He hadn’t meant anything by the words as he said them; he’d actually intended to put the boy at his ease. The statement, though, made Bashanorandi tense as if spiders scurried across his flesh. He swallowed hard and his eyes darted to the king’s in the mirror. Sin Hazar remembered the conversation that his guard had reported, the fight between Bashanorandi and that cursed Touched girl.
What was her quaint phrase? That the boy was kneeling close enough.… Well, the image was vivid, if not quite true. Sin Hazar had other playthings; he hardly needed the attentions of an unschooled boy.
Nevertheless, what would it take to manipulate the prince? What would it take to make Felicianda’s boy do his bidding? Certainly, Bashanorandi had been eager enough to pursue royal favor – he’d practically wet himself at the opportunity to gain his swan tattoo.
Sin Hazar could not resist the urge to press a little harder. He stepped behind Bashanorandi, trapping the youth between his own broad chest and the mirror. “Of course, your new-marked face is the least of your attributes, hmmm? Your mission to the Swancastle served you well. You’ve tightened your muscles, sitting on your horse.” The king raised his hand to Bashanorandi’s neck, catching the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He rubbed gently, caressing the boy as he would one of his wolfhounds. With his other hand, he traced his nephew’s silken sleeve, feeling the rigid forearm, pretending to measure the wrists that had reined in royal stallions.
Sin Hazar held fast to Bashanorandi’s gaze in the mirror, quirking an eyebrow at the heated flush on the youth’s face. “We would let you stray from our keep more often,” Sin Hazar purred, almost ruining the effect by laughing at the boy’s discomfiture, “if we could always be assured of such beneficial results.”
“No, Your Majesty!” The boy’s throat bobbed at Sin Hazar’s dangerous grin. “I mean, I did not stray! I did as you asked! I retrieved Davin and brought him back to court, along with the division of the Little Army. And Ranita Glasswright and Mair, too! I did not –”
“Relax, cousin.” The boy leaped like a flushed quail as Sin Hazar leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “We were not accusing you. You have served us very well, so far.” Sin Hazar paused for a moment and then dropped the royal plural. “I expect you to do more in the future.”
Even if Sin Hazar had not kept his hand on the boy’s neck, he would have sensed Bashanorandi’s leaping pulse. The youth tensed as if each muscle longed to carry him from the chamber; his breath came in short, desperate gasps. If Sin Hazar had been inclined to collect attentions from a boy, he had to admit that Bashanorandi’s pathetic terror might have been intriguing. The boy ruined it all, though, by swallowing hard and lowering his gaze from the mirror. When he spoke, Sin Hazar could barely hear him, even though they stood cheek to cheek. “Th – that would please me, Sire.”
Sire.… The boy might be frightened, might have felt forced to defend his manhood to the Touched wench, but he was willing to offer up that very bond he found so distasteful. Ah, Felicianda.… How could a girl of such headstrong pride have whelped such a pitiful specimen? Still, knowing that he could control Bashanorandi through shame at his admission, if nothing else, Sin Hazar permitted himself a malevolent smile. He settled one finger against the fresh swan tattoo that reddened his nephew’s face, pressing hard enough that he was certain to cause the boy some pain. “Well. We’ll see what arises. Now, if you’re well enough, perhaps you’ll do me the honor of accompanying me.”
“Certainly, Sire!” Bashanorandi’s smile was like a kicked dog’s eager whimper. “Where are we going? Off to see the Little Army?”
“I think not,” Sin Hazar replied wryly. “First snow has started, and I see no reason to tour a filthy, stinking camp.” He turned on his heel, fully aware that he had not answered the boy’s question. That was fine. Let Bashanorandi wait. Let him wonder. Let him trail behind his king, trying to remember not to raise questing fingers to the silvery wing that spread across his cheek.
Sin Hazar accepted his guards’ salutes as he strode through the hallways, letting Bashanorandi trail behind. The king took pleasure in his long stride. He had decided that his next meeting would best take place in the stone chamber, deep beneath the palace stronghold. After all, that was where Sin Hazar’s maps were kept, and all the markers of his armies. That was where the traitors from the south would best appreciate his might.
