Gail Z. Martin - COTN 03 - Dark Haven (V1.0)(lit)

by Gail Z. Martin

  "If it's efficiency you love, then where were you all those years that Dark Haven sat empty?" Rafe's voice had a hard edge to it. "What did you do for the holdings? You were content to let the vineyards waste away. We all were. We cared nothing about whether the vil­lagers made a living, so long as they didn't come after us. Yes, Vahanian has accomplished so much so quickly because of Gabriel's back­ing. But now that I've seen what they've done,

  I'm ashamed that we let the holdings deterio­rate. We wouldn't have done that for our own lands. I'm intrigued to see what this lord makes of the title. You should love that, Uri. A wild card."

  "What do we care what happens to the vine­yards?"

  Astasia had strategically positioned herself between Rafe and Cailan, and she was enjoy­ing the tension that produced. Malesh suppressed a smile. Astasia considered herself too good for him. Malesh would surprise her. Once his plan worked, Astasia's finely honed sense for opportunity would bring her to him, and to his bed.

  "How do we prosper if the villagers grow fat?" Astasia challenged. "Will it fatten the goats they offer us, or the criminals they stake out for us to kill? Perhaps if they're wealthy there will be more cutpurses, and more for us to eat. Who among us needs the gold the traders bring? Outlanders bring their fear of our kind. They judge our mortal relationships, as if it's perversion for us to dwell among the living and take our lovers where we choose. When the last lord died, Dark Haven turned in on itself, and the outlanders stopped coming. No one to burn us, no one to spread lies about us to the mortals. We've been safe. Change can only bring grief."

  "The fact remains that the Lady Herself chose Jonmarc Vahanian as the new Lord of Dark Haven, and we are oath-bound to the Lady." Gabriel's irritation was clear in his voice.

  "Did she?" Uri asked, staring at the ceiling. "You were the one who claimed to. have the dream that foretold a new lord's coming. You're the one who said the Lady sent you to find Jonmarc Vahanian. And you're the one who claimed the Lady made you Martris Drayke's protector, even though it broke your vow to honor the truce. What do we have except your word that any of that's true?"

  "How can you doubt the will of the Lady?" Yestin stepped forward. "Martris Drayke won back the throne of Margolan, against the Obsidian King as well as Foor Arontala. Jon­marc Vahanian has survived against all odds. Surely the hand of the Lady is clear!"

  "I find that the will of the Lady is always clearest to those who wanted to go in that direction anyhow," Uri replied with ennui. "So perhaps it's the will of the Lady that the truce is broken. I understand that many vayash moru in Margolan have volunteered for the Margolan army, to hunt down Jared's loyalists. And Vahanian trains with Laisren to fight vayash moru. Is that, also, the will of the Lady?"

  "Considering your threats, he'd be a fool not to." Riqua snapped. "The Lord of Dark Haven — and his Lady - must be as safe among our kind as we wish to be among mortals. Prosper­ous mortals have no need to fear us. The mobs

  turn against us when they're hungry, driven by superstition and fear. Vahanian offers us a way of doing business we've not seen before, a full partnership where we've only ever lurked in the shadows. Why shouldn't we support that?"

  Uri looked from Riqua to Gabriel and the others. Malesh saw the hard glint that came to his maker's eyes, a look that meant Uri had reached his limit. "We're not meant to partner with mortals. We're meant to rule. Like the wolf rules the forest," he said with a glance toward Yestin. "We are the top predator. It's the way of nature. The strongest wins. And that is the will of the Lady." He glared at Gabriel. "I'll stop baiting your precious mortal lord when he proves to me that he can win his prize in fair combat. And if you can choose to break the truce as you see fit, then so can I. My patience with the Council is over."

  Malesh followed Uri from the room, stu­diously keeping his expression neutral. That couldn't have gone better if I'd been Uri's pup­pet master. The truce is dead. Uri's cut off from the rest of the Council. He's declared Vahanian fair game. Uri's soft and slow. He's about to find out just what the top predator looks like. They're worried about the Lady's will. But it's my will that is going to remake Dark Haven— and there's not a thing their precious Council can do about it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Cam stood outside the inn for half a candlemark, watching patrons come and go from the shadow of an alley across the street. Overhead, the winter wind snapped at the pieces of laundry forgotten by their owners for the night, left to freeze on the lines. Behind him, a cat yowled. The alley smelled of urine and rotted food, and only the night's chill pre­vented it from smelling even worse.

