“You!” he cried suddenly.
It was the woman who had hurled the stone at him the night before. She held his gaze for a long second as a crowd of people bustled between them. Finally, she shook her head in disgust before vanishing into the masses.
Doric witnessed the exchange.
“Is there some reason we should go after her?” Doric asked.
“No, Doric,” the squire answered. “Her only crime is that she knows the truth.”
With an uneasy feeling, he turned his horse and rode away. William followed at his own speed.
Have I forfeited the obligations of my order in my promise to keep the silence? Theodore wondered silently. I must ask Saradomin for guidance in this matter.
Perhaps, indeed, she knows more of the truth than I.
Theodore’s doubts were interrupted by a nudge from Doric.
“So tell me what you know,” the dwarf instructed as they left the crowds behind them and rode out of earshot of anyone save William. “Tell me of this woman. This inhuman woman.”
Ebenezer was sleeping in his chair, his spectacles fallen to his chest, when Theodore and his two friends got back.
“It was a tiring journey to Varrock,” Doric explained softly, in an effort not to disturb the alchemist. “Even for me, and we are meeting King Roald tomorrow. Perhaps it is best if we got some rest so we can present ourselves in our best possible light, and be neither weary nor frayed?”
“I will ask a servant to escort you to your rooms, master dwarf, if you care to wake your friend,” William offered. He peered outside and gestured to a man who waited nearby.
Gently, Doric shook Ebenezer’s shoulder. The old man awoke with a sharp intake of breath.
“Oh-ho! You’re back,” he said groggily. “What time is it?”
“It’s half past ten,” Doric said, looking at the intricate clock that hung above the fireplace. “Although it feels a lot later. I for one need rest. Lots of fresh air and being bungled about on a wagon is enough for me. Now I know how a potato feels on its way to market. Come on, alchemist!”
Ebenezer stood delicately. As he did so a book slipped from his lap and onto the cushion.
“A history of the lives of the kings of Varrock?” William said as he picked it up. “Well, that’s enough to send anybody to sleep.”
“Oh, yes. I found it on the shelf over there. I remembered my childhood when I was forced to learn all their names from the Battle of the Salve down to the present day.” The alchemist smiled sorrowfully. “I must have had a better memory then than now, I fear. I had forgotten the names of the four princes who were lost at that battle.” He shook his head. “Never mind. It is ancient history. Now, what happened in Varrock tonight? Were your fears justified?”
Theodore nodded.
“They were. Another slaying. I don’t know how many there have been so far, but this time the killer left a message-and it was more public than any so far.”
“Tell me about it, while we find my bedroom.”
“We must not talk too freely, my friend,” William cautioned. “This knowledge is prohibited in Varrock by the highest authority.”
“I will tell you, when we get you to your room,” Doric said. “Theodore told me all on our return to the palace.” The dwarf took the alchemist’s arm and led him from the room, following the servant, while Theodore moved to extinguish the lights.
“Are you going to bed Theodore?” William asked, rubbing his own eyes and yawning.
“Not just yet,” the squire answered. “I think I will spend a moment in the chapel, in prayer. Will you join me, to ask for guidance in this matter?”
William shook his head.
“No. I am sorry Theodore. I find the chapel to Saradomin a very cold place indeed. I am aware of its importance to your order of course, but I prefer the guise of the roguish nobleman. Goodnight, good knight!”
The nobleman walked toward the door, then turned before leaving, his eyes holding Theodore’s for several seconds.
“I am sorry about my outburst at the inn today, Theodore,” he said earnestly. “Truly I am. Please believe me when I say that I will always be your friend.” He closed the door behind him quickly, preventing Theodore from replying.
After a moment of careful thought, the squire extinguished the final candle and left the room to make his way through the dim corridors of the great palace and to the cold chapel upon the second floor.
There, alone with his doubts, he knelt in prayer.
3
The yak stopped dead.
Its youthful owner gave an exasperated grunt and tugged on its lead from his position in the saddle of his horse. Reluctantly the yak took a few steps, and then stopped again, snorting in disagreement with its master.
“But we’re nearly there!” the blue-robed wizard argued, gesturing east toward Varrock. They were only a half hour’s journey away, and he was eager to enjoy a soft bed for the first time in several nights. Even in the last few moments of twilight, he could see the grey walls of the city beckoning him. Torches were lit at regular intervals along the parapet. Somewhere from the west, a bell rang out. He counted the carillon’s cry.
Was that ten, or eleven? Probably ten, for the light is not yet gone.
He sighed and tugged the yak’s lead again, while urging his horse on.
Neither animal moved this time.
“Oh, come on!” he cried.
The yak stared dolefully at him.
“If you don’t move, I’ll turn you into an ass,” he threatened. “How would you like that?”
The yak didn’t move.
“Could you really do that?” a voice called from the left, under the trees.
The startled wizard dropped his right hand to the pouches that were fastened to his belt. Something chinked, sounding like a number of pebbles being jostled together.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
A dark figure moved under the boughs, and the wizard thought he detected the faint sound of… jingling? Quickly he grabbed the wooden staff which was secured at his horse’s flank. Deftly he undid the straps and raised its knotted tip. A red glow sprang forth and illuminated the scene, basking the shadowy stranger in comfortable warmth.
Startled, the wizard arched his back.
It was a jester, dressed in a red and black, close-fitting outfit. He held a sceptre in his hand and wore a three-pointed hat upon his head, bells jingled at the end of each of his three liliripes. His age was hard to guess, he seemed neither young nor very old. He was tall and skinny and his long legs reminded the wizard of the storks that frequented the shore near the Wizards’ Tower.
The outlandish character bowed, and as he did so he tripped. Head over heels he went, landing directly before the unamused gaze of the critical yak.
The wizard laughed involuntarily. That earned him a comical frown.
“It’s not nice to laugh at someone else’s misfortune,” the jester chastised, clambering to his feet as a second figure stepped into the red light. Uttering a small cry, the wizard swung the glowing tip of the staff in the direction of the newcomer.
It was a goblin. He carried a broken-tipped spear and sported ill-fitting chain mail that was too big for his small frame. As he moved, the dented bronze helmet he wore slipped down over his eyes. The creature gave a strangled gurgle in his confusion, and righted the helmet.
“Do not fear him,” the jester said. “He lives by the roadside, and begs off strangers.”
“I do not fear him,” the wizard replied, his composure regained. “From the look of him, he’s certainly not a fighter. But he should be careful not to make a nuisance of himself, for if he does, most likely he shall be slain.”