“That’s when we found the rest.” He took a long swallow of the bourbon, topped off his glass and came back over to his chair. “We thought we had them rounded up, when Saran comes storming in with his mount all lathered and says I’d better come and see. Would that I could erase the sight from my head, Trell.”
He sat down heavily in his chair, but the sigh that crossed his lips was heavier still. “The rest of the hundred and fifty that belonged to that stench we found a mile away, chasing their horses in a racetrack circle. Had the mud good and churned up. Every one of those horses was dark to the teats with it—except it hadn’t rained for days, and there wasn’t any way that earth was water-wet. They had two score or more hostages corralled to one side. Seems they were making sport of trampling them one at a time—sometimes two, in the case of the women and children.” Raegus took another long swallow and then stared into the drink. “What the Mage did on the Khalim Plains was more humane than this.”
Trell clenched his jaw. “I see.”
“And they saw us, by Ha’viv’s ill eye.” Raegus shot him a look of fury, the memory clearly hot in his thoughts. “They promptly shoved the rest of the hostages into the middle of the field, screaming and crying, full of pitiful pleading—not a soldier was among them, you know, that went without saying—and all of us glared at each other’s arrows like two low-city gangs facing off.
“The leader and I exchanged some words—nothing I’m proud of, you needn’t hear it repeated—meanwhile, I’ve got men flanking their position in the trees. When I gave the signal for attack, I expected the bastards to break left and right and head directly into the men I had on their flanks…” he took another long draw that finished off his drink, and when he lowered the glass, his eyes were shadowed, “but they rode right over those people…trampled them into the earth, laughing as they went. They speared through our lines, and by the time I rallied my men, the blackguards had vanished.”
Raegus set down his empty glass and lifted a troubled gaze to Trell. “I found out later they stormed back through their camp and grabbed who and what they could, brief and bloody, and then tore off into the trees again. We followed their trail for about a mile before it disappeared.”
Trell straightened in his chair. “A hundred and fifty men and horse disappeared?” He frowned over the possibilities. “They crossed a node?”
“Unless their fethen horses could fly.”
“So they have a Nodefinder with them—or a wielder?”
Raegus shrugged. “Either one would explain how a single band of slug-thugs could be harrying so much of the region.” He turned his glass beneath his fingers, rotating it on the table. “We’ve been chasing their dust ever since, town to town, finding no evidence save the fact that there’s nothing to find. Somehow they’re always one step ahead of us.”
Trell frowned at this. “Could someone in the company be keeping them appraised of our movements?”
Raegus waved resignedly with his glass. “I admit thinking as much myself, though how they’d be communicating eludes logic. But we’ve got Converted in our number as well as consultants like your Loukas n’Abraxis, plus all the grooms and cooks—it’s a damned king’s entourage I’m dragging through these hills.”
He grunted, shot Trell a dry half-smile. “Can’t say it disappoints me to hand this problem to Your Highness. The kindest bed in the world isn’t worth the price of a clap-ridden whore if sleep avoids it like the plague.” He waggled his empty glass in the air pointedly. “I aim to sleep well tonight though.”
Trell thought he understood the darkness haunting Raegus’s gaze. Five towns and all of the people taken…what were the Saldarians doing with those innocents? It seemed almost a purposeful taunt, and at least a malevolent mystery. Certainly enough to deny sleep to any good man. “Rest tonight is doubtless deserved, Commander.”
“Hey, hey—none of that.” The Avataren lifted a finger off his glass and made a circle with it at Trell, his eyes shadowed now with exhaustion as much as the memories that plagued him. “You’re the commander of this motley troop now. I’d give you this chair but I’m too bloody tired to haul my arse out of it just yet. While you and your pretty engineer were taking a swim, the rest of us were setting up camp in that blasted storm.”
Trell rose and went to pour himself more wine. “When do you want to tell the company?”
“Up to you, A’dal.”
“Tomorrow then.” He leaned back against the chest and observed Raegus, who was slouched now in his chair with his lids half-mast. “Tannour said you managed to get something out of one of the Saldarians.”
