A Flight of Ravens Read online

  Chapter 2

  Brin found me a half hour later, pushing open the office door without a knock, a tray in her sturdy arms.

  “Oh, Savid,” she said, coming to an abrupt halt, the plate and real metal fork rattling.

  “Up early, Brin,” I said, looking up from a report. “Figured restless energy is best put to use.”

  “Ah, it’s like that, is it?” she asked, giving me a side look as she set down the tray, which bore a new mug of caffe and a plate, which she uncovered, loaded with thick buttered toast and egg-potato hash.

  “There’s lots of things going on,” I said, leaning back.

  She picked up last night’s empty ale cup on her way out, looking back over her shoulder. “We all miss them too.” She pulled the door closed behind her, leaving me with coded letters, business reports, and deep thoughts.

  An hour or so later, a knock came at the door.

  “Come,” I said.

  The door opened to reveal a smiling face as Corell peeked in, holding a small plate in her right hand. Centered in the middle was a walnut-studded cinnamon bun, glazed with melted maple sugar.

  “When?” I asked her, frowning at the treat.

  “Literally two minutes ago,” she said, grinning.

  “Right. Have Welton saddle Tipton please,” I said, immediately picking up the stacks of papers and putting them inside the desk drawer.

  Corell moved over and grabbed my breakfast tray, setting the delicious confection down in the middle of the empty plate.

  I locked my drawer and grabbed a thick cloak from the stand behind the desk. Turning, I saw Corell still grinning at me. “Yes, but at least split it with whoever else is working this morning,”

  I said.

  Her pretty smile turned to mock outrage. “Of course I will,” she said.

  “Hmmpf,” was my only reply, causing her to grin again. It was standard practice to give away these freshly made, very expensive treats whenever they showed up, which was often, and it was a habit my staff knew well. Just as they knew that the pastries were a summons.

  I rode Tipton through the streets of Haven, the signs of a busy day beginning to show everywhere. The city was waking up, flour and sugar being delivered to the baker who supplied much of the Knife and Needle’s needs beyond whatever Brin made from scratch, the sound of metal being hammered at the forge and bank one street over, and a wagon load of cabbage, broccoli, parsnips, and potatoes headed for the grocer’s two buildings down.

  The air was cold and crisp, normal for early December in Montshire, and Tipton moved with steady purpose, the horse already knowing where we were headed and eager for another warm stall.

  Early morning and the light foot traffic allowed us to get to our destination in a little over fifteen minutes. The king’s castle loomed nearby, the main wall rising up behind the building we approached. A boy took Tipton’s reins and turned toward the livery stable, the horse almost leading the boy.

  The stable manager gave me a nod but otherwise ignored me, instead yelling to a pair of men attempting to back a wagon of grain toward the barns. I stepped around the delivery disagreement, heading deeper into the stables, following as Tipton entered his normal stall. The establishment was fairly new, built on the remains of a candlemaker’s shop that had burned down. The principal owner had bought the land and brought in several investors to fund the stable business, which rented stalls to Haven’s visitors, bought and sold horses, and repaired and sold tack. Tipton had his own sometime stall because I was one of the investors, albeit a small one. The fact that no one else ever used this stall was ostensibly because of that.

  I tipped Charlie, the lad who would see to Tipton’s second breakfast (greedy horse), and stepped aside so he could head to the grain bins. As soon as the boy was gone, I patted my old horse and stepped to the end of the stall, the wall being the back of the stables closest to the castle wall. My fingers tucked behind a post and jiggled a little latch, which unlocked a portion of the wall. I swiveled it open and ducked through, closing the false wall behind me. I was now in an alley behind the stables, the massive curtain wall of Havensheart rising four spans over my head.

  Barely big enough to lead a horse down, the alley was officially an escape route to get expensive horses out of the stable should it catch fire. Tipton’s stall wasn’t the only one with a less-than-obvious door, just the only one that was ever used.

