“I thought it prudent to keep the numbers down,” Alija explained, signalling a slave forward with a tray of wine served in fine crystal goblets. “We’re not out of the woods yet with this damned disease.”
“True,” Marla agreed, selecting a new glass from the tray. “Still, it looks to be on the wane. I must encourage Lernen to reward Bruno Sanval for his discovery of how to control the outbreak, once we’re in a position to hold such a public ceremony again. I admit, I seem to have been quite wrong about him. Thank the gods you didn’t listen to me all those years ago, when I asked you to block his promotion to Lower Arrion.”
It never occurred to Alija, until that moment, just what a brilliant actress Marla was. She knew now, that the only reason Marla had ever mentioned Bruno to her—back before Tesha Zorell retired—was because he was the candidate she wanted promoted. Bruno Sanval wasn’t a Patriot sympathiser. The man barely cared what day of the week it was, let alone which faction his colleagues in the Sorcerers’ Collective belonged to. I thought I was being so clever, Alija recalled. And I wound up doing exactly what you wanted, didn’t I, Marla? The princess had played a stunning game of double-think and Alija had fallen for it because it didn’t seem possible that such treachery could lurk behind such a guileless façade.
“Well, I’m glad his promotion worked out so fortuitously for all of us,” Alija agreed, wishing she could find a polite way of excusing herself. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab Marla by the hair and shake the devious little bitch until her ears bled, and it astonished Alija how much selfcontrol it was taking to prevent her doing just that. “Have you heard from your children?” she asked, looking for a safe subject.
“Narvell is in Byamor with his grandfather, and the rest of them are out of harm’s way with Mahkas in Krakandar,” Marla replied. “Thank the gods.”
“Indeed,” Alija agreed. “It would be most unfortunate if anything was to happen to our precious heir.”
Marla smiled. “Nothing will happen to him, my lady. Damin will be High Prince when the time comes.”
“Of course,” Alija agreed tonelessly.
“And your boys?”
“Safe in Dregian Castle. It’s set apart from the main population centres in the province and can be resupplied by sea, so they’re quite comfortable.”
“That must be such a relief to you.”
“More than you know.” Alija forced a polite smile, wishing they weren’t in such a public place and that circumstances hadn’t conspired to make it so vital that she appear ignorant of Marla’s true nature. But it was time to get away from her. Alija wasn’t sure how much longer she could maintain this outward veneer of poise. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but would you excuse me, Marla?”
“Is something wrong?”
“Of course not,” she assured the princess. “But Lord Marsh’s wife is looking very lost and alone, and I did promise to introduce her around.”
Marla glanced across the room to where the young woman in question was standing by the window, fidgeting awkwardly, while her husband, Lord Marsh, Galon Miar and most of Alija’s other male guests stood in a group by the balcony doors, discussing horseracing.
“Go to her,” Marla urged, placing her hand on Alija’s arm, as if she wasn’t fully aware the contact meant Alija could scan her mind as soon as they touched.
Alija didn’t even waste her time trying. You know there’s nothing there for me to find, don’t you, Marla? Wrayan Lightfinger has shielded your mind.
“I can amuse myself,” Marla was saying. “And I remember what it was like to be sixteen and married to a complete stranger twice your age.”
“Maybe you should speak to her, then,” Alija suggested. Anything to get you out of my way for a while, Marla Wolfblade .
“Would you mind?”
“Be my guest.”
Marla handed her untouched wine to Alija. “It was nice of you to invite her tonight. What’s her name?”
“Acora. She’s from Pentamor, originally. The younger daughter of Lord Buckman.”
“I met him once. Quite a disagreeable man, as I recall.”
You mean he’s a Patriot, Alija corrected silently. But she smiled and stepped back to let the princess pass. “I’m sure Lady Acora will appreciate making the acquaintance of the High Prince’s sister. It will increase her social standing a great deal, if you single her out.”
Marla raised an eyebrow. “And get her invited to more gatherings like this? Lucky girl.”
