The Tournament Knight, Page 2

  The stench was near-overpowering.

  “Pardon, Brother,” said Gerald, his eyes watering, “but how can you stand the odor?”

  “In my…line of work, let us say, it helps to have a strong stomach,” said Trocend. “None of them men received a fatal dose of poison, though they’ll all remain unconscious for at least a week, if not longer.”

  “And all of them,” said Mazael, “were among the bookkeepers’ favorites to win the tournament.”

  “Indeed,” said Trocend. “I have put out the story that Sir Mandor and Sir Aeternis and the others were laid low by some bad pork. And since I assume you will go digging up trouble, that will give you the time you need to look into this.”

  “You assume rightly,” said Mazael.

  “I would suggest,” said Trocend, “that you begin your inquiries among the bookkeepers. Knights, if you will pardon my bluntness, tend to prefer steel and straight fights over poison. I would not put it past an ambitious bookkeeper to manipulate the results of a tournament to favor his wagers.”

  “I will do that,” said Mazael. “Thank you.”

  He left the tent, crossed the knights’ camp, and headed for the merchants’ encampment, Gerald hurrying after.

  “So we shall question the moneylenders?” said Gerald.

  “Of course not,” said Mazael.

  “But Trocend said…”

  “The bookkeepers have many vices, but stupidity is not one of them,” said Mazael. “If one moneylender gets caught meddling with the tournament, Lord Malden will have them all hanged. Or flogged and driven into the wilderness. And I doubt there’s a knight foolish enough to poison half his rivals to win a tournament. Even then, that’s no guarantee of victory. No, there’s some other business here.”

  “But what?” said Gerald.

  “Good question,” said Mazael.

  He stopped for a moment to think it over. Poisoning one knight was risky enough. Poisoning seven was a greater risk…and it seemed that all seven men had fallen ill at once.

  Which meant they had been gathered in one place when they ate the poisoned food.

  “Of course,” said Mazael. “The tournament’s not until tomorrow, but knights and merchants have been gathering all week. Your brother would have known his chief competitors…and I assume he would have invited them all to eat and drink with him. It was the sort of thing he would do.”

  “He did,” said Gerald. “At one of the brewers’ pavilions.”

  “Which one?” said Mazael.

  Gerald thought for a moment. “Ah…the one owned by Master Fordham of Knightport, I believe. Yes, that was it. Mandor says that Fordham makes the best beer.”

  “How do you know about this?” said Mazael.

  “Mandor invited me to go drinking with him,” said Gerald.

  “Why didn’t…right, yes, a true knight does not engage in dissolution, I remember,” said Mazael. “Though I suppose it was just as well you didn’t.”

  ###

  Master Fordham, master brewer of the brewers’ guild of Knightport, was a doughy, red-faced man who looked as if he had sampled far too many of his wares. Under Mazael’s questioning, he grew alternately belligerent and supplicating, at one point making grandiose threats and waving the sighed license he had from Lord Malden’s chancery to sell beer at the tournament.

  “I sell quality beer, I do,” said Fordham. “Master Fordham makes the finest beer in Knightport, and in all of Knightreach, never mind what that villain Osborne of Castle Town might say. The mere suggestion that my beer might have sickened noble Sir Mandor is slander, sir knight, the rankest slander, and I…”

  “For the gods’ sake, stop talking,” said Mazael, a headache pulsing behind his eyes, and for a moment he envisioned taking his sword and gutting Fordham like a swollen fish. Fordham must have realized his danger, because the master brewer shut up, thankfully, his face shiny with nervous sweat. “I already told you, the poison was in something they ate. Not something they drank. Which means you are clear of any wrongdoing.”

  “But,” said Fordham, swallowing, “they bought and ate my food. Oh, gods…Lord Malden will have my head.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael, “but did you prepare your own food?”

  “No,” said Fordham. “I am a master brewer, not a mere cook.”

  “So you buy food, and then sell it to the tournament spectators at a ridiculously inflated price?” said Mazael.

  “A reasonable price, yes,” said Fordham.

  “So what did Mandor and the other knights eat while they were here?” said Mazael.

