‘I will tell you, on your oath of secrecy,’ he said. ‘The others wouldn’t understand.’
‘I’ll make no such oath. But I’ll not tell the others, unless what you propose forces me to.’
He had to be content with that, so he told her his plan, staring into his glass as he did so, his face mirrored red in the wine. When he’d finished, he looked up and was alarmed to see tears in her eyes, this woman who wasn’t given to crying.
‘This is no time for weakness, Mara!’ he warned quickly. ‘It has to be this way. You see that, don’t you?’
A smile broke over her face at his foolishness, her eyes creasing, dislodging tears. She wiped them away. ‘You never could read hearts, Garric. I am not sad or horrified. I weep because you give me hope of a day when my pupils will be considered the equal of men, and Ossia is ruled by Ossian laws again. I knew you were a man of conviction, Garric, but I did not realise how far you would go.’
‘Then you agree it must be done?’
‘Entirely,’ she said. ‘And you may rely on my discretion.’
Relief chased the tension from his shoulders. It felt good to share the burden, and to know that she approved.
A few more days, that’s all. A few more days to hold the course.
‘We must gather the others,’ he said. ‘I promised them answers when we got to Morgenholme, and I cannot put it off any longer. They have been sorely taxed and I fear their loyalty is rubbing thin. I need them to believe.’
‘What will you tell them?’
‘What they need to know. The rest, they’ll understand afterwards.’
‘Afterwards,’ said Mara, with something like reverence in her voice. ‘Everything will be different afterwards.’
65
They gathered in the drawing room, pulled the drapes closed and locked the doors. When the room was secure, they settled themselves and looked towards Garric, who stood at the centre of attention. Wall lamps cast conspiratorial shadows across their faces.
‘Here we are, then,’ he said.
Aren felt the thrill of treachery. This was how it was in the stories. They were plotters now, meeting to discuss secret plans. Cade, who was sitting next to him on an ornate and uncomfortable settee, was practically jigging with excitement.
There were seven of them present. Besides Garric and Cade, there was their host Mara, a stern, wiry woman with wolf-grey hair. Grub lounged in a chair with one leg thrown over the arm, gnawing a turkey wing he’d salvaged from the dinner table. Fen leaned against a wall, arms crossed, her body language aloof and defensive. Aren’s gaze lingered on her face for a moment, then moved on to Keel, who sat slumped in a wooden seat. The Bitterbracker’s shoulders sagged and his eyes were hollow. He’d hardly spoken since they left Wracken Bay. Aren had never seen a man so laden with care.
Four were absent. Vika was abed, with Ruck no doubt sleeping at her feet; the hound had been let into her room once she’d been made comfortable. Aren was worried about her – they all were – but the improvement in her condition had given them cause to hope. Harod and Orica were not invited, and had chosen to remain in the gardens while Orica practised her lute. Aren felt vaguely bad about that, for they’d travelled together long enough that he considered them companions; but he understood the need for secrecy. They were not part of this.
‘I’ve asked much of you all,’ said Garric. ‘More than I had a right to, I reckon. After Salt Fork, all seemed lost. Then we had news of the wedding, and the return of the Ember Blade. Some of you have followed me since then, through great loss and trial. Others have joined along the way, despite my best efforts to the contrary.’ He gave Aren a pointed glare. ‘Through it all, I’ve asked you to journey in the dark, not knowing the details of our mission. I make no apologies for that. All of us know how good the Krodans are at loosening tongues and twisting men’s loyalties.’ His face darkened then, and Aren knew he was recalling past betrayals. ‘But there comes a time when faith must have its reward, so I’ll tell you now what I intend.’
Cade sat up, bright-eyed, and gave Aren a nudge. Aren grinned at him. They knew Garric was after the Ember Blade. They’d waited a long time to find out how he planned to get it.
‘Nine days from now, Prince Ottico of Kroda and Princess Sorrel of Harrow will be wed,’ Garric began. ‘Kroda’s alliance with Harrow will secure the northern border of Ossia, leaving them free to consolidate their hold on our land until it is unbreakable. This is our last chance to make the people of Ossia stand up for themselves. There won’t be another.’
