A Draw of Kings

by Patrick W. Carr

  Tears stung her eyes again. “Thank you. I think I’ve had all the privacy I’ll need for a while.”

  Ominous creaks came from the boards as they ascended the stairs, but Rokha didn’t appear concerned. At the end of a long hall covered by a strip of carpet whose yellow color had dirtied to ochre, Rokha produced a key to her room. She tossed her hair and smiled.

  “Ordinarily I wouldn’t feel the need for locks, but some of these men are actually better with a sword than I am.” She shrugged. “And some might mistake an unlocked door as encouragement.”

  A patchwork of furniture covered with infrequent splotches of varnish decorated the room. Beside the bed stood a washstand with a large porcelain bowl of water on it. Rokha gestured. “Take your clothes off, Your Highness. I can tell from the way you climbed the stairs, there are few areas on your body that don’t bear some type of injury.”

  Adora talked as she disrobed to ease her embarrassment. “It’s not just me, is it? Liam, I mean. Even the archbenefice and the primus talk to him as if he’s their equal.”

  Rokha’s familiar chuckle, deep and genuine, soothed her ears as her hands explored the injuries Sevra had left. “I respect strength, not titles, but every time I see him I have to fight the urge to look at the ground. I heard Captain Reynald say Rodran had the same effect on people early in his reign.” She clicked her tongue as she opened a jar that filled the room with the tang of mint and lemongrass. “Sevra wears pointed boots?”

  Adora nodded, breathing deeply through her nose. A hint of lavender pulled her eyelids lower. “She’s very fond of using them.”

  “You should have killed her, Princess.” Rokha’s voice carried no hint of jesting.

  The idea of killing anyone, but especially a woman, was repugnant to her, but she understood Rokha’s point of view. The dark-haired woman, raised to fighting and the sword, divided the world into two simple categories: those who needed to be killed and those who didn’t. If someone fell into the first category, their gender wouldn’t matter. Adora wished she could see things in such terms, but it was easier to give the simple answer. “I didn’t get the chance.”

  She squirmed around enough to look Rokha in the eye. “My uncle is dead, and I’ve grown up surrounded by people who saw me as his daughter first and only. Outside of Errol, no one calls me by my name. I’d like it if you would.”

  Rokha’s full lips pursed in a smile. Her eyes carried equal parts amusement and defiance. “Is that a royal command, Your Highness?”

  She shook her head. “Just a request. If I could make friends by fiat, I wouldn’t be covered with bruises.”

  “Very well, Adora, but I will still call you Princess when you’re being foolish.”

  The consequences of revealing her love for Errol had been beaten into her hide. At the least she’d learned to think before she acted. “I don’t think you’ll have much need.”

  Rokha’s mouth broadened into a smile. “You’re probably right . . . Princess.”

  Adora laughed into her pillow until tears wet the rough cloth. “How can I persuade Liam to allow me along on the raid?”

  The hands on her back stilled. When she spoke, her voice carried none of its usual banter. “From what little I have seen of him, he carries a respect for position. If you order him to allow you along, I think he will try every tactic he can think of to talk you out of it, but he won’t force you to stay behind. If that doesn’t work, don’t give him the key.”

  She continued to work salve into Adora’s bruises and welts. A cut on her back she couldn’t recall getting required stitches, along with the one on her shoulder. Rokha was still ministering to her when she fell asleep. She woke once, startled awake by a memory in her sleep, but Rokha slept beside her, fully clothed as if ready to fight. She drifted once more.

  She rose from an empty bed with the first light to find the inn nearly deserted. The press of men had vanished, and for a moment she feared Liam had left her behind. A lone watchman with hands the size of small hams tended the kitchen, slicing bread and cheese. She didn’t know his name.

  “Captain Liam charged me with making sure you were fed, Your Highness. My name is Bale.” He put some food on a plate, slid it across the high table to her.

  She lifted a wedge of cheese from the tray. “Where is Liam now?”

