Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  The other Sister of the Blade, Francil, leaned forward and whispered something into the First Sister’s car. Alija took the opportunity to do the same to Marla.

  “You’re doing very well, little cousin,” the sorcerer assured her softly, speaking close to her ear. “But it’s the poisoning of the wells where we have the moral high ground. Keep pressing that point. And make sure any agreement to cease raiding specifies ‘troops in the colours of the High Prince of Hythria’.”

  “Sister Francil informs me that there were only three wells affected by the raid you speak of.”

  “Three wells that supplied all the water for a dozen or more farms in the district,” Marla informed her coldly. “Should I send someone back for the black, bloated bodies of the children who died when they innocently drank from those wells, First Sister? Did you want to see the scores of birds who lay dead on the ground? Can you imagine the lowing of poisoned cattle? The squealing of dying pigs? Will you sleep well tonight, your grace, or will the tormented keening of mothers who gave their children what they thought was a life-saving drink of water, only to discover they delivered death to their own, haunt your dreams?”

  “Don’t overdo it, Marla,” Alija warned softly in Hythrun behind her.

  The First Sister looked rather taken aback by Marla’s graphic descriptions. “I can assure you, your highness, the men responsible for such a heinous crime will be brought to justice.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Because I want them for that very reason. I believe Hythrun justice to be more appropriate in this case.”

  “Out of the question! It is against all the rules of war to hand over one’s own soldiers to one’s enemies.”

  “Perhaps,” Marla conceded, “if I saw you take sufficient action to bring these miscreants to justice, I might be convinced.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want them all put to death, of course.”

  The First Sister stared at her in shock.

  “However, I am willing to acknowledge that you’re unlikely to grant me this, so I will settle for the following. Hythria will grant your request regarding the cessation of hostilities. The Raiders of the High Prince of Hythria will guarantee never to raid across the border again. We will also, in an act of extreme generosity, compensate the farmers for the thirty head of cattle taken in the raid that killed my husband. You, on the other hand, will agree to compensate those Hythrun farmers ruined by the poisoning of their wells—a sum of some two hundred and fifty thousand gold rivets, we calculate—and agree to the demotion by one rank and the transfer from the border to other places in Medalon, I don’t care where, of all the Defender officers who took part in or planned the raids that involved the use of poison.”

  “A quarter of a million gold rivets?” the First Sister gasped. “Those farms would barely be worth a fifth of that!”

  “Is that what you’re offering?”

  The First Sister glanced at her companion with a shake of her head then turned back to Marla. “Seventy-five thousand, and not a copper rivet more.”

  “One hundred and fifty thousand and I may still be able to convince my brother that he shouldn’t raze Bordertown to the ground.”

  “One hundred thousand,” the First Sister replied, “and if you don’t like that, your highness, for all I care, you can raze the whole of Medalon, all the way to the Citadel, and be done with it.”

  “Take it, Marla,” Alija advised. “That’s much more than Lernen expected, anyway.”

  The First Sister didn’t know what Alija had said, and the sorcerer’s tone betrayed nothing about the direction of her advice. Trayla glanced at Sister Francil with concern then turned to await Marla’s decision. Marla frowned, making a great show about considering the offer, forcing her delight to stay hidden. Lernen had sent her into Medalon with orders not to give anything away. She would be coming home with much more than he bargained for.

  “Very well, your grace,” she said heavily, as if she’d just conceded something hugely valuable and gotten nothing in return. “I think I can probably convince my brother to agree to that.”

  After that, it was all just procedure, really. Trayla ordered more tea and they discussed inane and safe topics until the treaty was brought back for Marla and Trayla to sign. Trayla enquired politely about Marla’s son, and she, in turn, asked if Trayla had any children (she had two daughters) and they filled in the rest of the time talking of motherhood and children.

  When she was handed the final draft of the treaty, Marla read it through carefully, asking for clarification on a few words she was unfamiliar with, consulted with Alija on several paragraphs and asked that the scribes change the wording from “Hythrun Raiders” to “soldiers of the High Prince”. The change didn’t mean anything really, she assured the Medalonians. It was just semantics.

  When the amended treaty was ready, she signed both copies with a flourish, followed by Trayla and then Francil and Alija as witnesses. Princess Marla of Hythria’s first—and probably only—official role as a Hythrun diplomat was successfully concluded.

  Part V

  AWAKENING

  chapter 81

  M

  aria didn’t allow her children near the Greenharbour palace often. The atmosphere there was decidedly unhealthy and she didn’t like to expose her children to it unless it couldn’t be avoided. She never left the children alone with their uncle, either, or any of his “friends”. Lernen had acquired a coterie of sycophants who were just as depraved as her brother, but much less likely to care that her children were of royal blood. It was easier to simply keep the children away from the palace than to deal with such things.

  Marla had accepted what her brother was, and provided he didn’t do anything that endangered Hythria, provided he confined his twisted pleasures to slaves and those members of the nobility who seemed to share his bizarre tastes, Marla had no argument with him. She just made certain that when Lernen was doting on his beloved niece and nephews, she was there to supervise it.

