Baroness of Blood

EIGHT

Jorani had been nine years old when he first entered Nimbus Castle. He had no title then, his family no wealth. His father played the flute and dulcimer, his uncle the drums, while his mother danced and sang. His duty was to keep watch over their instruments, and to bring new ones when needed.

He was sitting at the side of the hall, engrossed in the beauty of his mother's singing, when out of the corner of his eye he spied a boy a few years older than he moving toward the family's pipes, lutes, and drums. He did not notice the boy's rich clothing. If he had, it would have made no difference. Everyone in the castle seemed wealthy to him, which made his family's scant possessions all the more precious.

Jorani waited until the thief picked up the set of carved wooden pipes, the most beautiful instrument his family owned and his own favorite to play. Jorani faced him. " Put that down," he ordered.

Instead the boy turned to run. Jorani sprang. He had expected the boy to put up a silent fight and run as soon as he broke away. Instead, the youth, who turned out to be considerably more muscular than he, let out a terrible scream, then got the better of him and dragged him through the center of hall to the baron's table.

"The gypsy brat attacked me, Father," the boy declared. "I want him executed."

The baron stood. His ice-blue eyes stared with such intensity that it took all of Jorani's courage not to look away. "You attacked my son?" the baron asked.

"I didn't know he was your son, Sire," Jorani said. "He seemed about to make off with one of our instruments. It was my duty to protect my family's goods."

"You thought my son was a thief?"

Jorani sensed some amusement in the baron's tone and tried to take comfort in it. "I only knew what my responsibility was, Sire," he replied.

"Please explain, Janosk," the baron said to his son.

"In private," the boy whispered.

"You're the one who made the matter public," the baron retorted.

"I wanted to play it. I would have put it back."

"I see." The baron focused on Jorani once more. "Do you play?" he asked.

Jorani nodded, picked up the pipes, and played a slow, mournful song.

"Will you teach my son to play?"

Jorani looked up at his father, saw him nod eagerly, and understood. They were poor people. This might give them a chance for more.

The baron seemed to read his mind. "Will you?" he asked more gently.

"Will your son let me teach him?" he responded.

Janosk nodded.

"Then I will do it," he said.

The future baron proved to be a far better friend than a musician, but by the time the baron discovered this, he could not have separated the two boys. In time, Jorani forgot the ambitions of youth. Since then, he'd moved from commoner to knight to lord with his own magnificent estate less than a day's ride south of the castle. He was proud of his lands, and it pained him to think how rarely he visited them.

The long friendship with Janosk had made him too accepting of the man's faults, too willing to placate the ruler. When the first small insurrection had begun, he'd urged compromise. When Janosk hadn't listened, he'd advised him in matters of war-well, but not well enough.

After Janosk's death, he'd looked to Janosk's children and the future. Marishka had beauty but all the will of a reed in the wind. Mihael had ambition but lacked intelligence. So Jorani had turned to the one heir who most resembled his friend in temperament. The advice he'd given Ilsabet, while true, was premature.

And he suspected she had already begun to act on it.

As soon as he left the wounded men, he went to his hidden room and studied each of his bottles. He detected nothing missing in the most likely ones. But then, only a little would be needed. If she shook the bottles afterward, the powders would expand to fill the missing space.

It had to have been her, but if so, she had done it slyly-never giving him a hint of her plans, never gloating afterward. He sat at his table with his hands clasped beneath his chin, and debated what to do.

He had reached no decision when the hawks screeched a warning, giving him only enough time to climb the stairs, hide the entrance under his rug, and admit a servant waiting anxiously outside with a summons from Baron Peto.

He'd expected to be questioned, and was surprised the summons had taken so long. He was, after all, the most likely suspect in the bizarre event.

He met the baron in the same chamber where he and Janosk had often discussed political matters. As he expected, Peto went right to the point.

"I know you have some experience in the matter of poisons," Peto said. "Can you think of anyone else who might possess that knowledge?"

No matter how much Jorani respected this man, his loyalties remained with Janosk's kin. He shook his head.

"Ilsabet is your pupil, is she not?"

"In academics, Baron. I teach her history and philosophy, not the use of poisons. Indeed, much of what I know myself is only theoretical."

"The rebels told me of your skill."

Jorani took a deep breath, looked at the baron's eyes, and replied, "My reputation is similar to that of an old warrior-much exaggerated."

Peto smiled. "As were your castle defenses, I recall." He unwrapped a piece of dried bread and placed it on the table. "We found this in the cell, dragged in by one of the poisoned rats. What do you make of it?"

Jorani held the bread up to the light and saw a fine powder coating the crust. He brushed it onto a piece of white parchment and studied it closer. "There appear to be two different substances in this dust, Baron. One is ergot and could be there naturally. The other is unknown to me. I know of drugs that drive the victim insane, but this powder does not resemble any of them."

"I understand that it is called devil's cup, and that your servants harvest the plant on your own lands."

"I'll confess to a lie, but not to a deed I did not commit."

"Then if it was not you, tell me who knows enough to have done the poisoning."

"I don't know."

"Until you think of an answer, you are confined to your chambers. There'll be guards outside with orders to check on you frequently to be certain you stay there."

