The Bronze Knight Page 2

“Wizards with command over the dead,” said Atalia at once, her voice slipping into the formal tone she used when recalling Trocend’s lessons. Mazael wondered if she realized that she did that. “They can summon shades and create undead things, and do strange things with blood and life force.”

  “I know what a necromancer is,” said Mazael. “But the practice is forbidden by the wizards’ brotherhood and every liege lord in the realm.”

  “The practice of magic is forbidden in Knightreach as well,” said Trocend, “yet you stand before one wizard and spent the night in the arms of another.” Atalia rolled her eyes and pulled on her shirt. “The ban on wizards is unreasonable. The ban on necromancy is not. Necromantic spells are far too dangerous, and frequently rely on the blood of innocent victims. A cabal of necromancers operating within Lord Malden’s lands is an intolerable threat.”

  “So what do you want me to do about it?” said Mazael. “I’m a knight, not a wizard. If you want a head cut off, I can do that. You want me to fight a wizard? That’s harder.”

  “Wizards,” said Trocend, “die when you cut off their heads, much like any other man. Tell me, Sir Mazael. Do you know a man named Francis Tymbalt?”

  “I do,” said Mazael, thinking of a plump middle-aged merchant. “He lives in Castle Town. Sells marble and jewels to lords in Greycoast and Travia. Talks too much.”

  “A common affliction among merchants,” said Trocend.

  “And master wizards,” said Atalia, doing up her vest’s buttons.

  Trocend chose to ignore that. “Tymbalt has expanded his trade into rare artworks. Recently he acquired a statuette called the Bronze Knight, created by the master sculptor Maurice of Jemelais.”

  “I don’t know the name,” said Mazael.

  “I rather thought you wouldn’t,” said Trocend.

  “I have better things to do,” said Mazael, “than memorize the names of long-dead artists.”

  “Maurice died only five years ago in Knightport,” said Trocend. “He relocated to Lord Malden’s lands after he offended one of the more powerful Travian lords. Possibly he might have had connections with the necromantic college. Possibly they killed him. I have been unable to unearth the exact sequence of events. Regardless, my informants have discovered that the college of necromancers is very interested in acquiring the Bronze Knight.”

  “Why?” said Mazael. “It’s just a damned statue.”

  “Statuette,” said Trocend. “There is a difference. One must be precise.”

  “Fine, whatever,” said Mazael. “It’s a big lump of bronze that Maurice made look pretty. Why do the necromancers want it?”

  “It is enspelled?” said Atalia.

  “Possibly,” said Trocend. “Or it contains a secret of some kind. I am uncertain which.”

  “Ah,” said Atalia, understanding going over her face. “You want us to steal it?”

  “Certainly not,” said Trocend. “Members of Lord Malden Roland’s court do not engage in such underhanded actions. However, if the statuette should happen to disappear, well, accidents happen.”

  “Why do you need me for that?” said Mazael. “I’m not a thief. I can hack my way into Tymbalt’s house and take the statuette, but I can’t make it disappear.”

  “As I said,” said Trocend with a hint of strained patience, “that may not be necessary. Maurice’s sculptures are well-admired among the nobility, and Tymbalt has decided to sell the Bronze Knight to raise funds. Therefore he is holding a banquet tonight to unveil the statuette. Lord Malden, naturally, wishes to acquire the statuette, but the Lord of Knightcastle will not visit a mere merchant. An emissary will be sent instead.”

  “Me,” said Mazael.

  “Correct,” said Trocend. “Who better than a dashing young knight of Lord Malden’s court? Atalia will accompany you as your…”

  “Mistress?” said Atalia with a smirk.

  “Since Mazael is not married, by definition you are not a mistress,” said Trocend. “Concubine is the more accurate term,” Atalia’s smirk turned into a scowl, “but it is rather impolitic. We shall instead say you are the daughter of some knight or another who wishes to see the statuette.”

  Atalia laughed. “I’ve never tried to pass as a highborn lady before. I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “You will not do it,” said Trocend, “in those clothes. One of Lady Rhea’s ladies-in-waiting is about your size, and has kindly agreed to loan you a dress. Also, I suggest a bath, given that you both smell quite strongly of drunken debauchery and related activities.”

