Chapter 12: Refuge
Freya slept little that night. Though her thoughts disturbed her rest, they were disjointed and often trailed into worrying.
Arthur's place in the guest room was on the second floor and on the other side of the house, but the little window in her alcove was over the front door, two stories down. Unless Arthur chose to leave through the kitchen/pantry area past Betsey and the cook, he would use the door directly beneath her.
She didn't remember falling asleep, but she never heard him leave.
Or return, either. She woke early, just before dawn, and hurried to dress without waking Vivian. Breakfast wouldn't be served for half an hour, at the earliest, but she couldn't wait to find out from Arthur what had happened during the night. Had he even gone, or had he changed his mind for some reason? Was Merlin safely away from the holding cells?
"Good morning, Freya," Randall said, pausing at the front door, hat in hand.
"You're off early," she said, slowing her feet on the stairway as she descended.
"Yes, there's – been a bit of an upset last night," Randall responded, opening the door as he spoke. "They brought the news an hour ago, roused Agent Arthur right out of bed. I'll leave him to tell about it, though," he added, as Arthur came into view from the sitting room, and he took that opportunity to shut the door behind him.
Arthur looked unharmed – rested, even – as he leaned against the wide arched doorway. His eyes carried the same warning he had voiced the previous day, but he said politely enough, "Good morning, Miss Freya."
"Freya – in here, cousin," came Emma's voice from the dining room beyond.
She hurried down, but paused by Arthur to ask," How was your night, Agent?"
"Don't mind the pleasantries this morning," Emma said from her seat at the table. Her hands fluttered – over her hair, her lap, straightening the tableware at her setting. What had so flustered her? "You won't believe what has happened. Come here, dear. You should sit."
Freya obeyed quickly. They'd found Arthur in bed, but what did that mean? Had he even tried to free Merlin from the reeve's holding – and what had happened, then?
"The judge – Judge Alined – was killed last night. Murdered – at home in his bed. Can you imagine? How awful…"
Freya, who hadn't reached the seat yet, sat down with a bump at this outburst, her eyes seeking Arthur. She stammered, "How – Who–"
"Person or persons unknown," he informed her, voice quiet and grave. "The reeve and his deputies are investigating. That is all we know right now."
"That makes you–" Freya stopped. That made Arthur the highest authority in Turad.
He inclined his head in a slight bow, answering her question without speaking. Yes, he was aware of that consequence of the judge's death.
"I'm so agitated, I declare I couldn't eat a bite," Emma commented as the cook came in with a large round tray of covered dishes.
Freya was sorry for the judge of course, and his family – murder was always terrible – but her thoughts and fears were focused on Merlin. She began to eat, though her stomach felt tied into too many knots for her to be hungry. As calmly as she could, she asked, "Does this change your plans for the day, Agent Arthur?"
"Not by much," he answered, seating himself as his usual chair and eating as well, swiftly and efficiently, but politely.
Emma sat staring to the side, at or through the window at the front of the house, drumming her fingers on the tablecloth. Likely she was more concerned with the effects this murder would have on Randall's business, or maybe she was worrying about their own safety.
"Do you mind if I go with you, today?" Freya asked Arthur softly, hoping her question wouldn't jar Emma back to alertness to forbid the outing. "It might be nice to get out, see more of the city…"
One of Arthur's eyebrows quirked, but he answered just as softly, "Be at the sycamore in a quarter of an hour."
He finished his meal just moments later, thanked Emma as he always did, and excused himself for the rest of the day. The family had gotten used to his coming and going at odd hours, and he knew when he needed to be there if he wanted to take his meals with them, but he usually tried to let them know whether to expect him.
Freya left half her breakfast on her plate, murmured to Emma that she was stepping out for a little air, and ran up to the third floor for her hat and wrist-purse. She snatched Merlin's jacket from its place under the skirt of her bed, and was letting herself out when Vivian stirred.
"Freya?" her young cousin mumbled.
