Free Assassin's Rise by CJ Whrite

Nimble Thief. Ladies swoon when I steal their hearts, and not
gold nor virtue is safe from me. One day, while I was walking in
the forest –”
    “– the short version,
please.”
    Jeklor sighed. “I stole
the wrong horse.”

Chapter
7
     
    A ltmoor’s fist struck the top of
the table, making the guard jump in fright. “Why is he locked up?”
he demanded, his piercing eyes boring into the hapless guard.
    “I don’t know, Lord.
They say he murdered a girl.”
    “Preposterous!” Altmoor
paced in front of the table, his fists clenched by his sides. He
turned his eyes on the guard who withered under the stare. “Where
did he murder this girl? What witnesses do you have?” He slammed
his hands on the table and leaned forward, his face mere inches
from the guard’s. “What evidence do you hold?” he said, his voice
promising a coming winter storm.
    The guard backed away.
“It came down straight from Vanderman, Lord,” he cried. His captain
could go and take a piss on his secret order for all he cared. This
old man was crazy, and he meant business.
    Altmoor straightened.
“Vanderman? What has he got to do with this?”
    “I don’t know, Lord.
I’m just a lowly guard. They did not tell me!”
    Altmoor’s lip curled in
disgust. “Thank the gods your type was not in the war. We would
have lost before we reached the battle.” He pointed his bony finger
at the guard’s face. “You will take me to his cell
immediately.”
    “Yes, Lord.” The guard
bowed gratefully and hurried to the end of the room, disappearing
down a set of stairs. Altmoor lifted the hem of his robes off the
floor and followed the guard down the steps. What did Vanderman
have to do with it, he wondered as his sandals clapped down the
stone steps. The steps led to a hallway, torches flickering inside
iron-brackets lining the blackened walls. The father or the son?
The father, he decided as he passed by the different cell doors.
The son did not have the authority, yet. Was it to protect his
son?
    “Over here, Lord,” said
the guard.
    “Open the door.”
    “Lord?”
    Altmoor narrowed his
eyes at the nervous man. “Open the door and let me in. You can lock
it behind me. I will call you when I’m done.”
    The guard hesitated. It
went completely against procedure. Altmoor prodded him in the
chest.
    “Now,” he
commanded.
    “Yes, Lord,” the guard
said miserably and unlocked the door. Altmoor stepped inside, the
stench of the room hitting him like a physical blow. The door
slammed shut behind him.
    “Call me when you are
done, Lord,” the guard said from behind the door. Altmoor ignored
him. He closed his eyes, waiting for his sight to get used to the
gloom. A hand gripped him by the shoulder.
    Roland must have read
the shock on Altmoor’s face as he opened his eyes, because he said
self-consciously, “I’ve known better times,” scratching a scab on
his cheek. The swelling of his face had gone down, but his left
side was nearly black from blood coagulating underneath the
skin.
    “Tell me everything
that happened,” said Altmoor, a vein pulsing in his neck.
    Roland dreaded reliving
the event, but Altmoor had helped him since his arrival in Darma,
and he owed the old man the truth, so he told him starting with how
he had met Carla on the Swallow. Jeklor sat in the corner,
listening as the tale unfolded, feeling ill as Roland relived what
had happened in the park. Jeklor spat next to him, his pulse
quickening in anger.
    Altmoor broke the
oppressive silence that followed first. “You have been through hard
times, lad,” he said, “but it is over now. I will appeal your case.
I will take it before the Duke if I have to.”
    “For a noble you don’t
know nobles at all, do you?” said Roland, patting the old man on
the shoulder. “Forgive my frankness, but having one old Educator
disappearing in the night is not a difficult thing to do.”
    “You think they will go
that far?”
    Jeklor snorted in the
corner. “Unless you have