The man stepped forward, his gaze sending a shiver of apprehension down Warlock’s spine. Had they been betrayed, after all? Was this man here not to help them, but enslave them again? Warlock glanced around, wondering if he could outrun the henchmen accompanying this arrogant-looking nobleman, who were, he was sure, here only to make certain the Crasii didn’t cause trouble.
Shalimar stepped up to greet the nobleman. His expression softened and he smiled, transforming his whole countenance. “You beat me here, old man. What did you do? Fly?”
Shalimar shook the younger man’s hand warmly. “No, we just left half a day before you and didn’t founder anything getting here, that’s all. This is Warlock, by the way. And his friend, Boots.”
The man handed his reins to one of his companions, who led the horses off around the yard to walk them a little while they cooled down. He then turned to the two Crasii and, to Warlock’s astonishment, offered him his hand. “I’m Aleki Ponting. Shalimar speaks highly of you both.”
“Lord Ponting?” Boots asked, as shocked as Warlock at the man’s lack of artifice. “Of Summerton?”
“You’ve heard of me?”
“I grew up at Lebec Palace.”
“Ah! Then you probably know my mother, yes?” Lord Ponting didn’t seem particularly worried by the notion. “She’s a frequent guest at the palace.”
Boots shook her head. “No, my lord, I never met her. I mean…I know of her.”
Warlock thought it interesting Boots had automatically granted Aleki Ponting his title. She wasn’t usually so accommodating.
“I can imagine you do,” Aleki agreed with a smile. “She’s fairly notorious. Have you eaten?”
“Yes,” Warlock informed him. “Shalimar arranged—”
“A snack,” Boots interjected. “So if you want to stop for lunch, we don’t mind staying for seconds.”
“Thirds,” Warlock corrected under his breath.
Boots grinned, wagging her tail. “The stew here is pretty good.”
“I know. Clyden is quite famous for his stew,” Aleki agreed. “And we have the time, I suppose. Did you arrange horses for them, Shalimar?”
The old man nodded. “In the stable. And if you’re happy to take care of these two now, I’d like to get going.”
“Of course,” Lord Ponting agreed, and then he turned and indicated his two companions. “Lon and Tenry will escort you.”
“We’ve talked about this, Aleki,” Shalimar reminded him.
“You’re a lone old man on a road notorious for its highwaymen, Shalimar, heading into a potentially dangerous situation. Take the damned escort and be thankful.”
The old man frowned. “Declan put you up to this, didn’t he?”
Lord Ponting smiled. “And what loyal servant of the king would dare defy the King’s Spymaster?”
“This one, for starters.”
“You know I’ll only make them follow you if you refuse,” the younger man warned, making Warlock wonder where the old man was heading. The road from Lebec was well travelled and the city was a mere hour or two away, even on foot.
Surely he’s just going to turn around and go home?
Aleki sighed. “You might as well just accept them and enjoy their company.”
Shalimar muttered something rude under his breath and then nodded with ill grace. “It’s not nice to bully an old man.”
“I’ll be sure to mention your displeasure to your grandson, when next I see him.”
“I’m sure he already knows,” Shalimar grumbled.
The old man turned to the bodyguard who was standing behind Lord Ponting, fixing his displeased gaze on him. “Well, don’t just stand there, man! Fetch my horse from the stable. It’s the piebald. And you,” he called to the other man walking the horses. “Try to look a bit more intimidating, would you. If we are set upon by bandits, you’ll be the first one they kill, just because you look so damned pathetic.”
Aleki smiled even wider, shaking his head, and then issued his own instructions to his men, which were to not let Shalimar Hawkes out of their sight. As he spoke, the first guard returned from the inn’s stables with Shalimar’s piebald pony. The old man shucked off any attempt at assistance and swung into the saddle with surprising agility.
When he was mounted, he turned the horse until he was facing Warlock and Boots. “You can trust Aleki. He’ll see you come to no harm.”
“Thanks for the help, Shalimar,” Boots replied. “And the food.”
