Dragon Wing

5

Hugh was not surprised. It had to be somebody close to His Majesty, to account for all the intrigue and secrecy. The Hand knew Stephen had an heir to the throne, nothing more than that. Judging by the king’s age, the kid must be eighteen, twenty cycles. Old enough to get into serious trouble.

“The prince is here, in the monastery. We”—Stephen paused, trying to moisten a dry tongue—“have told him his life is in danger. He believes you are a nobleman in disguise, hired to take him to a secret hiding place where he will be safe.” Stephen’s voice cracked. Angrily he cleared his throat and resumed speaking. “The prince will not question this decision. He knows well enough what we say is true. There are those who are a threat to him—”

“Obviously,” said Hugh.

The king stiffened, the chain mail clinked, and Stephen’s sword rattled in its sheath.

The courier, with a whispered, “Restrain yourself, Your Majesty!” swiftly interposed his body between that of the king and the assassin.

“Remember, sir, whom you are addressing!” Trian rebuked. Hugh ignored him. “Where am I to take the prince, Majesty? What am I to do with him?”

“I will provide you with the details,” Trian answered. Stephen had apparently had enough. His nerve was failing him. He stalked past Hugh toward the door, turning his body slightly so that he avoided touching the assassin. He probably did it unconsciously, but the Hand, recognizing the affront, smiled grimly in the darkness and struck back.

“There is a service I offer all my clients, Majesty.” Stephen paused, hand on the door handle. “Well?” He did not look around.

“I tell the victim who is having him killed and why. Shall I so inform your son, Majesty?”

The chain mail jingled softly; a tremor shook the man’s body. But Stephen’s head remained unbowed, his shoulders straight. “When the moment comes,” he said, “my son will know.”

Stiff-backed, straight-shouldered, the king walked into the corridor; Hugh heard his footsteps receding in the distance. The courier moved to stand next to the Hand, not speaking until he heard—in the distance—the sound of a door slam shut.

“There was no call to say that,” said Trian softly. “You wounded him deeply.”

“And who is this ‘courier,’” returned Hugh, “who hands out the monies of the royal treasury and worries about a king’s feelings?”

“You are right.” The young man had turned slightly toward the window and Hugh could see him smile. “I am not a courier. I am the king’s magus.” Hugh raised an eyebrow. “Young, aren’t you, Magicka?”

“I am older than I appear,” answered Trian lightly. “Wars and kingship age a man. Magic does not. And now, if you will accompany me, I have clothing and supplies for your journey, as well as the information you require. This way.” The wizard stood aside to allow Hugh to pass. Trian’s manner was respectful, but the Hand noted that the wizard was deftly blocking the corridor down which Stephen had passed with his body. Hugh turned in the direction indicated. Trian paused to pick up the glowlamp, removed the screen, and walked near Hugh, hovering close at his elbow.

“You must, of course, look and act the part of a nobleman, and we have provided suitable costume. One reason you were chosen is the fact that you are gently born, though not acknowledged. There is a true air of aristocracy about you that is inbred. The prince is highly intelligent and would not be fooled by a clod in expensive clothes.”

After a short walk of no more than ten steps, the wizard brought Hugh to a halt outside one of the many doors lining the corridor. Using the same iron key, Trian inserted it into the lock and the door opened. Hugh stepped inside, and they traversed a corridor that ran at an angle to the first. This corridor was not as well-kept as the former. The walls were crumbling. Footing was treacherous on the cracked floor, and both Hugh and the wizard trod carefully and cautiously. Turning left, they entered another corridor; another left turn brought them to a third. Each successive corridor was shorter than the one previous. They were, Hugh recognized, moving deeper into the building’s interior. After this, they began a series of zigs and zags-turns taken seemingly at random. Trian talked the entire way.

“It was advisable that we learn all we could about you. I know that you were born on the wrong side of the sheets following your father’s liaison with a serving wench, and that your noble father—whose name, by the way, I was unable to discover—cast your mother out into the streets. She died during the elven attack on Firstfall and you were taken in and raised by Kir monks.” Trian shuddered. “It must not have been an easy life,” he said in a low undertone with a glance at the chill walls that surrounded them.

Hugh saw no need to comment and so kept silent. If the wizard thought to confuse or distract him by this conversation and the circumvolved route they were taking, Trian was not succeeding. Kir monasteries are built generally along the same plans—a square inner courtyard surrounded on two sides by the monks’ cells. On the third side were housed those who served the monks or, like Hugh, orphans taken in by the order. Here, too, were the kitchens, the “study” rooms, and the infirmary. . . .

. . . The boy lying on the straw pallet on the stone floor tossed and turned. Though it was bitterly cold in the dark, unheated room, the child’s skin burned with an unnatural heat and he had, in his convulsive struggles, thrown aside the thin blanket used to cover his bare limbs. A second boy, some years older than the sick child, who appeared to be about nine cycles, entered the chamber and stared pityingly down at his friend. In his hands, the older boy carried a bowl of water. Placing it carefully upon the floor, he knelt beside the sick child and, dipping his fingers into the water, dabbled the liquid onto the dry, fever-parched lips.

This seemed to ease the child’s suffering. His thrashings stopped and his glazed eyes turned to see who cared for him. A wan smile spread over the thin, pale face. The older boy, with an answering smile, tore a piece of fabric from his ragged clothes and placed it in the water. Wringing it out, careful not to waste a drop, he sponged the child’s hot forehead.

