CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

 

I do not ask men to believe, for all men believe in something.

The problem is that, more often than not, it is the wrong thing.

—Priest of Raveza

 

Priest walked the streets of the poor district. People who lived in the finer parts of the city often talked about the dangers of New Daltenia’s crime-ridden streets, many of them too afraid to even consider setting foot here. And Priest knew enough to know that they were right to be afraid, for the shadows lingered everywhere here, even in the daytime, shadows that might, at any moment, reach out and snatch the unwary, pulling them further and further into darkness. It had happened before, and it would happen again. Priest knew this well, for he had once been one of those shadows, had once been that darkness.

Only when he had been recruited by Prince Bernard, only when he had met him and Chall and Maeve, had that begun to change. The prince spent his life weighed down with guilt for the things he had done, and indeed he had done things for which a man might be ashamed, yet Priest had him to thank for the man he had become. Bernard had been brutal, yes, perhaps even cruel, but there was goodness in him too. Goodness that had given Priest, for the first time in his life, something to believe in besides the blades he had always carried. Bernard had given him belief, had given him purpose, and for that Priest owed him a debt that he knew he could never repay.

And so now he ventured into a place he had promised himself that he would never come again, but that was not the worst of it. For he had also promised himself that he would never again become the man, the creature, who had worked for Belle, the one whose only joy was in spilling the blood of others. Yet, he needed that man, that creature now. Not for himself, but for the others, Bernard most of all. Because the prince had asked it of him. He could not save Bernard from whatever fate awaited him in the Black Wood, but he would do whatever he could to save the others, to save Matt. That, at least, he could do for him.

So as he walked down the street, noting the shadows that lurked in the alleyways, aware of the eyes following him from the doorways and windows of the buildings he passed, he called on the man he had been, the one the people of the poor district, of the city, had known as Valden the Vicious, Belle’s favorite pet. Belle was dead now, but the creature was not, and when he went looking for him in his mind, he did not have to go far, not far at all. The creature lay before him, ready, waiting, as if it had always been there, some great abyss which he had spent the last years striding along the edge of, so close that one single misstep might have sent him hurtling into it.

He called, and the creature answered. He pulled the creature about himself like a mantle one might wear, but this mantle was one, he knew, which would be far easier to put on than to take off. And then, in that moment, he was Priest no longer. He was Valden the Vicious. The man he had once been. Perhaps, some dark part of him thought, the man he had always been.

The creature, unlike many of New Daltenia’s citizens, did not fear the dangers of the poor quarter—it welcomed them. That creature did not worry over the shadows but bared its teeth at them, hoping they would choose to rouse themselves, to reach out and try to claim him. But perhaps because of that hope, none did, and Valden the Vicious strode down the street toward the place that had once been the closest thing to a home he had ever known. He did not draw a weapon to dissuade any who might accost him, for the man, the creature he was did not want to dissuade them. He walked the streets the way a lion might tread through the prairie grass, confident that it was in its home, its place, and that in that place, it ruled.

In time, he stood in the street, staring at the rundown building that served as Belle’s headquarters, the building where he had once come again and again, first to retrieve a name, and second to mark it off the list. He was aware of shadows gathered in the street behind him on either side, but he did not fear the shadows. If they were wise, it was they who feared him.

He walked up to the door. He did not knock, for knocking was a thing only done by those who came to this place without invitation or welcome and so was as good as a death sentence. Instead, he only stood, waiting. The door remained stubbornly closed to him, and in time, he became aware of two shadows drifting closer.

Valden turned, baring his teeth in a humorless grin, not going for his knives, not yet, but ready to. He silently regarded the two figures as they drew closer.

“Valden?” one asked. “That you?”

“Why don’t you come and find out?” Valden said, still grinning.

The figure grunted, removing its hood. “Yeah, I’d say that’s you alright. I’d say I’ve missed you but, then, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Ah,” Valden said. “Cautious Catham. Why am I not surprised?”

“There was a time, years gone now, when that name used to bother me, when it used to sound like a taunt to my ears.” The man gestured to a jagged scar at his throat, then shrugged. “Not so much anymore. I learned, the hard way, that a man can never be too cautious.”

That didn’t seem to require a response and so Valden gave none, only watching the man, a ghost from the past. He had not had friends then, for the man he had been was incapable of such things, but Catham had come the closest.

