Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 12

The rains had stopped and the air had grown warm, but the weather did little to brighten Laurel Lawrence’s mood. They’re all selfish imbeciles, she thought. Every last one. She cursed aloud and tossed a spent apple core into a thatch of wildflowers.

The cart she sat in bounced along on its way to Veldaren, the wooden bench in the back thumping her spine. The thin white canvas over her head shone purple and pink, promising that dusk would soon stretch its menacing fingers over the land. She glanced at the young boy beside her, no more than ten, who was staring at his dirt-caked fingernails. Swiveling in her seat, she pulled aside the curtain at her back.

“Moren, we need to go faster,” she said.

The old man steering the wagon glanced over his shoulder. He snapped the reins, and the pair of exhausted horses that pulled the carriage leapt forward. The wagon pulled taut for a moment, jostling Laurel from her seat. She offered a small cry, but the carriage slowed down again almost immediately.

“’Fraid that’s fast as I can make ’em go, Miss Lawrence,” Moren told her, spit flying from between his wooden front teeth. “These beasts’re old. Ain’t been pullin’ no wagon for years now.”

Laurel sighed.

“Then why did we take them?” she asked, exasperated.

The old man shrugged and slapped the reins once more. “Because these are all I had, Miss Lawrence. My good horses got recruited just like my boys…’cept for Mo back there.”

“Oh,” she said, letting the curtain drop back into place. It was petty for her to blame Moren for their situation. The old farmer had been kind enough to offer his services when she needed them. Of course, it hadn’t hurt that she’d given him two gold pieces from the stash King Vaelor had provided for her mission.

With each day, the task placed on her by Guster Halfhorn, Dirk Coldmine, and the king seemed to grow more daunting. She had spent weeks charting which high merchants to visit and when, going so far as to pick the brains of the other members of the Council of Twelve about the personalities of the merchants and choosing her wardrobe accordingly. After the assembly at the Great Fountain, where Velixar was named High Prophet of Karak and the army left the city in its quest to conquer Paradise, she put all that planning in motion. At the time she’d been confident it would be quick work. She was a young, pretty, and very persuasive woman.

Yet now, three long weeks after her assignment had begun, she was no closer to reaching her goal. She had walked the length of the Merchants’ Road, visiting each of the manses that rested atop Estate Hill and the representatives of the great families of commerce who lived in Veldaren. Their representatives greeted her respectfully, dining her on succulently sweetened meats and aged cheeses, sharing with her cups of the finest vintage wines that were available nowhere else in the city. With each meal, she carefully passed along the king’s requests, and each time she was rejected, sometimes politely, sometimes not.

What Laurel quickly realized was that most of the high merchants weren’t in Veldaren anymore. They’d fled to other cities, leaving sycophants and distant relatives to watch over their belongings and attend pretty little dinners with pretty little women like her. It was enough to drive Laurel mad, and at last she gathered her things, found a wagon to carry her-not an easy task, given that most who remained in the city were women who were saddled with money-making responsibilities as well as child care-and headed out into greater Neldar. If the merchants had fled the city, she would seek them out in the townships where they now hid.

She was now heading back to Veldaren from Brent, her third stop after visits to Thettletown and Gronswik. She had chosen each sojourn based on both the location and the openness of the merchant, starting with the most amiable, Judd Garland, and working her way south for miles along the Gods’ Road. Again her efforts had been fruitless. Judd had merely smiled, and with a hundred polite phrases told her to go fuck herself if she thought he would willingly give up food and coin to support the realm.

Three down, three to go.

Laurel’s frustration grew. If she couldn’t convince someone like Garland to help, how would she recruit swindlers such as the Connington brothers? The king’s demands for fealty, provisions, and manpower were simply too steep, given that all he was offering in return was the promise of further lands, influence, and lesser taxes at the end of the war. Perhaps I should always wear what I am wearing now, she thought. Laurel glanced down at her leather bodice, polished to a shine and laced low to allow her breasts to swell over the top. She groaned in disgust. By Karak, she looked a common whore, like the ones who used to hang from the balconies of the many brothels lining Veldaren’s roads. You’re no different, she thought. You’re selling yourself just as they do. Gripping the shawl draped over her shoulders with both hands, she pulled it over her chest and looked at young Mo. The boy was still studying his filthy fingers, for which she was grateful.

