The only thing about war that never changed, Brak knew, was that Zegarnald grew stronger with every innocent human death, and for no other reason than it irked Brak to see Zegarnald win at anything, he was prepared to do whatever it took to see this war was over and done with in the shortest time possible.
If that meant becoming a Fardohnyan spy, so be it.
CHAPTER 8
The Walsark Crossroads was the main junction of the roads that led from Krakandar City in the east of the province to Walsark in the north, Byamor, the capital of Elasapine Province in the west (the road Damin and his army had taken a few days ago) and the road south through Izcomdar and Pentamor Provinces to Greenharbour, some eight hundred miles away on Hythria’s southern coast. There was a large inn located at the crossroads and after a brief stop for lunch and some mulled wine to warm their chilled bones, Wrayan and Kalan pushed on, taking the south road, hoping to get as far as Kelvington before dark.
Even under ideal conditions, the journey to Greenharbour would take the better part of three weeks. With plague on the loose, refugees running from it, and the Warlords struggling to maintain control over the major cities with reduced numbers of Raiders, the highways of Hythria were in a state of anarchy. Even Wrayan’s status as the head of Krakandar’s Thieves’ Guild was unlikely to impress a band of hungry refugees looking for food.
For that reason, they opted to stick to the major highways while they were still in Krakandar Province, riding past winter-brown fields, divided by tall green hedgerows and populated with countless woolly sheep waiting patiently for the spring shearing. Once they reached Izcomdar, they would turn off, taking the lesser-used roads in the hope of missing the worst of the marauders, which was the reason they had brought the packhorse along. Wrayan was quite certain he could live off the land if required, but he doubted it was a skill Kalan owned. They were travelling with many more supplies than he normally would have bothered with, had he been travelling alone.
Wrayan rode in silence for much of the way, worried less about Kalan’s ability to travel in less than princely comfort than the wisdom of leaving Starros in Krakandar. He’d wanted to bring him along, certain the young man would be much safer under the protection of Princess Marla in Greenharbour than alone in Krakandar if Mahkas Damaran discovered The Bastard Fosterling was still alive. It was not meant to be, though. Starros wasn’t going anywhere. He wanted to be near Leila and his grief would not allow him to turn his back on the place where she had been so recently laid to rest.
“What are you thinking about?” Kalan asked curiously.
Wrayan looked at her blankly. “What?”
“I was just wondering what you’re thinking about, Wrayan. By the expression on your face, anyone would think you’re riding to your own mother’s funeral.”
“I was just thinking about Starros.” He straightened a little in the saddle and glanced at the rolling barley fields on either side of the road, relieved to discover the rain had stopped. The air was cold and although still overcast, a rainbow shimmered faintly on the horizon as the afternoon sun fought its way through the dark grey clouds.
“He’ll be fine, Wrayan.”
“I suppose.”
“Starros was always the brightest of us and he’s not impulsive. He won’t go looking for trouble.”
“I’m more worried about trouble finding him. Did you want to stop at Kelvington tonight or push on?”
“I’d rather push on,” Kalan replied, leaning forward to pat her mare’s neck encouragingly. “We need to get to Greenharbour as quickly as possible and we’ve a much better chance of avoiding the plague if we stick to ourselves.”
“Are you sure?” he asked doubtfully. “It’s going to be cold tonight.”
“Don’t you think I can handle roughing it a bit?”
“You rode into Krakandar with a baggage train, an honour guard and half a dozen slaves, Kalan.”
She tossed her head, offended by what he was implying. “I’ll have you know I can be every bit as rustic as you when the occasion calls for it, Wrayan Lightfinger.”
“This isn’t about being rustic. This is about sleeping on the wet ground on a cold night, probably without a fire because every twig and log in a thirty-mile radius is soaked through. There’s nothing wrong with taking shelter in a comfortable inn when it’s on offer, you know.”
“Is it my comfort you’re concerned about? Or your own?”
“Mostly my own,” he admitted. “I’m not as young as I used to be. The romance of roughing it in the wilderness has long since lost its allure for me, I’m afraid.”
“You’re not old,” she laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
“I’m a lot older than you, Kalan.”
“But you’re part Harshini,” she reminded him. “So your chronological age doesn’t really matter. Didn’t you say Brakandaran was over seven hundred years old, and didn’t look a day over thirty-five?”
“I’m not the Halfbreed, either,” he pointed out, wishing she wasn’t quite so enchanted by his ancestry.
But Kalan was totally dismissive of any concern he might have that he was getting too old for this sort of adventure. “I’ve known you since I was two years old, Wrayan. You haven’t aged a day in all that time. You still look like a man in his late twenties.”
“I may look it,” he countered, “but that doesn’t mean I feel it.”
“Then we’ll stop in Kelvington,” she conceded. “So you can rest your weary, aching bones, you poor, decrepit, old thing.”
“Thank you, my lady, I’d appreciate that.”
She studied him, her face creased with concern. “You don’t really think of yourself as old, do you, Wrayan?”
“I try not to think of it at all, actually.”
“I never think of you that way.”
“That’s because you’re a nice girl who’s too polite to offend one of her mother’s oldest friends.”
