The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  In her weeks of study, she had settled into a routine that she hoped would help put her at ease in the unfamiliar environment of the exam hall. She laid her pen and spares down, then her ink bottle, and the pounce shaker to dry the wet ink on the page. She did it all quickly—more quickly than she had expected—and was left waiting for the other students to take their places and for the doors to be locked shut. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe slowly and deeply while she listened to the shuffling of feet, scraping of chairs, and clearing of throats echoing around the high-ceilinged exam hall. Her nerves threatened to build again as the wait seemed to draw on longer and longer, and she wished everyone would hurry up so they could get on with it.

  The sounds around the hall diminished, until there was only the occasional sound of a nervously cleared throat or blown nose. The invigilators paced up and down the aisles between desks, casually doling out exam papers and answer sheets. One of each landed on Adalhaid’s desk, and she had to slap her hand on them to stop them from sliding off. She felt her excitement rise as the moment grew near. She checked the nib on her pen, then dipped it in her inkwell.

  ‘The time is nine bells of the morning,’ the chief invigilator said from the top of the hall in a deep, sonorous voice that seemed to fill the room. ‘You may begin.’

  Adalhaid turned the exam paper over with the same impatient haste as every other candidate in the hall. She glanced over the questions. She felt the tension in her shoulders ease, and a smile spread across her face.

  THE FRESH AIR hit Adalhaid like an energising wave. The examination hall had been gloomy and stuffy and energy-sapping. How the university expected students to perform at their best in such conditions was beyond her. It was not as though the exams themselves were not taxing enough—four two-hour papers in one day was gruelling.

  She walked back to the foyer to collect her satchel—only pens, ink, and pounce were allowed to be brought into the hall—and felt far less confident than when she had gone in. She realised that it was exhaustion for the most part, but had to admit that the exams were far from easy, even with all the preparation. Knowing the material alone was not enough; the questions forced you to show that you understood it and could apply it. She had expected as much, and was prepared, but it became a battle of mental stamina toward the end. There were only two more days of exams, but already she wondered how she would get through it.

  It was something of a relief to see the glazed-over eyes of the other candidates coming back out of the hall—at least it was not just her. Groups quickly formed around the foyer as people started to share the experience and discuss how they had approached some of the questions. Adalhaid could hear snippets of the various conversations. Her heart jumped into her throat any time she caught mention of a different approach to answering something than the ones she had taken. In her fatigued state, the last thing she needed was an assault on her already fragile confidence. She needed to get out of there, get home, and get some sleep. She had to do it all over again the next day. Before she did, however, there was one little piece of fun she wanted to allow herself.

  She had heard of an attempt on Rodulf’s life at the palace—it was all the talk. It seemed someone else disliked him enough to hire a professional assassin to kill him. It was only a stroke of luck—or bad luck, depending on your perspective—that he had survived. It fit perfectly with her campaign of anonymous letters, and fit perfectly with one she had sent a few days before, telling him that his time was running out. It was a lucky piece of happenstance, and it was too good an opportunity to let pass by. She had seen Rodulf wandering about the palace looking increasingly stressed, and she held the hope that her letters were contributing to that. The fact that he had sent a city watchman to the stationers to investigate it certainly suggested as much.

  In the coming days, she would be going up against him, and she had no desire to ease up on her efforts if they might leave him distracted enough to give her an opening. She considered how she would word it as she walked back to the palace. Something sinister, alluding to the fact that it was from whomever had engaged the assassin, and that he was far from safe.

  CHAPTER 36

  Rodulf returned to the city at the head of the rumbling silver wagons with a great sense of achievement. The Blood Blades had stacked two corpses on top of the tarpaulins covering the silver. He had spent the journey back coming up with a way to tie them to dal Geerdorf in damning enough a way to charge him with treason.

