Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  Once planted, the seeds of distrust took root quickly, Marla discovered.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” Nash whispered, as he slid into the bed beside her and realised she was awake. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Did you have a good night?” she asked, turning to look at his face in the darkness.

  He smiled. “It was excellent. But I won’t kiss you. I must smell like a barrel of ale.”

  “You smell just fine to me.”

  Nash didn’t take the bait. He snuggled down beside her and gathered her into his arms. “You’re too good to me, Marla. Most wives would yell at a man for coming home drunk in the wee small hours after a night out with the boys.”

  Nash didn’t sound drunk. Or smell it either. He smelt clean and wonderful, the way he always did. As if he’d bathed before he came home, a traitorous little voice in her head whispered.

  “Make love to me, Nash.” In all the time they had been married, she’d never had to ask him that. Not once.

  “Now?”

  “No, next Fifthday!” she laughed softly. “When did you think I meant? Of course, now.”

  “It’s awfully late, my love. And I’m very tired.”

  Worn out from your mistress, are you? the traitor in her head asked.

  Stop this! Marla told herself angrily.

  But she couldn’t help herself. “Don’t you want me any more?”

  “I always want you. You know that.” He kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes, determined to sleep. “But can’t a man be tired once in a while?”

  Of course you can be tired. But why tonight, Nash? Why, on this night, of all nights, couldn’t you just take me in your arms and make me believe there’s nobody else?

  “I’m sorry.”

  Nash didn’t respond to her apology. He was feigning sleep, she was certain. Nobody lost consciousness that quickly without a blow to the head.

  “I love you, Nash,” she told him softly.

  “I love you, too,” he murmured, pulling her closer.

  After a time, his breathing became deep and even and Marla knew that he really was sleeping this time. She lay awake in his arms until dawn, wishing she hadn’t sent Elezaar away.

  But then, even if the court’esa were here and she had someone to confide in, all he could have done was remind her of the Fourth Rule of Gaining and Wielding Power.

  Trust nobody but yourself.

  chapter 87

  A

  few days after he’d been to visit Kagan, a messenger from the Thieves’ Guild was waiting for Wrayan at the boarding house when he got home in the early hours of the morning after relieving a dour matron on Durony Street of most of her jewellery. The message bearer was a scrawny lad of about nine who sat on the top step outside the boarding house, cleaning his filthy fingernails with a wicked-looking blade while he waited for Wrayan to appear.

  “You the Wraith?” the lad asked as Wrayan approached. It was still dark although the air was balmy. Summer was fast approaching and with it Green-harbour’s notorious humidity.

  Wrayan stopped and stared at the boy, puzzled by the question. “The what?”

  “Wrayan the Wraith,” the boy explained. “That’s who Gillam told me to wait for.”

  “Wrayan the Wraith?”

  “Hey, don’t blame me,” the child shrugged. “And it could be worse. Last chap I delivered a message to was called Taryn the Turd. Nice threads, by the way,” the boy added, looking Wrayan’s leathers up and down with a covetous eye. “Bet you could go just about bleedin’ anywhere without bein’ seen, dressed like that. Where’d you get ‘em?”

  “They were a gift from the Harshini,” Wrayan told him.

  The boy scowled at him. “Fine, don’t tell me then. Make you look like a bleedin’ fancy boy, anyway.”

  “What does Gillam want?” Wrayan asked.

  “He wants to see you.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Do I look like his bleedin’ secretary?”

  “Did he say when?”

  The boy rose to his feet and dusted off his filthy trousers. “Now.”

  Franz Gillam was the head of the Thieves’ Guild in Greenharbour. He was a nondescript little man, with white hair and a slow smile that sent a shiver down the spine of any man reckless enough to cross him. He was the sort of man you could walk past in the street and never even notice—one of the qualities that made him such a good pickpocket. Although Wrayan was a burglar, being the son of a well-respected pickpocket made him quite a favourite with the old man. It didn’t hurt that he’d been making a tidy fortune for the Guild since arriving in the city, either. Gillam got a cut of everything the Guild earned, so, in a way, Wrayan was responsible for his current prosperity.

