcer. It was Mulcer.

Durand looked into the empty arch of the stairwell and heard the metal racket of water. The well was the heart of the great stone keep. Even where Durand stood, at the top of the highest tower, he could hear. Frozen beyond the open door, Alwen must hear as well.

In the fifth hour of night, another pair of Radomor's men climbed into the mouth of the stair, saying, "Go. We're barracked in the undercroft."

Exhaustion weighed Durand down like a mail coat, but he made his way down the winding tower stair. Mulcer and his comrade rustled and clinked behind. Soon, the feasting hall glowed in its doorway before him. Hunchbacked Lord Radomor sat in his father's wooden throne, holding a silent court. There were guards on every door, penning twenty or thirty servants in the room with their master. The Rooks perched on stools, flanking their lord. No one had moved since the screams of the drowning man had rung in the keep. Every face was stiff with horror. All but the Rooks'.

On the way down, Durand and the others pa.s.sed a nondescript door guarded by two more soldiers. He looked at the face of the thing: black nailheads, a ring pull, wrought-iron hinges, and a heavy bar on the outside. The well chamber. He glanced back to the feasting hall, only a few paces away, and could still see one of the Rooks hunched there.

The Rook turned to him and smiled a crooked leer, setting a silencing finger to his lips.

THE NEXT MORNING, Durand climbed back up the tower with Mulcer.

"What are we doing?" whispered Durand.

"Radomor will give in," Mulcer said. "He's been cuckolded, but he ain't the first, is he? He'll stew a few days. We'll pack the girl off to Acconel and her family. I don't expect Gireth will like it much, but who'll blame our Radomor?"

With love gone, it was only politics. "He'll set Alwen aside and keep the child," was Durand's grim surmise.

"A man of near forty years doesn't lose his heir lightly. Likely the mother will miss the boy, but Alwen's broken vows to the King and Queen and Queen of Heaven." of Heaven."

"Even the wise women will not step in.""It will all be over soon enough," Mulcer concluded.

They had almost reached the top of the stair when a harried-looking burgher with k.n.o.bbed wrists and a box of tools brushed past them, scrambling down. At the top of the tower hung a new door: iron nail heads, a ring pull, wrought-iron hinges, and a heavy bar on the outside. The image of the well-room door.

As Durand stood before it, he felt the eye of the Lord of Dooms upon him. Lead and stone and timber were no shield. But Radomor would relent; he must. He had been a hero at the king's vanguard. He had nearly died. He was a Son of Atthi, and a king was his grandsire.