A Fool of Sorts Read online

  A Fool Of Sorts

  Fall of the Coward, Book Two

  Taylor O’Connell

  Taylor O’Connell Books

  A FOOL OF SORTS

  FALL OF THE COWARD, BOOK TWO

  TAYLOR O’CONNELL

  Copyright © 2019 by Taylor O’Connell. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locals, or events is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction of this publication, whole or part, without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  The author and all those involved in the reproduction of this work greatly appreciate you placing your time in our gentle hands.

  Please consider leaving a review wherever you purchased the book. Thank you for your support.

  Dad and Mom, you are two of the most exemplary individuals I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Thank you for always being there for me. This one is for you guys.

  Contents

  I. The Fool

  1. Out From The Shadows

  2. A Hero’s Return

  3. Bartholomew

  4. When Hounds Bay

  5. Fire-Wine

  6. A Fitting Punishment

  7. A Pair Of Ne’er-Do-Wells

  8. Once A Skeever

  II. The Choice

  9. The Card Game

  10. The Orchard

  11. The Shipping Manifest

  12. Bloody Noble Woman

  13. Found Out

  14. Lord Garred Peaks

  15. The Trial

  16. The Up Before The Down

  III. The Mistake

  17. Something Of An Apology

  18. The Shipment

  19. Scarvini Palace

  20. A Return To The Hog

  21. First Date

  22. The Warehouse Job

  23. True Cowardice

  24. The Marked Girl

  25. Ambush

  26. The Monk

  27. The Lady White

  28. The Plan

  Free Book

  THE MAN IN SHADOW

  Afterword

  About the Author

  I

  The Fool

  The boy looks out upon the vista of his future, yet it is the fool who takes the first step and journeys unto manhood.

  —Emperor Ashwyn, First of his Name

  Every fool is a fool of sorts.

  —Bartholomew Shoaly

  1

  Out From The Shadows

  Rainfall pounded the weatherworn limestone of Knöldrus Cathedral. A pair of adjacent spires protruded endlessly heavenward as they pierced the black storm clouds and vanished beyond. Between the two towers, a rose window of brilliant stained glass, illuminated by flashes of lightning. Gargoyles perched about the façade, glaring down in judgment, runnels of rainwater pouring through their open maws, splashing upon the cobblestones below.

  Hidden beneath the shadows of the cathedral, broken down on all fours, Sal felt the wet stone underhand. Acid burned his throat as he heaved forth another spurt of bile. A shiver racked him, pain so severe it felt as though a hole had torn through his stomach.

  Too weak to stand, he crawled, fingertips digging into mud-sheathed cobblestones until the massive doors of the cathedral loomed before him. Sal reached a trembling hand and grasped the oversized bronze knocker, using it to right himself. A resounding creak echoed through the nave as the heavy door swung open. Candlelight cast flickering shadows to dance across the limestone walls.

  Still shaking, Sal took a cautious step into the cathedral.

  His racing heart slowed as a sigh escaped him. He’d made it. He’d not been caught, not been seen. A miracle, no doubt. He wouldn’t have been hard to spot, dropping into the mud and vomiting as he had. Still, it seemed he’d not been pursued.

  Sal walked farther into the cathedral but rested at the first pillar, allowing it to support his weight. He looked back over his shoulder. The door had swept shut behind him. No one had pursued, not the man, nor his victim, nor the blood-curdling scream the victim had unleashed. The scream swallowed by the storm and the night. Sal doubted anyone had heard, anyone but himself.

  He had to press on, had to find someone to help. His wet boots were slick on the floor. He reached for the next pillar, staggered, and slipped on the flagstones.

  Sal put his hands out to catch his fall, but it was too late. His face hit the floor with a wet smack.

  “Another skeever?” said a man with a rather shrill voice.

  “A lost lamb seeking shelter from the storm,” answered a deeper voice.

  “You should have thrown him out,” said the first man. “See how he sweats, his body craves the substance.”

  “Is it not our responsibility to care for the sick? Give me your destitute, your—”

  “Do not quote scripture to me. I know the book as well as you, Jacques. But these skeevers cannot be trusted. Stealing and lying are but second nature to their kind.”

  Sal was parched, sick to his stomach, and exhausted. He wanted to be out of the damp sheets, but he dared not move should they notice he’d woken.

  “By the Light, the young man has yet to commit any acts of sacrilege,” said the man with the deeper voice. “As for the stealing, how can one steal what is gladly given?”

  “You make mock, but take note when I tell you no good comes of keeping company with this sort. Where did you find the creature, looting the larder?

  “Far from it. Phillip here found him in the Cathedral, searching for a place to pray.”

  “I’d name you fool did I not know you for a liar, Jacques. Phillip, you’re young, new to the order, you do not yet understand how things work. The election is coming. You would do well to distance yourself from men such as our Master Infirmarer. Wiser, place yourself favorably among men of import, men who may soon occupy positions of influence come the casting of the votes.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” piped up a young voice. “Though, the election is a fortnight away and nothing is certain as of yet. I am young as you say, but even initiates have heard the stories. When the brothers of Knöldrus Abbey cast the stones, there is no telling where the votes will land.”

