by Cas Peace
Lost in thought, Sonten jumped and swore, feeling sweat prickle him before he’d identified the speaker. He cursed his lack of control and for maybe the hundredth time since returning to the palace deplored his damnable misfortune. If only his Artesan gift was stronger, he could have concealed his terror. But of course, if it was, he wouldn’t be in this dreadful position, forced to constantly fear for his life.
For seven nightmarish days, since watching his precious dreams burn on his nephew’s pyre, Sonten had dreaded this summons. Seven days of jumping at shadows, of sudden cold sweats, of erratic heartbeats whenever he heard the Duke’s voice rise above its normal, silken tones.
But no summons came. Incredible as it seemed, his Grace hadn’t discovered the theft of the Staff. Sonten had fully expected to return to a palace in uproar, turned upside down in the hunt for the thief. He’d fully expected to be accused of the crime, to be seized, chained and thrown into the cells, there to await his Grace’s brutal pleasure.
Instead, the Duke had received the news of Jaskin’s death with gratifying sympathy. He’d even offered to help Sonten punish his murderers.
The rebelling peasants—Sonten’s excuse for the two-day trip to Durkos and on whom he’d conveniently blamed Jaskin’s death—would have been slaughtered by his Grace if not for the Albian raids and the unalterable timing of his schedule. Sonten would have found the whole situation amusing if not for his precarious circumstances.
The reminder of those circumstances made Sonten speak viciously to the hapless servant who’d hailed him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? How dare you creep up on me like that? You imbecile! You might have given me heart failure.”
The servant cringed. “Forgive me, my Lord,” he whispered, “I meant no harm. The Duke sent me to find you. He wants to see you urgently.”
Sonten turned cold. The moment he’d been dreading had come. His Grace had discovered the Staff was missing and now Sonten’s life was forfeit. He swayed with shock, steadying himself against the wall.
“My Lord? Are you well?”
He fixed the terrified man with a bloodshot eye. “Of course I’m not bloody well,” he spat. “But you’ll keep it to yourself or suffer a beating. Now be off with you, I can find his Grace without your help.”
The servant bowed and scuttled away. Sonten knew they all feared him. It wasn’t unusual for him to have a servant flogged in order to relieve the tension of a difficult day.
However, it would take more than a pleasurable flogging to help him now. He must face his fate, meet death as bravely as he could. He drew a breath and pushed away from the wall. Wiping sweat from his face, he made his way to the ducal chambers.
“Ah, Sonten, there you are. Come in and close the door, we have arrangements to discuss.”
Taken aback, Sonten stared at the darkly regal figure seated by the fire. Pale yellow eyes glared impatiently while he hesitated. “A … arrangements, your Grace?”
“Yes, Sonten, arrangements. What’s the matter with you, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. For the Void’s sake, shut the damned door.”
Stung by the Duke’s irritation, Sonten obeyed and approached his overlord, feeling confused by his lack of rage and air of tense anticipation. He didn’t dare believe his luck had held once more.
“I’ve just had a message from Verris,” the Duke said. “I take it you’ve heard how successful the raids have been?”
Sonten had to swallow his anger. Verris had deliberately flouted his commands in reporting directly to the Duke. “Yes, your Grace, I spoke to Commander Heron not an hour ago. It seems the men are doing everything you asked.”
“They know damn well what will happen if they don’t.” The Duke’s deep voice was full of menace. “In the light of this, Sonten, I think it’s time to leave for Cardon. I want everything ready tomorrow. Contact Heron, tell him to intensify the action. I want them hit at dawn and hit hard. Tell them to concentrate on destroying the buildings, causing as much damage as possible. They’re not to get sidetracked into hand-to-hand fighting, their original orders stand. I’ll need every available man when the real offensive begins, despite those extra levies. Verris knows my intentions, make damned sure Heron does, too.”
Indignantly, Sonten said, “Heron is a good man, your Grace, and an able commander. He knows his orders just as well as Commander Verris. I’d even say he’s less likely to allow his men to stray. Verris has his eye on plunder, unless I miss my guess.”
The Duke tilted his aristocratic face up to Sonten’s and there was a sardonic gleam in his eye. “You don’t like Verris, do you, Sonten?”
The General bridled. “My personal feelings don’t come into it, your Grace. I’m only concerned for how well the man carries out his duties.”
The Duke’s predatory smile widened. “Of course you are, Sonten. Rest assured Verris will carry out his duties to the letter. He knows what will happen if he doesn’t. I trust you’ve already given orders to ready the carriages?”