  Atalia scoffed. “I am delighted to take grooming advice from a man who wears a monk’s robe and smells of chemicals.”

  Trocend made a dismissive wave. “Go.”

  She scowled, but she went. Mazael had noticed that she usually did what Trocend commanded sooner or later. She loved power, magical power, and Trocend was her only way of gaining that power.

  For a moment he and Trocend stared at each other.

  “You seem,” said Trocend at last, “fonder of Atalia than I would have expected.”

  Mazael scowled. “What do you care?”

  “Given your usual preferences in women,” said Trocend, “your tastes run to barmaids or the empty-headed daughters of minor nobles. Not a ruthless former thief with a talent for magic.”

  “Is this paternal affection?” said Mazael.

  Trocend let out a dry laugh. “Maybe. Let us be honest with one another, Sir Mazael. Atalia is a ruthless and determined young woman with a great deal of ambition, and you are a ruthless young man whose chief interests are fighting, wenching, and drinking. Perhaps, for both your sakes, you should reconsider this affair. I doubt it will end well.”

  “As if you would understand such things,” said Mazael.

  Trocend’s thin smile returned. “The monk’s robe is a disguise, Sir Mazael. I was once a young man, and I understand what it is to have your head turned by a round bosom and a pert bottom…”

  Mazael laughed. “Then Atalia was right. You just wanted to watch.”

  “Hardly,” said Trocend. For a moment he frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “There is something…off about you. You like to fight. More than even a young knight should…”

  Mazael remembered his talks with the Dominiar Knights last night. “Maybe I have reasons to be angry.”

  “True,” said Trocend. “And you are most loyal to Lord Malden. His lordship values loyalty, and it is a virtue that excuses many sins. Including an ill-advised fling with a dangerous young woman.”

  “Why do you even care?” said Mazael, exasperated. “No more riddling talk.”

  “I think,” said Trocend at last, “that you might bring out the worst in each other. No matter. My task is to serve the Lord of Knightcastle, and I will use whatever tools I can obtain. Including a reckless knight and my own apprentice. I suggest you prepare for the banquet, Sir Mazael. Atalia is not the only one in dire need of a bath.”

  Chapter 3: The Merchant’s Banquet

  Late that afternoon, Mazael and Atalia rode through Castle Town’s streets.

  Castle Town, despite its name, was in fact a small, prosperous city of about ten thousand people. Sitting upon the Riversteel, an endless stream of barges flowed down the river to Knightport or up the river to the luxury-hungry lords of the High Plain and Travia. Castle Town itself certainly was the cleanest city Mazael had ever visited, with tall, proud houses of whitewashed stone and polished black timbers, the streets patrolled by men in the tabards of the House of Roland.

  Undesirable riff-raff, Mazael knew, were asked politely to leave, and if they refused to comply, were thrown out. A year past, before he had taken Lord Malden’s service, Mazael would have been one of those unwelcome rogues. Atalia too, certainly.

  Right now, neither one of them looked the part.

  He had donned a long blue surcoat over a crisp tunic, the surcoat adorned with the silver greathelm sigil of the House of Roland, his best trousers, and gleaming black boots.
A longsword rested in a scabbard of black leather at his belt. Atalia rode sidesaddle, much to her annoyance, clad in a gown of golden cloth with black slashes upon the sleeves and skirt. The gown’s bodice was laced tightly, and low enough that it stopped just short of violating propriety. Among the men and women of Castle Town, a woman with short hair or a shorn head was commonly seen as a prostitute (or a victim of a lice infestation), so Atalia wore a diadem with a gauzy veil that hung down her neck. With a bit of makeup and some borrowed jewelry, she did look stunning.

  Though she didn’t stop complaining about it.

  “It is unjust,” she announced.

  “What is?” said Mazael, though he suspected he knew where her thoughts were going.

  “All this work,” said Atalia, gesturing at herself, “to get into this dress. All the bathing and makeup. And the undergarments, the gods have mercy! All you had to do was bathe, shave and get dressed. It simply isn’t fair.”

  “To be fair,” said Mazael, glancing back at her, “you do look lovely.”

