Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3)

by Y. K. Willemse

  “You have twenty men,” Rafen said.

  “Correction,” Sirius said, his “r”s rounded and dark with the Vagabond’s accent, “I have twenty thousand men. Fleets, boy, fleets. All around Siana. Men all through Siana, marshalling. This is only my core. Twenty men chosen for their, ah, ingenuity. Each of them is special in their own way, Rafen. Especially Wilkins.”

  Rafen shifted his feet uneasily, conflicted.

  “Twenty thousand men will fix the Tarhians,” Sirius said. “It will fix Talmon, and I’ve always wanted to fix that imbecile.”

  The twenty men applauded excepting the one-eyed man, who slapped his thighs methodically, exclaiming, “Harr, harr.”

  “But the Lashki, Rafen. The Lashki needs… a master’s hand.”

  “He’ll kill me,” Rafen said. “I can’t do it.”

  What he really meant was that the Lashki might take him to Nazt. He stumbled backward.

  “He’s hunting us, isn’t he?” he said, his voice rising. “He’s hunting me. You’re working with him; you’re holding me for him, aren’t you?”

  “Nay, Rafen,” Sirius said quietly. “I work for no one. We all escaped last night, bar one or two, but that’s a number that doesn’t bother anyone. I saved your life… much to his frustration.”

  “What do you mean – we all?” Rafen burst out. “What about those I was with? What happened to them?”

  Sirius shrugged.

  “Tell me!” Rafen shouted, whipping his sword from his sheath and surging forward to point it at Sirius’ chest.

  His men tensed.

  “They escaped,” Sirius said indifferently.

  “How?” Rafen demanded, his sword quivering as he tried to hold it steady. “What about Francisco?”

  “How?” Sirius laughed. “He was after you, boy, not them. The Lashki rushed into the room, leaving Charlie in the doorway. The girl grabbed him and did one of her protective shields or some such thing, and they vanished. They left you.”

  Rafen stared at him. This hadn’t occurred to him. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Very well then,” Sirius said, nodding and squinting. “Try to find three people that left you to become Lashki prey. Just remember this, ah, offer, when you’re twenty-five thousand leginis away with them. Just remember you could have had an army, and nothing’s going to change the fact that the Lashki and you will be the two fighting over this country in the end.”

  Rafen felt cold. It was true. The Lashki held Siana in his rotting hand, and Rafen, despite the fact that he was not even fifteen, was the only one who could harm him.

  “If you’re afraid of death, Rafen,” Sirius said, absentmindedly swinging the skull at his side, “I’ll be there in that fight. I’ll do the distracting, and you do the wounding. We might get off lightly then, you and I.”

  “Why would I trust you when you tried to kill my brother?”

  “Ah, Rafen, I meant Charlie no harm,” Sirius said. “I made him the same offer I have made you now, and he reacted similarly to you, only less competently. He wanted to run out and tell everyone who I was and what I was doing, a little inconvenient for me, you understand. So I held him with kesmal for a moment.”

  “You would have killed me,” Rafen said sharply. “You said so to Francisco.”

  “An idle threat,” Sirius said. “I’m full of them, Rafen. I only wanted him to stay put so that I could speak to you. You weren’t particularly interested in speaking, and then our slimy friend turned up anyway.”

  “You’re lying,” Rafen told him.

  “Rafen, do you want to win this fight or not?” Sirius said in a keen voice, leaning forward. “You can go after a Sianian who can lead warriors if you wish, but you still won’t have an army. I have thousands already, waiting my word. Now, are you a coward like your father, or not?”

  He paused, while Rafen wondered wildly how he knew all these things.

  “Rafen, how much would you give for Siana?”

  The words reverberated in Rafen’s head. Alexander had said exactly the same thing to him, only hours before the royal family had been forced to go into hiding and he himself had gone missing. Rafen stared longingly at the empty, surrounding grasslands. His heart ached as he remembered the others.

  “Everything,” he said softly, looking at Sirius. “I would give everything.”

  “There!” Sirius said, and several men roared in approval and applauded again. “You’ll be one of us, my boy. And joint leader, which is an honor, by Wilkins. Now come in and have something to drink. That headache is making you look like curdled milk.”

