He waited for her coughing to subside. Behind him, his szi nêre shifted uneasily. He sighed, wishing he had time for subterfuge. Doubtless his presence here and word of his business would fetch good coin from the right people. Not to mention Galbrait’s presence. “I heard warships are sailing for Akrasia. Have you seen any such activity at Cold Bank?”
“Can’t see ‘crost Sister,” the woman replied and pursed her pudgy, chapped lips.
Draken got the idea she might be trying for a bribe, but was too careworn to sweet-talk her. Maybe she just had poor vision. He laid his hand on his swordhilt and stepped closer in case she did. “No word, then?”
She blinked up at him and lowered her gaze. “Odd thing. Twenty-two house soldiers paid passage to Cold Bank early morn. Didn’t ask their business, but they were kitted for travel.”
Aarinnaie pushed forward. “House soldiers … mercenaries, you mean?”
The dockmistress furrowed her brow. “Mercs are illegal in Sevenfel.”
“Minors, she means. What colors did they wear?”
“Brown and white for two, the rest in gold and green. I can’t match colors to Houses though. Ruddy Landed all look alike to me.” Her gaze skipped to Galbrait as if she were daring him to speak out against her slight. He merely cleared his throat and kept his gaze on the sea, as if he could make anything out in the fog.
“No matter,” Draken said grimly. “I can.”
Rinwar was gold and green. Brown was a House called Lagun. Old. Powerful. They’d been in debt trouble far before Lesle’s death, so Aarinnaie wasn’t so far off in her assertion. Mercenaries, indeed. He wondered what it had cost Rinwar to secure two House decades. And now he was too dead to benefit. Of course there was his brother-Priest.
“Are we off to Cold Bank, or may I go back now?” Galbrait, his tone bordering between petulant and furious.
Draken ignored him. “Thanks very much. Is the ferry on offer? We’d like passage across the Bay.”
“It’s just there. Five pierced each.” Steep fare, even if they were just bloodmetal with holes drilled into them to lessen weight and value. It didn’t matter at any rate; they had no coins with them.
Draken glanced at Galbrait. The Prince heaved a sigh, pushed forward, and tugged at the laces on his cloak to reveal his skystone torq. “I am Prince Galbrait and I must commandeer your ferry. I’ve no coin on me now, but you’ll be well compensated, I swear it.”
For the first time the dockmistress sharpened. She started to kneel but Galbrait shook his head. His words were as polite as his tone was short. “No, I pray you rest, mistress, and forget you saw me altogether.”
Crooked yellow teeth tugged at her bottom lip, but she nodded. “Yes, Highness. It’s just there, at the end of the pier. My old Lene will see you across. Tell him I say to leave straightaway.”
“Thank you, mistress,” Draken said, dipped his chin to her.
After a clipped conversation with the greying ferryman Lene, who lisped accommodatingly through his few teeth, they were underway. Three hardened men per side rowed the ferry barge. No winds had cleared the fog nor moved ships about by sail, and the air over Sister Bay was a seeping damp that seemed to slow a man’s very marrow. Gradually a faint glow pierced the fog high on the far hillside; the signal tower at Cold Bank. After he saw it, Draken took cover in the drafty shelter. He sat quietly wrapped in his cloak, thinking.
“Poor quarters,” Galbrait said, shifting closer to him. He didn’t seem to know where to put his gaze.
The ferry didn’t compare to the royal barge that had carried them through Traitor’s Gate; cold air whistled through the cracks of the shuttered, dirty room. Draken grunted. “I’ve had worse.”
“Recently, and under my family’s hospitality, too.”
Draken’s brows pressed together. Thoughts of his mother didn’t stray far. “My family, as well. We’re cousins, aye?”
Galbrait nodded, thoughtful. “And if Rinwar’s ships left already? Have you thought of it? What then?”
Besides his mother, he’d thought of little else. “I have a duty to try to stop them, or, barring that, I must warn my Queen attack comes and fight on her behalf.” “But if the Landed sent only a few ships—”
“They won’t have done.” Draken noticed Tyrolean was paying close attention and shifted to address him as well. “They will not have wasted such effort with only a few.”