  “They…mostly drank, as I recall,” said Fordham. “Quite a lot, really. I was astonished they could keep any food down.” He rubbed his hands on the front of his apron. “But my apprentices…my apprentices brought them bread and salt beef.”

  Mazael nodded. “Who sells you bread?”

  “Walter of Castle Town,” said Fordham. “I’ve known him for years. Good man, doesn’t mix sawdust in the flour like some of the bakers I’ve known.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Bakers are a thieving lot, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “Indeed,” said Mazael. “And your salt beef?”

  “Ah…a new merchant, my lord knight,” said Fordham. “A woman named Lydia. Usually I buy from the butcher in Castle Town, but he was out of stock. This Lydia wench is the daughter of some rancher from the High Plain, came south to sell her father’s salt beef for the tournament. Not an unreasonable price, but…odd woman.”

  “Odd?” said Mazael. “How?”

  “Saucy,” said Fordham.

  Mazael raised an eyebrow. “Some men like that in a woman.”

  “It’s charming enough for the first few minutes, but after that you’d wish she would just shut up,” said Fordham. “Says she’s from the High Plain, but she talks like someone from Barellion.”

  That caught Mazael’s interest. “Barellion, you say?”

  “Aye, Barellion,” said Fordham. “Never been there, but I know what the merchants from Barellion sound like. Lydia talks like a woman from Barellion.” He lowered his voice. “And one of ill repute, too.”

  “Where is her stall?” said Mazael.

  “South of here, near the edge of the tournament field,” said Fordham. “You think she poisoned Sir Mandor?”

  “No,” said Mazael. “Thank you for your time, master brewer.”

  He left the tent, thinking. The sun dipped beneath the western sky, darkness falling over the camps. The sounds of revelry from the pavilions had only grown louder.

  “Did this Lydia poison Mandor?” said Gerald.

  “Maybe,” said Mazael. “I’m not sure yet.” He looked at the boy. “Go back to Knightcastle. This will likely get ugly, and your father will have my head if you get killed.”

  “A squire should stand by his knight in times of battle,” said Gerald.

  “This is hardly a battle,” said Mazael.

  “You wanted to me to learn to handle tournament armor,” said Gerald. “Which I can hardly do if Mandor is ill.”

  “True enough,” said Mazael. “Come along, then. You might learn a thing or two.”

  He circled the edge of the camp, and found a stall selling salt beef at the edge of the field. A young woman in a blue dress stood before the stall, closing it up for the night. She turned and smiled at Mazael’s approach, and Mazael found himself smiling back. She was pretty, with long black hair and brown eyes.

  “Sir knight,” she said, her eyes flicking over him. “How can this humble tradeswoman serve you?”

  “You are Lydia of the High Plain?” said Mazael.

  “Of Cadlyn, actually,” said Lydia. “Though I spend most of my time on my father’s lands. He is the most powerful freeholder in the High Plain, and his herds are the finest in the realm.”

  “I am certain,” said Mazael. “I wish to speak with you about some salt beef.”

  “Oh?” said Lydia, still smiling. “Odd that a knight shou
ld wish to buy his food himself, rather than sending a servant to attend to such trivialities.” She stepped a little closer. “But you are…coming up in the world, yes?”

  “Who can see the future?” said Mazael. “Though at the moment I am more curious about the past. Specifically, the salt beef you sold to one Master Fordham.”

  Lydia’s expression did not change, but a veil seemed to fall over her eyes. “You do, sir knight? Was it to your liking?”

  “It was,” said Mazael, “but it was very salty. I suspect Master Fordham adds additional salt to his bread and beef, so his customers purchase more beer to slake their thirst.”

  “Most likely,” said Lydia. She leaned forward with a smile, offering Mazael the chance to look down the front of her dress. It was a nice view, but the motion wanted to make his hand twitch to his sword hilt. “Brewers are a thieving lot, my lord, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Mazael. “Though I wonder if you added any additional…salts…as it were, to the beef.”

  For a moment Lydia said nothing, her smile fixed in place.

  “Why don’t we come inside, sir knight?” she said, gesturing at a tent behind the stall. “We can speak privately there.”