"I'm going out for a walk," she whispered back, and shut the door on anything further the other girl might say. Once started, Vivian would question her plans exhaustively – she'd never let Freya go out with the agent on the day after a murder without begging Emma to come along. Which would put a stop to Freya's outing, too.
She peeked over the railing to be sure Emma wasn't in sight before running back downstairs and letting herself out the front door. Breathless, she pinned her hat in place by feel as she met Arthur at the great shady sycamore; he set a pace that kept her from catching her breath again. Maybe he didn't want her chattering away with no thought to who could overhear on the busy streets. She was never one to chatter, though, so maybe he was only preoccupied and in a hurry because of his own thoughts and responsibilities.
"Last night?" she finally managed.
"He's fine," Arthur said shortly. "It'll take some time before he's his own charming self again…"
Freya smiled through her panting, relieved. It couldn't be too bad, after all, if Arthur could joke about it. She said, "And the judge?"
He gave her a lightning-quick glance. "It wasn't us," he said. "But the deputy who came this morning was asking questions about Merlin right along with telling me about Alined. They aren't sure when he escaped the holding cells, but the judge was killed only a couple of hours before dawn. The deputy implied – they think Merlin is guilty." He paused while they waited for a slower-moving canvas-covered wagon to clear their path. "The coincidence is hard to ignore – and I can't try to clear Merlin of the murder without implicating myself, and confessing at least to the jail-break. In the big picture of our task here, I might as well return to Camelot and surrender my writ right now, as do that."
"Do they really think Merlin is guilty," she said sharply, feeling anger and trying to subdue it, "or is that just a convenient explanation?"
"Merlin's hard to read," he answered obliquely, and shot her a faint grin, "as you know. You and I could tell how badly he was injured yesterday, but if you didn't know him–" He shrugged, turning her up a street that rose steeply up the north hill of Turad. "You might believe him capable of murder, even after all that. You might believe he'd kill in retaliation for his arrest, and the beating. Or you might just claim you believed it. Reeve Agravaine wasn't at the holding at all yesterday, after locking Merlin in, so he takes his deputies' word for everything that happened…"
"Convenient," Freya repeated, aware of the bitterness in her tone. She shouldn't jump to conclusions. She never met Reeve Agravaine; it wasn't right for her to think uncharitable thoughts, or judge him by what she'd known of Whatley.
"Merlin ever tell you about Morgana?" Arthur asked as they ascended the street, his long legs traveling easily where her skirts hindered her.
Freya kept her eyes down, panting a little at the steep, swift climb. "Not much," she admitted. "She's a revenger, and he used to work for her."
"She saved his life," Arthur said unexpectedly. "He came here after he – left me. She told me she found him half-naked and bleeding to death in a ditch one rainy night, robbed of his horse, his clothes, everything." The agent stopped, and she stared up with him at the closest thing to a palace she'd seen in this city. He rubbed his right side unconsciously and mused, "Poetic justice, maybe."
Freya sighed as her breathing slowed to a more normal rate. It seemed sometimes that Merlin was nearly always half-naked or bleeding to death.
"This is her chalet." Arthur glanced down at her, one eyebrow higher than the other. "I don't have to remind you not to say anything you shouldn't? It's possible Merlin was targeted because of what he's seen or heard here. He's not supposed to be here at all – and isn't, as far as you know, understand? You came to visit Morgana, this morning. In fact, it might be a good idea if you had a different story altogether to tell – like a runaway brother you want to persuade away from Morgana's employ. These folks are good at keeping secrets, but until we know who's keeping what secret from whom…"
"Yes, all right," she said, and followed him the rest of the path up to the chalet.
Evidently the revenge business was profitable.
Freya saw every indication around her of understated financial stability and comfort, even a hint of real wealth, in the large receiving-room where the silent, muscular butler made them wait. She was nervous as she sat and waited, but hoped it wouldn't show.
