Sighing, the mercenary wheeled his horse around and began to ride along a track, away from the tree-cutting, casually guiding his mount. The trail he followed was little more than a deer run, a narrow path that wound its way through the endless stretches of tangled suth trees that clogged the forest floor. He was supposed to be watching for hostile forces sneaking through that section of the Nunwood, mercenaries hired by noble families of Hlath attempting to sabotage their rivals' lumber operations in the area. Though he didn't doubt for a moment that there were troops out there somewhere-dueling mercenary armies were just a fact of life in and around the Nunwood-he didn't see how they could possibly manage to work their way through the tangled growth in any sizeable numbers.
It didn't really matter, anyway, for like most of the armies for hire along the northeast coast of Chondath, the Iron Lion Mercenary Band regularly switched sides in the endless games of one-upmanship played out by the nobility. One month the company might be working for the Lobilyn family of Hlath, protecting their logging interests, and in the following month, when a larger sack of coin dropped into Captain Therdusple's hands, the band would most likely be serving House Lobilyn's most hated neighbors. Sometimes, when Captain Therdusple was particularly clever, he could play one side against the other, convincing each family to pay them to ruin their counterpart. With so many changes of fealty, the armies themselves seldom even fought. Most of the time, their captains met and negotiated an "outcome" based on how much coin had changed hands and which noble houses were most likely to up the ante for favorable results.
Fools, Letius thought, laughing to himself. They waste their coin fighting. Then he sighed. But we're the bigger fools, for we waste the chance to fight, and thus waste our lives on meaningless guard duty, for the sake of that coin. No one ever wins. What's it all for?
The soldier must have been almost out of earshot when he heard the shout from back in the logging camp, for it was very faint. He hadn't realized he had ridden so far away, and cursed himself for idle musings. Finding a slightly wider spot in the trail, he spun his horse around and bolted back down the track, headed toward the logging site.
When he broke through into the glade, Letius spied a horde of men, many of them astride horses of their own, surrounding the milling cluster of loggers, who had obviously been rounded up by the newcomers. Though the strangers brandished weapons-mostly axes, crossbows, and halfspears-they seemed content to herd the workers.
Letius expected as much, and rode forward, a grin on his face. He would, of course, seek out the invading band's captain, or the most senior officer otherwise, and direct him toward his own captain, who was encamped perhaps a quarter mile back the way the invaders seemed to have come. It was as he had always done, usually with a laugh, a coarse joke about the coin squandered by foolish nobles, and a shaking of hands.
One of the enemy soldiers spotted Letius's approach and wheeled his mount about, giving a shout to his comrades to follow. He galloped toward Letius, who held his hands in the air, showing that he held no weapons. The other man, who looked to be a barbaric northerner-with a thick black mustache and twin braids of hair flying back from each temple-never slowed his approach, and half a dozen others came with him, strung out behind.
When the northerner was perhaps twenty paces away, he raised his axe menacingly. Letius's smile vanished, and he hastily fumbled for his own short sword, which was still sheathed in the scabbard on his saddle. At the same time, Letius spun his horse around, intent on rushing back into the cover of the forest. His mind awhirl in confusion and fear, the mercenary hoped that he could evade the onrushing foes in the suth tangles.
It was not to be. One of the riders charging hard toward Letius fired a crossbow, and the bolt slammed into the lone soldier's arm. The missile's tip passed completely through his bicep, embedding itself into his ribs. Letius's arm was effectively pinned to his side, and he dropped his sword in the process.
The wounded mercenary roared in pain and yanked reflexively on the reins with his good arm, drawing them back too sharply. His horse reared up, kicking its forelegs high into the air and unseating Letius. The mercenary landed on his back with a painful thump, knocking the wind from his lungs.
The northerner slowed his own horse's approach and circled around the gasping Letius, but instead of finishing the kill, the man reached out and took hold of the riderless horse's bridle. Letius looked up in fear and pain as the stranger began to lead his horse away. The casual way in which the foreigner seemed to have claimed the mount gave Letius a cold chill. He coughed and tried to speak as his body worked to regain its air, but when he began to struggle to sit up, with only one arm to aid him, a second enemy rider loomed above the downed soldier, halfspear raised high overhead.