The princess moved off towards Acora Marsh before Alija could respond. The High Arrion let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and glanced around the room. The low hum of conversation and the generally convivial atmosphere of the small gathering was very encouraging.
In fact, the only sour note Alija could find all evening was the speculative look on Galon Miar’s face as he pretended interest in whatever Lord Marsh was saying while he followed Marla Wolfblade across the room with his eyes.
CHAPTER 10
A cora Marsh was a plain-looking girl, pale and plump, squeezed into the latest fashion of tight bodices and wide skirts which did nothing but draw attention to her bulk. She looked desperately unhappy, obviously suffering from being newly wed to a man she barely knew and trapped in a plague-ridden city far from home.
Even though she’d offered to speak to the child simply as an excuse to get away from Alija, Marla’s heart went out to her. It was unlikely Acora had had the benefit of someone like Jeryma Ravenspear to take her aside on her wedding day, as Marla had, to tell her she was special. More likely her father was glad to be rid of her. A youngest daughter wasn’t easy to dispose of, particularly when she didn’t have any outstanding beauty or wealth to recommend her. Julyen Marsh would have seemed a godsend to Acora’s father. He was wealthy, anxious to bolster his family’s name by linking it with an old, if somewhat impoverished, line and willing to take the plain youngest daughter off Lord Buckman’s hands.
Nobody, Marla was quite certain, would have bothered to consult Acora about the transaction.
The girl blushed crimson as Marla approached and dropped into an awkward curtsey. “Your highness!”
“Please, Acora, there’s no need to be so formal in a gathering like this.”
“I’m sorry, your highness,” the poor child gushed, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Marla took her by the arm to help her up and smiled encouragingly. “You’ve done nothing of the sort, my dear. Please, don’t be frightened. I don’t bite, you know.”
The young woman glanced nervously past Marla at the group of men where her husband was talking with the others. “Julyen, I mean, my husband … he said I wasn’t to speak to you, your highness, unless he was with me.”
“Why not?”
Acora looked away uncomfortably. “He was afraid I’d say something that might embarrass him, I think.”
That amused Marla so much, she forgot about Alija for a moment. “And what terrible utterance are you likely to make, Lady Acora, that you can’t be trusted alone with me?”
“It’s nothing really, your highness.”
“I seriously doubt it’s nothing. Does your husband consider you an imbecile, Acora, or do you hold opinions likely to offend the crown?”
Inexplicably, Acora smiled. It changed her whole appearance. “To be honest, your highness, it’s probably a little bit of both.”
For no reason she could explain, Marla decided she liked this girl. And her curiosity had been piqued, wondering what Acora must have said to her husband that would have prompted him to forbid her to speak to Marla unsupervised. She was not going to find out this evening, however. Lord Marsh must have seen who his wife was talking to, and hurried over to intervene before Acora could say anything more.
“Your highness! What a pleasure to see you again! And looking so well.” He was a thin man with wispy hair that he parted just above his left ear and combed over his shiny pate in a vain attempt t
o disguise his baldness.
“As are you, Lord Marsh,” Marla replied. “I was just getting to know your new wife.”
He took Acora’s arm and squeezed it, but the gesture appeared more threatening than affectionate. “Your generosity is commendable, your highness, but really, you don’t have to bother yourself. Acora is very shy, and doesn’t like to mix much.”
“Then we’ll have to do something about that,” Marla announced, annoyed by the way he was trying to dictate to his young wife. “I was just inviting her to lunch tomorrow at my townhouse. You will make sure she gets there on time, won’t you? At noon?”
To refuse would be to gravely insult the High Prince’s sister and—Patriot sympathiser or not—Julyen Marsh wasn’t certain enough of himself to risk doing that. He bowed in reluctant acquiescence, his smile forced. “Of course, your highness. My wife would be delighted and honoured to join you.”
“Excellent, I shall see you tomorrow then, Acora, and we’ll finish our conversation.”