“It’ll be all right—” the older boy started to say, when a dark shadow loomed over them, a cold and bony hand grasped his wrist.

“Hugh! What are you doing?” The voice was chill and dank and dark as the room.

“I—I was helping Rolf, Brother. He has the fever and Gran Maude said that if it didn’t break he’d die—”

“Die?” The voice shook the stone chamber. “Of course he will die! It is his privilege to die an innocent child and escape the evil to which mankind is heir. That evil which daily must be scourged from our weak shells.” The hand forced Hugh to his knees. “Pray, Hugh. Pray that your sin in attempting to thwart the ancestor’s will by performing the unnatural act of healing be forgiven you. Pray for death—”

The sick child whimpered and stared up at the monk in fear. Hugh flung aside the hand that held him down. “I’ll pray for death,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “I’ll pray for yours.”

The blow of the monk’s staff caught Hugh across his upper body. He staggered. The second blow knocked him to the floor. Blows rained down upon the boy’s body until the monk grew too tired to lift the weapon. Then he stalked out of the infirmary. The water bowl had been broken during the beating. Bruised and battered, Hugh groped about in the darkness until he found the rag—wet with water or his own blood, he didn’t know which. But it was cool and soothing and he placed it gently on the forehead of his friend.

Lifting the thin body in his arms, Hugh held the sick boy close, rocking him awkwardly, soothing him until the body in his arms ceased to twitch and shiver and grew still and cold. . . .

“At the age of sixteen,” Trian was continuing, “you ran away from the Kir. The monk to whom I spoke said that before you left, you broke into their record rooms and learned the identity of your father. Did you find him?”

“Yeah,” answered the Hand, inwardly thinking: So this Trian has gone to some trouble over me. The magus has actually been to the Kir. He has questioned them, extensively, it seemed. Which means . , . Yes, of course. Now, isn’t that interesting? Who will learn more about whom during this little walk?

“A nobleman?” Trian probed delicately.

“So he called himself. He was, in reality—how did you phrase it?—a clod in expensive clothes.”

“You speak in the past tense. Your father is dead?”

“I killed him.”

Halting, Trian stared at him. “You chill me to the bone! To speak of such a thing so carelessly—”

“Why the hell should I care?” Hugh kept walking and Trian had to hurry to catch up. “When the bastard found out who I was, he came at me with his sword. I fought him—bare-handed. The sword ended up in his belly. I swore it was an accident, and the sheriff believed me. After all, I was only a boy and my ‘noble’ father was well-known for his lecherous ways—girls, youths, it didn’t matter to him. I didn’t tell anyone who I was, but let them think I was someone my father had abducted. The Kir had seen to it that I was well-educated. I can sound high-bred when I want to. The sheriff assumed I was some nobleman’s son, stolen to feed my father’s lust. He was more than willing to hush up the old lech’s death, rather than start a blood feud.”

“But it wasn’t an accident, was it?”

A stone turned under Trian’s foot. He reached out instinctively to Hugh, who caught the wizard’s elbow and steadied him. They were descending, moving deeper and deeper into the monastery’s interior.

“No, it wasn’t an accident. I wrested the sword from him; it was easy, he was drunk. I spoke my mother’s name, told him where she was buried, and stuck the blade in his gut. He died too quick. I’ve learned, since then.” Trian was pale, silent. Lifting the glowlamp in its iron lantern, he flashed it into Hugh’s deeply lined, grim face. “The prince must not suffer,” the wizard said.

“So, back to business.” Hugh grinned at him. “And we were having such a pleasant chat. What did you hope to find out? That I’m not as bad as my reputation? Or the opposite? That I’m worse.”

Trian was apparently not to be drawn off onto any side paths. Keeping his hand on Hugh’s arm, he leaned close, speaking softly, though the only ones to hear them that the assassin could see were bats.

“It must be swift and clean. Unexpected. No fear. Perhaps, in his sleep. There are poisons—”

Hugh jerked his arm from the man’s touch. “I know my business. I’ll handle it that way, if that’s what you want. You’re the customer. Or rather, I take it you speak for the customer.”

“That is what we want.”

Reassured, sighing, Trian walked only a short distance further, then halted before another locked door. Instead of opening it, he placed the glowlamp on the floor and indicated with a motion of his hand that Hugh was to look inside. Stooping, placing his eye to the keyhole, the assassin peered into the room.

The Hand rarely felt emotion of any sort, never showed it. In this instance, however, his bored and disinterested glance through the keyhole at his intended victim sharpened to an intense, narrow-eyed stare. He was not looking at the plotting, scheming youth of eighteen who had sprung from Hugh’s reasoning. Curled up on a pallet, fast asleep, was a towheaded, wistful-faced child who could not be older than ten.

Slowly Hugh straightened. The wizard, lifting the glowlamp, scanned the assassin’s face. It was dark and frowning, and Trian sighed again, his delicate brows creased in worry. Placing a finger on his lips, he led Hugh to another room two doors down from the first. He unlocked it with the key, drew Hugh inside and softly shut the door.

“Ah,” the wizard said softly, “there’s a problem, isn’t there?” Hugh gave the room in which they stood a swift and comprehensive glance, then looked back at the anxious magus. “Yeah, I could use a smoke. They took my pipe away from me in prison. Got another?”