“That was your plan?” There was anger in Belgad’s voice as he perched behind the desk of his library.
“It worked,” Fortisquo said, reclining in a chair on the other side of the desk. “He showed where and when expected. Now we know of what he is capable. We will be better prepared next time.”
“Next time?” Belgad glared. “Do you think I’m going to pay you after this travesty?”
Fortisquo nodded solemnly as if understanding and in agreement. “You pay me for a service, not an event, and that service has not been fulfilled as of yet.”
“I’m not sure I should be hearing this conversation.” Sergeant Gris was seated next to the darkened fireplace. It was early morning, the sun bluing the sky through the windows, but the sergeant still wore his clothes from the night before.
All of them did.
“There is nothing being said of which you can not be aware, sergeant,” Lalo said, standing near one of the exits.
The sergeant wore knitted brows. “Assassination is not legal.”
Fortisquo waved a hand in the air. “We are not talking about assassination. We are talking about executing a wanted criminal, a wanted murderer.”
Belgad smacked a hand on the top of his desk. “I don’t care what you call it. From my perspective, last night was a disaster.”
“The only thing lost was a glass window you can easily afford,” Fortisquo shot back with a flip of a hand.
“But I can’t afford to lose the confidence of those in attendance,” Belgad pointed out.
“What did they see?” Fortisquo sat up in his chair. “A man bashed out a window, then ran away through some smoke. No one was killed and nothing was taken. There will be talk for three or four days, but this will be forgotten soon enough.”
Belgad did not appear convinced. “Not by me it won’t.”
“Fortisquo has a point.” Gris sat up, playing the role of investigator. “What did anyone really see? Did anyone take notice of his face?”
“I didn’t see nothing.” Stilp sat on the floor with his legs crossed. A jug of wine sloshed in his hands.
The lord of the mansion glared down at his drunken employee. “Of course you didn’t, you imbecile. You were busy on the toilet all night.”
Gris pointed at Fortisquo and Adara, in a chair next to her teacher. “You two were the closest to the man. Did you see his face?”
Adara shrugged. “It was dark on the roof. I could make out little.”
The sword master leaned forward in his chair, staring into nothingness as if recalling the night before. “He’s relatively young. I’d be surprised if he’s thirty. He’s pale skinned, has dark hair. He’s got muscles, but nothing the size of our benefactor here.”
“I have to agree with Fortisquo’s assessment,” Belgad said with a glance to the sergeant, “but I’m not sure I could pick him out of a group of men. There was too much going on, and that hood of his covered an abundance.”
Gris sat back. “So we know very little about him.”
“We know he has been exceptionally trained.” Fortisquo looked up as he eased back in his seat once more. “Only one man in a million could have performed those acrobatics. And he knows how to fight.”
“And how to improvise,” Adara added.
Fortisquo went on. “He’s also familiar with weapons and alchemy. That smoke was caused by no spell. And he had no trouble using that little grappling hook as a weapon. No city guard or militia soldier this one.”
Adara plucked up as she remembered something. “He might wear a limp. I hit him with a dagger in the leg.”
“What of his clothing?” Gris asked.
Fortisquo waved a hand in the air. “All black. Nothing unusual about that for someone who does his type of work.”
“But it was more than that.” Adara’s face screwed up, she now looking into the past.
“What do you mean?” Gris had not seen the man of whom they were speaking. The sergeant had been in the front hall when the attack had occurred, and the rushing crowd had kept him from the main room until the subject of their conversation had fled.
“It wasn’t only his clothes,” Adara explained. “Everything he had on was black. The buckles on his boot had been stained. The grapple hook he used, and the rope attached to it, they were black.”
“She’s right.” Fortisquo nodded in agreement. “I hadn’t thought of it until now, but Darkbow was black from head to toe.”
“Who?” The sergeant’s eyes suddenly went wide.
Fortisquo looked to the sergeant. “Kron Darkbow. The man we are talking about. The man responsible for this mess.”
Gris’s face went pale. “How do you know his name?”
“He announced it to the whole damn room,” Belgad thundered, slamming a hand on the desktop again.
Gris eased back in his chair, unease clearly visible on his face.
Fortisquo eyes would not leave the sergeant. “You know the name.”
Gris gave a short nod, but he would not look at any of the others. “When I was a warden in the Prisonlands, there was a man there who went by the name Darkbow.”
Lalo stepped forward to stand directly behind his boss. “What do you know of him?”
“He was half Lycinian and half Dartague,” Gris said, telling only part of what he knew.
Belgad snorted. “Must be coincidence. I have had no ties with my homeland in twenty years.”
Fortisquo turned in his seat to face Gris. “Darkbow sounds like a northern name, though.”
“We’ve been over this business about the name,” Belgad said. “I discussed it with one of the tower healers who is Kobalan.”
Fortisquo’s head snapped to look at Belgad. “There’s a Kobalan in Bond? And the man’s a healer?”
Belgad nodded. “I thought it odd, too, at first, but he seems a top mage. He’s caring for my client Trelvigor.”
“Randall Tendbones,” Gris offered.
Belgad nodded. “That would be him.”
Fortisquo’s eyes became questioning. “Could this healer mean you harm?”
“I know of no reason for him to wish me ill,” Belgad said, glancing about the top of his desk as if suddenly missing something. “Besides, I doubt the man has it in him.”
“That’s Randall, all right,” Stilp added from the floor. “I don’t think he could hurt anyone.”
