The Prison Stone Read online

  “And when the boy noticed you sawing away and cried for help? When the two guards out front rushed in? What then?”

  Ealon’s face fell. “Two guards?”

  “You didn’t surveil the front of the tent?” Cormoran asked, narrowing one eye. “And would slitting the boy’s throat have been worth it, after the guards ran you through with their steel?”

  Ealon said nothing. He looked mildly quizzical. Cormoran had rarely seen him at a loss for words. Gravelhorn buried his face in one hand and groaned.

  Ealon brightened. “But you are here, now, brother. You and…your little friend there.”

  Gravelhorn looked up at Cormoran, an expression of shocked disbelief on his face. “My lord, would you remind my lord the princeling here that I am the Earl of Härgaladr?”

  Ealon ignored him. “Between the three of us, we can take them easily.”

  Cormoran ground his teeth and balled his hands into fists inside his armored gloves. He concentrated on his breathing to still the storm of rage brewing within him. Finally, he fixed his brother’s eye with his own and spoke in a measured and noble tone. “We might. But we won’t.”

  Ealon’s mouth worked, but no sounds came out. He pointed at the pavilion.

  Cormoran continued. “We won’t because such actions are ignoble. They violate the sacred trust of warriors. We will not do this wicked thing because even the thought of it dishonors our house.”

  Ealon opened his mouth to protest, but Cormoran held up his hand to stop him and continued. “The elder god was powerful, but he was evil, and the worship he demanded was evil. The oyarsu defeated him by honorable means, and the conduct they require of us is honorable as well.”

  “You speak of fairy tale and myth,” Ealon spat. “I speak of victory.”

  “What you intend would bring down our house every bit as much as defeat in battle. Which is itself all the more likely every minute Orfek and I are away from the fray.”

  “I do not understand you, brother. You are almost as young as I, and yet you cling to the ways of ossified old men.”

  “When those ways are noble, I do,” his brother agreed. But he could see Ealon was having none of it. He changed tack. “Brother, listen. Think strategically. If you do this, what will happen?”

  “Every client king on the planet with pretensions to independence will receive a fine warning of what happens when you cross the house of Summerfield.”

  Cormoran moved his head from side to side. “Or…every king will have reason to rethink whether allegiance to a house that is clearly corrupt and dishonorable is in his best interest. I can think of six royals who might band together to form an insurrection that would topple the house of Summerfield before winter arrives. Hearth might be torn apart—from a united planet under one crown to a squabbling assembly of nation states dragging our people into disorder and chaos. At best we might be looking at mass executions for the house of Summerfield and another interregnum. Did you ever think of that?”

  Ealon’s eyes flitted back and forth, taking in this information but saying nothing.

  “No, it is clear that you haven’t,” Cormoran sighed. “The other kings look to us to lead. This is right and good. The Mountain and Plain Alliance, which binds the interests of men and dwarfs, also looks to us, not as sovereigns but as the wielders of power—not might alone, but moral power.”

  “If you are averse to killing him, let us capture him. Hold him for ransom.”

  “Is this your idea of compromise?” Cormoran glanced briefly to the sky. “Firstly, there is no way we could do it without detection. Women can scream, and I have no doubt the lad can as well. And secondly, there is no honor…”

  He saw Ealon’s eyes glazing over, as the youth readied for another speech. Cormoran shook his head and gave up. He glanced over his shoulder. “We have a battle—”

  But the moment Cormoran looked away, Ealon was in motion. His brother did not see the dagger, did not see the quick arc through the air, did not see it bearing down upon the naked part of his neck.

  2

  Cormoran did not see his brother’s lunge, only the widened eyes of the dwarf reacting. It was enough. Cormoran spun around, swiping his gauntlet upward toward his own neck—since that and his head were the only exposed parts of his body. He felt Ealon’s blade connect with the gauntlet, and felt rather than heard it as it scraped down the armor covering his arm. With his left hand he reached around and tugged at his sword from where it hung on his right side, popping it out of its scabbard, catching Ealon in the gut with more force than Cormoran had intended.

  The prince crumpled to the grass and rolled, clutching at his stomach, barely stifling a groan of protest and agony.