“For what it’s been worth. We sure haven’t caught up with them again.”
Trell sipped his wine. He was finally starting to feel more himself—at least his hands had stopped shaking, and though his head felt a little fuzzy, he suspected it was from the wine more than the river. He narrowed his gaze at the dark liquid, thinking of the pattern of things so far and what he knew of Saldarian tactics. “I don’t think you will catch them. Not until they’re ready.”
Raegus forced his eyes open. “What do you mean?”
Trell met his gaze. “I think they’re leading you on a merry chase to give them time to prepare.”
“For?” He shook his head bemusedly.
Trell’s brows narrowed as he worked to make the pieces fit. They did when placed in a certain order. “We’ll give the men tonight to recover from the storm, but I want to be off again by midmorning.”
“Off to where?”
Trell downed his wine. “Khor Taran.” He set down his goblet and made for the exit.
Raegus pushed up after him. “A’dal—” he motioned to the desk and all it signified, but his gaze conveyed even more than this.
Trell shook his head, smiled. “I’ll bunk with Rolan tonight. Give you one last go at that king’s bed.” He added with a wry grin, “Sorry there’s no one to join you there.”
Raegus grunted. “I’d pay a courtesan’s fee just to sleep in it for once.” He pushed hands in his pockets and frowned at Trell. “Dawn then? I’ll summon the troops.”
“Let’s give them their ham and porridge first. Men are more amenable to change when their bellies are full—in case anyone is inclined to protest in your honor.”
As it happened, no one was, though they honored their former commander with a round of jeering, which in the case of the Converted, was as good as a toast. The real toast of the occasion, however, came when Trell told the men his true name.
Every soldier there knew some story of Trell of the Tides, adopted son of their Emir, hero of the Cry, and when they broke into applause and jesting shouts of ‘All hail Prince Trell, King of the Converted!’ Trell felt deeply moved.
“I have stories to share with all of you,” he called to the assembled crowd, “not the least of them how our kingdoms are now allied against the forces of Radov abin Hadorin and his wielder, Viernan hal’Jaitar.”
This announcement met with a cacophonous response. Trell listened carefully to the catcalls that floated to the top of the froth, gauging the general tone of their response by the slant of their jests. He’d taken care to name Radov and hal’Jaitar specifically, directing the Converted’s enmity at the men who were their enemies, rather than an entire nation.
Trell held up a hand to calm them. “Tonight, we’ll celebrate in honor of Raegus n’Harnalt,” and he motioned to the other commander and gave him a slight bow, “but today we travel—fast and hard.”
Raegus stepped forward into the murmuring. “You heard your A’dal. Break it down!”
As the men were jogging off to strike camp, Trell went in search of Loukas. He found the Avataren standing outside Rolan Lamodaar’s tent with Tannour Valeri and two others. The latter excused themselves before Trell could learn their names. He gazed after them, realizing that he had his work cut out for him if he meant to know all the men as he’d known his company at the Cry—especially if he meant to do it before they reached Kho
r Taran.
Trell looked back to the others. They’d gone silent, curiously so. He met each of their gazes, wondering what they weren’t saying, and then focused a smile on Loukas. “How are you feeling?”
“Much improved, Your Highness.”
Trell heard himself so named from his friend’s tongue and worried where this was headed. “Loukas—”
Loukas dropped his gaze. “I’d better go break down my tent.”
“After what you went through yesterday, surely someone else—”
“No…” Loukas flicked his gaze between Tannour and Rolan, “I should do it. That is…” he looked back to Trell, “unless that’s an order.”
Trell frowned slightly. “No.”
Loukas dutifully touched fingers to his lips, then laid the same hand across his heart. He darted another unreadable glance at Tannour and headed off.
Trell stared after him in stunned silence.
That was the Avataren Sign of Obeisance…
If he’d ever seen Loukas make that gesture before, he certainly hadn’t been able to connect it to its meaning, for his lessons on the manners and courtesies of Avatar—extensive lessons, as it happened—had been buried beneath Raine D’Lacourte’s truthbinding.
