The High King's Tomb by Kristen Britain
When she caught the direction in which that line of thought was heading, she silently cursed herself and tore her gaze away from the wax figure, forcing herself to look at the other tableaux. There were likenesses of other kings and queens, various heroic knights and warriors from Sacoridia’s past, and a pair of aristocrats dueling for a lady’s favor. There was no way of knowing if these visages were accurate, since she had never met those whom the figures represented, with the exception of the first high king, Jonaeus.
He sat on a thronelike chair, sunshine streaming on him from an arched window above. Though the label claimed this was King Jonaeus, the figure was all wrong. It certainly looked kingly with its crown and strong features, but it wasn’t at all as she remembered. King Jonaeus had been a grizzled, wearied warrior with gray in his beard. Even the clothing was inaccurate. She couldn’t imagine him having access to finely tailored silks, a luxury unheard of during the time of the Long War. In life, he was a man of hard leathers, coarse wool, and iron. There was no way the artists could have known his true appearance, she reminded herself, the way she had. They could only make guesses and create a representation.
She shrugged and was about to move on to the next tableau when glass shattered and someone screamed. Startled, she grabbed her skirts and hurried out to the main hall as fast as her daintily-shod feet would carry her. A surprising sight greeted her. A man wearing a black silk mask stood in the center of the hall fending off attendants and museum patrons with a rapier. In his other hand he held a document taken from a smashed case.
“Priceless!” an attendant sobbed. “Please, I beg of you! Please don’t take it.”
No one else moved. Ladies clung to their escorts, faces pale. Gentlemen stood frozen as if a spell had been worked upon them. Braymer looked his usual bewildered self, but was silent for once, with Styles bravely splayed in front of his young ward.
“Priceless to you maybe,” the masked man told the attendant, “but eminently useful to me.” Then to the rest he added, “My apologies for interrupting your afternoon. Good day.” And he saluted them with his sword.
Braggart, Karigan thought with distaste. She sighed. If no one else was going to do anything to stop him, perhaps as a representative of the king she should.
“Halt!” she cried after him as he turned to flee. “In the name of the king!”
Everyone stared at her in surprise, including the thief, whose eyes sparkled behind his mask.
“You are breaking king’s law,” Karigan said. The thief took two steps toward her and halted. She felt his eyes look her up and down in crude fashion. She blushed.
And he laughed. “Yes, and what do you plan to do about it, my lady? Certainly nothing to muss that hair so nicely arranged on your head.”
“Oh, good heavens,” she murmured in disgust. She grabbed her skirts and bustled to the nearest wall of weaponry. She yanked a sword from its mount.
“Y–you’re not supposed to t–touch the artifacts,” the attendant cried, fretting at his handkerchief. She glared at him, stifling further argument.
The masked man laughed. “I feel so threatened.”
Karigan rolled her eyes. Grabbing a bunch of skirt with her left hand, she started toward the braggart with the sword held before her. Braymer suddenly came to life and darted to her side, clutching her arm.
“Mistress Karigan, what are you doing? Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from this villain, I’ll—”
She yanked her arm loose and brushed him aside. He fell back several steps, perhaps not expecting her strength. The thief watched with apparent interest.
Though Arms Master Drent had trained her thoroughly in all manner of fighting techniques and scenarios, she had never fought in a dress. She was hoping it would not come to an actual fight.
“Leave the document and go,” Karigan said. “That artifact belongs to the people of Sacoridia.”
“And you will stop me, my lady?” There was much amusement in the thief’s voice, and an upturn to his lips suggested a smile.
Karigan sighed. “If I must.” She shifted the sword in her grip. It was a longsword, much heavier than what she was used to.
“Perhaps you should return to your needlework, my lady.” He turned dismissively and started to stride away, but Karigan shoved the blade between his legs and tripped him. Quick as a cat he rolled and was on his feet again. He tucked the document into his frock coat and gazed at her, this time without the smile.
“Mistress Karigan, is it?” Steel tinged his voice. “You would do well not to anger me.”
“I wouldn’t anger you if you’d simply return the document and leave.”
“And how would that be worth my time?”
“It might be worth your life.”
“That’s a very unladylike threat.”
“And this is the only needlework I know.” She raised the sword to eye level.
The thief barked out a laugh. “You are an intriguing lady, Mistress Karigan. Now let’s dispense with this nonsense, shall we? I’ll be on my—”
Karigan engaged him and their quick exchange of blows rang throughout the expansive halls of the museum. In retrospect, she realized she had done it again; had gotten herself into a fight when she could have just as easily pretended to be helpless and let the thief make off with the document. It was the responsibility of the constabulary, really. She always seemed to act first and think later, a dangerous failing on her part. In this first exchange, the thief revealed his rapier wasn’t just a pretty ornament he wore at his side—he knew how to use it. He was no ordinary thief, this masked man, and she might be in for more than she bargained for.
But she wasn’t helpless, and she hated standing around when she might be able to prevent a treasured artifact from being stolen, and in full daylight no less. And she had to admit, it was a bit of a response to Braymer and Styles, and their conservative Rhovan ways. Let them see what a Sacoridian woman was capable of.
