The God of Assassins (Wine of the Gods Book 11)

by Pam Uphoff

  It is generally agreed that any of the candidates could be offered a commission. Whether that would grow into the sort of institutional loyalty that would give the heir the practical ability to control any excesses his crown might try to commit . . .

  But this Wolfson . . . I need to talk to the officers he served under.

  And . . . who from the rotation?

  Five of them had mistresses who were either part of the setting for the assassination, or close friends who'd mind the babies while the mothers were out killing some poor sod. Garit is second only to Mirk as far as profiting. Wolfson has the magically abilities that were used.

  He decided to interrogate Garit, since he was handy. "So, you, Rally and Asti were the only ones who didn't pick up Auralian mistresses on your rotation?"

  Garit looked surprised. "Guess the information's being held fairly tightly. Rally's mistress turned out to be a marooned Oner Agent, she died at that battle eight months ago. I'm surprised he hasn't been questioned, and those other women as well . . . but then I suppose watching them for further contacts sounded like a good idea, up till last week."

  "So there were six of them?"

  "Yeah. Keith, Asti, Xen and I didn't collect any women."

  So, of the ten of them, we've got six with mistresses of the deadly variety, one man dead, probably used in the plot, one profiting from Rebo's death, one wizard who might profit, and Asti.

  Old Gods! Garit? It can't be. It just can't.

  I'll talk to Asti about them all.

  Lord Iron rapped his gavel, formally opening the meeting. "We are here for a preliminary assessment of who ought to be in the pool of candidates for Spear Heir and Crown Heir. In our first assessment, I suggest we only consider men under fifty years of age, and that is probably ten years older than we sensibly ought to consider for the heir of a forty-two year old crown prince."

  "Seconded." A quick vote—with only thirty people present, it was simple enough.

  Iron looked back at the guard who'd been stuck with the record search. "I think we all know the men. So tell us about the children."

  "That we are aware of." Sergeant Lily Parsons scowled at her notes. "Rebo may be the father of fourteen illegitimate children, and possibly several not yet born. This does not include the twin boys of Lady Eden Gallery. Their legitimacy, in view of that hasty wedding ceremony in a remote Land Grant where the standard of 'legally married' is extremely loose . . . is not my job to determine."

  Staven could nearly see her thinking "Thank the Old Gods!"

  Sixteen nieces and nephews. The triplets Uncle Day is raising look a lot like Rebo. I've never met the rest. Never thought of them as . . . family.

  "Through his daughters, King Leano has four grandsons. Monte is six, Jek is nine, Wilco is thirteen and Brant is fourteen. Prince Mirk has one son, Kel, who is not yet one year of age."

  She braced her shoulders. "If. If we are also tracing descendants through daughters, King Haro's youngest daughter is the mother of Marshal Byson Trehem. So the Marshal, his six children and their—so far—ten legitimate children . . . " She broke off at the shaking heads.

  Lord Iron cleared his throat. "I believe we ought to begin with legitimate male line descendants. If we can find no one we wish to—eventually—have as our King or Spear, we can search further afield."

  Lily nodded. "In that case, the under-aged candidates will be Prince Kel Negue, Irwin Gallery and Alin Gallery. If the later two are found to be legitimately born."

  A slight murmur around the table.

  Lord Kestin spoke up. "That's all?"

  "Yes. While King Haro's third and fourth sons have six sons themselves, all grown now, there are no grandsons. His Spear, his half brother Heso, has three male descendants." She half bowed to Lord Iron. "But no minor children, as Lord Fidel's sons are, to date, unmarried. Spear Kersh had two grandsons, but again no boys in the following generation. Prior to that, all straight male lines have died out, back to the founding of the Kingdom, with the half brothers Jek and Edward Negue."

  Iron snorted. "Indeed, and our current royal family members are all descended from General Jek's sole child. So we certainly cannot dismiss the descendants of other Spears."

