The man moved a little closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and looked up at Warlock.
“You can walk with us, or we can drag your unconscious carcass through the gutters,” the officer informed him matter-of-factly. “The choice is yours, dog boy.”
Warlock really hated being called “dog boy,” almost as much as he despised the name gemang. He had to force down the snarl that leapt to his lips.
“I will walk.”
“Wise decision,” the officer agreed.
“Where are you taking me?”
“The Watch-house.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not if you come quietly.”
Warlock glanced at the Watchmen surrounding him and nodded slowly, unable to avoid the feeling that he was consenting to his own death, all for the sake of not making a scene. Perhaps it was the crossbow he feared. Not so much for himself, but the fear of that dangerous quarrel ending up buried in some innocent onlooker like the young female who’d gasped at his audacity. Warlock couldn’t really say.
“As you wish.”
“There’s a good doggy,” one of the guards muttered behind him, giving him a shove.
Slipping on the wet, greasy cobblestones, Warlock stumbled forward, growling softly under his breath. But he let the comment pass and fell in behind the officer as they made their way through the rapidly darkening streets toward the Watch-house.
There was a time and a place to take care of men who made comments like that, and this was neither.
Besides, he had to survive this unexpected detour first.
The City Watchmen who escorted Warlock to the Watch-house proved to be gentlemen compared to the men who took over his custody when the squad resumed their patrol. As soon as Warlock stepped inside, he was bashed across the shoulders with a truncheon until he fell to his knees on the hard stone floor. It was dark by then, the Watch-house lit by guttering torches. He was beaten, cajoled and threatened into a cell not far from the main entrance, and then left with an escort of two guards to watch over him. Neither man spared him so much as a look once the door closed behind the others, provided he did not attempt to get up from the floor.
Warlock wasn’t sure what was happening, but he was certain of one thing: agreeing to come quietly to the Lebec City Watch-house was possibly the dumbest thing he’d done in his entire life.
He was left to dwell on his monumental stupidity for the better part of an hour. Then the door opened finally and a man stepped into the cell. Hurriedly the guards stood to attention. Their visitor wasn’t a particularly tall man—few humans were tall compared to Warlock—but he carried himself proudly, his face handsome in the way of humans, clean-shaven and olive-skinned, and he was dressed more finely than any man Warlock had met since he’d left the service of Lord Ordry’s household. The man smelled of expensive soap, of hidden fears. And of power.
“Leave us!”
The guards did as the man ordered without question. Whoever he was, his scent of command was not misplaced. He had authority here. A great deal of it.
“You are the canine they call Warlock?” In contrast to his barked orders to the guards, when he spoke to Warlock, his voice was cultured, his tone nonthreatening, although it was clear he expected an answer. Fortunately, unlike the City Watchmen, he didn’t seem to feel the need to beat his prisoner to get one.
Warlock nodded warily, daring to climb to his feet. The human showed no fear. He didn’t even flinch when Warlock rose to his full height, forcing the man to look up at him to meet his eye.
“Who wants to know?”
The newcomer held up a piece of paper that Warlock recognised as his ticket to freedom, so recently handed to him by Arkady Desean, even more recently surrendered to the City Watch. It was spattered with raindrops, the ink blurred in places, but it was still legible. “This pardon you carry bears my signature and my seal.”
Warlock’s eyes narrowed. “You are the Duke of Lebec?”
“I am.”
“Then you have my eternal gratitude, your grace,” he said with a low bow.
The duke frowned. “If only I’d actually done something to warrant it.”
“Sir?”
“The seal on this pardon is mine, Warlock,” the duke informed him, holding the paper a little higher. “The signature isn’t.”
This wasn’t likely to be good. “I…I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” Stellan Desean admitted. “I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me.”
Confused, the Crasii shrugged. “I cannot explain it, your grace. The duchess—your lady wife—visited the prison a few days ago with the intention of escorting another prisoner back to the palace, so she informed us. And to award me a pardon. I cannot say why.”
The duke nodded, as if this confirmed what he already knew. “Tell me about this other prisoner.”
“Cayal?”
The Duke of Lebec nodded, clearly unhappy about something. “Arkady’s Immortal Prince.”
It was obvious the man had no faith in Cayal’s claim. Foolish humans. They had no idea of the peril the suzerain represented. The Crasii remembered. They made a point of it. But humans…their pride was too strong, their memories too short, to be even remotely aware of the danger. “Cayal was not lying, your grace. He is who he claims to be.”
“Arkady…my wife, didn’t seem to think so.” There was nothing snide or condescending in his tone. To Warlock’s amazement, the Duke of Lebec was almost respectful of Crasii beliefs, enough not to scoff at Warlock’s insistence that Cayal was the Immortal Prince, at any rate.
“She may learn, to her peril, that she was wrong, your grace.”
The duke looked worried by that. “Do you think she’s in danger from this man?”
Warlock hesitated as it occurred to him his detention might have nothing to do with his unexpected release at all, but was a part of something much bigger. “Has something happened, your grace? To her ladyship?”
Stellan Desean hesitated and then nodded, as if admitting the truth could do no harm. “While she was escorting this would-be immortal back to the palace, he escaped and took my wife hostage.”