He's very loyal, she told herself. He owes this woman his life. She wanted to make a good impression on Morgana for Merlin's sake, but the things revengers valued and respected were all alien to her.
Then the door opened and a woman came into the room, gliding, proud as a queen and as beautiful. She wore a dress of deep orange-yellow that seemed richer, somehow, than anything she'd seen her cousins wear, and also more provocative. There was a presence about her of control and awareness that awed Freya. Her face was unlined, her hair sleek and black, short as the high back collar of her dress and unbound. One thick wave of it hung over her forehead to her brows, framing a strong, almost seductive face, and her eyes were a brilliant, clever green.
Arthur had remained on his feet, and bent over her hand in greeting, but she took little notice of him, staring at Freya in a rather disconcerting way.
"And this is–" Morgana prompted Arthur graciously, never losing her poise as she gestured to Freya. Her eyes took in Merlin's coat, folded on Freya's lap, and narrowed.
"My name is Freya," she answered, standing herself and coming forward to meet the revenger woman, acutely aware and even embarrassed at her plain dark widow's dress, her flushed and windblown state after their quick walk here.
Morgana took Freya's hand between her own; soft hands, Freya noted, but strong, too. And she smelled of lilies. She said to Arthur, "Is she his…"
Arthur seemed to understand her question, but shrugged as if he couldn't answer.
"Am I whose what?" Freya said, puzzled.
"She doesn't know?" Morgana said, still to Arthur; he smiled, but made no other answer.
"I am here to see my brother?" Freya asked, looking from Arthur back to Morgana.
The older woman smiled, a gleam of white teeth that just missed being predatory. "Brother, is it?" she said to Arthur. "He'll love that."
"She's trying to persuade her brother to quit training as a revenger and return with her to their home and family," Arthur explained. "She's concerned about the training injuries he's recovering from."
"Ah. Good as any, I guess." Morgana studied Freya a moment longer; she felt her color rising, and dropped her eyes. "Well, to each his own." She linked her arm through Freya's, led her to the door, then paused. "Agent Arthur, it would be best if you remained here. Reeve Agravaine has already paid us a visit this morning; we have a long-standing arrangement that is mutually beneficial, which allowed me to deny his request to search the chalet for Agent Merlin, but your presence here will cause further suspicion, and who knows what that will lead to?"
Arthur didn't follow, then, as Morgana drew Freya beside her, down a long hallway. Freya could hear the bustle and clang of a good-sized kitchen to her left. Remembering her promise to Arthur, Freya didn't try to make conversation with the older woman. Morgana, however, seemed to have no such qualms.
"He'll be all right in a few days, maybe a week or two," she explained to Freya as they walked. "Bad headaches that should clear up gradually, maybe more irritable than usual." She gave Freya a glance that carried a fondness for the man she spoke of, and laughed suddenly, tipping her head back. "Though, with your – brother – who could tell?"
They came to a winding stairway at the end of the hall, and Morgana lifted her skirt to lead Freya upward.
"You must've heard about Judge Alined?" Morgana said quietly over her shoulder. The stairway was more closed-in than the hallway, and her voice didn't carry further than a few feet. Freya made a noncommittal noise, but Morgana glanced back and seemed to understand. "Since they came here seeking their suspect, that means someone knew he was staying here… I don't like it. If Agravaine believes he came back here, he'll have someone watching the chalet. It seems only a matter of time before he's caught."
"Do you think he did it?" Freya said softly. They passed the open hallway of the second floor and continued to climb.
"I think he could've," Morgana answered in a detached way that shocked Freya. "But, no. If it had been Merlin, they'd have found the judge sprawled on the floor, his own weapon in his hand, not defenseless in his bed. And the way Agent Arthur brought him in last night… I think Agent Arthur could've, and might've, but he's too smart to have done it after he freed Merlin, leaving his partner wide open to suspicion."