Lord Marsh bustled Acora away before she could say anything more, which left Marla smiling faintly at the notion that she may have struck a blow—however slight—for the cause of female emancipation in Hythria.
“You do like to stir the pot, don’t you, your highness?” a voice remarked behind her.
Marla turned to find herself face to face with Galon Miar. Alija was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s rude to eavesdrop, Master Miar.”
“I’m only a common man, your highness. I was never groomed in the social niceties of the highborn.”
Marla took a step back, feigning disdain to cover her uneasiness. She wasn’t sure why Galon Miar made her feel so uncomfortable, but whatever the reason, she certainly didn’t like it. “In my experience, Master Miar, good manners and a sense of nobility are inherent qualities in all good men, and not restricted to those of high birth.”
The assassin smiled. “Surely you’re not mistaking me for a good man, your highness?”
“Well, you apparently keep Alija satisfied,” she replied dismissively. “So you must be good at something.”
He leaned a little closer. “Care to find out?”
Marla was shocked, not because he had made such a suggestion, but that he dared it here, under Alija’s roof, with his lover very probably in the next room. She shook her head, taking another step back, aware he had effectively cornered her and she had nowhere else to go. “Loyalty’s not really your strong suit, is it, Master Miar?”
“I’m loyal enough to those who pay me.”
“Alija’s not getting her money’s worth, I’d say.”
“But then, she’s not paying me.”
Marla laughed, hoping her scorn would wound this man’s impossibly high opinion of himself. “You’re here out of real affection, I suppose? How quaint. How romantic even, that a man like Galon Miar desires a well-worn woman, more than ten years his senior, like Alija Eaglespike. You have been blessed by Kalianah, sir.”
If he was insulted, Galon gave no indication. If anything, he seemed amused. “You know, for two women who claim to be friends, you say rather unflattering things about each other.”
“Is that right?”
“You call her well worn. She calls you cold as a blue-finned arlen. Strange, don’t you think? For friends, I mean.”
Marla refused to be drawn. “Why don’t you ask your lover?”
“I’m having rather more fun asking you.”
She smiled, in spite of herself. “You like to live dangerously, don’t you, Master Miar?”
“Call me Galon.”
“And you may call me your royal highness.”
He laughed. “You know, you may actually be as tough as your reputation suggests, your royal highness.”
“Continue to irritate me, Galon. I’m sure you’ll find out.”
The assassin bowed and took Marla’s hand, kissing her palm. “There’s a great deal I’d like to find out about you.”
“And absolutely nothing I care to know about you,” she replied, extricating her hand quite deliberately from his grasp and making a point of wiping it on her skirt. He didn’t miss the gesture. While Marla was quite certain Galon Miar had some terribly witty comeback on the tip of his tongue, fortunately she was saved from having to think up a response by Alija’s steward stepping into the room to announce dinner was served.
Before the steward had even finished speaking, old Lord Axfardar, her dinner escort this evening, hurried over to her side, his cane tapping on the tiles impatiently. He pushed himself between Marla and Galon, rudely moving the assassin out of the way, and offered Marla his arm, completely ignoring the younger man. “Come, come, your highness, they’re seating us for dinner. I’m starving and Alija tells me I mustn’t let you out of my sight if I’m to be a gentleman.”
“The gracious hostess, as always,” Galon remarked, stepping back. “My lord. Your highness.” He bowed to Lord Axfardar and Marla, then turned and walked away, no doubt to find Alija so he could escort her to the table.
Marla took Lord Axfardar’s arm and with painstaking slowness—Axfardar was ninety, if he was a day—they headed for the dining room. The old lord glared at Galon’s retreating back as his cane tapped out their progress, shaking his white head. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to, your highness. Common assassins mingling with the highborn as if they were equals! It’s all your fault.”
“My fault?” Marla asked in surprise.
“You married that damned sailor and then you married a wretched shopkeeper afterwards. Now every woman in Greenharbour thinks she should have a commoner as an accessory, too. They’re popping up everywhere. Can’t even go to a dinner party these days without having to rub shoulders with one of them.”