  The one-eyed man leered and winked at Rafen, rendering himself blind for an instant. If Rafen had to face the Lashki, he didn’t want to do it alone. Supposing he could trust Sirius, the Pirate King would plan the battles for him and protect Rafen during that final confrontation, so that he need never see Nazt again. For, from what Rafen had seen of Sirius’ kesmal, it was easily as powerful as Queen Arlene’s, perhaps more so. Rafen slowly stepped back into the midst of the twenty men, with a million misgivings.

  “Ho, Oram!” Sirius bellowed as the jester went to one of the covered wagons to find ale. “Fill that pipe or I’ll do in that dragon of yours, by Gor.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sirius’ Kesmal

  They had been traveling south for four days. Rafen would sleep in one of the covered wagons or in a shabby tent that smelled like burned shark. He would have preferred to sleep outside like most of the men, but Sirius advised him not to, saying the Fledgling must remain hidden during his repose. Rafen would have thought this possessive if Sirius had behaved similarly during the day. However, the Pirate King let Rafen stray wherever he wanted. No one thought anything of it, and when Rafen returned at night, Sirius always greeted him like an old friend, and gave him a frothing cup of ale and a lump of cheese after his labors. The first thing Rafen had done after joining Sirius’ “players” was ask the Pirate King to train him further in kesmal. He had refused.

  “Gor, you’re already proficient,” he had said. “What do you want my training for?”

  It was a cover up, and Rafen knew it.

  “What do you think I want it for?” he said. “If I’m going to fight the Lashki—”

  “Lad, I said I would protect you. You just make sure you melt his head,” Sirius chuckled.

  “My kesmal isn’t that good yet,” Rafen said. “If you would train me, it would mean our plan is foolproof.”

  “I have faith in you, boy.”

  Rafen had wished he had as much faith in himself. He wanted to be sure he would survive this fight, and Sirius wasn’t giving him any such confidence. In his times alone, he began training himself in kesmal again. As joint leader, he had inquired how Sirius planned to win Siana. Sirius had said something about conquering a city, and then conquering its neighbor, and by degrees, blazing a trail to New Isles. The first place he intended to win was Rusem, a huge city in central Siana.

  “How?” Rafen said. From his studies, he knew this would be a gigantic feat.

  Sirius sighed profoundly, refilling his tankard of ale in the shark-smelling tent. He drank meditatively, focused on Rafen’s face. Rafen had the feeling Sirius seldom took anyone into his confidence, and at times, he was finding this partnership as uncomfortable as Rafen was.

  “I will send you into the city with a signal, birdie.” He often called Rafen “birdie”, in reference to his name, and Rafen had grown used to this. “I have numerous men in Rusem already. All we need to do is tell them when I’ve arrived. Then, birdie, they’ll win it for us.”

  “What is your battle strategy?” Rafen pressed, scratching his untouched tankard with restless fingers.

  Sirius roared with laughter. When he had finished, he had wiped his eyes. “Strategy?” he had said.

  Unlike Alexander or Jacob, Sirius didn’t pore over battle plans or maps. Rafen remembered King Robert had said Sirius was unpredictable, but this defied belief. Sirius’ reputation of success shou
ld have inspired confidence in Rafen. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself worrying. On his own, Rafen spent time thinking about what he would do if Sirius’ plan to win Rusem went horribly wrong. He imagined his own battle strategies and committed them to memory, just in case.

  At first, Rafen had wanted desperately to find Sherwin, Francisco, and Etana. But Sirius had shown him his current whereabouts on a map, and he was somewhere in central Siana. Sirius must have used kesmal to travel part of the way when Rafen was unconscious. A journey back to Smitton could have taken weeks. Sirius had promised Rafen that they would make their way back to Smitton eventually anyway, after they had begun to notify the men in his army about the upcoming war.

  When Rafen desired to write to Etana, Sherwin, and Francisco, he discovered there seemed to be no parchment anywhere. Rafen strongly suspected most of his company was illiterate. Yet he would see the others again presently anyway, and as soon as Sirius reached a settlement, Rafen would find a way to write. He refused to believe that they had left him – particularly Francisco. He supposed they had been separated from him by accident and were looking for him even now.

