CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

In battle, as in life, things are never as they seem.

They are always, without fail, considerably worse.

—General Ichavian, famed military strategist

 

Cutter shambled out of the dungeon as quickly as his weary legs could carry him. He emerged into the entryway where, what felt like only yesterday, he saw the man who had escorted him and the others here to free the historian kill the guard on duty, stabbing him in the neck and taking his life with no more thought than another man might give to squishing a bug.

“Did you get what you needed, Prince?” one of the two guards stationed at the entryway asked as he emerged from the dungeons.

“Maybe,” Cutter said. “Thanks.” He started past them then paused, glancing back at the man who’d spoken, the older of the two. “Guardsman?”

“Yes, Prince?”

“What’s your name?”

“It’s Trevor, Prince, if it pleases you.”

Cutter nodded. “Alright, Guardsman Trevor, I have a favor to ask.”

“Name it, Highness.”

Cutter watched the man, searching for any sign of devious intent, but if it was there, he did not see it. Finally, he grunted. “My request is two-fold. First, I would like to ensure that the woman inside, Belle by name, remains unharmed, by my order. She is cooperating with the crown and therefore is to be treated fairly—no more visits from the torturers and please make her as comfortable as possible.”

“As you say, sir,” the guardsman nodded. “And…the other?”

“I want you to find a woman named Maeve. She should be near the king. She’s about a foot shorter than me and—”

“Forgive me, Highness,” Guardsman Trevor said, “but I am familiar with Maeve the Marvelous.” He smiled. “I think all the lads are. A formidable woman, that one.”

“Yes, she is,” Cutter agreed. “Anyway, you’re to find her and tell her that I need her help. Tell her I’ve gone to the southern gate in search of a Guardsman Nigel. Tell her to bring Chall and Priest and any guardsmen she can round up but tell her not to take too long.”

The man blinked. “Forgive me, Prince, but are you expecting trouble, sir?”

“I find that it’s best, Guardsman Trevor, to always expect trouble. That way, a man isn’t surprised when it shows up at his door.”

“B-but, sir,” the guardsman said, “if it’s trouble, I’d just as soon come with you—that is, if it’s alright with you.”

“It’s not,” Cutter said, more abruptly than he’d intended. After all, he had no way of knowing if the guardsman was crooked or not, and the last thing he needed in his current, wounded state was to invite along a man who might stab him in the back the first chance he got. The man looked crestfallen, and Cutter sighed. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude, and I appreciate the offer—truly. But the best way you can help me is to hurry and take the message to Maeve—just make sure that Belle isn’t harmed any more, do you understand?”

“Of course, Highness.”

Cutter nodded. “Thank you.” He started away and had his hand on the door leading out of the dungeons and into the castle courtyard when the man spoke again.

“Highness?”

Cutter turned to regard him.

“Good luck,” the man said.

Two simple words, but Cutter was surprised by how much they meant, for the man seemed to be sincere. If he was a conspirator, he was a damned good one. “Thanks,” Cutter said, meaning it. “And good luck to you as well.”

Then he turned, rushing through the door and starting across the castle courtyard as quick as he could without collapsing. Good luck to us all.

 

***

 

The guards at the gate looked at him strangely as he shuffled past, and Cutter couldn’t blame them. He’d grabbed a black cloak when leaving the castle in the hopes of hiding most of his bandages, but he could not hide them all, particularly the one covering a gash on his forehead or the one wrapped tightly around the palm of his left hand where he had received a cut he did not even remember.

No doubt to the guards he looked like a man destined either for a healer’s bed or the grave, but he raised a hand in acknowledgment of them as he moved out and into the street.

“P-Prince,” one of them said, “is…is everything alright?”

Cutter studied the man, wondering if he was loyal or if he was not. He had never been good with understanding people or their motivations, had always left such things to wiser, better men, but now, when anyone might be an enemy, he found that he wished he had given himself a chance to practice.

He hesitated, trying to decide how much to tell the man. If he were indeed a corrupt guard, then it would be best if he didn’t know Cutter was hunting down the one person who might be able to expose him as such. On the other hand, if he were loyal, then according to Belle, the less he knew the safer he and his family would be.

In the end, Cutter nodded. “Everything’s fine. How’s the gate?”

“Quiet, Highness,” the guard said, glancing at the bandages wrapped around Cutter’s midsection and arms—some of which had begun to bleed anew from his exertions. “Forgive me for asking, Highness, but…are you sure you’re—”

“Fine,” Cutter interrupted, pulling the cloak tighter around himself.

The man glanced at the other guardsman uncertainly then bowed. “As you say, Prince. If I might ask you where you’re going, I can summon a carriage to get you there faster and with less…effort.”

An innocent offer of aid or a ploy to get him into a carriage, one he would never leave alive? The simple fact was there was no way to tell, so even though speed was of the essence and the thought of walking one step further, let alone through the entire city, sounded like its own brand of torture, Cutter shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I think I’ll walk.”

“As you say, Prince,” the guard nodded. “Then, if you’ll give me but a few minutes, I’ll summon an escort to ensure your safety—”

“That’s quite alright,” Cutter interrupted. “I won’t be gone long.”

And then, before the man could say anything more, he turned and headed into the city, doing his best to walk as if his wounds did not pain him, as if his legs didn’t feel like they might give way beneath him with each step he took.

The early morning sun was peeking over the horizon, bathing the city in pale, weak light, and as he struggled on, Cutter took a moment to look at it and appreciate it. Had the assassins had their way—and they very nearly had—it was a sunrise he never would have seen. He continued thinking on that—better than concentrating on the exhaustion and pain suffusing his body—as he moved further into the city.

He waited until he rounded the corner of a building, out of sight of the guards, before he came to a shaky stop, propping his back against the side of a tailor’s shop and resting with his hands on his knees, wheezing and covered in sweat.

This early in the morning, the streets of the capital were, if not deserted, then as close as they ever got. Not many people were out, which was good, for those who were could not help but mark the bandaged, bloody man leaned against the side of a building as if it was the only thing holding him up—which, of course, it was.

As he caught his breath, Cutter considered his options. He knew that he could not travel all the way across the city to the southern gate, not as he was, just as he knew that, even if he could, he dared not take so long. Sitting on a horse was largely out of the question, even if he didn’t mind the thought of crossing by the guards once more to reach the royal stables and giving anyone with a mind to a chance to catch him unawares. The simple fact was that he doubted he’d be able to remain on his mount for long before the pain or exhaustion got the better of him.

That left only one option, then. A carriage. It had been fifteen years and more since Cutter had set foot in the city of New Daltenia, and he racked his brain trying to remember if there was a livery stable nearby.

Finally, it came to him that there was one only a street away, the same one that generally provided carriages for the castle. Or at least there had been, once. Much had changed in New Daltenia, and little for the better. He could only hope that this much, at least, had remained the same.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he started off again. The closer he grew to the livery stables, the more certain he became that it would be gone, that of course it must be gone. After all, little had worked out in his and the others’ favors so far, and so he should not be surprised to find that in this, too, he was bound to be disappointed.

But when he exited a side street a wash of heady relief came over him as he saw that, despite his worries, the stables remained, looking much as he remembered them.

Cutter took in the stable yard, the mews, and was unable to keep the grin from spreading across his face as he started forward. Apparently, he had some luck left after all, which was a good thing. If things were as bad as he thought—and, generally, he’d found that things had a way of always being considerably worse—then he was going to need all the luck he could get.