“Thanks for the company,” the old man replied. He looked at Warlock and then bent down to offer him his handshake. “It’s been good knowing you, Warlock.”
“And you, too, Shalimar,” the Crasii agreed, out of politeness more than genuine appreciation for the old man’s help. He still wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t an elaborate trap, although why any human would go to such trouble just to ensnare a couple of unindentured slaves was a question to which he had no answer.
“We’ll meet again, perhaps,” the old man said, as his guards mounted, after handing Lord Ponting’s mount back to him. “Or maybe not. I suspect Aleki has great things planned for you.”
Warlock looked to the earl for some indication Shalimar spoke the truth, but the nobleman’s expression revealed nothing.
Shalimar tugged on his reins and turned his horse out of the yard and onto the eastern road—away from the city—with Lon and Tenry close on his heels. Boots stepped up close to Warlock as he watched him leave. “You know, I think I’m going to miss that old man.”
“You’ll miss the food, you mean.”
“That too.” She turned to look at Aleki Ponting. “Will you feed us as well as Shalimar did, my lord?”
The earl seemed amused. “I doubt there’s another soul on Amyrantha who’ll feed you as well as Shalimar did.” He began to pull off his gloves and cloak. It was warm standing here in the sun, and although Shalimar had provided the Crasii with warmer clothes packed into their saddlebags, they were both still wearing the thin cotton shifts common to all city-dwelling Crasii. The human, with his fine wool cloak, would be sweltering. “You won’t starve, however. Did he tell you where we’re going?”
“Hidden Valley,” Warlock answered for her.
“Did he tell you anything else?”
“Not really.”
“Then we have quite a lot to discuss along the way.” Leading his horse, Aleki turned for the stables, as if that was the end of the discussion.
“Are we free to leave?”
The earl stopped and turned to look at them. “Are you planning to?”
“That’s not an answer.”
Lord Ponting stepped a little closer, and while he seemed pleasant enough, there was an undercurrent of threat in his bearing that, strangely, Warlock found reassuring. If these people were planning to lull him and Boots into believing they were being escorted to paradise, only to enslave them again, Aleki should be bending over backward to convince them they had nothing to fear. But the Earl of Summerton was acting like a man with something to protect. Just as Declan Hawkes had made the consequences of their refusal clear, Aleki wasn’t trying to paint a rosy picture, either.
“You and your friend are here on trust,” Lord Ponting told him, looking up at the big Crasii. “And while ever you demonstrate yourself worthy of that trust, Warlock, you’ll be treated accordingly. The Tide Lords are returning and that means every man, woman and child in this world is in danger, not to mention the Crasii. You’ve been offered a chance to do something to protect the Crasii from being abused the way they were the last time the immortals controlled Amyrantha. You should know enough of your own history to know what that means.”
“He only meant…” Boots began, her tail wagging slightly, a little alarmed at the seriousness of the nobleman’s tone.
“I know what he meant, Boots. He wants to know if you’re prisoners. So let me put your mind at ease. Both of you. You want to leave? Fine. Go now, and good luck to you both. But know this: the clos
er we get to Hidden Valley, the more we have to protect, and I promise you, we’re prepared to do whatever it takes to protect our people. If that means hunting you down and killing you before you can betray our secrets, so be it.”
Chapter 6
The seraglium attached to the Glaeban embassy in Ramahn turned out to be much less depressing than Arkady was expecting. Rather than the three rooms she feared, the women’s quarters took up most of the north wing of the embassy and included a small lawn and a water garden, an extravagance of the most amazing kind in Ramahn’s hot and arid climate.
The embassy itself was an impressive building, even for someone who had grown accustomed to the opulent wealth of Lebec. Two storeys high, flat-roofed and covering almost an entire city block, it was a palace in its own right. The building was covered with millions of tiny ceramic tiles, both inside and out, some done in geometric patterns, others worked into delightful murals depicting all manner of imaginary creatures, and more than a few scenes Arkady recognised from the Tide Lord Tarot.