  Although not as blatant as the Assassins’ Guild, who actually had a sign outside their building a couple of blocks from the High Prince’s palace, the Thieves’ Guild made no secret of their headquarters. It was a two-storey, red-brick building down near the wharves with a rather pretentious marble portico out the front and a doorman—known only, oddly enough, as The Doorman—who wore the livery of a nobleman’s slave and had the ability to break a man’s kneecaps with his decorative staff on little more than a nod from Franz Gillam.

  Gillam smiled as Wrayan walked into his office, furnished entirely with items stolen from all over the city. The head of the Guild liked to lead by example, he claimed. The comfortable leather sofa had once belonged to the High Prince, it was rumoured, although how anybody could manage to lift something so large and cumbersome and sneak it out of the palace was beyond Wrayan. He suspected the story was either an outright lie or Gillam had acquired it by deceit rather than theft. Neither would have bothered the little man. It was a given that if one honoured Dacendaran, one frequently honoured Jakerlon, the God of Liars, in the same breath.

  “I hear old Widow Saks is missing some rather valuable trinkets?” the thief said as Wrayan took a seat on the High Prince’s sofa.

  “She hardly goes out any more,” Wrayan shrugged. “Seemed a pity to leave all that nice jewellery lying about the house gathering dust.”

  “You see!” Gillam declared with an approving nod. “That’s what people just don’t get about us, Wrayan. We’re actually performing a civil service for the citizens of Greenharbour. We’ve saved her how many hours a week dusting that stuff? Cleaning’s such a chore, too.”

  “And it’s so hard to find decent slaves these days,” Wrayan agreed with a grin. “What did you want to see me about?” He thought it couldn’t be too bad. Gillam would have sent The Doorman, not a lad, to collect him if Wrayan had transgressed against the Guild’s rules in any way.

  “Had someone down here looking for you yesterday.”

  “Really?”

  “Someone real important.”

  Wrayan waited for Gillam to go on, but the man seemed disinclined to continue. After a moment’s pregnant silence, Wrayan threw up his hands. “Well? Are you going to tell me who, or is this a guessing game?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew the High Prince’s sister?” Gillam replied, watching him closely.

  “Princess Marla came here looking for me?”

  “You been takin’ more than the silverware from the Princess’s place?” Gillam asked with a raised brow.

  “Taking more than the silverware” was a euphemism in the Guild for sleeping with the lady of the house while out on a job. Wrayan knew of a few thieves who thought it fun. He thought it absurdly dangerous. While the understanding was that the woman must be a willing participant in what was considered, in some circles, a harmless if somewhat titillating and certainly risky game, a serious problem arose when the lady’s husband (father, master . . .) inadvertently walked in on a thrill-seeking burglar helping himself to “more than the silverware”. Everyone involved (with the exception of the thief) invariably cried rape. The woman would never admit that she was so jaded she got a thrill out of letting a perfect stranger have his way with her; th
e man of the house would never admit that his womenfolk were so dissatisfied with his efforts to please them that they might invite a perfect stranger to have his way with her. So of course it was rape. And that meant death to the thief and a great deal of trouble for everyone else involved.

  Wrayan shook his head. “I’ve never even done over the Hawksword place. Too risky. Too many guards.”

  “Well, she knows you. She asked for you by name.”

  “Did the princess say what she wanted?”

  “She wants you.” Gillam slid a folded piece of parchment across the desk.

  “What does it say?” Wrayan asked, knowing full well that Gillam had read the note.

  “It’s just a time and a place.”

  “And you’ll be there watching me, of course?”

  “You don’t get to deal with someone as important as the mother of the next High Prince without us knowing what’s going on, lad. You shouldn’t need me to tell you that.”

  “Maybe she wants me to do a job for her.”