He stepped into the main office of the livery stables, sure that he would find it abandoned or that, perhaps, there would be no drivers ready for work this early in the morning. And yet, for all his worries, his luck held. A middle-aged woman, her dark hair streaked with silver, sat behind the counter, and several men who could only be carriage drivers sat at a table, drinking and talking in quiet conversation.

Cutter wrapped his cloak tightly about him and moved toward the counter, doing his best to walk normally. “Good morning, madam.”

The woman behind the counter glanced up from some ledgers she’d been studying and raised an eyebrow at him. “Is it?” she asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Cutter tried a smile. “Yes. Well. I come looking to hire a carriage.”

“What’ya know?” the woman said. “Same reason most folks come here.” She retrieved a quill and a parchment looking up at him.

Cutter stood there uncertainly, not sure what was expected of him, until the woman sighed. “First time, is it?”

In fact, it was. During his stay in the castle, Cutter had never had to hire his carriages himself—there had always been someone around to do it for him. Not that he’d ridden in them often, always eschewing what he considered a needless luxury. “Well…yes. Yes, it is.”

She gave a sour grunt at that. “Well, you see, generally speaking it’s easier to hire a carriage if one has a destination in mind.”

Cutter winced. “Right. The southern gate—as quickly as possible.”

She raised another eyebrow at that. “I see. And when will you be wanting the carriage then?”

“Um…now would be good.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Of course it would be. Very well. A trip to the southern gate,” she said, hastily writing something on the parchment. “And a return trip as well?”

“One hopes,” Cutter said.

The woman frowned at that, eyeing him again. “A jester, are you?”

“No.”

She sniffed. “Didn’t think so.” She went on, scribbling something else on her parchment. “Fine. A trip and a return to the southern gate. And you are?”

He opened his mouth to say Cutter or Prince Bernard then hesitated realizing that neither of the two would work. “I…I would rather remain anonymous, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Is that right?” she asked. “Well, I’d rather my teats didn’t sag and I woke up in bed with a prince every morning, but here we both are.”

Not likely, Cutter thought. “I…that is…”

She frowned, motioning to a big man who’d been standing at the side of the wall. “We don’t much care for people wasting our time here, sir, and we don’t care for shady men with blood-stained bandages who show up asking for a carriage and refuse to give their name. Now, are you going to turn around and go, or am I going to have to get Clem here to show you the way out?”

The big man, Clem presumably, grinned wide displaying several gaps in his teeth as if he was hoping Cutter would choose the second option. Cutter hesitated, unsure of what to do, knowing that he needed a carriage but knowing also that he could not give the woman his real name. It would raise too many questions and if someone was marking his progress, he’d rather it not be so easy for them to track him down.

He was still hesitating, Clem’s grin widening, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Ah, Cend, it’s good to see you!”

Cutter turned and was surprised to find that the man who stood beside him was one he recognized. It was the driver who’d taken them away from the castle when they’d escaped the dungeons with Petran Quinn.

It took his pain-addled, exhausted mind a moment, and then he grunted. “Ned?”

“Why, of course—you know your own cousin, don’t you?” the man exclaimed.

“C-cousin?” Cutter asked, feeling even more confused if anything.

The man sighed, shaking his head and turning back to the woman at the counter. “You’ll have to forgive Cend here, Delilah. A big bastard he is, but not all that bright.”

The woman glanced between the two of them frowning. “This is your cousin?” she asked.

“That’s right,” the small man said, puffing out his chest. “I know, I know, the resemblance is uncanny, isn’t it?”

“Not quite the word I would use,” the woman said.

Ned laughed as if she had told some hilarious joke. “Just so!” He leaned forward with one arm on the counter. “And can I just tell you, Delilah, that you look particularly radiant today? Why, the sunrise itself does not compare to your beauty.”

The woman’s scowl was belied by the flush that came to her cheeks at that, and she ran an unconscious hand through her hair. “Well, cousin or not, he still needs to register. And there’s the matter of payment, of course.”

“Oh come now, Delilah,” Ned said, still smiling, “you and I both know the boss doesn’t bother reading the ledgers anymore’n he bothers getting out of bed to show up. Anyhow, I already told you, this man here is my cousin, Cend…Cend Aberdeen.”

“Aberdeen,” she said. “A strange name.”

“Indeed,” the driver said, grinning, “a strange name for a strange fellow. As for the coin, well, how about we take it out of my wages, eh?”

“You want to pay for his trip yourself?” the woman asked.

“Well, of course!” Ned said. “After all, in my experience that’s what family is—costly with little pay off.” He nudged Cutter with his elbow as if it were a joke, and Cutter did his best to smile, focused as he was on keeping his feet beneath him.

The woman’s eyebrows drew down thoughtfully, and she glanced between the two of them. Then, finally, she sighed. “Very well, but it will come out of your own wages—I will not forget.”

“Oh, that I don’t doubt!” the driver said, smiling. “Besides, if you did, well, you’d always have your ledger there to remind you, wouldn’t you?”

The woman frowned but before she could say anything more, Ned clapped a hand on Cutter’s shoulder. “Well, come on then, cousin. Best we get you to the gate—you’ve left Auntie waiting on you, and we both know she ain’t a patient woman.”

Then he was guiding Cutter to the exit of the office and out into the daylight.

“Thanks, Ned,” Cutter said once the door was closed behind them, “I wasn’t sure—”

“Not here,” the driver said, the wide smile he’d worn nowhere in evidence as he glanced around. “Come on, Prince,” he said quietly. “Best we get you in a carriage and quick—there’s folks around the city who would see you in such a state and take it as an opportunity to…well, let’s say voice their complaints about the way things have been runnin’ lately. Stables are this way.”

The man started away and Cutter was left with nothing to do but to follow. Not that he was too worried. There were very few people in the city he could trust, but he thought that the driver was one of them. After all, the man had had the opportunity, not long ago, to turn Cutter and his companions into his brother, Feledias, and instead he had helped them.

Ned led him into the stables where he began hitching two horses up to a carriage, whistling all the while. “So tell me, cousin,” the man said after a minute, “how is Auntie anyway?”

Cutter glanced around the stables. Stalls lined either side where the horses were kept, a wide avenue in the center where several carriages waited. He did not see anyone who might overhear, save beasts, but he chose to follow the man’s lead. “Oh, you know Mother,” he said, peering into each stall.

“Ha, that’s right I do, gods help me!” Ned said, then he rose from cinching several straps and nodded. “Well. Ready to go if you are—best we not be late, not where Auntie’s involved.”

“Yes,” Cutter said, “best not.” He moved to the carriage and climbed inside, doing his best not to groan with the pain the movement caused and noting the tacky feel of blood where it was seeping through several of the bandages.

By the time he managed to get himself into the carriage seat, he was sweating again, his hands shaking.

Ned glanced back at him through the opening in the covered carriage, a frown on his face, then he turned and clucked at the horses and they were moving again.

For a time, neither of them spoke but once they had left the stable yard and were navigating their way through the street, Ned turned and glanced back once more. “Sorry for all the play-acting, Prince, but it seemed to me you were in a bit of a hurry and didn’t want folks knowing who you were.”

“You were right,” Cutter said, “and thank you…again. For your help.”

