Dark Jenny

THREE

My keepers slammed me down so hard the wooden chair cracked from the impact. “Sit there and be quiet,” one of them snarled. He’d clearly perfected it in a mirror and would need a lot more practice before it had the desired effect. Given my circumstances, though, I didn’t point that out.

They’d taken me to a tiny room outside the main hall. I was far enough away that I heard nothing except the breathing of my minders, the occasional pop from the torch outside the door, and my own thundering heart. It wasn’t a cell, though; it was filled with wooden crates, box-laden shelves, and the distinctive odor of disuse. Most castles were full of forgotten rooms like this, and I was grateful it wasn’t a fully equipped interrogation chamber. Maybe it was all there was: had the castle been so thoroughly decommissioned for peacetime training that no prison cells remained?

“Hold out your arms,” the other one said. He produced a pair of elaborately engraved manacles. A few links of chain attached each wrist cuff to a thick metal disk the size of a saucer. He snapped the manacles around my wrists.

My guards seemed to think pitching me into the chair and cuffing me meant I could no longer hear them talk. “Did you see the look on his face?” the taller man asked his friend. “He was spitting up black foam. Black foam.”

“I know,” his compatriot agreed. He had short sandy hair and was missing half his left earlobe. His voice shook a little.

“And did you see the look on the queen’s face?” the other said. He had one of those high, insinuating voices that seemed naturally suited to gossip. “She was aiming for Gillian.”

“No, man, I don’t believe that. She’s the queen.”

“She’s also a woman, and they’re a hell of a lot meaner than men. That fancy headband doesn’t make her any less female.”

“Don’t let Kay hear you say that,” the first soldier whispered urgently. “You’ll have us both peeling potatoes for a week.”

“Look, you stand guard here. I’m going back upstairs.”

“Me? Why do I have to stay?”

“Because I have seniority.”

“A week and a half is not seniority.”

“I was commissioned before you, soldier,” the taller man said with a quavering attempt to pull rank. “That’s a fact. So you stay here and wait until someone relieves you.”

The taller man departed. The remaining guard stood with his back to the door, hand on his sword hilt, and watched me with what he assumed was an ass-puckering glare. I smiled, closed my eyes, and settled in to wait, a skill I’d mastered long ago.

Finally big Robert, who knew the names of all the guests, came into the room. His expression was grim, and he loomed over me with practiced intimidation. His muscles bulged under clothes about half a size too small. I got the feeling that, if he grew angry enough, arrows would bounce off his bare skin.

He slapped my foot off my knee and said, “If you’re looking for trouble, wise guy, I come from where they put the edge on it. So your best choice would be to answer my questions truthfully and completely.”

“I agree.” I deliberately crossed my leg again. He was using a standard tactic: make the suspect think only the interrogator stands between him and certain death. It worked, unless the suspect was someone like me.

“So who are you?” he demanded.

“Like I already told you, my name is Edward LaCrosse. I’m on your guest list as Edward, the Baron Rosselac.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why the alias?”

“I’m here on business.”

“What kind of business?”

“A tail job. There was a slight chance the man I was hired to follow might have heard my real name, and I didn’t want him to see it on the list. Seemed harmless enough at the time.”

“A sword jockey,” Sir Robert said disdainfully. The reaction didn’t surprise me. Soldiers who’d bought into the system had little use for people like me, who knew the system but worked outside it. It annoyed them that we used our job skills in our own service, not that of the local monarch. The argument that the skills belonged to the soldier, not to the king or commander, generally fell on unsympathetic ears.

“A man’s gotta eat,” I said.

“Who were you following?”

I shook my head. “That’s confidential.”

“Somebody’s been killed here, pal. Don’t get cute.”

“I can’t help that,” I deadpanned. “But my guy had no more to do with it than I did.”

Sir Robert didn’t smile. “How’d you get an invitation?”

“My client arranged it.”

“And who’s your client?”

“Like I said, that’s my business.”

He grabbed the manacle chain and pulled it until I was forced to lean forward. “I could make your business my business.”

“You wouldn’t like it, the hours are awful.”

He was silent, but his face flushed red, revealing the white lines of old scars. He released the chain, and I put my hands nonchalantly behind my head. The hanging metal disk tapped the chair back. “Harrigan,” he said to the young man guarding me, “step outside.”

