by Janny Wurts
'That's madness!' Arithon's cheeks flushed to raw streaks from embarrassment. 'Our terms went no deeper than a master laborer's fair wage. Cattrick's no fool! He's lived too close to Avenor not to recognize the dangers of keeping my service.'
Parrien licked his teeth, his smile all devilish insolence. 'He's allied himself with Mearn. The pair of them have plotted to sink the royal fleet and destroy the Riverton shipworks in one stroke as a wedding gift to Prince Lysaer.'
The highbred s'Ffalenn features went brittle as porcelain. 'They can't. I won't sanction this.'
Parrien raised his eyebrows. 'Do you think they are children? My youngest brother won't settle without due redress for Lady Talith, and Cattrick deserves blood in recompense for the stain on his given word. If you're a wise prince, you'll rejoice for the setback given to your enemies, then send two bold heroes the grace of your thanks for embracing an opportunity.'
When Arithon yielded none of his implacable reserve, Parrien slammed down his fists. 'Quit sulking and have done! What choice is there, anyway? You'll have a rough time trying to stop their planned action from Sanpashir,'
'I won't stop them from here,' Arithon agreed.
Fast as he moved, Parrien matched him. His greater bulk shot up from the table and blocked the shut door to the companionway.
'We aren't enemies,' Parrien reminded again. Running hot sweat despite mulish strength and a lifetime spent mastering battle nerves, he throttled the shrill instinct which insisted he ought to draw steel for self-defense. 'The risk to Mearn is not in your sovereignty to refuse, but involves his personal honor.'
'We aren't speaking of Mearn.' Arithon advanced another step in coiled anger. 'Whatever the scale of the damage inflicted, the blame is going to become mine.'
'Oh, and your hands are clean?' Parrien lashed back.
Arithon jerked his head in patent impatience. 'You aren't listening. I don't attack innocents. What blood has been shed since Vastmark's been confined to men who mishandled justice and broke Tysan's charter against slavery.'
'How righteous,' sneered Parrien. 'After Vastmark, I can't imagine you squeamish.'
'Call Mearn off,' insisted Arithon, unfazed by the slur. 'I'll handle Cattrick. This attack must not happen. The ones who die this time will be uninvolved sail crews. On Alliance home ground, before outraged envoys invited as Avenor's royal guests, that's going to touch off an explosive retribution such as this land has never seen.'
'I won't tuck tail,' said Parrien, obstinate. 'Nor will Prince Lysaer be permitted the free rein to prevail. Did you think my brother Bransian dispatched his state galley to bear letters and take his best troop of mercenaries for a seaside stroll? I've been given my orders to support Mearn's effort. Our family doesn't like losing; nor will we sit still and suffer the risk of a s'Ilessid charge for conspiracy and high treason.'
Arithon strove one last time to instill reason. 'Public opinion has turned hard against me. Any unprovoked criminal act gives my half brother the touchstone to launch another broadscale war. If Mearn's part is noticed, no s'Brydion duke is going to find himself exempt. Alestron would be visited by an army to make Davien the Betrayer's rebellion seem like a tournament by comparison.'
Parrien's lip curled. 'Don't think us cowards to withdraw out of fear.'
'Then withdraw by main force,' said Arithon, and sprang.
He was unarmed. The unbalanced fact lent him a stunning advantage of surprise. Parrien caught a shoulder in the gut that slammed him backward into the bulkhead. Caught breathless by the speed of the wrestler's jab that hooked the hinge of his knee and wrenched in a practiced move to fell him, the duke's brother struck back with locked fists.
One battering return blow snapped the force of the hold. Parrien sidestepped and countered. The leverage against him melted away, and he staggered. A fist grazed his neck. The follow-up hook would have stunned him silly had he not already twisted to retaliate. His left jab sliced air. His right-hand punch skidded, glancing, and tore a screaming rent as he snagged into Arithon's shirtfront.
'Desist,' he gasped. He ducked another fist, then just missed the evil feint and counterblow intended to blacken his left eye. 'I don't need Earl Jieret's retribution for breaking the head of Rathain's last s'Ffalenn prince.'
Arithon landed a knee and an elbow in brute gouges that eschewed every rule of fair play.
Parrien roared. Roused now to blind fury, he closed in and grappled a body that eeled through his grasp, then came back and battered with the wanton unpredictability of a windstorm. What blows he landed were never square hits. Even in war he had not encountered the whiplash ferocity of the prince who assaulted his stance in the doorway.