"Wait!" Letius cried out feebly, throwing up his good arm to ward off the impending attack. "Let us parlay!" he begged.
There was a sudden fire in Letius's belly as the halfspear jammed down, skewering him to the ground, right through his midsection. Letius gasped, falling back, his good hand closing around the shaft of the halfspear in a vain effort to pull it free. He blinked repeatedly, feeling tears welling up in his eyes, both from the burning pain in his stomach and the bewildering fear that washed through him. He just didn't understand, and his mind was having trouble recognizing that he had been wounded.
"I-" he started, trying to make sense of what had just happened. "My captain," he mouthed, his voice a mere croak. "Parlay," he whispered, feeling the pain in his belly spreading.
Tempus, it hurts. Please.
"Leave him," the northerner said to his companions from a distance, his accent thick. "Let the others find him like that." Then the man leaned down from his saddle and peered at Letius. "If you live to see your brethren again," he said, his voice filled with contempt, "tell them that Reth claims this section of the Nunwood for its own and that the greedy, scheming folk of Hlath, of all of Arrabar, are no longer welcome here." Then the northerner spun his horse and, leading Letius's mount by the reins, rode away, his companions following.
Letius lay gasping, staring at the brassy blue sky overhead, clutching feebly with that one hand at the halfspear pinning him to the ground. He knew a man could linger for days with a belly wound before dying. Maybe someone would come. He prayed to Tempus they would. Flies began to swarm around him in the sweltering heat of the day.
"But why?" Lobra Pharaboldi asked with a choking sob from behind a black linen handkerchief she held delicately to her mouth. Occasionally, she dabbed it at her intensely dark eyes, red-rimmed and glistening with tears. The color of the fine cloth matched the heavy black velvet dress she wore, a cumbersome funereal outfit that made her uncommonly porcelain skin glow like summer moonlight, even though there was little enough illumination in the chamber at the moment.
Servants had draped the entire sitting room of the Pharaboldi estate in black, suitable for mourning, and had set up a handful of flickering candles.
The periphery of the solemn chamber seemed to shift and waver in their glow, which cast their uneven light haphazardly upon the pair of caskets arranged near the great fireplace. The effect made the shadows at the corners of Falagh Mestel's vision seem alive and restless. The tall, slender man did not much care for the dimness of the chamber, but the elegantly dressed woman huddled against him on the overstuffed couch had insisted they meet there. In the interests of getting her to agree to hear what Grozier Talricci and his partners had to say, Falagh had acquiesced.
Might as well humor her, he thought idly, running a single index finger along his thin black mustache. There's nothing worse than crossing a grieving wife.
"Who knows the dark thoughts of the greedy and grasping among us?" Grozier answered solemnly, pacing back and forth in front of the couple, his cape swirling about the somber doublet of black brocade he wore with each turn he made. A matching hat, rather ridiculous in appearance but of suitable style for the occasion, was canted at an angle atop the man's tight gray curls.
&n
bsp; He looks like a burned peacock, Falagh decided, though he could hardly blame the man. Mestel's own outfit was hardly less foppish, though he had thankfully abandoned the jaunty hat, choosing instead to leave his perfectly trimmed blue-black hair uncovered.
Grand Trabbar Lavant, whose bloated bulk spilled over the sides of the high-backed chair he occupied, sat off to one side, letting Grozier hold center stage for the moment. The priest of the Temple of Waukeen seemed to be the most self-assured of the three, studying his own slipper-adorned feet in a knowing way. Falagh began to understand that Lavant, and not Grozier Talricci, was the true guiding force behind all that had transpired before Lobra's involvement.
Both the Waukeenar and Grozier seemed to ignore the wizard they had brought with them-or rather, who had brought them both there. Grozier had called him Bartimus, right before telling the man to find a quiet spot and stay out of the way. The paunchy fellow sat in a corner in the shadows, constantly pushing his spectacles up his nose and muttering to himself with a foolish half smile on his face. Every time Lobra sobbed aloud, Bartimus winced and stared, as though she had interrupted some deep contemplation.
