Read Online The Fatal Child by John Dickinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Dickinson
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trophies – antlers and wolfskins.
Two men were crouching by the fire. One was the doorman, still in his cloak and his great helm. He was feeding vegetables into a pot that hung on the hearth. The other rose as they entered.
‘Welcome, in my father’s name,’ he said. ‘I am Raymonde diLackmere. I have charge of this house until my father returns.’
He was a short man with straggling brown hair and slanting brows. He wore a faded doublet and a knight’s belt. His cheeks would have been clean-shaven after the fashion of the provinces, but he had allowed the stubble to grow for some days. His tone and stance offered no welcome, whatever his mouth said. And he did not bother to invoke the Angels.
His face, sour and triangular, tugged at Padry’s memory. Yes, he looked like the Baron of Lackmere,whom Padry had met once or twice in his Develin days. But it was not only that…
‘We are grateful to you and your father,’ Padry said. ‘Will your father return tonight?’
The man smiled bitterly. ‘He has not set foot in his house for a half-dozen years.’
A half-dozen years:
the words were spoken as if they were all the explanation Padry should need. Again, Padry struggled with his memory. There had been something, some evil thing that had happened here. There had been … there had been
two
sons. And one had killed the other, and …
‘Angels’ Knees!’ exclaimed Padry. He stared at the man in front of him.
This was the brother-killer! And not only that…
‘You – I have seen you before,’ he stammered. ‘You were one of Velis’s men! You were at the sack of Develin!’
The man’s face had hardened. ‘I was,’ he said.
As Padry fought for words, the man shrugged. ‘I counselled him to do it,’ he said.
‘You have a letter for me,’ he added, when Padry could not speak. ‘From my Lady Develin.’
His hand was out. Padry stared at it. He could not look at the man’s face. He could not see the room. His eyes were fixed by that hand – that hand that had killed the man’s own brother. The hand that had done – what? to whom? – at Develin. He thought of Grismonde and Pantethon and Denke – all that learning lost, all those scholars, those young men of promise! And the Widow, too, and all her folk,dead in the senseless, shameful wreck of old Develin.
I counselled him to do it
.
The hand was held before him for the words of Develin’s daughter.
‘I was not told this,’ he muttered.
‘You said you had a letter.’
‘Not that. Not that,’ he said.
The road may be harder than you would think possible
, she had said.
‘Give him the letter,’ he mumbled to Lex.
He turned and walked to the wall. His head seemed to be singing. He heard the rustle of paper being handed over. He heard the seal being broken – a light, slight sound. He put his hand out to steady himself. His palm touched – not stone, but fur. He looked up. A wolf mask, dried and pinned to the wall with rusty nails, grinned back at him.
‘She writes only that the bearer of this letter is looking for the Prince Under the Sky, and that I am to help them if I will,’ said the man.
Padry stared at the wolf mask, willing the shock to clear from his brain.
‘How has she forgiven you?’ His own voice sounded harsh in his ears.
‘To tell you the truth,’ said Raymond diLackmere with a chuckle, ‘I do not know that she has.’
‘Good,’ said Padry.
‘So? But you have come for my help and you have come to my hearth. You may, of course, change your mind and set your fellows on me – if you think they will win. Or you may leave, if you think thatwill make you better than I am. Or you may break bread with me. I am willing, although we had prepared for two and must now stretch to seven.’
The bristles of the wolfskin were harsh beneath Padry’s right palm. The fingers of his left hand had reached instinctively for his belt. They touched the walnut shapes dangling there. They closed on one and knew it. It was
Two men were crouching by the fire. One was the doorman, still in his cloak and his great helm. He was feeding vegetables into a pot that hung on the hearth. The other rose as they entered.
‘Welcome, in my father’s name,’ he said. ‘I am Raymonde diLackmere. I have charge of this house until my father returns.’
He was a short man with straggling brown hair and slanting brows. He wore a faded doublet and a knight’s belt. His cheeks would have been clean-shaven after the fashion of the provinces, but he had allowed the stubble to grow for some days. His tone and stance offered no welcome, whatever his mouth said. And he did not bother to invoke the Angels.
His face, sour and triangular, tugged at Padry’s memory. Yes, he looked like the Baron of Lackmere,whom Padry had met once or twice in his Develin days. But it was not only that…
‘We are grateful to you and your father,’ Padry said. ‘Will your father return tonight?’
The man smiled bitterly. ‘He has not set foot in his house for a half-dozen years.’
A half-dozen years:
the words were spoken as if they were all the explanation Padry should need. Again, Padry struggled with his memory. There had been something, some evil thing that had happened here. There had been … there had been
two
sons. And one had killed the other, and …
‘Angels’ Knees!’ exclaimed Padry. He stared at the man in front of him.
This was the brother-killer! And not only that…
‘You – I have seen you before,’ he stammered. ‘You were one of Velis’s men! You were at the sack of Develin!’
The man’s face had hardened. ‘I was,’ he said.
As Padry fought for words, the man shrugged. ‘I counselled him to do it,’ he said.
‘You have a letter for me,’ he added, when Padry could not speak. ‘From my Lady Develin.’
His hand was out. Padry stared at it. He could not look at the man’s face. He could not see the room. His eyes were fixed by that hand – that hand that had killed the man’s own brother. The hand that had done – what? to whom? – at Develin. He thought of Grismonde and Pantethon and Denke – all that learning lost, all those scholars, those young men of promise! And the Widow, too, and all her folk,dead in the senseless, shameful wreck of old Develin.
I counselled him to do it
.
The hand was held before him for the words of Develin’s daughter.
‘I was not told this,’ he muttered.
‘You said you had a letter.’
‘Not that. Not that,’ he said.
The road may be harder than you would think possible
, she had said.
‘Give him the letter,’ he mumbled to Lex.
He turned and walked to the wall. His head seemed to be singing. He heard the rustle of paper being handed over. He heard the seal being broken – a light, slight sound. He put his hand out to steady himself. His palm touched – not stone, but fur. He looked up. A wolf mask, dried and pinned to the wall with rusty nails, grinned back at him.
‘She writes only that the bearer of this letter is looking for the Prince Under the Sky, and that I am to help them if I will,’ said the man.
Padry stared at the wolf mask, willing the shock to clear from his brain.
‘How has she forgiven you?’ His own voice sounded harsh in his ears.
‘To tell you the truth,’ said Raymond diLackmere with a chuckle, ‘I do not know that she has.’
‘Good,’ said Padry.
‘So? But you have come for my help and you have come to my hearth. You may, of course, change your mind and set your fellows on me – if you think they will win. Or you may leave, if you think thatwill make you better than I am. Or you may break bread with me. I am willing, although we had prepared for two and must now stretch to seven.’
The bristles of the wolfskin were harsh beneath Padry’s right palm. The fingers of his left hand had reached instinctively for his belt. They touched the walnut shapes dangling there. They closed on one and knew it. It was
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