Harrigan blinked uncertainly at this breach of procedure. “Uh… you know, maybe I shouldn’t-”

“Maybe you shouldn’t question a direct order!” the big man roared. “Don’t they teach you that here?”

“Yes, sir,” the youngster said, and went into the hall. His last glance did not bode well for my immediate future.

My interrogator kicked the door shut without turning away from me. “It’s just you and me now, sport. So why did you kill Sam Patrice?”

“I didn’t kill anybody and you know it. And you can lay off the psychotic-troll act, I’ll cooperate as much as I can without compromising my client.”

He smiled, an expression about as friendly as a bone saw. “A sword jockey with a conscience. I should tell you that the Bodice Brigade in the banquet hall is already howling for your hide. Maybe I should just hand you over to them. Under all that lace and powder they’re vicious little bastards, especially in a mob.”

“So if I cooperate, what then? Do you plan to just keep me in this closet until they all go home, then send me on my way?”

“Depends on what you tell me. Give me the truth, and then I’ll decide what to do.”

I put my manacled hands back in my lap and thought this over. I felt bad for betraying my client, but under the circumstances protecting a cow pie like her husband seemed pointless. Plus I got a good vibe from Sir Robert, who seemed decent enough under the gruff: he hadn’t hit me with an iron bar or heated up any metal tongs. “Okay,” I said at last. “I was hired by Fiona, the Lady Astamore, to follow her husband around and catch him dipping his ladle in the wrong vat. It wasn’t difficult. I delivered his wife’s warning, planned to grab some free food courtesy of Queen Jennifer, and then leave to report to my client.”

“Anyone here who can confirm that?”

“Sure. Lord Astamore. But he probably won’t. He was the soloist in the choir singing for my blood.”

Sir Robert cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “So why should I believe you?”

“My angelic smile. Or because I had no motive to kill the dead guy. I didn’t even know his name until you told me just now.”

“You say.”

“Yeah, I say.”

He scowled thoughtfully, and a long moment hung silently between us. Finally he said, “The ‘dead guy’ was Samuel Herbert Patrice. He’d only been a knight for a few weeks. Graduated from the previous class here, so it was a big deal for him to come back for this ceremony. He got to show off for all his underclassman friends.”

“Did you know him?”

“I know them all. Wiped most of their noses at one point or another. Sam was no better or worse than any of them.” Sir Robert leaned back against the wall. “Okay, if you’re who you say you are, then you had no motive.”

“Or opportunity,” I said, pressing my advantage. “He ate a poisoned apple that, according to your own queen, hadn’t been out of her sight since it left the tree. When could I have tampered with it?”

He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “There is that,” he quietly agreed.

“Yeah. So now that I’ve told you everything I know, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just quietly slip out the back door and get out of here.” I held up my wrists. “You’ve got an internal crime here, and I’m glad to be an outsider.”

He frowned and made no move to unlock the manacles. “Why do you say it’s ‘internal’?”

“It’s pretty clear that someone wanted to kill the famous Thomas Gillian. He’s the one with the fruit fetish, and he’d also be the dead one if Patrice hadn’t snatched that apple at the last minute. And I’ll tell you something you missed: poisoning takes both cowardice and a certain level of intelligence. They say it’s a woman’s weapon, but in my experience men are just as fond of it. If I were you, I’d look over your guest list for a well-educated minor official who might have once crossed paths with Gillian and still holds a grudge.”

I shook the manacle chain slightly to get his attention. He ignored it and said, “What makes you think the killer’s here? Why not just poison the apple back at Motlace and send it on its way with the queen?”

“Human nature. Someone who goes to all this trouble would want to be on hand to see it play out.”

Sir Robert looked impressed. “You’re right, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I make my living understanding people’s worst tendencies. Now will you please take these bracelets off me?”

“Maybe.” Again his eyes grew narrow. “Or maybe you’re the kind of guy who poisons people and then acts like the kind of guy who doesn’t poison people.”

I laughed. He got bonus points for tenacity. “Yeah, I could be. And I bet you didn’t get to such a high rank by being a bad judge of people, Sir… Robert, is it?”

He smiled sadly, wearily at me. “Robert Kay, King Marcus’s seneschal.”

A seneschal, I knew, was an administrative second-in-command in charge of making sure the day-to-day affairs of state ran smoothly. “Tough job,” I said.

“Nah, not usually. But definitely today.”

I was about to mention the cuffs again when a sharp knock rang on the door. Kay opened it, and Harrigan, almost white with apprehension, crisply saluted. “Uh, excuse me, Sir Robert,” he said with a dubious glance at me. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but there’s a problem.”