‘The Ember Blade!’ Grub cried through a mouthful of meat, thrusting the bone in the air. Aren thought it curious that he, of all of them, should be the one to call its name.
‘The Ember Blade,’ said Garric. His face became grim. ‘Aye, the Ember Blade. Our symbol of the right to rule, the standard of Ossia itself, stolen from us thirty years ago. Now it’s coming back, to be put in the hands of our new Lord Protector, the Emperor’s heir. I’ll be gods-damned if I’ll let that happen.
‘We need to show our kinfolk they weren’t meant to be ruled. That blade is the sign of the Aspects’ favour, and if we had it, they’d flock to us. We could take our country back!’
The passion was plain in him now, and it awoke an answering passion in his audience. Aren felt a surge of pride in his breast, and this time he didn’t try to quell it. The Ember Blade! It represented the opposite of everything Krodan, an idea of freedom and liberty bred into the fibre of his people. Even a boy raised to ape their masters, as Aren was, had a deep-seated veneration for the Ember Blade. Now he embraced it, claimed it as his own.
He was a child of Ossia, after all.
‘Hammerholt is six leagues from here. That’s where the wedding is to be held,’ said Garric. ‘It is the most formidable fortress in Ossia, and it will be more heavily guarded than the most precious trove. But the wedding will bring chaos: hundreds of artisans, guests and servants moving in and out. Most of the Krodan high command in Ossia are arriving over the next couple of days, to meet their new Lord Protector and to organise the smooth handover of our country. We believe the Ember Blade is already there, brought in secret from Falconsreach some time ago. As the wedding approaches, the Krodans will be at their most alert, looking for any attempt to disrupt the proceedings. That is why we will steal the Ember Blade several days before it takes place.’
‘But how do we get inside?’ asked Aren, unable to contain himself.
‘You don’t,’ said Garric. ‘None of you are going inside. Only me.’
Aren felt that like a slap in the face. He’d assumed he’d be part of the adventure when it came, whether it was to be a daring theft or a breathless battle. The boy in him still believed he’d be the hero of the tale Cade would one day tell. With a few words, Garric killed that dream and humbled him again.
‘The Master Vintner of Morgenholme is the only one licensed to supply wine to the Imperial Family,’ Garric continued, heedless of the hurt writ plain on Aren’s face. ‘It’s well known the prince will have no sweetwine but Amberlyne with his dessert. It’s one of the few things he likes about our country. Several cartloads of Amberlyne will therefore be travelling from the Master Vintner’s cellars to Hammerholt. I intend to be on one of them.’
‘How?’ Aren said, spurred by dismay to bloody-minded obstructiveness. ‘They’ll search every cart top to bottom, and you’ll never hide that scar on your throat.’
‘They will indeed search every cart,’ said Mara, her words crisp and perfectly enunciated. ‘But they will not find him. We have constructed a replica of one of the Master Vintner’s carts, identical but for a single detail: a secret compartment, just big enough for Garric to squeeze inside. He will be transported by an unwitting driver, who will be a trusted member of the Master Vintner’s staff and unlikely to draw suspicion. Once past the guards and inside, Garric will emerge wearing the livery of a Krodan servant, whose uniforms – as fortune has it – incorporate a high collar. That, and a
good shave, will render him all but unrecognisable.’
‘She knew, and I didn’t?’ Keel said, stirring from his misery to shoot Garric an accusing glare.
‘I wrote to her from Wracken Bay so she might commission everything we need,’ said Garric. ‘She worked the rest out herself.’
Keel gave her a sullen look and shook his head angrily.
Aren’s mind worked fast. A childish desire for vengeance made him want to poke holes in Garric’s plan.
‘You wrote from Wracken Bay?’ he said. ‘Even by fastest post, it couldn’t have been nine days since it arrived. Nine days to have a copy of a particular cart built, with a secret compartment to boot?’
‘And replica barrels of Amberlyne commissioned, and more besides,’ said Mara. ‘Pay enough and you can get anything done in a hurry. Your point?’
‘Why didn’t he send that letter a month ago? Or two? Why not right after Salt Fork, when the wedding was announced and he set out for Hammerholt?’
That piqued Fen’s interest. She turned her eyes expectantly to Garric, waiting for an answer. Mara raised an eyebrow at Aren in approval.