This time, however, Trell instantly recognized the Avataren genuflection.
He exhaled a slow breath as he stared after his friend. The great mystery of Loukas n’Abraxis…
He’d shared the front lines with the Avataren engineer for two years, and in all that time, Loukas hadn’t once spoken of the events that had driven him to seek refuge in the Akkad.
Some Converted were all too willing to boast about the acts that had forced them to flee their homelands, while others spoke only haltingly of their former circumstances, but Trell had never met a man more close-mouthed about his past than Loukas n’Abraxis.
That he’d been raised by a privileged family was obvious from his education—he spoke more languages than Trell and could calculate advanced mathematics in his head faster than Trell could write the formulas—but that kiss of fingers and touch to heart…it indicated that Loukas had spent time in the courts of Avatar’s Fire Kings. Suddenly Trell was very interested in having a look at Raegus’s list of disenfranchised princes.
“What is it?”
Trell shifted his gaze to find Tannour observing him peculiarly. The dark-haired Vestian nodded in the direction Loukas had just gone. “N’Abraxis touched his heart, and you departed us for elsewhere.” His tone held an oddly possessive edge.
Trell wondered if Tannour also recognized the Avataren Sign of Obeisance—he suspected that he did—and if his name might also be on Raegus’s list along with Rolan Lamodaar, who made no secret of his noble status, even flaunting his wealth when he wasn’t gambling it away.
Trell shifted his gaze between the two men. “Keep an ear to the chatter. I’d like to know if anyone takes exception to my command…or my station.”
Rolan quirked a grin at him, his teeth very white against his dark skin and even darker beard with its jeweled braids. “This was no great shock, Trell of the Tides. Anyone who’s ever seen a Kingdom Blade knew you had to be from Dannym’s noble class. Not a man here hasn’t heard that rumor.”
Trell stared at him. How had he failed to hear that rumor about himself? Or had he heard it and simply dismissed it out of hand? He shifted his gaze to Tannour inquiringly.
Tannour shrugged. “We all expected this when you arrived to take over.”
“When I—” But Trell’s protest that in fact he hadn’t come to take over froze on his tongue. It served little point to argue what was plain to the eye. “Then…” he shook his head slightly and glanced again in the direction Loukas had gone, “why is he—”
“Pay no attention to n’Abraxis,” Rolan remarked. “He’s been moody ever since joining this troop,” and he looked pointedly, if not quite accusingly, at Tannour.
The latter’s pale blue eyes tightened slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, A’dal, I must go break down my tent also.” He cast a stiletto stare at Rolan. “I haven’t the funds to keep servants at my beck and call.” He spun in a swirl of desert robes.
“And whose fault is that, Valeri?” Rolan called after him. He watched him stalking off in a direction opposite from Loukas and blew out a forceful breath. “Azerjaiman’s winds, I’d hate to be the confessor for that pair.”
“What do you mean?”
Rolan looked around as if searching for someone. “Nothing I can prove…but you watch those two long enough, you can tell someone’s arrow has pierced them both—whether it was Inithiya’s or Ha’viv’s, only they can say.”
Inithiya’s arrow implied love, the Trickster God Ha’viv’s implied betrayal. Trell wasn’t certain either of those answers fully explained the odd friction between the two men.
Appearing to give up on whoever he was looking for, Rolan shifted his gaze back to Trell. “Maybe you should ask n’Abraxis. He would probably confide in you.”
Trell shook his head. “We were on campaign together for years. He never said a word to me about his past.”
“Ah, but I’ll bet you never asked him directly.” At Trell’s bemused frown, Rolan added meaningfully, “You haven’t been here to hear him talking about you for so many sweepings of the sun.” He flashed a devilish grin. “Any time he wanted to drive Valeri from the fire, n’Abraxis would just start talking about you.”
Trell frowned slightly at this. “What do you know about Tannour?”
Rolan chewed at a hangnail on his thumb. “Rumors mostly. Some say he was a prince, some say he assassinated a prince…” he grinned at Trell. “You can’t trust the rumors, but you watch Tannour with a blade and see if you don’t wake up at least once in the night with a hand to your throat, just making sure it’s still in one piece.”