'Hold the chart room secure!' he bellowed. The mercenaries posted on guard outside must surely hear the commotion. 'Let nothing through!'
That moment, the lamps snuffed. Out of absolute darkness, Arithon's knuckles struck Parrien's jaw and split skin.
'Devil!' He spat blood, evaded. Something snatched as a weapon hammered the lintel and gouged up a mess of snapped wood. Another second, and the inveterate Prince of Rathain seized the bench to use for a ram. A current of disturbed air; Parrien dodged, hit the gimbaled lamp, and howled as hot oil seared down his back. Wood screeched on the decking. The bench struck its mark, not the door, but the stern window. Glass shattered. The invasive, flint dampness of rain-sodden rock whirled through the smoke and the singed stink of skin and wool tunic.
"This is Duke Bransian's state galley you're wrecking!' Parrien shouted in outrage. 'The last time anyone dared scratch her brightwork, he got mad enough to spit balefire.'
For answer, the bench rammed the bulkhead groin high. Parrien caught only splinters as he moved, still blinded. He cracked into the strut left in wait for his shins.
He yelled and went down, while the flyweight body of the Shadow Master crashed on his chest to deal him still more thrashing punishment.
Parrien threw him off, pounced, and caught nothing. Just an eddy of blank air and a ripe bruise on his palms. The bench, thrown from nowhere, bashed into his shoulder, and his cheek slammed into the table leg. While he groaned, stunned and dizzy, his senses tracked a drawn breath, then the busy scrape of brass, which bespoke some fresh plot afoot with the broken lamp.
'Damn you!' Rather than risk fire on his brother's prized vessel, Parrien dived at the source of the noise and howled for reinforcement from his mercenaries.
The door crashed back.
'No swords,' gasped Parrien, barely in time.
His three field-trained veterans barreled into the fray, and the darkness exploded to mayhem.
Wood banged and groaned. Flesh smacked into flesh. Someone cursed, and the oil fumes thickened.
'Don't allow him the striker!' Parrien warned, then skidded headlong to defend the lid of the stores locker.
Someone was down and retching by the bulkhead. Another combatant roared an epithet maligning vicious minds and broken glass. Then Parrien swore as two bodies thrashed into him, one of them fine-boned and murderously quick. The other locked arms and strove to peg down what seemed the kinetic force of a juggernaut.
Parrien snatched at the folds of a half-shredded shirt, twisted, and used his superior weight to contain the body bagged inside. When the linen jerked backward, then burned through his hold, he chose the fast option and banged its struggling contents against the brass edge of the locker.
A grunt; a sharp hiss of expelled air.
'Serve your royal hide right!' He struck again, and received a kick in the ankle that undid the last of his tolerance. 'To Sithaer with niceties. Hit him.'
The mercenary captain used the pommel of his sword as a bludgeon. There came a dull thunk, and the wildcat struggles under Parrien's grasp sagged into jellied deadweight.
Shadow burned away, to reveal one lamp still burning. The other hung skewed and fluttering on bent gimbals. Arithon dangled between Parrien's hands like a puppet entangled in the shreds of his oversize clothing. One elegant, angled ch
eekbone was bruised. A meaty swelling disfigured his forehead, and one forearm and both hands were gashed bloody.
'Fiends plague the damned glass!' Parrien sucked in a lamed, burning breath, his own toll of damages as bitter. He noticed he had only one man left standing, and to him, demanded, 'Put up your steel. Do whatever you must, just keep his Grace down.'
He unfolded his sore leg, tried a step, winced. 'Good wine never did do a damned thing for pain.' Still muttering imprecations, he wrested a basin from behind the mangled door of a locker. Since movement felt wretched, and the cut on his head made his ugly mood worse, he waved to the mercenary just straightening up from a semiconscious daze in the corner. 'Mind the edges of glass and dip up some sea water.' He proffered the basin. 'Douse the bastard until he wakes up. I want him cursing and conscious.'
To the watch officer, belatedly arrived at the companionway, he added his snarling reprimand. 'Yes, I need you! Grab this uncivilized royal wretch by the ankles. Woe betide you if you slacken your hold, because he'll try to kick you to impotence when he wakens.'
