“Lovely. Be sure to tell the troops that any Tingur spotted are to be killed on sight,” Pollard replied. The cold damp of the storm had turned his voice gravelly, and the rough whiskey didn’t help. Word had already spread in the camp that the quickest way to the lord’s favor was to find and deliver a bottle of spirits or wine from before the Great Fire.
Nilo chuckled. “That’s already a standing order.” Nilo watched him for a moment. “What of Reese?” he asked.
Pollard let out a long breath. “Reese is at the bottom of an oubliette with a stake in his heart.”
Nilo’s eyes widened. “Destroyed?’
Pollard shook his head. “No. But incapacitated for fifty years.”
“Damn.” Nilo pondered for a moment. “What does that mean for us?” The look he gave Pollard made it clear that he was also wondering, What does it mean for you?
Pollard shrugged. “A little more freedom—and somewhat more danger.”
“The troops won’t need to know,” Nilo said slowly, formulating a plan as he spoke. “Reese rarely showed himself to them except in battle. We can cover that.”
Pollard nodded. “His talishte fighters will know, but they will keep that secret since it’s not to their advantage for the mortals to know their weakness.”
“Do you expect him to escape?”
Pollard began to pace once more. “I expect him to seize whatever opportunities come his way,” he replied. He eyed the whiskey, then turned away. There wasn’t enough whiskey in the entire kingdom to make things right.
“Is this an opportunity?”
Pollard shook his head. “Maybe. I don’t know. As much as the Great Fire was. Which is to say, it’s up to us to find the opportunity in the middle of the flames.”
Nilo toyed with his drink for a few moments. “Reese believed he had supporters on the Elder Council.”
Pollard grimaced. “Apparently, not enough of them.”
Nilo’s fingers drummed against his glass. “Lysander appears to be planning a strike against the Solveigs and Verner. That might draw McFadden into the open.”
“Maybe. More likely he’ll send Theilsson. I’ll be interested to see how Verner and the Solveigs fare.” Pollard sat down in the other wing chair and set his glass aside. “What’s your take on their strengths?”
Nilo frowned. “I don’t know much about Verner. Whether or not he can hold on to his territory remains to be seen. The Solveigs know how to play rough. They won’t be easy to break, especially if it’s true that one of them is a necromancer.”
“Do we have a spy in their camp?” Pollard asked.
Nilo shook his head. “No. Or at least, not currently. We’ve had three spies, and they’ve all ended up dead.”
“Interesting.”
Nilo made a face. “Not the word I would have chosen. The men I sent were too good to be easily caught out. I don’t know whether they’re using mages or whether the twins have some kind of ability to truth-sense, but something’s afoot. Makes them damn difficult to infiltrate.”
Rain beat against the windows, loud enough that when the wind shifted, the noise was sharp and startling. Gusts made the embers fly and the flames dance. Pollard watched the fire for a moment.
“There are too damn many players in this game,” he muttered. “We need to reduce the number. Get a message to Lysander. Try again to get him to meet with me.”
Nilo raised an eyebrow. “Easier said than done. Certainly he’s been approached by others?”
Pollard shrugged. “Perhaps. Or not. Hennoch’s troops buy us time while we rebuild our own, but he’s a small player compared to Rostivan and Lysander—or McFadden, when you add in Voss’s soldiers.”
“We have a surety on Hennoch,” Nilo said. “His son. What do you propose we use to ‘encourage’ Lysander?”
Pollard smiled. “Talishte fighters. I’ve been in contact with Reese’s brood. Many of them want a chance to avenge our loss at Valshoa. They have no desire to see Penhallow and the Knights of Esthrane in control.”
“Maybe we’d be better off if Reese’s brood figured out how to free their master,” Nilo said with a nod toward the wounds Pollard hid beneath his shirt.
Pollard gave him a sour look. “Since they, also, suffer for his sins, I’m sure the thought has occurred to them. I’ve been told as much, though opportunity is lacking. For the moment, escape appears unlikely. But think of it—we offer Lysander what he doesn’t have, talishte fighters. Even a small number can turn the tide of a battle.” He sniffed. “Much better than the rabble Lysander attracts.”