  The Stray Dog Inn lived up to its name. Aberponte was Isencroft's palace city, but the streets where its wealthiest residents lived were far from these twisted alleys. This was home to the city's poorest residents, the people whose luck had let them down. The Stray Dog Inn made no pretense of long-faded glory. It was clear that the Stray Dog's building had been many things over the years, none of them very successful. Its thatched roof was bare in places, and the plaster beside the door was stained and cracked. A drunk slept off his wine near the front steps, unlikely to ever wake up again in this cold.

  It was the kind of place Cam might have brought a dozen soldiers to shut down, either for cheating on taxes or rigging the card games. Tonight, Cam wore an old set of tunic and trews he had borrowed, from one of the palace's gardeners. The clothes were stained, worn, and appropriately smelling of dirt; he hoped to fit right in. Two weeks had pas'sed since Cam's return from the wedding in Mar-golan. For most of that time, he had been watching the patrons come and go at the Stray Dog Inn. Checking first in both directions, Cam entered the inn.

  "What'll you have?"

  The barkeeper looked up as Cam entered, and he looked down again just as quickly when he saw that Cam's sword was sheathed. Cam put two copper pieces on the bar.

  "Give me an ale." The barkeeper slid the tankard across the bar and Cam settled himself where he could watch the door. Near the fire, a pox-faced bard warbled through an old bal­lad. The inn's patrons were too drunk or too engrossed in their chatter to care how often the bard's voice cracked or how flat his lyre was.

  There'd been rumors that the divisionists met here, although as Cam looked around the

  room, none of the small groups of patrons seemed likely conspirators. If most looked up from their dice or their ale, it was to leer at the serving girls, who were as shopworn as the inn. A candlemark passed, then two. Cam kept an ear open to the conversations around him.

  "Heard that grain's going to cost double by summer," a trader mused at the next table.

  "What do you expect, after the trouble in Margolan? Lucky if we've got bread on the table by spring," his companion said.

  "Don't mind going without bread, but I'd hate to see us run out of mead," the trader replied.

  "From the taste of this rubbish, the bar here ran out of mead a while ago. And the bread is stale enough to use for a brick. Fah. A couple of coppers used to buy more."

  Cam rose and let himself out the back door, heading for the privy. It was a sorry looking shack that stank even in the frigid air. Its rick­ety door was barely solid enough to screen its user from view and did nothing to stop the wind. Finished with his business, Cam was about to open the privy door when he heard voices nearby.

  "What have you heard?"

  "It's all been arranged. The Lord's got his man in place in Margolan—couldn't pay me enough in Trevath gold to live in that damned haunted castle."

  "What do you want us to do?"

  "Keep the guards hopping. Enough fires and street fights and Donelan will be too busy to bother about what's happening in Margolan."

  "How do we know Margolan won't just march an army over to keep peace if Donelan can't handle it?" .

  "The Margolan army is busy. The Lord saw to that. Once King Martris is out of the way, you can have your princess back—and whatev­er brat she's carrying as a bonus. You get yours, we get ours—nice and tidy."

&n
bsp; Cam waited until the .men had gone. He was chilled through, but his mind raced at the "con­versation. One of the men had the hint of a Trevath accent. What does does a Trev care about Isencroft's crown? He's got no cause with the divisionists—unless it's to keep us busy while Tris goes to war. Cam went back to the inn long enough to warm up once more, and was about to head home when someone bumped against him.

  Just as quickly, Cam knew the bag of coins at his belt was gone. A skinny boy leaped over a bench and bolted out of the door. Cam shoul­dered his way through the crowd in pursuit, catching sight of the boy half a block down the street. For a man his size, Cam moved with surprising speed, and he tackled the boy before the pickpocket could disappear into one of the side streets.

  "Take your poxy coins!" the boy said, squirming in Cam's grip. "Just don't turn me in to the guards. I've had enough trouble lately."

