The Sword of Bedwyr

22 Bait

Oliver went into the Dwelf alone a couple of days later. As usual, the place was crowded, and as usual, most of the talk centered on the continuing antics of the Crimson Shadow. One group of dwarves at a table near the bar where Oliver was sitting whispered that the Crimson Shadow had been killed out on the road, trying to free four enslaved men. The muscular, bearded dwarves lifted their flagons in toast to the memory of the gallant thief.

“He’s not dead!” a human at a nearby table protested vehemently. “He pulled a job last night, he did! Got himself a merchant on the way.” He turned to the other men at the table, who were nodding in complete agreement.

“Skewered the bloke right ’bout here,” one of them added, poking a finger into the middle of his own chest.

Oliver was not surprised by any of the outrageous claims. He had witnessed similar events back in Gascony. A thief would rise to a level of notoriety and then his legend would be perpetuated by imitators. There was more than flattery involved here; often lesser thieves could pull jobs more easily, frightening their targets by impersonating a notorious outlaw. Oliver sighed at the thought that someone had died playing the Crimson Shadow, and the possibility that he and Luthien, if caught, might now be charged with murdering a human merchant did not sit very well. Pragmatically, though, all the talk was good news. Imitators would blur the trail behind Oliver and Luthien; if the merchant-types thought the Crimson Shadow dead, they would likely relax their guard.

The contented halfling tuned out the conversations and took a look around the Dwelf, searching for a lady to court. The pickings seemed slim this night, so Oliver went back to his ale instead. He noticed Tasman then, standing a short distance down the bar, wiping out glasses and eyeing him grimly. When Oliver returned the look, the wiry barkeep eased his quiet way down to stand before the halfling.

“You came alone,” Tasman remarked.

“Young Luthien cannot control his heart,” Oliver answered. “He goes again this night to meet with his love—a moonlight tryst on a rooftop.” The halfling spoke wistfully, revealing that he was beginning to approve of the lovers. Oliver was indeed a romantic sort, and he remembered his days back in Gascony when he had left one (at least) broken heart behind him in every town.

Tasman apparently was not sharing the halfling’s cozy feelings. His expression remained grim. “He’ll be back at the apartment soon, then,” he said.

“Oh, no,” Oliver began slyly, misunderstanding Tasman’s meaning. As he continued to study the grim-faced barkeep, Oliver began to catch on.

“What do you mean?” he asked bluntly.

Tasman leaned over the bar, close to Oliver. “Siobhan, the half-elf,” the barkeep explained. “She was taken this day for trial in the morning.”

Oliver nearly fell off his stool.

“She was accused for the escape at the mines,” Tasman explained. “Her merchant master walked her into Duke Morkney’s palace this very afternoon—apparently she didn’t even know that she was to be arrested.”

Oliver tried to digest the information and to fathom its many implications. Siobhan arrested? Why now? The halfling could not help but think that the half-elf’s professional relationship with the Crimson Shadow had played a part in this. Perhaps even her personal relationship with Luthien had come into play. Was the wizard-duke onto Luthien’s true identity?

“Some are even saying that she’s the Crimson Shadow,” Tasman went on, and Oliver winced at hearing that, certain then that Siobhan’s arrest was no simple coincidence. “They’re sure to be asking about that in the Ministry tomorrow morning.”

“How do you know all this?” the halfling asked, though he realized that Tasman had keen ears and knew many things about Montfort’s underworld. There was a reason that Oliver and Luthien had enjoyed free drinks and meals for the last weeks. There was a reason that wise Tasman seemed as amused as Oliver by the many tales of phony Crimson Shadows.

“They’re making no secret of it,” the toughened barkeep replied. “Every tavern’s talking about the half-elf’s arrest. I’m surprised that you hadn’t heard of it before now.”

Suspected thieves were arrested almost every day in Montfort, Oliver knew, so why was this one being made so public?

Oliver thought he knew the answer. The word “bait” kept popping into his mind as he skittered out of the Dwelf.

Oliver lost his “little-girl” smile as soon as he and Luthien walked between the Praetorian Guards outside the Ministry’s great front doors the next morning. In the foyer, the halfling looked disdainfully at his disguise, wondering why he kept winding up in this place. Of course, Oliver had known the night before, when he had told forlorn Luthien of Siobhan’s arrest, that he would find himself in the Ministry once more.

But he didn’t have to like it.

“We might be causing her harm,” Oliver reasoned, and not for the first time, as he set the magical grapnel on the passageway’s entrance high above the room. Luthien took the rope in hand and verily ran up the wall, then hoisted Oliver behind him.