“This is him?” the second shadow asked, removing its hood to reveal a young man that appeared to be in his mid-twenties, a sneer on his face.

“Yes, lad,” Catham said, “this is Valden the Vicious.”

The young man sneered deeper, turning on the older man. “Told you not to call me that, you old bastard. The name’s Dashen. Dashen the Deadly.”

Catham glanced at Valden, giving his eyes a small roll where the younger man couldn’t see then nodded. “As you say,” he said, his voice full of contrition. “Dashen the Deadly. My mistake, sir.”

Valden grunted. “It seems the years have not changed you, Catham.”

“My experience, Valden,” the man said, “they rarely do.”

“I could take him,” the young man said, his eyes going up and down Valden like a man examining livestock he was considering purchasing, a look on his face that said he wasn’t impressed with what he found.

“That so, Deadly?” Catham asked softly.

“You’re damn right it’s so,” the younger man snapped. “You doubt me?”

Catham shook his head. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Though, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there? And what, with you not havin’ a contract, standin’ to earn nothing from it, only blood, well, seems to me that’s a pointless pursuit.”

“A name,” the young man growled in what Valden supposed he considered his most menacing voice.

“What’s that now?” Catham asked.

“Might not get a coin, but I’d get a name alright,” the young man said, still eyeing Valden. “The man who killed Valden the Vicious—everyone’d hear, everyone’d know it.”

“Well, suppose that’s true,” Catham said carefully. But then, the man always was careful. It was the reason why, in a world of brutal killers, he had outlived nearly all his contemporaries. “Still, can’t say I’d recommend it. Give it some time, you’ll get your name right enough. More of it than you’ll want, I’d wager.”

The younger man snorted. “And just what do you know of it, you old bastard? Catham the Careful. What kind of name is that for a killer?”

The older man shrugged, clearly not put off in the least by the younger man’s ire. “It’s my name, is what it is, and I’m still breathin’ to have it.”

Dashen the Deadly hissed. “Catham the Coward, more like. What about it, old man?” he asked, turning back to Valden. “You think you can take me?”

Valden glanced at Catham and gave a small shrug. “Only one way to know for sure,” he said, echoing the other man’s words.

The young man seemed to take that as an invitation and, with a shout, he drew the sword sheathed at a jaunty angle at his hip and charged. Valden watched him come. It was only the space of seconds, but in those seconds, he sized him up, learned far more than most could have about the youth and his fighting ability if they’d been given a day for the task.

The man was fast, charging at him, and Valden took a moment to step off the door’s stoop. It wouldn’t do to sully the doorway or the building. Even beasts, after all, knew never to shit where they ate. The youth gave a cry and lunged at him, his blade flashing in the air. He was fast, but Valden was faster.

He stepped to the side, just enough that the blade missed impaling him by no more than an inch, then he drew one of his knives and, in one quick motion, slammed it into the man’s chest.

Dashen the Deadly turned to the side, staring at Valden, his eyes wide with shock. “Gurr…” he said, but no more than that before he collapsed, dead, at Valden’s feet.

Valden stared at the body for a minute then turned back to Catham.

The other man nodded sadly. “Like I said—people rarely change.” He motioned in the air and the shadows gathered in the street began to fade into the nearby alleyways like phantoms. “See ya around, Vicious.” And with that, the older man turned and followed the others.

In moments, he was gone, and Valden turned at the sound of a wooden creak to see the door swinging open as if of its own accord. Valden gave no thought to the corpse lying at his feet, no more than a lion, killing for sport, might wonder at its prey. He stepped through the door.

The inside of the building was the same as it had been when he and the prince had come here weeks ago, the same as it had been for fifteen years and more.

“Vicious,” a voice said, and he turned to regard the old woman sitting behind the desk, a small, loaded crossbow held almost casually in one hand.

“Nadia.”

“You’ve got a lot of balls, showin’ your face around here after what you and yours did to Belle.”

Valden could have told the woman that it wasn’t his fault, that they had, in fact, tried to save the crime boss, but there was no point. The woman no doubt already knew everything there was to know about what had transpired. “I’ve come to talk to the boss.”

