Reave the Just and Other Tales Read Online Free PDF Page A

perhaps, some among his more recent acquaintance, the usurers, who had told him nothing on the subject—he was unaware of Kelven Divestulata’s preemptive claim on Rudolph’s widow. He had no knowledge that the Divestulata had recently made himself master of the widow Huchette’s inheritance, possessions, and person. In all probability, Jillet would have found it impossible to imagine that any man could do such a thing.
    Jillet of Forebridge had no experience with men like Kelven Divestulata.
    For example, Jillet knew nothing which would have led him to guess that Kelven never made any attempt to woo the widow. Surely to woo was the natural action of passion? Perhaps for other men; not in Kelven’s case. From the moment when he first conceived his desire to the moment when he gained the position which enabled him to satisfy it, he had spoken to the object of his affections only once.
    Standing before her—entirely without gifts or graces—he had said bluntly, “Be my wife.”
    She had hardly dared glance at him before hiding her face. Barely audible, she had replied, “My husband is dead. I will not marry again.” The truth was that she had loved Rudolph as ardently as her innocence and inexperience permitted, and she had no wish whatsoever to replace him.
    However, if she had dared to look at Kelven, she would have seen his jaws clenched and a vein pulsing inexorably at his temple. “I do not brook refusal,” he announced in a voice like an echo of doom. “And I do not ask twice.”
    Sadly, she was too innocent—or perhaps too ignorant—to fear doom. “Then,” she said to him gravely, “you must be the unhappiest of men.”
    Thus her sole interchange with her only enemy began and ended.
    Just as Jillet could not have imagined this conversation, he could never have dreamed the Divestulata’s response.
    In a sense, it would have been accurate to say that all Forebridge knew more of Reave the Just, who had never set foot in the town, than of Kelven Divestulata, whose ancestral home was less than an hour’s ride away. Reave was a fit subject for tales and gossip on any occasion: neither wise men nor fools discussed Kelven.
    So few folk—least of all Jillet—knew of the brutal and impassioned marriage of Kelven’s parents, or of his father’s death in an apoplectic fury, or of the acid bitterness which his mother directed at him when her chief antagonist was lost. Fewer still knew of the circumstances surrounding her harsh, untimely end. And none at all knew that Kelven himself had secretly arranged their deaths for them, not because of their treatment of him—which in fact he understood and to some extent approved—but because he saw profit for himself in being rid of them, preferably in some way which would cause them as much distress as possible.
    It might have been expected that the servants and retainers of the family would know or guess the truth, and that at least one of them would say something on the subject to someone; but within a few months of his mother’s demise Kelven had contrived to dispense with every member of his parents’ establishment, and had replaced them with cooks and maids and grooms who knew nothing and said less. In this way, he made himself as safe from gossip as he could ever hope to be.
    As a result, the few stories told of him had a certain legendary quality, as if they concerned another Divestulata who had lived long ago. In the main, these tales involved either sums of money or young women who came to his notice and then disappeared. It was known—purportedly for a fact—that a usurer or three had been driven out of Forebridge, cursing Kelven’s name. And it was undeniable that the occasional young woman had vanished. Unfortunately, the world was a chancy place, especially for young women, and their fate was never clearly known. The one magistrate of Forebridge who had pursued the matter far enough to question Kelven himself had afterward been so overtaken by