  The watchman smiled, showing a pair of front teeth that had been broken off halfway up. “He is making his plans for the attack tonight.” Bale’s face grew serious. “You can trust him, Highness. Captain Liam doesn’t leave anything to chance. I’m to take you to him the fourth hour after sunset.”

  “What do I do until then?”

  Bale smirked and offered her the bread.

  That evening, as dark shrouded the poor quarter, he led her out into the streets.

  7

  War Within

  INSIDE THEIR DANK CELL, Errol fought against a weight of despair as dark and heavy as their blackened dungeon. The duke was well on his way to eliminating all organized opposition on the isle. If he succeeded, the rest of the kingdom would follow the lead established by Weir’s lapdog Judica and conclave. Perhaps a thousand people awaited execution in the prison beneath the watch barracks, their deaths held in abeyance until Weir’s coronation. Now he, Martin, and Luis sat among them.

  Restless, Errol traced his way around the confines. Dim outlines came to him as his eyes adjusted to the perpetual darkness. He turned toward Martin’s filmy presence. “Do you think they’ve captured everyone?”

  “No.” His voice sounded confident. “Eight armed men guarded Weir in an empty audience room. That hardly seems like the confidence of a man who’s rounded up all his adversaries.”

  Errol nodded, but Martin’s reasoning failed to comfort him. “Will they be able to get to us?”

  A sigh and a whisper came from the other shadow. “Perhaps,” Luis said. “Though I think the prospect depends as much on Amos Tek as it does the captains.”

  “Even if they do manage to make land, they will have to find us,” Martin added. “But don’t let our circumstances trouble you, Errol. I believe Deas has a plan for us even if we don’t perceive it at the moment.”

  Errol gave a soft laugh. “This isn’t so bad, Pater. Light and food would be nice, but I can move and I’m warm enough in my cloak. It’s better than a night in the stocks, and it’s almost as good as the floor of Cilla’s tavern.” Martin and Luis grew still. Even in the gloom Errol could tell his banter took the men by surprise.

  “What was it like?” Martin asked.

  The conversation had taken a turn more serious than he’d intended. He didn’t contrive to hide his past, but he generally made no effort to discuss it either. Yet speaking with Rale had allowed him some healing from Warrel’s death; perhaps it would suffice here as well. He took a breath. “If you’re asking about the beating itself, I don’t know what I can tell you. If Antil came across me while I was passed out, he would carry me to the stocks and lock me in. Not so bad when it was warm, but the cold months were hard. If I was lucky, that was as far as it went.

  “If I wasn’t, I woke to the lash or the rod across my back. The first few times I screamed and pleaded for him to stop and fought to pull free, but that only seemed to make him angrier. After that I tried to hold my tongue. He always let me go after he beat me, almost like he was in a hurry for me to get away.”

  “Deas in heaven,” Martin breathed. “No wonder you hate the church.”

  Errol’s laughter bounced from the chilled stone of their cell like a hope of light, surprising even him. “I don’t, Pater, not anymore. Not since Merakh.”

  “You amaze me, Errol,” Luis said. “Have you forgiven Antil, then?”

  His mirth subsided, quenched by the suggestion. “No, but someday I might.”

  They threaded their way through the poor quarter, avoiding the broad pools of light where Weir’s men clustered. Behind the corner of a building that bordered one of the innumerable alleyways in the district, Bale stopped
and snorted softly. Four soldiers in blue stood outside a tavern, furtively watching the shadows.

  “If we keep to the alleys and move quietly, they won’t see us, Your Highness. Those men don’t like the poor quarter—no they don’t. They have no intention of looking too hard at what happens in the alleys here. They might have to investigate, and that’s a good way to come down with a sudden case of dead.”

  The sergeant’s grim humor unnerved Adora. Too many times they’d passed shadows in the alleys, still places that ate sound and emanated malice. “Are we safe?”

  Bale’s chuckle held an edge. “No one is safe in the quarter, but I was raised here before I fought my way out and into the watch. Those that hunt the streets at night are smart. They prefer easy prey.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “But you’ll want to keep your hand close to your sword just in case.”