  But some weeks ago, the High Prince had brought in a troupe of travelling puppeteers from Fardohnya, famed throughout both nations for their amazing repertoire, although they were most renowned for their lewd and graphic adult entertainment, which Lernen and his increasingly decadent court were anxious to see. The trouble was, even the children of the household slaves had heard of the Lanipoor Players, and Damin—egged on by Starros, no doubt—begged his mother to let them see a performance. Finally, at Marla’s request, the puppeteers had put on a special show for her children, one in which the content was adjusted so it was much more appropriate for a younger audience.

  The puppeteers were very good, well deserving of their reputation. They had done several pieces, mostly about the gods, and one very funny piece about a stupid demon child who thought he was a teapot on a mission to destroy Xaphista, and ran around Karien trying to drown the Overlord in tea. The older boys, Damin and Starros, had laughed themselves silly over it. The twins had laughed too, but mostly at the boys’ antics. Kalan and Narvell were just two years old and, while they liked the pretty colours, were much too young to really appreciate the humour.

  Lirena was holding Kalan in her arms. Marla sat next to Narvell, while Damin and Starros sat beside them, squabbling over who was going to look out the window of the carriage.

  They were heading back toward the house she and Nash had purchased not far from the palace in the better part of Greenharbour. Starros, the young fosterling Marla had taken in as a favour to Almodavar, was almost unrecognisable now. He would never be as big as Damin, but he had filled out considerably since coming to live in her household. Two years older than her own son, he and Damin were the best of friends, although when they got into mischief together—which was more frequently than she liked to recall—it was hard to say who was the leader and who was the follower. There should have been more fosterlings, she knew, but Marla had her hands full with the twins and she never seemed to get around to finding other, suitable childr
en to introduce into the household.

  Marla told Damin and Starros to stop arguing and smiled at Kalan’s drooping eyelids as the carriage clattered over the cobbled streets. She was a beautiful child. The twins both favoured their father in looks. Kalan had Nash’s eyes and Narvell had inherited a great deal of his father’s charm, as well as his facial features. Kalan was the older twin by a mere twenty minutes, but it had been a fraught twenty minutes, Marla recalled with a smile, Nash standing there with a crestfallen expression, thinking Marla had given him a daughter rather than the son he craved.

  When Narvell was born a few minutes later, however, rather than reject the daughter he had seemed so disappointed over, Nash had embraced her as his favourite (perhaps out of guilt for ever thinking he didn’t want her) and now shamelessly spoiled the child. Marla was forever trying to explain to Nash that he was going to ruin her completely. It was bad enough that Kalan had two brothers and a foster brother to spoil her. It wasn’t right that her father did it, too.

  “They’ll sleep well, tonight,” Lirena remarked, as Kalan laid her head on the old nurse’s shoulder.

  “The twins will,” Marla agreed. “I wish I could be so sure of these two little terrors. More likely, they’ll be so excited, they won’t sleep until midnight.” She shifted Narvell onto her lap and turned to pull Damin away from the carriage door, where he was leaning out precariously, waving to passersby who would then wave back to him.

  “Damin! I won’t tell you again!” she growled, pulling him backwards by his shirt. This happened every time she took him out in a carriage lately. “Stop leaning out that window!”

  It was her impatient jerking of Damin that saved his life. The sudden “thunk” just above Starros’s head made Marla jump. When she realised there was a crossbow bolt protruding from the leather upholstery a bare inch from the child’s head, she screamed, alerting her escort who were, until that moment, blissfully unaware of any attack on the passengers in the carriage.

  Lirena saw the bolt at the same time as her mistress and threw herself down on the floor of the carriage, grabbing Kalan and Starros and shielding them with her body. Marla did the same for her sons. The captain of their escort rode up alongside the coach, took one look at the women crouched over the children on the floor and the crossbow bolt in the back of the seat, and let out a yell. Immediately the speed of the carriage picked up and the escort closed in around them, beating back anybody who got in their way. Another two Raiders jumped from their horses to either side of the carriage, clinging to the roof as they rode on the narrow steps, shielding the open windows with their bodies.

  Despite the quick response of her guards, the rest of the short ride back to their house was the most harrowing Marla had ever experienced. The carriage lurched dangerously as it sped through the streets; Narvell squirmed uncomfortably under her, with no concept of the danger, while Damin laughed aloud, thrilled at the sudden increase in the speed and the way the carriage tilted as they took the corners much too fast for safety.

  When they finally reached the house and the carriage was hauled to a stop in the courtyard, Marla wanted to sob with relief. The door flew open and the guards bustled them from the carriage, anxious to get their mistress and her children inside, in case another attack was waiting for them outside the house. The children were snatched from her grasp and she was almost carried herself, until they were safely inside.

  “Where is Lord Hawksword?” Marla demanded, as soon as they were all inside. She squatted down to comfort Narvell who had started to cry, frightened by the rough handling of her bodyguards.

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” Rowell Cahmin, captain of Nash’s household guard, informed her.

  “Find him.”

  “Of course, your highness.”

  Marla hugged Narvell and looked up at Lirena who was still holding Kalan. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine,” Lirena assured her.

