The Jack of Souls (Multi-award winner!)

Chapter 7c - Bastard Brains

Harric fled south through the market for a servant door in the side of the inn, but a horseman blocked his path, and Harric skidded to a halt, nearly slipping beneath its hooves. Three other horsemen closed behind him, hard eyes and Sapphire liveries surrounding him. He'd been too panicked to notice that the nobleman had left his grooms behind.

Harric darted for a gap between them, but a spear-butt jammed his cheek, and he spun to his knees in an explosion of pain.

"Why'd you do it, boy?"

"Forget your bastard colors?"

"I was witched!" Harric choked. "It wasn't me!"

The circle of horses widened and stopped. A half dozen spear-points angled in at him.

When three of the grooms dismounted, Rudy stepped forward to take their reins. "I been waiting nineteen year for this bastard to get what he deserves," he said. He crammed a podgy fist into Harric's gut, doubling Harric to his knees. "No fancy words, lord-boy? What a shame. Finally stumped your bastard brains."

The grooms hauled Harric to his feet. Harric felt the eyes of friends and acquaintances on the porch as they pushed and dragged him into the stable yard. As soon as they were out of sight of the porch, the largest groom slammed him against the side of the inn and stripped his purse from his belt. He opened the purse and gaped at the contents. "Gods leave us! Look at the coin he's got!" He showed the others, whose mouths dropped in wonder. A sly look entered the big groom's eye. "I'll wager there's more where that came from."

A second groom flashed teeth that had gone orange at the roots with little jackets of tartar. He swung a fist at Harric's head, delivering a knuckle-punch to his temple. White fire shot through Harric's skull. "Where's your room?" said Tartar. "Where do you keep your things?" Tartar started a new game of jabbing him in the ribs with pointed knuckles, which the others quickly joined, asking "Where?" with every jab.

"Up there!" Harric said, gesturing to the garret.

"Tie his hands," said the biggest groom, apparently the leader of the three. The third groom bound Harric's wrists behind his back.

Harric knew what they planned. When they got to his room, they'd rob him blind. But in that indignity he also saw a glimmer of hope, for he knew more than one way in and out of the place. If they were going to imprison him somewhere, there could be no better cell.

When the third groom tied Harric's hands, the leader knuckled him in the ribs. "Show us."

Harric limped across the yard toward the back entrance to the south wing. His eye felt like it was full of mud. His head throbbed, and his jaw ached when he clamped his teeth. With his tongue he felt a chipped tooth.

Out of habit, his eyes lit upon his mother's solitary grave cairn where it stood at the edge of the cliff above the river. He'd piled it himself, a tower of stones as tall as he could reach. Now it seemed an accusing finger against the dying orange of the sky. Old anger burned beneath his breastbone, giving him new strength in anger. Don't celebrate, Mother. I haven't joined you yet.

They entered the lodge and climbed four flights of narrow stairs to his room. Leader opened the door with the key from Harric's purse and went in. Tartar flashed his orange-jacketed teeth, and shoved Harric after. When they were all inside, the third groom closed the door and leaned against it, arms crossed, as the others ransacked the place. They pushed aside dishes in the cabinets, cracking them to pieces on the floor. They dumped drawers, stripped his weather cloak from its peg, tore sketches from the walls.

Harric kept his eyes on the floor, and studiously away from the corner of his mattress, in which his saddle knife hid, and away from the wainscot behind which the secret closet lay. His mind raced for a way to get them to leave him in there, alone, but his head throbbed, and his ribs ached with every breath.