The man grinned. “Nothing to it. If a man ain’t willing to help his prince, what sort of a man is he?”

Cutter grunted, though the truth was that he thought, just then, most folks in the city would have been willing to help him only so far as putting a knife into his back, and the absolute truth was that he didn’t blame them for it. The princes of the Known Lands had not been kind to their people, and so it was no surprise that their people, in turn, did not mean to be kind to them.

“Anyway,” the driver said, “you don’t mind my sayin’ so, Prince, but you look just about done in. How’s about we stop by a healer first before we get on with your business?”

Cutter winced at that.

“Weren’t so hard to tell, Prince,” Ned said, “not with anyone for eyes to see the blood comin’ through those wraps, nor ears to hear the way you were wheezin’ when you climbed your way into the carriage there. Tell me, there anything I can do to help?”

“You’re doing it,” Cutter said, allowing himself to lay his head back or a moment, to close his eyes as his breathing slowly began to slow. “But no to the healer’s. I just came from there.”

Ned grunted. “Seems to me the fella left a bit of work unfinished.”

“Not his fault,” Cutter said. “It’s hard to work on a man who isn’t there to work on.”

The driver nodded, glancing back at the road before looking back at him once more. “And this trip to the southern gate, I take it it’s an important one, then?”

“Yes,” Cutter said, then frowned. “Maybe.”

The man nodded again. “Well. I don’t know what it’s all about, but we’ll get you to the southern gate just as quick as we can. Ought not take too long, and I expect the southern gate’ll still be there when we arrive.”

“I hope so,” Cutter said, and he saw the man frown at that. “Sorry, Ned. I fear I am poor company just now.”

“Oh, don’t you worry on that score, Prince. I think I told you before, when we spoke, that I’m married. I know all about poor company. I don’t show up to the livery before the sun’s up on account of I got such a wonderful home life, I can tell you that much.”

Cutter nodded, finding himself grinning despite everything. He liked the man. He couldn’t say that about many people he’d met in his life, but Ned seemed a genuine sort, funny, too, though Cutter thought the driver’s sense of humor was likely wasted on him. He’d always been a lot better at roaring a battle cry than roaring with laughter. “Ned?”

“Yes, Prince?”

“Aberdeen?”

The man glanced back from the road, grinning. “Caught that, did you?”

“Yes.”

The driver grunted. “Well. Had a dog named Aberdeen once. A mut really, but he was a fine beast.”

“What happened to him?”

The driver sighed, shrugging. “The same thing happens to all flesh, sooner or later, Prince. Just the same.”

And with that grim statement, they rode on in silence, Ned clucking at the horses, Cutter wincing with each bouncing jostle of the carriage beneath him.

 

***

 

Maeve stood beside Chall at the side of the audience room as the two guards stationed there swung wide the doors and in walked a man in fine vermillion robes.

“Your Majesty,” the crier intoned, “I present Merchant Guild Head Frederick Itannen.”

The man might as well not have bothered with the announcement as far as Maeve was concerned, for one need only glance at the heavy-set man in his fine robes with rings bedecking his fingers to know that he was part of the Merchant’s Guild. Of course, Maeve remembered the man from years ago before her exile. He had only been a merchant at that time, but even then Maeve had thought the man possessed the necessary cleverness and, perhaps, more importantly, greed, to rise highly in the ranks of the guild. Apparently, she had not been wrong, though she couldn’t help but notice that the man had gained at least an extra hundred and fifty pounds since last she’d seen him.

“Fire and salt but I hate merchants,” Chall muttered.

“Yeah?” Maeve asked quietly. “Well, there’s a lot there to hate, isn’t there?” And that was nothing short of the truth. She watched the merchant saunter in, puffing out a chest any noblewoman would have been proud of, then glanced at Matt. When first he’d sat on the throne after his coronation, the youth hadn’t seemed to sit on it so much as he had seemed to be swallowed by it but that had changed.

Now, Matt reclined in the throne, one leg dangled over the side, nibbling at an apple. He looked far removed from the scared youth she had first seen in the Black Woods, and she did not think the change a good one.

“He should be resting,” Chall muttered, “not taking audiences. Stones and starlight, Maeve, we should all be resting. It’s been a long few days and that doesn’t look to be letting up anytime soon.”

That, too, was true, and Maeve found herself frowning at Matt—King Matthias, she corrected herself. For all the arrogance on his features, the youth looked exhausted, with great purple circles under his eyes, his face lined with his weariness. And yet, he had insisted on taking audiences instead of getting some much-needed rest.

Priest stood beside him, his hands behind his back, looking every bit the favored guard of the king, his expression unreadable. She wondered if he felt the same anxiety she did, wondered if he also thought he could almost hear the premonitory sounding of the horns which signaled doom’s approach. Dramatic, perhaps, but she did not like the look of Matt, did not like the way he sat so casually, almost disrespectfully on a throne which had been hard-earned.

“Head merchant, is it?” Matt asked as the man stopped the expected twenty feet away from the throne, kneeling. “And what a head it is!” he exclaimed, laughing at his own joke. “Why, it looks like a great melon, doesn’t it? One waiting to be squished!”

The merchant’s head was bowed, but even still Maeve could see the way his face flushed with embarrassment. She frowned, glancing over at Chall, and saw a troubled expression on the mage’s face as he peered at Matt like the boy was some puzzle he was trying to figure out.

“Oh, do stand!” Matt said, grinning and pausing to take a bite of his apple. “Your king greets you, head merchant. Now, how may the crown help the Merchant’s Guild?”

The man did stand, heaving his bulk up with obvious effort which elicited a giggle from the youth on the throne, reddening the merchant’s face further. “Your Majesty,” the man said, his head bobbing in a bow. “I am honored that you would see me so soon after your coronation.”

Matt shrugged. “I had little else to do. Now, on with it, man. What is it I can do for you?”

The merchant winced. “Of course, sire. I come to speak to you about a particularly important matter, one regarding—”

“I should hope so,” Matt interrupted. “I’d hate to think that I was roused from my bed for an unimportant one.”

Maeve’s frown deepened. In point of fact, the boy had not slept at all the night past, at least not since the prince had sent her and Chall to look after him. Perhaps that went some way toward explaining his arrogant, rude behavior. At least, she hoped it did. She loved Prince Bernard dearly, but the Known Lands had had enough poor leaders. She had hoped, still hoped that Matt would change that.

“As you say, sir,” the merchant said, giving a small, uncertain laugh. “Anyway, as Prince Feledias, your uncle, appointed us the custodians of the kingdom’s tariffs, I thought it my responsibility to inform you that several of those from the outlying regions are…late.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Late, is it?”

The man bowed his head. “Just so, Highness. Some nearly as much as a year.”

Matt frowned. “And this is the first the crown is hearing of this?” he demanded.

The merchant paled. “Forgive me, sire, but I tried to speak with your uncle about it, only…he was unavailable. I told the regent, of course, many times, and he promised to get back with me about it, only…only, I have heard nothing.”

“Am I to understand, Merchant Itannen, that you are calling the crown incompetent?”

The merchant blanched, his face, so recently flushed crimson, going a sickly pale. “O-of course not, Majesty. I…that is, I would never think to say such a thing. Only…the tariffs have still not been paid.”