  “And you two?” she asked, gathering Damin and Starros to her, neither of whom seemed in need of comfort.

  They wriggled free of her embrace and grinned at her. “Can we do that again?” Damin asked, his blue eyes glittering with excitement. “That was fun.”

  Marla frowned at him. “Somebody just tried to kill you, Damin.”

  “But did you see how fast we were going?” he asked, blithely ignorant of the threat to his life. “You never let them drive the coach that fast any other time, Mama.”

  “Damin!” she said sharply. “This is no laughing matter. We were almost killed today!”

  Her tone, if not her words, warned Damin to contain his glee. “Can Starros and me go play, now?” he asked.

  “Starros and I,” she corrected automatically. “And no, you can’t. I don’t want you out of my sight until your stepfather gets home and we decide how to deal with this.”

  Exactly how they were going to deal with this, however, was something, right at that moment, Marla had no notion of. She turned to Lirena, falling into practicality, as she seemed to do every time she was confronted with a crisis. “Could you arrange to have the children fed, Lirena? They can eat in here with us. And send Elezaar down to me. I want a message sent to the palace, too. Damin is Lernen’s heir—an attack on him is an attack on the High Prince. The High Arrion will need to be informed, also. We’ll need the Sorcerers’ Collective to provide us with additional guards until we can get more of our own people here from Elasapine. For that matter, I might send to Krakandar for Almodavar. He’s the best there is and would give his life for Laran’s son.” Then she glanced at Starros and added, “And his own.”

  “I’ll see to it,” the old nurse promised, looking at Marla with concern. “Are you all right, my lady?”

  “Just a little shaken. I’ll be fine.”

  Lirena handed Kalan to her mother, bowed arthritically and walked from the room, leaving Marla holding her precious daughter with the sick realisation that the past two years of relative bliss had abruptly come to an end. Someone had tried to kill her eldest son, which meant somebody didn’t want him to be the High Prince’s heir. She tried to run through the possible enemies of the throne in her mind, but the list started with Hablet of Fardohnya and finished with any number of abused and discarded slaves with a grudge against her brother—and considering the life he led, that number might be in the thousands.

  Who could do such a thing? she wondered. Who could be heartless enough to order the assassination of a four-year-old child?’

  She couldn’t imagine anybody being so callous. She could, however, imagine a limitless array of very painful and cruel things she would cheerfully do to the perpetrator of this crime when he was caught. And he would be caught. There was no question in Marla’s mind about that. She was the High Prince’s sister and had the resources of a whole nation at her disposal if she decided to mobilise them. What was it Elezaar had taught her? One of his damn Rules of Power. Number Nineteen, if she remembered correctly. Be merciful when it doesn’t matter—ruthless when it does.

  Where is the dwarf, anyway?

  Nobody threatened one of her children and lived to boast of it. Nobody.

  And where the hell is Nash?

  chapter 82

  A

  fter two years in Greenharbour, Wrayan Lightfinger probably wasn’t able to claim he was the greatest thief in all of Hythria just yet, but he was certainly well on his way to earning that title.

  Wrayan had chosen not to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a pickpocket. As Brak pointed out, there was far too much risk involved for too little reward. So Wrayan chose a career as a burglar, instead. Thanks to his family name and connections—Calen Lightfinger was a respected member of the Krakandar Thieves’ Guild, Wrayan discovered—he had been granted leave by the Greenharbour Guild to pursue his chosen career, provided they got twenty per cent of all his takings. Brak thought the figure offensive, but Wrayan accepted it philosophically as the cost of doing business here.

  Besides, the alternative w
as to go it alone and risk a visit from the Doorman, resulting in broken kneecaps (or worse) as a warning from the Guild about the perils of freelancing.

  Dressed in his dark Harshini leathers, Wrayan blatantly used his magic to aid him in his chosen career. He’d been uneasy about that to start with, questioning the ethics of using magic to enhance his criminal activities, until Brak reminded him, that by stealing anything he was honouring the God of Thieves. The Harshini never judged any of the gods as good or evil. Even the concept of right and wrong was a little bit foreign to them, so there was nothing he was doing that would particularly bother them. On the Feast of Jakerlon, the God of Liars, the Harshini spent the day thinking up the most outrageous lies they could imagine for the entertainment and amusement of their god. Or at least, they tried to. For a race to whom lying was not a natural skill, telling any falsehood was something of a chore for them. Still, any race that celebrated a liar and a thief with the same enthusiasm as it honoured the Goddess of Love wasn’t going to be offended by the judicious use of a bit of magic to stop a worshipper from being caught in the act of honouring his god.

  Wrayan travelled the flat rooftops of Greenharbour like a shadow, flitting from one pocket of darkness to the next. With his magically enhanced Harshini senses, he knew when there were people in a room and if they were sleeping or awake. He could feel somebody coming down a hall long before others could hear them. No dog barked at his approach, no startled cat betrayed his presence. Even when his handiwork was discovered while he was still in the vicinity, the city guards never saw him, their eyes sliding over him as if he wasn’t really there—a useful trick Brak had taught him that required astonishingly little power.