“I think of you as my friend,” she corrected, a little miffed. “Not my mother’s friend. And I’ll have you know, I’m not a ‘nice girl’ either. I’m a woman.”
“I did notice that.”
She looked at him sideways with a very suggestive leer. “Did you, now?”
Wrayan shook his head, recalling what Rorin Mariner had said about Kalan and the trail of cast-off lovers she left in her wake. For a brief moment, he was afraid she had plans to add him to her list. “Don’t waste your court’esa-trained wiles on me, Kalan Hawksword. I’ve fought off far more irresistible creatures than you, in my time, and still emerged with my honour—and my sanity—intact.”
“Who?” she demanded.
“A Harshini princess, for one,” he admitted, thinking the truth of how different they were might be the easiest way of convincing Kalan her childhood crush was just that, and never likely to blossom into anything more. They would be on the road a long time together in the days to come and much of it alone. Better to get this cleared up at the outset.
“You turned down a Harshini princess?” she asked in surprise, although whether it was because he had met the Harshini or she was impressed by his strong moral fibre, Wrayan wasn’t sure. “Weren’t you even a little bit curious?”
“Don’t worry, Kal, I had my curiosity sated plenty,” he assured her, immediately wishing he’d never brought up the subject. He’d expected Kalan to shy away from the topic, not interrogate him about it.
Her eyes lit up at the news. “So you did sleep with your Harshini princess?”
“Actually, we didn’t sleep much at all.”
Kalan laughed delightedly. “You really are quite the lad, aren’t you, Master Lightfinger? I always wondered what you really got up to with the Harshini. All those tales of wise kings, indescribably beautiful music, playful demons and learning how to use your magic properly, when in fact, you were just bed-hopping your way through Sanctuary. No wonder poor old Fee could never pin you down.”
“I wasn’t bed-hopping.”
“Of cour
se not,” she laughed.
Her laughter was starting to irritate him. She simply didn’t understand. “Well, before you get too envious of my conquests, Kalan, spare a thought for what it’s been like for me since then. There’s a reason the Sisters of the Blade set out to destroy the Harshini, you know. It was fear as much as vindictiveness.”
“You mean the legend that once you’ve had a Harshini lover, nothing else can ever make you happy, is really true?”
“Painfully so,” he admitted.
Kalan studied him curiously. “I gather that hasn’t stopped you trying, though?”
Despite himself, Wrayan smiled. “I’m a thief, Kalan, not a Karien priest.”
“Well, there’s still hope, then,” she said, and pulling the lead rein of the packhorse, kicked her horse into a trot. Kalan rode ahead, towing the hapless beast behind her, leaving Wrayan staring after her, more than a little concerned by what she meant.
CHAPTER 9
The need to prove to herself that she was unafraid of Marla Wolfblade prompted Alija’s decision to hold the first social gathering Greenharbour had seen in months. A cautious optimism was infecting the city as the plague faltered, losing its grip with the same inexplicable speed with which it had spread. The Lower Arrion, Bruno Sanval, was being hailed as the author of Greenharbour’s redemption, and while it annoyed Alija no end to have the gratitude of the city’s citizens directed at her underling, rather than her, at least it was directed at the Sorcerers’ Collective, and not Marla. Or the High Prince, Alija corrected. That was much more Marla’s style.
And the reason she’d been so successful.
Marla had a remarkable lack of ego that for years had allowed her to stay in the background and let others take the credit for her work. It explained how Lernen Wolfblade had kept the throne for the better part of thirty years. When he’d first ascended to the throne, most of Hythria were predicting the length of his reign in months, not decades. To realise he’d lasted as long as this was quite a shock. To take a step back and contemplate that not only had his reign been one of remarkable length, it was also one of the most prosperous in recent history and the most stable, was quite astonishing—until it became clear who was the true power behind the throne. When one realised that, Alija mused, it all began to make sense.
“My lady?”
Alija turned from the window. She had been staring sightlessly out into the humid darkness as she pondered the dilemma that was Marla Wolfblade.
“Yes, Tressa?”
“The first of the guests have arrived, my lady.”
“So early?” she sighed, already regretting her decision to host this evening’s gathering, and it hadn’t even begun yet. But she had to maintain the illusion that everything was as it had always been. She couldn’t afford to tip her hand yet. Not until she was ready to implement her plan to destroy Marla, which she intended to do as soon as she actually had a plan.
“It’s Master Miar,” Tressa explained.
Alija smiled with relief. “Then show him in, Tressa. Don’t leave him standing in the hall.”
Tressa curtseyed and hurried away to admit Alija’s guest. A few moments later, Galon Miar strode into the room. As usual, he acted as if he owned it, but this was her palace, and he was here at her invitation. Galon had an irritating habit of forgetting that.
The assassin stopped before her and raised her hand to his lips. “You’re looking lovely as always, Alija.”
“You’re early.”
“I thought it upset you when I … what did you call it? Oh, I remember … when I tried to make an entrance.”
She eyed him sceptically. “And you think that arriving early so you can greet my guests as if you live here will annoy me less?”