  Atalia blinked in surprise, and then smiled. “You really think so?”

  What he wanted to do was to get her someplace quiet and get her out of that dress, but that thought would have to wait. They had work to do first. “I do. That, and you did all that work. It seems only fair to compliment you.”

  She gave an unladylike laugh. “Do you think so, Mazael Cravenlock? I am not some blushing maiden to swoon at compliments from a knight.” She continued on in that vein for some time, but neither did she stop smiling.

  He listened with half an ear as they rode to the house of Francis Tymbalt. Castle Town had narrow streets because of the confined space within the city wall, and even in the wealthier districts the streets were barely wide enough for one horseman. Fortunately, since Mazael was a knight in Lord Malden’s service, the townsmen and the merchants had to make way for him.

  At last they arrived at Tymbalt’s house. It loomed four stories tall from within a small courtyard, which in the cramped confines of Castle Town was proof enough of the merchant’s wealth. Like most of the city, the house was built of whitewashed stone and polished timbers, and it even had a stone tower on the southeastern corner, constructed in fanciful imitation of the soaring towers of Knightcastle itself.

  Atalia snorted. “A bit presumptuous, isn’t it?”

  “Master Tymbalt is a wealthy man,” said Mazael, steering his horse into the courtyard.

  “Aye,” said Atalia as Mazael dropped from the saddle. A pair of servant boys in crisp livery ran to take their horses to Master Tymbalt’s stable. Mazael held out a hand, and helped Atalia down from her saddle. He tugged a little harder than necessary, forcing her to brace one hand against his chest to recover her balance. Her eyes flashed, her lips curving a little in amusement.

  “Careful,” said Mazael. “Wouldn’t want that skirt to upset your balance.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” said Atalia.

  One of the servant boys blinked in surprise at the uncouth language.

  “Thank you,” said Mazael, passing each of the boys a silver coin. They both grinned at him, bowed, and took the horses.

  “Mazael Cravenlock,” said Atalia, surprised. “That would be a month’s wages for each of them.”

  Mazael shrugged. “I want them to take care of the horses.”

  “You surprise me sometimes,” said Atalia, taking his arm. “I thought the son of a highborn lord would care nothing for the wages of a serving boy.”

  “I am surprised a thief would care,” said Mazael.

  Atalia sniffed. “Certainly I would not steal from servants. A woman must have her principles. That, and they rarely have anything worth stealing.” She looked up the mansion. “Unlike this fool, who clearly has too much money. That ridiculous tower? What use is that?”

  “Try not to steal anything,” said Mazael, heading towards the double doors at the front of the house. “No silver spoons down your bodice.”

  Atalia grinned. “You think so?” She thrust her chest in his direction. “Do you think there’s any room left to hide anything in there?”

  “I would be happy to find out,” said Mazael, “but later.”

  More servants greeted them, bowing as they pulled the doors open. Mazael led Atalia into the mansion, entering a dining hall at least as opulent as anything in Knightcastle itself. The floor was gleaming marble, the table of polished, expensive-looking wood. High windows let in the dying sunlight, and Mazael saw servants already hastening to light the room’s hearth and the candles upon the table. Nearly three dozen people stood in the hall, merchants and knights both, speaking in low voices. Evidently the bronze statuettes of this Maurice of Jemelais were quite popular.

  A stout middle-aged man hastened over, followed by a thin, ascetic-looking elderly man in the black robe of a village priest. The middle-aged man wore a furred robe and a cap with a gleaming silver badge upon it, in imitation of the clothes favored by Lord Malden himself. If Lord Malden decided to wear a wine goblet upon his head today, Mazael mused, by tomorrow every merchant of Castle Town would be wearing wine goblets in lieu of hats.

  “Welcome, sir knight, welcome,” said the merchant with a deep bow. “I assume you are Lord Malden’s man, yes? I am Francis Tymbalt, and I welcome you to my home in the name of our illustrious Lord Malden.”

  The black-robed priest stared at Mazael. He had deep black eyes in his thin, lined face, and he looked…withered, somehow. As if some disease was eating him from the inside out.

  “Thank you,” said Mazael. “I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock, of Lord Malden’s court. And this is Lady Atalia.”