It also boasted extensive (not to mention expensive-to-maintain) stables almost as impressive as the royal stables. The Torlenians were mad for horseracing, she soon discovered, and expected every man of substance to keep a number of thoroughbreds for just that purpose. They’d inherited, along with the vast ambassadorial palace, the Glaeban racing stables and Stellan was already receiving polite challenges on a daily basis to race his horses against other noble houses in the capital.
There were several other wives living in the seraglium, but few of them struck Arkady as being the sort of women she might befriend. They were either privately scornful of her common-born origins, or scandalised by her much-talked-about independence. They had their own lives and concerns and weren’t all that interested in welcoming a newcomer into their midst, which really didn’t bother Arkady, because there wasn’t one of them capable of holding an intelligent conversation in the first place.
The palace staff numbered over a hundred and was made up of a mixture of Torlenian and Glaeban Crasii and a number of human servants. Before they’d left Glaeba, Declan Hawkes, the King’s Spymaster, had provided Arkady and Stellan with a comprehensive list of who, among their vast staff, was thought to be a spy, not only of Torlenia but of Caelum, Senestra, Tenacia, the Commonwealth of Elenovia, Stevania and half a dozen other countries who considered it prudent to know what was happening in the Glaeban embassy. Stellan had dismissed a dozen of the suspected spies on his arrival, but kept on the ones Declan was certain of. The dismissals were for show, of course. Everyone would think the new ambassador had cleaned out his palace, unaware of the other spies in his midst. It meant Stellan was now free to spread a great deal of disinformation among the remaining spies who believed they had escaped detection.
This whole business of spies and disinformation made Arkady’s head ache. She had two known spies in her service: her hairdresser, a canine Crasii named Peppi, who spied for the Elenovians and a Glaeban wardrobe mistress named Natalay Wren, who was, according to Declan’s report, in the pay of the Torlenians. Arkady couldn’t understand why they put up with her. The woman was selling out her own country for a tidy monthly stipend. She should be beheaded for treason, in Arkady’s opinion, not indulged or ignored. Arkady had made a point of telling Declan that, too, for all the good it did.
She was thinking it still, as Natalay put the finishing touches on her hair and the palace seamstress, Linnie Kirell, adjusted the hem of her gown. Arkady was being very careful of her appearance this morning. The Imperator’s Consort had issued an invitation to the Glaeban ambassador’s wife to visit her in the royal seraglium.
Although hidden away by their men like valuable treasures one feared the neighbours might steal, in their own way, the women of Torlenia had power. Of a sort. It was subtle and it was usually hidden and the pinnacle of that power was the Imperator’s Consort.
Arkady couldn’t afford to offend her.
“Have you ever met the consort?” Arkady asked her seamstress, as the woman bit off a loose thread and then smoothed down the hem of the gown. It was made from embroidered gold cloth, exquisite in its detail and completely wasted, given that over the top of all this finery would have to go that wretched shroud.
“No, your grace,” the woman replied, standing back to admire her handiwork. “Lady Jorgan met her, though.”
“And how did they get along—Lady Jorgan and the Imperator’s Consort?”
“Not very well,” Linnie admitted. And then she smiled. “But I’d not place too much store in that, your grace. Nobody got on very well with Lady Jorgan. Not even Lord Jorgan.”
Arkady frowned at the seamstress. “I’m not sure how things were run here in the past, Linnie, but I’ve no wish to hear you repeating gossip.” Even as she said it, she knew she was probably making a mistake. Gossip was the lifeblood of this place. “Unless you’re certain there’s some truth in it,” she amended, thinking she must sound like a flanking fool. “Can you tell me anything useful about the consort?”
“She’s very beautiful.”
“Has anybody actually seen her, or is that just another rumour?”
“Lady Jorgan told us as much after she first met her,” Natalay said, no doubt trying to appear more reliable than her companion. “She also said she was foreign.”
“What nationality is she?”
“Lady Jorgan didn’t say,” Natalay replied. “Just that she was foreign.”
Arkady glanced at Linnie for confirmation but the seamstress just shrugged. “Lady Jorgan wasn’t the type to share her observations with the help, your grace.”