  The alley was perhaps unique of alleys in Haven in that it was clear of trash and debris, as well as empty of people, even Haven’s homeless knowing that it would be patrolled by castle guards. The stable’s owner insisted on a clean, fire-hazard-free alley, as did the officers of the royal guards, some of whom weren’t excited to have even a one-story structure near the castle’s defensive curtain wall. The building, itself, had some modifications to its engineering to mollify the royal guardians. In the event of invasion, pre-cut and pinned key structural supports would allow the entire thing to be collapsed almost flat. A major concession to the castle’s security, but as the lead investor happened to be the crown princess, it made complete sense.

  I stepped three spans to the right of Tipton’s stall door, finding myself at a narrow stone-braced archway that was built right into the curtain wall. It wasn’t big, just a single man wide and when I stepped into it, I was actually under the wall itself. Immediately a steel gate slid down behind me, hardly rattling in well-greased tracks. Another gate was in front of me, behind which was a massively thick, steel-bound door, currently closed. Dust floated down onto my hair from the murder holes above me and I heard the sound of boots shuffling on sanded stone. A voice called out a muffled order above me. Seconds ticked by before the oak door opened, revealing three armed and armored guardsmen, two with spears, the third bearing just a long, shining steel needle that glistened with a green fluid at its tip. Behind the three were another four, two holding span-and-a-half body shields while two snipers rested heavy war crossbows on the tops of the shields. The crossbow men were two spans apart, only their faces and arms exposed. The shield bearers each held a naked sword, ready to rush forward should the spear holders and the tester die.

  Above me, I was confident that at least four men held heavy war spears over the murder holes, ready to drive them down and through me should I not check out.

  I stepped to the forward gate and pushed my right arm through. The needlebearer moved forward and pricked my arm, then slid back smoothly to watch the results. Seconds ticked by, but only a small spot of red blood welled up from the puncture wound and the green fluid left by the needle failed to change color.

  “Clear,” the needle man said loudly. The gate in front of me lifted smoothly, admitting me to the grounds of the castle. As soon as I was through, the gate was lowered and the heavy door was closed and re-bolted.

  Glancing back as I walked toward the castle, I could see a wooden sled holding tons of stone just to one side of the door. When my business in the castle was complete and I left, the sled would be pulled by oxen back in front of the oaken door, locked into place by metal rods pounded down into the packed earth, all to fortify the weak point in the wall.

  Looking forward, I found a young royal guard’s officer waiting for me. “All okay, sir?” he asked, saluting me and holding it until I returned it. Holder of the Kingdom Cross and all that.

  He wasn’t just being courteous; he knew I had helped design the defenses and entry procedures throughout the castle.

  “Looks good—for now,” I allowed. “Where’re we headed, Lieutenant?”

  “Queen’s Garden sir,” said the young officer, whose name I thought might be Ty Berill.

  Chapter 3

  Brona had taken over her mother’s private garden, fiercely maintaining it to the exacting standards of Ilana Warcan. And when I say she maintained it, I meant that she maintained it, by her own hands, with only her mother’s elderly gardener, Veece, to help her. He was well into his eighth decade but looked ten years younger thanks to constant exercise, fre
sh air, and excellent castle food.

  Lieutenant Berill escorted me to the stone archway that opened into the queen’s private garden, closing the door behind me and no doubt taking up guard outside. The garden was square, maybe ten spans by ten spans. High overhead, a network of clever glass windows let the sun in but kept out much of the cold. I shuddered to think what those had cost the kingdom. Brona called it a greenhouse—an old pre-Punishment word.

