CHAPTER SIX
“They also that seek after my life lay snares
for me.”
PSALMS 38:12
“ ’NOTHER round!” Derry said thickly, slapping
down a silver coin on the bar and gesturing magnanimously around
him. “Drinks for all o’ these fine gentlemen! When ol’ John Ban’r
gets drunk, all his friends get drunk, too!”
A roar of approval greeted this declaration as a
half-dozen rough-looking men in hunters’ and sailors’ garb lurched
back to the bar around Derry. Grinning, the taverner snatched up a
huge oak pitcher and began slopping ale into the upheld earthen
mugs.
“Thash a good boy, Johnny-lad!” one called,
spitting amiably toward Derry’s feet as he held out his mug.
“Fill ’er up!” another hollered.
It was early yet. Darkness had just fallen. But
already the Jack Dog Tavern in Fathane was almost filled to
capacity, its patrons as loud and boisterous a mob as any in the
Eleven Kingdoms. Over against one wall, a sailor in the worn jerkin
of a top rigger was leading an old sea chanty to the accompaniment
of a reed pipe, an out-of-tune lute, and two heavy trestle tables
that had become the percussion section. Around the group, which was
growing larger and noisier by the minute, more serious drinkers
were having to raise their voices more and more to compete with the
singing. But they knew better than to express displeasure at the
noise and risk a brawl with the crusty sailors.
Fathane, just at the mouth of the river isthmus,
was predominantly a sailing town. Ships from Torenth and Corwyn
across the river traded there regularly, and it was also a point of
departure for hunters and trappers going farther upriver to the
great Veldur forests. The combination of interests made Fathane a
very lively town.
Derry took a long pull from his fresh mug and
turned unsteadily toward the man on his right, apparently listening
to his story.
“An’ so this man says, ‘Wha’ d’ye mean, Lord
Varney’s wine shipment? Thash mine, an’ I paid fer it, an’ the
Devil take Lord Varney!’ ”
There was a roar of laughter at that, for the
storyteller was evidently one of the more respected spinners of
yarns in the village. But Derry had to fight hard to restrain a
yawn.
He had gained a great deal of information in the
past three hours of drinking and storytelling, not the least of
which was the fact that Torenthi royalist troops were gathering
somewhere north of here near a place called Medras. The man who’d
told him of it hadn’t known just what their purpose was—he was not
the brightest of informants, and he’d been half-drunk by the time
Derry got to him—but he had said there were as many as five
thousand men being mustered there. Evidently the information was
meant to be kept secret, for the man had suddenly clammed up when a
Torenthi soldier poked his head in the doorway while making his
rounds.
Derry had pretended not to be that interested and
had quickly changed the subject. But he had carefully filed the
information away with the rest of the things he’d learned that
afternoon. The mission thus far had been a highly fruitful one. A
decided pattern was beginning to emerge.
He looked into the depths of his ale mug, affecting
that morose, brooding mien so often exhibited by men who are very
drunk, and considered his next move.
It was almost totally dark now, and he had been
drinking all afternoon. He was not drunk—it took more than ale to
do that—but in spite of a capacity for spirits that Morgan assured
him bordered on the prodigious, he was beginning to feel the
effects. It was time he got back to the room he’d taken at the
Crooked Dragon. He did not want to miss his scheduled rendezvous
with Morgan.
“An’ so I says to the lass, ‘Darlin’, wha’s yer
price?’ An’ she says, ‘More ’n you’ve got, sailor. You couldn’t
even keep me in petticoats!’ ”
Derry took one last swig of the tepid ale, then
pushed himself back from the bar and straightened his leather
jerkin with an exaggerated motion. As he fumbled another small coin
onto the bar, a man on his left lurched and nearly poured his ale
down Derry’s boot, but Derry managed to sidestep and steady the man
without looking too sober.
“Shteady does it, mate,” Derry slurred, helping the
man back to the bar and guiding his mug to the surface. “Here, you
finish mine. I gotta get shome shleep.” He poured the remnants of
his drink into the man’s mug, purposely slopping half of it over
the side, then patted the man reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Now, you drink up, m’friend,” he said, pushing
himself away from the bar again. “An’ I wish you a
pleashant—g’night!”
“Aw, yer not leavin’ yet, are ye, ol’ buddy? Ish
early.”
“Come on, Johnny-lad. One more fer th’ road?”
“I thank you, no,” Derry replied, shaking his head
and drawing himself to exaggerated attention. “I am too drunk. I
ha’ had enough, an’ thash that.”
He attempted a precise pivot, stumbled against
another man behind him, then managed to weave his way to the door
without major mishap. He kept an eye out as he staggered through
the door, hoping he wasn’t going to be followed. But no one except
his former drinking partners even seemed to notice he was gone, and
they were fast forgetting he’d ever been there.