  Staven leaned back with a frown. Iron was definitely placing himself—and his sons—in contention. Do I now have to consider that a respected man, already in a position that rivals the power of the crown, has set out to whittle away at the royal family . . . He'd have to plan to kill not just me and Rebo, but Garit and Mirk as well. And having pruned us back that far, all of King Haro's descendants really ought to come before Spear Heso's descendants, no matter how old they are. Iron maneuvered to eliminate the older candidates, but that may not last long . . . No. Even in my most restricted list his sons are still eighth and nineth on the list. Unless they were planning a wholesale bloodbath, there's just no way they could take power by killing Rebo. I need to stick to the more likely suspects. Lady Eden and her father. Mirk, who has no known magical connections. Baylor Trehem . . . is he that stupid? To think he'd have a chance at the Crown? Or Spear, he is in the army, after all. And so is Wolfson.

  Garit and Wolfson.

  The country bumpkin probably has a poor grasp of the inheritance. Thinks Rufi can make him the Spear. Could Wolfson be the driving force? Garit might be completely innocent, just Wolfson assuming he'll rise along with Garit.

  I need to tackle Xen Wolfson.

  Carefully, so he doesn't finish the job.

  Out in the conference room, Lady Merry drummed her fingers. "I . . . hate to bring up court gossip. Have you any solid information as regards Rolo and Amalie having more children? Gossip has her wearing looser dresses."

  Lily blinked. "I have no information on that subject."

  Iron frowned. "Thank you for your report." His fingers brushed the papers in front of him. "We will summon you if we have any further questions."

  Lily left, and the committee started discussing which men ought to be considered, and when to interview them.

  Garit slipped out of the room.

  Staven watched for a few minutes more. Wolfson's name came up again. He's the only one I know nothing about. He stepped out quietly and headed for the King's Own's headquarters.

  I need to get a feel for Wolfson. I think I'll have a little chat with him.

  ***

  "Champagne." Garit set the chilled bottle down on the desk in front of Xen.

  Xen looked at it curiously. "What's the . . . Princess Amilie?" He shifted the report he'd been writing out of the way so Garit could set down the glasses.

  "Is expecting. Not announced yet, in case of miscarriage and so forth. But you and I may be off the hook."

  "Will you mind?"

  Garit met his eyes and nodded. "A little. Oh, I know the job is half paperwork and tedium. But . . . I've been sitting around doing very little but listening and thinking for the last four days. And maybe growing up, seeing more than my immediate concerns. I see my responsibilities broadening . . . and I like it. I guess I'm ambitious enough to see the power as well. Enough that I can pretty much guarantee that from now on I'll pay more attention to the politics, the bigger picture, even though I'm planning on staying in the Army. I can keep the sense of doing something worthwhile, of being a part of the bigger thing. Of doing my duty and doing it well. All I'll really lose are the titles and the attention."

  Xen nodded. "The King gets the recognition, but he has no private life."

  "But look at Rufi. He's been respected for longer than Leano has been King."

  "Even Rufi has a whole lot of constraints on his freedom. Not that Army life is free, but you don't need a guard when you're on leave."

  The cork took flight. Garit hastily poured the foaming champagne into the two glasses. "How do you feel about it?"

  "Ah, I was never more than a last ditch pick, in case they couldn't find anyone else. No, I'm just not a general. I'm too independant. My brain just works that way. But if you start feeling seriously te
mpted by power, come tell me, and we'll go conquer Earth instead. Think of how fun it would be."

  Garit chuckled. "Or any world at all. Or start a colony on an empty world. You're right. The possibilities, while not endless, are immense."

  They raised their glasses. "Long live the King."

  Xen heard footsteps retreating from the door. Whoever it was would no doubt come back, if it was important.

  Chapter Ten

  Winter 1393, day 8

  Ash, Section 2 Foothills Province

  "So, we're going to take a quick look at this village. It ought to get us some idea about Wolfson's upbringing, and Garit's more recent experiences."

  Passe looked a bit apprehensive.

  "I know, you don't like to suspect Garit. I don't either. But we still have to look at him. Them." They were toasting something with champagne . . . Wolfson being in the running for sword heir?

  "Can I come? I can help!" Markly stuck his head through the door. Bright-eyed and eager.