  The men in blue uniforms stepped back inside the tavern, their nominal patrol of the area complete. “Let’s go.”

  They continued to work through the maze. Several streets away, three figures in black ghosted across the charcoal outline of a cobbler’s shop. Adora nodded, but her heart lay like a lump of iron in her chest. According to Bale, Liam had committed every man he could spare to this attack. If it failed, there would be no second chance. To his credit, he didn’t do things by half measures, but his willingness to throw everything into the assault scared her.

  As they neared their destination, they stopped more often, avoiding the other groups of watchmen and soldiers as they converged on the ivy-covered wall that hid the palace compound. In the shadow of a broad stand of holly trees, they found Liam and the other captains, Cruk, Rale, Merodach, and Reynald, but no one else.

  Panic tightened a noose around her vocal cords, made her voice harsh. “Where is everyone?”

  Liam regarded her as if she had not just snapped. “We cannot gather here. Even a blind man would not fail to notice such numbers.” He gestured around. “Once we have assayed the door, they will follow from their positions.”

  He put out his hand, and Adora pulled the key from her pocket and relinquished it with a grimace. Liam started to slip behind the thick curtain of ivy that shielded her secret door from view, but Cruk put a hand on his wrist. “A leader does not command from the front. Let Elar and me go first.”

  Irritation marred Liam’s perfect countenance. “Should I send other men to take risks that I am unwilling to bear?”

  Cruk’s head bobbed. “Yes, lad, that’s exactly what you should do.”

  Liam looked at the man the watch called Elar but Adora knew as Rale. “Do you agree with this, Captain?”

  At his nod, Liam gestured at the captain’s insignia on their arms. “Call forth the lieutenants, then. The kingdom cannot afford to lose its best tacticians.”

  Rale’s chuckles floated in the air in counterpoint to Cruk’s glower. “Second best, I think. Our protest has been neatly turned against us. I suggest we pull back and send an expeditionary force into the royal compound first.”

  Cruk’s growled curses drifted back to Adora’s ears as they retreated to a building across the street. Inside, dozens of watchmen stood armed and ready.

  “They’ve been arriving by ones and twos ever since Liam committed to the attack,” Rale said. He called out a pair of lieutenants, grim men whose flat, emotionless stares would have scared her if worry for Errol had not commandeered that emotion. They signaled a handful of sergeants, who in turn brought five soldiers each from the shadows. In less time than Adora would have thought possible, sixty-two men stood ready.

  At a nod from Rale, Liam pulled out the key.

  “Slip behind the opening in the ivy on the right,” Adora said. “The entrance will be roughly forty paces to your left. When you’re through the door, move back to your right. You’ll be in the garden.”

  The lieutenant on the left nodded as if he already knew her directions. He took the key, and sixty-two men moved from the building and melted into the shadows, moving in time to the clouds that crossed in front of the moon.

  Minutes ticked by as Adora strained her ears to hear the sounds that would announce the fight for Erinon had begun, but nothing came. “What are they doing?”

  Rale’s chuckle sounded strangely warm in the cold and dark. “The night is long, Princess. It will be some time yet before everyone is in position. If we are discovered too soon, we will be hard-pressed to take the compound. Weir must not have time to organize his defense. Even in the palace we are outnumbered.”

  Adora nodded. Of course. “Your reputation is well deserved, Captain.”

  Rale inclined his head. “Thank you, Princess, but this plan is Liam’s, not mine. I would not have committed so fully to the attack.”

  A thread of cold pierced her. “Do you doubt?”

  He shook his head, the gesture barely perceived in the gloom. “I am older, Your Highness, and old men know caution above all else. But in this, Liam is right. If we do not succeed here, there is little point in holding men in reserve. Weir will be alerted to our presence, and our trail will be easy to trace. Tonight we will win or die.”

  The finality of his assessment silenced her. In the darkness, men faded from her perception until only Rokha, Liam, and the captains remained. Liam gave a curt nod and led them across the street. They slipped behind the thick curtain of ivy, the sharp smell of the vines muted by the winter cold that pricked uncovered skin. She blew warm breath across her hands, then tapped the hilt of her sword.

