The King’s Justice Page 20

  “I see,” Richenda said gently. “And you don’t think that’s something valuable for a king to know?”

  “Oh, I suppose it is,” Rothana said with a perplexed little sigh. “I certainly thought so at the time. Only—something else happened, just before I broke the contact; a—a deeper touching than I’d planned—far more intense.”

  “On whose part? Yours or his?”

  “Both, I suppose,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have let it happen, though. I was supposed to be in control. And I don’t know why I responded that way.”

  “Perhaps because you’re a woman and he’s a man?” Richenda asked.

  “Richenda, stop it!” Rothana blurted, standing abruptly to turn and look out the window, arms hugged across her chest. “I didn’t do anything to encourage either him or Conall!”

  “No one said you did,” Richenda replied. “On the other hand—well, if you should ever decide you don’t want a religious life after all, you could do far worse than either young man.”

  “Richenda!”

  “All right! Forget I ever mentioned it,” Richenda said drolly, ducking and raising a hand in surrender as Rothana turned to stare at her in shock. “You’re a body as well as a soul, however. Don’t ever become so wound up in Orin’s poetry that you forget that.”

  Any further objection Rothana might have been contemplating was cut off by another knock at the door, followed by the tentative peering of Conall around the entry screen.

  “May we approach, Your Grace? My lady?”

  With a quick nod of assent, Richenda and then Rothana stood as Conall moved aside to admit a slender, wiry man dressed all in dusty black, about Conall’s height. So skilled was his shielding that even Richenda, who knew what to look for, could not detect any hint that the man was Deryni.

  She had no time for a close look at his face. He wore the flowing robes she had expected from Conall’s description, with a bulging black satchel slung across his left shoulder on a leather strap, but the swathings of his turbanlike headdress allowed only an impression of dark eyes and a closely clipped beard and mustache before he made her a sweeping, graceful bow in the eastern fashion, fingertips brushing heart, lips, and forehead in salute. He kept his eyes averted as he straightened from his bow, his right hand returning to his breast. He did not appear to be armed, but Richenda knew he had no need to be.

  “This is the peddler Ludolphus, Your Grace,” Conall said doubtfully. “If you should need me, I’ll not be far away.”

  “Yes, thank you, Conall,” Richenda murmured, giving him dismissal with a nod of her head and extending a hand in invitation for the visitor to approach. “Please be welcome, Master Ludolphus, and tell me the news of my cousin.”

  Not until the door had closed behind Conall once more did Richenda allow her formal demeanor to slip, darting across the short distance between herself and the visitor with a stifled little cry to fling her arms around him in delight.

  “Ludolphus, Ludolphus, what is this Ludolphus nonsense, my lord?” she whispered, letting her mind answer his psychic greeting even as he returned her physical embrace. “Rothana, do you not see who it is?”

  Rothana’s breath caught in a little gasp as she got a closer look at him, but because he set a finger across his lips in warning, her scarcely breathed “Uncle Azim!” was more a psychic whisper than a spoken name as he came to embrace her as well. Though he brushed both women with the caress of his mind, he did not speak aloud until he had drawn them into the greater privacy of the window embrasure.

  “Do not give me too glad a greeting, children,” he cautioned, grinning as he set his satchel on one of the window benches and swept one arm in gesture for them to sit opposite. “I fear I might not be welcome if my true identity were recognized outside this room. Fortunately, my alter-ego Ludolphus only arouses the suspicion one must expect of a Moorish peddler come to request audience of a Christian lady.”

  “Nay, my lord, that is not true!” Richenda protested.

  “Ah, do not try to lie to save my feelings, child,” Azim chided, the white flash of his grin softening the rebuke. “Ludolphus the peddler arouses only human fears; Azim, brother of the Emir Hakim Nur Hallaj and precentor of the Knights of the Anvil, has been all too open that he and his Order both harbor and recruit Deryni.

  “Even so, I should have had no hesitation in coming more openly to see you if Kelson were here. But with the king away at war—well, I think you have enough Deryni and near-Deryni to contend with, until he returns.”

