Again, Aleban gaped, first at Kirin and then at Farnok. The big wolf looked sympathetic. “And Mott? Is he…”
Kirin’s eyes brightened, a little. “No, no, Mott is well. He is leading your council and, so the magistrate says. He is also the leader of the Wildlings!”
Aleban didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand, he may have lost friends – a few, more than likely – in a dragon attack, while on the other… But confused or not, he knew what his next step had to be. “Do you know where they are now? Which road did they take?”
Kirin’thar shook his head and chewed his lip. “They were on the Great Western Road, whether they went north or south at the crossroad, the magistrate didn’t say.” The big man shrugged and raised his palms.
They would go south, Aleban thought. Going north would mean possibly running into more dragons. Mott was not stupid. Likely as not, they would be camped somewhere to the west of Bailryn. How did he come to lead the Wildlings?
“I will travel with you,” Farnok suddenly said. Aleban and Kirin both turned their heads at the big wolf’s proclamation. “Me and ten of the Darkin, we will travel northeast. With luck, we should be there in four days.”
Aleban blinked. He didn’t know what to say. “That’s very kind of you, Farnok, but should you st—”
“Qiel can lead the Darkin through Redgate. He has been itching to take on more responsibility. Besides, they will only be three or four days behind us. I assume you want to get to Bailryn sooner rather than later?”
Kirin hummed agreeably. “Yes, that’s a good Idea. You will take twenty archers, too, and Renik. Our friends in Bailryn will be pleased to know where we are, and what we are doing. Yes, a good plan.”
Farnok didn’t look as if he had realized his idea was a plan, but he didn’t argue about the extra archers, and neither did Aleban. Twenty Cren archers would come in handy if they encountered a dragon along the way. Aleban didn’t think even a dragon would risk too many of the Cren’s thick arrows. Before leaving Crenach, he had seen one of those arrows knock a boar the size of Farnok off its feet.
Plans made, Aleban went back to his own tents to tell the others. Arlec looked worried but agreed about the need for haste. Sarai, a tear in her eye, wanted to leave straight away. Aleban was surprised that Kalina felt the same way. Both the women started packing almost as soon as they stopped talking. Farnok would probably be angry with him for bringing Surabhan – slowing them down – but Aleban did not care. The idea of denying them a chance to help was unimaginable. They had to come, especially now, since they had no idea who among the Rukin had died. Besides, the three of them would be on horseback. If anyone was going to slow them down it would be him.
Aleban bedded down in the corner of the tent with the sounds of farriers’ hammers in his ears. It was going be a long night, and probably a very long three days. Three days of playing catch-up with the Darkin, but that didn’t worry him nearly so much now. Staring out of the half-open tent flap, he could not help thinking about what Kirin had said. Hundreds dead! By Illeas, I hope he is wrong!
CHAPTER 12
It Pays to Look
Placing the silver cup back on the tray, Grady wiped his mouth on his sleeve while surveying the room – Daric’s room, or one of them – inside the Ambassador’s apartments of the Eidred Palace. Daric’s apartment! He still wasn’t sure what he thought about that.
The room was not as large as he had expected, barely five paces square. However, what it lost in grandeur, it more than made up for in garish colours and brash, bizarrely tasteless ornaments. Two long loungers, covered in green and yellow silk and bracketed with elaborately carved armrests, sat on either side of a granite mantel fireplace. The fireplace, tall enough for Si’eth to walk into without ducking, was set into the outer wall. Two high-arched windows, with coloured glass and lead framing, flooded the room with light from either side of the fire. In the centre of the room, a purple and green – purple and green? – carpet filled the space between the two loungers. On top of carpet, hiding most of it, thankfully, a wide, low table of dark wood stood in front of the fire. Unsurprisingly, portraits of old King Eidred took pride of place in the centre of the wall behind each lounger. With the bright red curtain and the yellow – yes, yellow – sideboard, Grady wondered if a blind man had decorated the room… or at least colour-blind.
Cal had a lounger to himself. Grady sat with Si’eth on the other, while Toban lay on the floor. Daric sat in the only chair. Solid, and made of plain dark wood, the chair was the only sensible piece of furniture in the room.