  “Shhhh…” Cormoran hissed into his ear. “Unless you still want to face those guards. And make no mistake—I will let them have you.”

  Ealon’s eyes shot daggers at his brother even as he struggled to gain his breath.

  Cormoran sheathed his sword once more. He grabbed the black piping of his brother’s doublet and hauled him to his feet. “If you want to do something to end this war, there is an honorable way to do it. But it is not here.” He pointed to the battlefield. “It is there.” He shoved Ealon in front of him, and gave his brother a kick in the seat of his britches. As they made for the tree line, Cormoran allowed more volume to his voice. “You can fight with honor, or you can huddle in our own pavilion. And then you’d better hope that our enemy has more honor than you.”

  “Sunderland!” Acting postmaster Elias Bracegirdle’s voice carried above the din of the Everdale Courier Services offices.

  “By the horn,” Ellis swore. “What now?” But he left off sorting his route and padded quickly through the offices toward his superior. Bushy haffolk eyebrows raised as he passed, and a couple of the young women actually shrank as he passed them and then giggled. It was impossible to tell, from Bracegirdle’s voice, whether Ellis was in trouble or just being summoned for some other, less fell reason. Ellis poked his head into Bracegirdle’s office and tapped at the door. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Bracegirdle looked every bit a haffolk nearing his seniority, having a round, portly frame, his trousers held aloft with suspenders after the old fashion, with spectacles teetering on the edge of his voluminous nose. Tufts of gray hair clung to the sides of his head and merged with the tufts coming out of his ears. At one time, he had been a stickler for order, but Ellis wondered at the disarray adorning his office now. Next to a picture of the Old Puck, a calendar hung askew, Bracegirdle’s retirement date marked in large, splashy red digits. “Sit.”

  Ellis sat.

  Bracegirdle did not look up at him just yet—he continued to scan several pieces of parchment in front of him, nodding and grunting occasionally.

  Ellis waited, and he struggled to be patient. He was aware that his route was waiting, and the morning was not getting any younger. Kit would be wondering where he was.

  Finally, Bracegirdle looked up at him, and he did not look pleased.

  Ellis cocked his head.

  “I received a complaint,” Bracegirdle said.

  Ellis looked away and sighed. “I was afraid of that. I’m sorry about the sneakin’.”

  Bracegirdle’s eyebrows rose. “Sneakin’?”

  “This isn’t about the sneakin’?” Ellis asked, suddenly tense.

  “Do I want to know about the sneakin’?” Bracegirdle narrowed one eye.

  “Uh…probably not, sir. We just…we got the job done, sir.” Ellis squirmed in his seat. He felt smaller than usual.

  “Well, whatever that was about, this is not about that. I received a complaint from that idiot Goodfoot. Says you were napping.”

  Tubber, Ellis thought. He balled his hands into fists. I’ll get him back for that. “It was first lunch break. Kit went to get some cheese from Farmer Proudspindle, so I took a short doze in the meadow.”

  Bracegirdle looked like he was chewing the cud. “That…sounds wonderful.”

&
nbsp; Ellis nodded, beginning to relax a little. “It was a typical day.”

  “Do you expect to take a nap again today?”

  Ellis glanced back and forth. “I hope to.”

  “Good. Wish I could join you.” Bracegirdle sighed and set the parchment aside. “Sunderland, no one cares what you do on your lunch break. There are no regulations in the courier’s code about catching a quick doze in the middle of your route…”

  “I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Ellis said.

  “But…this busybody Tubber Goodfoot has filed a formal complaint, instead of coming to me, which means—however spurious—it is now part of your permanent record and likely as not there will be a formal inquiry. The inspectors will be calling, no doubt. I’ll go on record to say it’s a pile of rubbish, of course.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It shouldn’t hurt you, except…”

  “The postmaster’s position?”

  “Yes. I know you applied. And I know how badly you want it.” The old haffolk looked around, as if to check to make sure there was no one in the tiny office. Apparently there was not, as he continued, in a lowered voice. “And between you and me, I think you’d do a fine job.”