Just then one of Rolan’s servants came rushing up. He looked about twenty, at least half Rolan’s age. Trell had met him the night before and knew him to be soft-spoken, with unusually long lashes framing quiet, dark eyes.
Rolan swung out an arm to stop the servant from going into his tent. “Where have you been, Yusef?”
Yusef held up a pair of Rolan’s boots as if to shield against his stare. “We ran out of polish, Sidi.” He managed an awkward bow in accompaniment to the proper title for his master, the upheld boots somewhat limiting his motion. “I had to borrow some from Sandarin Correanos’s man.”
Rolan took Yusef by his vest and pulled him close. “That polish had better not have lard in it, like Sandarin is always going on about. I won’t be walking around with fat from a pig’s arse slathered on my boots.”
“No, Sidi.” Yusef dropped his gaze, cowering beneath Rolan’s piercing stare. “Only beeswax and almond oil.”
Rolan stared at him circumspectly for a moment longer. “Good.” He released him. “Go help Naseem break camp.”
“Balé, Sidi.” He ducked hastily inside.
Rolan frowned after him and crossed his arms. “He’s a distant cousin on my mother’s side. Came to me bearing a letter from my mother that was more threat than introduction. Sometimes I think he’s more trouble than her gratitude is worth.”
“He seems to want to please you,” Trell murmured.
“I don’t know…” Rolan’s gaze narrowed, as towards an unwelcome visitor, “do you ever get a feeling of something slime-ridden crawling down your spine? That feeling of being watched?” When Trell nodded to this, Rolan grunted. “Sometimes I’ll get that sense and look around and he’ll be standing in the shadows somewhere… just staring at me with those big lamb eyes.”
Trell gave him a quirk of a grin. “Don’t you require your servants to be in constant attendance to your needs?”
“Balé, but I don’t require Yusef to be so damned spooky about it.” He pried at the hangnail on his thumb again. “I would offer to gift his services to you if I wasn’t so sure my mother would put a blood-price on my head. I’ve enough of Radov’s bloodthirsty lot after m
e as it is.”
“A blood-price?” Trell invited Rolan with his gaze and started walking back towards the command tent. “I thought, with…” his eyes strayed to Rolan’s neck.
“You mean the brand, of course—as if that would be the end of Radov’s vengeance. Nay, Trell of the Tides, that hawk-nosed bastard hal’Jaitar has reserved a special cell in his carefully constructed Shamshir’im hell just for me.” Rolan clapped a hand on Trell’s shoulder. “Did I ever tell you about the third time I tried to kill Radov?”
Tell turned him a hard look. “How many times have you tried to kill him?”
“Six…” Rolan puckered his face with thought. “Seven? One of my attempts might count as two. I think hal’Jaitar accuses me of nine, but I’d hang myself if I failed nine bloody times to kill that whore-humping lump of camel dung, even though he is protected by a wielder and a hundred Talien Knights. But time number three, now that was something...” and as he walked Trell back to the command tent, Rolan proceeded to tell him why the Ruling Prince of M’Nador prayed regularly to the Seventeen Gods for Rolan Lamodaar to meet with an appallingly gruesome end.
***
“Master…”
Viernan hal’Jaitar paused in his reading of a report. He wrapped his right hand around a ring on the third finger of his left hand, and his eyes went unfocused.
“What have you learned, Kifat?”
The Shamshir’im wielder on the other end of the bonded line must’ve tightened his hold on his own elae-enhanced ring, for his words became sharper in Viernan’s mind. “News, Master—wonderful, hateful news.”
Viernan had neither the time nor patience for enduring Kifat’s paradoxes that day. “What news?”
“Trell val Lorian travels with a company of Converted. They’re chasing a band of Saldarians like hounds on a hare through the whole of Abu’Dhan. But they’re finding the hare not so ready to be caught—”
Viernan bit back a curse. “I don’t care about the hare! How do you know it’s truly the prince?”
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