Fire - Kristin Cashore [124]
This was not the job for a small dart bow. Jod swung his longbow from his back, pulled a white arrow from his quiver, and drew smoothly on a string most men wouldn’t even have the strength to draw. He held the notched arrow, waiting, calm and easy. And Fire was slightly sick, and it was not because she knew that an arrow of that size shot with that bow at this range would shatter her knee. She was sick because Jod moved with his bow as if it were a limb of his body, so natural and graceful, and too much like Archer.
She spoke to placate the boy, but also because there were beginning to be questions to which she wanted answers. ‘An archer shot a man imprisoned in my father’s cages last spring,’ she said to Jod. ‘It was an uncommonly difficult shot. Were you that archer?’
Jod had no idea what she was talking about, that was plain. He shook his head, wincing, as if he were trying to remember all the things he’d ever done and could go back no further than yesterday.
‘He’s your man,’ the boy said blandly. ‘Jod does all our shooting. Far too talented to be wasted. And so delightfully malleable,’ he said, tapping a fingertip to his own head, ‘if you know what I mean. One of my luckiest finds, Jod.’
‘And what is Jod’s history?’ Fire asked the boy, trying to match his bland tone.
The boy seemed delighted all out of proportion with this question. He smiled a very pleased, and unpleasant, smile. ‘Interesting you should ask. Only weeks ago we had a visitor wondering the very same thing. Who knew, when we hired ourselves an archer, that he would come to be the subject of so much mystery and speculation? And I wish we could satisfy your curiosity, but it seems Jod’s memory is not what it used to be. We’ve no idea what he was up to, what would it be, twenty-one years ago?’
Fire had taken a step toward the boy as he spoke, unable to prevent herself, clutching the dart hard in her hand. ‘Where is Archer?’
At this the boy smirked, more and more happy with this turn of conversation. ‘He left us. He didn’t care for the company. He’s gone back to his estate in the north.’
He was a terrible liar, too used to people believing him. ‘Where is he?’ Fire said again, her voice cracking now with a panic that made the boy smile wider.
‘He left a couple of his guards behind,’ the boy said. ‘Kind of him, really. They were able to tell us a bit about your life at court, and your weaknesses. Puppies. Helpless children.’
Several things happened in quick succession. Fire rushed toward the boy. The boy gestured to Jod, calling, ‘Shoot!’ Fire smashed through Jod’s fog, causing him to swing his bow wildly and release his arrow into the ceiling. The boy yelled, ‘Shoot her but don’t kill her!’ and hurtled himself away, trying to sidestep Fire, but Fire lunged at him, reached, just barely jabbed his flailing arm with her dart. He jumped away from her, swinging fists at her, still yelling; and then his face slackened. He tipped and slumped.
Fire had clamped hold of every mind in the room before the boy even hit the floor. She bent over him, yanked a knife from his belt, walked to Cutter, and pointed the shaking blade at Cutter’s throat. Where is Archer? she thought, because speech had become impossible.
Cutter stared back at her, entranced and stupid. ‘He didn’t care for the company. He’s gone back to his estate in the north.’
No, Fire thought, wanting to hit him in her frustration. Think. You know this. Where—
Cutter interrupted, squinting at her with puzzlement, as if he couldn’t remember who she was, or why he was talking to her. He said, ‘Archer is with the horses.’
Fire turned and left the room and the house. She glided past men who watched her progress with vacant eyes. Cutter is wrong, she told herself, preparing herself with denial. Archer is not with the horses. Cutter is wrong.
And, of course,