The King's Justice Read online

  Quiet as the vanished sound of Jon Marker’s wail, Black says, “Your love was enough. You saved him. His love saved you. Tell me.”

  With Black’s palm on his cheek, Jon Marker becomes stronger. “I earned our way serving in Ing Hardiston’s store. With Annwin to tend our home, and Tamlin laughing in his chores at her side, I did not chafe at Hardiston’s harsh ways. But after the plague—” The man remembers anger. “Ing Hardiston has no patience for grief. I was dismissed, and lost, and could not earn our way. Also folk avoided us, thinking the plague clung to us still. Thinking us cursed.”

  A faint whisper, Black says again, “Tell me.”

  “But Father Whorry—” Jon Marker swallows a lump of woe and gratitude. “He is a priest and a hypocrite. He is known for whoring. But he has kindness in him. He persuaded Haul Varder the wheelwright to employ me. Lying, he told Varder I had been sanctified when I had not, and was therefore certainly free of plague. Free of curse.

  “And Haul Varder also is kind, in his rough way. He did not fault me for keeping Tamlin at my side while I worked, though my boy was too small to do more than sweep the floor. Without knowing what he did, Varder helped us find each other, Tamlin and me.”

  Black is not impatient, but his purpose has its own demands. Still touching Jon Marker’s cheek, he goes further.

  “Tell me of the murder.”

  Jon Marker cannot refuse. “A terrible day came,” he says while his whole body cringes. “A day like any other. The work was hard, but hard work is good, and my boy was goodness itself. As much goodness as my Annwin left in the world. When the day was ending, I told Tamlin to hurry home to fire the stove for supper. We had promised each other some hours of play when we had eaten.” Again he swallows, but now the lump in his throat is anger at himself. It is weeping for his boy. “I sent him home. I sent him alone. The fault is mine.

  “I did not find him again until he had been slaughtered. He was not in the house. The stove was cold. I searched for him, crying his name. I roused my neighbors. Some searched with me. We did not find him until we looked near the refuse-pit behind the houses. He had been discarded—” A third time, his pain chokes him until he swallows it. “What remained of him had been thrown in the pit.”

  There Black lowers his hand. He feels pity, but he does not take pity. He has heard enough. Soon he will learn more of what he needs to know.

  When he releases Jon Marker, the man collapses. But Black catches him, holds him upright. “Be easy,” Black tells him. “We are almost finished. Show me where your son is buried. Then you will be done with me. For my life, I will ask nothing more.”

  Jon Marker thinks that he has fainted. Still he hears Black clearly. Fearing even now for those he has lost, he summons the strength to turn his head. In a voice that has been scraped until it bleeds, he asks, “Will you dig up my sweet boy? Will you be so cruel? After all that he has suffered?”

  “I must see the place,” Black answers. He means that he must touch and smell it. “But I will only disturb his body if you do not tell me what was done to him.”

  He will not coerce Jon Marker again, though he has many forms of influence ready for his use, and some Tamlin’s father will not feel. This restraint is how he expresses pity.

  Jon Marker is angry now, as angry as he was when he buried his son. “Bastard,” he pants, this man whose wife loved him for his mildness, his gentleness, his natural courtesy. “Whoreson.”

  “Even so,” Black replies. He feels no insult. There is no vexation in his heart. “I do what I do because I must.”

  Jon Marker stands away from Black. He knots his fists. “He was beaten!” he shouts. No words can express the force inside him. The house is too small to hold it. “Beaten terribly, damn you! Worse than any dog. Worse than any slave among the caravans. But he was still alive—the healer thinks he was still alive—when he was cut from gullet to groin. If I believed in gods and prayer, I would pray that he died before his lungs and liver were taken.”

  Lungs, Black thinks, and liver. Lungs for air. Liver for heat. Air and heat are elemental energies, as natural and necessary as bright and dark. But they do not cause imbalance, they played no part in the Balance Wars, because no shaper in the known world can draw upon them. They are everywhere and nowhere, too diffuse to offer power. Therefore they have neither temples nor priests.