Falagh chuckled very softly to himself, finding the wizard a bit amusing, in a ridiculous sort of way.
"Why did he have to kill them?" Lobra asked, flopping back against the seat next to Falagh, sweeping her lustrous black wavy hair behind one ear with her other hand, her face a look of helpless pain.
At the earnestness of her second question, Grozier Talricci turned and knelt down in front of Lobra. "Perhaps Vambran Matrell somehow considered his family superior to yours and in his arrogance, could not bear the thought of what he considered to be some lesser scion courting his sister. Or perhaps he simply wished to sabotage the alliance his uncle and brother had made, desiring control of House Matrell for his own, and found murder"-and with that word, he motioned in the direction of the twin coffins resting in state-"to be his most reliable and straightforward tool. Whatever the scurrilous dog's reasons, he has affronted all of us."
Lobra glanced toward the caskets and shook her head miserably. Falagh reached over and gently took his wife's hand in both of his, giving it a comforting squeeze and pat. The gesture caused Lobra to turn back to him, staring into his eyes desperately, as though she needed him to tell her that it was all going to be undone, that Anista and Denrick weren't truly dead at all. Falagh had already tried every imaginable soothing gesture he could think of to assuage her pain, but she would not be placated. So he only returned her gaze, saying nothing. She fell against his arm, buried her face against his shoulder, and succumbed to her sobbing again.
"We all grieve for your loss, of course," Grand Trabbar Lavant said from his high-backed chair. Falagh turned to look at the heavyset priest, who had his hands folded together, his fingers interlaced across his ample stomach. The Grand Trabbar continued to stare at the floor in front of him with that thoughtful, if somewhat distant, mien. "To have both a mother and brother taken from you at the same time is a terrible tragedy… simply terrible. And with the man most directly responsible for it running free, well…" Lavant said, leaving the thought hanging.
Lobra sat up again, wiping the fresh tears from her cheeks with her handkerchief. Falagh could see her visage of misery transformed into one of hatred, and she shifted away from him and toward the front of her couch, sitting regally. The woman settled her hands into her lap, though she held them clenched into delicate fists.
Very good, Falagh thought, recognizing the priest's subtle manipulations. Move past what's done, and address what is still to be done.
The Grand Trabbar rose ponderously from his seat and carefully smoothed his gem-studded cream and crimson robes about himself, then he moved to stand next to Grozier, who still knelt in front of Lobra.
"If you want to see justice done, consider our cause," the priest said, resting one hand on the kneeling man's shoulder so he could bend forward slightly and emphasize his words. "With your help, we can not only see your mother's and brother's vision continue to move forward, but we can take steps to rectify this horrible grievance committed against you by House Matrell."
"But I cannot make these decisions!" the woman wailed. "I know nothing of managing these affairs. Mother always-" and Lobra choked on her words, her body shuddering in another silent sob as she covered her face with her handkerchief again. Falagh patted his wife's back as she shook in sorrow.
When Lobra had regained her composure once more, she continued with a sniff. "Others have always handled things. And I am not next in ascension, anyway; Jerephin is the head of the House, now."
"Lobra, sweetheart," Falagh said at last, finding it the right moment to add his own encouragement to the words of the two men beseeching his wife. "How many years has it been since anyone heard from Jerephin? Five, six?"
"Yes, but-"
"No 'buts,' darling. Jerephin is not here to make decisions, and he may never come back. The House needs a leader. You can do this." Falagh reached out and took Lobra's chin in his hand, turning her to look at him squarely. "You must."
Falagh could see the uncertainty, the hesitation, playing across Lobra's face as she considered his words. It was clear to the man that she did not have the first inkling about what she should do. She desperately wanted to have others make those choices for her.
Yes, Falagh mused silently, almost smiling. Let us help you decide. And the Mestels can be rid of the bastard Matrells once and for all.
Finally, her lip trembling, Lobra Pharaboldi turned back from her husband and faced Grozier and Lavant. She sat up a little straighter, forcing a look of determination onto her face. The grieving woman took a deep breath and, with a gentle pat from her husband to reassure her, gave a slight nod.