  “A pleasure, my lady,” said Tymbalt, bowing over Atalia’s hand and planting a quick kiss upon her knuckles.

  Atalia blinked in surprise, but then remembered herself and smiled. “Charmed, Master Tymbalt.”

  Tymbalt smiled as he straightened up. Likely he was smart enough to realize that Atalia was not a noblewoman, which in turn meant he was smart enough not to mention it.

  “I am so pleased,” he said, “that Lord Malden has sent an emissary in response to my invitation. You are here to see the Bronze Knight, yes?”

  “We are,” said Mazael. “Lord Malden is most interested in the statuette. He is quite a collector of bronze statues, and is very interested in the…verdigris patina, along with the forging of the metal…”

  Atalia’s elbow dug into his side.

  “Of course!” said Tymbalt. “Lord Malden’s exquisite taste is well-known, along with his…”

  “You should enjoy all such pleasures when you can,” said the old priest, his voice surprisingly deep and strong from such an ill-looking man.

  “Oh?” said Mazael.

  “For death comes for us all,” said the priest. “The priest and the merchant. The knight and the whore.” Atalia’s eyes narrowed a little, but the priest continued his oration. “The lord and the peasant, the rich man and the pauper. Death consumes us all in the end. It is well to think upon this and reflect on our sins.”

  “Ah,” said Tymbalt with a strained smile. “This is Father Colchard, a priest from the Krago Hills. He is traveling to Mastaria in a pilgrimage to the Dominiar shrines there, and I am honored to have him lodge at my house.”

  “A pleasure, Father,” said Mazael.

  Colchard stared at him for a long time, so long that Mazael wondered if the man had suffered a stroke.

  “Be not proud, Sir Mazael,” said Colchard. “For death shall come for you, too.”

  “I am the paragon of humility,” said Mazael.

  Again Atalia’s elbow dug into his side.

  “Father Colchard is filled with spiritual wisdom,” said Tymbalt. He grinned and clapped Mazael upon the shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my other guests.”

  “Of course,” said Mazael. The merchant’s hand felt very hot against his shoulder. “Do not let me keep you.”

  Tymbalt grinned a little too widely and turned, and as he did,
he stumbled. Mazael caught his arm and Tymbalt regained his balance, but as he did, the merchant pressed something into Mazael’s hand.

  “My most sincere pardons, Sir Mazael!” said Tymbalt. “I was a bit light-headed.”

  “No harm done,” said Mazael, blinking. Tymbalt had pressed a small piece of paper into his hand. The merchant was smiling, but his eyes were feverish and glittering.

  The man was terrified.

  “You have drunk too much wine, Francis,” said Father Colchard. “Gluttony is a sin.”

  “Yes, of course you are right,” said Tymbalt. “Excuse me.”

  He shuffled towards the other guests. Colchard gave Mazael one last considering look, and then followed Tymbalt like a black shadow.

  For a moment Mazael and Atalia stood in silence.

  “Bronze doesn’t have verdigris,” said Atalia. “You’re thinking of brass or copper.”

  “Bronze can have verdigris. But I don’t care,” said Mazael. “Didn’t that seem odd to you?”

  “The man was scared to death of something,” said Atalia. “Maybe he stole the Bronze Knight from the necromancers.”

  “Or maybe the necromancers warned him about trying to sell it,” said Mazael. He steered her away from the main doors and towards the wall, where they were less likely to be overhead. “Also, he gave me this.”

  Her eyes widened. “A note?”

  Mazael unfolded the little piece of paper. It contained a single line of text, hastily written in a scrawled hand.

  “It is in the library. Help me. For the love of the gods, help me.”

  Mazael frowned.

  “You do know how to read, don’t you?” said Atalia.

  “Yes,” said Mazael, glancing at Tymbalt without staring at the man. The merchant continued greeting his guests, the very picture of joviality, but Mazael still saw the sweat glittering on his forehead.

  “So. What are we going to do?” said Atalia.

  Mazael shrugged. “We’ll visit Tymbalt’s library.”

  “It could be a trap,” said Atalia.

  “It could be,” said Mazael, “but I have a sword and you have your spells. Come on.”