Read Online The King’s Arrow by Michael Cadnum - Free Book Online

English verb. Hoist . No one in Paris had ever heard of such a word.
    â€œI am sure the skill proves useful,” said Roland, recalling the skinner’s yard near Cripplegate, carcasses of plow horses flayed and gutted, suspended by hooks the size of anchors. Men greasy with their work bawled out instructions in a language peculiar to their trade, and the youthful Roland had helped block-and-tackle the work-emaciated hulks of oxen up into the skinner’s workplace, for fun—until his father forbade it, saying it was no sport for a gentleman.
    â€œBut even my deaf father, my lord,” said Climenze, “has heard the talk of unsettling signs.”
    â€œDo we believe in omens, Climenze?” asked Roland, keeping his conversation artful, but inwardly alive with curiosity. “Or are we rational enough to trust our wits?”
    â€œThere is an unsettling occasion in London, my lord marshal,” said the undermarshal, resorting to the official language of clerks to make himself clear, and to determine that his superior took his report seriously.
    â€œThere is always some brew-house riot,” said Roland, fond of the big town, and wishing he were there.
    â€œYou’re right as to that,” said Climenze with a knowing smile. “But this is something new in the way of troubling indications, my lord marshal, if I may put it so.”
    Roland liked Climenze. This was the man he sent to warn the local goatherds to pen their livestock when summer was high. An injured peasant left a gap in the harvest, a skill missing during harness mending, and a strong pair of arms when it was time to beat the fields for hares. Climenze could punish—but not too severely.
    Climenze, however, had been a man of enigmatic habits recently. He had taken to vanishing for hours, and showing up for duty with the perfume of expensive wine on his breath. Something warned Roland now. Don’t trust him .
    A soft-voiced intruder, with a quiet step, startled the two of them.
    â€œAsk him what sort of troubling indications,” urged Prince Henry, entering the circle of light cast by the nearly smokeless coals. The two stood and gave a bow at the approach of the prince, and Henry gave a smile and a nod in return.
    Roland was surprised. “Do you know my man Climenze?” he asked.
    â€œIndeed,” said the prince, “I know your undermarshal to be as capable with the bow as he is in the saddle.”
    Roland would have thought Climenze was far better with ax or pike than he was at archery, but he was flattered that the prince took notice of one of his men.
    Flattered, but puzzled. In the daily life of the royal court, a prince and an undermarshal would know each other by sight, but conversation between them would be rare. Roland did not enjoy this sort of by-the-way surprise. He counted on knowing men and what they were likely to do.
    At this time of night—late, with nearly all the dining tables and benches broken down and cleared off—the prince was almost always stupid with drink. This night, however, Prince Henry was apparently sober.
    Climenze did not speak until Roland lifted his forefinger, granting permission.
    He said, “The dogs, my lords, have vanished from the city streets.”
    The prince gave the short, silent exhalation that was his version of laughter.
    â€œGod’s teeth, Climenze, this is a sure calamity. The dogs are gone! Let us fly to our ships!”
    â€œThe dog packs have disappeared entirely?” asked Roland.
    Packs of large mongrels had plagued the streets of London in recent months. They roamed only at night, and had the effect of discouraging nightwalkers—beggars and wandering lunatics. Even so, they impeded horsemen in the early-morning hours, disturbing even the bravest steed with their barking and slavering. The king, it had been generally agreed, would have to order a slaughter of the dogs before winter.
    â€œEvery last pup, my lords,”