“I see you have practiced your needlework,” the thief said. “A little.”
Karigan scowled.
“Tut, tut, don’t frown,” he said. “It ruins your pretty face.”
Karigan closed in again, and he met her blow for blow, his sword work elegant and nimble compared to her own which was made ponderous by the weight of the longsword. She had to use it two-handed, which left her skirts dragging about her feet and seriously hampering her footwork. He glided about, his other hand set on his hip, his back held erect, his bearing aristocratic.
Karigan thrust, and he slipped aside. Her sword hissed at his neck, and he danced away. The smirk on his face revealed he thought it all a great joke. She brought the sword down in what should have been a crushing blow, but he flitted out of the way. Blow after blow was casually deflected, and when she threw herself into one particularly powerful thrust, he simply stepped aside. Her center of gravity was thrown forward and she had to hurry her feet back under her before she fell on her face.
Her lungs strained against the corset for breath. Sweat trickled down her neck and temples. The thief remained cool and impeccable, awaiting her next move. It infuriated her.
She whirled and their blades clanged together and slid hilt to hilt. They were very close, almost nose to nose. She could look right into his light gray eyes.
“I’m enjoying this dance,” he said in a silken whisper, “and I think you are, too.”
Karigan shoved him away with a growl. For a moment their hilt guards caught and she thought she might be able to tear his sword from his hands, but he deftly untangled it and backed away.
He shrugged off her blows one by one, she growing increasingly weary and light-headed because of the corset. She stepped on the hem of her dress and nearly bowled right over.
Their fight carried them out of the main exhibition hall into the wing with the wax figures. She was struggling now, struggling to remain standing, struggling to breathe, struggling just to lift the sword, which seemed to gain pounds with every blow he parried.
“So enjoyable,” he said, “to dance with a lovely woman. I wonder if you would be this feisty in my bed.”
She jerked her knee up between his legs, but her skirts foiled the blow. He broke away, chuckling at her. She swung wildly, but he turned aside, the momentum of her blade chopping off Lord Mirwell’s head. It plopped neatly into its receiving basket.
The thief hooted. “Well done!”
Karigan rounded on him, her breathing harsh now. Some hair had come lose from a comb and hung in an annoying strand down the middle of her face. She stared at him, puffing, the sword valiantly held before her in hands trembling from fatigue.
With one swift blow he knocked it from her grasp and sent it clattering across the marble floor. She fell to her knees, too robbed of breath to do anything else. She was going to burn the damnable corset the first chance she got. If the thief didn’t kill her first.
The tip of his rapier flashed to the hollow of her throat. It pricked her skin as she swallowed, warm blood trickling down her chest.
The thief smiled, his gaze intent. “Ladies should not play with swords. The steel type, anyway.” He lowered the rapier tip to the top lace of her bodice and toyed with it. “But you’ve provided me with a most interesting diversion.”
Karigan wanted to tell him a thing or two that would burn his ears from the inside out, but she hadn’t the breath to speak.
“Thank the gods!” someone shouted from without. “The constables have finally arrived!”
Karigan had forgotten about all the others, and so had the thief, so immersed in their swordplay had they been.
“Time to go,” he said. With a flick of his wrist he sliced the lace of her bodice, then wrapped the chain of her necklace around the blade and yanked it from her neck. “To remember you by,” he explained. He unwound the necklace from the rapier and dropped it into his pocket.
Karigan grabbed at her gaping bodice. “You—you—” But she had so many things to say, they bottled up in her throat.
The thief backed toward the end of the exhibit hall at the sound of approaching feet. He paused and tugged off a velvet glove that matched the deep wine color of his frock coat. He kissed it and tossed it to the floor before her. “For you to remember me by.”
“You—you—you.” The venom in her voice made him wince, then grin broadly. He hopped onto the arm of King Jonaeus’ throne.
Karigan pulled off one of her useless shoes and threw it at him. She missed, knocking off King Jonaeus’ crown instead.
Armed constables rushed into the hall. “Stop, thief!”
“Good day,” he said, and he climbed up onto the casement of the window above King Jonaeus, kicked out the window, and vanished, but not before another well-aimed shoe clobbered him in the head.
“Ow!” came his cry from the street below. “That hurt, my lady!”
“You clobbered him in the head?” Mara asked incredulously.
“I was angry.”
“Karigan, you are the only person I know who can turn a pleasant excursion to a museum into a swordfight.”
Karigan sighed. Dressed now in her green uniform, she sat with her feet tucked under her in the chair next to Mara’s bed. It had been a huge relief to pry the corset loose from her body. It felt like her rib cage was still trying to spring back to its normal profile, and the whalebone ribbing had left deep indentations in her flesh.
Mara rubbed her chin. “Good aim with the shoe, though.”
Karigan had been very pleased with the throw herself, and felt no remorse over the loss of the shoe. What she hadn’t liked was how vulnerable she felt when at the mercy of the thief, which, she realized, was most of the time. She had not been able to defend herself while trapped in the dress, and he could have killed her at his pleasure. Her fingers went to the hollow of her throat where his rapier nicked her, and felt the scab. She never wanted to feel that vulnerable again. Ever.