“They’ve got us holed up in the servants’ quarters,” Grady told Daric, hoping that the wry grin on his face was suitably dry.
“I’ll swap with you if you would prefer.” Daric returned his grin with interest.
Grady thought the major – soon to be colonel, if things kept going the way they had been doing – would have preferred to sleep in a hayloft rather than this stuffy apartment. He wouldn’t blame him if he did move out, but he certainly wasn’t going to trade places. “No, I’ll stay where I am, thank you. I’m getting a headache and I’ve only been here ten minutes.”
Daric laughed but said nothing.
A cautious silence fell on the room. They were finally here. After nearly a month, they were in Bailryn, only not in anything like the circumstances they were expecting. Gialyn and Elspeth were home, Ealian was off visiting dragons with Olam – he still shuddered at that thought – and they had an eight-foot tall Cren woodsman as a companion; and, strangest of all, he was sharing a sofa with a Salrian! No, nothing like what he was expecting. What would be next?
“So, the king has given you a free hand, has he?” Si’eth asked Daric.
Yesterday evening, after Mikelmoor had unceremoniously bundled Grady and the others in through the side door, and after the shock of discovering their friend’s current living quarters, Daric had explained what had transpired during his audience with the king.
Among other things, Vierdan had told Daric to “slow him down,” referring to Lord Breen and the noble’s exploits with the Black Hand. But if Grady knew Daric one whit, the man would have something more… permanent in mind for his lordship. More so, where Ambassador Faelen was concerned. That weasel had killed Corporal Paiden just as surely as if he had drawn the blade himself. Grady knew that burr was stuck fast in Daric’s claw. Thinking about it, he would not mind a few minutes with the ambassador, once they caught up with him. Just a few.
“I don’t know about a free hand, Si’eth,” Daric told the Salrian, “but he has left it up to me.”
Placing his goblet on the low table in front of him, Daric stared at it for a moment. He had not had long to come up with a plan. But Grady knew the major would at least have the beginnings of one. “Breen is playing a dangerous game. It appears he is playing the witch for a fool, too. I thought we might let her know as much. That would be the fastest way to put a stop to Breen’s antics. Unfortunately, I haven’t figured out a way to do it yet. We need more information.”
Grady nodded in agreement, and he saw Cal and Si’eth do much the same. Even the wolf pricked his ears up.
Si’eth scratched his neck under the brown linen shirt Evin had given him – he could hardly continue walking around Bailryn in the remnants of his Salrian uniform; someone would notice. “Do you have evidence?” Si’eth asked. “If you have proof, the witch might accept a delegation if it was in her interest.”
Si’eth… ever the scheming Salrian, Grady thought. Still, it was a good idea.
Daric shot the idea down, though. “I thought of that, too, but the king has refused any attempt at parley. Seems he won’t acknowledge the witch; he believes it would weaken his position. To be honest, I agree with him. The nobles will get wind of a meeting. Even if they don’t know what it is about, that bunch will turn on him before the Highgate was opened.”
Si’eth sniffed, and Grady put his head in his hands. It was a good idea; it would indeed stop Breen i
n his tracks, maybe—
Before he could speak, Cal said, “What about a third party delegate? I could meet with her.”
And that was exactly what Grady was about to suggest. Only he thought of sending Si’eth – it was his idea, after all.
Daric’s eyes widened. He nodded, and a smile bloomed on his face. “Yes, that would work, assuming we can figure out how to get you there and back safely.”
“I’ll go with him,” Toban said, “and maybe Si’eth, too. The witch should know what she is up against. With any luck, we might be able to put her off until the others get here.”
Daric chuckled. “You three and maybe the men from Cul’taris; the nobles won’t care if a few soldiers from Gieth’eire go out for a little ride. Very good,” Daric said reaching for the pitcher of wine. “Well done, that’s a good plan.”
“What is a good plan?” Evin asked as she closed the door behind her.
Daric almost dropped his cup. “Don’t you ever knock?”
Evin smiled. “And miss out on all the interesting titbits?”