“Maybe if the highborn men of Greenharbour hadn’t so bravely fled the city to avoid the plague, my lord, the women wouldn’t need to look elsewhere for companionship.”
“We have court’esa if they want companionship, your highness. This is all about keeping up with the Wolfblades. Promise me you’ll set things to right. Promise me your next husband will be a man of impeccable character.”
Marla squeezed the old man’s arm affectionately. “By all means, Lord Axfardar. Find me a man, highborn or low, of impeccable character and I’ll marry him tomorrow.”
“Don’t patronise me, young lady. Other women look to you to set the fashion. I expect you to take that responsibility seriously.”
Marla smiled. Her eldest son was almost twenty-five. It was a long time since she’d been called “young lady.” “Perhaps you would consider remarrying, my lord?” she teased.
Axfardar looked at her and grinned suddenly, exposing his toothless gums. “I’ve worn out eight wives already. I doubt you could keep up.”
“Then I shall just have to remain a poor widow until I meet a man who can compare with you, my lord,” she declared with a woeful sigh. “I’m going to die alone, I’m sure of it.”
He patted her hand with a fatherly smile. “You’re a sweet girl, your highness, to humour an old man. But I’m only half joking. You will have to marry again. For your sake—and Hythria’s sake—be careful who you choose.”
“I’m always careful, my lord,” Marla assured him as they took their places for dinner. “Hythria can’t afford me to be anything else.”
CHAPTER 11
The exact position of the border between Elasapine Province and Krakandar Province was anybody’s guess, so Narvell Hawksword chose to position his forces well inside his own border, across the entrance to a wide ravine on the western side of the village of Zadenka. Positioned just on the other side of the three-sided intersection on the main road that led through the narrow cutting to Byamor in the west, Zadenka Manor to the north and Krakandar in the east, the site offered protection from any flanking manoeuvres but enough room to move if it came down to close-quarter fighting. Lining the top of the steep sides of the ravine on both sides were Elasapine archers overlooking the village and
the crossroads; Narvell’s cavalry was arrayed across the narrowest part of the road behind a hedge of long, sharp pikes, held by his regular infantrymen.
Damin surveyed the disposition of his brother’s troops from horseback on a small rise leading down into the village, cursing softly. This late in the afternoon, the sun was behind his brother’s forces, sitting on the edge of the distant Sunrise Mountains, making Damin squint. Captain Almodavar rode up beside him, as puzzled as Damin was about this strange turn of events.
Tejay Lionsclaw and Adham Tirstone had a different take on the problem. They seemed to think the idea that any of his brothers would seriously declare war on him quite the most implausible thing they’d ever heard and were convinced this was Narvell’s idea of a practical joke.
“Well, somebody was a good boy and paid attention to his lessons on battle tactics, I’d say,” Tejay remarked cheerfully, looking down over the battleground. “And right by an inn, too,” she noted, where a small crowd of nervous villagers had gathered outside the substantial roadhouse to watch the opposing armies converge on each other. “It’s always nice to have somewhere to retire for a drink after a long day’s carnage.”
“Narvell had to pay attention to his lessons on everything, my lady,” Adham informed her, sounding highly amused. Like Tejay, he seemed to think this whole situation was terribly funny, Damin noted with a scowl. “It was the only way to stay one step ahead of Kalan.”
Damin glared at his stepbrother, but said nothing. For once, he was having difficulty finding any humour in the situation.
Smiling broadly, Tejay nodded in agreement with Adham. “Pity she’s not here now. I’m sure she’d march right down there, box Narvell’s ears, tell him to get out of her way—”
“After reminding him that she is twenty whole minutes older than he is,” Adham interjected.
“Naturally,” she agreed. “And that would be the end of it.”
“Well, she’s not here,” Damin pointed out. “So do either of you jolly little souls have something constructive to offer, or are you just going to sit there and make fun of this mess?”
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