  “Well, whatever it is,” Gillam warned, “I want to know about it.”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” Wrayan agreed as he rose to his feet. He took the folded piece of parchment, knowing there could only be one reason why Princess Marla wanted to see him.

  Kagan must have delivered his warning about Nash and Alija Eaglespike, after all.

  Marla had arranged to meet Wrayan in the temple dedicated to Zegarnald, the God of War, in the centre of the city. It was by far the largest temple in Greenharbour, outside the Sorcerers’ Collective, where the massive Temple of the Gods dominated the city skyline. As Hythria probably had more followers of the War God than any other nation on the continent, his temple was always a busy place and it was a good place for a thief and a princess to rub shoulders without raising suspicion.

  He didn’t recognise her at first. The princess was wearing a white veil that shadowed her face and concealed her rich clothing. In the crowded temple, where it was customary to prick your finger on the spikes near the door so that you honoured the God of War with a blood sacrifice before departing, she looked like just another widow come to beg the God of War’s protection for the soul of her lost husband.

  “Wrayan Lightfinger.”

  He turned at the sound of his softly spoken name to find the princess standing behind him. She had matured a great deal since he saw her last, which was, he realised, over five years ago. She had lost the coltishness of youth and had blossomed into a truly beautiful woman.

  “My lady,” Wrayan replied, with a short, polite bow, guessing she no more wished to be identified in public than he did.

  “I appreciate you answering my summons,” she said, coming to stand alongside him. “I hope I didn’t get you into too much trouble by appearing at your Guild.”

  “Just a few questions about how I know you,” he assured her. “Did Kagan tell you how to find me?”

  “No. He just mentioned that you were a thief now. I figured the Guild was the best place to start.”

  “He told you then,” Wrayan surmised. “What I saw.”

  “Yes. But I didn’t believe him. I don’t believe you.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I have to be sure, Wrayan,” she said, in a flat voice devoid of all emotion. “Someone tried to kill my son. I can’t afford to leave any stone unturned, even if I’m certain there is nothing under the stone but good clean soil.” She hesitated for a moment then added, “Tell me what you saw, Wrayan. All of it.”

  So Wrayan told her. They stood in the temple of the God of War, side by side, as if they were simply two strangers praying, while Wrayan explained in a low voice exactly what he’d seen in Alija’s house.

  “And there is no doubt in your mind that the man was my husband?” she asked when he was finished. “Even though you never saw his face?”

  “No doubt at all, my lady.”

  “And why should I believe you?”

  “I have no reason to lie, my lady.”

  “Don’t you? Where have you been these past five years, Wrayan? Kagan thought you gone forever. Why should I believe anything from the mouth of a thief who abandoned his master and let everyone think he was dead?”

  “I was injured, my lady. Very badly. I’ve spent much of the past few years with the Harshini in Medalon. I came back to fulfil a vow I made to the God of Thieves.”

  Marla glanced up at him with a faint smile. “I find that harder to believe than your story about my husband.”

  “But it’s the truth. I can even prove it if you want,” he offered, wondering what Brak would make of such a suggestion. “Although I’d prefer not to do it in quite so public a place as this.”

  “I may yet ask that of you, Wrayan Lightfinger,” she replied, but if she said anything else after that he couldn’t hear it. The temple bells began to toll, along with the bells from every other temple in the city, the metallic chorus led by the massive bronze bells of the Temple of the Gods. Marla, along with every other person in the temple, looked around in confusion. Like them, she was puzzled by what the sudden tolling of every bell in the city meant.

  Wrayan didn’t need to ask. He knew the last time the city bells had tolled like this was some ten years ago, just after Tesha Zorell brought him to the Sorcerers’ Collective. Then it was because Garel Wolfblade, the High Prince of Hythria, had just died, leaving the way open for his son Lernen to inherit.

  The only other time in Greenharbour’s history that all the bells tolled in unison was on the death of a High or Lower Arrion.