“It’s true what they say, isn’t it?” Matt said. “Merchants care only about their coin and nothing else. I’d heard tale men such as you would bed it, if they could, and it seems that those who told me were not wrong to say as much. But very well, I see you will not let it go. Tell me, have you ever considered that the tax collectors you sent chose to keep the coin for themselves and make off with it?”

“I would like to say, Majesty, that members of the Merchants’ Guild would never do as you describe, only…” He sighed, hanging his head low. “It has happened before. It is for this reason that more men were sent.”

“And?” Matt demanded.

The merchant winced. “And they, too, have not returned.”

“So send more!” Matt roared, and Maeve found herself recoiling in shock, feeling as if she was meeting the lad for the first time, for surely this could not be the same shy, kind youth who she had first met in the Black Woods. “What would you have me do?” Matt continued, leaping up from his chair as if he meant to rush forward and throttle the fat merchant and, indeed, Maeve did not appear to be the only person who thought as much, for the merchant tensed as if terrified.

Matt did not rush forward though. Instead, he paced angrily back and forth before his throne. “What do you think, Itannen? Do you believe that I will send what little of an army we have traipsing across the countryside to each hamlet or hovel so that you can buy a new ring to bedeck your fingers?”

“Th-that is unfair, Majesty,” the guild head said, “I only sought to—”

“Never mind what you sought,” Matt yelled. “I sought to live a peaceful life with my people in the wood—we do not always get what we seek, merchant.”

Maeve frowned at that, glancing at Chall. The mage turned and stared at her a moment later.

“I thought Matt grew up in Brighton,” he whispered.

“He did,” Maeve said, then turned back to the king, still pacing angrily back and forth before his throne, flexing his fists as if it were all he could do to keep from charging the merchant in a rage. “Or so I thought.”

“Then…I don’t understand,” Chall said.

“Something strange is going on here, Chall,” Maeve said. “Something…something is wrong.”

The mage opened his mouth to respond, but before he got a chance Matt spoke again. Or more accurately, he yelled. “I will hear no more of it! If the collectors you have sent have not returned, then send more, and if those do not return, then send more yet, but do not bother the crown with this, this nonsense anymore!”

“B-but, Majesty—” the merchant began.

“Be gone!” Matt roared. “Leave us at once!”

The head of the Merchant Guild’s face turned crimson, and he bowed before hastily retreating to the door which the guards opened, then vanishing beyond it.

Maeve waited until the man was gone, until the doors were once more closed behind him, then she glanced at Chall and started toward the throne. Matt had sat once more by the time they arrived, but he was leaning forward in his chair, his hands knotted into angry fists.

“That was ill done, lad,” Maeve said quietly. “Itannen may be a greedy fool, but he is a clever one. If he says that the collectors have not returned then we cannot so easily dismiss—”

“What do you know of it?” Matt demanded. “And I am not your lad—I am your king. Or have you so soon forgotten?”

Maeve recoiled, taken aback, at a loss for words by the anger on the youth’s face. She tried to speak, to say something, but the words would not come past her shock, and it was Chall who spoke.

“That is unfair, Matt—Majesty,” the mage said. “Maeve is one of the reasons, after all, that you are king instead of just another corpse in a world full of them. And more than that, she’s right. I have little love for Itannen, but the man knows his business. If he says there’s a problem, I believe him.”

Matt seemed to shrink at this, collapsing heavily back into his throne and running a weary, shaky hand across his face. “I am sorry, Chall. Maeve. I…I am sorry.”

Maeve breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Perhaps the youth was just tired, that was all. Surely, that must be—

“Sorry that you both think to question my reign as king, so soon at its beginning,” Matt said.

His hand came away from his face, and it was not regret that twisted his features but anger, a strange, alien anger. “Matt,” Maeve began, “we do not mean to question you. We only want to help, that’s all.”

“Is that so?” the youth asked. “And how would you do that, I wonder? How would you help me? How would any of you?” he finished, roaring the last. “You cannot! That is the truth of it, for I am beyond all help!”

Again, Maeve found herself recoiling at the youth’s unexpected outburst. But Maeve had seen much in her life, and she refused to be so easily cowed. She forced herself to straighten her shoulders. “How would I help you? Very well, Majesty, since you ask, I will tell you. First, I would tell you that you do Cutter, Prince Bernard, your father a great cruelty for having not gone to see him. A great cruelty and one he does not deserve. Secondly, I would tell you to summon back the head of the Merchant’s Guild, to question him further about the issue with the tariffs instead of acting like a spoiled child who has gotten his first sip of power and finds he has far too much of a taste for it.”

Matt stared at her in shock, as if he could not believe her words, and she could feel Chall doing the same beside her. Even Priest’s eyes widened slightly, an expression on the man that, on another, might have been a shout of surprise. “You…you cannot talk to me that way,” Matt said. “I am your king,” he whined.

“Then act like a king,” Maeve snapped. “Instead of some coddled child throwing a temper tantrum.”

The boy’s face twisted in a storm of emotion and, for a moment, Maeve thought that she had finally gotten through to him, but then his eyes hardened, his jaw clenched, and he let out an angry growl. “What would you have me do, Maeve the Marvelous?” he demanded. “Would you have me summon back the fat merchant? Perhaps I should send my dog to do it,” he finished, glancing at Priest to show who he meant.

Priest’s face paled at that, but he said nothing.

“That is what she called you, isn’t it, the crime boss?” Matt needled. “Her dog? Like a pet that might be led around? That might be trained?”

Priest’s mouth worked for several seconds, but finally he nodded. “Yes, Majesty. It is what Belle called me.”

“What has happened to you, lad?” Maeve said, wanting to scream it, to grab the youth and shake him. “You have changed. You are not the same youth I met in the Black Woods. You…you have changed. And not for the better.”

Matt glanced at her, met her eyes. “I have changed, have I?” He laughed, then but it was not a laugh of humor. Instead, it was one that sounded very close to a scream. “Oh gods, Maeve, but you have no idea how right you are. I am not the same boy you met in the Black Woods. Not at all.” A look of what might have been grief passed over his features then, and he sat heavily back in his throne once more, bringing a hand to his face. “Go,” he said quietly in a voice that sounded almost apologetic. “Go, both of you. Get out of my sight. Speak to your merchant friend, if you wish, for I will have no part of it.”

“Matt,” Maeve said softly, stepping forward and extending a hand to the youth, for she could see that he was hurting, hurting terribly. “What is it? What’s the—”

“Go!” he suddenly roared, swiping her questing hand away, a look of insane fury on his face. “Go before it becomes worse, before I become worse!”

“Matt?” Chall asked. “I…I do not understand. What do you mean become worse?”

The youth shook his head. “Leave now. Both of you. I will summon you when I want you. If I want you.”

Maeve glanced at the mage, and they both shared a troubled look. She turned to Valden and the man only gave the slightest of nods, as if to say that he would keep an eye on the youth. Left with no other options, Maeve turned back to the mage. “Come, Challadius,” she said softly. “The king needs his rest.”

“But, Maeve,” Chall said, “surely you can’t be—”

“Now, Chall,” she said, then she grabbed the mage’s shoulder, and led him out the doors.

They made it to the hallway outside the audience chamber in time to see the back of the departing merchant. “Headsman Itannen!” Maeve shouted.

The man turned, and she hurried forward, Chall in tow.

