Flametouched Read online

  He could see the road now between the trees. A man with a rifle rode back and forth on sentry along the lane, eyes scouring what he could of the field. Davon was lining him up for a shot when a bullet cracked the top-most rock on the pile he hid behind, sending chips and stone dust all over him. While the shot foiled his aim, it also had an unintended consequence. The rider stopped dead in his tracks and searched the field, he and his horse framed nicely between two poplar trees. Davon dropped him immediately. Just one more.

  The last rifleman clearly had a bead on the rock pile and Davon knew better than to poke his head up. He waited, flexing his leg to test it, grimacing at the stinging pain. Another shot hit the highest rock on the cairn, but this time, Davon surged to his feet. He knew roughly how long it took to reload a rifle, and he half ran, half stumbled toward the road before throwing himself into a shallow gully, by far the best cover he had managed during the entire affair. The road was tantalizingly close, and so was his last victim’s horse, now chewing the grass in the ditch on the far side of the roadway. Twenty feet separated him from the cover of the trees. If he could trick the shooter into squeezing off another round, he might just make it.

  For the next few minutes he tried everything he could think of, from raising his hat, to throwing rocks to make sounds nearby. None of it worked. To hit him in the gully, the shooter would have to reposition himself closer to the road, and that is where Davon could not afford for him to go. He could wait no longer. With a silent prayer to the Eternal Flame, he bolted from the gully and sprinted for the trees as fast as his gimpy leg would allow, weaving slightly left and right to make himself harder to hit.

  And it worked.

  He reached the trees without a shot being fired and cautiously approached the feeding horse. It startled at his touch, but with a firm hand on the reins and a soothing pat, it accepted his mastery. He mounted just as large drops of rain started to fall and spurred the horse on.

  The rifle report sounded in his ears and a bullet bit into his left shoulder. The impact drove him to the right, and he clutched the saddle horn to stay on the horse. The animal lurched forward, and he urged it on, pain running like fire down his leg and throbbing in his shoulder. Hunkering down over the neck of the horse, he hung on for dear life. Three hours to Bellshire, at least. Maybe Arianne had been right, after all.

  Melchor Raines shook his head in disbelief. The “underclerk” had dropped his three hired men with three very precise shots. Such a feat of marksmanship was extraordinary, even better than what he himself could manage. Even so, it was nothing compared to what had happened in Harrickshire.

  Melchor had hired those men, too, to stage the fake assassination attempt. The Earl of Longford had supposedly killed those three with well-aimed shots to the head, as well, but Melchor had harbored doubts that any drunken lord could have pulled it off; it was unlikely a sober one could have. But the Lord’s overly modest behavior afterward was even more mysterious and out of character. It was all making sense now. Hadn’t this underclerk been at Harrickshire, as well?

  Whoever he was, he was clearly not just a clerk and was very likely one of the Queen’s agents undercover. If the Queen had placed him in the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, then she had probably had some notion that something was amiss for longer than he or Ambassador Clout had originally thought. Fortunately, it appeared the clerk had left behind the critical bits of evidence that would lead to implicating some of the noble Bittermarchian turncoats. Not so fortunately, the evidence was trapped under a dead horse.

  Melchor exhaled roughly as the rain pounded down from the leaden sky. His training as a member of the elite Fist of Creetis had not provided him with any instruction on how to extract items from underneath dead animals in a driving rainstorm. While he had some ideas, they were all messy, and with the storm, they would all be muddy. What he did have, however, was an iron will to do what had to be done—and a sticky memory. Mr. David Harper, supposed underclerk of Queen Filippa, would pay for this inconvenience, provided he didn’t bleed out before he got to Bellshire.

  Chapter 20

  When Arianne arrived in Bellshire, she ordered the carriage directly to the Queen’s palace and found that she was expected. She reasoned that Baron Carver had arrived in Bellshire before her. This comforted her, but she felt angry just the same, and she had a palm prepared to slap the beard right off his face. She hadn’t quite composed the words she would say to express her displeasure, but she rarely needed preparation to castigate someone who really deserved it, even if it was a baron in disguise; a baron should know better than to cross a viscountess.

