Lady Of The Helm (Book 1)

by T. O. Munro

  “It isn’t like that!” Kaylan insisted, but the dwarves had already turned to join their comrades in the slow moving well armed caravan. The thief watched them go a moment and then made his way towards the centre of Dwarfport as the darkening sky heralded the coming of dusk. He would start in the bars, he resolved. Someone would have noticed a tall feisty red headed woman.

  ***

  Quintala strode into the opulent quarters which had been set at her disposal and flung the door shut. The crash of the ornately carved timber against its rare rosewood frame gave some small consolation for the feelings of impotent frustration she was enduring at her brother’s court.

  She crossed to the balcony to look out on the gathering regiments of soldiers, all endlessly drilling rather than marching anywhere.

  “Seneschal, you should use my guest chambers with more care.”

  She didn’t turn, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her surprised. From the sound of his voice he would be seated in the easy chair facing the window. She had walked straight past him. “I had thought these were my chambers, brother. My private chambers,” she said to the empty air.

  “The whole palace is mine, Seneschal. I come and go where and as I please,” said with oil-smooth self-assurance.

  “Aye, round and round your precious palace you go brother, with no danger of going anywhere important or doing anything significant.”

  That had riled him, she heard the rustle of silk as he shot to his feet, felt the heat and breath of his anger as he crossed the few paces between them, but still she would not turn.

  “Enough!” the cut-glass voice of Kychelle called them to order. Quintala raised an eyebrow at that. Just where had the elf-lady of Silverwood been hiding? “I did not suggest this meeting for you to bicker over your petty differences.”

  At last the Seneschal turned and bowed to her grandmother. “Of course grandmama, I should have realised the Prince would never have come of his own volition.”

  “Is it the will or the inclination that you think I lack, Seneschal?”

  She returned the Prince’s glare, “neither brother. It is the independence of thought that you are ill supplied with.”

  His arm twitched as he just managed to subdue an impulse to raise a hand against her. Her mouth flickered into a smile at the aborted gesture. “I see some ague affects you, brother, it seems your long years are catching up with you at last.”

  Rugan grimaced. “They’ll catch you too, sister. We are of one blood. It seems our fate is to have ten times a mortal span no more, and in that time we will age as our pure blood cousins do not. Are you ready for that sister, the erosion of that pleasant physiognomy which in your case must pass for beauty?”

  “Aye,” she replied with forced assurance. “I look forward to following you along that path.”

  “Believe me,” Kychelle broke in on their verbal sparring. “Immortality is over-rated. The charms and distractions of this world are not infinite, nor easily enjoyed alone. But if you have dispensed with those insults which you seem to use in place of opening pleasantries, perhaps we can move to business.”

  “Business?” Quintala echoed.

  “Indeed. I had hoped, in private we might talk more freely and with greater sense than either of you managed in the audience chamber. There are matters of state to be addressed.”

  “Of course, Grandmama,” the Seneschal conceded. “Such as the ongoing idleness of the regiments of Medyrsalve.”

  “They are not idle,” the Prince snapped.

  “Endless parade ground drills here while orcs and Goddess knows what walk the hills and dales of Morsalve. I call that idleness.”

  “It takes time to muster all my army and I have patrols watching the passes of the Palacintas.”

  “Always defensive, always waiting. You should march to the attack.”

  Rugan shook his head. “I will not divide my force, Seneschal. I have reports this morning that Listcairn is fallen. Who knows what enemies now lurk in Morsalve and where, if the strongest fortress on the very boundary of my realm can fall so ripely into orcish hands.”

  “Listcairn?” Quintala mouthed. “I was there but days ago.”

  “And now it flies the tattered standard of the Bonegrinders tribe.”

  “Then you must strike, strike now. Seize it back.”

  “Take my half formed army down onto the plains?” Rugan exclaimed. “Who knows what allies the Bonegrinders have. Have two and a half centuries taught you neither patience nor caution?”

  “Have five centuries taught you nothing but patience and caution?”