“What do you want?” the merchant demanded. “Have you come to mock me some more?”

“No, sir,” Maeve said, “I have not. We wanted to talk with you more about the towns that haven’t paid their tariffs.”

The man frowned, looking over both of them then finally sighed. “What’s the point? The king has already shown no interest in it.”

“I will speak to him,” Maeve said, “but first I need to know—how many such towns are there?”

The merchant sighed, clearly making a show of it, enjoying being waited on. He really was a bastard, but then Maeve had known that already and just because a man was a bastard didn’t mean he was wrong. “Very well,” the man said. “How many towns, you ask?” He leaned forward, his words coming out in a grim pronouncement. “Four.”

But for all the man’s theatrics, Maeve found herself glancing at Chall.

“That’s…that’s it?” Chall asked.

The merchant rounded on him. “I’m sorry is that not good enough for you?”

The mage winced. “No, it’s not that. Only, the way you spoke of it, I thought that there’d…well, I thought that there’d be more.”

The headsman shook his head. “A year and a half ago, there were none. Then, shortly after the regent took over, the first tax collector did not return. I knew the man. He had a wife, a family.”

Listening to the man, Maeve began to think that perhaps she had misjudged the merchant after all.

“Nearly a dozen collectors have been sent in all between the four towns and none have returned. And even worse, you cannot imagine the amount of money the guild has lost.”

Or maybe not, Maeve corrected. “You mean the kingdom, of course,” she said.

“Y-yes, of course,” the man said. “All are suffering from it.”

Some more than others, Maeve thought, considering the many rings bedecking the man’s fingers and the ostentatious robe he wore, but she kept the thought to herself. “And the na—” Maeve began then cut off at the sound of heavy approaching footfalls.

She turned, suddenly sure that she would see an assassin running at her, and as she saw the man round the corner at a run, she was not comforted by the fact that he wore a guard’s uniform. After all, those who had attacked Cutter had worn guard uniforms also. “Get behind me,” she hissed at the merchant, drawing her blades.

The approaching guard, though, stopped several feet away, coming to a panting halt with both of his hands on his knees. “F-forgive me, my lady,” he panted, “but I did not mean to startle you. Or you, my lord,” he said, glancing at Chall.

“Easy enough to avoid if you don’t go charging at us like a madman,” Chall snapped.

“I apologize for my haste, Sir Challadius,” the guard said. “My name is Guardsman Trevor. I am normally stationed at the dungeons, and I have come on orders from Prince Bernard.”

Maeve glanced at the merchant headsman. “Forgive me, guildhead Itannen, but I will catch up with you soon about what we discussed. You may leave now.”

The merchant frowned, clearly wanting to stick around and hear what all the fuss was about. Maeve only stared at him, waiting until he turned and walked away in a huff before she looked back to the guard. “What is your message, Guardsman Trevor?”

“The prince…” the guard said, still struggling to get his breath back, “he said to tell you that he has gone to the southern gate of the city, that he needs your help as soon as you are able. He says its urgent.”

Maeve frowned at that. Cutter was many things but the man was no alarmist. Indeed, the man could do with being a far bit more anxious about life or death situations as far as she was concerned. If he’d told the guard it was urgent then something serious must be happening, particularly if he found it important enough to call them away from defending Matt. “The southern gate, you say?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am.”

Chall frowned. “What could be at the southern gate?”

“Does it matter?” Maeve asked. “The prince needs us.”

“No,” Chall sighed, “no, I suppose not. But Maeve…should we tell Priest?”

Maeve considered for a moment then shook her head. “No. Cutter did not ask for him—likely he wants him to stay with Matt, make sure the boy is kept safe.”

“Of course,” Chall muttered, “otherwise who would be around to harass merchants and call their friends dogs?”

Maeve winced at that. “That’s a problem for later, Chall. Right now, we need to go.”

The mage sighed again. “I suppose you’re wanting to run.”

“I think that would be appropriate.”

 

***

 

Cutter knew that Ned was hurrying as fast as he could, expertly weaving in and out of those in the street, yet as each minute slipped away the sense of urgency in Cutter grew so that, by the time they finally arrived at the southern gate, his shoulders ached from being tense so long.

“Here we are, Prince,” Ned said, jerking the carriage to a stop. “You want me to wait or…?”

“Would you mind?”

“‘Course not,” the man said. “You go ahead and take care of whatever business you need, and I’ll be here when you’re ready.” He eyed Cutter up and down. “Unless, of course, you’d rather I came with you. Can’t say I’m a good hand with a sword, but then I don’t look a couple inches from the grave, neither.”

Cutter considered that then finally shook his head. “Best not, but Ned I do have a favor to ask.”

“Name it.”

“If…if anything should happen, I need you to go find Maeve, Challadius, or Valden at the castle—the companions who were with me last time. Tell them to find a Guardsman Nigel.”

The man nodded. “I’ll do it, Prince. But try not to let anythin’ happen, will ya? I’d rather not be the one to tell Maeve the Marvelous, the world’s most famous assassin, that I took my ease in a carriage while you breathed your last.”

Cutter grunted. “I’ll do my best.”

It was difficult work, making his way out of the carriage. He promised himself that, when he healed—if he ever got a chance to heal—he would never again take for granted the simple things, like moving without pain. Yet, even as he had the thought, he knew that it was a lie. He would forget the same way that man with a headache tells himself that, when the headache departs, he will appreciate with each moment that follows, how wonderful it is to feel fine. But he, like that man, would forget. Forgetting life’s small aches and pains was, after all, one of the things men were best at. It was the only reason, he suspected, that they were able to get on living at all.

He was panting heavily by the time he was out in the street, and he was forced to hold onto the carriage for a moment as he waited for the worst of the dizziness to pass. Then he glanced at Ned, gave the driver a nod, and started toward the guards stationed at the gate, using his cloak to hide the worst of his wounds.

He might as well not have bothered, for the men both watched him approach warily. “Who goes there and what do you want?” one demanded.

Cutter raised his head—which had hung wearily to that point as he shuffled toward the gate—and one of the men, the older of the two, grunted in surprise.

“Prince Bernard?” he asked, recognizing him immediately, unlike the woman at the livery stables.

The other guard grunted, spitting. “If he’s a prince then I’m the king. Gods’ sake look at him, Vince. You ever seen a prince look half beaten to death like that?”

“You’d be surprised,” Cutter answered.

“Look, stranger,” the younger guard said, “I don’t know who you are, but why don’t you tell us what you want before—”

“Shut your damned gob, Clint,” the older guard hissed. “That’s Prince Bernard you’re talkin’ to.”

The younger guard recoiled as if he’d been slapped then stared wide-eyed at the man. “You…you mean it, Vince? Is this really him? The Crimson Prince?” His eyes went wider still as if he’d just realized he’d used a not particularly flattering nickname for a prince who was known for his willingness to court bloodshed, and his face paled. “F-forgive me, Prince,” he stammered. “I-that is, I didn’t mean—”

“You’ll have to excuse him, Highness,” the older guard, Vince, said. “He’s a fool, but a harmless one.” He eyed Cutter up and down. “Is there something you need help with, sir? Something we can do or—”

“As a matter of fact, there is. I’m looking for a man—Guardsman Nigel by name.”

The younger of the two snorted. “You and us both.”

Cutter frowned at that. “What do you mean?”