She recalled the gleam in Trenton Blackbard’s eyes as he’d stared at her during their meeting three days prior. Skin was the man’s trade; Blackbard owned practically every brothel in Neldar, near a hundred of them, and his lust for whores was legendary. Hoping to appeal to the merchant’s baser instincts, Laurel had acted flirtatious throughout the encounter, making sure to squeeze her upper arms together as much as possible to draw his eye. Capture a man’s eye, and you’ve captured his thoughts, Dirk Coldmine had said. Only the thoughts she’d captured had no connection to her offer. The pox-covered, greasy-haired merchant had offered her his bed for the night, and his company beneath the sheets. After her refusal, he’d casually asked her to leave his manse and return only when she felt in a more “accommodating” mood.

Laurel didn’t expect to see him and his town again, and in truth, it was no severe loss. Sections of the Brent were beautiful, with its rolling landscape and elegant gardens, but just like Veldaren-and Thettletown, and Gronswik-there was an air of desolation about it. The lavishness of the manse and gardens were in stark contrast to the run-down collection of hovels and cottages along the mud-splattered throughways. The majority of the smallfolk, those not under Blackbard’s thumb, were mostly women, and they appeared thin and sickly, their hair filthy and matted, their clothes threadbare, their expressions empty of hope. It was a contradiction she could not stomach, all that beauty interspersed with such bleakness, a thin camouflage that failed to disguise the hardships that the war on Paradise had wrought. How quickly it all falls apart.…Or was it already falling, and I never noticed?

The cart struck another rut in the road, and the light coming through the canopy seemed to darken by half. She poked her head out through the curtain once more.

“How much longer?” she asked Moren, her tone more respectful this time.

The old man chewed on his wooden teeth and replied, “An hour, p’haps a bit more.”

Laurel dipped back inside the carriage. “Not good,” she whispered. Those softly spoken words finally broke young Mo from his inspection of his fingertips. The youth grimaced and began nervously tapping his foot against the wagon’s wooden slats.

Being out after dark had grown increasingly dangerous. Most of the fighting men the realm had to offer were traveling with the army, and bandits and cutthroats ruled the roost. Laurel had known that going into this journey, and she’d taken precautions to ensure that come nightfall, she, Moren, and Mo would always have a safe place to rest their heads. Yet this time she seemed to have underestimated the shoddiness of the road and the strength of the weary horses that pulled their wagon.

Laurel swore under her breath. They should have arrived at least an hour ago, when the sun still cast its protective light over the streets, but the wagon had gotten stuck in a sinkhole not three miles outside the village of Crastin, and with no one traveling the Gods’ Road, it was up to the three of them to wedge the wheel free. They’d lost a good portion of light, and they should have headed back to the village and stayed another night. But so desirous was Laurel of returning to her own bed that she’d asked Moren to press on regardless.

She prayed to Karak to keep them safe; yet as she did so, niggling doubt reared its head as it always did lately.

How could you leave us so? she silently asked her deity. How could you abandon the children you’ve created to the violence of man?

Man. The word stuck in her head, defiant in the face of blasphemy. Karak has given us life and freedom, and allowed us to choose our own path. It is not the Divinity’s fault that man has turned his back on his teachings.

Yet Karak had taken away the realm’s protectors, all to conquer a land few cared about. She began to wonder if perhaps Ashhur were the nobler of the two brothers, even given his sheltering ways. He may simply love his children too much, she thought, and a frightening question came next. What does Karak love? Us or his ideals?

She tossed the blasphemous thought aside as soon as she thought it. Trying to focus on anything else, she glanced at the darkening canvas around her, searching for the lightning bolt that would surely kill her where she sat.

When none came, she took a deep breath and offered a silent prayer of thanks to her deity, whom she refused to doubt. She crawled over her bench and beneath the curtain behind her, taking a seat beside Moren. As she flattened out her dress, the old man acknowledged her presence with a nod. She looked straight ahead at the rutted Gods’ Road, which was filled with stagnant puddles bordered by forests grown treacherously muddy with the harsh spring rains. The sky was like a bruise, deep black above her head and pink and vulnerable on the horizon.

“It’ll be completely dark soon,” the old man finally said. For the first time in their trip, he seemed nervous.

Laurel placed her hand on his back. It was the only comfort she could offer.