  “I think I’m acquainted with all the Deryni,” Richenda said dryly, giving him a dubious expression as she folded her arms across her breast. “You’ve obviously heard about our Torenthi hostages, and Queen Jehana. However, I wonder what you mean by ‘near-Deryni.’”

  Azim shrugged noncommittally and opened the mouth of his satchel, searching among the ends of half a dozen leather scroll tubes. “Why, your Haldane princes left here to manage things in Kelson’s absence: Nigel, and the suspicious young Conall waiting in yonder corridor, hoping for another glimpse of my lovely niece.” He smiled to see Rothana blush. “Tell me: how much time do they spend in the company of your Torenthi hostages?”

  “Why, hardly any,” Richenda replied, puzzled by a faintly brittle edge to his question. “The two younger boys play with little Liam, of course—and we’re quite aware that Liam’s mother is a potential threat, so proper safeguards have been taken on that front—but I’ve also patterned the boys to warn us if Liam should attempt anything. Are you just worrying on general principles, or is there something else I should know? Is that why you played messenger, rather than sending a servant? Nearly anyone could have delivered letters and scrolls.”

  Azim shrugged and handed one of the smaller scroll cases across to Richenda with a wistful look. “More of that in a moment, child. First of all, is Prince Nigel expecting a Torenthi trade delegation in the next week or so?”

  “I really couldn’t say,” Richenda said softly, suddenly developing a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Why do you ask?”

  “In a moment. Does he have audiences scheduled for this morning?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then we have a little time. First you must read the letter.” He gestured toward the leather case. “I shall warn you now that it’s a blind copy of another I know to have been sent. I do not know to whom it was sent, or what other documents there may be to support it. I can say that my source on this particular letter is impeccable. It is for you to decide what action is to be taken—and Nigel.”

  Not wasting further time, Richenda yanked the end off the leather tube and shook out the contents. As she skimmed the angular lines, the lead in her stomach rose to her throat.…

  … plans proceeding … liberate the royal prisoners … safety of the king of utmost importance … rescuers to pose as traders … access to the Haldane regent … assassination.…

  She had read enough. Stunned, she raised her eyes to her old master, handing the letter to Rothana to read.

  “They’re going to try to kill Nigel?” she whispered. “When?”

  “That, I do not know. Not this morning, at any rate. I gather you’ve had no inkling that anything of this sort was afoot?”

  “No.”

  “But you did permit the Lady Morag to send and receive correspondence?”

  “Kelson allowed her to write to Mahael, informing him of her hostage status through the summer. I myself dictated the words.”

  “And she sent no further messages, in the seals, perhaps?”

  Richenda shook her head. “I would have known, even if I could not read the messages themselves. Besides, there has been no time for a further exchange of letters.”

  “Well, then, perhaps something more direct,” Azim guessed. “She will have been well trained, being Wencit’s sister. And Mahael of Arjenol is perhaps even craftier than his brother Lionel.”

  “You think Mahael responsible?” Rothana asked, looking up from her own
perusal of the letter.

  “Or one of his minions,” Azim agreed. “If Mahael, however, the plot may extend even further than we think. Young Liam himself may not be safe.”

  “Liam?” Richenda said.

  “Think how I have taught you, Richenda,” Azim murmured, leaning forward to rest both hands on her shoulders and look into her eyes, fingers entwined around the back of her neck. “Mahael stands to lose nothing if ill should befall the young king while he lies hostage, having the next heir in his governance, but loss of the Princess Morag is another matter. Suppose that someone has reminded him how he might increase his own fortunes, could he but marry his brother’s wife, she being heiress of Torenth after her two remaining sons? If Mahael were wed to Morag, whether or not with her consent, all he need do is fall back to his own lands of Arjenol for ten or fifteen years and breed heirs, much as the Mearan pretender has done; your Kelson could do nothing to stop him. And if, somehow, a convenient ‘accident’ were to befall his stepsons …?”