The man at the stern window hobbled back with the basin just as Arithon's eyes flickered open. His senses cleared fast. He measured the three mercenaries whose vengeful hands roped him prostrate. The jerk of his breathing just barely allowed words. 'This isn't finished.'
'I'll break your sword arm,' Parrien snarled. 'Then you won't be fighting fit to meddle with Mearn or anyone else for a long time.'
'Leg,' Arithon gasped, implacably berserk.
'Dharkaron's two-eyed vigilance!' Parrien crouched, grasped black hair with grazed hands, and gave the Shadow Master's head a drubbing shake. 'You're supposed to capitulate!'
'No.' Green eyes wide-open and serious, Arithon said, 'But I ask, not my arm. For pity, don't spoil my music.'
'Ath, that's a plea?' Parrien felt sickened.
Unable to turn away, Arithon shut his bruised eyelids.
'Speak, damn you!' Parrien would not trust the face, hard-set with agony beneath him. 'Give me your royal word,'
Arithon answered with razor-sharp clarity. 'I already have.'
'Well you'd better change heart! Sithaer, you're knocked down and winded and kicked to a pulp!' Parrien let go. A studied assessment of the defiance held pinned and bleeding by his mercenaries made him vent a more poisonous oath. For Arithon s'Ffalenn, there would be no yielding, no civilized alternative to curb his set will short of actual bodily harm.
'You ravening idiot! Don't say after this you don't deserve all you get.' Disgusted with entreaties, Parrien snapped off a nod to his captain. 'Hold him fast. Fail me there, and I'll see you regret every day you survive before Daelion Fatemaster drags your carcass past the Wheel.'
He set his hands on his knee, pushed heavily erect. A shaken stride carried him to the chart table, where the wine flask stood miraculously upright. He snapped out an arm, grasped the neck, and yanked out the stopper with his teeth.
The ejected cork rolled across blood-smeared boards and bumbled to rest amid the burst cushions and smashed glass.
Parrien spun away from the appalling damage. 'Pry open his Grace's mouth. Brute force isn't the only way to take a stubborn man down.' Eyes sparkling malice, he knelt. His captive's enraged glare struck him full in the face. 'Why not just relax and enjoy your defeat? The wine's a spectacular vintage.'
The Shadow Master's spread-eagled limbs contorted in a wild explosion of protest. Yet for all of the furious struggle left in him, he failed to break from the mercenaries' grasp.
Parrien gave his most evil smile, the wine raised in salutation. Then he tipped up the flask and poured the duke's best Shandian red between teeth forced apart by the merciless fingers of his captain. 'Share your miseries with the Mad Prophet,' he murmured, while an ungentle fist in the ribs compelled his victim to swallow. 'If Dakar's up and walking, no doubt he'll nurse your hangover with the practiced hands of experience.'
Late Winter 5654
Send-Off
The finesse required to return Arithon to his brigantine became a cold trial of patience.
While the Khetienn's night watch subsided to suspicious mutters, and a bristling crewman moved on the foredeck to stow the flying jib's shackle, Parrien cradled the bundled-up form of Rathain's unconscious prince. The only parts visible outside swathing blankets were a dangling hand and a trailing twist of black hair.
'Everybody drinks with their friends now and then,' he argued, while the pounding discomfort of his own cuts and bruises threatened to ignite his rank temper.
The rest of the crew had outworn their disbelief, except for the Khetienn's belligerent steward. That one never moved from his stance of obstructive, arm-folded mistrust. In desert accents inflected to pure venom, he said, 'Show me.'
Parrien swore, careful to keep the flare of the afterdeck lantern behind him. 'Have some respect for his Grace's dignity.' In trust his two mercenaries would keep station at his heels, he jostled forward, hooded head aimed toward the companionway to the stern cabin. 'Dakar's in there?'
The desertman's teeth flashed in the blood orange glow of the lamp. 'Asleep. I think you speak lies. Except once with Cattrick, his Grace has shunned too much drink since the day the shed blood soaked the shores at the Havens.'
'You don't know that for certain.' Parrien tapped his foot. 'You weren't there to mother him. And anyway, Shandian wine's too smooth and sweet to bring on terrors and nightmares. Do please move aside. Or else go rouse Dakar before I get upset and dump Rathain's prince in an unconscious heap at your feet.'