Standing beside Daric’s chair, clasping a leather bound folder to her breast, Evin Cesim looked resplendent in her green silk dress with the sash of office tied at the shoulder. Evin was a friend to Mairi, Daric’s wife, as well as being the First Keeper of Bailryn Palace. Grady had often thought he might like to get to know her better. Maybe if she wasn’t so… efficient. Truth be told, she scared him; with all her procedure and formality, she was not really his type, but he would bet a month’s wages that the woman could dance.
“I have news,” she said. “Your friends are camped three miles west of the Wickham, Toban.”
Toban, who had been lying on the rug, sat on his haunches. “That was quick. Do you know how many?”
Daric had told them about the Wildlings, and that the wolf army – if it could be called that – was ten thousand strong. Nobody believed it, of course; it would take months to gather that many Wildlings, even if they could be persuaded to help.
Evin read from a note she pulled from her folder. “Approximately, nine thousand wolves; three hundred Surabhan, though I’m guessing they are Rukin; one hundred and fifty carts and wagons, and several thousand livestock.”
Daric laughed. “Gods, how did they manage that?”
Grady hooted and Toban howled. Even Cal punched the air in celebration.
“Wait until Vila hears about them,” Si’eth said. “That will make our position stronger. She will want to listen to us for sure, now.”
Daric agreed, and Cal patted Toban on the back. Even without the Cren, ten thousand wolves must surely be enough to give the witch pause. Grady didn’t think she would turn tail and run, but at the very least, she would have to alter her plans. Meanwhile, the delegation could put paid to Lord Breen’s antics. Very good news.
“There is more,” Evin cried above the din.
“Don’t tell me, the Cren are camped to the south,” Cal said, laughing.
“No, I’m afraid not.” Her tone became serious. The laughing and banter died away to a hush of anticipation. “Faelen has been seen in the capital.” She handed Daric another note.
Jaw clenched and eyes like fire, Daric read the note. “Who gave you this?” he snapped.
“One of the guard’s informants, a man Mikelmoor uses from time to time. I would say the information is accurate. I suggest that we, or rather, you, follow him, see where he leads us.”
“‘Follow him’! I want him executed for treason, preferably very slowly.” Daric threw down the note and walked to the window.
Evin gulped as she looked at Grady. Fixing his gaze, she nodded in Daric’s direction.
What does she want me to do? I want the man dead, too.
Before he had to choose, he heard Daric mumble a curse. “You’re right, Evin. As much as I would like to see him hang, Ambassador Faelen is not our priority. We have been ordered to deal with Breen, and Faelen is our best chance to gather some information. We will follow… No, I will follow Faelen.
“You…? Why you?” Evin asked. “You’re supposed to be in command, not risking yourself.” Evin sat in the chair vacated by Daric. Putting her folder on the table, she folded her hands on her lap and scowled at the man.
Grady knew she would expect Daric to go off on his own; Daric could be stubborn like that, stubborn and bull-headed.
Daric waved off her comment. “He’s only seen me once, and that was a look at the back of my head when Si’eth rumbled him in Gieth’eire. I will be quite safe. Besides, you can come with me. Do you have a wig?”
“A wha— me? Are you out of your mind? He’ll recognise me for sure. I must have met the man a dozen times.”
“No, he won’t. A wig, a bit of powder, a frilly dress; he’ll be expecting men to follow him, not a couple out for a stroll. Now, go get changed; I’ll meet you outside your rooms in half an hour.”
Evin opened her mouth but said nothing. A smile curved her lip. Maybe she wasn’t a prude; perhaps she wanted a bit of adventure. Standing, she grabbed up her folder and hurried out of the room.
“Is that wise?” Si’eth asked Daric. “She is right, he may well recognise her.”
“Maybe,” Daric admitted, “but he’ll be on the lookout for men, not women. Besides, I don’t care if he does spot us. A scared rat will run for home, and that is where you take over, Si’eth.”
Si’eth nodded slowly. “Very clever. Do I have to wear a wig, too?”
Daric laughed. “A hood will do well enough. You’ll keep well out of sight until I need you. I would ask someone else, but you know the man better than anyone else does, apart from Evin, and I’m not asking her to track him.”
“And what are we supposed to do while you’re off spying?” Grady asked Daric.
Toban answered. “You can come with me. We need to visit the wolves’ camp.”