“I’ll send the messenger,” Nilo said with a shrug. “And we’ll see what happens.”
Three days later, Pollard sat in the back room of a roadside tavern that had likely seen better days even before the Great Fire. It looked as if the building had collapsed and been cobbled back together again with odds and ends. The only thing rougher than the building itself were the men who gathered inside. One look assured Pollard that they were brigands, highwaymen, or worse. And all of them had fallen over themselves to show deference to the large man who sat across the table from Pollard.
“Your offer has some merit,” Karstan Lysander said, setting his tankard aside. Pollard knew Lysander’s reputation, and he wondered whether Lysander had heard about him, too.
“I’m assuming that eventually, Blaine McFadden’s claims will pose an inconvenience,” Pollard said. “The talishte I can bring to our arrangement would pose a sizable advantage.”
Lysander took a draw from his pipe. Pipe weed, like brandy, had become increasingly difficult to acquire since the Cataclysm. Substitutes for both were usually quite inferior. From the acrid smell, Pollard assumed that Lysander was loath to give up his pipe, regardless of the quality of the pipe weed. “An advantage, to be sure, against mortal soldiers,” Lysander said, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “But against McFadden… it would take quite a force to make a difference if the Knights of Esthrane are truly on his side.”
Pollard made a dismissive gesture. “The Knights are formidable, yes, but few in number. Penhallow, it’s said, has shied away from creating as large a brood as many other talishte.”
Lysander took another drag on his pipe. His eyes were half-closed, enjoying the smoke, but Pollard knew it would be a mistake to think Lysander’s reflexes were dulled or his attention truly diverted. From the weapons that hung from his belt to the scars that covered his hands and marred his face, Lysander’s entire appearance spoke of danger.
“You’re not talishte. Rumor has it, your talishte master has been banished—imprisoned—by his own kind. Why should his brood follow you into battle?”
“Lord Reese’s brood have no love of McFadden or Penhallow—or the Knights of Esthrane,” Pollard said. “Alone, they are too few in number to affect the course of events. But allied with a powerful army, they can help alter circumstances to their liking,” he replied.
Lysander shook a strand of greasy black hair away from his pipe. The odor of a stable clung to him as if he had not bathed in quite some time. Everything about him offended Pollard, everything, except the opportunity he presented for revenge.
“McFadden routed your army at Valshoa,” Lysander said offhandedly, as if discussing the weather. “It’s said you—and Reese—barely made it out alive.” He gave a raspy chuckle at the inappropriate word choice. “Larska Hennoch does your bidding because you have his son as a prisoner.” He paused. “What hold do you think you have over me?” There was no mistaking the danger in his voice.
“None,” Pollard replied, though he had already thought through how that might change. Insinuate Reese’s talishte into Lysander’s ranks, have them prove their merit and gain enough trust to get close to him, then bind him with the kruvgaldur to Reese—and by default, to Pollard.
“I don’t accept gifts,” Lysander said, watching the smoke from his pipe waft toward the ceiling beams. “They’re just hobbles, disguised. But your proposal has merit, and I see where you stand to b
enefit. Much better to trust in a man’s self-interest than in his generosity, I’ve found.”
“Do we have an understanding?” Pollard asked.
Lysander’s gaze shifted to regard him, a look of cold calculation. “Yes, we have an understanding,” Lysander replied. Something in his tone made Pollard wonder if he completely understood just what that ‘understanding’ would cost him.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
WHEN CONNOR WOKE, IT WAS NEARLY NOON. He had grown accustomed to having his days and nights shifted; it was a necessary accommodation to serving a talishte lord. Still, he could not shake a bit of guilt over not rising at dawn as was his custom when he had served Lord Garnoc. He sighed and threw off his covers. Those days are long gone.
Although much of Westbain had been damaged, in the Cataclysm and then in Penhallow’s siege, most of the main wing was intact. Connor’s room was in relatively good shape, and after weeks of sleeping in crypts and on hard ground, having a bed and a mattress was a true luxury.