“I have,” replied Sonten, offended by the implied slur. His irritation, added to his relief at not facing imminent death, made him bold. “Your Grace, are you sure this is wise? You’re courting unnecessary danger by making this trip to Cardon. Can’t you rely on the Count to follow your instructions? Surely this whole plan of the Baron’s carries more risk than the rewards can possibly justify?”
The Duke’s saturnine face darkened. Fluidly, he rose from his chair, deliberately towering over the shorter man. The anger in his eyes shot straight to Sonten’s heart and the General cursed his own brazen criticism.
“Are you questioning my judgment, Sonten?” The Duke’s deep voice dripped menace. “I didn’t summon you here to voice your opinions. I haven’t supported your ailing province all these years so you could parade your craven reservations. What do you know of the rewards I shall reap, what do you know of the risks involved? You have no idea.
“You’re impotent, Sonten, a metaphysical eunuch. Concentrate on my battle plans, prick those Albians ’til they bleed. Leave the power and the politics to those who know what they’re doing.”
Sonten tried not to cower but the Duke’s anger was flaring. The man was charismatic and powerful, capricious and brutal; it was hard not to be intimidated when he could take your life without a thought. He had seen the Duke’s killing rages before.
“My apologies, your Grace, I meant no criticism. I am merely concerned for your safety, as is my duty.”
The Duke stared balefully, as if weighing Sonten’s sincerity. Or maybe his usefulness. Whichever it was, he obviously decided it was worth more than the brief gratification he would get from killing Sonten. He turned away, missing Sonten’s slump of relief.
Casually, he said, “My alliance with the Baron is none of your concern, Sonten. If he perceives my actions as being beneficial to his plans, then well and good. By the time he realizes his mistake, he’ll be powerless to influence my hand. I will have won my desire. And those who help me win it, Sonten, by loyal and unstinting service, will not be forgotten. Bear that in mind next time you think to question me.
“Now, go rouse your messenger and contact Commander Heron. I want to leave at first light with a full honor guard and the retainers I’ve already selected. You’d better come, too, I might need you while we’re there.”
Summarily dismissed, Sonten left the room, his thoughts frantic. If the Duke hadn’t yet discovered the shocking theft of the Staff, then the success of this venture would mean he soon would. Perhaps the length of time since its actual removal would put Sonten in the clear, a fact he hadn’t even considered. He’d already supplied his overlord with a perfectly good reason for Jaskin’s death, so why should his Grace suspect him? Providing he kept a cool head and betrayed no guilty thoughts, he should be safe.
He might not have much power but one thing he did know, having heard Jaskin say it many times. Weak Artesans, in common with the ungifted, still had strong natural shields, strong enough
to protect their thoughts from casual probing. So if Sonten didn’t give himself away, he should have nothing more to fear.
Smiling nastily and feeling better than he had since his nephew’s death, Sonten strode toward the servants’ quarters. He would send someone to rouse Imris, who had been released to his rest.
Yet even as he framed the orders he would give Heron, realization slammed into Sonten’s mind. Abruptly, he stopped, all thought arrested. Disbelief flooded his heart; how could he have been so blind? Why had he let his fears override his natural cunning? Why hadn’t he seen the obvious, dangling right before his eyes?
Shaking his head at his laughable stupidity, Sonten resurrected his plans. He didn’t need Jaskin, with his youth, his contempt and his condescending comments. What he needed was an Artesan who owed him allegiance. What he needed was a man who’d already been bought.
Grinning maliciously and lighter of step than he’d been for days, Sonten roared for his Artesan messenger.
The sun rose in a pale pink haze. Low rays slanted through swirling mist, catching in the horses’ eyes. Hooves stamped and harness jingled as maned heads tossed and jaws champed the bit. Breath from many nostrils plumed into the frosty air and swords were eased in their sheaths.
Battle fervor gleamed in slit-pupiled eyes.
Both commanders watched their men. This was the last effort, the final feint before the main offensive, and they were determined to do their best. Much was at stake, not least the Duke’s favor. Rewards awaited those who did well. The threat of death loomed for those who did not.
The two leaders eyed each other, rivals on the same side. Verris smiled slyly and Heron turned away. Verris knew what the other man thought of his far-reaching ambitions; the self-righteous Heron would never let personal gain deflect him from his duty. Well, let him dance attendance on his fat general, thought Verris. As if that would get him anywhere. Verris didn’t intend to be merely a commander for long.
He saw Heron give a casual nod and move out his men. Verris snorted and did the same. The two companies took opposite directions, the horses curvetting and straining to be off. It had been a cold night and their muscles were stiff; the short ride would warm them and prepare them for the assault.