“But last time you said there were only three.”
“Last time, your father argued against attacking Akrasia. This time, things are different. The Landed have taken control of the Crown.”
Galbrait’s lips tightened. “You attacked us. Father sent a retaliation.”
“We didn’t attack you.”
“It was a Brînian ship!”
“Stolen or hired by someone else, certainly not ordered by me nor Elena.”
Galbrait grunted, frowning. He couldn’t argue against that; he had no proof. Problem was, Draken hadn’t any either. Draken shook his head, weary. It was exactly as whoever had sent the ship to attack Monoea had wanted. Doubt seized the truth like a chokevine.
“A cousin of the Monoean Royal House is Prince at Brîn,” Aarinnaie said quietly, her dark eyes on Draken’s. “If the goal is to kill off your royal family, they’re going to want you dead.” She glanced at Galbrait. “Both of you.”
“And so I would have been,” Draken said, “had Soebon not tried to gain his father’s favor by going after the King.”
Lene knocked and stuck his head in the door. “We’re nearly there.”
Draken got to his feet. “Do you see warships berthed?” He pushed Lene aside without waiting for an answer and went on deck to look. His shoulders slumped. The docks were empty, as were the moorings. The vacancy was suspect in itself; on any given day there should be ships here. Unless several had just departed.
He said nothing else until after they reached the pier. Once there, he stood on the end and stared hard out into the grey, misty open sea. He couldn’t even make out dark dots that every sailor could identify as a ship. A dock boy made quick worth of the truth
“How many ships were there?” Draken asked him.
“Twenty, I reckon, my lord, but there was word of more.”
Twenty, he thought. I have failed. Failed in negotiation, failed in keeping his old King alive, failed to protect his mother. Now he was about to fail Elena and Akrasia as well. He should have told Elena the truth about him, let them execute him as a liar and a traitor to Akrasia. At least then another diplomat would have been sent and negotiations wouldn’t have been muddied by his past and his lies. He wouldn’t have lived to have been manipulated by the Ashen.
Draken looked again out to sea and then trudged back up the pier toward the others. The mists were just clearing enough to see the Bane’s masts poking over it. Still there, then. He hadn’t realized until just this moment that he’d suspected his mercenary crew would desert him. That was good. It didn’t make up for the news, but it was good.
“What did the boy say?” Galbrait asked.
He sighed and couldn’t help peering out toward the open sea again. Nothing. The ships were gone and they had little chance at catching them. Even so, what use would the Bane be against a fleet of twenty? “He said Monoea and Akrasia are at war.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“What will you do now?” Aarinnaie asked Draken, tying a scarf over her head. Coiled sprigs had broken loose and she brushed them away from her eyes.
He could sail after them, try to warn the Queen. But how would they get past an entire fleet without suffering attack? Draken turned to Galbrait. “Will you fight this? Will you send ships after them to fetch them back?”
Galbrait’s jaw tightened. His hand crept up to worry the royal torq about his throat.
“They are your people, as well,” Draken said. “Akrasia has a lot of life in her army; Brîn’s navy is still very good. Whether they win or lose, many people will die. Your people and mine.”
<
br /> The Prince peered up at him. “We don’t even know if they will obey me as King.”
“We’ll have to go to the Palace then, and find out. Halmar, you and the nêre take Aarinnaie, Osias, and Setia back to the Bane.”
Aarinnaie sputtered. “Draken! I’m not going to sit on that boat and wait like—like—a good little Szirin doing needlework while my brother goes to battle!”
“It’s not a battle, Aarin. I’m escorting the Prince back to the castle to help him make orders that can stop this attack. You’re not the emissary here. I am.”
“I’m not a fool, brother. It is no safe thing you do.”
“I told you before, someone must go back in my stead. And we owe the crew their payment. You must see to that as well.” If my head should end up in that wall, he added silently.
She bit her lip and stared up into his face. Only he knew her well enough to realize it was anger, not worry or frustration.