He kissed her palm. “If I displease you, Alija, you only have to say so and I’ll leave.”
He would too, Alija knew. That was the problem with a man like Galon Miar. He knew his value to her. The support of the Assassins’ Guild was something even Marla Wolfblade’s money couldn’t buy and no matter how much he claimed he had no need to openly trade on his relationship with the High Arrion, she couldn’t afford to offend him—a minor but important detail she hadn’t taken into consideration before allowing herself to become entangled with such a dangerous man.
But she wasn’t entirely without resources of her own. Her hand still resting in his, she briefly scanned his mind … and then broke the mental contact, snatching her hand away as if she’d been burned.
“You’ve been to visit Marla Wolfblade!” she accused.
Galon studied her curiously. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you know,” he teased, “oh, great and omnipotent sorceress?”
Alija scowled at him. “The only thing in your mind that I can clearly sense about your visit to Princess Marla, Galon, is that you’re lusting after her.”
Galon made no attempt to deny the accusation. “She is one of the great beauties of our time, my lady.”
“I suppose,” Alija conceded with ill grace. “If you go in for that pale, blond, washed-out sort of look.”
Galon laughed. Now she’d let go of his arm, Alija was robbed of the opportunity to investigate his thoughts further. She would have to invite him to stay the night, she realised, although she hadn’t been planning to. She needed to know the real reason behind his visit to Marla and didn’t trust him to tell her the truth.
“You’re jealous,” Galon noted, highly amused by the idea.
“Not jealous,” Alija corrected. “Just curious about what business the second most important man in the Assassins’ Guild could possibly have with the only sister of Hythria’s High Prince.”
“Perhaps she wants me to kill someone for her.”
“Anybody I know?”Alija asked, with a raised brow. Is that sly little bitch thinking of hiring the guild to get rid of me?
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Nor would I ask you to betray her confidence,” Alija assured him, afraid that if she pushed the matter, Galon might realise how much his visit to Marla disturbed her. “Did you know she’s coming this evening?”
“Actually, I didn’t know.”
“Will she be surprised to see you?”
“To be honest, Alija, I don’t think she’ll care one way or the other. Despite my famously irresistible personality, your cousin remained quite immune to my charms.”
She probably knows who you’re sleeping with, Alija answered silently, and is too smart to let you rattle her. Still, it was something of a relief to realise that even though Galon obviously found Marla attractive, she had not returned the sentiment.
“Marla may be a great beauty, Galon, but she’s as cold as a blue-finned arlen. I wouldn’t let the fact that she didn’t melt in a puddle at your feet, as most women seem to, upset you too much.”
“Ah, but how I do enjoy the challenge,” Galon chuckled.
Before Alija could reply, Tressa entered the hall again and announced that Lord Marsh and his new wife, Lady Acora, had arrived, effectively ending any chance for private conversation for the rest of the evening. Galon turned to greet the new arrivals, leaving Alija with the uneasy feeling she was going to be sorry she ever mentioned the subject of Marla Wolfblade to her lover.
Marla arrived—fashionably late—several hours later, dressed in a dark red gown that clung to her well-formed body like a second skin from shoulder to hip, and then flared out in a wide skirt that swept the floor in her wake. It was the sort of outfit Alija would have worn ten years ago, before her waist had thickened just enough with the onset of middle age to make such a style look embarrassing, rather than alluring.
“Please forgive my late arrival,” Marla begged, when she greeted her hostess, kissing the air beside Alija’s cheeks. “I’m down so many slaves with this damned plague, I had to fix my own hair.”
“How awful for you, my dear.”
“You seem to be managing, though,” Marla remarked, looking around th
e room at the several healthy-looking slaves offering platters of food and drink to the dozen or so guests. “You haven’t lost anybody important, I hope?”
“Only a few minor staff,” Alija replied. “What about you?”
“Oh, it’s been awful,” Marla exclaimed. “Besides a husband, I’ve lost three kitchen slaves, a doorman and now even Elezaar’s gone missing.”
Alija had been playing this game a long time, so nothing of her feelings reflected on her face, but she was shocked that Marla would mention the dwarf so carelessly. Not after what he’d done.
“The Fool is missing?”
Marla swirled the wine in her glass, staring at the deep red liquid as if it fascinated her. “I sent him out for wine and he never came back. That was two, no … nearly three weeks ago, now. I’ve almost given him up for dead. I can’t imagine he’d be out there and not come home unless something terrible had happened to him.”
“No, I’m sure you’re right.”
“I miss him so much, too,” the princess admitted with a sigh.
“It must be a devastating loss for you.”
“It is,” Marla agreed. “I hope you never lose Tarkyn Lye, Alija, and find out how painful it can be.”
“I’ll make sure he stays safe,” Alija agreed warily. Is she playing with me? Does she know what happened or did the dwarf really disappear after Tarkyn spoke with him? It made sense that the Fool had vanished, when she thought about it. He’d betrayed his mistress. In his place, Alija wouldn’t have gone home, either. “Can I get you some refreshment, Marla?”
“More wine would be lovely, thank you,” Marla replied, looking around the room at the other guests. “Surely this isn’t everyone you invited?”
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