As the noise of the raucous Jack Dog Tavern faded
into the distance, Derry’s hearing gradually began to return to
normal. As he lurched along the street, he tried not to collide
with too many pedestrians—at least none bigger than himself—but
when he reached a darkened alley, he ducked into the shadows and
peered back the way he had come. He had just about decided it was
safe to drop his drunk routine when he heard a footstep in the
alley behind him.
“Who’shat?” he grunted, dropping into character
again as he turned, and hoping it wasn’t necessary. “Who’sh
there?”
“Hey, fella, are you all right?” said the man
approaching him, his voice sounding strangely smooth and cultured
in the filthy alley.
Damn! thought Derry, as he recognized the
man. He had seen the fellow in the tavern earlier this afternoon,
drinking rather quietly with another man in the corner. Why had the
man followed him? And where was his drinking partner?
“I rememmer you,” Derry said, slurring his words
and pointing at the man rather shakily as he tried to decide how he
was going to handle this. “You were inna tavern, weren’t ya? Whash
matter? Can’t pay yer bar bill?”
“My friend noticed you were awfully wobbly when you
left,” the man replied, stopping several paces from Derry and
studying him carefully. “We just wanted to make sure you were all
right.”
“Yer frien’?” Derry questioned, trying to look
around without seeming too coherent. “Whysh yer frien’ so worried
’bout me?” he asked, craning his neck suspiciously as he saw the
other man approaching from the street side. “Wha’ ish thish
anyway?”
“Don’t be alarmed, my friend,” the first man said,
moving closer to Derry and taking his arm. “We aren’t going to hurt
you.”
“Now, lishen,” Derry began, protesting more loudly
as the man began shouldering him further into the dark alley. “If
it’s money ya want, fergit it. I spent my lash copper back a’ th’
tavern.”
“We don’t want your money,” said the second man,
grabbing Derry’s other arm and helping his companion propel their
quarry deeper into the shadows.
Mumbling and whining under his breath, Derry
continued to play his drunk role to the hilt, stumbling and falling
with every other step to slow them down while he tried to form a
plan. The men were obviously up to no good, but whether they
suspected him for what he really was or merely wanted to roll him
for his money was immaterial right now. What was important was that
they believed him to be drunk. He guessed by the way they held his
arms that they didn’t think him any serious threat. Maybe there was
still a way to salvage the operation after all.
“This is about far enough,” said the first man,
when they had dragged him, stumbling and staggering, some thirty or
forty feet into the alley. “Lyle?”
The second one nodded, producing something small
and shiny from his tunic. “This won’t take a minute, my
friend.”
It was too small to be a weapon, Derry decided. As
he watched the man fiddling with it, he realized it was a vial of
some murky orangish liquid. He feigned bleary curiosity as the man
tried to worry the stopper out with his fingers, again revising his
appraisal of the situation.
They were going to drug him—whether to kill or to
interrogate, he didn’t know, but he didn’t particularly care to
find out. The first man was holding both his arms, but his grip was
only firm enough to support a supposed drunk. With luck, that would
be their fatal mistake.
“Whash that?” Derry murmured amiably, as the man
pulled out the stopper. “Ish a pretty pink.”
“It is, indeed, my friend,” said the man, bringing
the open vial toward Derry. “This will just help to clear your
head. Drink it down, now.”
It was the moment for action.
In a sudden movement, Derry wrenched his arms away
from the man behind him and dashed the liquid over his shoulder
into the man’s face. At the same time he dropped slightly and
kicked the second man in the groin, then rolled with the force of
the kick and came up on his feet, sword half drawn.
Before he could clear the scabbard, the first man
was already grabbing for his arm, wrenching the blade from his
grasp. As he struggled to regain control of the weapon, the second
man launched himself into the fray and landed on his partner’s
back, thinking it was Derry in the dim light. The first man went
limp, the sword falling from his hand; the second jumped back
cursing, then lunged at Derry again.
Now the odds were more to Derry’s liking, though it
still would not be easy. While Derry knew he was most decidedly not
drunk, neither was he entirely sober. His reflexes were definitely
impaired, and the man before him was obviously an expert with a
dagger.
Derry whipped his own dagger from his boot top and
sparred with the man briefly, each feinting several times. Then
they closed. After a frenzied scuffle, Derry managed to disarm the
man and get him into a choke-hold, finally feeling him go limp. But
even as he eased the unconscious form to the ground, he realized
that he would have to kill his attacker. He didn’t dare leave him
in the alley this way, nor could he allow him to talk. The man
would have to die.
Crossing quickly to the first man, he felt for a
pulse, but the body was already growing cold, a gaping wound in its
side. That, at least, saved one killing. But the other . . .