Mara pushed back into her pillows, her gaze distant. “He sounds like the Raven Mask.”
“Who?”
Mara smiled. “The Raven Mask, a stealthy gentleman thief who prowled Sacor City some years ago, stealing select items like rare paintings and precious jewels. It’s said he especially favored entering the chambers of ladies to steal their fine jewels even as they slept in the night. He would leave some token for those he favored.” She glanced significantly at the velvet glove Karigan had dropped on the bed. “Some ladies were said to leave their windows wide open with gems sitting on their dressing tables in hopes he would come to them in the night, and they’d offer him other, ahem, favors. If caught and confronted, he was always polite, but he always managed to escape. He was known as a master swordsman.”
“He…the thief, he was good.” Karigan said.
“It was believed the Raven Mask retired, or was finally killed by an enraged husband, but more rumors point to him retiring to some country estate and a manor house filled with the riches he had accumulated throughout his career. Come to think of it, he’d be an elderly fellow by now.”
“This fellow was not elderly.” His hair had held no gray, but his mask hid too much of his face for her to otherwise judge his age. He certainly moved like a younger man.
Mara shifted her position on her bed. “What was the document he stole? Did you ever find out?”
“Something from the Long War days written in Old Sacoridian. The museum attendant called it ‘priceless,’ but apparently it has little market value among collectors. It only has value to historians I guess, though the attendant said they never made much sense out of it.”
“If it was the Raven Mask who took it,” Mara said, “it must have some value.”
Karigan thought back to the thief facing the museum patrons and attendants, holding his rapier in one hand and the document in another. “He called it ‘useful.’”
Mara chuckled. “Maybe it’s directions to a secret treasure. Sounds like the sort of thing the Raven Mask would steal.”
Karigan did not know, nor did she really care to, and if she ever encountered the man again, she wouldn’t give him a chance to explain. No, she wouldn’t kill him, but she would overcome him, and he could do all his explaining to the constabulary.
“And how did Braymer Coyle and his stern chaperone react to this eventful end to your outing?” Mara asked.
Karigan groaned. Braymer had become very solicitous, and had continually stolen looks at her nearly exposed bosom even as she spoke with the constables about the theft. “Let’s say that Braymer has probably set aside his monastic vows for good.” Yes, he had been much more interested in her after the eventful museum visit, in a most clinging and annoying way, as if he suddenly discovered she was female. Her sword work seemed to have excited him.
“Master Styles was unhappy.” During the carriage ride back to the castle, it was almost as if the man had turned to stone. He had refused to speak to her, or even to look at her. “No doubt his report to Braymer’s father will not prove favorable.”
“You don’t sound displeased,” Mara said.
Karigan smiled smugly. “I’m sure the Coyles will find a gentle Rhovan lady more to their liking for Braymer.” As for her father’s stake in this? Served him right. The whole set-up had been a disaster from its inception.
She stood and stretched, reveling in her freedom from corset and dress.
“Leaving so soon?” Mara asked.
“Thought I’d see to some chores before dinner.”
Mara picked up the glove from her bed and extended it to Karigan. “Don’t forget this.”
Karigan frowned. “No, you keep it. I don’t want to see it again.” It reminded her too much of her vulnerability.
In the late hours of night, long after the lights in the homes of Sacor City’s more respectable citizens had winked out, two men met in a seedy inn in a rundown section of the lower city. They sat apart from the other patrons, away from the sooty lamps and the hearth fire, allowing shadows and
A third man sat in the darkest corner by himself, a tankard of ale before him and a hood drawn over his head. His back was to the two men who sat opposite each other at a rickety table, but if he listened closely, he could discern their conversation over the drunken carousing of the inn’s other patrons.
“My master has obtained what you seek,” Morry said. He was an older man in common garb, but his refined speech revealed he was more than he appeared.
“Hand it over,” said the second man in a gruff, no-nonsense voice. He wore scarred fighting leathers and a plain cloak, a serviceable sword girded at his side. Like Morry, there was nothing exceptional about him, but those who were keen observers knew that by the way he carried himself he was a soldier, or had been at one time. A soldier with no device, no sign of allegiance.
“Tut, tut,” Morry said. “Show me the payment.”
There was a grunt and the thud and clink of a bulging purse dropped on the table. The man in the corner smiled and sipped his ale.
“Here is what you seek, as requested,” Morry said, followed by the sound of the leather folder scraping across the rough surface of the table. Many moments of silence followed while the soldier examined the document within.
Another grunt. “Excellent. This is the one we wanted.”
“A satisfactory transaction, then,” Morry said.
Leathers creaked and the man in the corner imagined the soldier leaning across the table. “I was instructed to arrange more work for your master upon the acceptable completion of today’s assignment.” He strained to hear the soldier’s lowered voice. “It will be risky, but there will be commensurate reward if he is successful.”
“Tell on,” said Morry, “and I shall convey your wishes to my master.”