"May I ask you a question?" Freya said, her heart thumping from the cavalier way Morgana discussed murder, as much from the climb. They reached the hallway to the third floor, quiet and showing four or five closed doors on each side.
"He's in the first room," Morgana pointed, remaining on the landing. "Arthur and I will be in the receiving-room downstairs. Merlin shouldn't leave his room – there are those here who should not see him, now. What did you want to ask?"
"Arthur said you found Merlin and saved his life," Freya started hesitantly. She didn't want to offend this woman, but – "That was quite soon after his family was killed, wasn't it?"
Morgana's bright eyes sharpened, and her tone matched. "He's told you about that, has he?"
"Yes." Bit by bit, piece by piece, at different times. "I wondered, why it was that you – started him to – become a revenger. Someone told me – he was a kind boy, a bit troubled, but… all he's known is violence, since then." She stuttered to a stop as Morgana drew herself up, eyes snapping.
"You blame me for that?" Morgana demanded, an outraged queen, now. "If you had seen him – half-dead even without the knife wound in his back. He was like death walking – his own or others, no one was sure, not even himself. All that emptiness, then all that rage filling him to an explosion. If I hadn't helped him focus, control his energy and determination toward healing, toughening up, training – If I hadn't helped him find the man responsible for those murders, prepared him to face that man and win, he'd have gotten himself killed, somehow, and maybe taken others with him. If he hadn't the courage for suicide, he might've turned to crime, taken out his rage in violence against the innocent instead of the guilty."
"I can't believe-" Freya began to argue, sure he wouldn't have done to others what had been done to him, then halted, remembering what he'd said of his first fight – the undertaker burying his parents, he'd said.
"You met him in Emmett's Creek, yes?" Morgana said impatiently. "Was it before or after he faced Padlow?"
Freya was shocked into silence to hear that name from this woman's lips – then reflected that Morgana had helped him find who was responsible for the murders in Ealdor. And – she remembered how Merlin had drifted into Percival's Place… the fight… that fierce burning hate.
"It was before," she said softly.
"Well, then." Morgana seemed to think that explanation enough. Freya turned toward the door to Merlin's room, but Morgana halted her with a ringed hand on her arm. "I have a question for you, then, Freya. Since the death of this Padlow, has Merlin seemed different? Directionless? Uncaring, as if–"
"As if all the fire had gone out of him," Freya finished, knowing what she meant. "Yes, at times."
"Well," Morgana began to descend again, "it may be up to you to help him find that again."
"To find what?" Freya called after her.
"A reason to go on living."
What can I do, though?
She tapped at the door Morgana had indicated, heard nothing. It wasn't locked, so she eased it open. He'd never been shy about having her around at times that others would've found embarrassing, but she still wanted to respect his privacy.
Merlin was lying on his stomach on a still-made bed along the left-hand wall, wearing only trousers and a stained bandage around his head. His eyes were closed and his head tipped so the bruising blow would have no pressure on it.
She slipped into the room, stepped slowly to the bed, and sighed over the angry red-purple bruises that showed on his bare skin, remembering the stiff way he'd moved after other fights he'd been in. Draping his discarded jacket over the writing-chair in the far corner of the room under the window, she stood looking at him for another moment.
He was so still, skin and muscle barely stretching with each breath.
It made her nervous to see him so, to think about how fragile life really was, even his. He'd endured such punishment many times before; it seemed like he always would recover, always be there. But life was so uncertain. She knew that folks sometimes died even days after a head injury, fell asleep never to wake, or lived on with damage that never healed.
Careful not to wake him – and she wouldn't stay long, anyway, having seen his condition now for herself – she sank to her knees on the floor next to the bed. Just to watch the rise and fall of his breathing, just to hear the slight puff of air on the bedding. Just for a moment.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin could smell her again, sweet and faint. His head pillowed on her lap, her gentle hands soothing the bone-throbbing ache… it was a good dream.