It’s reached a sad place when waking up and realizing I’m not being shot at means it’s going to be a good day, Connor thought.
A figure flitted behind him in the mirror, there and gone, and Connor felt a sudden chill. “I can see you,” he said to the empty room. “I mean you no harm.”
Since he had become the Wraith Lord’s human host, Connor’s skills as a medium had grown stronger. Where he had merely sensed disquieting presences before the Great Fire, now Connor could sense the trapped souls that roamed the kingdom.
Connor stretched out his senses and the spirit shied away, but the contact had been enough to tell him what he wanted to know. This ghost was not strong enough to try to possess him. If it’s going to haunt my bedroom, then I’m glad I don’t have to worry about it possessing me in my sleep.
Connor made his way downstairs, taking in the smell of cooked bacon and freshly baked bread. Once the fighting had ended, Reese’s mortal house servants had crept out of hiding. Penhallow and Nidhud had made sure that no one with a kruvgaldur tie to Reese remained, something that affected only a few of the servants. The others swiftly swore their allegiance to Penhallow and got back to work. Penhallow had introduced Connor as Westbain’s new seneschal.
“Good morning, m’lord,” the cook said as Connor came down the back stairs into the kitchen. “Have a seat and I’ll put your breakfast out for you.”
The cook was a plump, gray-haired woman who seemed to enjoy her own cooking a little more than she should. She set a plate of hard-boiled eggs fried in a coating of sausage in front of him, along with a dollop of mustard and a hunk of still-warm bread. Then she poured him a cup of fet from a pot simmering on the hearth. “Lots to do today,” the cook said.
“That there is,” Connor replied. Gods above! he thought. I’ve gone hungry and eaten scraps too often to ever take a meal for granted again. And I’d best enjoy it when the opportunity presents itself, because there will be hungry times again.
“How long did you serve Lord Reese?” Connor asked.
The cook looked away. “It’s not a test,” Connor said quickly. “Lord Penhallow has given me the task of getting the manor functioning again, and I’m trying to learn about the people who remain.”
Connor saw caution in her eyes. She was wise to be wary. A careless word, repeated to the wrong person, had brought many a servant to grief. “I started here when I was a young girl, as a scullery maid,” she answered. “And I’ve been here ever since.”
“Were you free to go?”
This time, she took longer to reply. “In a manner of speaking,” she said. “Lord Reese chose one person from every family in his holdings to serve at the manor. We were a surety for him, and our families for us.”
Hostages, Connor thought. Once again, Reese lives down to my expectations of him.
“What happened to the rest of the servants?” Connor asked.
The cook sighed, and looked careworn. “Some died in the Great Fire. The strong young men, Lord Reese conscripted for his soldiers.”
She hesitated, and her features seemed shadowed. “Lord Reese was badly injured in the Cataclysm. He was trapped beneath the rubble, and when he emerged, he didn’t allow anyone to see him until he healed.” The cook paused, longer this time. “He sent for any of the servants who had been injured or those who were old. We never saw them again.”
He fed from them, Connor thought. He used them like cattle, against their will, and drained them to heal himself.
“Lord Penhallow is a very different man,” Connor said.
“So I’ve heard.” She met Connor’s gaze. “Tell me. Was Lord Reese destroyed?”
Connor shook his head. “No. But he is in a dungeon, bound by spells and chains.”
“He’ll be back, you know,” she said, turning away. “You’d best prepare.”
Connor suspected that few of the servants would be willing to give more help than absolutely necessary lest they be charged with betrayal should Reese regain control. And Connor had no doubt, despite the ruling of the Elders, that somehow, Reese would slip the noose.
He stepped out of the kitchen into the servants’ hallway. The mortal servants regarded Connor warily, no doubt sharing the cook’s fears. They returned his greeting in monosyllables, and answered his questions with as few words as possible. The servants might not be active enemies, but they were at best unreliable allies.