The older guard stared at the younger, shaking his head in exasperation before turning back to the prince. “What my fool companion means, Prince, is that Nigel ought to have been here more’n an hour gone. Him and his partner. We’re havin’ to stay over on account of they never showed up for their shift.”

Cutter’s frown deepened. “Is that normal? For him to be late, I mean.”

The older guard scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “Can’t say as I remember Nigel ever bein’ late before. His layabout partner, sure, that Willem is a piece of shit.” He grunted. “Excuse my language.”

Cutter bit back a curse. The man was late—that didn’t bode well for his chances of finding him, not alive at least. “Does either of you know where Nigel lives?”

The guard scratched his chin again, thinking it over. Cutter wanted to scream at him to hurry up, but knew that doing so would do no good, so he waited impatiently. “Seems I recall Nigel had a place over on Crafter’s Row. Right beside the blacksmith’s, if I recollect.” He glanced at the guard house. “I can check the ledgers, if you want, get you a—”

“That’s alright,” Cutter said, a sinking certainty in his gut that he was running out of time, that he might be out already. “I’ll find it.”

He shambled back to the carriage as fast as his weary legs could carry him, climbing inside. “Crafter’s Row,” he said to the driver, “quick as you can.”

“As you say, Prince.” Then they were moving, Ned driving the horses at a rapid pace down the street.

They arrived on Crafter’s Row a short time later. No mob of assassins rushed through the streets, nor did he hear any screams. At first, Cutter took this as a good sign, but his relief faded quickly. The street was quiet, yes, but it was almost too quiet. Not the normal quiet of a street little-traveled but instead the hushed, dread silence of a child hiding beneath the covers as the monster prowls about his room, terrified of making a sound lest it notice him.

Indeed, they were alone on the street. Was it some dark knowledge which had caused the people of the city to avoid this street at this time, or was it only happenstance? Cutter frowned, wanting to believe the latter but finding it to be a difficult task.

Ned slowed as they approached the house the gate guard had indicated, pulling the carriage to a stop across the street. Cutter climbed out, examining the place. It was a simple house, small but clearly well-maintained. In the early morning hours, the front was cast in dappled pale light mixed with obscuring shadows, the door itself a dark void.

Ned glanced uncertainly at the home, frowning. “Sure you don’t want me to go in with you, Prince?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” Cutter said. “But remember, Ned, if I don’t come back, I need you to find Maeve and the others. Tell them to speak with Belle and, if I don’t manage it, find Guardsman Nigel. If he’s still alive.”

The man sighed. “I hear you, Prince, though I still think you ought to let me come in with you. Likely you’ll find this Guardsman Nigel abed with his lady wife, but if not…well, the state you’re in—”

“I’ll be okay,” Cutter said. “Just remember what I said, alright?”

“Aye,” the carriage driver said, heaving a heavy breath. “I’ll remember. Good luck, Prince.”

“Thanks,” Cutter said, and with that he started toward the house.

He walked up to the door, raising his hand to knock and then noted something that dispelled any hope that the guardsman’s tardiness might be innocent. The door sat open several inches, the latch dangling, clearly broken by a powerful blow.

He looked back at the driver, Ned, saw the man watching him from his carriage across the street, a worried expression on his face. Then, with nothing left to do, Cutter drew his axe as quietly as he could and eased the door open with his foot. It creaked as he did and though the sound was light, it rang like an alarm bell in his mind, and he was sure that anyone within the house must have heard it. So he stood in the darkness of the doorway, breathing quietly, listening for the sounds of someone charging at him.

He stood that way for several seconds, his eyes scanning the gloom of the entry way. A small dining room sat to his right. On his left was a stairway leading up and disappearing into the shadows. Cutter waited, unmoving, his ears perked for any furtive sound that might betray someone sharing the darkness with him.

For several seconds he heard nothing but his own quiet breaths. Then the silence was suddenly split by a woman’s terrified scream.

“Found the bitch!” a voice shouted in the darkness. Cutter started toward the stairs, for the woman’s scream, and the man’s yell had come from somewhere above him. He had just reached the stairs’ base when his foot struck something he hadn’t been able to make out in the near darkness.

Cutter frowned, kneeling down, all too sure of what he would find and, indeed, as his eyes began to adjust to the gloom he saw that it was a dead man. The man had suffered a terrible cut from what looked like a sword across his face. For a moment, Cutter thought that this must be Guardsman Nigel and that, for all his effort, he had come too late after all.

A closer inspection, though, showed that the corpse was of an elderly man in his fifties at the least, and not a man wearing a guard uniform but instead one dressed in the garb of a household servant. One of the man’s hands clutched what appeared to be a fire poker.

Cutter glanced back at the doorway, his mind working rapidly. He could see easily enough how the thing had happened. The men—how many of them he wasn’t sure—had come through the doorway, catching the family by surprise. Based on the food that lay half-eaten on the dining room table, they had been caught off-guard and had been forced to flee up the stairs. The men had given chase and the servant, in an effort to buy his masters time, had armed himself with a poker from the nearby fireplace and stood against the ambushers.

Cutter knew hardly anything about the man by the name of Guardsman Nigel, only what he had heard from Belle, a crime boss who was just about the last person he’d trust if given a choice. But seeing that the elderly servant had been willing to give his life for him was all he needed to know.

He rose, taking the stairs two at a time, abandoning stealth in favor of speed. The woman’s scream moments ago was proof that she, at least, was alive, but that would not remain the case for long if he tarried. So, gritting his teeth against the pain of his wounds and, with one hand on the wall to keep him steady, he continued forward.

A loud crack split the silence as he was halfway up the stairs, and the woman screamed again. Moments later he reached the landing and was greeted by the sight of two men in front of a door. One held an axe and was cursing as he worked it out of the doorway where it had smashed a great rent into the wood. Another hit, maybe two, and he would have it open and would be at the woman who Cutter could hear still screaming on the other side.

The second man stood behind his companion, a sword in his hand, waiting for the door to be breached. Cutter didn’t hesitate. He moved forward as quick as he was able, counting on the sound of the splintering wood to cover his approach.

The man in the back spun just as Cutter reached him, he gave a startled cry of surprise but no more than that before Cutter buried his axe in his chest. The man screamed, collapsing, and Cutter, knowing he didn’t have time to retrieve his axe before the second man was on him, allowed it to be pulled out of his hands to go down with the corpse. The second man had just managed to turn when Cutter charged him, lifting him with a growl of anger and pain and pushing him over the banister.

He saw the man’s eyes open wide with shock and then he fell, hitting the floor below head first and crumpling into a broken pile. Panting heavily, his entire body throbbing with pain, Cutter turned back to the body of the first man and reached down to retrieve his axe. No sooner had he reached, however, than the strength suddenly vanished from his legs, and he fell to his knees, wavering drunkenly.

He would have fallen then had he not reached out a hand and caught himself on the floor. The world blurred around him, the landing on which he knelt seemed to spin, and he gave his head a shake in an effort to clear it.

He remained there for several seconds, one hand on his axe, the other on the floor to steady him, his breath wheezing in and out of his chest like a blacksmith’s bellows. Get up, damn you, he told himself. Get up.

It took a monumental effort to move, but he grabbed hold of the railing and with a hiss of effort levered his way to his feet, leaving his axe to dangle in his other hand. Movement at the door caught his eye, and he glanced over to see the woman who must be the guardsman’s wife staring through the great rents the attacker’s axe had left.