As expected, Al-Marai was waiting for him, beside the detailed battle map. The general held out an ermine-lined robe for his king, and Sin Hazar let his brother settle the garment about his shoulders. Yes, the stone chamber would be icy as a grave for the next several months. Still, the rich fur served two purposes – it kept the draft from creeping down Sin Hazar’s neck, and it reminded Bashanorandi of Amanthia’s wealth. The boy crossed his arms over his chest, surreptitiously rubbing his hands against his sleeves in an attempt to generate some warmth.
Sin Hazar pretended to be interested in the map, circling about the miniature pieces, fingering one of the boats that appeared to be en route to the east. Only when Bashanorandi had begun to study the map as well did Sin Hazar draw back, crossing to the tall, carved chair at the top of the board. Best that he face his prisoners in comfort.
He was pleased to see that Bashanorandi moved to stand beside him, taking up a squire’s position without being ordered. The boy tried to keep out of reach, but he watched Sin Hazar with the nervous eyes of a ground squirrel. The king resisted the urge to reach out one hand, to trace a seam on the boy’s leggings. That would create chaos, he was certain.
Sin Hazar settled for nodding toward Al-Marai. “Bring in the prisoners.”
The lion transmitted the order to the guards at the door, and then he unsheathed his massive curved sword. With his beard curling across his chest and his gaze turned to stone, he made a terrifying barrier to the map-room. The arriving prisoners eyed Al-Marai warily, edging into the room like unbroken colts. They were so intent on the obvious threat of the unsheathed sword that neither immediately noticed Sin Hazar.
The king cleared his throat. “Lady Ranita. Lady Mair.”
Both girls started, whirling to face the king. Sin Hazar saw the instant that they took in Bashanorandi, the scant moment it took for each to label the boy a traitor. Ranita Glasswright spared some attention for the map as well, measuring the troop placements as if she would report them to that southern upstart of a king.
The girls were bedraggled. Both sported dark circles under their eyes, as if they had not slept in weeks, and Ranita favored her leg as she crossed the stone chamber. Ink tracery around their eyes mimicked fading sun tattoos.
Sin Hazar had issued precise orders when Bashanorandi dragged the girls back to his city. Ranita and Mair still wore the boys’ clothes they had at the Swancastle. Their jerkins and leggings had been none too clean to begin with, and the uniforms certainly had not been bettered by a night spent in the royal dungeons. The garments were pulled out of shape by the iron chains around the girls’ waists, the manacles that cut into their wrists and the loops that linked their ankles. Sin Hazar may have been made a fool of once, but he was not going to give these miserable wenches a chance to escape again.
Ranita Glasswright shot a single glance at her companion before she began to berate the king of all Amanthia. “Your Majesty, we expected better hospitality than these chains, in your storied castle.”
“We are not accustomed to letting traitors roam our hallways free.”
“Bashanorandi stands beside you, and he bears no chains.”
“Our cousin is not a traitor, Lady Ranita. Not by the laws of Amanthia.”
“Likewise, Lady Mair and I cannot be traitors to Amanthia. We are not subject to her laws. We are sworn to the house of Ben-Jair, and we demand that you return us to King Halaravilli at once!”
“Brave words for a captured spy!”
“Spy!” The girl was shocked.
“Aye. What other reason could you have had to leave our fine accommodations here in
Amanth? Why else would you seek out our secret military encampment, study a division of our prize soldiers training with one of our greatest military advisors? You clearly plotted your escape from our hospitality with the goal of learning our military secrets. It would not surprise us to learn that that was the underhanded goal of your embassy in the first place.”
“Embassy!” Ranita exclaimed. “Your Majesty, we offered no embassy. We were abducted and brought to Amanthia against our wills. Once imprisoned here, we did as any loyal Morenians would. We tried to flee for our homes.”
“We did not give you leave to flee.”