Daric gestured at Toban. “There you are. We all have a job to do. But don’t forget, the king is expecting you this evening.”
“Ah, yes, the banquet,” Si’eth muttered.
“What? You’re not looking forward to the King’s Banquet?” Grady asked. He knew good and well that Si’eth was nervous. He couldn’t really blame him; Si’eth was a traitor to his own people, and therefore next to useless to the king. Nevertheless, the Salrian had received his invitation, along with everyone else.
“If I thought it was just a banquet, then yes, I would be looking forward to it.” Si’eth grimaced. Biting his lip, he rubbed a hand over his bald head before continuing. “I have a feeling I’m going to be asked to betray my people. It’s one thing going against a greedy lunatic like Alaf’kan, but I’ll not turn on my kin. Besides, I really don’t know anything of value.”
“You may discover you know more than you think,” Daric told him.
Si’eth looked up at Daric. “And If I do, the knowledge will stay right where I discovered it.” He tapped his temple with his finger.
Grady picked up his wine and sat back in the lounger.
So, they all had a job to do. Daric and Si’eth were off after Faelen, and he was going to visit ten thousand wolves.
Visiting the wolves… he wouldn’t mind changing jobs – a gold Ren to a pile of sticks they would find Faelen sitting in the common room of some inn or other. Daric would be spending the afternoon sat across the room from the ambassador, drinking wine and talking with Evin. Absently, he wondered if Ambassador Faelen would be alive come the morning. That, he would not bet on.
* * *
The King’s Proclamation that women, children and the elderly should move to the southern part of the city – if not leave altogether – appeared to be having an effect. On the Blue Mile, where normally there would have been market stalls and hawkers, wagons were being loaded with prized possession and merchandise from their owners’ shops. Some of the men were leaving too, but it seemed most would stay to protect their property – likely from looters. It was doubtful any shopkeeper would guard his property against a Kel’m
adden Trooper, never mind a dragon.
Despite its name, the Blue Mile was closer to two miles long. The broad avenue leading from the Highgate towards the palace was around a mile. But then the road split; one arm winding down to take in the dock market, while the other continued south into an area where only locals were allowed to trade.
A few horsemen and the occasional sedan chair, curtains drawn and carried by brightly liveried bearers, wove between the stationary wagons. The crowd was thin on the ground, but busy, and no coaches were allowed. This meant the shirtless men, carrying boxes and crates from half-empty shops, could cross the road without so much as a look to left or right. Most of the women, in their shirtsleeves, hair tied back and wearing loose breaches or thin skirts, were pointing here and there, giving directions to their men. Everyone was in a rush, running about on a day where even standing still might make you sweat.
On either side of the road, tall inns butted up against stonewalled merchants’ houses or flat, slate-roofed shops. Every now and then, a blacksmiths or a stable broke the monotony, filling the air with the chime of hammer on anvil or the smell of dung-carts. Some buildings, already with their windows boarded up, looked empty, but a look through an upstairs window would invariably show a man peering down onto the street.
Bailryn was a city behind a wall – apart from those living in the Wickham – and the largest city in Aleras’moya, maybe the largest in the known world. This time of year, the inns should be full of eager traders, and the stalls brimming with goods from all over the continent or the Easter Isles. Instead, the Blue Mile was slowly emptying; it would be deserted soon, apart from those few guarding their interests. The thought made Daric grin. Protecting stubborn civilians would have been… inconvenient, to say the least.
A few people glanced at Daric and Evin as they walked arm in arm, probably wondering why they were not in a rush, but none stared. Daric wore his brown, soft leather waistcoat over the top of a white shirt, and Evin was clad in a plain blue dress with a thin shawl loosely arranged over her shoulders. They looked like a pair of moderately successful merchants. Evin’s hair – her wig – helped by a plain silver clip, was done up in a high pile on top of her head. The style had a name, but Daric did not know what it was. With dark blue powder over her eyes and pale cream on her cheeks, he doubted her own mother would recognise her. For his camouflage, Grady had suggested that he should wear a wig, too, but Daric settled for the pointed hat favoured by middling merchants. With the white lace at his chin and the knee-high boots, he thought even his wife would not recognise him if he jumped up and down in front of her. Lace! Ha!
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