  Ellis brightened. “Thank you, sir!”

  “But this…complaint is not going to help your chances. It’s ridiculous, but it’s there. And among the seven applicants for the position, you are now the only one with a formal complaint among their files.” He shook his head. “It’s not good.”

  “But surely they’ll see that it’s sabotage. Tubber is going for the job, too.”

  “The complaint is anonymous, I fear,” Bracegirdle shook his head.

  “The snake!”

  “Quite.”

  Ellis felt like Tubber had just punched him in the breadbasket. His ire rose, then collapsed in a pile of ashen defeat. “I didn’t have a chance anyway.”

  “You can get more for your eggs than you’re asking, Sunderland.” Bracegirdle leaned back in his chair, making it squeak in protest. “The postmaster’s committee will be making its decision soon, so if you want to counteract this…sabotage is a good word…naff naff naff…” He seemed to be going through his pockets. He pulled out a scrap of parchment. “Here. I wrote you a letter of recommendation. The clean copy is in your file.” He threw the scrap on his desk.

  Ellis snatched at it and his eyes went wide as he read. “That’s…it’s very kind of you, sir.”

  “It won’t be enough,” Bracegirdle confessed. “So I’m going to give you an assignment.”

  “Assignment, sir?” Ellis was not bad at his letters or maths, but he hated book reports.

  “It’s a prestigious assignment, so when you complete it, that too will be reflected in your file.” He winked. “That may be enough.”

  “What sort of assignment, sir?” Ellis was truly curious now.

  “Just came over the blips-and-squawks.” The old haffolk shuffled through several sheets of parchment, trying to find the right one.

  “Blips-and-squawks” was a code invented more than a thousand years previously by a dwarf named Hroffgar. It translated runes or letters into a series of shorter and longer beeps or clacks. The advantage of the code was that it could be transmitted great distances, even through space. It couldn’t reach the next galaxy…but then they knew of no one who lived in the next galaxy. Within their own star system, however, and the next, and the one beyond that, it worked just fine.

  He apparently found the right paper and adjusted his spectacles. He squinted, then his eyebrows rose higher than Ellis thought possible.

  “Well, poke me with a witch’s femur,” Bracegirdle said. “I misspoke. Sorry, my boy. This didn’t come via blips-and-squawks, this came via seerstone.” He shook his head. “I didn’t notice that before. I’m getting too old for this…” he trailed off.

  If a message came via a seerstone, it meant one thing: summoners were somehow involved. Or perhaps there was a need for secrecy. Each of those prospects seemed exciting. Ellis had never met a summoner—at least not to his knowledge. Everdale was a moon of Hearth, so he had met humans aplenty. And of course, dwarfs were a ubiquitous and indispensable presence—nothing got done without dwarfish craft and expertise, unless it be on elf worlds.

  Haffolk only existed because men and dwarfs in close proximity inevitably resulted in unexpected unions and unwanted offspring. The Everdale Haffolk Reservation was a beautiful place to live, and Ellis loved it, but no one was under any illusions about what it was—a place to hide the shameful, infertile children of human and dwarfish parents. So men and dwarfs were common visitors to the Dale, but summoners… Ellis’ mind reeled with sudden fantasies.

  “I’m going to give you this job,” Bracegirdle waved the service order parchment at him, “even though Catspittle will moan about it like a goat in labor.”

  Ellis grinned. Everyone called Felix Axtiller “Catspittle” behind his back. It delighted Ellis that Bracegirdle did, too. Axtiller was the most senior of the couriers, and the most important jobs should, by rights, be his.

  “What are you going to tell him?” Ellis asked.

  “You leave that to me,” Bracegirdle narrowed one eye.

  Ellis liked the feeling of being a co-conspirator with his boss. He didn’t even think the old haffolk liked him. “I’m your haffolk, sir.”

  “Good to hear it, Sunderland.” Bracegirdle turned and fished out a file. Ellis squirmed internally, as it seemed to take the old haffolk an eternity to do anything. Finally, Bracegirdle selected a blank transport requisition parchment and, dipping his goose quill in ink, began to fill it out. “I’m sending you with some dispatch to Yngremark.”