Somehow, the news didn’t surprise Warlock. “I don’t think he’ll harm her, your grace,” Warlock found himself saying, not sure why he felt the need to reassure the man directly responsible for his incarceration. He owed the Duke of Lebec nothing, it seemed, not even his release.
“How can you be sure?”
Because I could smell it on them, Warlock wanted to reply, but knew he couldn’t say it aloud. You didn’t tell a man with the power of life or death over you that you could smell lust simmering between his wife and another man. Cayal was nothing more than an escaped murderer to Stellan Desean. Telling him he suspected Cayal wouldn’t hurt his wife because it was obvious he desired her would hardly set the man’s mind at rest.
“The Immortal Prince is renowned for many things, your grace, but wanton cruelty is not among them.”
“You keep insisting he’s immortal. Arkady thought he might be a Caelish spy. Or a madman.”
“It matters little which one, sire,” Warlock pointed out. “If Cayal is really an immortal or if he has simply assumed the persona of the Immortal Prince, he is bound by the legend he has claimed and if he wants to keep up his fiction he must therefore act as the real Cayal would act. In Crasii legend, Cayal is known as an adventurer, a scoundrel, even a champion of lost causes at times, but he has never been known for being deliberately malicious. Nor is this man a fool. If he has your wife, she will be alive, because he intends to trade her safety for his escape.”
The duke studied him for a time. “You’ve thought this through, I see.”
“It requires very little thought, your grace. I would have thought the evidence spoke for itself.”
The duke smiled thinly. “Arkady said you were intelligent.”
Warlock didn’t return the smile. “She also said you granted me a pardon, your gra
ce.”
The duke glanced down at the document he was still holding. “A circumstance which presents me with something of a dilemma, I fear.”
Warlock could see the duke’s problem. It was obvious, now, that his wife had forged the pardon, which meant she’d probably forged Cayal’s release papers, as well. Whatever game Arkady was playing, whether it was aimed at embarrassing her husband or something more sinister, Warlock was caught in the thick of it. His life now hinged on the willingness of this man to overlook his wife’s active participation in the release of two convicted murderers.
His lordship didn’t appear happy about it, either. “If I honour this pardon, I become complicit in her crime.”
“And if you don’t honour it, her crime becomes public, your grace,” Warlock reminded him, guessing that was the reason the duke hadn’t called the guards in yet, or had Warlock dragged back to Lebec Prison in chains. His wife’s defiance is not something he wants to advertise, Warlock guessed, not with the king and queen in Lebec.
“Where were you headed?” the duke asked abruptly. “When they apprehended you?”
“West,” Warlock told him honestly. “To Caelum. I was hoping to find Hidden Valley.”
The duke seemed amused by his admission. “The legendary sanctuary of the Scards? Do you think it really exists?”
“I believe the Immortal Prince exists, your grace. Why shouldn’t I believe there is a home for my kind out there somewhere?”
“My wife’s colleagues at the university—the ones who fancy themselves smarter than the rest of us—insist the Crasii belief in magic is one of the things that make you less than human.”
“And yet, by Crasii reckoning, it’s what makes us more than human.”
The duke had no answer for that. He turned and knocked on the door behind him, his expression apologetic. “I wish we had time to become better acquainted, Warlock, out of Bella, by Segura. You strike me as an interesting man.”
It wasn’t often a human referred to a Crasii as a “man.” Warlock appreciated the gesture, certain though he was that it was simply the duke’s way of expressing his regret for what he was about to do. Four days, Warlock had been free.
It wasn’t long enough.
It would have to be.
“You could come visit me in prison and we can talk again,” Warlock suggested. “I’ve nothing much else to do with my time.”
Before the duke could answer, the door opened. Another City Watch officer stepped through the door, saluted sharply and then glanced at Warlock.
“What are your orders concerning the Scard, your grace?”
Stellan Desean hesitated for a fraction of a second before he answered, handing the pardon to the officer. “Release him,” he ordered, his voice much more certain than his eyes. “This isn’t the Scard we’re looking for.”
“But…your grace…,” the officer argued. “He fits the description perfectly. He has the pardon…”
The duke’s tone changed. So did his uncertain expression. “Are you questioning me, sir?” All trace of his earlier doubt was gone. This was the voice of a man who wielded the power of life and death over the citizens of Lebec and he would clearly brook no interference from an underling.
The officer backed down with alacrity, bowing to his lord and master. “Of course not, your grace.”
“This particular canine aided my wife in one of her academic projects and was pardoned for his assistance. He is not to be harassed while in my city, is that clear?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“You are free to go,” the Duke of Lebec informed Warlock. “I wish you luck in your quest, however futile it might prove to be.”
“Finding a place one can call home is never futile, your grace,” Warlock replied.
“No,” the duke agreed, “I don’t suppose it is.”
With that, the Duke of Lebec turned on his heel and strode from the cell, leaving Warlock staring at the City Watch officer, who was holding the precious pardon and making no attempt to hide his disgust at the notion of having to let this Crasii murderer go free.