He glanced at the others and took her a little aside, his hand resting on her narrow shoulder. There might not be time to speak later. Galbrait’s worry over whether his orders would be obeyed reminded him that the only way to defeat a powerful enemy was to turn its strength against it. Monoea was strong in leadership and unquestioning discipline. But the problem with unquestioning discipline was that a soldier who only followed orders had no grounding without those orders.
He spoke lowly. “If I don’t return with you to Brîn, seek out the highest Landed among the enemy and kill him and all who are his closest advisors. There is a priest named Rinwar. Killing him will be your best chance at driving them off.”
She stared up into his face and gave a tight nod. “I will,” she said softly.
He released her and turned to Halmar. “Despite her charms and persuasive abilities, Comhanar, I expect the Szirin to be taken to the Bane and kept safe until my return or the deadline for it has passed. Will you see this done?”
To his credit, Halmar didn’t smile, and to hers, Aarinnaie only sighed noisily.
Osias smiled, though. “Setia and I will be glad for her company.”
Maybe that was meant to be encouraging, but Osias hadn’t offered to come. It was hard not to think Osias believed the mission doomed.
Draken looked around for Tyrolean’s lined eyes. “Captain?”
“With your leave, I will attend you, Your Highness.”
Draken nodded. He’d asked too much of his friend already, but he couldn’t deny his relief at Tyrolean’s crisp reply. He raked a hard stare over Halmar and Konnan to ensure their cooperation in protecting Aarinnaie. Their crisp nods reassured him. Aarinnaie said something but the winds whipped it from his ears. It didn’t matter now. All that mattered now was getting Galbrait back to the Palace. He needed to find a dock and quick passage back through … through Shadowcliff. His hand dropped to the key lashed to his belt. Through his mother’s passage. Though he very much did not want to go back through there.
Stomach knotted with worry over the impending attack on Akrasia and unshed grief for his mother, he secured a small craft at the next dock. The skiffer aboard mentioned payment and Galbrait yanked at his cloak collar to reveal his torq, apparently having lost his patience with playing the commoner. Eyes wide, the skiffer dipped a knee to his Prince and fell to hurrying his oars along.
Galbrait gave Draken a curious look when he heard the request to land at Shadowcliff. “Not Galbrayt’s Gate?”
Draken couldn’t explain, not with so many close ears. He could trust no one, not even Galbrait. He pulled his hood up against the cold and hid his face, cutting off further conversation.
Ghostlike mists thickened, if possible, as they rowed toward the Great Pier. No moonlight pierced the fog over Sister Bay, as if war was the only thing that could obscure the gods’ light.
They sat stiff and silent as choppy waves shoved the skiff about, challenging the oarsmen. Constant spray off the bow left them damp and chilled through. Draken huddled in his cloak and stared at the growing puddle seeping through the hull, his mind swimming wilder than the currents in the rough bay. For the first time he let himself think of his mother, really think of her. He’d known her less than a day and she’d not only saved his life but given hers for Galbrait. But why come forward now when she had ignored him his whole life? Was it because of his brother dying? Had she meant for Draken to be a half-rate replacement? That stung a little, even though from the short bit they’d talked, he didn’t really believe it. But he couldn’t know for certain. It all begged the question: who was she, really? There was so much he didn’t know and the people who could tell him were dying at an astounding rate.
“Your Highnesses,” Tyrolean said.
Draken gave a mechanical nod. They were nearing the Great Pier at Shadowcliff. The sea had ever been blackest here, shadowed by the great depths against the greystone cliffs the city was named for. At the moment it reflected the grey of the swirling fog so that if Draken looked down he could imagine misty faces staring back at him. As they entered Shadowcliff’s harbor, floating piers cut the spray and waves. Other ships, lit by lanterns prow and stern, drifted by.
Once off the skiff, Draken walked quickly, the Prince and Tyrolean hurrying behind. The skiffer was already gossiping to his cohorts on the Pier and eyes followed them. Bad enough Galbrait’s appearance in Shadowcliff would churn the rumor mills, but if it got out that the Landed had taken their King to war, there’d be panic and rioting in the streets. He glanced at Galbrait, his youthful face still smooth, and wondered if he were as determined and hard as his namesake, General Galbrayt. He had a bad feeling they were about to find out.