  “Enough, I say,” Kychelle slammed the butt of her staff on the stone floor. “Rugan is right, Quintala.”

  “Rugan is a coward. He hides behind a pregnant wife claiming he defends a line of succession which will soon having nothing left to inherit.”

  “Had you spoken those words in the audience chamber I would have had you flogged, sister,” Rugan growled with a chilling fury.

  “It would have been amusing to see you try, brother,” Quintala retorted, her fingers twisting with the itch to cast some spell of humiliation on the Prince.

  “Manu tua est manu mea,” Rugan muttered at speed and Quintala found her fingers suddenly numb as the Prince’s digits spun in micro-atristry.

  “You bastard,” she spat as she raised her unresponsive hands infront of her face. “You enchanted me.”

  “That is a little against the expectations of hospitality, grandson,” Kychelle concurred, her amusement tempered by some genuine reproach.

  Rugan was unapologetic. “There are instances, sister, when pre-emptive action is appropriate. Temporarily incapacitating an angry spell using sibling is one of them. Charging after unknown foes in Morsalve is not.”

  She flailed at him with her useless hands, aiming to clout her tormentor around the head. The bastard was smiling, laughing at her. “Quintala,” Kychelle commanded as Rugan easily ducked the clumsy blows. “If you cannot be still, then I will cast my own enchantment and you can participate in this discussion by blinking your answers.”

  Conceding defeat she turned to the elf-lady. “Answers? What questions do you have then?”

  “We need news from Morsalve. We need to know what state the realm was in when you left. What force Gregor may have with him, and what may threaten him, assuming that is, he still lives.”

  “You’d like that wouldn’t you,” the brooding Senschal scowled. “A chance to set my brother’s unborn bastard on the throne of the Empire. Would that finally make you feel safe, Rugan, having your own son as high King of the Salved?”

  The Prince shook his head at her outburst. “I am constantly amazed that we have the same mother, sister.”

  “Aye, well at least you knew her. Our grandfather passed me as a babe in arms to my father before taking himself and my mother out of my life for ever.”

  “And what makes you think, impudent child,” Kychelle snapped. “That yours was the greatest sorrow in that loss.” The elf Lady let the rebuke hang between them for a moment and then sighed. “I had hoped for more reason and sense from one who has had the ear of kings these past two-hundred years. I see now why so many of them chose not to trust you with the confidences due to the office of Seneschal.”

  She gave Rugan a curt nod. “This meeting is over.” As the Prince lead the way out, Kychelle spared a last glance and word for the speechlessly fuming Seneschal. “When you have found your wits and lost your temper, seek me out and we may resume our business. There is more to strategy than angry passion and clever words.”

  ***

  It was the earrings which first attracted Kaylan’s attention. A series of small gold hoops through the cartilage at the top of the ear. He checked again, the man was conventionally dressed in a loose shirt, boots and breeches with a sword at his belt, yet another nondescript guard for a salved merchant out celebrating the day’s trades. Yes non-descript apart from those earrings. True there were no flowing robes, n
o curved scimitar, no scarf wrapped lightly around the head. Yet you could take a nomad out of the desert, take a nomad out of his desert clothes, but it seemed you couldn’t take the piercings out of the nomad.

  Kaylan had seen plenty of nomads in Undersalve riding with their orc and ogre allies, gleefully enslaving the defeated populace of Matteus’s fallen province. But how had a nomad come to Dwarfport? Why had a nomad come to Dwarfport?

  It had been a frustrating evening of over-priced ale and piss-poor information for Kaylan. The slightest intimation that he was seeking a woman and the chorused assumption was that he sought a night’s entertainment at one of Dwarfport’s many bawdy houses. Even an insistence that it was a particular woman he sought, only generated a list of select establishments which catered for the more exotic or specialised tastes. Brooding on his poor progress, Kaylan had been about to try a new gambit “I’m looking for my sister” when the nomad had caught his eye.