  Passe and Staven both shook their heads. Then Staven hesitated.

  "You're what? Twelve?" Staven looked at the boy . . . personable and chatty . . . how many kids would be in the village?

  "I'm almost thirteen." His hand went to his chin. "I nearly need to shave."

  Staven bit his lip. "Right. And if you came, acted like a, well, page, took the horses and so forth . . . would you talk to the other kids? Don't ask any questions. Just, mention that in Karista you've met people from here. Prince Garit who's stationed at Fort Stag and that Xen Wolfson guy, but you don't know anything about him. Then you shut up and listen. Do they talk about Wolfson like they like him? Or like he's a bully? Just . . . listen."

  The boy's eyes had brightened all through that. "Yes! Sir!"

  "Right. So get yourself a horse too, as well as Passe's and mine."

  The boy hesitated. "That pinto stallion?"

  "Yes."

  He gulped, but scampered away.

  "I hope I don't regret that."

  Passe shifted. "Why the sudden suspicion?"

  "Garit and Wolfson are solid buddies. And . . . Garit will definitely advance, possibly all the way to crown heir, and Wolfson's very nearly the only possible spear for him, little though the Council wants to admit it."

  Passe looked as unhappy as Staven felt. "And Garit and Rebo wrangled all the time."

  "Yeah."

  ***

  Staven stared at the marble wall. "Well. They say there's a corridor to Ash here. With an illusion over it. I didn't think that I might need a native guide." He looked around the grounds of the Temple of Ba'al. The largest building was a partially burned ruin. The nearest one had an intact roof and a crudely repaired entrance. The rest of the grounds seemed to consist of weeds, homeless humans and stray dogs. Mihaela'd said the wall between temple and museum . . . Solstice raised his head, nostrils expanding to follow a scent. Staven sat still as the stallion stepped obliquely up to the wall. There was a little flash of . . . something he didn't really see, and felt wasn't the right word either . . . The horse stuck his head right into the marble wall. Twist. Solstice trotted out into a cold field. The furrows were visible beneath a crust of ice and refrozen snow. The wind was cold enough to burn. The horse turned left and Staven spotted the road. Well maintained gravel, a few farm houses and a single large mansion to the right, to the left, a collection of cheerfully painted houses with a few larger buildings.

  Markly's horse bounced through the corridor, snorting and alarmed. Passe was on his heels, his horse white eyed and ready to explode.

  "You know, we really need to start running our horses through these corridors until they get used to them." Staven turned left and let Solstice trot down the road. The others followed, their mounts settling quickly. The first large building declared itself to be Brock's Dry Goods. The opposite corner held a ridiculously ornate marble building labeled "Bank." There was a crooked little hut in a large garden, mostly trimmed back and dormant for the winter. And an inn and tavern.

  "This looks like a good place to start." Staven swung down and handed his reins to Markly.

  The boy grinned, took Passe's reins as well, and headed around the back.

  The dozen tables scattered around the room were mostly empty. Three older women gave them a quick glance, then returned to their conversation. A giggling batch of teenage girls occupied the big table in front of the glowing fireplace. Staven headed for a small table near a window, his back to the girls, and his attention on the redhead who was trotting over to him. Tall, gorgeous and very pregnant.

  "Hi, you're new, aren't you?" Her eyes went to his right arm. "Oh! Are you Prince Staven? Here to see Lady Gisele again . . . Umm, sorry, none of my business." She blushed.

  Can't be much over sixteen. Friendly and open.

  "We've got pot roast with vegetables and noodles, or fondoo, umm, that's this melted cheese and liquor stuff you're supposed to dip bread into." She shot a glance over at the teenagers' table. "It's not getting very good reviews. It was an experiment, and I think I may have misinterpreted some of the spices."

  "Oh, you're the cook?" Passe's eyes were crinkling in amusement.

  "No, well, yes. I mean, we all cook. It's like a running contest . . . and I've definitely lost this round." Half glum, half amused. "Pot roast, gentlemen? And ale or wine?" She eyed their uniforms. "Or a pot of tea."