Get to know the servants. They’ll be your greatest source of intelligence, Declan had advised her before they left Glaeba.
What did he know?
Taking one last look in the tall polished mirror in her dressing room, Arkady decided she’d probably do. She swept up her layered skirts and turned to Natalay. “Would you let the guards know I’m ready to leave, please?”
“Of course, your grace.”
The wardrobe mistress hurried away to do as Arkady ordered, leaving her alone with Linnie. “Did Lady Jorgan tell you anything useful, Linnie?”
The seamstress pursed her lips for a moment and then nodded. “The only other thing I remember her saying was that the Lady Chintara seemed bored.”
“Bored? By Lady Jorgan?”
“By everything,” Linnie corrected. “Lady Jorgan was quite put out by her, I gather. They only met a couple of times, and after that she wasn’t invited back to the palace. Before she could get too upset about it, though, Lord Jorgan and the Imperator had that awful row over the Chelae Islands and they were ordered out of Ramahn.” She shrugged apologetically. “There’s not much more than that I can tell you, your grace.”
“You know the reason our ambassador was expelled?” Arkady asked, a little concerned to think something like that was common knowledge among the servants.
Linnie smiled, leaning forward to brush a speck from the shoulder of Arkady’s exquisite golden gown. “Everybody in Ramahn knows the reason, your grace. There aren’t a lot of secrets in this city.” With that warning issued, the seamstress gathered up the ubiquitous shroud to help Arkady into it.
“I’ll have to remember that,” Arkady replied, thinking of how many dangerous secrets she was already privy to as she helped Linnie lift the shroud over her head. Careful not to catch it in the pins holding her hair in place, the two women managed to get it on without doing any damage to their hours of hard work.
“Well, if you forget, your grace,” Linnie assured her, as she smoothed down the folds, “someone will remind you soon enough. I can promise you that.”
Lady Chintara sent a carriage to collect Arkady. It was an exquisitely lacquered closed-in phaeton, drawn by two matched greys and perforated across the front of the cabin for ventilation and to allow the occupants to see out. It did neither job very well and the shroud just made it worse. Although it was still quite early in the da
y, encased in a full-length mantle and crammed into a closed box, Arkady was feeling quite faint by the time the carriage pulled up inside the entrance to the royal seraglium.
The door opened to a welcome gust of cooler air. By the time a step had been placed at the door of the phaeton for her to alight safely, the male coach driver had been hurried from the enclosed entrance so only the palace’s female staff were on hand to greet the Glaeban ambassador’s wife. Much to Arkady’s delight, not one of the women was covered and as soon as the phaeton was led away, the women swarmed around her and lifted her shroud away. Then a tall, thin woman with greying hair stepped forward and curtseyed graciously.
“Welcome, your grace,” she said in near flawless Glaeban. “If you will follow me, please? The Lady Chintara is expecting you.”
Arkady inclined her head and followed the older woman, looking around with open curiosity as she walked through the palace seraglium. Although similar in its construction and decor, the royal seraglium was much larger and emptier than Arkady’s quarters at the ambassador’s palace and seemed much quieter as a result. It was also staffed—somewhat to her surprise—with the occasional male servant.
“There are men here,” she couldn’t help remarking, after walking past one room where a tall and quite pleasant-looking young man was holding forth to a group of young women seated on the floor around him, on a topic Arkady could only guess at, given they were speaking Torlenian.
“The men are blinded before being allowed to take up service in the seraglium,” the woman informed her, as if such a thing was an everyday occurrence. “And castrated.”
“A man has to be a blind eunuch to work here?” Arkady smiled. “I’m guessing you don’t have too many volunteers.”
Her escort was not amused. “On the contrary, your grace. To serve in the royal seraglium is an honour without peer. We select only the most worthy applicants.”
“Forgive me,” she said, wishing she’d kept her opinion to herself. Some diplomat’s wife you’ll make, Arkady. “I did not mean to give offence.”
The Gods of Amyrantha Page 5