Quite sober now, he dragged the second man over
beside the first and turned him faceup, then went through his
pockets quickly. He found another vial like the one they’d tried to
drug him with, some papers he didn’t have time or light to read
just now, and some gold coins. Morgan would be interested in the
vial, and possibly the papers, so he pocketed those. But the coins
he replaced; he was not a thief. Whoever found the bodies in the
alley later on would hopefully think the men had killed each other
over the money. At least, they would not be looking for a robber. A
search of the other man’s clothing turned up a similar set of
papers and more money, but again Derry kept only the papers.
The unconscious man moaned, starting to come to,
and Derry was obliged to silence him again. He found himself
feeling rather squeamish as he picked up the other man’s knife, for
he had never killed a man in cold blood before. But his own life
was in danger if he did not; there was nothing else to be done. He
must look upon it as an execution.
Taking a deep breath, Derry pulled the man’s head
back and set the blade against the throat, then drew it across in
one quick gesture. Then he dropped the knife by the other man’s
hand, picked up his sword, and fled down the alley. He had seen and
heard men die before, and by his own hand. But then it had been in
battle, in open warfare. He had never thought he would become a
killer in the dark.
He staggered out the other end of the alley and
into the street, forced himself to resume his previous role of a
drunk. He got about another block before he had to stop and retch
over a gutter. Passers-by glanced at him in disgust or sympathy as
they walked by, thinking he was just another drunk.
But Derry knew better. And by the time he reached
his room at the Crooked Dragon, he was a very sober young
man.
IN Coroth, Morgan leaned back against the tall
headrest of the carved chair and closed his eyes. He was in his
tower room, and he was alone. He could hear the fire crackling in
the fireplace to his right, could feel its warmth on his face and
hands; and if he opened his eyes, he knew he would see the darkened
skylight in the vaulted ceiling, the seven bars of green glass set
high in the surrounding walls that gave the place its name—the
Green Tower. In front of him was the shiral crystal, softly aglow
on its gryphon stand in the center of the table. His hands rested
lightly on the chair arms as he relaxed and cleared his mind.
Someone knocked at the door, but he did not move or open his
eyes.
“Yes?”
“It’s Duncan. May I come in?”
Morgan sighed and looked at the ceiling, then sat
forward so he could turn to glance at the door.
“The door is open.”
He saw the latch turn; then the door opened and
Duncan slipped through.
“Lock it,” Morgan said, turning and leaning back in
his chair once again.
Duncan crossed to the small round table and sat in
the chair opposite Morgan. His cousin’s face was calm, serene, and
Duncan realized he must already have been casting about for Derry’s
signal.
“May I help?” he asked quietly. “It’s still a bit
early, you know.”
“I know.” Morgan sighed. “I don’t want him to try
early and get discouraged, though. This is all very new to
him.”
Duncan smiled. “And it isn’t exactly routine to us,
either, is it?” He leaned his elbows on the table and laced his
fingers together. “Are you sure you won’t let me link with you and
augment your power? It will save energy and another telling. And
Derry will have to know about me sooner or later anyway.”
Morgan grinned halfheartedly. “True enough.”
“Whenever you’re ready, then,” Duncan replied. “Go
ahead. I’ll follow right behind.”
Morgan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then
sat forward and cupped his hands around the shiral crystal. Another
deep breath keyed a return to trance, and he closed his eyes. After
a moment of silence, the shiral crystal began to glow more
brightly. At that, Duncan reached across and lightly grasped
Morgan’s wrists, his own arms resting easily on the table to either
side of the crystal. Then he, too, exhaled—and joined Morgan in
trance.
The glow of the shiral crystal intensified
slightly, then took on an indeterminate smoky amber hue. Neither
man gave any sign of being aware of that fact.
He’s getting ready, came Morgan’s clear
thought. He’s thinking about forming the link.
I feel it, Duncan responded. Where is he
now? Do you know?
I can’t tell. A long way away.
IN a tiny room at the back of a rather dowdy
village inn, Derry sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and
doused one of the two candles in the room. He had read the papers
he took from his two would-be assailants, and what he had learned
had removed some of the guilt of having killed in cold blood. For
the men had been agents of Torenth, sent on special commission to
ferret out information concerning Morgan’s troop
activities—precisely what Derry was doing, but on the other side.
They had only been on their way through Fathane, but that was
enough. And they would have killed Derry, had their positions been
reversed.
So now they were dead, and he was alive instead. It
would take a while for the local authorities to identify them
without papers. But once it was discovered that they were royalist
agents, the hue and cry would be raised in tiny Fathane, and all
strangers would be suspect. Derry didn’t see how he could be linked
with the deaths, but he must be on his guard. Stranger things had
been known to happen, and he was totally alone in Fathane.