“Precisely! Your Majesty, you refused to treat us fairly! You refused to let us even walk in the garden, much less pen a missive to King Halaravilli!”
“We permitted you to attend a feast, didn’t we?”
Ranita’s response was an immediate blush. Sin Hazar swallowed his amusement. These youngsters were so full of passion. The king leaned forward in his chair, pointing a finger at the girl. “We attempted to honor you, Ranita Glasswright. We sat you at our left hand, and we ordered our servants to feed you the finest morsels from our table.” Remarkable! The girl was actually writhing in her chains! He had thought her made of sterner stuff. Sin Hazar lowered his voice and addressed her as if they were alone in the chamber. “I danced with you, Ranita Glasswright. I touched the folds of your balkareen –”
“Leave her alone!”
Sin Hazar barely swallowed his surprise as the Touched girl stepped forward. “Lady Mair?”
“She danced with you because she had no choice. She was a guest at your table. She was required to eat and drink, if she did not want to provoke a battle.”
“You could not be bothered to attend our feast, Lady Mair. We hardly think that you are qualified to instruct us on what happened there.”
“There’s no one who’ll dare to instruct you, is there?”
Incredible! This casteless southern brat had the nerve to insult her elders, her betters, the one person who held complete power of life and death over her! Sin Hazar raised a hand to summon Al-Marai, but he caught the words in his throat as Ranita stepped forward.
“Please, Your Majesty.” She twisted into the most elegant curtsey that her chains would allow. “My lord, Lady Mair is merely angered because she wants to return home. She and I both. Please, Your Majesty. Just let us assure King Halaravilli that we are safe. Let us send him a letter, so that you and he can begin your negotiations.”
“Well, that has been done in your absence.”
“Your Majesty?”
“We have assured Halaravilli that you are alive and well. Our negotiations should conclude in short order. Assuming, of course, that the king places the same value on your life that you apparently think he will.”
The Touched wench snapped out a question before Lady Ranita could fashion a polite reply. “How did you manage that? How did you offer an assurance, when we were not available?”
“Perhaps we should clarify our statement, my lady. Halaravilli never asked about you. Your safety seemed of little concern to the king of Morenia.” Sin Hazar could not keep from smiling as the girl blanched. He let one jeweled finger trace the outer edge of his swan-tattoo. Let her think about that for a moment. Let her ponder Al-Marai’s sword and the weight of her chains.…
Ranita cleared her throat, and asked tentatively, “What did you say on my behalf, Your Majesty?”
“Halaravilli asked a question, and Bashanorandi gave me the answer.” Sin Hazar spared a fond glance for his nephew. The boy basked in the royal approval, even as both girls registered disgust. “Bashanorandi was confident of the reply, so a scribe wrote it up as a letter from you.”
“And will you share the question with me, Your Majesty?”
Sin Hazar shrugged. No reason not to. No reason not to let the little fool see how easily he had penetrated the southerners’ game. “He only wanted to know which Trader first slew a member of the ... mmm, what was it, Al-Marai?”
“The Fellowship, Your Majesty.” The lion bowed as he supplied the response.
“Ah, yes, the Fellowship. How could I have forgotten? My sister would never forgive me. If, of course, she were in a position to forgive anyone.” He permitted himself a feral grin as he made a holy sign across his chest, in honor of Felicianda. “Bashanorandi here clarified that Trader was your family name.” He glanced at the prince, scowling as he realized the boy was fingering his tattoo again.
“How did you know the answer?” Ranita turned a shocked gaze on Bashanorandi. “Bashi, how did you know what Hal wanted to hear?”
“Do you think your Fellowship can’t be penetrated?” the prince spat. “You think you keep yourselves so well hidden! You and Mair and Hal and all the rest. I’ve had a man on the inside of your precious Fellowship, reporting every one of your meetings.”
“E – Every meeting?” Rani stammered. “Your man must be highly placed. He must have been with us for quite some time. Most of the Fellowship hardly remembers Treen.”