  They stepped through the narrow door into the royal garden. Though she couldn’t see them in the darkness, the impression of men, many men, came to her, their bodies and cloaks absorbing light and sound. The lieutenants ghosted into visibility before Liam, their faces pale from moonlight or tension. Liam didn’t risk speech but held up two fingers of one hand spread apart and pointed toward the palace.

  She closed the distance to Liam until her upturned face nearly touched his. “What about Errol?”

  “Primus Sten has determined he, Martin, and Luis are beneath the watch barracks, Highness. If we do not capture or kill the duke and his brother, at best we will be joining them.” He turned to face the palace. “Please stay close. If we become separated, I will not be able to spare men to look for you for some time.” The darkness swallowed him as he moved off, but Adora stood, wondering what to do. None of the men moved toward Errol’s prison.

  Rokha floated into view like a wraith, her dark skin difficult to see in the moonlight, but her eyes flashing with amusement. “I took the liberty of eavesdropping on Sten’s conversation with Captain Lion there.” Her eyebrows lifted. “If he cannot spare any men to search for Errol, perhaps he can spare two women?”

  Adora blinked away unexpected tears. “You would do this for me? Give up your chance to fight?”

  Rokha laughed her deep, mischievous chuckle and waved a hand at the darkness as she pushed back her hood. “I’m a caravan guard. I find the idea of deceiving Weir’s men into thinking we are nothing more than harmless women more compelling than taking orders. Plus, I enjoy the prospect of having Earl Stone in my debt.”

  Sounds of fighting accompanied by deep angry screams shattered the stillness. Rokha jerked her head toward the barracks. “Come, Adora. Hide your sword beneath your cloak.”

  They moved at a run, as if fleeing the conflict. As they neared the barracks, men in blue streamed past with steel drawn, ignoring them. Torches flared by the dozens as Weir’s men shouted for light. Surprised screams testified to their shock at the breadth of the attack. Adora followed Rokha across the yard and through an archway into the barracks. The staccato slap of their boots against the plain granite floor sounded in counterpoint to the deeper pounding of the guards’ hurried footsteps.

  Rokha led her to one side toward a rack of weapons. When a guard spied them and made a move in their direction with questions written across his features, Rokha twisted her face into a pretense of womanly fear. “Hurry, they’r
e attacking the cathedral.”

  The questions faded from the man’s lowered brows. With a shout to a handful of men behind, he sprinted off in the direction of the Judica. They were alone for the moment. Rokha continued toward the weapons that had been moved inside to protect them from the winter weather, searching.

  “What are you doing?” Adora asked.

  She moved to the next rack, her hand brushing across the hilts of practice swords. “I’m looking for a staff. As much as I desire to have Errol in my debt, if we have to fight our way out of the compound, I want him to be armed.” With a satisfied grunt, she reached deep into the stack of weapons and pulled out a piece of ash two paces in length.

  They moved deeper into the building, searching for the stairs leading to the dungeons where Weir kept his prisoners. Men in blue rushed past them as word spread of the attack, while women with disheveled hair and faces contorted by fear, some not fully dressed, poured from the officers’ quarters. The press grew thicker, and cries of alarm and panic merged with the echoes of strident voices giving orders. Rokha took Adora by the hand and pulled her forward.

  As abruptly as a water pitcher running dry, the logjam of bodies disappeared, and they stood at the head of a flight of stairs descending into the gut rock of the island. None of the blue-coated men took any notice of them; they all moved the other way, intent on the cries of their fellows.

  Rokha released her hand. “Pull your sword around, Princess. I doubt women are allowed down there. Whatever men we meet we’ll likely have to fight.”

  Adora stroked the worn leather of her sword’s hilt, as if it could still the furious drum of her heart or erase the metallic taste at the back of her throat. “I thought you weren’t going to call me that unless I did something foolish.”

  Rokha snorted without humor. “I think this qualifies.”

  “But this was your idea.”