  “Tired, Rafen?” Sirius asked one day when Rafen flopped back into the large, shark-smelling tent after a long day of training.

  “Yes,” Rafen admitted reluctantly.

  Sirius sat in the back of the tent, smoking as usual, and pulling apart some galleta grass rooted between his bare feet. The acrid tobacco scent surrounded Rafen like incense, Sirius’ own special atmosphere. Rafen lay there on his back, one hand at his side absentmindedly feeling the smooth curvature of the top of Wilkins. The spring fragrances of asters and wild indigoes and grass crept through the tent opening. Pronghorns crooned to themselves outside.

  “Went far away?” Sirius said lazily.

  “Yes,” Rafen said.

  “Restless?” Sirius said. Then, without waiting for an answer: “Me too. Can’t wait till we come to some cursed city. By Gor. Nothing wipes the brain clean like travel.”

  “Tell me again how we will capture Rusem.” Rafen sat up.

  “Wellll,” Sirius said, clearly biting back impatience, “stratagems, boy. You said it yourself. We travel pretending to be players, don’t we? We’ll entertain ’em to death. It’s worked in Sarient. The jesters, players, book-writers, and idiots of politicians rule the king there.”

  “It might take a long time.” Rafen met Sirius’ gray eyes, which were lit with amusement.

  “Hm, p’raps, boy,” he said. “What do you think? How should I do it?”

  Sirius hunched his shoulders and stared at Rafen with a boy’s eagerness. Rafen stared back.

  “This is a joke, isn’t it?” he said. “You told me you had men in the city.”

  “By Gor, birdie,” Sirius said. “We have hundreds in any accursed city. Half the merchants you see? Pirates. Butchers? Pirates. Authorities? You can bet twenty percent of them will be mine.”

  “I thought pirates lived on the sea.”

  “Ha,” Sirius said. “Some of the men with me now have never sailed on a ship in their lives. Being a pirate is like being the member of a big club, birdie. They help me, and I send them some gold sometime. Any pickpocket’s welcome. They have their own little leaders, and the little leaders report to the big ones, until it gets to me. I just give the signal the day before the carnage. All over the Pillar, everyone knows the signal, and they fight for me the next day. Wilkins is our watchword, boy.”

  “Are there pirates everywhere on the Mio Pilamùr?”

  “Yes, everywhere, my little Sianian,” Sirius said, clipping his accent to match Rafen’s. “In every bleeding country any old where. The Lashki would be Fortune herself, to have the men I have.”

  Rafen digested this uneasily. Often, he questioned his decision to travel with the Pirate King, but the situation was desperate. Etana, Sherwin, and Francisco were not likely to find anything better than this. If Sirius really had all those men, they would ensure victory over the Lashki and the Tarhians.

  After his encounter with Nazt, the idea of again confronting the Lashki melted Rafen’s insides. Rafen remembered all the blank-faced, writhing gray forms near the cliff Annette had taken him to, and he knew for certain that he couldn’t fight this battle alone. He needed Sirius.

  “What will you do when we’ve won Siana?” Rafen said slowly. Once again, he was asking himself why Sirius wanted to work with him.

  “What?” Sirius’ head snapped upright, his gray eyes knowing. “Well, birdie… did I ever tell you Talmon and I have a score to settle?” Rafen didn’t reply. “It’s like this: in Vladimiēr there’s a province called Burrek. Burrek is mine, Rafen. My men own it. There’s a lot of us, but by Gor, that half-baked muddy-mettled idiot Talmon has to have everything. Sent his men there four years ago to take the province, and we haven’t had peace there since. I happened to start voyaging to Siana from there a number of months ago when I found out why he was withdrawing so many men. I left a good pool of my own to fight his and came over here. The day we beat the Tarhians out of Burrek will be a wonder, no mistake. But if Talmon thinks he’s going to get Siana too, he’s stupider than I thought.”

  “Isn’t Burrek the biggest province in Vladimiēr?” Rafen hoped this would prompt confessions from Sirius.

  “Hm… not bad. Got decent ports, boy. When the vagabonds come from the Darlos Archipelago, they need somewhere to stop off. The pretty province leads nicely into the core of Sartian profits, in Mur.”

  “Yes,” Rafen said. “But Siana is better. Is that why you came here?”