  With a heavy heart, Wrayan recalled the sick old man he had visited only a few days ago in his room at the Sorcerers’ Collective, and knew with certainty that Kagan Palenovar was dead.

  chapter 88

  T

  he funeral and the appointment of the new High Arrion were held simultaneously, in a practical, if somewhat irreverent, case of “out with the old and in with the new”. Marla was shocked when she learned the Sorcerers’ Collective had met to decide their new High Arrion the very night Kagan had died. She was even more disturbed, although not really surprised, to learn his successor was Alija Eaglespike.

  Alija had handled herself very wisely these last few years. From a pariah whom half the Warlords of Hythria were willing to band together to defeat, she had become acceptable, even accepted. Once Barnardo stopped making noises about becoming High Prince, and the fear of a sorcerer behind the throne had abated, the Royalists had relaxed a little. Only then did they have time to notice that a sorcerer behind the throne was exactly what they’d wound up with anyway. Lernen Wolfblade was a figurehead. The heir to the throne was a small child. Hythria was, in reality, being governed by Kagan Palenovar and all their posturing about the separation of religion and state seemed rather pointless in hindsight.

  Alija had won the support of everyone, sorcerer and Warlord alike, by promising to do the exact opposite of what they had once feared was her ambition. She would not, she promised, attempt to interfere with the governance of Hythria. That was the High Prince’s job. Kagan spent so much time at the palace, he had his own suite of rooms there, she complained. This would not happen any more. Lernen must govern the nation as High Prince. The High Arrion was responsible for the health of the nation’s soul; he or she should not be expected to do the work of a lazy, perverted despot as well.

  Marla was dressing for the ceremony, putting on the mourning veil she had worn when she went to meet Wrayan Lightfinger, when Nash came into the dressing room. He kissed her behind the ear and smiled at her in the mirror. “You look gorgeous.”

  “That wasn’t actually the look I was aiming for,” she replied with a frown. “This is a funeral, Nash.”

  “And a celebration,” he reminded her. “We have a new High Arrion, don’t forget.” He smiled and added cheekily, “And she’s a damn sight better-looking than the last one, I have to say.”

  Marla turned to look at him curiously. “Do you like Alija, Nash?”r />
  “I suppose,” he shrugged. “I never really thought about it.”

  “You’ve known her for a long time, haven’t you?”

  “I knew her back when . . .” He hesitated, looking a little uncomfortable.

  “What?”

  “When she and Laran looked like they might be . . . an item.”

  “I didn’t know about that.”

  “Alija passed him over for Barnardo. He didn’t like to talk about it much.”

  Marla desperately wanted to ask him more. She wanted to ask him if he was sleeping with Alija. How long has it been going on? Since before you met me? After? Why? What did I do wrong? But she said nothing, still clinging to the hope that it wasn’t the truth. Still desperate to believe that a common thief everyone believed had been dead for the last five years had simply made up the whole thing for—

  And that was where her reasoning failed her every time. There was no reason for Wrayan to lie, which left only the intolerable notion that he might be telling the truth.

  “We should get going,” she suggested, pinning the veil into place. “We don’t want to be late. Alija might be offended.”

  He nodded his agreement and opened the door for her. If he noticed the bitterness in her voice when she mentioned Alija’s name, he studiously ignored it. Because it’s all a lie, she told herself firmly.

  Then the traitor’s voice in her head added, Or because he’s had so much practice in lying to you, he doesn’t even need to think about it any more.

  The ceremony to lay the old High Arrion to rest and elevate the new one into his place seemed to go on for hours and Marla was desperate to be gone from the Sorcerers’ Collective by the time she was finally able to escape. Despite a copious banquet laid out afterwards for the guests, Marla could barely look at the food. She’d drunk a little too much wine, too, which didn’t help her unsettled stomach.

  I’ve haven’t felt this light-headed since I tried to get drunk the first night I was married to Laran, she thought.