No, not totally alone, he reminded himself,
as he lay back on the bed and pulled the medallion Morgan had given
him out of his shirt. At least he would be able to tell Morgan what
had happened, give him the information he had gathered thus
far.
He cupped the medallion in his hands and studied it
for a moment, then closed his eyes and murmured the words of the
spell Morgan had taught him. He felt a fleeting sense of dizziness
as he slipped into that strange and almost frightening state that
was not quite sleep. But then he was aware of a familiar presence
surrounding him, backed by another known almost as well. The spell
had worked!
Congratulations, Derry, you are an apt pupil.
Did you have any trouble reaching us?
Morgan?
That’s right. And Duncan, too.
Father Duncan?!
I take it that you’re surprised.
Surprised is hardly the word.
We’ll explain later. What have you
learned?
A great deal, Derry replied, smiling widely
even though he knew his commander could not see the expression.
One, Torenthi royalist troops are gathering somewhere north of
here—about five thousand strong, if rumor is
correct.
Where is “here”? Morgan interrupted.
Sorry. I’m in Fathane—an inn called the
Crooked Dragon, for some reason I haven’t yet been able to
fathom.
I know the place. Go on.
Aye, m’lord. They’re gathering near a place
called Medras, about a half-day’s ride north and inland from here.
I thought I’d ride up that way in the morning. Good hunting has
been reported in that direction, too.
Which is also a good cover for you, Morgan
agreed. How about our situation here in Corwyn?
Ah . . . a little rumbling about Warin de Grey,
but not much. Since the Torenthi have a Deryni ruler, they can
hardly be expected to be enthusiastic about an anti-Deryni
religious fanatic. He’s apparently made a few raids across the
border here but didn’t have much success. I’ll keep my ears open as
I head back west.
Do that, Morgan replied. Anything else?
You’ve done a fine job, but I don’t want to tax your strength any
more than necessary.
Yes! came Derry’s emphatic reply. I had
to kill a man in cold blood tonight, m’lord. He and his partner
were Torenthi agents, and they were trying to drug me with
something.
Do you know what it was?
No, but I have it here. I was going to bring it
back for you.
Get it, Morgan ordered. You can open your
eyes without breaking rapport. Describe it to me.
Derry opened his eyes cautiously, then reached
across and picked up the vial. He looked at it carefully, then
closed his eyes once more.
It’s a small, cloudy crystal vial with a
brownish stopper. The fluid inside seems to be orangish and kind of
thickish-looking.
All right. Open it carefully and smell it. Don’t
spill any of it on you.
Very well.
Derry sat up and opened the vial, then took a
cautious sniff.
Again, Morgan commanded.
Derry obeyed.
Do you recognize it, Duncan?
I’m not sure. It could be bélas. The
R’Kassans use the drug as a truth potion. But it will only work on
humans, and then only when they’re very drunk.
Derry, were you drunk? Morgan asked.
They thought I was, Derry replied with a
smile. Would it have hurt me?
That depends on whether you’re telling the truth
about being sober. How do you know the men were Torenthi agents, by
the way?
I took their papers. Garish de Brey and Edmund
Lyle, late of His Torenthi Majesty’s court at Beldour. They were on
their way to spy on you.
How inhospitable of them, Morgan retorted.
Anything else before we break rapport?
No, sir.
All right. First of all, I want you to destroy
those papers and the bélas. Either could be your death
warrant if you’re caught. I must go to the Hort of Orsal tomorrow,
but I’ll listen for your call tomorrow night at this time, in case
you need to get in touch with me. Don’t try unless your information
is vital, though, because we can’t afford the energy drain on a
regular basis. And see what you can find out about the Interdict.
Other than that, just be careful and get back in the next two days.
Have you got all that?
Yes, sir. Contact tomorrow night if it’s
important, and return in two days.
Good luck, then.
Thank you, sir.
Derry shuddered slightly as the contact was broken,
then opened his eyes and looked around the room. He felt tired,
drained of energy, but it was a good tired, and the experience had
been much better than he’d expected. He apparently had been
apprehensive over nothing. One of these days he would learn to
believe what Morgan told him about magic the first time.
He looked wistfully at the open vial in his hand,
then emptied it into the chamber pot under his bed. Then he ground
the vial to powder under his heel and put flame to the papers.
Ashes followed the drug into the chamber pot, and then he urinated
over the entire mess for good measure.
There. He defied even a Deryni to make sense of
that mess—if anyone even thought to look.
That settled, he unlaced his leather jerkin and
pulled off his boots. Pulling back the shabby blanket on the bed,
he flopped down on the mattress and covered himself, moving his
dagger under his pillow where he could reach it in a hurry. Then,
as an afterthought, he tucked Morgan’s medallion back inside his
shirt.
Wouldn’t want anyone to walk in and see
that, he thought to himself as he dropped off to sleep.