“Your husband,” he croaked. “Where is he?”

“W-who are you?” the woman asked.

“A friend,” he said. “Now where is he?”

“I-I don’t know,” the woman said. “He led them away or tried to. These two must have seen me come in here but…please. Can you help him?”

“I’ll try,” Cutter said, thinking it was just about all he could manage to remain standing. “Is there somewhere you can hide?”

“Th-there’s a closet.”

He nodded. “Get in it. I’ll go and see about your husband.”

Cutter waited until the woman disappeared into the room then heaved a heavy breath and began shuffling his way down the walkway.

He didn’t have to go far before he caught sight of light from somewhere up ahead, the flickering glow of a lantern or candle, splashing the wall in erratic orange light. He heard voices raised in anger and knew that he must be on the right track.

He followed the light, coming around a corner in the walkway and seeing an open door at the end of the hall. He moved to the doorway and was greeted with the sight of a large study.

Bookshelves lined the walls, and at the back of the study sat a large desk. Several chairs had been knocked over, scattered across the floor, but what drew Cutter’s attention were the six men all armed with swords. Their backs were currently to him, for their attention was focused on another man who stood behind the desk. The man clenched the handle of his sword in both hands and was bleeding from a head wound. Corpses lay on either side of the desk where the men had tried to rush him.

This then, he decided, must be guardsman Nigel. It seemed that at least what Belle had said about the man being a capable swordsman was true. Otherwise, he’d already be dead. Instead, having seen two of their number go down, the assassins were hesitating despite the fact that they outnumbered their target six to one.

“Look, you bastard,” one of the six hissed, “you’re going to die either way, alright? Nothin’ you can do to change that. But the harder you make it on us, the more I swear we’ll make your woman suffer once you’re gone. Pretty thing from what I saw of her, nice backside. Now, how about you put that blade down and let us get on with it, eh? You do, I promise we’ll make your woman’s death quick.”

The man seemed to hesitate, considering it, and Cutter wondered, not for the first time, whether it was hate, as many thought, or love that caused the majority of the world’s grief. After all, it had been love—or at least as close to it as the man he’d been was capable of—that had caused the rent between him and his brother, that had brought an entire kingdom to the brink of destruction.

“Doesn’t sound like a great deal,” Cutter said loudly. “What else do you have to offer?”

The men in the room had all been so focused on their quarry that they had not noticed his approach, and several let out shouts of surprise as they spun. “Who the fuck are you?” one demanded.

Cutter shrugged, seeing no reason to lie. “I’m Prince Bernard. Any chance you’ve got enough loyalty to your kingdom left to leave for my asking?”

“The Crimson Prince,” one of the men whispered.

“Maybe we oughtta get out of here,” another whispered to the speaker of the group, his voice uncertain. “They say he’s the greatest warrior of—”

“Shut your fucking mouths,” the leader hissed.

He eyed Cutter, and slowly a grin spread across his face. “Greatest warrior of our time?” he grunted. “Looks to me like our prince here’s seen better days. Why, you ask me, given time enough he’ll fall over dead on his own.”

Cutter gave a nod. “Guess we’d better get on with it then.” He looked up at the swordsman, Guardsman Nigel. The man met his eyes, and Cutter gave a nod. Then, with a shout, he charged forward. His wounds slowed him, and so the first man he came upon had time to get his sword up for a parry as the axe swept toward him. Not that it did him any good. Cutter was wielding the weapon two-handed, putting all his weight behind the blow, and it swept the man’s blade aside as if it didn’t exist at all, cleaving deeply into the man’s chest and making of it a bloody ruin.

The man screamed, stumbling away. Cutter started to pursue, to make sure the man was out of it, but a sound beside him alerted him to another attacker, and he spun in time to see a sword flashing at him. He started to bring his axe up in time to parry, knowing he would be too slow even as he did, then suddenly there was a metallic flash as another sword interposed itself between him and his opponent’s killing thrust.

He grunted, looking up to see that the swordsman, Guardsman Nigel, had left the relative safety of the desk and that it was his sword which had halted the killing thrust. With a growl, the guardsman knocked the blade away and before his opponent could recover, he lunged forward, impaling the assassin on his sword.

The assassin screamed in pain, dropping his own blade, and the guardsman planted his boot in his midsection, sending him sprawling on the ground. The four remaining assassins charged them then, and Cutter and the swordsman were forced to fight back-to-back.

Two came at Cutter, and it was all he could do to keep his axe in front of their strikes, parrying them and having no opportunity to counter. And with each parry, he felt himself growing weaker, felt what little bit of strength his body had left leaving him, oozing out with the blood now soaking his bandages.

He knew that there was not much time left, knew that in a minute, maybe two, he wouldn’t have even the strength necessary to raise his axe, so when he parried one of the mens’ strikes, instead of moving his axe to block the second man’s blow, he gave a roar, charging forward with all the speed he could muster.

It wasn’t much, and although he avoided the worst of the man’s strike, he felt the blade slice across his arm a second before he bowled into the man. He kept going, knowing he had to put some distance between him in the second man lest he finish him while he was distracted with the first. With a growl, Cutter lifted the man up with his free hand and continued forward until he reached the bookcase at the far wall, then he slammed the man into it with all his strength.

Something snapped, and the assassin screamed in pain. Whether the sound had come from the man’s back or the bookshelf, Cutter didn’t know and didn’t care. He let the man drop, satisfied that he was out of it, at least for the moment, then turned to see that the second man had taken advantage of his absence to close on the guardsman and was raising his blade for a strike that the guardsman, focused on the two at his front, would have no way of avoiding.

There was no time to make it back, so Cutter did the only thing he could think to do, he lifted his axe and with a grunt of effort, hurled it at the man coming up behind the swordsman. It was a heavy weapon, not made to be thrown, and that, coupled with an exhausted stumble at the last moment meant that it did not fly true. Instead of embedding itself, blade first, in the man’s back as Cutter had intended, the haft struck the man in the chest. Not a killing blow but hard enough to make him stumble, fouling his own strike.

Then Cutter was running, a shambling, dragging run that sent a fire of pain roaring through him with each step. By the time he reached the man his axe had struck, his vision was blurred, but the man, thankfully, had only just righted himself, and so did not see Cutter coming before Cutter’s fist lashed out, striking him in the face. The man fell then, and Cutter, unable to stop his forward momentum, stumbled and came down on top of him.

The assassin struggled beneath him. Barely able to see anything more than a vague blur, Cutter brought his fists down again and again. He missed the first, hitting the floor instead, but after the second hit the man’s struggles weakened. By the fourth, they had stopped altogether.

He was just starting to climb to his feet when something struck him in the side and sent him tumbling over to land on his back. A blur stood above him, and though he could not tell for sure he thought he saw a grin on the man’s face as he raised his sword.

“Time to die, Prince,” the blurred figure said, and Cutter watched the sword, his end, waiting for it to come.

But just then, another figure rose up behind the first, its features too blurred by Cutter’s failing vision for him to make out. The figure behind the first moved, and the next thing Cutter knew, his would-be killer collapsed on top of him. Either the man was dead or he was working on it, nothing more than limp weight on Cutter’s chest. He was still struggling to roll the body off him—feeling just about as strong as a newborn kitten—when a blurred face appeared, peeking over the body.