“Morkney might only suspect that she has knowledge of the Crimson Shadow,” Oliver went on when he got into the hidden passage. “If we are caught here this day, it could weigh badly on the one you love.” To say nothing of how it would weigh on the two of them! Oliver reasoned, keeping the thought private. The flustered halfling pushed the long black hair of his wig out of his face and roughly rearranged his printed dress, which had gotten all twisted up in the climb.

“I have to know,” Luthien answered.

“I have seen many traps baited like this before,” Oliver said.

“And have you ever left a love behind?” Luthien asked.

Oliver didn’t answer and made no further remarks. The question had stung, for Oliver had indeed left a lover behind—a halfling girl of eighteen years. Oliver was very young, living in a rural village and just beginning his career as a thief. The local landowner (the only one in town worth stealing from) could not catch up to Oliver, but he did find out about the halfling’s romance. Oliver’s lover was taken and Oliver had run off, justifying his actions as in his lover’s best interest.

He never found out what happened to her, and many times, in hindsight, he wondered if his “tactical evacuation” had been wrought of pure cowardice.

So now he followed Luthien up to the higher levels, as they had gone on their first excursion into the great cathedral. Oliver noticed that there seemed to be more cyclopians about this day than on that previous occasion, and many more villagers, as well. Morkney was planning a show, the halfling mused, and so the wicked duke wanted an audience.

Oliver grabbed Luthien by the shoulder and bade the man to put on the crimson cape—and Oliver wrapped his own purple cape over the print dress, and plopped his hat, which had gotten more than a little rumpled, atop his head—before they crept out onto the gargoyle-lined triforium fifty feet up from the floor.

They went out quietly and without interruption, ending at the corner of the south transept, where Luthien crouched behind a gargoyle, Oliver behind him.

The scene was much the same as the first time the friends had ventured into the majestic building. Red-robed Duke Morkney sat in a chair behind the great altar at the cathedral’s eastern end, appearing quite bored as his lackeys called the tax rolls and counted the pitiful offerings of the poor wretches.

Luthien watched the spectacle for only a moment, then focused his attention on the front pews of the cathedral. Several people were sitting in line, wearing the gray hooded robes of prisoners and guarded by a group of cyclopians. Only one was a dwarf, yellow haired, and Luthien sighed in relief that it was not Shuglin. Three others were obviously men, but the remaining three appeared to be either younger boys or women.

“Where are you?” the young Bedwyr whispered, continuing his scan through long minutes. One of the forms in the prisoner line shifted then, and Luthien noted the end of long wheat-colored hair slipping out from under her hood. Instinctively, the young man edged forward as if he would leap off of the ledge.

Oliver took a tight hold on Luthien’s arm and did not blink when the young man turned to him. The halfling’s expression reminded Luthien that there was little they could do.

“It is just as it was with the dwarf,” Oliver whispered. “I do not know why we are here.”

“I have to know,” Luthien protested.

Oliver sighed, but he understood.

The tax rolls went on for another half hour, everything seeming perfectly normal. Still, Oliver could not shake the nagging feeling that this was not an average day at the Ministry. Siobhan had been taken for a reason, and spreading the news about the arrest had been done deliberately, the halfling believed. If Shuglin had been arrested to send a clear message to the Crimson Shadow, then Siobhan had been taken to lure the Crimson Shadow in.

Oliver looked disdainfully at Luthien, thinking how much the young man resembled a netted trout.

The man calling the roll at the lectern gathered up his parchments and moved aside, and a second man took his place, motioning for the Praetorian Guards to prepare the prisoners. The seven gray-robed defendants were forced to stand and the man called out a name.

An older man of at least fifty years was roughly pulled out from the pew and pushed toward the altar. He stumbled more than once and would have fallen on his head, except that two cyclopians flanking him caught him and roughly stood him upright.

The accusation was a typical one: stealing a coat from a kiosk. The accusing merchant was called forward.

“This is not good,” Oliver remarked. The halfling nodded toward the merchant. “He is a wealthy one and likely a friend of the duke. The poor wretch is doomed.”

Luthien’s lips seemed to disappear into his frustrated scowl. “Is anyone ever found innocent in this place?” he asked.

Oliver’s reply, though expected, stung him profoundly. “No.”

Predictably, the man was declared guilty. All of his belongings, including his modest house in Montfort’s lower section, were granted to the wealthy merchant, and the merchant was also awarded the right to personally cut off the man’s left hand that it might be displayed prominently at his kiosk to ward off any future thieves.

The older man protested weakly, and the cyclopians dragged him away.

The dwarf came out next, but Luthien was no longer watching. “Where are the Cutters?” he whispered. “Why aren’t they here?”

“Perhaps they are,” Oliver replied, and the young man’s face brightened a bit.

“Only to watch, as are we,” the halfling added, stealing Luthien’s glow. “When thieves are caught, they are alone. It is a code that the people of the streets observe faithfully.”