Upstairs, Jorani took what comfort he could from the consequences of Ilsabet's rash acts. He had his hawks for company and a lovely view of the river and forests; all of this far better than the fate he would have ordered had he been in Peto's position.

However, he was pleased that Ilsabet had exposed herself too soon. Peto would never relax his defenses now. He would have tasters for food prepared under the watchful eyes of his faithful guards.

And in time, he hoped, Ilsabet would abandon her efforts at revenge.

Baron Peto was a benevolent ruler, but Marishka was pleased to see he was no fool. A dozen of his most trusted guards rode behind them, and she and the baron were flanked by four of his best archers. Nonetheless, as they neared the town, Peto must have sensed how anxious she'd grown because he reached over and patted her hand. "It's all right," he said. "We're not the enemy here."

Maybe he wasn't, but she couldn't claim the same.

Pirie, a town of six hundred, was the only large settlement in the vicinity of Nimbus Castle. Located on the Arvid, it relied on fishing, shipping, and farming to survive. Its well-tended wharfs were the largest on the river, and the inn and rooming house offered shelter to travelers on road and river alike.

As they neared town, Marishka saw rebel banners still defiantly flying from some tile rooftops, and belatedly realized that her dress was the same color. She also noticed that there was a crowd on the wharf and that it seemed to be growing larger as they approached.

She turned to Peto, intending to say some word of warning, but didn't have to. His relaxed disposition had vanished. He sat stiffly in the saddle, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The men around her adopted his manner. They were prepared for the worst, but seemed committed to going forward to meet the crowd.

When they reached the wharf, two of the villagers came forward. One had a wound on his cheek. The cut was red, the flesh around it inflamed. After his treatment by the castle healers, Peto could not understand why he looked so angry.

"It's good to see you still on your feet," Peto said.

"It's good that I am," Imre responded. He moved closer and added in a low tone. "I've been trying to calm everyone down, but they're convinced the rats that attacked us were poisoned."

"Stay here with the guards," Peto said to Marishka and dismounted, focusing his attention on Imre. "I would not leave you standing here when you must still be in pain. Let's sit down somewhere and see if I can help soothe things over."

With a shrug, Imre led the baron into a crowded tavern. Speaking loudly so that even the rowdies near the door could hear, Peto explained how he intended to govern through Mihael Obour. He also explained again what safeguards he would leave in place.

"What about Dark!" someone called out.

"And what about the rats?" another added.

"My men are searching the dungeons today, trying to find the source of the poison," Peto promised.

"You won't have to look past the Obours," someone else called and pointed beyond the open door to Marishka sitting on her horse.

"I'll do whatever is necessary, but only after I'm sure someone was to blame," the baron repeated more emphatically.

A woman pushed her way to the front of the assembly. She wore a shapeless black mourning dress and tattered veil and her eyes were bright with grief and rage. "My son was devoured by the rats in Nimbus Castle. I want to talk to the Obour."

Peto had seen Marishka's fear. He also knew she rarely left her own rooms since he'd taken up residence in the castle. "She's been in seclusion since her father died. I'll find the guilty party," he said.

"I'll question her myself," the woman replied, turned and walked toward the door. Some of the villagers followed. The guards, on alert since the baron had gone inside, drew their swords but were uncertain how to act against one old woman in mourning clothes.

"I wish to speak to the girl. I want to ask her who killed my son," she said as she walked toward them. The guards did not step aside.

When she tried to push her way through, one of them grabbed her, pinning her arms. "We don't want to hurt you," the guard said.

"Let me talk to her!" the woman shouted then kicked the man's shin.

"She has a right!" someone else called out.

"Let her through!" This shout was accompanied with a thrown clod of half-frozen horse manure, which hit the guard in the face. More pelted Mar-ishka. Her horse shied sideways, pushing the line of guards against the crowd. The woman fell out of the guard's grip and screamed.

"Cease this madness!" Baron Peto cried from the tavern door. "Hasn't there been enough blood spilled in this land? Are you all so hungry for more?"

"I've lost a son!" the woman retorted.

"And I a father," Marishka blurted. She looked astonished at her boldness and painfully self-conscious of the attention her words received. Nonetheless, she went on, "But I am glad the fighting is ended. I've sworn allegiance to Baron Peto, and I will honor that oath."

Dismounting, she went to where the woman knelt on the ground and offered her hand. "If you still wish to speak to me, I will listen, though I know nothing that can help you," she said.

The woman let Marishka help her to her feet, then spit in her face. "If you know nothing, you're of no use to me, Obour," she said, then pushed her way through the crowd.

Peto regretfully watched the woman go. He had hoped that Marishka's words, spoken so obviously from her heart, would have alleviated some of the tension in this town. He'd been far too optimistic when he'd asked her to ride. Yet he was glad he had, for he'd seen some spark of assertiveness in the girl, and the attraction that had been solely for her beauty had grown suddenly deeper.

Here was a woman he could love, and from the way she looked at him when she spoke her brave words, someone who could in time come to love him.

Their ride back to Nimbus Castle had none of the casual, almost frivolous, air of their trip out. Every time Peto looked at Marishka, he noticed the dirty smudges on her wool cape. At least he knew the truth now. He could not leave Kislova soon, but he felt far less regret at being away from the people of Sundell than he'd expected. Marishka would be near.