Chapter 44
Jaxyn handpicked the Crasii he intended to take into the mountains. There were a dozen he chose—all felines except for one, a canine named Chelby, Stellan’s best tracker and the only male in the group. He chose the Crasii for their stamina, their fighting skills and, most importantly, their unquestioning obedience. It would be too late, once he found Arkady and her escaped murderer, to discover he had any Scards among his escort.
They left Lebec Palace the day after Clyden Bell reported Arkady taken. Stellan would have preferred him to leave sooner, but with the king in residence, such a thing was not so easily achieved. Jaxyn might be making a heroic dash to save his good friend’s wife, but they didn’t particularly want anybody knowing about it, or worse—tagging along for the ride. Jaxyn and Stellan had made a great show at dinner the night before he left, about hunting down an escaped Crasii, and even more time trying to discourage Mathu from joining the hunt. They were saved in the latter by the queen herself, who objected loudly at the very notion of her son riding off into the mountains in pursuit of some filthy Crasii runaway.
Stellan covered Arkady’s absence by claiming she was ill and, with the queen’s help, they finally convinced Mathu he’d be better served preparing for the formal announcement of his betrothal to Kylia in a few days’ time than traipsing through the mountains after a slave. It had been an altogether harrowing time for the conspirators and Stellan was quite pale by the time the matter was settled and the dinner table discussion moved on to other things.
Their caution was justified. Jaxyn knew that if the king got wind of what had happened to Arkady, it wouldn’t be one nobleman and a dozen Crasii heading off in pursuit of the Immortal Prince. Enteny would bring the entire Glaeban army down on Lebec to avenge the insult to his crown. Arkady Desean was more than just a woman the King of Glaeba found beguiling. She was a cousin by marriage. A member of the extended royal family. She was married to the man third in line for the throne. There were consequences for endangering such an important person.
Something Cayal has obviously not considered, Jaxyn thought, as they made camp a few days later, the bitter mountain wind tugging at his cloak. The rain had let up for a time, thankfully. He took in the view, the magnificent vista laid out before him, not really seeing it, no longer impressed by the tall, darkly forested Glaeban mountains, no longer impressed by much of anything, for that matter.
The days when Jaxyn Aranville could stand on the peak of a mountain and be overawed by the majesty of his surroundings were long past.
They had followed Cayal’s trail easily enough for the first day, always climbing higher but inexorably heading northeast. The escapee and his errant Crasii made no secret of their passage. It was as if Cayal was taunting his pursuers by leaving such an obvious trail, something Jaxyn wouldn’t put past him. Earlier today, however, the trail had faded to almost nothing and Chelby was ranging out ahead of them even now, making the most of the available light, still looking for some hint of the fugitives’ direction.
Jaxyn was certain the Crasii would find it eventually. And if he didn’t, well…perhaps, if they couldn’t follow Cayal, they could figure out where he was headed. This was a spur-of-the-moment plan, this kidnap of the Duke of Lebec’s wife. Cayal would have had no time at Clyden’s Inn to plan anything else, no time to consider the effect of his actions. His only concern would have been escape. The Immortal Prince’s lack of forethought would work in his enemies’ favour.
Cayal hasn’t thought this through very well at all. “How typical.”
“Sire?” the nearest feline asked. She’d been setting up his small oiled-silk tent, but stopped when she thought he’d spoken to her. “Did you say something, my lord?”
“Just thinking out loud,” he replied, tugging his cloak closed against the wind. “Get a move on with that, would you? I want to rest.”
The feline nodded and hurri
ed back to her work. Jaxyn smiled at her obsequiousness. Some things about the Crasii never seemed to change.
“My lord.”
He turned to find Chelby coming up behind him. The canine wasn’t as big as some Jaxyn had seen, but he was an excellent tracker. His pelt was tri-coloured, the white fur covering his hands and feet stark against the black and brown patches that covered the rest of his body. His almost-human face was drawn into a frown, wide nostrils flaring.
“Did you find any sign of them?”
“About a half-mile to the south of here, my lord,” Chelby informed him, pointing in the direction of which he spoke. “I’ve marked the place. We can pick up their trail in the morning.”
“You’ve done well.” Jaxyn wasn’t being nice to the Crasii out of sentiment. He just knew, from long experience, that it never hurt to praise a canine. They thrived on it. And worked harder for it.
Chelby bowed low, his tail wagging. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you, thank—”
“Where are they going, do you think?” Jaxyn asked, cutting off the Crasii’s stream of gushing gratitude.
“They seem to have turned higher into the mountains, my lord,” the canine replied, a little chastened. “If he’s looking to escape Glaeba—the Immortal Prince—you’d think he’d move in a more southerly direction.”
Jaxyn was surprised the Crasii had thought of such a thing. He supposed he shouldn’t have been. Stellan encouraged his Crasii to think for themselves.
He wasn’t sure why. Jaxyn had never seen the point of intelligent Crasii, really.
“Who told you we were in pursuit of the Immortal Prince?” Jaxyn asked, a little concerned. These creatures worshipped the Tide Lords, were bred for their blind obedience to them. If they thought they were chasing one down, there was no telling what they’d do when they found him.
The Immortal Prince Page 37