  He does not understand why the boy was butchered in this fashion. There are no rituals for air and heat. But he can guess now why Tamlin Marker was chosen. The boy’s father has told him enough for that.

  The how of the choosing remains uncertain. Black can speculate, but he does not commit himself.

  “I have caused you pain,” he tells Jon Marker. “Accept my thanks. Show me your son’s grave. I will not disturb it. Nor will I disturb you again.”

  Jon Marker’s anger drains from him as swiftly as it swelled. He thinks that he has come to the end of himself. He is as empty as the house. He does not speak. Instead he shuffles to the door, opens it, and waits for the stranger to precede him.

  When Black walks out into the night, Jon Marker is with him.

  The man stays on the neighboring porches until they end. Then he moves into the street, taking Black toward the outskirts of Settle’s Crossways. Briefly Black considers that Jon Marker will lead him to a cemetery, but soon he recognizes his error. The town has suffered a plague. There will be a bare field like a midden where the victims are buried. Tamlin may be among them. Some of the townsfolk believed that the disease clung to him. And likely many of the bodies were burned, a precaution against the spread of infection. No doubt the evil Black smells wished the same for Tamlin, to conceal the crime. Still Black is certain that Tamlin was not burned. He is certain that the boy’s father would not permit it.

  He and Jon Marker trudge through mire to the edge of the town. They leave the fading street to cross a long stretch of sodden grasses. Beyond it, they come to the field Black expects, an acre or more of churned mud where ashes and bones and bodies were covered in haste.

  At the field’s verge, Jon Marker pauses, but he does not stop. Awkward on the torn slop of the earth, he slogs to the far side. Then he goes farther to enter among the first trees of the forest. There he guides Black to a small glade with a mound of soaked dirt at its center. Between the trees, he has provided his son with the dignity of a separate grave, a private burial. When he nears the mound, wavering on his feet, he says only, “Here.” Then he drops to his knees and bows his head.

  Again Black says, “Accept my thanks.” He, too, kneels. But he does so in the sloping mud of the grave. He places his hands on the mound and works his fingers into the dirt as deep as his wrists. After a moment, he closes his eyes. With all of his senses, he concentrates on the scent he seeks.

  The rain has washed much away. In addition, the forest is rich with its own smells. And Tamlin’s burial is at least a fortnight old. Black knows this because so many days have passed since he first began to track the smell of wickedness. But he has sigils for keenness and glyphs for penetration. The odor that compels him is distinct. He needs only moments to be certain that he has not misled himself with Tamlin Marker’s death. He feels the truth of what Jon Marker has told him.

  He recognizes the ritual, and does not recognize it. His thoughts become urgent, goaded by the discrepancy between what he expects and what surprises him.

  Why was the boy beaten? Because he fought. Because his killer enjoyed hurting him. But that explanation does not account for the murder itself.

  Still kneeling, he lifts his hands from the dirt. “It is not enough,” he says, unaware that he speaks aloud. “One child, yes. An innocent boy. A beautifully innocent boy. But it is not enough for power. It does not enable sorcery. He is the start of a ritual, or he is its end. There must be others. Several others. Perhaps many others.”

  Jon Marker says, “There are no others,” but Black doe
s not heed him. Black is already certain that none of the townsfolk have been butchered as Tamlin was. The people he has met would react differently if they knew themselves threatened. The guards on the road would be more stringent in their duty, more numerous. Also the source of this evil needs secrecy until the ritual is ripe.

  “They will be brutal men,” he thinks, still aloud. “Men who relish harming innocence. Or cruel women who relish it.”

  He is sure of this, just as he is sure that the lungs and livers of the other corpses have been taken. Yet he does not understand it. Shapers do not pursue the impossible. They cannot draw their sorcery from air and heat.

  Tamlin’s father makes a sound of distress, but Black does not attend to it. He is immersed in his confusion. If his words have wounded Jon Marker, he does not regard the cost.