“Oh, good,” Kay muttered, and stepped outside to hear the report. He didn’t close the door all the way, which meant I was probably off the suspect list, but he also didn’t leave it open as an invitation to depart. When he returned, he was even grimmer. “We’ve got three problems now,” he said as he closed the door again. “First is the dead man, of course. Second, those damn courtiers expect to see your head on a pike by the gate before dawn. You’ve embarrassed Lord DeGrandis, and to them that’s far worse than any lowly knight’s murder.”

“What’s the third problem?”

Kay paced to the nearest shelves. “The rest of the Double Tarn knights. They don’t believe you had anything to do with it, at least. Most of them saw Sam fall before you were anywhere near him.”

“And that’s a problem why?”

He met my eyes and said, “Because they think it was Queen Jennifer.”

“Really? I thought everybody loved her.”

He shook his head. “Everybody loves Marc. They tolerate her.”

I recalled the beautiful, regal figure I’d seen and wondered if the kindness and consideration in her demeanor really had all been an act. It wasn’t unheard of for public and private faces to be completely at odds, but I hoped I’d learned enough to see through it. “Is she that bad?”

“Not at all. I’ve spent a fair bit of time with her, and she’s generally a decent person. She had her rough times at first, learning to rule while Marc was off fighting, but she made it through.” Kay shook his head. “Some lines, though, even the nicest people shouldn’t cross.”

I waited, but he offered no additional explanation. Finally I said, “You’re not going to take these off me, are you?”

“I’m deciding. You make a better culprit than the queen, at least for public consumption.”

“I can see that. But why would the queen even want to kill one of her own bodyguards? Especially at a banquet where everyone was watching?”

He gnawed his lip again before finally saying, “You broke professional silence for me, guess I can do the same for you. You ever heard of Elliot Spears?”

He was the best of the Double Tarn knights, legendary for both his battle skills and chiseled good looks. He wasn’t a native of Grand Bruan, but had come to the island to join Drake’s campaign back when the young king was first crowned and became, by all accounts, Drake’s closest friend. “Sure. Who hasn’t?”

“That’s true. He’s our best and bravest. And he’s the king’s best friend.” He fell silent and looked at the floor.

“But?” I prompted.

“Well, he hasn’t been around much since peace broke out. Most of the knights believe the reason is that Elliot and Jennifer were… well, jousting in private behind Marc’s back. Rumors that the queen made secret visits to his castle, and so on.”

“Ah. So is Spears here?”

“Elliot? Nah. He spends most of his time at his own place. They say it’s because the queen broke his heart when she wouldn’t leave Marc for him.” Kay scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully. “And that’s a kind of motive, I suppose. I mean, if Jennifer wanted to assert herself, remind the knights that she as well as Marc held the power of life or death over them…” Kay spread his hands in a shrug.

When he offered nothing else, I asked, “So am I free to go?” Again I held up my wrists.

Kay’s eyes narrowed. “You know… you seem to know a lot about this kind of thing. Motives, behavior, that stuff. As you can probably tell, I really don’t. I just kill people trying to kill me and train other people to do the same thing.”

I just looked at him.

He continued, “If you’re as smart as you act like you are, you ought to be able to smoke out the real killer before dinner gets cold.”

“So you think I’m innocent?”

He grinned, but only so a professional observer would notice it. “This is a small island; I went to school with Lady Astamore back when she was simply Fiona. Never met a sweeter soul. If she trusts you, that’s a pretty good reference for me.” Then the smile faded. “But of course, I’ve only got your word for it. So until I can verify it…”

He produced a key from a pocket. “I have a feeling you’re innocent. Of course, I also had a feeling that my wife would keep her figure. I was wrong about that.” He inserted the key not into the manacles, but into the flat disk between them. Instantly more chain unrolled, putting enough slack between the cuffs so that I could spread my arms wide. He locked the disk again, pocketed the key, and patted my cheek. “So until I’m more certain about you, those stay on.”

“I’ll keep my figure, I promise.”

He laughed. “I’m sure someone somewhere is pleased to know that.”

I looked down at my wrists. The weight of the chain and disk, which now hung past my knees, were not encouraging. “All right, then, let’s get to work. A murder goes stale faster than a wife’s good nature.”

“True words indeed,” Kay said, and opened the door.