  Mazael smiled. “A knight alone with a young woman? Why, people would whisper.”

  Her eyes flicked to Gerald. “Your squire can be the guarantor of our virtue, no?”

  Mazael wanted to send him away, but things had gone too far along for that, and he didn’t know how Lydia would react if did. “Why not? Come along, boy.”

  Gerald blinked in surprise, but followed Mazael and Lydia into the tent. Inside, the tent looked comfortable, with an actual bed, and a small folding table. Lydia sat at the far end of the table, and gestured for Mazael to sit.

  “So,” said Lydia, “you are curious about the beef I sold Master Fordham?”

  “It seems,” said Mazael, “that last night Sir Mandor Roland and his leading competitors in the tournament all drank Fordham’s beer and ate your salt beef. Today they are in a deep sleep and cannot be awakened.”

  Lydia shrugged. “That is hardly my concern, sir knight. Obviously someone paid Master Fordham to poison noble Sir Mandor. You ought to cut off his fat head at once.”

  “His beer is far too excellent for that,” said Mazael. “And the particular poison used was called moldleaf.”

  Lydia gave an exaggerated shudder. “Sounds dreadful.”

  “Alcohol weakens it,” said Mazael, “which means the poison was sprinkled on the salt beef. Your salt beef, to be specific.”

  “My lord knight, surely you are not accusing me of this horrid crime,” said Lydia, tears glistening in her eyes.

  Mazael shrugged, making sure to keep an eye on her hands. “It was your salt beef. I doubt Lord Malden will be inclined to mercy.”

  Lydia’s serene mask cracked like glass.

  She began to sob and buried her face in her hands. Gerald started forward, as if to comfort her, but Mazael gave him a sharp glance. At last Lydia groaned, raked her hands through her hair, and leaned over the table.

  “Please, my lord knight,” said Lydia, blinking tears from my eyes, “please, I don’t know what happened. Help me. Please, help me. I’ll do anything you want. Anything.” Her left hand came up to stroke his cheek. “Anything. Send the boy away and I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Her right hand reached for his face, no doubt to draw him close and kiss him.

  At least, it looked that way.

  Mazael seized her right wrist, and Lydia yelped in surprised pain.

  “Sir Mazael!” said Gerald, stepping forward. “A true knight does not…not manhandle a lady!”

  “Correct,” said Mazael, holding Lydia’s right hand steady, “but a true lady does not try to jab a poisoned hairpin into a knight.”

  He dug his thumb into Lydia’s wrist, and she opened her hand.

  The pin, gleaming with posion, clattering against the table.

  “See,” said Mazael, “you’re not a lady. But neither are you a herder’s daughter, and you’re not from the High Plain or Cadlyn. You’re actually from Barellion, and that trick with the poisoned hairpin is a favorite of the city’s brotherhood of assassins. Which means you are a Skull.”

  “Gods!” said Gerald.

  The fear and terror fell from Lydia’s face, replaced by cold calculation.

  “For a knight,” said Lydia, “you certainly are clever.”

  Mazael shrugged. “It’s a failing of mine.”

  He fell silent, keeping his grip on her wrist and her eyes locked on hers. Her expression remained cool and amused, but he saw the sweat glittering on her forehead.

  At last she started to speak.

  “So what’s next, hmm?” said Lydia. “Hand the vile assassin over to Lord Malden’s justice? But I haven’t killed anyone, have I?”

  “No,” said Mazael, “but that was likely due to your incompetence.”

  Lydia’s eyes glittered. “If I wanted those men dead, they would be in the ground by now.”

  “Which means,” said Mazael, “you weren’t hired to make them dead. You were hired to incapacitate them.”

  Lydia stared at him for a moment.

  “Damn it,” she said at last. “You are clever. You…”

  “I enjoy flattery from a beautiful woman,” said Mazael, “but I have no need for it. What I do want is the moldleaf. The specific moldleaf you used to poison Mandor and the others.”

  “I don’t have it,” said Lydia. She snorted. “I didn’t even bring it with me from Barellion. Our client brought it himself. I assume he still has the rest of it.”