The old woman gave a snort. “Well, now, that’d be some trick, wouldn’t it? ‘Fraid you might be out of luck there, Vicious, exceptin’ you got a means of talkin’ to the dead, that is. Unless my information is very, very bad Belle’s a bit worse for wear—a sword to the neck’ll usually do that.”

“I mean the new boss.”

“Ah, right,” the woman said. “What is it, the headsman’s got a vacancy, has he?”

“I don’t mean any harm,” Valden said. “Belle sent us here.”

“No harm, that so?” she asked, smiling. “I wonder if Dashen the Deadly’d say as much. Or, I suppose, Dashen the Dead is closer to the truth now, isn’t it?”

“He came at me,” Valden said. “You know what they say about a man goes looking for blood.”

She sighed. “He finds it. Anyway, you done us a favor there. Dashen’s a pain in the ass…or well, was. Grew up hearin’ too many stories, I guess.”

“He should have listened closer then. The thing about those stories is that someone always dies.”

She inclined her head like a fencer acknowledging a point. “True enough. Anyway, enough about Dashen—what is this you say about Belle sendin’ you here?”

“She said she had information about the conspiracy in the castle.”

“Conspiracy?” the woman asked, her eyes going wide in mock surprise. “Surely not. Not in our fine city.”

“I’m afraid so.”

She sighed. “And this information, you figure you want to talk to the boss, and he’ll just…what, give it to you, that it?”

“Something like that.”

She shook her head, staring at him. “Never took you for an optimist, Vicious.”

He said nothing to that, and finally she gave another sigh, sitting back in her chair. She reached under the desk with one hand but he didn’t miss the way she continued to hold the crossbow in the other.

Valden waited until, a few moments later, the door beside Nadia’s desk opened, revealing one of the biggest men he’d ever seen, one who, in size, at least, rivaled even Prince Bernard himself.

“And just who the fuck are you?” the man growled by way of greeting.

“Valden.”

The man frowned. “Wantin’ to talk to the leader, are you? Well? What is it then?”

Valden raised an eyebrow then glanced at Nadia. The man was a far cry from Belle, that much was sure, had more in common with the corpse lying outside than the crime boss. Oh, Belle had been dangerous, one of the most dangerous people Valden had ever met and that in no small amount of competition, a poisonous snake but one that had kept her fangs hidden until she saw need to use them. This man, though, with his barrel chest and arms like tree trunks, the scowl on his face and the way those arms were currently folded across his chest, the hands knotted into fists, seemed to be going to great lengths to exude menace. After a moment, Valden realized why.

“You can go now,” he said to the man, his eyes going back to the old woman sitting behind the desk.

The man let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a grunt. “What’s that?” he demanded.

“I said you can leave,” Valden said. “Your services won’t be required.”

The man frowned at him for several moments as if he wanted nothing more than to cave his head in and was giving serious consideration to giving it a go. Valden only turned to watch him, waiting for what would happen. Finally, perhaps realizing that his scowling was doing no good, the man glanced at Nadia.

The old woman sighed. “Well, you heard him, Ox. Go on then and whip us up a couple of drinks, will you? Vicious here has something he wants to talk about.”

The man frowned, scowling at Valden again. “You sure, boss?”

The woman glanced at him. No more than that, but the big man’s face paled, and he sketched an awkward bow before retreating through the door as if his life depended on it. Which, likely, it did.

Valden waited for the door to close then turned back to the woman behind the desk. “Boss, is it?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, someone has to be, don’t they? Anyway, you’ve no idea the amount of shit involved in it. I’ve a mind to order you cut down here and now just for the bother of it all. S’pose I’ve got enough to get the job done well enough, though, frankly, I can’t afford losin’ the numbers, not with a good third of our men takin’ Belle’s death as an opportunity to look for more gainful employment elsewhere.”

“I imagine some of them found a sight more than they bargained for.”

She shrugged as if it made no difference. “Some examples had to be made. It’s a dangerous time, Vicious. What with Belle’s death, everybody and their cousin is tryin’ to desert or make a play for power. Shit, if it weren’t for me promisin’ Belle years ago, I’d let the bastards have it. And that’s all before you take into account that the city itself is goin’ to shit, not least of all the castle.”

“And here I thought you didn’t know anything about that.”

She gave him a smile. “Maybe I was puttin’ you on a bit before, though you can’t blame a woman for bein’ careful, things the way they are.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Anyhow, I suppose you’ll be wantin’ to know who it was put the mark on your friend the prince and the guardsman—Nigel, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. And yes, I would.”