“Hi there, Prince.”

Cutter blinked. He still could not recognize the figure’s features, but he recognized his voice clearly enough. “Ned?” he wheezed.

The driver grunted. “‘Fraid so, sire. And, if I might say, your reaction is eerily close to that of my lovin’ wife when she sees that I’ve made it home safe and sound after another day of potentially dying at the hands—or feet, I suppose—of runaway horses or cruel muggers.”

“She also…have…a body…lying on her chest, keeping her from being able to breathe?” Cutter managed in a croak.

The driver shook his head. “No…no, she just hates me, but then I catch your point, Highness. Just a moment.”

The man knelt and after a lot of hissing and straining and cursing—some particularly inventive cursing, Cutter had to admit—the pressing weight was levered off his body, and he let out a great sigh of relief.

“Ned…” Cutter said, offering the man a weak smile. “I thought I…told you…not to come in.”

“That so?” the driver asked in an innocent tone. “Well, can’t say as I remember that, Prince. Seems to me I recall you sayin’ to come on in, if I had a mind.”

“That right?” Cutter asked, giving the man a smile.

“Just so,” Ned agreed.

“I begin to understand your wife a little more.”

The man’s grin was wide enough that even through his failing sight, he could see it. Cutter returned the smile until a panicked thought made its way into his clouded mind, and he grunted. “Ned, Guardsman Nigel, we have to…have to find him, he—”

“He’s fine, Prince,” the driver said. “Though, you ask me, the man’s picked a pretty terrible time to go takin’ a nap.”

Cutter had used up the last bit of his strength in his fight with the assassins, the last bit and then some, and so it took an almost monumental effort to turn his head in the direction the driver indicated. He recognized the guardsman’s form a short distance away by the uniform he wore. The man lay on his side, his back to Cutter, but Cutter could see enough of him to note his back rising and falling with his even breaths.

“And…the assassins?” Cutter asked, figuring he knew the truth, since if any of the men were still alive he wouldn’t be, but he thought he should probably ask just the same.

Ned grunted. “Well and truly assassinated. Might be they got their jobs confused a bit.”

Cutter gave a soft laugh at that—the best of which he was capable just then—and they were silent for a moment. That was when he smelled something and frowned.

“Ned, that smell…”

“Smoke,” the driver said grimly, then coughed. “And a lot of it.” Indeed, Cutter’s own throat was beginning to grow scratchy.

He hissed with the effort of turning to look at the study door, the one through which he’d entered only minutes ago, and saw an unsettling image. Smoke, great, black smoke, was rising up from somewhere below the second story landing, moving into the room. Slowly now, but where there was smoke there was fire. And if any of that fire should make it here, to the study, then the entire room, stacked as it was with books and tomes, would become an inferno.

And the fire was spreading, of that there was no doubt, for the amount of smoke rising into the study was growing by the moment. Cutter’s eyes were already beginning to water, and his throat was growing increasingly scratchier. Soon, it would be near impossible to breathe, and the only real question would be whether anyone left in the study would succumb to the smoke or the flame first.

“Ned—” he began then cut off, coughing. “Ned, you need to get out of here. As quick as you can.”

“Sure,” the driver said, kneeling, and the next thing Cutter knew the man’s hands were snaking underneath his arms. “But not without you, Prince.”

The man hissed and grunted with the effort of trying to lift him, and Cutter shook his head. “No, Ned, listen—”

“Don’t you worry, Prince,” the man grunted, “I’ll get you out of here.” There followed some more hissing and grunting, but very little movement. “Just…gods be good what do you eat rocks?” the driver groaned.

“Ned, there isn’t enough—”

“Just…hold on…Prince,” the man said, but despite his best efforts the man couldn’t budge Cutter and despite Cutter’s own best efforts, he was exhausted, his body without any strength left, and so he could do nothing to help.

“Ned,” he snapped. “Listen to me.”

The driver halted in his useless efforts at that. “I’ve got it,” he said. “I’ll go to the street, find help. It’ll be daylight now, and the fire will have drawn a crowd anyway, like flies to shit. One or two more people and we ought—”

“There isn’t time,” Cutter growled, and the man cut off. “You and I both know it, Ned,” he continued, softer now that he’d finally got the man’s attention. “By the time you get someone to help everyone in this house is going to be dead already.”

“But Prince—”

“If I am your prince,” Cutter demanded in a pained hiss, “will you not now listen?”

“V-very well, Prince,” the man said, and Cutter was immediately sorry for raising his voice, but he found some consolation in that while the man might think him an ass, he would at least be alive to think it. At least, that was, if Cutter had anything to say about it.

“Listen, Ned,” he said. “I need…one more favor. I need you to get the guardsman out of here. And…down the hall, there’s a woman, hiding in a room with a broken door. Get them out.”

“But what about you?” the driver asked.

Cutter grunted. “I’ll…be along directly.”

The man hesitated, and though his face was little more than a blur, Cutter thought he saw enough to see the knowledge of the truth in the man’s eyes. “Prince…” he said, “I’m sorry. I wish—”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Ned,” Cutter wheezed, finding it difficult to breathe now. “Th-thank you. For all your help.”

“You…you saved me, Prince, me and the others of my village. It don’t seem right…me not bein’ able to save you.”

“A lot doesn’t seem right,” Cutter said, “that’s the world. Now…will you do it?”

The man’s shoulders slumped, his head hung, but he gave a single nod. “I will, Prince. Since you ask it of me. And…probably it doesn’t mean anything, comin’ from a nobody carriage driver, but I just want you to know…it was an honor, Highness, havin’ you as my prince.”

“It…means more than you know,” Cutter said, and no sooner were the words out of his mouth then there was a loud crack of wood splintering somewhere outside the room. “You have to go, Ned. Now…and…thank you.”

The man nodded again. “Good luck, Prince,” he said.

“And…to you,” Cutter managed.

Then the man was gone, turning away, and Cutter listened to the sounds of the world burning around him, listened to Ned’s groans as he levered the swordsman off the ground and began dragging him toward the study’s exit.

Unable to do anything else, Cutter watched them go, watched the driver disappear around the corner, his burden in tow.

And then he was alone with the dead and soon to be one of them. The smoke was thick now, and his skin felt warm as the raging fire began to draw closer. It wouldn’t be long now. His death was coming, and it was only a question of which would take him first, the darkness which was even now creeping into his vision, shadows spreading across his world, or the fire. One or the other would take him. Soon.

Cutter had courted death often in his life, had spat in its face and laughed as the Crimson Prince, reaping a bloody harvest with his axe and confident that he was invincible, immune to death’s chilling touch. And after that, during his days spent in the village of Brighton, his guilt had weighed heavily upon him, and the answer had seemed to lie in the knife he had kept sheathed at his side, the knife that was still sheathed there.

He had courted death, had yearned for it. But now, now that the moment was upon him, he found that he did not feel relief that it was all over. Instead, he felt only regret. Regret that he would not be able to help Matt, regret that he would not be able to help the kingdom, that he would not be able to attempt to atone for all the terrible things he had done, the terrible things he had caused.

He lay there, wishing things were different, searching for strength and finding none, and waited for his death to come. And in the end, it was not the fire that took him. Instead, it was the darkness. A darkness that, as he fell completely into it, he realized had been waiting to take him for all his life.