“I can’t say Delphi’s improved much,” the talespinner went on. He took a long drink and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “In fact, I’d say it was worse than ever. I wouldn’t be up here now, but I had some trouble down south.”
The man’s a fool, Destin thought. He’s probably on the run from the law and here he is admitting it for all to hear. He wondered if Hamish Fry had noticed Clermont at his table in the corner. Maybe not. His cloak was buckled over his colors, in a vain attempt to keep warm.
“You know, there’s one thing I’m missing that would improve things around here,” Fry was saying with a grin. “The best thing in Delphi. Where’s that daughter of yours, Will? Pretty little thing, as I remember. She used to sit and listen to my stories, polite, she was. I bet she’s turning heads now.”
Daughter? Will hadn’t mentioned a daughter. Destin looked up to see that the innkeeper was still polishing pewter, but all the blood had drained from his face. After a long pause, Will said, “She died. Four years ago.”
“Died?” Fry reared back, surprised. “Well, that’s a bloody shame. How’d she die?”
Will darted a glance at Destin, licking his lips, as if his presence made him nervous. “There was some trouble up at the mine,” he said finally. “There was several killed, and she was one.”
It was odd, the way the innkeeper was reacting. If his daughter had died four years ago, he should be used to answering questions about her. Unless she had been involved in something she shouldn’t have been. Had there been some kind of rebellion or riot four years ago?
“What was her name, Will?”
“Her name?” Will had been polishing the same tankard for the entire conversation.
“Your daughter. Usually, I never forget names and faces. It’s a gift I have, they tell me. But I just can’t—was it Jacie? Janet?” Fry’s brow furrowed, suggesting he was thinking hard.
Will stared at him, shaking his head, a stricken look on his face.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgot your own daughter’s name,” Fry said, oblivious to the reaction he was getting.
By then, Destin was on his feet and moving toward the bar. “Will,” he said in a friendly way. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.” He sensed, rather than saw Clermont moving, too, splitting out a little so they were coming at the innkeeper from two different directions.
Will wasn’t looking at Hamish Fry anymore. His eyes were riveted on Destin. “I don’t like to talk about her. She . . . she was killed,” he repeated desperately. “She’s dead.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Destin said. “I’d like to hear more about that. Would you mind if I ask you a few questions about her?” He nodded toward the back room. “Let’s go in there. We’ll talk about it over an ale.” He reached out to put a hand on Will’s arm, but the innkeeper backed away, keeping the bar between them, shaking his head.
“Jenna! It was Jenna,” Fry said triumphantly. “I never forget a name.” And then he stared, puzzled, at the three men circling the bar.
“We don’t want to hurt her, Will,” Destin said. “We just want to find her.”
“No!” Will cast about wildly, looking for any route of escape. Destin heard Clermont’s sword leave its scabbard.
“No, Clermont, don’t hurt him,” Destin said quickly. “We need to talk to him.” He wanted to get his hands on Will Hamlet in order to spell him. If he could subdue him, they would quickly find out what they needed to know. But Will kept his eyes on Destin. He seemed more frightened of Destin’s empty hands than Clermont and his sword.
He knows I’m a mage, Destin thought. He’s afraid of being questioned with magic.
Will threw a glance over his shoulder, then bolted for the door. Clermont stepped into his path with his sword, aiming to turn him back. Will hesitated a fraction of a second. Then, with a cry, he sprang forward, seized the surprised guardsman by the shoulders, and impaled himself on Clermont’s blade, driving on until there were only inches between them. They stood face-to-face for a moment, innkeeper and guard, and then Will slid to the floor as Clermont, cursing, pulled his sword free.
Then it was bedlam. Someone screamed, Destin and Clermont were both swearing, and Hamish Fry the talespinner was shrieking hysterically. The room quickly emptied as people fled madly through the doors.
Except Lyle. The boy stood as if frozen, staring down at the body on the floor, his face a mask of horror.
“Lyle! Quick, boy, find a healer!” Destin ordered, although he could tell by the look of things it was too late for that.
But Lyle didn’t go for a healer. Instead, he sank to his knees next to the body of the innkeeper, cradled Will’s head in his arms, and lifted a high keening wail, a primitive animal cry of something lost, and lost forever. A voice that seemed wrong, somehow. Then Lyle looked up at Clermont, golden eyes blazing, mad with pain and rage. He reached under the velvet jacket and came up with something shiny in his hand.