  “As befell King Alroy,” Richenda continued, seeing it all through the mirror of Azim’s mind, “then Mahael would rule Torenth with Morag, and his sons after them. Sweet Jesu, do you think that’s what he really plans?”

  “That, I do not know,” he replied, releasing her and sitting back. “You will have to discover that for yourself. I have given you the warning, however, and tell you that Mahael is capable of such a plot, whether or not this particular plot is of his crafting. But a plan does exist to attempt the rescue of the Torenthi hostages, with Nigel targeted for assassination. That is what you must act upon at first. The rest remains to be discovered.”

  “I must go and tell him right away,” Richenda said, starting to rise.

  Azim smiled and caught her by the wrist, shaking his head. “Not yet, little one. He is safe enough for now. You have already told me that he has no audience this morning, and I dare not stay much longer. The official reason for my visit has yet to be fulfilled. You do still wish the scrolls I’ve brought you, I believe?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Schooling release of tension the way Azim had taught her so many years before, Richenda sat again and helped brace his satchel while he removed half a dozen more scroll tubes, several of them long enough that he had to force the ends free of the satchel’s mouth.

  “First of all, I’ve had no luck locating the transcripts you asked for,” Azim said, “though I’ve not yet given up hope. There’s precious little about Saint Camber in anyone’s archives, even our own, and finding accounts of his canonization simply may not be possible.”

  “What have you found, then?”

  “Well, this one is the most interesting,” he said, handing her the most weathered-looking of the cases. “It’s an account of the proceedings of the Council of Ramos—badly damaged in spots, and probably not complete even when it came to us, but perhaps it will be of use. God alone knows how it got into the Djellarda archives, knowing how our Michaeline predecessors felt about the ecclesiastical hierarchy of that time.”

  Richenda glanced at the markings on the outside, then passed it to Rothana as Azim handed her another.

  “Disappointing to me, but Arilan will be fascinated—and Duncan. Nothing directly relating to Camber?”

  “Not to him, but to his children,” Azim replied. “That one is an order to pay stonemasons for work done on a chapel—signed by Camber’s son Joram, who was a Michaeline priest and knight. It’s dated in the reign of King Rhys Michael Haldane, however, which puts it at least fifteen years after Camber’s supposed death. What makes it interesting is that the remnants of the seal reflect traces of a message once set there—which puts its importance beyond what one would expect of a simple bill for masons’ services. Maybe what they built for him was special.”

  “Like a chapel to house Camber’s remains?” Richenda said, raising an eyebrow in speculation.

  “The thought had occurred to me,” Azim admitted dryly, “though I’ve not been able to read anything in the seal. Perhaps you’ll have better luck.”

  “What about the others?” Richenda asked, as Azim passed the remaining scrolls to her.

  “Some poetry I thought you might enjoy, and a text that could be part of a Healer’s manual from the old times. Knowing of your Alaric’s burgeoning healing talents, I thought that might be of particular interest. It could even be Gabrilite—though I warn you, they were fond of cloaking everything in at least two levels of double-meaning. The two of you should have a merry summer puzzling at them.

  “And finally,” he handed her a slender packet of letters, “missives from Rohays and the stewards of your remaining estates in Andelon. The spring plantings were very good, I’m told, but instructions are required on repairs needed to the roof at El Ha’it.”

  “El Ha’it.…” Richenda smiled and laid the rest of the letters on the seat for later reading. “Would that I could transport the lake here to Rhemuth for the summer. ’Tis times like these that the temptation of weather-working is almost too great to resist.”

  Azim closed up his satchel and rose, smiling.

  “If I thought it a true temptation, I should scold you as your mother did when you were a child,” he said softly, “but I know you are my true student—and you, R’thana,” he added, brushing the curve of Rothana’s cheek with a fingertip as his eyes softened with affection for both of them.

  “But I must go now. Consider well how you use what I have told you, Richenda. Foiling the Torenthi plan seems simple enough, but we do not know the extent of Morag’s involvement, and she is very powerful. Be careful.”

  “I shall, master,” she promised, as first she and then Rothana kissed his hand in formal farewell, student to teacher.