They exited the Gods’ Road a few minutes later, as the sky began its rapid descent into blackness. The southern path into the Veldaren was risky, as it was a narrow trail through a thick forest that closed in on either side, but it was the quicker way. Moren steered the horses expertly through the murk; nary a limb so much as scratched the side of the wagon as it rolled along. The carriage emerged from the line of trees a few minutes later, the wheels thudding as they passed from dirt path to cobbled road. The Watchtower, the headquarters of the City Watch, appeared to the right, looming over the road. For the first time she could remember, no bonfire burned in its spire.

It was a moonless night, which cast a sinister gloom over every building, stone and wood alike. A strange feeling came over Laurel, like she was missing something, and she stood on the carriage, cocking her head and listening for signs of life. She heard none. Not even the rats seemed to be squeaking. Only the clopping of the horse’s hooves reached her ears. The smell, as usual, was horrendous-a combination of festering fecal matter, decomposing flesh, and raw fish-but she felt somewhat comforted by it. The stench would only grow stronger as they made their way north, toward the cluster of homes on the offshoot path leading to Brennan Gardens. Brennan. He was to be her next stop, way down in Port Lancaster. She would have gone there directly after leaving Brent if Blackbard had not confiscated the last of the gold King Vaelor had given her and refused to return it, forcing her to ride back north.

The thought drew her attention from the road ahead, but when she heard Moren utter a quiet curse, she dropped back down into her seat.

“What is it?” she asked.

The old man’s eyes, barely visible, flicked back and forth.

“Shadows,” he whispered. “Never a good thing when traveling.”

She glanced about once more, and understood right then why she’d felt so strange earlier. All it took were a few short glances at the various street corners as they passed. There were no Watchmen to be seen…none at all. And all she felt was eyes watching her from the darkened windows of the shops and depots and the black alleys between them.

“Shadows,” she muttered in reply to her driver. She did not trust them either.

Little Mo emerged from the back of the wagon, as if he’d sensed the adults’ apprehension, and wedged himself between Laurel and Moren. The old man’s left hand released the reins, and he draped an arm over his son. His wrinkled fingers brushed against Laurel’s cheek on their way past, making her shiver. It was like being touched by a ghost. A cackle sounded from somewhere deep in one of the alleys, turning that shiver into a quake.

“Don’t panic,” Moren said. “Don’t look around. And Miss Lawrence, don’t go standin’ on the carriage again, neither. Perhaps if we keep ours to ours, we won’t be bothered none.”

Laurel didn’t think that was likely, but she did as the old man asked. The horses were moving at a decent clip-steady, not hurried-and they would reach the portcullis to the Castle of the Lion in minutes. Once that happened, she would bang on the gate and demand entry.

The outlines of the three great towers appeared in the star-spackled sky. The castle was only a few hundred yards away. Laurel took a deep breath and held it. Almost there, almost there. Again that strange cackling sounded, this time on the other side of the road. She flinched but kept her lips sealed.

That was when a dancing pinprick of flame appeared before them, bouncing along the side of a building ahead of them. It danced out into the center of the South Road, and was soon joined by another, and then another, until there were six flickering torches standing abreast in the street.

Moren pulled back on the reins, halting his exhausted horses. Little Mo whimpered, sliding his slender frame behind the bench and ducking beneath it. Laurel sat frozen, staring as the flames illuminated the six men before her. They were hardened types, all dressed in frayed burlap rags with thick beards, broad shoulders, and powerful arms. A shortsword dangled from each man’s belt, the steel glinting in the firelight.

“Would appreciate yer steppin’ aside so we may pass,” said Moren after clearing his throat. Amazingly, the old man’s voice didn’t quaver.

“What, no help for hungry brothers?” one of the men said. His tone was gruff and tinged with the sort of sick humor Laurel had often heard in back rooms at court. “All we ask for is something to quench our thirst.”

“No drinks on me but water,” Moren said. “Best run along and see if a tavern somewhere’s still open.”

“Who says we’re lookin’ for ale, old man?” said another of the men. He stepped forward and drew his sword from his belt, pointing it at them. The whisper of the drawn steel cut into Laurel. “We could be convinced to let you go,” the man continued, “if you let us look at what you got in back…or maybe what you got up front.” The ruffian winked, his eyes twinkling.

Laurel’s bladder felt ready to release.

“Got nothin’ out back,” said Moren, remaining calm. “Nor anythin’ up front here but my daughter and son.”

“Those’ll do,” another replied.

“You’ll get none,” Moren said. “In the name of Karak, I say you clear the road and let us pass.”