  "Answer a couple of questions, and I might not hand you over. Seen anyone around the Stray Dog with a Trevath accent?"

  The boy wiped at some blood at the corner of his lip and glared at Cam. "Maybe."

  "Seen any Trevath gold around?"

  "Maybe."

  Cam shook his head and started to hoist the pickpocket to his feet. "With a memory like that, there's no reason not to turn you in—"

  "All right. Yes. Name is Ruggs. Looks like the kind who has a different name in every tav­ern, if you get my meaning. Shows up every fortnight. I seen him talking with Leather John. He's a bad seed. On busy days, the innkeeper gives me a few coppers to feed the horses out back. Once I overheard a bit of what Leather John and Ruggs was saying. Leather John said his boys needed more money for weapons. Said they had to move about to keep from getting caught. From the way he talked, I figured he doesn't fancy our princess marrying up a for­eigner. Ruggs gave Leather John a pouch. Told him to step it up, burn more. Said his boss wanted to make sure Isencroft kept out of other people's business. Didn't rightly know what he meant, but then the old grocer's place went up in flames the next night."

  Cam's fingers were growing numb from the cold and his grip on the pickpocket's shirt. "Did you hear anything else? A name? A place?"

  "Just one. Lord somebody. Don't recall the name."

  Cam relieved the pickpocket of the stolen pouch and then took out a silver coin and held it up. "When do you go back to work at the stable again?"

  The pickpocket eyed the coin. "Next week. Why?"

  "What's your name?"

  "Which one?"

  "The one they know you bv at the Stray Dog."

  "Kev."

  "All right, Kev. The next time you work at the inn, keep an eye out for Leather John and Ruggs. Go feed the horses, take a leak, bring them an ale—whatever you have to do to get close to them. I'll pay you a silver for the infor­mation. Mind that it's not something you made up, or I'll know and you'll be out in the stocks at the guard house. It gets mighty cold at night."

  "I understand," Kev snapped. He shook free of Cam's grip.

  "Find out where Ruggs goes when he leaves the Dog, and there's another silver in it for you. Don't get caught. Can't imagine a guy like that would take it well."

  "How will I find you?"

  "I'll find you."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  " I wish things could be different." Kiara said, watching Tris fasten his heavy cloak. Below their window, in the courtyard, she could already hear the clamor of the army readying to leave for war.

  Tris wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, lingering in the moment. She didn't need a healer's gift to recognize the tension in his shoulders. The campaign was unlikely to move smoothly. "So do I. But we both know there's no choice."

  A month had passed since their wedding, just long enough for the healers to be certain that she carried the child of the king. Just a few days before, the same courtyard had been filled with cheering people as Zachar, weak and barely able to return to his duties, announced that the king and queen were expecting. All the hope and happiness that announcement should have brought were dimmed by the knowledge that it meant Tris was now free to wage war.

  "You have Cerise and Malae to look after you," Tris said, stroking Kiara's hair. "Zachar's not well, but Crevan's handled things so far. Mikhail will be here to help, Carroway and Harrtuck will watch out for you. And the dogs will keep you company." He absently reached down to touch the wolfhound's head as the big dog nosed in between them, jealous for atten­tion. "I've asked Comar Hassad to have'the ghosts watch over you as well. You'll be safe here." He forced a smile. "You both will."

  "It's you I'm worried about," Kiara said, reluctantly stepping back from their embrace. "You're a king now. And a father. Don't take any foolish chances."

  "Did Soterius tell you to say that? He and Mikhail have been lecturing me for days now. Ban wants to keep me so far behind the lines that I won't even be able to see Curane's manor. With luck, we'll break them quickly and it won't come to outright war."

  They both knew that was unlikely. "You have a reason to come back in one piece," she said quietly.

  "More than one. But I can't leave Curane in place. He's not just a threat to me, and to Margolan, but he's also a threat to the next king—or queen—as well."

  "I know. But I don't have to like it."

  "Neither do I." A knock at the door made him hurry to gather his cloak. He was dressed for the outside cold, with a winter-weight tunic and trews beneath his mail shirt. A breastplate with the king's coat of arms blazoned across his chest. The rest of his armor—and that of the army—waited in the long train of wagons outside the courtyard. The knock came again, more insistent this time.

