Laurel shook his head, his beads rattling. “Elfin families,” he muttered.
Wyln, though, met my angry gaze calmly. “You weren’t listening earlier, Rabbit. Who killed the jailer?”
I opened my mouth to say I didn’t know and didn’t give a good damn when, this time, the image of Menck’s frozen stab wounds flashed through my mind. I hissed out a breath through my teeth. “Whoever worked sorcery.”
“So by helping the peacekeeper find the killers, we will most likely find those who not only worked death magic, but would use you for ill. And if they’re not one and the same, at least it’ll be a good starting point. Correct?”
I scowled at my horse’s ears. “Correct, honored Cyhn.”
“But until we do find them, you will not stray from Laurel and me. Understand? No wandering off as your fancy takes you.” Wyln glanced across me at Jeff. “You will make sure of that, Jeffen—”
“Corbin, my lord,” Jeff said. “My father’s name is Corbin.”
A smile crossed Wyln’s face. “Jeffen Corbin’son.”
Thinking that Arlie wasn’t the only suck-up, I glared at Jeff. However, he was looking ahead, his brows creased as he glared at my other personal guard. To be fair to Arlis, he did try to ride with me. However, Jeff refused to give him room, forcing him to ride behind us where he ate our dust. So Arlis shifted positions so that he rode in front of me. But now, instead of being my vanguard, Arlis was right behind the Lord Commander and peacekeeper, leaning forward in his saddle, his attention fixed on the conversing Thadro and Chadde. I frowned again, opening my mouth to call Arlis back to me.
Before I could, though, Chadde turned off the King’s Road, leading us down a small lane. Immediately we were forced into a tighter formation, as the badly rutted lane was barely wide enough to allow two skinny horses to ride side by side without scraping the riders off on the tree branches that jutted out—and Jusson’s mounts were well-fed, hefty steeds. Even going single file the underbrush slapped at our legs and I thought that it was a perfect place to be picked off in ambush. But we continued unmolested until we rounded a bend and the trees and brush dropped away, revealing a sprawl of ramshackle buildings surrounded by a rickety fence. The buildings were weather-beaten, their stone walls crooked, the roofs black with soot, though I could just make out in spots the green tiles sported by taverns and inns. On the foremost building a sign was hung, creaking slightly as it swung in a light breeze. The animal painted on the sign was vaguely porcine, its color a faded red-brown. It stood upright, holding a cup of foaming ale in one cloven hoof and a pair of dice in the other. One eye was closed in a sly wink while its mouth smirked under its snout.
The Copper Pig.
Chapter Seventeen
I’d been in the Copper Pig a few times when I first came to Freston, but I’d quickly decided that my ma and da had brought me up better. It wasn’t the gambling and prostitution that had me looking for more wholesome venues. It wasn’t even the rotgut spirits it served, though that hadn’t helped. It was that the Pig caused me more disgust than any desire to sin. It was dark, it was dank and it stank to high heaven.
Walking in with Chadde and company, I saw that nothing had changed in my years’-long absence. The air was stale with the smells of sour ale, unwashed bodies and the strong presence of the jakes out back. And, even at midday, it was dim and smeary, the shutters closed over the dirty windows, a film of grease lying over everything—including the patrons.
Chadde, though, had timed it just right. Despite the relative earliness of the day, the taproom had a good number of folk in it—all with filled cups, true, but also all seeming to be on the right side of sober. For now. They looked up at us, taking in our state of armed vigilance before returning to their drinks, seeming disinterested. However, there was more than one bloodshot glance in the surprisingly clean mirror over the bar. Over the muttered conversations, I could hear the rattle of dice in an adjoining room. Down the entry hall the private parlor was apparently in use as its door was closed, and there were footsteps on the stairs leading up to the second floor. The bawdy trade had started.
One of the bawds standing at the taproom bar smiled, pushing away from the bar and headed towards us, her eyes sliding over Laurel and Wyln before moving on to me. “Well, you’re a handsome one, even with the feather and braid,” she said as she sidled up.
As Jeff gave a muffled snicker I stared down into her face. “What did you say?” For a brief moment I saw another woman laughing up at me in challenge, but her hair was bright red, not oily brown.
“Flirt later, Lieutenant,” Thadro said, his gaze sweeping the taproom. Wyln and Laurel did the same, their attention lighting on the mirror. They moved to a corner, watching the room’s reflection—and more than a few in the room watched them back, including the tapster behind the bar.
“You too, sweet chuck,” the bawd said to the Lord Commander as her arm snaked around my waist. “A fine, strapping man you are.” Her gaze encompassed Arlis and Jeff, who stopped snickering. “Always did like the army. So soldier-like with their swords and standing at attention and everything.”
“Right,” I said, catching her hand before she could reach my purse. Removing her arm from my waist, I stepped aside, but she just shrugged and strolled towards Thadro.
“Give over, Isa,” Chadde said. “They’re helping me investigate Menck’s killing.” She walked to a window and flung back the shutters. Though the light coming through the panes was a dingy gray, the patrons cried out, cursing the peacekeeper.
Isa stopped stalking Thadro to turn to Chadde. “Investigate? Here? You can’t. You don’t have jurisdiction,” she said, sounding the word out as if she had learned it by rote.
“Yes, I do,” Chadde said calmly. “Over the entire valley and the mountain villages.” She opened another window, and there were more groans and abuse.
“No you don’t,” Isa said. “Not since Ormec died. You’re just Freston now. And from what I heard, you’re not much there, either.” Flouncing back to the bar, she picked up a cup of ale someone had left unguarded, lifting it high. As she did, the tapster put aside the noxious-looking rag he’d been wiping the counter with and slipped out a door by the bar. Isa drained her cup in one swallow and then smiled at the peacekeeper, showing a surprisingly whole set of teeth. “You have no business here, Chaddie Laddie.”
I blinked at the slur while Thadro frowned; though plainly dressed in her usual tabard and breeks, there was nothing masculine about the peacekeeper. However, Chadde was unfazed by the muffled snorts and guffaws from the listening patrons. “Yes, I do,” she said again. “King Jusson affirmed today, not only my office, but said as there’s no governor I report directly to the throne. To His Majesty himself.”
Isa blinked. “Gawell—” she said, starting to look worried as the muted merriment died.
“Who do you think His Majesty said it to?” Chadde indicated us. “The King’s Own, Isa. The one with the feather and braid? His cousin and heir. And ‘sweet chuck’ is his Lord Commander.”
“Why would the king care about Menck’s death, Chadde?” a smooth voice asked behind us. “As intriguing as the jailer was, I didn’t think that he had the prominence or, ah, provenance to catch royalty’s attention, dead or alive.”
I turned to find Jeff and Arlie already facing a man standing in the entryway. While I wasn’t familiar with everyone in Freston’s valley, I had made the acquaintance of a good number and could usually guess the identity of the rest. The man before me, however, was a stranger. He was on the plump side, and his head barely cleared Jeff’s and Arlie’s shoulders as he walked past them into the taproom. He was neatly dressed, his face cleanshaven, his fingernails clean and he fit the tavern like four shoes on a three-legged horse.