  The man was standing at the bar collecting two glasses, one a foaming flagon of the best beer the other a small glass of some liqueur which it taken the bartender an age to find. Kaylan used the hiatus to rise from his own table and close in on his quarry. The nomad took his drinks away and Kaylan followed him towards the back of the inn. A bead curtain separated the main bar room from the section of individual booths where clients could, for a price enjoy discrete privacy. The tattooed bouncer held the bead curtain open for the nomad and his burden of drinks. The braided strands clattered back into position as Kaylan drew level, face to chest with the bouncer.

  “You can’t go through there,” the door guard growled.

  “I want a booth,” Kaylan said, reaching for a coin.

  “A booth? On your own!”

  Kaylan’s mouth twitched in momentary irritation. “Not just me,” he said. “Bring me a girl, a good one.”

  The bouncer grinned at that. “Silver piece for the booth, gold piece for the girl, two more if you want to take a room upstairs.”

  Kaylan hastily handed over two gleaming coins, to the bouncer’s evident satisfaction. But as the thief ducked through the curtain, the man grabbed his arm. “Wait a moment.”

  Kaylan scowled back. Was he to have still more extorted from him, but the bouncer was all solicitous. “What kind of girl you want?”

  “Surprise me!” Kaylan quickly thought better of such a suspiciously laconic reply and added the rider, “but make a good choice and you’ll get a tip.”

  The bouncer gave a broad wink and cuffed him on the shoulder. “I know just the one for you, I’ll see if she’s free yet.”

  “No hurry there. I don’t mind waiting if it’s for quality,” Kaylan gave him a light punch back, his hand ricocheting of the bouncer’s iron biceps. Then, at last he slipped through the clattering beads to the inn’s inner sanctum. There were three booths on either side, each with two benches facing each other across a simple table. The middle booth on the left was free and Kaylan feigned an inebriated walk towards it before sliding with artful clumsiness into the bench. The nomad from the bar was seated in the booth diagonally opposite. He shared his bench with another nomad and between the two sat the aproned barkeep who Kaylan recognised as the owner of the establishment. The barkeep was drinking deeply from the jug of prime ale just brought from the bar. The delicate glass of green liqueur sat on the other side of the table. Kaylan could see little of the drink’s owner apart from a hand heavy with rings, whose short stubby fingers stroked the stem of the glass without ever threatening to raise it to his mouth.

  Kaylan settled comfortably in his seat, sipping at his own drink. He let his eyes half shut, as though in contemplation of pleasures to come, but allowing all his senses to focus on the discussion across the narrow passage between the booths.

  The barkeep put the mug down and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Information costs,” he said. “And given as you’d be wanting discrete information, that would be costing more. A lot more than the cost of a pint, even of my finest ale.”

  The fat fingers splayed in a gesture of conciliation and a smooth voice reassured him. “That is of course understood, Mr Glafeld. The drink is the merest opening courtesy.”

  “So what information are you after, Mr …. Mr Merchant? your friend didn’t mention a name.”

  “Mr Merchant is good enough. It is after all my trade and that is where I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Thought as much,” Glafeld congratulated himself. “Knew you was a merchant, drawn in by all that dwarven gold.”

  “Besides my main business, I do a sideline in rare artefacts, curiosities you might say, but there was one special item I had hoped to retrieve.”

  “Artefacts? curiosities? What kind of merchandise would that be?”

  “It’s best you don’t know Mr Glafeld. Suffice to say, I was hoping to do a trade with a certain elven gentleman.”

  “Elf!” Glafled spluttered. “It’s magic isn’t it? Magic that’s your game isn’t it?” The triumph of deduction was mingled with panic on the barkeep‘s face as he hurriedly crescented himself.

  “As I said, Mr Glafeld, it’s best you don’t know what I trade. But I am anxious to meet up with my elven contact and somewhat worried he may not have been entirely above board in his dealings with me. Hence, my need for your absolute discretion. If he is merely delayed all is well and good, but if he means to cheat me I would rather he had no warning of my approach. You understand?”