With growing awareness came memory, creeping back hesitantly. He had stood away from the comfort and softness of her, had moved back into the cell in the reeve's holding. Arthur had returned and taken him – where?
He remembered losing his balance, deciding that the carpet on the floor of Morgana's front hall, the carpet suddenly just under his hands, was a fine place to rest for a while. As he stretched out and laid his head down carefully, he remembered Morgana's voice exclaiming disgustedly, "Is he drunk?"
Whatever Arthur had said in response was lost to oblivion.
Merlin opened his eyes reluctantly, and the first thing he focused on was a fall of wavy dark hair, a lock or two of which had drifted onto the blanket inches from his face. The rest seemed to be pulled over her shoulder, as she sat on the floor next to his bed and rested her head on the mattress.
The sight relaxed him as nothing else could have. And it seemed the pain was less.
Freya looked up then, the brown of her eyes deep and clear, close and startled to see him awake, he thought. She moved back, but he shifted his hand enough to cover one of hers, and she stopped as if he'd commanded it.
"Your cousins let you come here?" he said, his voice sounding hoarse and gravelly.
A slight smile curved her lips. "They don't exactly know," she said.
"Why did you come?"
"I was worried about you." She looked back up, a faint pink creeping into her cheeks, but she held his gaze. "Arthur told me what happened, at the meeting with the council. And after what they did to you at the holding cells–" She reached to touch the bandage wound around his head. "Would you like me to change this for you?"
"Just take it off. The bleeding will have stopped by now." Her touch was gentle, as he expected; he smelled that faint sweet scent on the inside of her wrist. Far cry from Emmett's Creek, indeed. For her. "Arthur should have told you we left the cells. No need for you to come here today."
"Does your head hurt much?" she asked, loosening the bandage to pull it out from where his head resting on it trapped it against the blanket. She was avoiding his eyes, but she never could hide anything. Her face was too open… at least, most of the time.
"What happened?" he demanded. Something happened.
"Last night," she said, her eyes on the bandage in her hands, her fingers winding it tightly around the blood-stained section, "Judge Alined was murdered."
Judge Alined, murdered. Last night.
His first thought, as he rolled over, with difficulty and with pain, was that they would believe him about the death-contracts, now. His second thought was that Arthur's writ placed him higher than the reeve and the council; on his word Merlin could be released from the charge of assault. But what did this do to their theory that the reeve and the judge had plotted together? They expected Mordred to go after the council members first, before the reeve or judge, if they were involved somehow.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sat with his head bowed. Felt like a herd of wild horses stampeding through the back of his skull. Not as bad as yesterday, though.
Could Jordan's collaborators have bribed the reeve only? And the judge reacted entirely on his own, as a scared, pompous fool? That was hard to believe of someone who'd attained that high position. Surely he'd had enough death threats of his own from prisoners he'd sentenced, to take such things in stride.
Maybe Agravaine had betrayed Alined? But Merlin hadn't heard what had passed between Jordan and Mordred, either…
"Where's Arthur?" he said, rubbing his forehead in a vain effort to dispel the pain.
"Downstairs, with Morgana." She was still kneeling beside him. "You need to stay here, in this room, rest for a few days." She may have put a hand on his knee, only to swiftly remove it, but since his eyes were closed, he couldn't be sure.
"You know I can't do that," he told her. You know I won't do that.
"Merlin." Her voice was hesitant, wary – she was going to tell him something he wasn't going to like. He dropped his hands to look at her. "They came to Randall and Emma's, of course to tell Arthur about the judge – but they came here, too. Because Judge Alined was killed… after you left the holding cells."
The herd of wild horses thundered past again. He stared at her for a moment, then asked, just to be sure he understood her, "They think I did it? Killed the judge?"
"Yes."
"Or they say they think I did it," he muttered darkly to himself, and swore emphatically if internally.