  Still he is a veteran. He has fought many battles, he bears many scars, and he has been shaped for his task. His instincts are sure. Despite his concentration, he feels the men coming. As lightly as mist and shadows, he rises to meet them.

  There is no moon to light the glade. Only the stars define the shapes of the trees. Yet Black sees clearly. Some of his sigils are awake. Some of his scarifications burn. He recognizes Ing Hardiston as the storekeeper approaches. The two other men he does not know. But one of them holds a longknife to Jon Marker’s throat. The other advances a dozen paces to Hardiston’s left. This man holds his cutlass ready. The storekeeper is armed with a heavy saber.

  Black sighs. He knows that these men have no bearing on his purpose. He does not want to kill them. Under his cloak, he rubs his left forearm.

  The man gripping Jon Marker lowers his longknife. The man with the cutlass hesitates. But Ing Hardiston strides forward. Though his fear is strong, his loathing of it—or of himself—is stronger. His anger shrugs aside Black’s attempt to confuse him.

  “You were warned, stranger,” the storekeeper snarls. “You meddle where you are not wanted. It is time for you to die.” His saber cuts the air. “If Marker is the cause of your coming, he has lived too long.”

  Hardiston’s example restores his men. The longknife is again ready at Jon Marker’s throat. The cutlass rises for its first stroke.

  “Now you also are warned,” Black replies. He is more vexed than irate. This interruption is worse than foolish. It is petty. “Jon Marker has suffered much, and I have refreshed his pain. I will permit no further harm to him.”

  When he touches his hip with his left hand, his longsword appears in his right. Its slim blade swarms with sigils for sharpness and glyphs for strength. Its tip traces invocations in the night.

  Again the man with the cutlass hesitates. This time, he is shaken by surprise rather than slowed by confusion.

  Ing Hardiston also hesitates. He yelps a curse. But his need to deny his fear is greater than his surprise. His curse becomes a howl as he charges.

  Black is one with the darkness. His movements are difficult to discern as he tangles Hardiston’s saber with his cloak. A flick of his longsword severs the tendons of Hardiston’s wrist. In the same motion, his elbow crumples Hardiston’s chest. As the storekeeper hunches and falls, too stunned to understand his own pain, Black spins behind him.

  A flash in the night, Black’s longsword leaves his hand. It impales the thigh of the man holding a blade to open Jon Marker’s throat. The impact and piercing cause a shriek as the man topples away from Tamlin’s father.

  Black has no wish to kill any of these men. Unarmed, he confronts the man with the cutlass. In a voice of silk, he asks, “Do you require a second warning?”

  For a moment, the man stares. Then he drops his weapon and runs, leaving his fellows bloody on the grass.

  When Black sees Jon Marker prone beside his writhing attacker, the veteran is truly vexed. He is on the trail and means to follow it. Yet he cannot forsake the man who has aided him. Moving swiftly, he retrieves his longsword and causes it to disappear. Then he stoops to examine Jon Marker.

  He sighs again as he finds the man unhurt. Jon Marker is only prostrate with exhaustion. All his wounds are within him, where Black cannot tend them. Still Black gives what care he can. Lifting the unconscious man in his arms, Black carries him back to his empty house. There he settles Jon Marker in the nearest bed.

  Though Black’s purpose urges him away, he watches over the man who has helped him until dawn.

  With the night’s first waning, Black leaves Jon Marker asleep and returns to the stables where he bedded his horse.

  The mount that awaits him there is altered since the previous evening. The ostler remarks on this as he hands the reins to Black. “Much changed he is, sir,” the man says, “much changed. A different horse, I judged, that I did. A substitute for your sorry nag. Some fool plays a trick on me. But look, sir. The markings are the same. The scars here and here.” The man points. “The white fetlocks. The notched ears. Notched like sword-cuts they are, sir. And the tack. I am not mistaken, sir, I swear it. There is no accounting for it. Rest and water and good grain are not such healers.”