  “And you have your client’s name?” said Mazael.

  “No,” said Lydia. “But I know where you can find him.”

  “Ah,” said Mazael. “And you want your life in exchange for that information?”

  Lydia shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Won’t your masters be displeased by your failure?” said Mazael.

  Lydia laughed. “My masters do exactly as we are paid to do, and not a step more. The client hired us to incapacitate Sir Mandor and the others, and we did just that. If the client was foolish enough to get himself caught, that is his affair, not ours.”

  “All right,” said Mazael. “You will tell me where to find your client. In exchange, I’ll let you leave Knightreach and return to Barellion. You’re one of Prince Everard’s subjects, so I suppose I don’t have the right to kill you.” He tugged on her wrist, pulled her face closer, and grinned. “But if I find you anywhere in Knightreach after sundown tomorrow…I will kill you.”

  Lydia laughed again, but it was a bit strained. “What did your squire say? A true knight would not harm a lady?”

  “You’re an assassin, not a lady,” said Mazael, “and I am not a very good man.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  Lydia swallowed and looked away first. “Your terms are acceptable, sir.”

  “Splendid,” said Mazael. “Now. Your client.”

  “Some wandering rogue of a knight,” said Lydia. “Ragged fellow, kept trying to cajole me into his bed.” She sniffed. “Used to be a robber in the Stormvales, and irritated one of the more powerful lords there. The lord put a huge price on his head, and if he doesn’t pay off his debt, he’s a dead man. So he’s going to rig the tournament and bet on himself…”

  Mazael cursed. “Tomaric.”

  ###

  Night had fallen by the time Mazael and Gerald reached Tomaric’s tent.

  The renegade knight’s tent sat some distance away from the others, perhaps to hide its shabby appearance. Or to let Tomaric escape should anyone come after him, whether bounty hunters from the Stormvales or militiamen from Castle Town. Tomaric sat on a stool before his campfire, gazing into the flames as he sharpened his blade with a whetstone.

  Tomaric glanced up as Mazael approached, his black eyes flashing.

  “Sir Mazael,” he said, standin
g, his sword still in hand. “This is indeed an honor.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Mazael. “You’ve annoyed me.”

  Tomaric sneered. “I seemed to have missed that pleasure.”

  “I had planned to spend the day drinking and dicing,” said Mazael, “but instead, I’ve had to track down who poisoned Sir Mandor Roland and six other knights.” Tomaric’s sneer vanished. “As it happens…”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Tomaric. “This is an insult to…”

  “Don’t bother lying,” said Mazael. “I know you hired the Skulls to incapacitate the knights, and I know you brought the moldleaf.”

  Tomaric scowled, the muscles in his jaw working.

  “Then why are you here with just the boy?” said Tomaric. “Why not bring a troop of armsmen to arrest me?”

  “Because,” said Mazael, “you haven’t actually killed anyone yet. Give me the moldleaf and leave Knightreach, and that will be the end of it.”

  “Not for me,” said Tomaric. He grinned, a hint of desperation on his features. “I have some very powerful men angry at me, Sir Mazael. I need the money. I am going to wager on myself, I am going to win the tournament, and I am going to pay off my debt. And I will do whatever is necessary.”

  “Such as?” said Mazael.

  “You shouldn’t,” said Tomaric, “have come here alone.”

  He lunged at Mazael, his sword a steely blur.

  Mazael cursed, jumped back, and yanked his longsword from its scabbard, getting the blade up just in time to beat aside Tomaric’s first thrust. He caught Tomaric’s next swing on his blade, shoved, and knocked the other knight back a step. Before Tomaric could regain his balance, Mazael thrust, but his sword tip only scraped along Tomaric’s cuirass.

  He cursed again and fell back as Tomaric went on the offensive. Mazael wished he had thought to put on his armor before hunting down the rogue knight. Tomaric wasn’t wearing a helmet, but chain mail protected his arms and torso beneath the battered cuirass. If Mazael landed a blow on Tomaric’s head, or perhaps on his leg, he could end this fight.

  Of course, all Tomaric needed to do was to land enough minor cuts for Mazael to bleed to death.