  Then he was striding out of the solar, resuming the humbler demeanor of the peddler Ludolphus as Conall approached to escort him back to the courtyard, reading the faint uneasiness of those they passed in the corridors, even though Conall’s presence reassured them that a Moorish peddler had a guarded right to be here.

  Once, just before they reached the yard, a young priest hurrying in the same direction all but collided with them, too preoccupied with leafing through the pages of his breviary even to see them until he had nearly run them down. In their mutual juggling to keep the book from falling, Azim instinctively brushed the man’s mind as well as his hand—and was astonished to find that the priest was Queen Jehana’s chaplain!

  He could not resist the temptation. Holding the link just an instant longer, even though physical contact had been only the most fleeting, he set a swift but irresistible compulsion in the man’s unconscious that just might bear fruit. The priest hardly faltered as he clutched his book to his breast, murmured hurried thanks, and dashed on across the yard, already late for chapel.

  The Deryni master put it from his mind then, for they had reached the yard. Conall dogged his heels, polite but taciturn, until he had mounted his dust-brown mare and trotted her and the laden pack mule toward the gatehouse arch. Even then, the prince and his squire followed on horseback all the way to the city gates, presumably to see that he was, in fact, leaving; the squire had been waiting with horses saddled already.

  Azim easily could have misdirected them, had he wished, but he was ready to leave Rhemuth anyway, so he did not bother. Let the young Haldane play at being the zealous guardian of the women left in his father’s protection; he would be tempered all too soon by more serious contention, if Azim’s suspicions about Mahael proved well-founded.

  As Azim headed south along the river, to rendezvous later that night with transportation more fitting his station—one of his Order’s galleys out of Kharthat, though flying Fianna’s colors in these Gwynedder waters—he thought about the task he had left for Richenda, regretful that she must be the one to deal with it, but confident of his student’s ability to handle the situation.

  He would keep close tabs on this one. Not only family honor was at stake, but the slowly recovering honor of Deryni in Gwynedd as well
. Not for the first time, he wondered at the odd assortment gathered at Rhemuth, now that Kelson, Morgan, Duncan, and young MacArdry were away.

  Richenda would be rock-steady as she had been trained to be, of course—the perfect plant in a land predominantly human—and also Rothana; Arilan would provide maturity and depth, if a trifle overfussy at times; and Nigel, though something of an unknown so far as his Haldane potentials were concerned, was at least a man of intelligence, caution, and even temper. Together, they ought to be able to balance Morag without difficulty, if she was the only Deryni to be reckoned with.

  Of course, he must not totally discount Jehana—even more of a question mark as a Deryni than Nigel was as a Haldane, in all truth—but Azim doubted she would change much from her stand of the past few years, despite the bit of whimsy in which he had just indulged with her young priest. Still, he found himself wishing, as he urged his mare along the path atop the riverbank, that he had thought to spend more time in Bremagne during his youth. Contact with Jehana at that time, forcing her to see and deal with what she was, might have saved unthought-of problems now.

  But he was not going to indulge in the game of “what if.” That was altogether too tempting and fruitless a pastime for any of his race. He turned his thoughts instead to the challenge of a new conundrum his grand master had vexed him with at their last meeting in Djellarda. Rocail said it had been a favorite of the R’Kassan adept Sulien, but Azim was convinced Rocail himself had fashioned it—not that the work was beyond Rocail’s capabilities. It was quite brilliant, actually.…

  And as Azim amused himself with linguistic gymnastics, whistling a desert air under his breath for the benefit of his mare and the plodding mule following behind, the most recent subject of his contemplation—but one—knelt in a side chapel of the basilica within the walls of Rhemuth Keep and buried her face in her hands.

  Jehana had not been able to find Sister Cecile, after her soul-shaking encounter with Richenda. Around her, several of the newly arrived Brigidine sisters also bowed at prie-dieux set in neat rows across the little chapel, but it was their first Mass of the day; it was Jehana’s second. Father Ambros wore the crimson vestments of a martyr’s feast day as he chanted the Introit from before the altar.