“What!” Sin Hazar bellowed, even as his pathetic nephew repeated the name. “What did you just say?”
“Treen. She was the first Fellow slain by –” Ranita obviously realized the import of her words, and she swallowed heavily.
“You’re bluffing!” Bashanorandi screamed. “Your Majesty, she’s making this up! She wants you to believe that I made a mistake!”
“Silence, fool!” Sin Hazar barely resisted the urge to slap his whining nephew. “Lady Rani, I warn you. You have only just begun to experience the hospitality of the Amanthian army. I can place you in a stone chamber so far beneath the earth that the rats won’t hear your cries for mercy. I can have you tortured in a hundred ways before spring comes.”
“Your Majesty, you can do those things, but that won’t change the truth. My brother, Bardo Trader, murdered a member of the Fellowship when I was scarcely a babe. He executed Treen. Hal knows this. He knows the answer to his own question.”
“But Dalarati!” Bashanorandi squeaked, his face deadly white beneath the irritated red and silver of his new tattoo. “You murdered him with your own hand.”
What difference does it make, Sin Hazar wanted to bellow. What difference does it make who killed whom in the warrens of your filthy southern city! What did it matter that Ranita Glasswright had dispatched a soldier, when her brother had killed someone else first? Sin Hazar snatched Bashanorandi’s arm, yanked the boy so hard that his thighs came to rest against the king’s carved chair.
“You told me. You said that you knew the answer to the question.”
“I – I thought I did!”
“I asked if you were certain.”
“I was!”
“I told you that an entire kingdom rode on your answer!”
“I knew that! I knew that Ranita murdered Dalarati! I knew that they were both in their cursed Fellowship! I knew that – Please, Sire, you’re hurting me!”
Sin Hazar swore and threw the boy away from him. “Leave me! All of you! Out of here!” The guards swept forward to conduct Ranita and Mair back to their cell, gathering up their clanking iron chains with clumsy hands. Bashanorandi fidgeted like a nervous cat. “Out of here, boy, or I’ll have you thrown over the castle wall!”
Bashanorandi scuttled away, scarcely bothering to look behind him as he cleared the doorway. The other soldiers filed from the room, but Sin Hazar held up a rage-shaken hand as his brother started to close the heavy stone door. “Al-Marai, you may stay.”
“Your Majesty.” The lion bowed formally and remained by the door, watching warily as Sin Hazar climbed to his feet. The king paced beside the map-table, not seeing the complicated swirl of mercenaries and ships, the bright gold markers for the Little Army.
He had asked for a simple fact. He had told the boy to be certain. He had said that they could make a diversion. He had checked for the truth. He had asked a second time and a third.
And the boy had lied.
No, not lied. Ly
ing required thought, required a calculating mind. The bastard was too stupid for that.
The boy had launched a war, as surely as if he’d shot an arrow across a field. Launched a war that Sin Hazar would not be prepared to fight for at least six months.
“I want to kill him.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I want to flay him, inch by inch.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I want to feed him his own flesh, salted on the bone. I want to carve that cursed swan tattoo from his face with a spoon and mark the flesh beneath with a hundred-rayed sun. I want.…”
Sin Hazar let himself run down, and then he crossed to the table at the side of the room. His hand shook as he poured a cup of wine, and the clatter of the flask against the goblet almost made him throw the drink across the room. He didn’t though. Instead, he drank deeply.
“Al-Marai, we’re going to be at war in less than a month. And this one will be real – against Morenia.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“This won’t be the silly squabble we’ve been noising about in Liantine. Not some shadow victory of the Little Army.”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“These battles are going to be real. Fought on Amanthian soil. Fought against true warriors. Fought before we’ve bought our full army of Yrathi mercenaries. Fought before we know we can crush that southern idiot.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Enough of that, fool! I’m not asking for you to squawk agreement like some macaw! I’m looking for your guidance! I’m looking for your advice!”
“Certainly, Your Majesty. My first advice is that you drink another cup of wine.”
“You sun-born, pox-ridden, mangy excuse for a lion –”
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