  Staven shrugged. "Tea. Passe's on duty, so I won't taunt him."

  Passe half turned in his chair to watch her walk away. Sighed. "Why are all the pretty ones always already taken?"

  Snickers from the big table. A girl with hair so bright blonde she could have passed for a Royal shook her head. "Witches don't marry. Yellow's advancing early cause she got a bruise at the Crossroads and had some wine."

  Multiple smirks at what was probably his incomprehension. Staven shifted around to look them over. Gorgeous, one and all. And so young . . . when did sixteen start looking so young? I'm a month shy of twenty-three, that's only . . . seven years! Can't possibly be that long since I was off to my rotation.

  "The wine of the gods was flowing pretty freely, back at the field hospital." A slinky black haired girl looked him over, assessingly. "An orgy ensued."

  "Lots of babies expected in a month or so." A redhead. "I think some witches were using any bump or bruise as an excuse to go have some fun with the troopers." A sly smile. "Were you there?"

  "No." And for the first time, I'm glad. These gals are not my sweet Mihaela. "I got told off to mind the store at home, while Rufi and Fossi took troops through." He rather pointedly eyed their slender figures. "I guess you're too good at magic to be injured."

  Scowls. "They said we were much too young, and sent us home without any wine. Not that we got into the battle, as such. But we would have if those Oners had tried to go around the other side of the Tavern, where we were holding a shield."

  Nods around the table. "It got a bit shaky for a bit."

  "Three witches died, down on the road."

  "Rose and Opalesence died." Shock on their young faces. "They killed Fuchsia's mother!"

  Staven nodded. "From everything I've heard, we were very lucky we had you along to deal with the magic, and shield us from the . . . bullets and lasers."

  The back door banged open, to giggles. Markly with two girls about his age.

  ". . . so cute, but all he does is run away or treat us like little girls."

  The slinky black hair teenager look over at the trio. "You are a little girl Macaw. I fail to see how you could possibly chase anyone away."

  The girl, Macaw, rolled her eyes. "Xen."

  "Oh. Yeah, I suppose even you scare him."

  Titters.

  "We really ought to all get together and grab him. Pin him down and . . . " Glances shot their way and they quieted down. Whispers were succeeded by whoops and laughter.

  Old Gods! Definitely not the nice little witches of Uncle Rufi's stories.

  He glanced the other way. Markly and his new
friends were sitting down, their backs pointedly toward the other witches . . . Sanda? Was that Mihaela's little sister? He felt faint with a sudden wash of terror. Is Mihaela here? I don't want her to see . . . But I'll have to eventually . . .

  But what if she won't have anything to do with a cripple?

  The red headed waitress interrupted his thoughts with a fragrant plate of meat, onions and noodles.

  "I made note of all the spices Zebra used. I'll out do her, next time." She looked around. "Oops. Spoons and forks. Tea." She scurried off.

  "Does everyone get that addlepated when they're pregnant?" The bright blonde smirked, and looked beyond Staven.

  He turned back to see a pair of men walking through the front door. He blinked. Very tall men. The first one had silver shot brown hair and beard, muscular, sword callouses, but no weapon on his belt. Staven could see Passe tensing up. The bearded man glanced their way, but didn't stop, heading for a table on the far side of the room. Have I met him? The second man was a fop. Lace showing at the cuffs of his deep blue velvet coat. Handsome, just rugged enough to not be effeminate, despite the bright yellow plumes in his wide brimmed hat.

  Their waitress trotted out with a tray, silverware, teapot, and cups. Ironware, more like. The waitress squirmed a bit as Staven examined a . . . rather interesting fork. "We make them, for practice with metals."

  Passe glanced at the two new men. "Interesting locals, you have around here."

  She beamed. "The God of War and the God of Love. Umm, the Aulf Wulf is the Land Grant Holder, and Romeau is the Mayor."

  Staven blinked. Looked at the men. Didn't really look like gods. Speaking of Rufi's tall tales . . . And a friend of his that I met a couple of years ago.

  The waitress walked over and talked to Markly and the girls, laughed and headed for the kitchen. Neglecting your gods, aren't you?