Then the mob of Freston’s citizenry shifted and the taverner himself appeared, Gawell and Ednoth on his heels.
Jusson stopped about twenty paces from the hall steps and our ad hoc army spread out behind us, the archers taking up positions that allowed them to cover those guarding the horses and the armed men with Helto. Helto’s men responded in turn by readying their own weapons. Separating from the crowed on the portico, Helto stepped to the fore, shaking his head. “I’d hoped that it wouldn’t have to come to this, Your Majesty,” he began, his face sorrowful. “So uncivilized—”
“Mayor Gawell,” Jusson interrupted, “and Master Ednoth. Where is she?”
His honor and the head merchant joined Helto at the front of the steps. And a muffled gasp rose up as mouths fell open.
The last I’d seen Gawell, he was plainly dressed in coat and trousers. After escaping from the royal guards, though, he must’ve found time to change, for he now had on a fur-lined and -trimmed, dark gray woolen cloak, the fur on the hood framing his jowly face and matching the cuffs of his black leather gloves. Unexceptional, even if very fine for a small-town mayor. But the cloak gaped open over his stomach, revealing underneath a blue velvet robe decorated with silver embroidery intertwined with tiny diamonds twinkling in the cold light. The silver and diamonds competed with the mayor’s chain of office, the starburst medallion resting on the upper curve of his velvet-clad belly. Between the jewels, silver and gold, Gawell was a blinding sight and I found myself squinting to cut down the glare.
Gawell had inhaled mightily, swelling in outrage as he drew in air to speak. However, Jusson’s question threw him off stride and he sputtered it all out again. “Where is who?” he asked.
“Master Rodolfo is dead,” Jusson said, “and Mistress Gwynedd is lost. That leaves Rosea. Where is she?”
Master Ednoth pushed to stand next to Gawell. His simple merchant’s dress was made drab by the mayor’s sartorial glory, the only shine about him the gleam of his balding head. His hand came up to rest on Gawell’s shoulder and his honor obediently shut his gaping mouth.
“We’ve been beset by magicals and witchcraft, and you’re asking after a street player?” Ednoth asked, incredulous.
“Yes,” Jusson said. “Where is she?”
“You are a fool!” Gawell declared. “No wonder there was a rebellion last spring. Well, this time we will sweep you and your inept House from the throne—”
“I am a fool?” Jusson’s brow raised. “You accosted me at my dinner two nights ago, exclaiming about how our cousin had harmed your people, your town.” The king waved a hand about the square. “Behold your people, behold your town! Your church desecrated, your jailer slain, your churchmen killed by someone possessed by hell itself. And here, in the very heart of the town you claim as your own, frozen death. Look! Life has fled from this place. Listen! Where is the pulse beat of your town?”
Both Gawell and Ednoth tried to interrupt Jusson, but the king had much more experience talking over opposition and rolled right over them. Those who had aligned themselves with Helto, Gawell and Ednoth had shifted uneasily as Jusson spoke, their eyes darting to the church standing desolate on the other side of the square, then down to the scorch marks left from the funeral pyres, before flicking over the ice that lay over everything. Now, as Jusson fell silent and the swaddling, muffling, stifling silence flooded back in, they slid glances at the mayor and head merchant, their faces very unhappy.
“Freezing is normal,” Gawell said, contemptuous. “It happens every winter—”
Ednoth’s fingers abruptly dug into Gawell’s shoulder, the head merchant’s knuckles turning white, and the mayor yelped.
Not winter yet.
I looked around to see who spoke. But everyone near me was intent on the drama happening on the steps.
“Freezing weather does happen every year,” Jusson agreed. “Usually after the harvest is gathered in—”
There was a soft gurgle of laughter and those on the portico parted, most shrinking away with their unhappy looks turning into ones of terror. Gawell and Ednoth also fell back, the mayor smirking as a small figure in a green gown emerged to stand at the front of the portico.
“Very eloquent, King Jusson,” Rosea said. “And evocative! You would’ve done well treading the boards.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Arlis had been right; Rosea had drastically changed. Her once fiery hair was now a dark red, as were her lips. Her skin was the glowing white of snow under a full moon, and her eyes glittered emerald green. As I stared up into them I thought I could hear the pounding sea.
Rosea sketched a curtsey. “Lord Rabbit. It is so good to see you again. But you’ve lost weight. Are you ill?”
Before I could respond, Thadro signaled and I was surrounded by the Own. At the same time, Jusson shifted, planting himself directly in front of me. “This is the infamous player?” His gaze shifted to Gawell and Ednoth, now standing behind Rosea. “This is who has made strong men foresake their oaths and plot against their king? This?” Jusson shook his head. “Open your eyes and see! Look at what she is! Hell’s darkness wrapped in the paleness of death.”
“Oh, bravo!” Rosea said, clapping her hands.
“No, Mistress Rosea,” Gawell said. “‘Twas poorly played.” He sneered down at the king. “Open our eyes and see?” The mayor nodded at Helto, who gave his own signal and suddenly men with crossbows sprang up on the parapet of the town hall roof. “We haven’t blithely walked into a trap,” the mayor continued. “Ednoth is right; you are a fool!”
Unlike those at the corral and on the portico steps, the parapet bowmen weren’t townspeople held by threats and beatings. Nor were they Menck’s former henchmen and town bullies. Some looked an awful lot like the bandits that the Mountain Patrol had been chasing for the last five years. Others I recognized from the barroom brawl at the Copper Pig yesterday morning—including the tapster, Bram. Their faces were hard and a little bored as they easily aimed their crossbows down at us. Bram had his pointed straight at Jusson.
“What he is, is a funny man!” Rosea moved closer to the portico’s top step, her green eyes a-glitter as she looked down on Jusson. “But you’re not a man, are you, Jusson of the House of Iver? While Rabbit is handsome, even with his silly braid and feather, you are beautiful in the way of elves. Just like the fire enchanter is.” Her tongue, startlingly red and agile, darted out and licked her lips as she allowed her gaze to drift over Wyln. “Such delicacies. I am sure we will enjoy ourselves together.”
It was Jusson’s turn to show unconcern. He nodded at Thadro, who again signaled, and two royal guards immediately came forward carrying between them a familiar chest, followed by another carrying a small table. They quickly set the table in the clearing in front of the town hall steps, spreading a silk cloth over it and placing the chest of blessings on top. Dyfrig, standing by himself, went very still.
Jusson had laid his own ambushments.
Rosea clapped her hands again. “Oh, are we going to have an exorcism? How exciting! But wait, didn’t you say that your holy men were killed?”
Dyfrig slowly walked to the impromptu altar, the bells on his Staff of Office softly chiming. Gawell’s jowls wobbled as he goggled and Ednoth stood gape-mouthed, while Helto’s suavity disappeared and Rosea’s white face went blank.