The fog made traveling quickly hazardous, even by foot. Gossiping clusters of people crowded the steps, moving slowly up and down the slick stones. Some just plain stood to one side as if they could wait it out. Draken chafed at their slow progress, though he couldn’t fault them. Much like the ones in Newporte standing about the broken wagon, overworked people enslaved to meager survival took every opportunity to rest.
Tyrolean kept close, but he needn’t have bothered. The citizens barely glanced his way, marking him as a foreigner coming to trade. Close enough. They just didn’t realize his goods were life and death.
That image disintegrated when they met the gate guards at Kordewyn. First the queue—and Draken had considered the steps slow-going. He shifted from foot to foot and constantly glanced back down into the fog concealing the city. Darkness crept through it as nightfall encroached on Sevenfel. Daybreak would not be far behind. “Gods forbid we don’t make dayclose.”
“It’s Tradeseason,” Galbrait said. “The merchants are open in the night.”
Right. He’d forgotten.
Someone turned their head at Galbrait’s voice. Maybe it was the accent, or his handsome features, bruised on one side. Draken leaned close to Galbrait. “We’ll never get there at this rate. Tell them who you are.”
Galbrait looked back at him, brows raised. Draken just looked back at him. The Prince hissed a breath and undid the top ties on his cloak so his torq showed, and called out, “Make way for business of the Crown. Make way!”
Heads turned, protests sounding and dying as people realized who Galbrait was. Everyone knew the torqs the royals wore—all of a kind, twisted precious metals with skystones embedded in the ends. Draken stared down the people just in front of them, and they shifted to one side as best as they were able; the path sloping up to the gate was barely five shoulders across. Slowly, they were able to shift their way through the crowd and reach the gate. Word had preceded them and the guards studied Galbrait, albeit politely.
“Gods spare me, he’s on a bloody coin,” Draken said. “Let us pass.”
The guard, his belly straining the straps of his armor, turned to Draken. “And you are?”
“Khel Szi, Prince of Brîn,” Galbrait said. “And this is his Captain and guard. Let us pass, soldier. Do we look as if we’re out for a leisurely stroll to market? Your delay could cost us all far more t
han your own position here.”
Galbrait’s authoritative ring did it. Or perhaps it was that his cloak had parted to reveal the blood caked on his skin. The guard stepped back with a bow. But it had been long enough for people on the inside of the gate to grasp that they were looking at not only their own Prince, but also a foreign one. It would only take moments more for them to realize they were largely unprotected, though Tyrolean was an imposing presence. Draken hurried Galbrait along, steering him down streets and alleys toward Ashwyc.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Tyrolean asked.
Not exactly. “Aye. This way.”
Draken didn’t know Kordewyn well, having had few reasons to walk through the Merchant City even when he’d made a home at Ashwyc. He’d never spent much time in this staid borough where coin was the only measure of man’s worth. A thought almost made him smile: Va Khlar could show these Kordewyn merchants a thing or two about trade. He suppressed it, and the vague curiosity of whether he’d see the Reschanian trader-lord again. This night he had to make his way more by instinct; the fog and falling darkness concealed the grey cliffs and walls of Ashwyc. Not even a glimmer of moonlight shone through or reflected off the golden tower domes, though oil lamps burned dully against the miserable damp.
At the second dead end that didn’t finish in the cliff he growled in frustration. “It’s no use. How am I supposed to find it in this ruddy fog?”
“Find what?” Galbrait asked. “Where are we going?”
“Doors. My mother took me through two doors in the cliff—entrances to Ashwyc.”
“Why didn’t you say so? They’re this way.” Galbrait led the way back out of the alley. “But they’ll be locked.”
Draken produced the key tied to his belt.
Galbrait’s eyes widened. He trotted down the cobbles, heading inland. “Excellent. I’ve one too, but not on me. Who gave it to you? Your mother? She must have been more friendly with Father than I realized—”
Emissary Page 27