Verris cast a scornful look over his shoulder. Heron thought he was superior because his Artesan rank was one level higher than Verris,’ but Verris intended to show him that metaphysical prowess was not the only route to success. He was one of the Duke’s personal retainers and he intended to catch the great man’s eye, one way or another. Once he had sufficiently impressed the Duke, promotion into his elite guard would follow. That would be one in the eye for the haughty Heron.
Full of his plans, Verris urged his men to greater speed.
Their orders were to create panic among the Albians by catching them off guard before they were awake. There were three towns to the north and west of their starting position, with villages and hamlets between. Verris and Heron would aim for the smaller settlements first, crush them under their horses’ hooves and send the peasants running for the towns. Then they would sack the towns too, set fire to the houses and destroy what they could.
Let the Albians run, gloated Verris. Let them empty the towns and run for their lives. There would be enough booty left for him and his men, even after the lords had taken their cut. Verris intended to have his pick of what was left. At least his boys knew better than to keep gold for themselves.
Heron was far too soft with his lot. Whoever heard of letting them keep what they found? That was no way to get rich and Verris intended to be very rich one day.
His men let out a cry, telling him they had sighted a village. Yelling them on, he reined back his snorting warhorse and watched the mayhem his lads inflicted. Very soon, clouds of sooty smoke billowed up, cries of wounded and terrified Albians singing in Verris’ ears.
He took a moment to scan the horizon, scowling as he saw other signs of burning. Heron, it seemed, was busy, too. Roaring at his eager men, Verris ordered them to break off the attack and pushed them on to their next target. He left the screaming survivors huddling in their burning homes or fleeing for the nearest town.
Laughing loudly, he galloped after his men.
Taran, Cal and Rienne woke after a comfortable night, undisturbed by any snoring from Bull’s room. They breakfasted simply in the apartment and the big man excused himself shortly after, saying he had duties to attend to. He told them they were free to wander the Manor grounds and left them instructions on how to reach the commons again.
“You won’t see the Major until at least this afternoon,” he said. “And then only if what she hears from Robin interests her. Her time is heavily committed and she’ll let Robin deal with anything that doesn’t warrant her personal attention. If I were you, I’d spend the morning reviewing what you told us yesterday. See if there’s anything more you can add.”
He stared meaningfully at Taran and the Journeyman knew he had guessed some things had been left unsaid.
“Either Robin or I will meet you in the commons at noon. Feel free to use my rooms until then.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” said Taran. “We’ll do as you suggest.”
Bull nodded and left.
Despite the big man’s advice and his fear of the Staff, all Taran could think about was the possibility of training. He knew there wasn’t the slightest chance of learning from Sullyan, but Robin’s casual mention had suggested to Taran that he might be willing to give some guidance. Taran’s estimation of the Captain had increased immeasurably on learning his Artesan rank and he was eager to learn anything he could, even from someone three years younger.
At midday, he led Cal and Rienne to the commons, getting lost only once. An amused cadet put him right when he strayed into a lecture room by mistake. Guided by the smell of food, he finally opened the right door. He was a little dismayed to find no familiar faces in the half-packed commons, but no one seemed to mind when he took a free table.
The light meal was over and the room beginning to empty when Robin finally appeared. Dressed in combat leathers, he looked much more poised than he had the previous night. He greeted them gravely and smiled when Rienne inquired after the Major.
“She’s much improved today,” he said, “although a morning spent with General Blaine might change that.” He turned to Taran. “She wants to speak to you later but she’s given me some instructions to carry out before then. Will you come with me?”
Puzzled, Taran stood, the others following as Robin left the room. Hurrying to keep up with the long-striding Captain, Taran said, “Am I permitted to ask what the instructions are?”
“You’ll soon find out,” said Robin obliquely.
He led them outside, leaving behind the buildings as they walked down a wooded track in the autumn sunshine. Eventually, it opened into a wide circular arena of short-cropped grass, bordered by wooden benches. It was deserted, silent except for bird song.
Taran gazed around, sensing an air of combat about the place.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
The Captain waved Rienne and Cal to the benches. He guided Taran to the center of the arena and faced him squarely.
“In the light of what you told us yesterday, and especially in view of your training, the Major has asked me to assess your level of competence.”
Offended, Taran bridled. “My father trained me well. I can assure you I earned my rank.”
Robin smiled. “I don’t doubt it. Nevertheless, that’s what I’ve been asked to do. Do you agree to the test? If your abilities are what you say, you have nothing to fear. I intend you no harm, I only want to familiarize myself with your psyche and techniques.”
Taran hesitated, but in reality he had little choice. He also realized he might learn something new. He made up his mind to embrace the chance to surprise Robin into a measure of respect.
“Very well,” he said.
Robin smiled again and Taran realized the Capta
in had sensed his resolve. “Observation number one,” said Robin. “Conceal your emotions from your opponent.”