  Normally, green and flowering plants grew in great profusion against all the walls, climbing trellises and the single wooden pergola at the rear of the square. Now, with winter close if not already here, most of the garden’s green came from four potted juniper trees, posted at the four corners of the square path that traveled around the raised beds in the center of the garden. Brona, clad in brown trousers and a thick jacket, was bent over the only other green things left, rows of lettuce, spinach, kale, cabbage, and chard that grew in great bunches. Brown vines held the last of the winter and butternut squash gourds, the sharp knife in the princess’s hand indicating that their time on the vine was at an end, which admittedly was far past most other farms or gardens in the kingdom. Brona was seeking affordable ways to create more of these greenhouses without falling afoul of the church’s religious edicts on technology.

  I took a moment to admire my hardworking princess, hardly ever getting to see her in well-fitted pants.

  “You’re looking at my behind again, aren’t you?” she asked without turning around. The pruning knife flashed in her hand, releasing another vegetable from its parent plant.

  “Just nice to see a royal hard at work,” I said.

  She snorted. “Right. Quit your gawking and come load these crates.”

  “Bound for the soup kitchens, are they?” I asked, moving up beside her. Partially empty crates each held one variety of leafy green vegetable, except one that held two different squashes.

  “Most of it goes to them, but a bit, maybe a fifth, goes to the castle chef. Papa likes what I grow in Mother’s garden,” she said. As her mother had before her, she donated most of the vegetables the Queen’s Garden produced to the needy. But Brona took it further, funding and running food pantries and kitchens throughout the kingdom, using money from her own investments, such as the stable that currently held Tipton. Growing plants or growing money, Brona was equally skilled, and she took her responsibilities for her people extremely seriously.

  I loaded crates from the piles she’d already harvested, catching up fairly quickly.

  “As honored as I am to be in your mother’s garden, I doubt you needed my hands for this.”

  She gave me a sly grin and grabbed my nearest hand. “I happen to like these hands a great deal,” she said, then the smile slipped away. “But yes. I wanted to tell you that our guest in the castle basement has revealed some interesting things lately.”

  “Which, the lady or the meathead?”

  “The lady, of course. She’s our only guest.”

  That told me that Dorn, Siril Ossiman’s henchman, had likely left this mortal realm. Brona is rather ruthless and her father, the king, has zero tolerance for those he deems traitors to the kingdom. It was possible that they had banished him, theoretically, at least. Unlikely though. Warcan leniency is not a thing.

  “Torture?” I asked, completely casual.

  “Doesn’t work well… you know that,” she said, giving me a side-eye. “That some kind of test?”

  “Professional interest. It’s been more than a few weeks since she took up residence and I thought that well had already run dry,” I said, although I was always testing my princess, just as she tested me. We have a complicated relationship, our bonds woven deep and thick, yet sometimes thorns can appear, even on the strongest roots.

  “No, that was a test. But you know I don’t think torture is at all useful. People will say anything to anyone to avoid pain. It’s a stupid approach, as I know that you know,” she said, giving me a reproachful look. I let it bounce off. I might be wholly bound to my princess, but I was immune to many of her tricks.

  “No, we’ve found that given time, even the most disciplined agent will tire and relax their guard. The trick is confirming that it was an actual slip and not intentional.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “There appears to be another traitor, this one highly placed within our circle of trust.”

  “Why? Why do people think going over to the Paul will be anything other than a sentence of death, either at our hands or his?” I asked, instantly incensed.

  “Most people would want to know who, what, where, or when… you ask the why,” she said, turning and smiling her brilliant happy smile at me. That one, I am not immune to.

  “We don’t know any of those answers, by the way, as Rubella doesn’t either. As to the why, it can simply be greed of money, dear Savid… or love. Revenge, envy, or some perceived injustice.”

  “And it goes without saying that we know this isn’t just a clever ploy to have us suspecting everyone among us,” I said.

  She smiled again. “Yes, without saying. Rubella used the same turn of phrase three separate times with three individuals. Exact wording and intonation.”

  “Ah, a prompt for response,” I said. Keeping spies isolated from each other sometimes requires the use of a code phrase to identify a deeply placed asset.

  “Who did she say it to?” I asked.

  “Again, you never ask what others do. Most would want to know the phrase first.”