  Ellis’ eyebrows rose and he felt his innards twist. “Um…off-world, sir? I don’t know about going off-world.” Ellis felt suddenly faint. He’d been to every corner of the Dale, and he knew Rhory well enough. Ellis had never been off-world before, not even to Hearth, the home world of humans, the planet that Everdale circled as its satellite and celestial companion. His pulse quickened and he found himself unable to sit still.

  “You have to go to the job, Sunderland. The job is not going to go to you.”

  “Yes, but…Yngremark…” he breathed. Yngremark was one of the two planets considered home to dwarfs. Of course, dwarfs could be found on most planets, but the dwarfish culture and architecture of their home worlds were famous. Yngremark had been the first dwarfish colony once they had become spacefaring, but now it rivaled the birth planet of the dwarfs, Ältremark, in its glory.

  Bracegirdle sighed. “Look, Sunderland, I don’t blame you. No haffolk wants to leave hearth and home and family and naps and second breakfasts—”

  “No…” Ellis agreed.

  “But you have an opportunity to shine, here, to pull out ahead of the pack, to advance your case…” he lowered his voice, “for postmaster, I mean.”

  Ellis gulped. He suddenly felt very small indeed. He gripped the wooden armrests of the chair he was in and steeled himself for what he was about to say. “Um…all right…when do we leave?”

  Bracegirdle’s grumpiness seemed to return. “We?”

  “I…uh…” Ellis felt momentarily lost. “Kit usually goes with me—”

  “Oh yes, the Cornfeather girl,” Bracegirdle shook his head. “Someday she must contribute to society.”

  “Kit contributes a lot.”

  Bracegirdle’s eyebrows rose, and gave Ellis a look that he took to mean, “Don’t push your luck.” The old haffolk removed his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes. “How does that girl earn her keep, anyway?”

  “I split my pay with her,” Ellis said.

  “My dear boy, you make a pittance. This is all right with your family, is it?”

  Haffolk “families” were not united by blood, but by chance. As soon as a haffolk child was born, it was whisked away to Everdale before it brought shame to any human or dwarfish clans and placed with a haffolk family by lot. For all their artificial origins, haffolk fa
milies bonded quickly and well. They were large, usually, often containing twelve or more ’folk of varying ages. Ellis’ own family had seven people in it, at present, but they were past due for a new baby.

  “Ever since Kit began to accompany me, I…well, sir, I don’t get beaten up any more.”

  Ellis knew he was a bit of a runt—smaller and trimmer than most haffolk—a fact that was not lost on the likes of Tubber. Truth was, he was grateful for Kit, and hardly went anywhere without her.

  “Well, you won’t be needing her on this trip.”

  Ellis was about to protest, but Bracegirdle held his hand up to stop him. “I can’t justify the expense of another travel requisition. I know the two of you are planted in the same pot, as it were, but this is one mission you’ll need to take alone. Now, do you want this job or not, Sunderland?”

  Ellis blinked. Inwardly, he was panicking. He had never been on a job by himself. He depended on Kit, not only for protection, but for emotional support. He was terrified of the prospect of going off-world without her. He swallowed and met Bracegirdle’s eyes. “Um…yes, sir. When do we…when do I leave, sir?”

  “Just after lunch, I should think.”

  Liaga Thornheart was nodding off when he heard the trumpets. His head jerked upright with a mild snort and he looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. King Uther seemed to be rousing himself from a nap as well, ensconced as he so often was in the window seat of the great throne room at Caer Trogan. The king loved to look out to sea, and the summoner wondered if perhaps the limitless possibilities of the waters and all the wonders that lay beyond them offered the king a balm for the mind. There is a place beyond the dreadful minutiae of state, Liaga summed up that balm, savoring the thought of it. But he suspected there was no place in the world of men, the two worlds of the dwarfs, or the three skyhavens of the elves where that was actually true.

  Trumpets could mean any number of things, but listening closely for the song, Liaga quickly ascertained their meaning. The war party was returning, which meant the princes—if they lived—would soon be presenting themselves before the crown and making their report. The summoner was suddenly very much awake.