Luthien looked away from the halfling and back to the altar area, where the dwarf was being pronounced guilty and sentenced to two years of labor in the mines. Luthien could understand the pragmatism of what Oliver had just explained. If Duke Morkney believed that a thieving band would try to come to the rescue of one of its captured associates, then his job in cleaning out Montfort’s thieves would be easy indeed.

Luthien was nodding his agreement with the logic—but if that was truly the case, then why was he perched now, fifty feet above the Ministry’s floor?

It worked out—and Oliver was sure that it was no coincidence—that Siobhan was the last to be called. She moved out of the pew, and though her hands were tied in front of her, she proudly shook off the groping cyclopians as they prodded her toward the lectern.

“Siobhan, a slave girl,” the man called loudly, glancing back to the duke. Morkney still appeared bored with it all.

“She was among those who attacked the mine,” the man declared.

“By whose words?” the half-elf asked sternly. The cyclopian behind shoved her hard with the shaft of its long pole-arm, and Siobhan glanced back wickedly, green eyes narrowed.

“So spirited,” Oliver whispered, his tone a clear lament. He was holding firmly to Luthien’s crimson cape then, half-expecting the trembling young man to leap down from the ledge.

“Prisoners speak only when they are told to speak!” the man at the podium scolded.

“What worth is a voice in this evil place?” Siobhan replied, drawing another rough shove.

Luthien issued a low and guttural growl, and Oliver shook his head resignedly, feeling more than ever that they should not be in this dangerous place.

“She attacked the mine!” the man cried angrily, looking to the duke. “And she is a friend of the Crim—”

Morkney came forward in his chair, hand upraised to immediately silence his impetuous lackey. Oliver didn’t miss the significance of the movement, as though Duke Morkney did not want the name spoken aloud.

Morkney put his wrinkled visage in line with Siobhan; his bloodshot eyes seemed to flare with some magical inner glow. “Where are the dwarves?” he asked evenly.

“What dwarves?” Siobhan replied.

“The two you and your . . . associates took from the mines,” Morkney explained, and his pause again prodded Oliver into the belief that this entire arrest and trial had been put together for his and Luthien’s benefit.

Siobhan chuckled and shook her head. “I am a servant,” she said calmly, “and nothing more.”

“Who is the owner of this slave?” Morkney called out. Siobhan’s master stood from one of the pews near the front and raised his hand.

“You are without guilt,” the duke explained, “and so you shall be compensated for your loss.” The man breathed a sigh of relief, nodded and sat back down.

“Oh, no,” Oliver groaned under his breath. Luthien looked from the merchant to the duke, and from the duke to Siobhan, not really understanding.

“And you,” Morkney growled, coming up out of his chair for the first time in the two hours Oliver and Luthien had been in the Ministry. “You are guilty,” Morkney said evenly, and he slipped back down into his seat, grinning wickedly. “Do enjoy the next five days in my dungeons.”

Five days? Luthien silently echoed. Was this the sentence? He heard Oliver’s groan again and figured that Morkney was not quite finished.

“For they will be your last five days!” the evil duke declared. “Then you will be hung by your neck—in the plaza bearing my own name!”

A general groan rose from the gathering, an uneasy shuffling, and cyclopian guards gripped their weapons more tightly, glancing from side to side as if they expected trouble. The sentence was not expected. The only time during Morkney’s reign that a sentence of death had ever been imposed was for the murder of a human, and even in such an extreme case, if the murdered human was not someone of importance, the guilty party was usually sentenced to a life of slavery.

Again the word “bait” flitted through Oliver’s thoughts. His mind careened along the possible trials he and his cohort would soon face, for Luthien would never allow such an injustice without at least a try at a rescue. The halfling figured that he would be busy indeed over the next five days, making connections with the Cutters and with anyone else who might help him out.

The distracted halfling figured differently when he looked back to Luthien, standing tall on the ledge, his bow out and ready.

With a cry of outrage, the young Bedwyr let fly, his arrow streaking unerringly for the chair and Duke Morkney, who glanced up to the triforium in surprise. There came a silvery flash, and not one arrow, but five, crossed the opening to the north transept. Then came a second flash, and each of those five became five; and a third, and twenty-five became a hundred and twenty-five.

And all of them continued toward the duke, and Luthien and Oliver looked on in disbelief.

But the volley was insubstantial; the dozens of arrows were no more than shadows of the first, and all of them dissipated into nothingness, or simply passed through the duke as he leaned forward in his chair, still grinning wickedly and pointing Luthien’s way.

Luthien felt himself an impetuous fool, a thought that did not diminish when he heard Oliver’s remark behind him.

“I do not think that was so smart a thing to do.”