She nodded slowly. “And what’s in it for me then? I like you, Vicious, always have, but in case you didn’t know, career criminals, as a rule, don’t tend to do much for free. What do you intend, to give us all pardons, is that it?”

Valden shook his head. “No. What you all have done, what I’ve done, it’s long past pardons. Anyway, what would you do with it, if you had it but keep doing what you always do? No, it isn’t in my power to offer pardons and, even if it was, I wouldn’t.”

“Not in your power?” the woman blinked. “Well, that’s a bit of a surprise, isn’t it? I mean, you bein’ best friends with the prince and all.”

“Prince Bernard departed for the Black Wood this morning, as I’m sure you well know.”

She grinned. “Caught again, though you might be sellin’ that a bit short. Not so much departed as exiled, wouldn’t you say?”

Valden said nothing to that and she studied him. “You really do care for him, don’t you?” she asked, sounding genuinely surprised for the first time.

“I owe him everything,” he said simply.

She watched him for a minute then finally nodded. “I believe you, but that doesn’t address the question of recompense.”

“If we don’t figure out what’s going on in the castle, Nadia—and soon—then it isn’t a question of if the city will fall, only when. What do you think, that the Fey will stop their invasion at the borders of the poor district?” He shook his head. “They do not feel fear the way we do, Nadia, and they cannot be bought or threatened. If the Fey come, when they come, then you and your family—such as it is—will be killed along with the rest of us.”

“You would appeal to my self-interest,” she said, “thinking, likely, that I, like most criminals, will be unremittingly selfish.”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “The most damning thing is, you’re right. I’m old, Valden, was old even back when you went by Vicious and were vicious. Yet I am as scared now of death as I ever was. Perhaps more so.” She gestured casually to the door. “It is one of the reasons why Ox there has been fielding much of the visits from people.”

“Who is he, anyway?” Valden asked. “I don’t remember him from the old days.”

Nadia snorted at that. “Nor would you. After all, nearly everyone from the old days is dead, aren’t they? You, me, and Catham just about account for it. No, Ox is new. Used to be a farmer, if you can believe it. At least until he lost his farm. Came to the city looking for work and found us.” She shrugged. “You know how it goes.”

“Yes, I do. Listen, Nadia, I’m in a bit of a hurry and—”

She nodded. “I understand. But I’ve got to be honest with you here, Vicious, even if I tell you what you want to know…I’m not all that sure it’s going to help.”

“Maybe not, but it’s better to know.”

She shrugged. “If you say so, though, in my experience, the knife cuts just as deep whether you see it coming or not…but that’s your affair. Very well—you want to know who was behind the assassination attempts in the castle? Well, I can help you there. It was the king himself.”

Valden blinked. “You…you mean Feledias? Fire and salt if you’re right, I have to go. He went with the prince to the Black Wood. Thanks, Nadia,” he said, turning and moving toward the door. “I’ve got to hurry or—”

“Not Feledias.”

He froze, his hand on the door handle. Then, slowly, he turned. “Sorry?”

“It wasn’t the old king who ordered the assassination of Prince Bernard,” Nadia said, watching him. “But the new one.”

Ice cold fear ran through Priest at that, and he felt the breath catch in his throat. “You mean…”

She nodded. “The assassins were hired by King Matthias the Virtuous himself.”

Valden felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach, and it was several seconds before he was able to speak. “And…and the assassins who attacked Guardsman Nigel?” he croaked.

“Also hired by the king.”

“Are…that is…are you sure?” he breathed.

“I’m sure,” she said. “The man I spoke to about it…well, he wasn’t really in a position to lie. Anyway, I doubt it helps, Vicious, but I want you to know that those men didn’t work for us. Belle meant to do right by your prince, truly. She was cruel sometimes, yes, but she was no fool, and she understood what was at stake. What is at stake.”

“But why…?” Valden whispered. It didn’t make any sense. Matt would have died in Brighton if not for Cutter, and the prince was the only reason why he had been made king in the first place. What possible reason would the lad have for wanting him dead? That got Valden thinking about how strangely the youth had been acting lately, ever since…ever since Two Rivers. A terrible, horrifying idea began to form in his mind then, one that made the skin of his arms break out in gooseflesh. “Thanks, Nadia,” he said. “I’ve…I’ve really got to go. The others…they need me.” After all, Maeve and Chall had meant to go to the castle to check on Petran. Which meant…they’re walking right into a trap.