  Getting his hands on a couple of liveried tunics seemed to be the most obvious solution he could think of, but it raised the problem of how to get them. He could have them made up, but they would look new and that would likely lead to someone asking questions. Older ones would be better, but far harder to come by. Forged orders were another option, but forgeries were tricky to get right, would take longer, and would be subject to greater scrutiny.

  It was not as though he didn’t already have enough complications to deal with. He rued not being able to simply have the man killed. In the south, that kind of thing wasn’t done. Short of challenging dal Geerdorf to a duel, implicating him in treasonous behaviour was the best—and possibly only—way to get rid of him. There was a certain irony to the fact that he was involved in treason up to his eyeballs, but hoped to condemn another man for the same thing.

  Rodulf also had the body of the would-be assassin still to inspect. Perhaps there would be something there that would lead him to his goal. If only dal Geerdorf had the guile to actually try to steal the silver, how much easier Rodulf’s life would be. As they passed through the city gates, Rodulf found that his mood had entirely deflated. One problem successfully dealt with, and another raised its head.

  RODULF BROUGHT the silver wagons directly to the mint, a sturdy building behind the palace which, since Rodulf’s arrival in the city, possessed a never-ending plume of smoke as its smelters worked around the clock to convert the northern silver into coin. No sooner had the coins been pressed than they were used.

  He watched until each of the wagons rolled into the secure warehouse, and the doors were locked behind them. The Blood Blades took charge of the bodies and followed Rodulf back to the palace, where there was another corpse waiting for him.

  The corpse was not the only thing. Gathered outside the palace, where they had clearly been refused entry, were a number of the mercenary company commanders, and a handful of their more threatening-looking men. There was no way to avoid them, and by the time Rodulf had given thought to retreating to his rarely used townhouse for a while to let them clear off, he was spotted.

  With nothing for it but to approach them, he rode slowly toward the palace entrance in an effort to display he was in no way threatened by their presence.

  ‘Lord Lieutenant,’ one of the gathered mercenary captains said—Rodulf thought it to be Tenario of the Black Drake, but could not be certain, having met so many of them so briefly, and over such a short period of time.

  Rodulf looked over, and gave Tenario an inquiring look. He was a short man of dark hair and complexion—like most Auracians—but his body was solid and his arms corded with muscle, giving him a tenacious, powerful look. With him were a couple of the most ill-looking fellows Rodulf had ever seen. With cropped hair, scars, and predatory eyes, they were the picture of any number of unpleasant stereotypes—murderer, rapist, arsonist, to name but a few. The others seemed to be content to allow Tenario to do the talking for them.

  ‘A word with you, Lord Lieutenant,’ Tenario said.

  ‘Later, perhaps,’ Rodulf said. If and when he met with people, it would be at a time and location of his choosing. He would not give Tenario the upper hand even in this.

  ‘It’s important,’ Tenario said, stepping forward to take the reins of Rodulf’s horse. ‘We won’t be going anywhere until we’ve spoken with you.’

  Rodulf gave it a moment’s thought. As much as he wanted to reiterate the master-servant relationship, these men were the direct commanders of over ten thous
and cutthroats and ne’er-do-wells. He needed to keep them on side, and would have to make compromises to do so from time to time. He reminded himself that it wasn’t always a sign of weakness.

  ‘Fine,’ Rodulf said. He dismounted and allowed a waiting stable boy to take his horse. ‘Come with me. Just you.’

  ‘They’re coming with me,’ Tenario said, nodding to his two evil-looking cohorts.

  Rodulf gave them another look-over, then gestured for two of the Blood Blades to follow him. He looked at the bodies draped over the horses of the other two. ‘Look after them until I send for you,’ he said, still not sure of what he was going to do with them.

  He walked Tenario and his men toward his office in silence, the Blood Blades following closely behind.

  When they got to the office, the Blood Blades closed the door behind them.