As far as he knew, no councilman was aware of his connection to Morgana – it was not something he expected Arthur would mention. But was Jordan or Mordred aware of his status as an agent? It wouldn't have been difficult to find out, he hadn't tried to keep it a secret the three or four weeks he'd been here. It would have been obvious that he was neither an apprentice revenger nor a client, and the apprentices were trained to be curious, to pick up information like a dog under the supper-table – anything and everything.
And, if Reeve Agravaine was involved with Jordan – more than just aware of the man and his intentions, more than just taking advantage of the situation – then it was obvious that information would have been exchanged. Volatile, and easily provoked.
In any case, it seemed someone found it convenient that he be blamed – after the fact, no one else could have known that Arthur would sanction a jail-break when he had - and probably punished also, if they caught him, for the murder. It wasn't just a matter of getting the judge out of the way without getting caught, either – hanging the crime on one of the two agents discredited and undermined them both, just as his arrest and escape from the cells did.
Their adversary was crafty, clever, and opportunistic.
And Jordan's passionate appeal that the guilty be punished and Turad returned to peace was smelling more like something that came out of the south end of a northbound–
"We need to get our hands on Jordan," he decided, standing to reach for his old clothes on the bedside stand.
It was a mistake. Vertigo, dizziness, whatever it was, his cell blurred and whirled – he was probably tipping over but he couldn't tell. He heard her gasp his name and put out his hands to catch himself on whatever he could, to clear her out of the way if he fell.
Hard, solid, cold. Unmoving.
His vision cleared, the herd galloping to the back of his head and slowing to a brisk walk; straight ahead of him, the stone-block wall of the cell under his hands. And – the top of her head. He looked down, surprised that his legs had held him up.
She was trapped against the wall, between his outstretched hands, her own fingers spread out over his lower ribs as if trying to hold him up or push him away. Except she wasn't pushing, she was just looking at her hands. Or him, maybe, he couldn't tell. The bruising? It wasn't bad, to his eyes, but to hers might be horrific – or maybe it reminded her of-
Merlin shivered involuntarily at the feel of her touching his skin, and thought, if she moves her fingers at all…
She raised her head to meet his gaze.
He found himself leaning in to the depth and feeling in her dark eyes, but caught himself – she seemed to be having as much trouble breathing as he was. No wonder, though, it was quite a small room, and he was crowding her.
Freya wet her lips nervously, and he couldn't help looking at her mouth. Was she trembling? For sure he had frightened her.
"Excuse me," he said in a quiet voice as he backed away, "I'm sorry."
She stood frozen, her hands still out in front of her, her face blank with shock. Did she realize that he had been reeling dizzily, not trying to attack her?
In an effort to make her smile, and remind her that she was safe with him, he recited, with as much of a smile as he could manage – which was only lopsided, he feared – "Stomach, instep, neck–"
Freya colored swiftly, turned, and fled his room.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
She didn't remember leaving Merlin's room, but found herself sitting on the stairs Morgana had led her up, halfway between the third and second floors.
What was wrong with her? That wasn't the first time she'd touched him, been that close to him. It wasn't even the first time he'd passed out and knocked her to the floor in the process – and they hadn't even gone down this time.
But she couldn't stop thinking about how warm and smooth his skin felt, how hard the muscles under her fingers, the small movement every breath made. She was nearly certain if he hadn't stepped back when he did, her hands would have slid around of their own accord to his back, drawing him to her in another embrace, exploring more of his body and bare skin. She was also nearly certain how wrong that would have been.
Behind her, up the stairs, she heard a door open. Was anyone living on the third floor except Merlin? She had time to stand and turn, and he came slowly down to her, hand on the wall for balance, lowered himself to sit just above her.
He was wearing his old worn clothes, the faded blue work-shirt and the fraying trousers she was used to seeing him in, but he was still barefoot. She was reminded strongly of meeting him on the staircase in Percival's Place, coming downstairs before he was fully recovered from Gaius' sleeping draught.