  Missa and a sleepy Elaine followed the baggage to their apartments, while a liveried servant guided Arianne to the Queen’s private dining room where she would take dinner. Arianne had a lot to ask, though she doubted many answers would be forthcoming. Baron Carver had arrived two days before her at best, and whomever the Queen had tasked with mining the ledgers for information would likely have progressed little.

  The double arched doors opened before her, leading to a warm room trimmed with dark wood, plastered walls decorated with pictures of King Ostris and Queen Filippa in their younger years. Delicate trinkets of gold and silver lined a shelf that ran continuously around the walls, and the rich smell of roasted pork wafted in from the kitchen doors on the opposite side. A single arched window let in a late evening light that did little to add to the illumination of the candles on the table.

  “Her Grace will be here shortly,” the servant said, bowing and then shutting the doors behind him. Arianne took a seat and noticed that provision had been made for four. Perhaps Baron Carver and the Lord High Sheriff will be joining us. She supposed the slap could wait; she didn’t want to shame him in front of others. He had, after all, defended her household. A frosty stare during dinner would suffice with a slap for dessert. She would forgive him quickly, though; she hated feeling upset with him and hoped he would take her remonstrations in the spirit they were intended, though she didn’t quite know what spirit that was.

  The servants swung the doors open and Arianne turned, rising to her feet. It was not Baron Carver or the Lord High Sheriff. A gorgeous copper-haired woman wearing a beautiful but low cut dress strode into the room on the arm of a gangly, redheaded Lord. Her hair had been curled to perfection, and it bounced up and down as she walked, delicate features coming alive as she laid her eyes on Lady Hightower.

  The man she recognized immediately as the Earl of Tahbor. He was tall, had a strong nose, and carried himself with a disdainful air. The woman she hadn’t seen in some time, but the widow Emile Carver was unmistakable.

  “Lady Hightower!” she said, inclining her head. “We met once before, remember? I am widow Lady Carver! Soon to be Lady Tahbor, however. How do you do?”

  Arianne nearly lost her composure. The Queen was playing games, again. How could she force her to eat a meal with such a beastly woman?

  “I am well, thank you,” Arianne replied, returning the courtesy. “Earl Tahbor, it is good to see you.”

  “Quite,” he said tersely before pulling a chair for his fiancée. Once finished, he joined them at the table, sitting with perfect, straight-backed posture. A younger woman, darkly complexioned and serious in demeanor, entered after everyone was seated and stood near the wall behind the Lady Carver.

  “Just stand in the corner, Ori,” Lady Carver commanded the young woman. “I will call for you if needed. That’s my Lady’s Maid,” she confided to Arianne. “I bring her everywhere. Doesn’t she do the most delightful curls?”

  “They are exceptional,” Arianne smiled, trying to catch Ori’s eye. The young maid focused on nothing, staring out the window and ignoring the conversation, or at least appearing to do so.

  “Did you know, Weston,” the Lady Carver continued, “that my deceased husband killed Lord Cornton of Hightower? It was such a ghastly affair. I do apologize, Lady Hightower. Lord Carver—if one could call him a Lord—was practically a wild animal. Now tha
t he is dead, I hope that you and I can be good friends.”

  Arianne was taken aback. “My late husband insulted your honor and Lord Carver defended it. I’m surprised that you would fault him for what he did to rescue your reputation.”

  The opening doors provided some relief from the uncomfortable silence as Queen Filippa, clearly in a hurry, strode in as fast as her aged bones would permit. All stood in deference.

  “Enough,” the Queen said. “Sit down. I apologize for being late. I had hoped to be here before you all arrived.”

  I’m sure, Arianne thought. She wanted to see what I would do when I met Lady Carver.

  “Is everything well, Your Grace?” Arianne asked.

  “As well as can be expected. I was at the Flame Cathedral passing a prayer into the Eternal Flame for one of my underclerks who is in need. The cathedral seems to get farther and farther away every year. And those damnable steps! Quite taxing.”