  Black’s only response is a nod. He has no reason for surprise. His mount has been shaped to meet his needs, as he has. For his long journey, and to enter the town, he required an aged and weary steed that would attract no notice, suggest no wealth. Now he means to travel with speed. The distance may be considerable. Also he may encounter opposition, though he does not expect it. Thus his mount must be a stallion trained for fleetness in battle, and so it has become.

  When he has saddled his horse, tightened the girth, and swayed the ostler to refuse payment, he mounts and rides.

  While he passes through Settle’s Crossways, retracing the street that brought him here, he goes at a light canter, though the dawn is still grey, and he encounters few folk early to their tasks. Once he leaves the sleep-stunned guards behind, however, he gallops hard. He hopes to return before the morning is gone.

  A league into the forest, he halts. For a time, he studies the air on both sides of the road with his sharpened senses. Then he turns his horse to enter among the trees and deep brush, heading east.

  Though he has no cause to remember it, he has not forgotten the lonely mountain that fumes over Settle’s Crossways in this direction.

  Through the close-grown trees and the tangled obstructions of brush, creepers, and fallen deadwood, he makes what haste he can. For the moment, he seeks only a path, one seldom trodden. A deer-track will suffice. When he finds one, he goes more swiftly.

  The trail wanders, as such things do, yet he does not doubt his choice. Within half a league, the vague whiff that he detected from the roadside becomes more intelligible. It is still faint, obscured by wet loam and dripping leaves and passing animals. The rain masked it while he rode toward Settle’s Crossways the previous day. Also it is diluted by time and other odors. Nevertheless it is the scent of his quarry’s rituals. Sure of his discernment, he follows it.

  His mount canters dangerously among the trees. It leaps in stride over fallen boles, intruding boulders, slick streams. Sunrise slanting through the forest catches Black’s eyes in quick glints and sudden shafts, but he lowers the brim of his hat and rides on.

  The smell of wild beasts grows stronger, and also a growing reek of rot. Abruptly he enters a clearing. It is well hidden, and he sees that a number of men have lived there. Perhaps they had women with them. Several sturdy shelters more elaborate than lean-tos stand at the edges of the open space. Discarded garments and bundles litter the ground. Among them he sees a short sword, several truncheons, an empty quiver. He does not need to look in order to know that the shelters once held stores of food, of meat and bread. These have been much ravaged by animals, but the decay of the remains informs him of their former presence.

  In the center of the clearing is a wide fire-pit, its ashes sodden and cold. It has been abandoned for many days, more than a fortnight. And the corpse sprawled among the ash
es has also been abandoned. Most of its flesh has been torn from the bones, the bones themselves have been cracked and gnawed, and the scraps of its motley garments lie scattered around the pit. The mangling of the body prevents Black from knowing whether the lungs and liver were taken intact. Still the scent that he seeks is strong here, despite the putrid sweetness of rot. He does not doubt that he is looking at another ritual murder.

  The crime is old, but its age does not prevent him from imagining the scene. A band of brigands made this clearing their home. After their attacks on caravans and wagons, they returned here, hid here. But one night a man or men killed one of their sentries among the trees. When the lungs and liver were taken, and the man—no, the men—were ready, they burst into the clearing. They discarded their victim on the fire. By force of arms, or perhaps by mere surprise, they scattered the brigands.

  And then—?

  Black adjusts his senses to ignore the miasma of decay and feeding. He walks his horse once around the clearing, twice. Then he picks a faint track similar to the one that brought him here and follows it.

  Within a hundred paces, he finds a second corpse. Hidden in the brush to his left, he discovers a third. Both are old and badly ravaged. He cannot determine how or why they were killed. Still the smell of evil clings to them. Studying them with a veteran’s eye in the rising daylight, he concludes that both died the same night their sentry was cast into the fire.

  He suspected the truth earlier. Now he is sure. The butchering of innocence is the end of the ritual, not the start. Therefore he is also sure that the culmination of the crimes, the completion of their purpose, will be soon.

  Because he does not understand that purpose, he cannot guess why it was not acted upon immediately after Tamlin Marker’s death. Still he believes that he has little time. He is reassured only by the knowledge that three men and a boy are not enough.