  “You dare threaten me?” said the man with the shrill voice.

  “The boy meant nothing by it, Brother Leobald. No one here doubts your political ambition. Though, one might wonder as to your interest in this young man.”

  “I care not for the skeever nor your bandying of words. If you wish to say something to me, Jacques, say it to me now.”

  “I would say only this. We are in the infirmary. I am here because I am Master Infirmarer. Phillip is here because he brought in the patient, and the patient is here because he is in need of my arts. Remind me, Brother Leobald, why it is that you are here?”

  Sal heard a loud scoff. “When I am abbot, we may find we have a new Master Infirmarer.”

  “I thank you for the warning, and it shall be duly noted. If a time truly comes when our brothers name you abbot, you may find I will not be difficult to remove. Now, if you don’t mind providing me the same courtesy, as I see the patient may not be so asleep as we had assumed.”

  Sal cursed to himself, wondering what had given him away.

  “Remember what I said, Philip,” said the man with the shrill voice. “You do yourself no favors backing the wrong man.”

  “You may leave as well, Philip,” said the man with the deeper voice. “Idle hands make waste.”

  Sal peeked when he heard the door close, but the exposure to light sent his head spinning, and he quickly closed his eyes.

  “As I suspected,” said the man with the deep voice. “I shall leave you to the dark. The door will be locked from without. Do try to get some s
leep. I’ll return come dawn’s break.”

  Waking in sheets dampened by sweat, Sal took in his surroundings. The space was spare, adorned with a single stained glass window and a sconce holding a lone beeswax candle that had melted to little more than a stump. Morning’s light shone through the stained glass, casting resplendent hues of red and yellow on the adjacent wall. Three other beds, identical to the one he occupied, were crammed within. The clothing he’d worn the night before hung atop a rack near the hearth.

  The door crept open, and a man entered. He had a tonsured pate and wore the drab, brown robes of a brother belonging to the Vespian Order. He was tall, thick-chested, and broad of shoulder, built more like a soldier than a man of the cloth. His features were strong, rigid, as though chiseled from the very stone of the cathedral.

  “Ah, you’re awake. Are you well?” The man’s resonant tone rang of familiarity, one of the monks from the night before, the Master Infirmarer.

  “Better, though my head feels like it’s to burst.”

  “No surprise,” the monk said with a slight chuckle, “you took a nasty spill. I had feared you would be addled. It’s good to know you still possess the ability to speak.”

  Sal felt his brow. A sizable knot had formed above his left eye. A slight tremor coursed through his body. Would that he had a cap of skeev to soothe the throbbing in his skull. “You’re a Master of the Vespian Order?”

  “I am,” replied the monk. “My name is Jacques. I am Master Infirmarer of Knöldrus Abbey. What might your name be, my son?”

  My son. The words cut deep. He was no man’s son. “My name is Salvatori Lorenzo.”

  The monk gave him an inquisitive look. “Lorenzo, you say, who might your father be?”

  Sal hesitated, then smiled in hopes that the heir of humor would soften the awkwardness of his reply. “Would that I knew myself.”

  “I see,” said Jacques. “I only thought because of your look that you might have been—well, it’s of no import. Do you hail from Dijvois?”

  “Listen, Jacques, I don’t mean to be rude. But my throat is parched, and my lips feel dry enough to crumble. You wouldn’t have something on hand that I might drink, would you?”

  “I fear I come empty-handed. Though, my brothers have only just finished their morning prayers and gather this very moment to break their fasts. If you would join us, you would be welcome to your fill.”

  Sal’s insides turned over, as if answering the monk’s inquiry. “I would greatly appreciate a fine meal.”

  The monk smiled. Despite the man’s hard features, it was a comforting smile that put Sal’s frayed nerves at ease. “I dare say, no such thing as a fine meal has been served within the walls of Knöldrus frater since the passing of our dear abbot. That is not to say it is not passing fare. It does serve to fill the belly. Although, the first man to suggest a more palatable menu would have my vote in the upcoming election, that he would.”

  Sal couldn’t help but smile. He liked Jacques. Speaking with the man was rather like sitting by a warm hearth on a rainy day.

  “When you’ve dressed, join me in the hall, and I’ll guide you to the frater.” After placing Sal’s clothing at the foot of the bed, the monk turned and stepped from the room.

  As Sal dismounted the bed, he felt unsteady, weak with exhaustion. A meal would serve nicely, but what he truly needed was a cap. He dressed quickly and joined the monk in the hallway.

  Motioning for him to follow, Jacques headed for the opposite end of the hall. They crossed a lawn and entered a high-ceilinged building.

  “The frater,” said Jacques.

  The frater was the size of a great hall, more suited to a king than men of the cloth. The ceiling was timber, blackened by years of oven smoke. It was filled with tables and benches that seated row after row of monks.

  “Knöldrus is the largest monastery in the kingdom of Nelgand” Jacques said proudly, gesturing to the rows of monks seated at the tables. “There are over four hundred brothers in service of our holy order living within these walls.”