"Yes," she said, her voice nearly cracking. "You still have House Pharaboldi at your disposal. Let the plan go forward."
Falagh could see Grozier visibly relax his shoulders at the words, and the Grand Trabbar stood up straight again, nodding.
"Excellent," the priest said as Grozier climbed to his feet beside him. "We now have almost all the funds necessary to-"
"You will make him pay," Lobra said, causing the Grand Trabbar to snap his mouth shut in surprise at the interruption. "Vambran Matrell will account for his crimes," the woman added, giving both men in front of her a level look.
"Certainly," Grand Trabbar Lavant said sagely, folding his hands across his midsection and resting them on his stomach again. "We already have a few plans in place to deal with-"
"Promise me," Lobra cut in again, rising to her own feet, her eyes wide with intensity. "Promise me right now that you will punish him. I want him to hurt. Promise me."
Neither man spoke for a long moment, taken aback by the sudden fire in Lobra's countenance. Finally, the Grand Trabbar nodded.
"Good," Lobra replied at last, seeming to wilt from her former rage. "Then I trust that you and my husband can work out whatever arrangements are necessary. I must go and rest now," she said, her voice small and distant. She began drifting absently toward the door leading out of the room.
"Of course," Grozier said, almost too quickly, making Falagh frown.
Hoping to find the upper hand in negotiating with me, the scion of House Mestel thought. I think not.
"Yes, Lobra, darling," her husband urged. "Go rest. These gentlemen and I will finish up." And Falagh motioned for a servant who had appeared discreetly in the doorway to take care of his wife.
"Now, gentlemen," Lavant said as soon as Lobra had departed. "We have some details to attend to."
"Do not think me the wretched, grieving fool, Waukeenar," Falagh said, giving both men a piercing gaze. "My mind is not addled with grief over the loss of those two," and he waved casually in the direction of the coffins. "If you are to see one copper of my wife's wealth, then you are going to have to convince me that House Matrell will no longer be a thorn in your-or our-sides again. Ever."
Grozier seemed taken aback by the man's forceful words, an
d his mouth worked silently for several seconds, vainly seeking words that would assure Falagh.
"That is precisely why we also need your assistance," Grand Trabbar Lavant said. "If we are to eliminate Vambran Matrell's meddling-indeed, if we are to eradicate the mercenary's entire household-we are going to have to take some very clever, subtle steps."
"My help?" Falagh asked, ignoring Grozier and giving the priest his full attention. "What do I have that you want?"
"Why, your family's naval might, of course," Lavant replied, a hint of a smile on his face. "In all its wondrous forms. I think it's time Vambran Matrell met with a tragic accident at sea."
Falagh began to stroke his mustache again, unable to avoid a smile himself. "Yes, of course," he said at last. "I think I might know how just such a catastrophe could occur."
"It would seem that your financial woes have been alleviated, then," Grand Trabbar Lavant said, casually examining a finely wrought statue of a mermaid lounging upon a shard of rock jutting forth from a frothy sea. "Lobra was not so hard to convince. We told her what she wanted to hear." The sculpture was of silver inlaid with emerald and lapis, and it sat upon a pedestal in an alcove in one wall of Grozier's drawing room.
Bartimus watched from across the chamber as the priest plucked the delicate mermaid from her perch and studied the craftsmanship. Lavant held it in the light of a nearby lantern hanging from a hook set into the wall and peered closely at the underside, possibly looking for the artist's symbol etched into the silver.
The mage longed to return to his study, for he had research that still beckoned him before he would retire for the night. He knew, however, that he would have to magically return Lavant to his own quarters in the temple beforehand, so he stood patiently and waited as the other two men discussed their meeting with Lobra Pharaboldi.
"Yes, so it would seem," Grozier agreed absently. "She was never a bright one, but that was almost too easy. And Falagh was more than happy to offer additional Mestel resources, wasn't he?" the man added, sipping at a mug of chilled wine while he sat in one of his two most comfortable chairs.
The Ruby Guardian soa-2 Page 2