Fortisquo leaned forward again, his voice lowered. “But he’s Kobalan?”
Belgad’s eyes roamed the top of the desk. “He claims to be, and I’ve no reason to believe otherwise.”
“Your foe, Kron Darkbow, gives off a Kobalan flair.” Concern grew in Fortisquo’s voice. “It’s not uncommon for an assassin to dress in black, but Darkbow’s physical description doesn’t match with someone in that line of work. He’s a sizable man, not some little thief. He strikes me as Kobalan, and his name sounds northern.”
“You yourself have said it might not be his real name,” Belgad pointed out.
“True,” Fortisquo said, easing off somewhat from any conviction, “but he gives off an aura that strikes of Kobalos, and then I find out we have a Kobalan in our midst.”
“Have you seen Randall?” Stilp asked with sloshed words.
Fortisquo shook his head.
“If you did, then you’d know he could never be this Darkbow.” Stilp took a chug of his wine. “Randall is a little guy.”
Fortisquo turned his attention back to Belgad. “He’s a healer, though? A wizard?”
Belgad nodded as he scanned his desk once more.
“And if he’s Kobalan, there’s no telling what dark magics he knows, or what alchemy.” The concern had reappeared in Fortisquo’s features. “Perhaps he can change himself into a strong fighter? Maybe he summons Darkbow to do his bidding?”
Belgad sat back and glanced beneath his desk, almost ignoring the conversation. “Get to your point.”
“My point is that this Randall Tendbones could be Kron Darkbow, or maybe knows something about him,” Fortisquo said.
“I have spoken with Randall about Kobalos and Darkbow.” Belgad looked up, for the moment taking the sword master serious again. “He did not seem to mind talking of his homeland.”
“And he persuaded you into believing Darkbow was probably not Kobalan, didn’t he?” Fortisquo asked.
Belgad nodded again.
Fortisquo sat back once more. “Maybe he is more deceptive than you believe.”
Belgad sighed. He had called the meeting to find some answers, but he was already growing bored. He longed for the days when he could heft an ax and ride out to hack his enemy’s limbs from his body. And then ... there was something wrong about his desk. Something was missing from it, he just did not know what.
“You have no idea what you are talking about.” The northerner gave Fortisquo a stern look. “It is not possible the healer is Kron Darkbow.”
“At least have the man watched. It couldn’t hurt.”
For the hundredth time that day, Belgad wondered if meetings weren’t more trouble than they were worth. He turned to face Lalo. “Put a man on it, but make sure it is done without drawing attention. No reason to alarm poor Randall.”
“As you wish, master.” Lalo spun on a heel out of the room.
“Where do we go from here?” Gris asked.
Fortisquo turned to the sergeant. “I need some time, a day or two, to formulate a new plan.”
“I hope it’s better than your last one,” Belgad said with a grimace.
Fortisquo grinned. “It will be. Since we know nothing of this Kron Darkbow, I need to figure another way to draw him out. I suppose another party is out of the question?”
Belgad’s glower was enough of an answer.
Stilp gulped down the last of his wine and used the edge of Belgad’s desk to pull himself to standing. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to find the privy again.”
Belgad smacked his hands together and stood “With that, I’ll call this gathering to an end.”
Stilp strolled out through one of the doors as the rest stood from their chairs.
Belgad moved next to Gris. “Sergeant, I’d like a private word with you.”
The city guard sergeant lagged behind as Adara and Fortisquo made their way out of the room.
Belgad crossed his library and closed the door.
The northerner turned on the sergeant. “You know something.”
“What do you mean, my lord?”
Belgad eased his way back to his desk and sat on its front edge facing the city officer. “Your face went white as soon as Darkbow’s name was mentioned.”
“It was merely that I recognized the name, my lord.”
Belgad’s pale eyebrows grew together. “Do not play games with me. If you know something, then spit it out.”
Gris stammered as he did not know what to say.
The Dartague’s gaze darkened. “You know this Kron Darkbow, don’t you?”
“My lord, there are a few other former wardens within the city. Allow me to speak with them, and then I will make a full report to you. The name Darkbow is familiar to me, but I would like to be sure of my facts before passing along information.”
Belgad’s face continued to not be a happy one. “Why can you not tell me your thoughts now?”
Gris had to think fast. Though not stupid, he was not a man of wit and wisdom. “I believe Darkbow is dead,” he said, fabricating each word as he went along, “but he might have relatives. Perhaps I can discover their names. Maybe one of them is this Kron, though I have no idea why he would wish ill upon your lordship.”
Belgad’s look told that he was skeptical, but Gris always had been dependable. Belgad had no reason not to trust the man. “Do what you need, but I want an answer soon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You may go now,” Belgad said, waving a hand at the door.
Gris bowed his head and exited.
Belgad closed his eyes and shook his head. He knew he should be thankful to this Kron Darkbow. For years Belgad had been bored with meetings upon meetings with bankers and politicians and their ilk. Now he had a challenge, an opponent who was not easy to capture or kill and who seemed to hold little interest in simple monetary matters. Still, Darkbow was the worst kind of foe in many ways. He was elusive, always in the shadows and difficult to reach. Belgad wanted an enemy he could walk up to and wail on with a big, heavy weapon.
The unknightly lord’s eyes opened again to focus on the wooden jug Stilp had left on his desk.
He glanced around the desk again, his eyes searching.
“Where is my silver mug?”