“Karak’s isn’t here no more, old man. Looks like he left you to us.”

Moren grunted and spoke sharply. “If I was you, I’d step aside lest I run you all down.”

The men began laughing, nudging each other with their elbows. Without another word Moren threw one arm over Laurel’s shoulder and cracked the reins hard with his opposite hand. Startled, the horses reared up and charged. Laurel was jerked back in her seat and would have fallen into the rear of the wagon without the safety of Moren’s arm. The wind buffeted her face as the cart wrenched onward, slowly picking up speed. The men blocking the road shouted and scattered.

They did not stay gone, however. Laurel heard grunts and creaking boards beneath the louder sounds of stomping hooves and rolling wheels. The wagon seemed to buckle momentarily as extra weight was added to the back. She scooted forward on the bench, ducking away from the curtain just as a hand shot through the slit. Grimy fingers danced in the air above her, grasping and finding nothing until they fell on Moren’s ragged tunic. The fist closed, and the old man’s eyes bulged as he was violently yanked into the rear. He still held tight to the reins in his right hand, and his momentum jerked the bits in the horses’ mouths, causing them to rear up once more. The wagon kept careening forward, crashing into the horses’ hindquarters. Laurel fell toward the edge, barely holding onto the corner of the cart while a small shadow sailed over her head. Mo. The cart’s rigging snapped, the old wood unable to stand the sudden pressure. The two horses squealed and galloped off, still connected to each other, the bridle dragging on the ground behind them.

Laurel heard shouts behind her, both of sadistic glee and sudden pain. In a panic she threw her legs over the front of the carriage. Her soft shoes hit the gravelly road and she fell, scraping her elbow. She barely felt the pain. Kicking as hard as she could, she pushed her legs to carry her far, far away, yet it was still not fast enough. She felt something slip between her feet, and then a fist struck her back, and she was rolling along the ground. When she came to a stop, her body was scraped and bloodied.

“Not so fast,” a sinister voice said.

Then there were hands on her, strong hands lifting her off the ground. The flickering light of torches reemerged. She was half carried, half dragged to the side of the street and then thrown against the side of a building. Her head slammed against the stone wall, making her vision swim and a spike of pain shoot all the way down her spine. She collapsed, her arms and legs limp, and could do no more than stare up at the approaching men, wide-eyed and terrified. The one in front tucked his torch beneath his left arm while his hands untied the laces of his breeches. Behind him approached the other five, one with his sword out and dripping blood, another dragging the unconscious body of little Mo.

The man closest to her finished loosening his pants, and they fell to his ankles. He stepped out of them clumsily, now wearing only his smallclothes. A grin spread across his lips as he lifted the torch. His smile grew wider the closer he drew. “Nice,” he said.

Laurel glanced down and saw that her bodice had come undone in the turmoil of the bucking cart. Her arms wrapped around her torso, hiding her breasts, while she brought her knees to her chest. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t even move. As her attacker began to yank down his smallclothes, Laurel prayed to Karak for strength.

And strength she found, though not from her deity. She thought of Minister Mori, her lack of fear, her stubborn resilience.

I am a Lawrence, Laurel thought. I am my father’s daughter, and I am no victim.

When the man reached her, manhood dangling, he squatted down before her and fumbled for her breasts. Laurel remained still, waiting for him to get close, and then grabbed the bottom of the torch he held with his opposite hand and shoved it upward. The flaming top buried itself flush in his face, catching his greasy beard afire. Her attacker screamed and dropped the torch as he tumbled to his knees, batting at his flaming beard, embers swirling all around him. Laurel hesitated for the briefest moment, and then she was off, stumbling through the darkness.

Her dress was cumbersome, and despite vain attempts to rip it as she ran, she could not move fast enough. The angry shouts closed in on her, her chasers more like a pack of rabid dogs than actual men. Fists slammed into her shoulders, her spine, and the back of her head, knocking her to the ground and blasting the wind out of her. Multiple forms closed in from above, hands slapping and groping, tugging at her bodice and dress, trying to force her knees apart. Laurel shrieked, refusing to give in. She lashed out at them, thrashing with her arms and legs. Her knee found purchase, then her fingernails. One man grunted, another yelped, and then a hand lifted her by the hair, slamming her head down. Fog enveloped her world, and for a moment she thought she might black out. In that daze, she heard the roar of a lion.