  ‘Now,’ Rodulf said, deciding politeness was a good policy with a man who could potentially turn ten thousand men on him, ‘what can I do for you?’ Then again, he thought, having the Blood Blades kill Tenario’s two henchmen might make for an equally powerful lesson.

  ‘We’ve been told that the Markgraf is broke, and that we’re not to be paid.’

  Rodulf laughed. ‘Who told you that?’

  Tenario remained silent a moment. ‘Does it matter?’

  Rodulf shrugged. ‘It might, but the fact remains that it’s entirely untrue.’

  ‘You’ll have to forgive me when I say that doesn’t allay my concerns,’ Tenario said. ‘Nor those of my friends.’

  ‘How about this,’ Rodulf said. ‘If there aren’t chests of coin arriving at your camp tomorrow morning to settle your wages, we can continue this conversation. When they do, as we have agreed in our contract, all your concerns will be allayed. When they are, I’d very much appreciate it if you tell me who it is that’s been spreading such scurrilous and false rumours.’

  Tenario nodded. ‘Tomorrow, then. As agreed. You keep up your end, and I’ll tell you where I heard the rumour. If it hasn’t arrived by noon, you’ll have bigger problems to deal with than gossip.’

  The threat caused anger to flare within Rodulf, but the time wasn’t right to respond to it in the way he ordinarily would. It was easy to be a big man when you had ten thousand swords supporting you. It would be soon enough, however, and Captain Tenario had added his name to a list of people who did not have much life left to live.

  THE MERCENARIES WERE NOT long gone when Rodulf’s clerk came to tell him he was summoned by the Markgraf. Even with the Markgraf solidly under his thumb, Rodulf knew that keeping up appearances was important, so he dropped what he was doing and went immediately to his private office.

  ‘I’m told there’s a problem with the latest silver shipment,’ the Markgraf said, as soon as Rodulf entered the room.

  Despite being solved, it seemed the silver problem was not ready to die just yet. The Markgraf seemed more energised than he had in some time, Rodulf thought, which was not the situation he was trying to promote. Might it have had anything to do with his absence from the palace? With a feeling of reluctance that surprised himself, Rodulf placed his bare hand on the Stone, and started to exert pressure on the Markgraf. Rodulf could see his face flush, satisfying him that the Stone was still having the influence he desired.

  ‘There was a problem, my lord,’ Rodulf said. ‘But no more. I went out with a few men, tracked it down, and killed those responsible.’

  ‘Very good,’ the Markgraf said. ‘I was worried about paying the sell-swords when their wages fall due tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s all taken care of,’ Rodulf said. ‘The silver is being minted into coins as we speak.’

  ‘Once again you save the day,’ the Markgraf said, forcing a weary smile.

  ‘It’s my pleasure to serve,’ Rodulf said.

  ‘The men you killed. Did they give any indication of who was behind the theft?’

  ‘Not directly, my lord, but there is evidence pointing in one direction.’

  ‘Theft of my silver is an act of treason.’ He forced a smile again, but it looked as though it took an even greater effort. In the short time Rodulf had been present, the Markgraf had grown visibly tired. ‘When you find who it is, I want their head.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure to bring it to you, my lord,’ Rodulf said.

  The Markgraf smiled contentedly, as though he was about to fall asleep. ‘There was some other business, I hear. Something about an assassin?’

  ‘Taken care of also, my lord,’ Rodulf said. ‘Everything is going exactly as planned. There is nothing that will stand in your way.’

  RODULF LEFT the Markgraf’s office and headed for the room in the citadel’s dungeon where the assassin’s body was waiting for him. He walked briskly, ignoring those who stopped to say hello and make small talk in the hope of finding his favour. Usually it amused him, that people who months before would not have given him the time of day now curried his favour. Today, however, it was an irritation—he had far too many matters to attend to. There were others waiting outside the room when Rodulf arrived—the captain of the City Watch, and the new court physician who had been hired to replace those who had failed to save the Markgraf’s daughter.

