“It’s the Pinkertons,” Harold muttered under his breath. “They’re still outside the Dwarven Quarter. My father hasn’t ordered them away.”
“Why?” Othello asked, his brows furrowing. “They should be gone by now.”
“After what he saw today, he—he’s furious. When we arrived back at the palace, he said he might risk it anyway. Even without the people on his side, or the soldiers, he thinks sending the Pinkertons in to invade your homes might be enough to make your dwarves riot, especially if they rough up your women a bit. His words.”
“But if he ordered that now, he’d look like a monster,” Uhtred growled, looking over his shoulder to make sure the other dwarves couldn’t hear. “That’s why he didn’t make the speech today: The people would turn against him and he’d lose all his power.”
“Well, if the dwarves don’t resist and start fighting the Pinkertons, then of course that’s true, but if they do then he has a rebellion on his hands, one that he can put down with all the violence he can muster. I’ve convinced him it just won’t happen, so for now we’re holding back. But if he finds out that there’re a hundred drunken dwarves in a tavern down the road, he’ll roll the dice. We need to get them out of here. Now.”
Uhtred closed his eyes and clenched his fists.
“No matter what we do, there’s always something else, some new threat,” Uhtred said, his voice tight with emotion. “What happens if we’re unlucky next time. What then?”
“We’ll discuss that in a minute. Right now I need you to get these men out of here before something bad happens.”
Uhtred turned and ducked under the crossed pikes of the royal guards.
“Tavern’s closed. Everybody out. Take as much food as you like; leave the tankards. Athol, Atilla, Cress, Thaissa—make sure they go straight back to the barracks. No exceptions.”
CHAPTER
33
THERE WERE SIX OF THEM left in the tavern, seated around a table beside the flickering embers of the dying fire: Fletcher, Sylva and Harold sitting opposite Othello and his parents. Even the guards had been sent outside, forming a perimeter around the entrance.
“I have news for you,” Harold said, “and I’m sorry to say it’s bad.”
“Well, spit it out then,” Uhtred snapped, his big hands clenching on the table. He was clearly still angry about the Pinkertons. About how close they had come, even after everything.
“It’s Lord Forsyth and Inquisitor Rook. Their prison. It’s in Pelt.”
Uhtred let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes.
“I don’t understand,” Fletcher said. “Pelt’s become a hellhole; I should know.”
“Not for them,” Uhtred growled. “Right, Harold?”
Harold nodded in reluctant agreement.
“My father arranged it with Didric earlier today. They’re sitting pretty in that new castle of his, with penthouse rooms and servants at their beck and call. We’ve hurt them, taken away their freedom, but there won’t be an execution or a public trial. He’ll probably let them out in a year or two, once the anger has died down.”
Fletcher’s heart sank at the news. Even when caught red-handed, the pair had escaped punishment. Was there no justice for the rich and powerful?
“Don’t you have any say at all?” Briss demanded.
“Not nearly enough to go against my father,” Harold said, running a hand through his curls. “He still thinks we’re friends and doesn’t realize I know about his involvement in the bombings. Fortunately, he understands I’m angry with them, as are the commoners, so he didn’t push for me to pardon them. But he’d never let his two closest allies rot in a jail cell.”
Now it was Briss’s turn to sigh.
“Well, at least that’s something.”
There was silence for a moment, broken only by the crackle of flames in the hearth. Then Uhtred spoke.
“We cannot live on a knife’s edge, always one step away from extinction. Those two will be plotting in the shadows, waiting for their next chance. And as for your father…”
He hesitated.
“Have you ever considered … removing him?”
Harold gave a bitter laugh.
“You mean kill him? Much as it pains me to say it, the thought has crossed my mind. Unfortunately, my father has taken precautions against sudden attack. Are you familiar with the barrier spell?”
“Aye, you use it during the tournaments at Vocans, right?” Uhtred replied.
“That’s right.” Harold nodded. “Well, that very spell is my father’s constant companion, an invisible barrier that protects him at all times.”
He motioned outside, where Fletcher could see the outlines of Harold’s men’s pikes through the windows.
“While my own bodyguards are just well-trained men, Father’s are all battlemages of the Inquisition that keep the spell going night and day. Of course, a powerful enough attack might break through it and a demon is able to penetrate it with relative ease, just like a shield spell, but that alone would make it difficult for anyone but a summoner to kill him. No bullet or sword could come close.”
“But we could,” Fletcher said, the words slipping unbidden from his mouth. He felt a sudden twinge of guilt. They were discussing a cold-blooded assassination—of Harold’s father no less. It was the sort of thing their enemies would do.
“I’m sorry to say it, but I don’t believe that’s true,” Harold said, shaking his head. “Four young battlemages against ten trained Inquisitors and the most powerful summoner in all of Hominum? It would never work.”
“Forgive me, but why don’t you do it?” Sylva asked. “You both have similarly high summoning levels, if the rumors are true.”
“Can you imagine the turmoil the empire would be thrown into if they discovered I had committed patricide for no apparent reason?” Harold snapped, as if he were stating the obvious. “With the Inquisitors protecting him night and day … it would not be a quiet battle, even if I could win. I suspect the palace would be a smoldering ruin by the end of it.”
Then he took a breath and his eyes fell to his lap.
“And in truth, I do not think I could bring myself to do it.”
Silence fell once again, and Fletcher felt a sense of relief wash over him. Alfric was a monster, but somehow plotting his murder had made his skin crawl.
“This can’t go on.” Sylva broke the silence. “The dwarven people are not safe in Corcillum. All we have done is bought them a respite, until the next scheme.”
“If there was ever a time to make a bold move, it is now,” Thaissa said.
Harold nodded grimly. He stood suddenly and walked closer to the fire. For a moment he gazed into the flames, his brow furrowed with concentration.
“Yes…,” he said to himself. “It could work.”
He turned and looked at Fletcher, the edges of his eyes crinkling with what Fletcher thought might be amusement.