The men ceased their attack and slowly turned. A low, rumbling sound, like a distant herd of cattle racing across the grazing fields in Omnmount, flowed over them all, accompanied by the gentle crunch of loose stones being crushed underfoot. Then came a deep voice, snarling and full of fury.

“Sinners.”

“What the flying fuck?” one of the men asked.

Laurel felt their fear, could smell it in the air like a fragrant spice. She kicked her feet backward until she sat upright. When her dizziness faded, the stars leaving her vision, she saw that the six men were standing in a half circle, their torches thrust out before them as they waved their swords, searching for the speaker.

“Sinners,” came that growl again, only this one was different, higher in pitch. The men turned again, and Laurel saw panic and doubt in their eyes that matched her own.

Spying Little Mo on the ground a few feet away, seemingly unconscious, Laurel risked moving. She crept along, keeping a constant eye on her attackers. Gathering Mo into her lap, she stroked his head. The boy’s eyes were closed and blood dripped down his forehead, but he was still breathing.

The low rumble returned, and now Laurel recognized it for what it was-the throaty purr of a large feline. When she’d helped her father tend the farmland around Beaver Lake, the mountain cats had crept down occasionally to steal away with livestock-pigs, goats, even a few of the weaker cattle-and it had been up to Laurel to chase them off with her bow. Although this sound was instantly identifiable, something was very much different about it. In order for one of the mountain cats to make a noise that loud, it would have to be huge.

Massive shadows leaped from out of the darkness, yellow fur flashing, and Laurel’s eyes went wide as blood began to explode around her. Torches flailed about as her attackers screamed, and she heard steel hit the ground, rattling against the stone. Within the chaos of torn flesh and claws, she saw yellow gleams, like fireflies. And then the smell of blood and rotting meat breathed over her, hot and sticky. She realized that at some point she’d closed her eyes, unable to watch.

Then came the roar.

It washed over her, so close, so powerful. She felt her bladder let go, and she clutched little Mo tightly against her breast as she let out a cry. All around her she felt the presence of death and fury, and whatever fate she would have suffered at the hands of those men seemed so meager, so worldly, compared to what she was witnessing. More than anything, she wanted to get away. She tried to stand, to lift Little Mo to his feet, but one second her hands were wedged in his armpits, and the next he was gone. Before she could open her eyes, something grabbed hold of her, lifting her off her feet. She struggled against whatever it was, but it was too agile, too strong. Laurel found herself flying up, up, up, while she floundered, and then there were no hands on her at all. She flew through the air for what seemed like forever, until she crashed down on a hard surface. Her shoulder took the brunt of the impact, and the pain was so intense, she feared it might be broken.

Down below, the last of the men screamed.

“Girl,” said a kind voice from above. “Girl, would you be Laurel Lawrence?”

“What?” she asked, not truly understanding the question in her daze. She began to shake.

“Come now,” said the voice. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

Hands pressed at her back, helping her sit. The nozzle of a wineskin was pressed to her lips, and she drank greedily from the sweetness within as it dribbled into her mouth.

“There, that’s better,” the kind voice said. “Drink deep.”

The skin pulled away, and Laurel shook her head, trying to regain her senses. She glanced around and saw that she was on a rooftop. Three figures stood over her, mere shadows in the sparse light. The screaming down below had ended, now replaced with a revolting crunching sound. In the darkness she saw little Mo lying at her feet, and she was thankful that he appeared unharmed.

“Who are you?” she asked them. Despite her efforts, she could not keep the tremble from her voice.

The middle shadow snapped its fingers, and to either side of her, clay buckets of pitch burst into flame, filling the rooftop with light. Two of the figures were Sisters of the Cloth, one quite short and the other tall, both wrapped from head to toe in the bindings of the order. Only their eyes were visible. Two bundles of rope were coiled on the ground at their feet. A man stood between them-a youngish sort, handsome with a head of slicked-back blond hair with dyed red streaks; piercing blue eyes; a clean-shaven upper lip; and a yellow beard tapered into a pair of horns that fell down to the base of his neck. He wore a red doublet studded with ivory buttons and rimmed with gold trim. The hilt of the shortsword hanging from his hip was adorned with rubies.

The oddly beautiful man crossed his legs and bowed to her. When he did, the bells dangling from the cuffs of his doublet chimed.

“I am Quester Billings, milady,” he said. “The Crimson Sword of Riverrun, at your service. Though you never did answer my question: Would you be Laurel Lawrence?”