'You wake up Dakar,' the desertman snapped. 'Let you be the one to clean up the sheets when your drinking guests render their gorge.' Sly in contempt, he sidled ahead and flicked up the latch. As the ship's mild roll swung the door wide, Parrien's party invaded the sanctum of the Khetienn's stern cabin.
The interior was black. Dakar had always eschewed light with his hangovers, and, obliging, the vindictive little steward had left the lamps dark at sundown.
'Sithaer's plaguing furies!' Parrien resisted the instinctive urge to shove back the hood masking the bashed state of his own features. 'Can't see a damn thing.' Two steps behind, his mercenaries groped a bumping course past lockers and unfamiliar furnishings. 'Somebody, dig out an Ath-forsaken light.'
They purloined the burned-down stub from the chart desk. A lump of flint from a pocket and the blade of a dagger struck the necessary spark. New flame wavered over the quill pens, the dividers, the leather-stamped covers of the brigantine's logbook, and the scrupulous rolled ends of her charts. A glass-paneled cabinet held the priceless lyranthe inherited at Halliron Masterbard's death. An adjacent empty peg showed where the lesser instrument with the cutoff tassels had hung. The green baize cushions and blankets on the quarterberth were neatly brushed and untenanted.
'Dakar's about somewhere.' Parrien glared at the unhelpful desertman, then rattled terse orders to his mercenaries. 'Search the port and starboard quarters, by force if need be.' The ache of his bruises and a swelling cut on his lip made even simple speech onerous.
'He's in here,' came the call from the depths of another darkened doorway.
'Take the candle,' Parrien said to the guard captain at his elbow. Still bearing Rathain's prince, he followed the slip of yellow flame into the aft cabin, then slammed the door shut before the inquisitive steward could decide on an afterthought to trail him.
Dakar lay wadded like a kicked hedgehog in a wallow of crumpled blankets. His exhaled air reeked of metabolized alcohol. The lingering, sweetish reek of cheap brandy wafted from the irregular stains soaked into his collar. A ruthless shaking by Parrien's mercenaries eventually rattled a tortured groan out of him. He shot a wild fist at the candle thrust in his face, then growled something obscene a man could try with his bollocks, a basin, and a rock.
'Dakar, you're needed,' Parrien said in succinct and irritable urgency.
The Mad Prophet plowed his head under a pillow. Unintelligible grumbles emerged through the muffling goose down.
'Is there a bucket to douse him?' the mercenary captain asked his subordinate.
That threat caused Dakar to shed bedclothes and sit up. His hair was rubbed into a rat's nest of spikes, and a flustered moment passed as he unsnarled his beard from his shirt buttons. 'No water, I'd lose it,' he said clearly. He had time to register the hatchet visage of Parrien's field captain before vertigo overcame him. Folded in half with his forehead resting on his knees, he said to the laddered socks on his ankles, 'Why are you back here?'
'Not to play nursemaid!' The duke's brother lost patience. 'Damn you, sit up. Your prince has need of your services.'
Dakar rolled his neck. An indignant brown eye turned upward. 'I'll have to use the privy first.'
For answer, Parrien flipped back the blanket that covered his burden. A quick signal moved his men, who hauled the Mad Prophet bodily erect to confront the gist of the crisis.
The blood, the puffed scrapes, and the slack jaw of unconsciousness swam in the flickering flood of the candle.
A blink, a stark moment of igniting disbelief, then the Mad Prophet slapped off the hands which slung him up by his shirtfront. 'You fought him?' His voice climbed into outraged disbelief. 'Merciful Ath! The last affray in Tysan laid him low for three months. Didn't anybody tell you? He just barely got back on his feet!'
Parrien at least had the grace to look sheepish as he pushed back his covering hood. 'Your royal charge wasn't knocked out from blows. Just an unholy excess of red wine.'
'Lay him on the upper berth.' Dakar jerked down his rucked shirt, scrubbed his face with his sleeves, then ordered the sword captain to fetch a jug of water as though he were a born servant. Then he gouged crusted eyes with his knuckles and wrestled his disjointed dismay into speech. 'Why in fate's name did you have to use violence?'
Parrien shed the slack prince, blotted an oozing scab on his forearm, then faced the interrogation straight on. 'I had to stop him. Unless you wanted him sailing straight back to Avenor to intervene on behalf of Cattrick and Mearn.' In rapid, plain words, he outlined the conspiracy arranged with the master shipwright and the scheming, wild plan set in place by his youngest brother.