‘Because he didn’t have a plan till then,’ said Keel sourly. ‘He led us all the way from Salt Fork to steal the Ember Blade, but it took him till Wracken Bay to work out how.’
Aren was taken aback at the tone of his voice. Garric and Keel had always been close as brothers, but he heard the raw edge of resentment now. Did Keel blame Garric for the fact that he had to leave his family behind? That hardly seemed just. If anyone was to blame, it was Aren, for joining the fight at the Reaver’s Rest.
‘Is that true?’ Fen asked in surprise.
‘Hollow Man not know what he was doing all along!’ Grub exclaimed. ‘Ha! Should have followed Grub. Grub always have a plan.’
‘Oh, aye?’ said Cade. ‘And what’s your plan now?’
‘Eat turkey,’ said Grub, and proceeded to do so.
‘I told you we’d seize the Ember Blade for ourselves, and I told you I’d explain the plan when we got to Morgenholme!’ Garric said bullishly. ‘Would you have followed me elsewise? Keel? Fen? Or would you now be wandering the land, watching forlornly as the Krodans crush the last of the spirit from your countrymen?’
Aren’s gaze went to the castles board set up by the empty hearth, and he heard Master Fassen’s voice in his mind. Never let your opponent see you uncertain. Behave as if you have a strategy, even when you do not. Act as if your opponent’s every move is playing further into your hands.
‘You said the driver won’t know you’re there,’ said Aren. ‘How?’
‘The Amberlyne will be delivered to the castle some days before the wedding,’ he said. ‘Before that happens, we’ll break into the vintner’s yard and switch our cart and barrels for one of the real ones. When they set off, I’ll be inside.’
‘Grub good at breaking into things!’
‘Alas,’ said Mara, ‘that job has already been entrusted to another.’
‘Aye,’ said Garric. ‘A man who knows Morgenholme and our cause, and is best placed to get it done. I have been fighting the Krodans thirty years now, and I have travelled the breadth of this land. The faces you see here are not the limit of my allies.’
‘I knew you were a Greycloak!’ Cade exclaimed.
‘There’s no such thing as the Greycloaks,’ Keel told him wearily.
‘Then what are we to do?’ Aren cried, frustrated. ‘What’s our purpose here, if you already have all you need?’
Garric rounded on him. ‘Do you think it all ends with Ottico’s wedding, boy?’ he snarled. ‘Do you imagine the Krodans will leave once we’ve taken the Ember Blade? If I succeed, it will be the beginning. All of you will be needed, and many more besides, if we are to carry the flame forward. Do not be so hungry to rush into danger. It will find you soon enough.’
Aren slumped back in the settee, scowling. This wasn’t what he’d imagined when he chose to stay with Garric at the Reaver’s Rest. He was nothing but a support player, a footnote, condemned to watch while another man wrote himself into legend. He didn’t crave adulation or excitement, but when bards sang of the day Ossia reclaimed the Ember Blade, he wanted to at least get a mention.
‘Grub not happy about this,’ said the Skarl, his turkey wing now laid on the arm of his chair where it oozed onto the fabric. ‘Mudslug not happy either, he thinks. Dumbface doesn’t mind, but Dumbface not brave like us.’
‘Dumbface?’ Cade nearly screamed.
Garric raised a hand to silence them. ‘Once I’m inside, I’ll have to make my way through Hammerholt without capture. For that, I need a map of the castle and information about the preparations so I can work unobserved. No doubt I will have to pass through areas where servants are not allowed, and to find the Ember Blade I first need to know where they are keeping it. All this was entrusted to a Sard named Yarin, an acquaintance of Mara’s and mine and no friend to the Krodans. I sent to him immediately when the wedding was announced, and he’d been investigating ever since, through whatever secret channels he knows. But now Yarin is gone, the Sards in the ghetto cleared out and taken—’
Aren sat up in alarm. ‘They’re gone?’
‘Aye. To what destination, no one knows.’
Aren’s eyes went to the mark on his wrist. Sardfriend. His whole life he’d been told to treat them with suspicion and scorn, when he thought of them at all. Without that mark, he might not have helped Orica in her time of need. He’d certainly have turned a blind eye to what was happening in his land, as many of his countryfolk had. The Sards were little loved and many people were just glad to be rid of them.