  “Saying a lot for a silent bird, you are. Careful, Rafen, your tongue will get tired.”

  Sirius rose, removing the pipe from between his teeth and exhaling a cloud. He stooped so that his head didn’t hit the top of the shark-smelling tent.

  “If you’re worried,” he said absentmindedly, gazing out of the tent mouth at the jester, who was carving a flute, “I’m not planning to take this land from King Robert, birdie. It’s a pretty bit of land, and needs a pretty, peaceful king on top of it.”

  “King Robert is the only king of Siana as far as I’m concerned,” Rafen said pointedly, holding Wilkins now.

  Sirius’ eyes drifted down to the skull.

  “Now, if I’d looked half that good,” he said, “by Gor, I would have had a woman by now.”

  He laughed his dry laugh and left the tent.

  *

  Sweating and shaking, Rafen woke up with his hand on his phoenix feather. He couldn’t recall his dreams. They had moved on again, and stayed this time near a group of monoliths shaded by two spreading cottonwood trees. Sirius had picked a spot in the shadow of an arching rock, pitched the big tent, and given Rafen a musty blanket to sleep beneath. Though Sirius himself had been sleeping nearby, he had now moved elsewhere. The air, even at night, was humming with the warmth of oncoming summer. Beyond the tent mouth, the stars pulsated in a black sea.

  Rafen sat up, his free hand knocking against something hard and cold. He gasped before realizing it was Wilkins. Slowly he rose, left the tent, and gazed around. The twenty men he shared camp with slept near other monoliths, except the jester, who was spending the night in a tree. Rafen was too suspicious of these men to talk to them much, and Sirius often separated him from them altogether, as though Rafen were a different element. Rafen only occasionally spoke to Oram, although he stayed well clear of the dragon.

  Wondering once again what city they were aiming for, and when they would arrive, Rafen started walking out from beneath an arching stone. A heavy form dropped down before him and Rafen jumped. The giant Zaldian straightened up, his finger to his long lips.

  “Shh.”

  “Where’s Sirius?” Rafen murmured.

  “Come.” The Zaldian motioned with a thick, black-haired hand.

  Rafen wandered after him. The three moons, all visible that night, illuminated their path. In a grove of oaks opposite the monoliths, Sirius stood in his coffee-colored robe, for once without his pi
pe. He held the black-handled dagger and breathed deeply and slowly, like a sleeper. Owls hooted nearby.

  A shuffling noise alerted Rafen and Oram. The smooth, gray-blue dragon had slithered closer in snake-like fashion, a mandatory form of traveling, because it only had one foreleg. Rafen stepped sideways instinctively.

  A slice of green cut the air. It snapped into a dozen pieces and crackled into nothingness. Sirius was now poised, dagger raised, pointed at the darkness between the trees. He squeezed the handle slightly. Again, the explosion of green. Sirius swept his arm in an arc, then up and down, and the kesmal narrowed to a ribbon and followed his direction. It flashed on and on, out of view, and then returned at last. Tensing and straightening his arm, Sirius made the kesmal straighten too, with a whipcrack. He squeezed the handle again, and the green beam vibrated into nonexistence.

  It made Rafen’s kesmal practices look ridiculous.

  “Does he do this often?” Rafen whispered.

  The Zaldian stooped to hear him, and Rafen brought his lips closer to the hairy, dirt-crusted ear.

  “Does he practice often?”

  “Yes,” Oram muttered back in his hardened Zaldian accent. “Always at night. Does no want the men to see. They be afraid.”

  His voice was unusually deep, and its sonority comforted Rafen. The dragon snuffled at Rafen’s arm, and Rafen stumbled backward, his hand grasping for his phoenix feather.

  Another explosion rent the atmosphere.

  “You no be afraid,” Oram said about the dragon. “He like you… otherwise he eat your hand.”

  His heart pounding, Rafen allowed the dragon to lick his arm with a rough, blistered tongue.

  “Is Sirius practicing for the battle at the city?” Rafen said to Oram.

  Oram’s glistening black eyes were unreadable as he departed into the shadows of the camp silently. At the edge of the sleepers, Sirius’ practice continued; it would have woken his men if they hadn’t been drinking heavily that night.