And now he was looking in her eyes and smiling – pale and with a shadow of pain darkening the blue of his gaze – without hate, without rage. And yet not quite so empty as when she'd first seen him again in Camelot.
"What is it?" he said.
"You should not have left your room," Freya said, instead of answering.
"I'll be fine," he said, rubbing the scar only just covered by the fringe of black hair on his forehead. "I'm sorry about–"
"Arthur and Morgana want you to stay out of sight," she interrupted, embarrassed to have him apologize for what was really her reaction. "Whether the reeve really believes you killed the judge, if they arrested you again – well, Arthur brought you here because we didn't think you'd be safe at the holding cells."
"Arthur and Morgana," he said softly, slowly. "They both have their own concerns, their own goals – some they share, and some they don't." He dropped his hand and studied her the way he used to, as if trying to figure her out, trying to decide something about her, with a hint of that piercingly fierce gaze. "If Arthur believed troops were needed here – and that troops would be sent immediately, unquestioned, at the death of an agent – he'd let me die. Regrettable, but necessary."
She wanted to protest, but there was a mesmerizing quality to the intensity of his eyes; he believed it, and she remained silent.
"And Morgana? She has a business here, a life. She can only support a former associate, or an agent, so far, against the men who are in power. Loyalty to one only goes so far when your life, livelihood, and that of a dozen others are in the balance. Not that I hold this against either of them; it's part of what makes them good at their jobs. But I'd be a fool to trust them with my life blindly. If the reeve presses, Morgana will have to hand me over. Arthur freed me under cover of darkness and in secrecy, but won't and can't guarantee anything if I'm arrested again."
He paused, and his eyes sharpened on her. Again she felt as though he were weighing her soul in that single long glance.
"You, though," he added softly, and nodded to some inner decision. "Yes, I think I would trust my life in your hands."
Why did that simple admission make her feel strong and scared at the same time? And I in yours, she wanted to say. But he was going on.
"I don't know how much Arthur has told you," he said, speaking more quickly. "If I want to stay in Turad, and continue working as an agent, I have no choice but to do as Arthur, and Morgana, wish." She could tell from his expression how much he disliked finding himself in that position. "Three days ago I overheard a conversation between a man named Jordan and one of the apprentices, a man named Mordred." He described them to her swiftly, and explained about the proposed contracts.
It was all so strange to her. She knew it was legal, to require someone to pay in kind for the crimes they committed, but things like guilt and proof seemed secondary to power and pay, consequence a more important consideration than justice. It didn't seem fair, somehow, that lives could depend on one man's honesty – or dishonesty.
Then something caught her attention, and she stopped him, sitting down just below him on the stairs.
"You said, ten men were in these contracts," she said. "The reeve, the judge, eight councilmen." He nodded. "But you didn't hear what was said between Mordred and Jordan. How do you know there weren't further contracts on you and Arthur as agents? If it's not really about re-establishing peace…"
"Morgana introduced me to Jordan as an associate," he said. "He didn't speak to Mordred until later. Even if we assume Mordred knows of my writ, Jordan didn't – at least until that night. There would have been no point to Jordan withholding further contracts from Morgana, if he wanted two agents dead, also."
"Unless he figured all along that she wouldn't take the contracts?" Freya said hesitantly, watching him for his reaction, not sure if he would laugh at her. "If he came here looking for someone like Mordred." Merlin didn't answer; his brows were drawn, his fingers rubbing his forehead across to his temple. "I mean to say, if I wanted to find an assassin, I wouldn't have the slightest idea where to find one. But everyone knows about Morgana, and her business."
"Hm," he said. "We don't know who's behind Jordan and whether they might have those sorts of contacts, or not, or just want to hire someone completely unconnected, to reduce the risk of discovery. But you have a good point – Jordan might have held back about contracts on agents til he was sure he'd found the sort of man he was looking for. I'll have to mention that to Arthur, warn him to watch his back, too. Is there – anything else, that struck you, at all?" His tone indicated that he had something specific in mind, but whether he was testing her or his own theory, she didn't know.