“Very well,” the woman said, then, as he swung the door open, “And Vicious?”

He turned back to her then, and she gave him what appeared at least to be a genuine smile. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Nadia,” he said. I’m going to need it. When he took to the streets again, he did not walk calmly—instead, he ran.

He didn’t know how long it took to make his way through the city, only that it was too long, for each minute wasted brought Chall and Maeve closer to death. If they aren’t dead already.

He forced the thought away, as he had the other dozen times he’d had it while running through the city but now, like then, it did not go far. By the time he turned a corner and caught sight of the castle in the distance, Valden was exhausted, the breath rasping in his lungs, but he barely noticed. He was too intent on reaching the others, his friends, in time.

He was sprinting at the gate, drawing more than a few stares, when suddenly a carriage pulled out in front of him, and he came to a stumbling halt, catching himself on one of the horses. He glanced past them and saw that the castle gate was only a hundred feet away, no more than that, and that the guards at the gate were watching him strangely. Not surprising, perhaps, considering that he had been sprinting down the street directly at them.

He moved to go around the horses and someone caught his arm. “Excuse me,” he said, pulling away, but the hand held on.

“Easy, friend, easy, no rush—you haven’t missed your ride. I’m here, and you’re here, right?”

Priest frowned, trying to pull away again, “Listen, I really have to go.”

“And find your friends, right?” the voice asked, quieter this time.

This time, Priest did turn back, frowning as he started inching his hand toward one of his knives.

The man winced. “Wouldn’t do that, if I were you. I’ll regret it, that’s sure, but I imagine you will too.” He offered his hand. “The name’s Ned. We met once before, though I can’t say I’m surprised you don’t remember—from what I hear, you all have had a busy time of it.”

Priest blinked as realization dawned. “You’re the driver, aren’t you? The one that…” He trailed off, wary of saying too much in case he was wrong.

Ned grinned. “The one that saved you lot from torture and death? Sure, that’s me. Anyway, your friends sent me here lookin’ for you. Or…well, suppose it’s more accurate to say that they wanted to come themselves but are…indisposed.”

“I see…” Priest said. “Then…you know where they are?”

“I do,” Ned said, glancing back at the gate where one of the guards had started toward them down the street, “but if I was you, I’d hop in,” he went on, gesturing to the carriage. “I’m thinking you wouldn’t like what happened, you waited around for that guardsman to come ask a few questions.”

Priest still hesitated. The man seemed trustworthy, likeable even, but he had met enough assassins and killers to know that they often were likeable, at least right up until they stuck a knife in you. “My friends…are they okay?”

The driver winced, glancing back at the approaching guard, “Look, friend, I really think we ought to have this conversation later. You see, we’re in a bit of a hurry here, and—”

“Are they okay?” Priest repeated.

The driver ran a hand through his hair. “The woman, Lady Maeve, she’s fine,” he said hurriedly. “The mage…well, he’s been stabbed.”

“Stabbed?” Priest repeated. “How is he? How…how serious is it?”

“I don’t know,” the man said. “He…there was a lot of blood, but my wife’s seeing to him. If anyone can help him, it’s her. Now, will you come?”

Priest frowned. If the man was a liar, he was a damned impressive one. But then, Priest had met impressive liars before too, as dangerous, in their way, as assassins. Still, the guard was getting closer, raising his hand to hail them, and Priest didn’t think he had much choice. He hopped in the carriage.

“Hey! Driver, hold that carriage!”

“Best hold on tight in there,” Ned said as he climbed into the driver’s seat, “seems we’re going to have a bit of a chase.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth then he clucked to the horses and they pulled away with shocking force, enough to knock Priest backward in his seat. Then they were careening down the street, the buildings and people flashing past in a blur, and he thought that surely they must wreck any second. Yet, whatever else he was, the man was obviously a skilled driver, weaving in and out of the traffic, dodging carriages and people as if he'd trained all his life for just such an event.

Left with nothing else to do, Priest held on for dear life, doing his best to fight back his rising gorge as the carriage driver worked his own special kind of magic.