  “Does it matter? It’s just words,” I said.

  “Do your heroes come home is what she asked. Neil, Kiven, and Erser,” she said.

  “Did all report it?” I asked, part of me horrified and part already working through the problem.

  “Yup, to a man. Of course, I had double observers on her cell who independently confirmed what was said and to whom.”

  Without boasting, I feel comfortable saying that I am an expert on small unit tactics and special operations. I’m also fair to passing on larger-scale strategic warfare, but my princess absolutely excels at the twisted turns and back alleys of intrigue and espionage. Putting not one but two watchers on every interaction her special guest had was normal to her way of thinking. The fact that she mentioned two observers meant that even a third was possible.

  “Oscar?” I asked. Brona’s favorite eslling was a Reader of exquisite talent and reliability. Strength in a Truth Reader isn’t nearly as important as the skill and ability to be exceptionally accurate with the information they receive. The human mind is a crazy complex organ—thoughts occur rapidly and on multiple levels. Mental discipline varies greatly from person to person, as do actual patterns of thought and logic. Picking through the myriad of conscious and unconscious thoughts and emotions that everyone has all the time is extraordinarily difficult—most eslling readers are not quite sane by the time they reach adulthood, if they reach adulthood at all.

  “Got nothing from any of the three,” she said. “But she never said the phrase when any of them was close enough to Read. I’m considering saying the phrase to her with Oscar nearby, but I can only do that once.”

  “Yeah, that’s a last-ditch move. So, either none of the three are the agent in place or one of them is incredibly well conditioned and disciplined,” I said.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “If none of them are the sleeper, then I want to expose her to more people. See who else she asks and how they respond.”

  “But if it is one of them?”

  “It’s a problem. Tell me, oh wise man of warcraft… which could do the most damage?” she asked.

  “Erser,” I answered without hesitation. “If the royal guards are compromised at the top, you and your father are in incredible danger. After him, I would say that Neil Slinch, as head of the Ravens, is almost as dangerous. Kiven would be merely horrible in comparison.”

  “I happen to agree, although my thoughts might be biased by my intrinsic need to preserve myself,” she said, all logic and prud
ence.

  “What about Salis?” I asked. Her lifelong bodyguard was a Wenkroy-trained warrior with one of the longest contracts in Wenkroy history.

  “I’ve sent her to Rubella’s cell many times on various errands. The Lash taunts her but has never used anything like a code phrase. I’ve had multiples of my associates monitor those interactions, including both Oscar and our new young prodigy, Sydney. She’s a doll, by the way.”

  “Is she fitting in?”

  “She’s shy, but I think she’s reasonably happy… as happy as a child who lost her parents and home can be. She really looks forward to your weekly Rik matches, and only partially because she mostly wins.” I snorted at that comment. Who doesn’t lose to a see-er?

  Then she added, “But I think Salis is okay.”

  “Getting old though. She’s gotta be mid-forties,” I said.

  “Let’s see you tell her that!” Brona said with a sharp grin.

  “She’s still tough, but we all slow down.”

  “She’ll take a blade for me without question and, as you know, age may bring slowness, but it also brings cunning and treachery. Spar with her if you have any doubts.”

  “I think I will. But I’d also like to assign a couple of my people to your staff.”

  “You think you could get them past Erser or Slinch?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  She stopped working and turned to me, openly curious. “Who do you have that you both trust and is unknown to our paranoid protectors?”

  “Well, now see, if I told you, then it wouldn’t be a secret at all, now would it?”

  “You ass. I won’t allow anyone to be hired near me or Father unless I’ve cleared them myself.”

  “Meaning eslling cleared,” I said.

  “I have other ways but yes,” she said impatiently. “Now, who and what are you hiding?”

  “You have your strays and I have mine,” I said, watching as she processed my words. Her eyes shifted back and forth between each of mine as she thought rapidly.

  “You’ve picked up someone new… not ex-RRS!” she guessed.