  Arianna’s heart leapt into her throat. Surely she meant Baron Carver. Had something happened to him? Talking about the unfortunate events that might have brought him to harm could not be done comfortably with the Earl Tahbor and Lady Carver nearby. The last thing she wanted was for news of the secret ledgers to start making rounds through court any earlier than it had to. Nor did she want Lady Carver to take any interest in her not-so-dead husband, however unlikely it might be that she would. At the same time, her pounding heart demanded answers.

  “Are you quite well, Arianne?” the Queen asked, tone bordering on the mischievous. “You appear a little pale this evening.”

  “I am well,” she replied. “It was a long journey from Hightower and I am a little fatigued.”

  “Ha!” Lady Carver said. “Hightower is a stone’s throw from Bellshire! Frostbourne might as well be in Creetis! It took the Earl and me over a week to arrive, didn’t it, Weston?”

  “Yes, damnably tedious.” If giant sloths could talk, Arianne imagined they would sound like Earl Tahbor whose deep, slow voice barely conveyed any emotion.

  “I hope the matter with your underclerk isn’t a serious one,” Arianne probed.

  “If it weren’t serious, I wouldn’t have gone to the Eternal Flame itself,” Filippa answered. “But enough about that. We aren’t here to talk about my house staff, after all. Men get hurt all the time. It’s in their nature.”

  Emile spoke up eagerly. “You’ve the right of it, Your Grace, though Earl Tahbor has yet to succumb to any foolish accidents. Lord Carver was always injuring himself in the stupidest ways. A few days before he died he ran afoul of a sabercat, of all things. I suppose it was fitting that he was killed by the trampling bison. What was it you said, Weston, that we should call him Lord Underhoof from now on?”

  She giggled, and the edges of the Earl’s lips turned up a fraction of an inch, indicating amusement.

  “The appellation was yours, Lady Carver,” he stated evenly.

  Arianne, shocked at the woman’s cavalier disrespect for a husband not even a year dead, chanced a look up to the Lady’s Maid in the corner. Her eyes burned with displeasure, and she quickly wiped a tear from her cheek. The Queen sat an impartial and unmoved observer, and Arianne really hoped the food arrived quickly. She needed to find Baron Carver and she desperately wanted to get away from his wife. The Queen subtly and frustratingly had let her know that Davon was injured, and Arianne felt a silent terror building within her. Lord Carver should have listened to her!

  “I was just telling Lady Hightower,” Lady Carver continued, addressing Queen Filippa, “that she and I can be good friends now that Lord Carver is dead. The disgrace of those tragic events four years ago need no longer stand between us.”

  She reached out and patted Arianne’s hand, and Arianne stifled a flinch. She’d better not do that when I have a fork.

  “Were you unhappy with Lord Carver?” Queen Filippa asked. “If I may be so bold, your statements seem to indicate that you were dissatisfied.”

  “He was much different as a courting man than he was as a married one,” Lady Carver reported without hesitation. “He was always out of doors, always mingling with the commoners, always letting the servants do whatever they wanted. It’s as if he despised his own nobility! Whenever he went to assemblies he spent more time regarding the decorations than speaking with anyone. He never had the proper air of command or dignity as he ought. I, of course, discovered these defects too late. He is dead now, and thus the case is remedied. I am just sorry that he bereaved you, Lady Hightower. I should have seen what a wild thing he was.”

  Arianne chanced another glance at Ori in the corner. Lady Carver was lucky that the young lady didn’t have a fork, either. Something very wrong was at work here. The Queen nodded her head in understanding, throwing Arianne a knowing look.

  “Oh dear, Weston,” Lady Carver said, mirth revealing a set of perfect teeth. “You are eating dinner with three widows! What will the court think?”

  His lips turned down a fraction of an inch. Displeasure. “It is hardly of consequence, Emile.”

  She sobered. “Just an observation, Weston. You told me just this morning that I needed to be more aware of my surroundings.”

  He stared forward silently despite her attempts to elicit a response with playful looks.

  The food came shortly afterward, though Arianne had little appetite for anything. Worry for Baron Carver soured her stomach, and Lady Carver’s blather soured her mood. She ate little and quickly.

  “Queen Filippa,” Arianne said, rising, “I must beg to be excused. I am feeling a good deal more ill than before.”