"Arthur said your arrest seemed contrived," she said. "But he didn't say why? I mean, why someone would have arranged something like that, and what could be the gain?"
"Assume the reeve or the judge, or both, were aware of the arrangements," he said. "Ask what they gain from the deaths of even one councilman, what they gain from discrediting Uther's agents."
"But the judge himself was murdered," she objected.
He nodded. The fingers of both hands were now massaging his temples. "That would seem to indicate his innocence of involvement," he said, "unless he was betrayed."
"How sure are you of the reeve?"
Without looking up, he told her of the letters he'd found in the reeve's office, the scrap of paper on the floor, and what was written on it.
" 'Volatile and easily provoked,' " she repeated. " 'Take care in arresting.' "
"Arthur figures that refers to me," he said dryly.
She looked at him, at the twisted self-deprecating smile. The way his eyes were clear and steady, the way his fingers, clasped loosely over his knees, were still and relaxed. The way he sat comfortably next to her, meeting her eyes, not pacing, not scowling. Not demanding that she leave him alone, stay away from him.
"Arthur told me you pushed the judge, and threw the reeve down," she said. "He said it was a restrained response, for you." Merlin nodded to acknowledge, not agree or convince. "Did you know Mordred at all, before you came to Emmett's Creek?"
He shook his head, then paused. "When I first met Mordred, he said something indicating that Gwaine or Morgana had been speaking of me to the apprentices."
" 'Volatile and easily provoked,' " she said, "if you'll forgive me, sounds more like you before – last year. Maybe Mordred wrote that note, or at least gave information on you?"
"Makes sense if the reeve was in on the death-contracts," Merlin mused. "And – tell me if this sounds like too much of a stretch – those letters he was writing, and receiving, seem a lot like campaigning for a place on the council – or even the judge's seat. If one or more of them was killed, he'd have a good chance at being elected. A step up, for him. And if he was the one to catch the assassin – that explains Jordan as the middle-man. But is that enough to kill, especially for a man sworn to protect?"
"And the judge?"
"I find it easy to believe he benefited from discord in the council," Merlin said. "It strengthened his position as chairman, playing factions. I can prove that he benefited from the chaos the extra tolls caused." He was gazing across at the blank wall of the stairway; she had the impression of sharp intelligence narrowing inexorably to a focus, a solution. "Whether he was aware of the intended assassinations and was betrayed, or whether the reeve approached him for help with the scene in the Inner Chamber to weaken our authority as agents, we'll probably never know."
Here was one, she thought suddenly, that she trusted to be in a position of control and authority.
"Thank you," he said suddenly. "Talking to you has – helped." He pulled himself carefully to his feet, one hand again steadying himself.
"Anytime," she told him, feeling more cheerful herself. "In any way."
He stepped down one step, then stopped, and turned his penetrating gaze on her. "Do you mean that?" he said in a low tone, intently.
"Is there something you want me to do?" she said, standing also, and thinking it must be hard to have to sit still, in a small room, when accusations of murder loomed.
"Do you know the Daved Cathedral?"
"I've been once," she answered. "I can probably go again."
They were much the same height, with her a step higher, their eyes level with each other's. But he was far away from Morgana's stairway.
"There is a man who sits at the base of the statue in the northeast portico," he said. "His name is Taliesin. Describe to him Jordan, and Mordred. Tell him there is a third also – my height, not fat but deep-chested, gray hair combed straight back, deep lines at the corners of his eyes, nose, and mouth. A lockpick, and his knees creak. Try to do anything Taliesin asks; you can trust him, but don't tell him why I want to find these men. Find them, or anything about them – Jordan is here, but that might not be his real name, even. Do you think this is something you can do? Are you willing?"
She smiled at him in affirmation, but her heart beat a little faster. There was excitement, anticipation, but she so wanted to please him and live up to his expectations of her.
"Yes. I'll do it."