But things were different now. Aren’s promise to Eifann was fulfilled, but that scarcely mattered. He’d been made to care, and he couldn’t undo that.
Who’s going to tell Orica? he thought, but he already knew the answer. It would have to be him. It was his duty, as a Sardfriend.
‘Yarin did obtain the information,’ said Mara. ‘He stashed it inside the ghetto, but no one is allowed inside and it is heavily patrolled.’
‘Tomorrow night I’m going in to get it back,’ said Garric. ‘And now you know as much as I do. I’ve trusted you with the details of our plan, so I want you to trust me. Maybe this business with the Ember Blade won’t give you the chance to wet your blades as you’d like. Maybe you think there’s little glory in it for you. But hear you me, there’ll be plenty of glory to come, and plenty of chances to prove your worth in the revolution. Till then, I need to know I can count on you to do what needs to be done. Even if that’s to wait.’
There was silence in the room. Their faces were thoughtful and grim in the lamplight. Finally Fen stirred.
‘Whatever needs to be done,’ she said.
Cade instinctively looked to Aren for a cue, then decided he didn’t need one. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We’ve come this far. I’m with you.’
‘Grub don’t think any of this is going to get him a good tattoo,’ he grumbled. ‘He still help, though.’
Aren fought down the urge to sulk and forced himself to swallow his pride and disappointment. Angry as he was, this choice had already been made. He told himself that retrieving the Ember Blade was what mattered here. It was bigger than him, bigger than his resentment of Garric. But still he felt the sting of it.
‘I’m with you,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘Whatever needs to be done.’
‘Keel?’ Garric asked.
Keel looked up. His eyes refocused. ‘Yes,’ he said, but it was clear he hadn’t been listening, that his thoughts had been elsewhere, with his family.
Garric’s gaze lingered on him uncertainly. Then he drew himself up and addressed them all. ‘Get some sleep,’ he said. ‘Speak of this to no one. In a few days, we make our move.’
66
‘Daddy!’
Klyssen was hardly inside before Lisi and Juna came charging along the corridor, drawn by the sound of his key in the lock. He knelt down and they flew into his arms
in a giggling, wriggling tumble of blonde curls, frills and sweet breath. He kissed them both, laughing with delight.
‘How you’ve grown!’ he told them. ‘You’ll be taller than your mother soon.’
‘Silly!’ they called him, for they were hardly half her height yet; but they squirmed with pleasure at the thought.
‘Ah! Is that Baron Pickles?’ Klyssen exclaimed as a fat white cat, sour-featured and groomed to within an inch of its life, wandered out from a doorway to investigate the commotion. ‘Come here, you soft old thing!’
Baron Pickles regarded him blandly for a moment, then drifted back into the room he came from, unimpressed by the return of the master of the house.
‘Baron Pickles! Come and say hello to daddy!’ Juna demanded with the comical sternness of a four-year-old. She was about to go and retrieve the cat, willingly or not, but Klyssen stopped her.
‘Wait, Juna. I’ve brought presents.’
‘Presents!’ They attacked immediately, squealing at ear-shredding pitch, their excitement spilling over into violence as they tugged at him. ‘Presents, presents!’ they sang, whirling around in his arms.
‘Peace, children!’ he cried. ‘What is the credo of the Sanctorum? Can you recite it for me?’
‘Diligence, temperance, dominance,’ they chanted together.
‘Yes, temperance,’ said Klyssen. ‘Be calm and moderate in your passions. Can you be calm?’
‘Yes, Daddy,’ they muttered grudgingly. They put their hands behind their backs, barely able to contain their anticipation.
He dug into his bag and found the dolls he’d bought from a dollmaker on Kingsgrove Street, exquisitely fashioned and eye-wateringly expensive. Privately, he thought that two girls of four and six couldn’t tell the difference between a finely made doll and a five-decim toy from the Shacklemarket – and wouldn’t care if they could – but Vanya didn’t want cheap dolls in the house. She said they made the place look tawdry.
The girls snatched them out of his hands, gasping at their good fortune.
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