  "Be careful," he whispered, giving her a last kiss good bye. "I'm looking forward to a warm welcome when I get home."

  Despite herself, Kiara smiled as he drew away. "Count on it. But you'd better go before Soterius breaks down the door."

  Coalan, not Soterius, waited in the hallway. "The men are ready to ride." Coalan was dressed for the journey as the king's valet, and Tris noticed the new sword that hung beneath Coalan's cloak, a gift from Soterius.

  Tris followed Coalan, pausing for one back­ward glance. Kiara waved and smiled bravely. Down in the courtyard, the army and all its retainers spilled out of the bailey and down onto the road. Four thousand men at arms and their horses, plus squires, cooks, drivers, and armorers. Wagons were filled with food for men and horses, weapons, armor, tack, cloth­ing, bedding, and tents. Pack mules and extra horses added to the procession, plus two wag­ons for the half-dozen mages who had defied the Sisterhood and volunteered for the battle. Come nightfall, Tris knew, dozens of vayash moru would join them. Vyrkin, too. Pennants flew overhead and the crowd that gathered had a festival air to it.

  "Everything's ready," Soterius said, coming alongside Tris. "Awaiting your signal."

  Tris nodded. Coalan brought his horse and held it while Tris swung up to the saddle. "Let's ride." He glanced behind him. Kiara stood on the balcony. It's the role she's schooled for all her life. Queen of Margolan. And Goddess knows, it will take everything she's got to hold the court together while I'm gone.

  Kiara watched the army stream from the palace courtyard. The long procession wound its way through the gates and down the road from the palace city until the road rose and the figures disappeared from sight. She finally turned back toward her rooms, surprised to see Cerise waiting with a woolen wrap. Tris's dogs followed her. The two wolfhounds were first to claim a spot near the fire in the sitting room. The mastiff ambled his way toward the hearth, circling before he lay down.

  "It'll hardly do for you to catch a chill," Cerise said, holding the wrap for her. "It's a bit warmer here than in Isencroft, but hardly warm enough to stand outside. Make has tea for us. You look a bit peaked, dear."

  Malae was waiting with tea and cakes set out on the table for the three of them. "Not much that a good cup of tea can't help, I always say."

  Kiara sank down into a chair, snuggling the wrap around herself. "Was it like this for mot
her, when father had to go out on cam­paign?"

  "Every time, my dear," Cerise replied.

  "Except that your mother favored port over tea on such an occasion," Malae added.

  "I remember father being gone for months at a time when I was a child. But mother never let on that anything was wrong. For all I knew, he was out on a hunt."

  Malae reached over to pat her hand. "Viata didn't want you to worry. After you were asleep, we would often sit up the whole night with her when your father was at war. When­ever he was able to send a letter, she would read it over and over, looking for hidden clues about how things were really going. It was worse when you were old enough to go with him. She worried about you both. But she kept up a brave front. As you must, my dear."

  "I know. I tried not to let Tris know how afraid I am for him."

  Cerise placed her hands on Kiara's shoulders. Kiara could feel Cerise's healing magic flow through her, into the stiff muscles of her back and neck. It warmed her even more than the tea, and she shrugged off the wrap as the warmth of the nearby fireplace took the last of the chill.

  "You have your own battles here," Malae said. "Your first job is to stay safe."

  "That's not something mother did very well, was it," Kiara said wistfully, sipping her tea. She knew that Viata's ghost was nearby.

  "She did everything in her power to make it easier for you," Cerise said, settling down beside Kiara. "And you have friends here. Tonight, Bard Carroway is giving a concert in your honor."

  "Speaking of which—who changed the neck­lace I set out?" Malae said, picking up a piece of jewelry from where it lay on the bed next to Kiara's gown for the evening. There was a cool wind, and out of the corner of her eye, Kiara caught a glimpse of a young woman in a ser­vant's dress.

  "Seanna, is that you?" Kiara asked. Unseen hands smoothed the gown's skirt. "Tris told me you'd look after me," Kiara said although she could not see the ghost. "Did you choose the necklace?" The fire suddenly grew brighter, as if a gust of air had blown on it. "I'll take that as a yes. Thank you."