  “I thought you might be,” Queen Filippa grinned. “Go see my physician, Dr. Otis, in the infirmary. If you happen upon my underclerk, convey to him my best wishes, will you?”

  “Of course.” Arianne had a thought. “Lady Carver, I was wondering if I might borrow your Lady’s Maid tomorrow morning to put some of those delightful curls into my hair. Would you mind?”

  “But of course not!” she obliged, face beaming. “I will send her first thing after she finishes with me.”

  “I thank you. Lady Carver, Earl Tahbor, Your Grace. Good evening.”

  The Earl stood as was proper, and Arianne left at a sickly pace until the doors closed—then she resumed a healthy one. The infirmary was down a floor and on the opposite side of the palace, and by the time she arrived she struggled for breath. A servant opened the doors for her.

  Once inside, the smells of salves and the soft murmur of voices greeted her. It almost felt like the Flame Cathedral. The infirmary was a tall, narrow room with high windows that came to a point at the top. Ten beds lined the wall all the way down, each bed separated from the others by gauzy cloth. A thin, older man with a monocle and a black vest rose from a chair behind a desk as she entered.

  “How my I help you, Lady…?”

  “Hightower. I am looking for one David Harper. Are you Doctor Otis?”

  He smirked. “I am, and, yes, we have one David Harper.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Thank the Flame there’s only one. The man has a hard time doing what he’s told.”

  Arianne nodded. “That is the very one I’m looking for. Has he been troublesome?”

  “Well,” Doctor Otis said, coming around the desk, “he keeps trying to escape to get paint or pieces of wood to carve. An odd fellow. Only the Queen’s fiat keeps him here. This way.”

  The doctor led her down the row, removing his monocle to polish it. There, on the doctor’s palm, was the mark of the Eternal Flame. Davon was in good hands. Only two other patients lay in the beds, Baron Carver’s at the very end. A nurse was chastising him as they approached.

  “I’m spending half my time sweeping up your mess, Mister! Now put the knife away and let me replace those dressings.”

  Resigned assent followed. Arianne and the doctor turned the corner to find a shirtless Baron Carver sitting on the edge of his bed while the nurse peeled a soaked, bloody bandage away from his shoulder and pressed another into its place.
Arianne gawked for a moment both at the muscular frame and the three white scars running down the middle of his chest. Another bandage encircled his thigh, his pant leg split up above the knee. He had been shot! Somehow they had found him!

  “A Lady Hightower to see you, Mr. Harper,” Dr. Otis announced. Arianne had no idea what to say as Baron Carver’s surprised face regarded her. His wounds and obvious discomfort persuaded her not to slap him just yet. He needed to properly convalesce first. He appeared a bit pale and feverish, and compassion pushed aside her anger over his disobedience and her anxiety over the ledgers he had absconded with.

  “Lady Hightower,” he said, raising his arms as the nurse pulled his shirt back over his head.

  The nurse butted in before Arianne could say anything. “You lay down, Mr. Harper!” she ordered irritably, shoving him back. “It’s nearly dark. No more carving! You lay back, tell the Lady what she wants, and then go to sleep.”

  The nurse turned away from her patient, rolling her eyes as she left. The doctor left, too, promising to bring her a chair.

  As soon as the nurse had cleared earshot, Baron Carver sat back up. “The ledgers are safe, Lady Hightower,” he assured her, voice low.

  “To ashes with the ledgers! How are you?” she inquired, voice more emotional than she intended. Did he really think she only cared about the ledgers?

  “Doctor Otis says I am doing well,” he replied.

  Doctor Otis arrived with the chair. “I said you would do well if you would rest properly, Mr. Harper, which you have failed to do with all your little excursions. I believe the nurse ordered you to lie down.”

  “It wouldn’t be proper in front of the Lady,” Mr. Harper refused.

  Arianne sat. “Mr. Harper, lay down. It will go a long way toward me forgiving you in other matters.”

  He acquiesced and the doctor left. Arianne noticed that his bedside table was littered with shavings and the new carvings he had worked on. A sabercat very like Elaine’s sat next to an exquisite hoop bracelet of intricately carved vines painted to look nearly lifelike. A half-finished walking cane—fashioned to look like a snake—leaned against the wall.