  “Ahem,” coughed a slender monk standing in Sal’s immediate path. The man was tall, his close-set eyes and hooked nose resembled a predatory bird. “I see the skeever lives,” he said in a shrill voice. “How long must we suffer his presence, Jacques?”

  Jacques crossed his thickly muscled arms. “Such coarse terms are beneath a brother of the order, Leobald. Now make way, we are ready to break our fast.”

  The hawkish monk narrowed his eyes to thin slits. Sneering in disgust, he shouldered past Sal and exited the frater.

  “Never you mind Brother Leobald,” said Jacques reassuringly. “Amid the politics of the monastery, some of us forget our order exists to serve. Even though Knöldrus Abbey is within the city walls, we tend to remain isolated from the general population, and isolation will brew fear in the bellies of suspicious men.”

  Sal unclenched his fist, wondering what would have happened if he had punched Leobald in the back of his tonsured head. Instead, Sal gritted his teeth and adjusted his shirt. When something suddenly occurred to him. His hand snapped to his collar. The locket, it was gone. With everything that had happened, he’d not even thought to check for it.

  “Jacques,” Sal said, doing his best to keep the panic from his voice, “when you took me in, was I wearing a locket?”

  “Ah, yes, I’d nearly forgotten. I put the little pendant in a safe place while you slept. When we’ve finished breaking our fast, we shall return to the infirmary.” Jacques led him through the vast hall, nodding to those who greeted him. “Good morrow, my brothers,” said Jacques, taking a seat across from a pair of monks. He patted the empty spot next to him on the bench, signaling for Sal to follow suit. “What news from the brewery, Brother Tanao?”

  A podgy, red-faced monk looked up from his porridge. He had a nose of burst purple veins and eyelids that drooped, giving him a melancholy look. Wiping his thick, grey mustache with the sleeve of his robe, he said, “A new harvest was brought in just this morning. With this new batch finishing later in the week, I presume the abbey stores will be full come winter.”

  “Supposing Tanao doesn’t drink it all first,” said a mousy, buck-toothed monk seated across from Sal.

  Tanao scoffed and puffed out his chest as he fixed the mousy monk with a withering look. “I seem to recall I was not the only one in the brewhouse before dawn’s break. On more important business, have you heard the morning count?” the podgy monk asked, turning back to Jacques. “They are saying Leobald has acquired ten new votes.”

  “Another ten votes won’t win him the office,” said the mousy monk. “The man is still a horse’s ass.”

  “Still, it is troubling news,” said the red-faced Tanao. “It shows he is gaining support. I need not remind you, if Leobald becomes abbot, it would spell trouble for us all.”

  A young acolyte arrived at Jacques’s signal. On his tray, he carried a stack of wooden bowls and a pot of porridge. Rich, buttery aromas wafted from the steaming pot. Jacques took two bowls and filled them with the cream-colored slop, then handed Sal a bowl and a wooden spoon. Sal was no stranger to breaking his fast with porridge. Still, he’d never much liked the stuff.

  “And who is Leobald’s opposition?” Sal asked, growing rather interested in the talk of the monastic elections. After all, abbots served for life, it was a rare thing for any citizen of Dijvois to witness more than one election for the abbot of Knöldrus Abbey.

  “Brother Martin and Brother Henry,” said Jacques.

  “Martin is too old,” said the mousy monk, “and Henry has the wit of a dung heap. Neither will gain more votes than Leobald. Jacques here is the best fit for the job. Though, he has shrugged off our best efforts at persuasion. I have begun to suspect his mother is a mule. After all, he certainly bears the look, does he not?”

  Tanao looked at Sal as though he had only just noticed him. “And who might this young man be?” said the red-faced monk.

  “This is Salvatori Lor
enzo,” said Jacques, “a guest of the infirmary.”

  “Found him praying on his face in the cathedral, I did,” said the young, mousy monk.

  “You—I mean, thank you. I owe you a great debt.”

  “Pay your gratitude to the Lord that is Light. It was he that saved your hide, not I.”

  “Right,” said Sal, a touch uncomfortable.

  “The names Philip, by the way. Salvatori Lorenzo, did you say?”

  Sal nodded. Like Sal himself, Philip looked to be of Pairgu stock. Nineteen, if he was a day. Philip was short and slender, with a pair of bucked-teeth that gave him a somewhat rodent-like appearance.

  The pudgy, red-faced monk, Tanao, squinted his droopy eyelids and looked Sal up and down. “Gentle-born, I’ve no doubt.”

  Jacques looked at Sal with one eyebrow cocked, as though asking a silent question.

  “Not of the Dijvois gentry,” said Philip.

  “You know every noble in the city, do you?” asked Tanao.

  “Aye, well, I’m one of them, aren’t I?”

  “Not any longer,” said Jacques. “You took our vows, and now you bear but one name.”

  Philip looked abashed, his young face turning nearly as red as that of Brother Tanao. “Noble or initiate, I’ve sense enough to know Lorenzo is not a name of the Dijvois gentry. They’re merchant class.”