  The guard let them in, and offered an oil lamp to light the pitch-black room. Rodulf shook his head and took a small mage lamp from his pocket, instantly filling the space with warm light. The assassin lay on an old, roughly hewn oak table in the centre of the otherwise empty stone chamber. His head had been wrapped in cloth to keep its contents together, and Rodulf had no need or desire to go poking around in the gore. He searched through pockets, looked over his clothes, but there was nothing to give any indication of who the man had worked for.

  ‘A ferocious wound,’ the physician said as he regarded the bound head with a grim expression on his face.

  He held a small pouch of dried flowers to his nose, although Rodulf had to admit he couldn’t smell much of anything. It was cold that deep below the citadel, which had kept the body fresher than Rodulf had expected. If the new physician was squeamish, he wouldn’t be much use in the coming days. So many appointments to court were dictated by connections rather than ability, and it was something for which Rodulf had little time. He’d had to fight for everything he had, and was not going to preside over a court of well-connected incompetents. His kingdom would be strong, because it would be ruled by men who had earned their positions. There were so many things about the south that could be improved so easily, if only those in charge chose to open their eyes. He realised that he shouldn’t complain, however. That attitude had given him his opportunity.

  ‘Take a closer look,’ Rodulf said.

  The physician raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Unwrap the bandages, and tell me whatever you can about this man.’

  The physician hesitated before starting to peel them back. When it was free, the cleaved head flopped open. Rodulf smiled at the physician’s horrified reaction. He was tempted to have him assigned to one of the Markgraf’s infantry battalions when the rebellion started. There would be nothing better than battlefield experience to acclimate him to the sight of gore.

  ‘I, ah, don’t believe this man to be a Ruripathian,’ the physician said.

  Rodulf sighed, and looked down at the corpse’s tanned complexion. ‘I don’t need a physician to tell me that. Is there anything about him that might be used to determine his identity?’

  The physician shrugged, and started to examine the corpse’s hands, its fingernails in particular.

  ‘There is little about him of note,’ the physician said. ‘I expect that fact is intentional in his trade.’

  Rodulf had to admit that the physician was correct in that, at least. Bringing him along had rested on a slim hope that his professional eye might pick out something that Rodulf missed. He nodded.

  ‘You may go.’

  He waited until the physician was gone, then looked over to the captain of the watch, who had thus far remained silent.

&nb
sp; ‘You? Anything?’

  ‘I fear nothing that will be new to you, my lord,’ he said. ‘He’s obviously a professional. There are no identifying marks or tokens on his person that might give an indication of who he is or where he’s from. His clothes are generic and inexpensive. That cloth can be bought at any market from here to Auracia. He’s an anonymous person, and that’s by design. It’s not often we see an assassin like this here, but when we do, it’s always a dead end.’

  Rodulf nodded. ‘I suspected as much. Thank you for your time.’

  The captain nodded and left, leaving Rodulf with the body of the mystery man who had tried to kill him. Whoever was after him was certainly good at covering their tracks. The letters, the silver, and the assassin. Three strikes against him, and he was still none the wiser as to who was behind it all. It was easy to have suspicions, but getting rid of dal Geerdorf would be a waste of time if there was someone else, someone more dangerous than him, lurking in the shadows. Dead end after dead end. When would he get a break?

  BY THE TIME he had wended his way out of the labyrinth of dungeon passages beneath the citadel, Rodulf didn’t care if Tenario, the mercenary captain, implicated dal Geerdorf in having started the rumour that the Markgraf wouldn’t pay their wages or not. Dal Geerdorf was a thorn in Rodulf’s side, one way or the other, and being rid of him would be a weight off his mind. “The Graf” was a new addition to Rodulf’s list of enemies, and he was growing concerned that the underworld figure might have grander designs than simply stealing a shipment of silver. Everything would be for the taking in the coming weeks, and if he wasn’t careful he would be left with nothing.