The spirits of the dead were all around him as he moved through Westbain’s corridors. Connor shuddered to think about the spirits haunting the dungeons. I’d feel much safer if we had a necromancer with us, since the Wraith Lord isn’t here to keep the peace. He remembered the spirits on the path to Valshoa that had tried to possess him. Only the Wraith Lord’s power had prevented them from overpowering Connor and seizing his body. What do you know? I actually miss the Wraith Lord. If he’s inside my head, at least no one else can be.
Westbain’s topmost floor held the servants’ quarters. Connor began his daily walk-through at the top and worked his way toward the dungeon. He could feel the ghosts swirl around him in the corridor. He was certain they knew he could see them, though the mortal servants either ignored the ghosts or did not sense their presence.
Outside, Voss’s soldiers were working hard to repair the damage to the outer wall. Connor wished they were faster. If Reese were to get free, Connor wanted thick walls and a lot of flaming torches between him and a vengeful vampire.
When Westbain was built, its second floor would have held suites of rooms for favored guests and parlors for their leisure. Now the area was claimed by mages Blaine had been happy to supply at Penhallow’s request.
“Hello, Caz. Find anything interesting?” Connor asked as he entered the room. This was one of the rooms the mages had made into a work area with a long table littered with bits of gem and bone, glass orbs and metal talismans, carved wooden figures and leather-bound books, and a few mummified remains that Connor did not want to view too closely.
Caz looked up and grinned. “Hello, Bevin. I mean, Seneschal Connor,” he added. Caz was about Connor’s age, early twenties, with hazel eyes and dark-red hair. Before the Cataclysm, Caz and Connor had frequented the Rooster and Pig together, enjoying some of the best bitterbeer in all of Donderath.
“Good morning, Bevin.” Alsibeth, a clairvoyant, looked up and gave a distracted wave. Back when Connor would make a trip into Castle Reach to bring back a bucket of bitterbeer for Lord Garnoc, Alsibeth could usually be found in the back corner of the pub, reading the futures of her customers from candles, still water, and bells. Before the war, she cut a flamboyant figure in brightly colored silks, with violet eyes and waist-long dark hair.
Now, Alsibeth’s hair was cut to shoulder-length, and small gold hoops replaced the long chandelier earrings. The silks were gone, save for a scrap she used to tie back her hair, and she wore a long tunic over loose trews. Alsibeth walked with a new limp, and Connor had glimpsed scars from a bad burn on one forearm.
“Just making my rounds,” Connor said. Alsibeth’s talent was foresight. Caz’s magic was reading signs and sigils, along with practical magic, like keeping milk from souring and banishing pests from crop fields. Rolf was one of the senior mages, and his specialty was scrying. Horst was a mage-scholar, one of the teachers at the University before the Great Fire with a magical ability for solving puzzles, ideally suited to study the manuscripts Reese’s men had stolen from the mages’ libraries.
Rolf and Horst were deep in conversation over an old manuscript, and barely looked up as Connor entered.
On the other side of the room, Volker and Kai waved their greeting. “Good morning, Seneschal Connor,” Kai called.
She was a motherly woman with gray-flecked brown hair and a grin that might have been impish on a younger woman. Kai’s power lay with weather magic. Volker was a thin, angular man whose specialty was unlocking hidden codes. Volker seemed as gloomy as Kai was pleasant. They made an odd pair.
“Can the seneschal spare a few moments?” Caz asked. “There’s a pot of fet on the hearth and a few clean tankards by the fireplace.”
Connor poured himself a cup and returned to where the others were working. “Any amazing discoveries?”
“Only that Reese had terrible judgment about magical objects,” Caz said with a grimace. “Look at this trash! No respecting peddler would have taken this stuff.” He gestured toward the motley assortment of objects that covered the table. “Half of it’s broken. Some of the things don’t make any sense at all.” He pointed to a cracked wooden tankard. “Was he expecting a magic tankard that brewed its own beer?”
Connor chuckled. “If you find one, save it for me, will you?”
It felt good to be at ease with people who would have been his peers in the old days. Since the Great Fire, Connor had been in the company of lords and talishte, immortal spirits and powerful mages, but few real friends.
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 18