  “Oh yes, Mr Merchant.” Glafeld warmly embraced the concept of elven swindlers. “Never trust an elf, I say, not as far as you could throw a pointy ear. Why I had one in the bar only…” He stopped abruptly, as he realised his runaway prejudice was about to dispense for free the information his client was promising to pay for.

  “In the bar when?” The merchant enquired hopefully.

  Glafeld wagged a finger at him. “Not so fast Mr Merchant. A gold piece first I think, as a down payment.”

  A fat finger pointed to the nomad on the end of the bench. “Pay Mr Glafeld, if you would be so kind.”

  In a moment a gold piece was produced and bitten into by Glafeld who seemed thus satisfied with the purity of the metal. It took a moment before the merchant gave a verbal nudge. “You were saying, Mr Glafeld, you had an elf in this bar?”

  “About four or five days ago now. Came in had a right old scuffle.”

  “What did he look like?”

  The barkeep shrugged. “They all look the same to me.”

  “Even so, Mr Glafeld, try to think.” The fingers drummed on the table and there was an impatient edge to the merchant’s voice.

  Glafeld stared at the cobwebby ceiling for a moment searching the recesses of his memory. “Tall, old, had a beard, grey beard. Wore armour too, quite a fancy piece, not that it did him much good.”

  The merchant had leant forward over the table while Glafeld parted with these crumbs of information. Kaylan could see a balding pink head ringed with grey hair. “Old?” he echoed before seizing on Glafeld’s last words. “What do you mean, didn’t do much good?”

  The merchant’s interest was palpable even to Kaylan some feet away. It drew a sly grin and an intake of greed from the barkeep across the table. “More information costs more, Mr Merchant.”

  “Your words are more pricey than an archbishop’s blessing,” the merchant growled before commanding the outermost nomad. “Pay the man.”

  After another gold piece was passed and tested, Glafeld resumed his discourse. “Pointy eared fellow came in here, struck up a conversation with. some low grade thief, a woman if you please. They said some things, bad things about me, my establishment I threw them out.”

  “You threw them out?”

  Glafeld thrust his chin forward at the merchant’s incredulous question. “Yeah, I stuck a blade in the elf, then made the red-head take him to bleed outside.”

  Kaylan’s ears pricked up and he prayed that the merchant would ask the questions he himself wanted answered. He was not disappointe
d. “Who was this red-head?”

  “No idea, she’d been around a few weeks maybe, thieving off honest folk, like my customers.”

  “What did the elf want with her?”

  Glafeld shrugged, “he didn’t say, leastways not so as I could hear. She didn’t seem very pleased to see him when he come in.”

  “And where did they go, this couple, after you’d wounded the elf and driven them out of your bar?”

  “Different ways. The thief was taking ship. A trading schooner had taken shelter here and she was going North in it. The elf did some of that elf magic stuff to stop his bleeding and he rode off.”

  “Which way?”

  Glafeld looked down where the merchant, in his urgent anxiety had reached to grab the bar keep’s hand. “Well, Mr Merchant, I think you’ve had a lot of words for your last gold piece, might take another one to see this tale through to the end.”

  The little fingers dug into Glafeld’s wrist with force enough to whiten the flesh and the two nomads pressed in on either side of the voracious bar keep. “Now Mr Glafeld,” the merchant hissed. “I have paid you well enough for all this tale and many more besides, so be so kind as to finish the story before my companions decide to retrieve my money, in lieu of goods paid for but not delivered.”

  “I’m not scared of no merchant’s pampered body guards,” Glafled blustered with a trembling voice.

  “Which way did the elf ride?”

  “I saw him ride out, taking the coastal path heading North. He waited ‘til the boat was gone and then he rode off. Ain’t seen him since.”

  “Thank you, Mr Glafeld.”

  The merchant stood up and started to edge out of the bench seat, but now it was the barkeeps turn to grab him by the wrist and make a further demand. “I know what your game is, Mr Merchant.”

  “My game?”

  “You’re trading in magic, like I said. Why else would an honest human merchant have private business with the pointy eared ones?”

  There was neither confirmation nor denial, merely a flat enquiry, “what is your point Mr Glafeld?”