“Father Berin did not read the archbishop's prescribed sermon this morning,” Sasha bluntly told Alaine and his men. “It seems he made the archbishop angry.”
“You're very quick to assign blame,” Alaine snarled at her. “I'm sure the notion appeals to your pagan notions of Verenthanes.”
Errollyn paid them no attention, and walked slowly around the body of Father Berin, green eyes searching.
“You'll search the homes of hundreds of local worshippers before you suspect the archbishop of wrongdoing?” Sasha asked Alaine. “You'd blame your own people before that perfumed lunatic on his clifftop?”
“This is our faith!” Alaine shouted, dark eyes blazing, his jaw tight. “We shall not be dictated to by highlanders, pagans or little girls! Where the hells is Kessligh, anyhow? Does not the murder of Dockside's most loved father concern him enough that he should make the journey here himself?”
“Kessligh has the concerns of Petrodor on his shoulders,” Sasha retorted, “as did Father Berin.”
“I think it quite likely that your great uman did it!” Alaine said. “To then point the finger at the Torovan holy father and sow division amongst Verenthanes! Nothing would please Kessligh better than to convert all the Nasi-Keth to his pagan ideologies and win support away from me!”
“Is this another of those childish accusations that you know you'll never have to back with cold steel?” Sasha asked him. Alaine's words did not sting or anger her as they might. “So brave you men of Petrodor become when you know you'll never have to suffer the consequences of your accusations.”
“If it were up to me,” Alaine snarled, “I would revoke that rule in an instant!”
“And you'd die as much the fool as you were born.”
“The murderer was left-handed,” came Errollyn's voice from the foot of Darshan's statue. Both Sasha and Alaine turned and looked. Errollyn was crouching alongside Berin's body, examining the wound on his throat. “The cut begins on the father's right, then across. It's a clean cut, the mark of someone who has experience. I've seen murders committed by common thieves, they lack precision, sometimes they make a terrible mess, their hands are shaking so. This assassin is an expert. There are also no signs of struggle, no bruises on the face or neck, although there may be some on his body.”
“So he knew the killer?” Sasha wondered.
“Perhaps,” said Errollyn. “Also, his neck chain is missing. There is a mark here that suggests it might have been torn.”
“Someone thought he no longer deserved it,” Sasha said darkly.
“Whatever evidence you find, your mind is already made up,” Alaine snorted, turning away in exasperation.
Sasha looked at the other three men, Marco in particular. He looked uncertain. Wary. “What do you think, Marco?”
“I think all these dead priests make a trend,” said Marco. “I think there shall be a special hell reserved for whomever has been killing them.” Sasha gazed at him, almost pleadingly, wanting more. Marco looked uncomfortable.
“It's sad,” said Errollyn, sombrely, gazing down at Father Berin. “He dies amongst the statues of his gods. His faith was free, open to reason, to art and interpretation. I think whoever killed him found that offensive.”
“We should have posted guards,” Alaine muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“Father Berin would never have accepted,” Marco replied. “We could never have anticipated that the archbishop would…” He stopped himself short. Alaine glared at him. And then beyond, as Errollyn made a holy sign to his forehead, and rose.
“You!” Alaine demanded. “You have no business making that sign in this place! You have no idea what it means!”
Errollyn regarded him coolly. “Wear your sword at your hip and no longer fight with svaalverd, Master Nasi-Keth,” he replied. “You have no idea what they mean.”
“That's completely different!” Alaine bristled.
“Most serrin would be intrigued at the debate you propose,” said Errollyn, returning to Sasha's side. “I find you boring, Alaine. Tedious and predictable. Come,” he said to Sasha, “let's go. If that sermon was as bad as I hear, we'll be needed elsewhere.”
“I don't know!” Sofy exclaimed in anguish, pacing in the little inn chamber. Teriyan stood by the curtains that had been pulled across the patio windows, leaving only a little of the morning light spilling through. Byorn sat on one of the two single cots, and Ryssin leaned by the door, one ear to the outside. “I don't know how they knew!”
It had been Ryssin who'd seen them bundling Jaryd out the rear exit of the inn. Ryssin was a tracker and hunter who lived in the woods a short ride from Baerlyn. He was a skinny, weathered poker of a man, who Teriyan insisted could turn invisible in the faintest shadow. He and Byorn had taken a different route to Algery than the others. He'd been watching the inn from the stables, suspecting any dangerous activity would come through the rear way, not the front, where half the guests were cavorting. They'd taken Jaryd down a narrow alley, posting several guards behind. Ryssin had tried to skirt around, but his quarry had disappeared. The tracker was apologetic, not liking to hunt in cities half as much as he did in the wilds.
“Sounds like they took him without a fight,” Byorn said grimly. “Considering our boy's state of mind, I'd say they had him trapped from the beginning. Otherwise he'd surely have died fighting.”
“Like I said,” Teriyan said. “A trap.” His stare was fixed hard on Sofy, his arms folded. “And so I'll ask again, Your Highness…how did they know, do you think?”
“You're accusing me?” Sofy stared at him. “If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have known where Wyndal was!”
“Haven't seen him yet,” Teriyan said flatly.
Sofy felt a surge of fury. “I am a princess of Lenayin!” she said hotly. “And you'll not take that tone with me!”
“I'm a warrior of Baerlyn,” Teriyan retorted, “and a Goeren-yai, and I'll take that tone with whomever I damn well choose. Think, girlie. I'm not accusing you of treachery, I'm suggesting someone's been playing you like a reed pipe. Think for a moment. Who might that be?”
“Listen here,” Sofy retorted, trying desperately to gather her wits. Attempting to pull rank had been stupid, the kind of mistake a naive noble might make-how many times had Sasha told her that it never worked in Lenayin? “I might not be able to fight with a sword, but I know things that you'll never know. I know people, and I know maids and servants, and I know when people trust me and when they're lying to me. And I'm telling you, Wyndal is here! He was staying in that room, and the servants had seen him there!”
“There's more ways to skin a rabbit than that,” said Ryssin. “You ask them and they tell you what they think is true. But what if someone was fooling them?”
Sofy stared at him. Somewhere deep in her stomach, a little knot began to twist.
“Look, who bloody well cares?” Byorn said in exasperation, smacking one big fist into his other hand. “All we need to know is where's Jaryd now? He's got only nobles defending him, we can take those chicken-legs any day…we get him out, and…”
“Kill another bunch of Tyree nobility?” Teriyan retorted. “Aye, there's a fine plan. That'll make the king right happy with us, he'll probably order Koenyg to wipe Baerlyn off the royal maps!”
“Then what are we going to do, just let them have him? We were well within our rights to come here, we weren't attempting to hurt anyone, we were trying to rescue Jaryd's brother from treachery…”
“And you're going to stand out in front of Prince Koenyg's cavalry charge in the Baerlyn Valley and argue that when they're all thundering down on you?” Teriyan asked.