This Quester had a smile that was just as strangely beautiful as the rest of him.

Laurel nodded. “I am.” She took a moment to adjust her bodice and tie it, then stood. Her piss-soaked dress reminded her of her shame, and she felt her neck grow hot as she blushed. So far none of them seemed to have noticed, and if they had, they’d kept their mouths shut. Offering the man a quick bow, she said, “I wish to thank you for helping me, though I must ask: How did you know who I am?”

The Sisters said nothing, as the members of their order were required to keep silent for all their lives, but Quester seemed chatty enough for the all of them.

“Oh, you know how it is,” he said as he strutted across the rooftop. “Just a lad with his nursemaids, wandering around in the darkness, looking for the famous Laurel Lawrence while trying to avoid the Judges’ claws.”

“The judges?” Laurel shook her head. “What judges? What are you speaking of?”

“The Final Judges, who sniff out sinners like yesterday’s spoiled meat.”

“Wait…you mean the Moris’ lions? They’re out of the castle?”

Quester jutted his chin toward the edge of the roof.

“I take it you weren’t in a proper state to watch while you were up close?” he said. “Here. Come look and see for yourself, milady.”

She knew she shouldn’t trust this strange man, yet she did just as he’d asked, stepping around an unconscious Little Mo to lean over the short wall. Quester was by her side a moment later, holding one of the flaming clay buckets. Before she could protest, he tossed it over the side. The bucket shattered when it struck the ground, spraying burning pitch in every direction.

Laurel gasped. By the light of the pitch, she could see a pair of lions down below. They were the largest beasts she had ever encountered, easily the size of two men, perhaps three. They sat devouring the remains of the six brigands. If startled or annoyed by the shattering clay and sudden light, they did not show it. No, they were too intent on their meal, ripping out intestines, cracking bones between their enormous teeth, and lapping blood off the gravel-strewn ground.

“You’ve been gone for a while,” Quester said quietly beside her, “so you weren’t here when the priest Joben decided the Watch wasn’t doing its job well enough. Can’t blame them, really, given how few they number. So Joben let the beasts out of their cages and loosed them on the city.” He nodded down at them. “They do their jobs well…too well. If not for the ruffians, Kayne and Lilah might have attacked you instead, and they’d be sucking the marrow out of your bones. The Judges don’t discriminate intention, only sin. I know of thirty they’ve killed before tonight, and now you can add six more.”

“They’re so…big,” Laurel whispered.

“They are,” said Quester.

She shook her head. “I must have been dreaming. I thought I heard them talk.”

“What did they say?”

“ ‘Sinners,’ I think.”

The man laughed, his bells jingling, his horned beard flapping.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Even those of us in Riverrun have long known they hold a piece of Karak in them. Our beloved Divinity gave them a portion of the gift he gave us humans. That’s why they’re so big and smart. And now, apparently, they also talk.”

He turned away, as if the two giant lions were of no more interest to him. He pointed to the shorter of the two Sisters, who stooped down and lifted Little Mo from where he lay on the roof. A second later she disappeared over the side of the building. The rope nearest her rapidly unfurled until it was pulled taut.

“Wait!” Laurel shouted. She went to rush toward the rope, but the taller Sister stepped in her way, staring her down with those cold, expressionless eyes. Laurel turned toward the Crimson Sword. “Where did she go? Where is she taking him?”

Quester dismissed her with a wave. “Don’t worry about the boy. Mite is bringing him to his mother, since she’s obviously all he has now.”

“And what do we do?”

“We wait here until Mite returns. You’re in no shape to travel, so we’ll wait until morning, when the Judges go back to the castle to sleep.”

Laurel spun, looked below, where the lions were finishing their meal, and then at the strange man with the bells and horned beard.

“Who are you?” she asked, totally bewildered. “What do you want with me? And how could you possibly know who that boy is?”

Quester pulled a coin from his pocket and began flipping it between his fingers.

“As I said, I’m the Crimson Sword, sworn protector of House Connington.” He bowed low to her. “My employers require your audience, and I was instructed to bring you to Riverrun to meet them. It took a bit of bribery and alcohol to find out where you’d gone and when you’d be returning, but we’ve found you at last.” He smirked, and even that sidelong look was stunning. “Milady, when it’s safe to travel, I’d like you to accompany me and my pets to Riverrun, where Romeo and Cleo are waiting. It seems the three of you have oh so very much to talk about.”