“Braun Branador is a brute,” Charisee said before she could stop herself. “If that is the son, I’m afraid to even guess what the father is like.”
“Frederak Branador is the least of your problems, Rakaia,” Adrina told her, refilling Charisee’s wine with her own hand. “He’s an old man. Really old. He raised my children’s grandmother, for pity’s sake, and he’s really quite sweet when he remembers what day it is. If he does anything more than share your bed for the sake of appearances, I will be astonished. But you needed to meet Braun and his son before you get to Highcastle. They are your real problem, because it’s Braun who effectively rules there. Not his father.”
“Then why wasn’t the deal done with Braun?”
“Two reasons,” Adrina said. “The first is that Braun is already married to Olivah’s mother, so he wasn’t available for a marriage, and the second is that I fought tooth and nail to prevent you from ever becoming Olivah’s wife.”
Charisee frowned. That made no sense. Admittedly, her first impression of Olivah was a sleazy charmer far too aware of his own good looks, but surely that was preferable than being married to a man old enough to be her great-grandfather?
“Why would you do that?”
“Are you questioning me, Rakaia?”
“No. I just want to understand.”
Adrina leaned back and took a sip of her wine. “Frederak will be lucky if he lives another three years. That means in three years you will be free to marry whomever you like. You will be Frederak Branador’s widow, at that point, not the king of Fardohnya’s daughter. He has an heir and his heir also has an heir, so even if you conceived a child, it wouldn’t stand to inherit much in the way of titles or wealth. If you married Olivah, on the other hand, you would be stuck with him for life. I know his type, Rakaia. I was married to a man like him once. There is no chance I will be a party to that happening to one of my sisters.”
Adrina made a lot of sense. And it might only be three years. Perhaps less. It hardly seemed like any time at all.
Charisee nodded in understanding. “I won’t let you down, Adrina.”
“And I’ll do my best to make your time pass as comfortably as possible,” she promised. “I know Frederak sent Brinnie to serve you, but she’s a kitchen wench elevated by Braun as some sort of prank, I’m sure. I’ll find you someone more suitable. Someone you can trust. I could send for Charisee if you want.”
Deep breaths, Charisee, deep breaths . . .
“Thank you, but I think my sister is happier where she is. Besides, another Fardohnyan would not make matters any easier for me in Highcastle, I suspect. I’m happy for you to choose someone appropriate.”
Adrina nodded, accepting the wisdom of her suggestion. “We shall have to get you your own court’esa, too. Someone who can double as a bodyguard wouldn’t go astray, either.”
“Do you have your own court’esa, Adrina?”
The question made her sister smile. “No. When you meet Damin, you’ll understand why.”
“Is he jealous?”
Adrina laughed. “Not in the slightest. He’s just . . . well, you’ll see when you meet him.”
“I hope it’s soon. I’d like to meet the High Prince before the wedding, if it’s possible. He will be giving me away, after all.”
The smile faded from Adrina’s face. “That’s something we need to talk about, actually, Rakaia.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Why don’t we visit Damin now,” Adrina said, putting down her wine and rising to her feet. “And you can see for yourself.”
Chapter
52
CADEN FLETCHER LOOKED out over the city of Krakandar, high above the red rooftops here in the palace, counting the days until they crossed the border into Medalon. It was only since they‘d arrived in Krakandar that it had occurred to him how much he wanted to get home to the Citadel.
All this traveling on sorcerer-bred horses, able to travel farther and longer than any normal beast when linked with the minds of their Harshini handlers, was a hard thing for a man skeptical of all things magical to accept.
It wasn’t that Cade didn’t like the Harshini. They were really quite delightful, once you got to know them, and he’d yet to meet a Harshini woman he wouldn’t have traded his soul to spend an hour in bed with. Since they’d returned from Sanctuary there were hundreds of them in the Citadel. So many nobody even glanced at them oddly any more. But Cade had grown up being taught the Harshini and their pet demons were evil, and even though the logical part of him knew that was far from the truth, old childhood prejudices were harder to put aside than he imagined they’d be.
“Why the long face?”
Cade turned from the window to find the warlord of Krakandar and Rorin Mariner, the Lower Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective, entering the sitting room. For some reason, they’d both changed since dinner. Rorin had long since shed his official robes, but Starros Krakenshield was dressed in old clothes, the kind a workman might wear if he was heading out for a night on the town. He looked anything but the dapper, well-dressed lord who had greeted them on their arrival yesterday.
“I’m sorry, my lord, was I looking miserable?”
Starros smiled. “You might be. Or it might be your natural expression. Hard to tell with you Medalonians. Would you like a tour of the seedier parts of the city?”
“Excuse me?”
“Starros has certain commitments to the God of Thieves,” Marla announced, walking into the room behind Starros and Rorin. She still carried the cane she was using when he first met her, but not because she needed support. The necessity of spending long days in the saddle had changed her mind about Harshini healing on her fractured hip. Now she carried the silver-topped cane, Cade suspected, just because she liked it. “I’m sure they conflict with his duties as the warlord of this province, but as it was my son who put him in this predicament, I have no choice but to turn a blind eye to whatever it is he’s up to.”
Marla walked to the sideboard and helped herself to the refreshments laid out for the Warlord’s guests. Cade knew he was missing something here, but wasn’t sure how to go about asking for an explanation.
“You’ll want to get rid of that uniform,” Marla suggested as she poured herself a cup of wine. “Remember what happened the last time you wandered the Thieves’ Quarter of a Hythrun city flaunting the fact that you’re an officer of the Medalonian Defenders?”
Cade remembered all too well the beating he’d received until the doorman from the Thieves’ Guild had arrived to even up the odds a little. He didn’t realize Princess Marla knew about it, though.
Still, a chance for a night off duty was a rare opportunity and he’d be a fool to turn down the invitation. They still had a long way to go, even with magical horses to expedite the journey. “I’m sure, in Lord Starros’s company, I’m safe from being set upon by a bunch of cowardly thieves.”
Marla laughed out loud at that, but offered no explanation for her mirth.
“Excellent,” Starros said. He was grinning, as if he knew what Marla was laughing about, but didn’t offer to explain the joke. “I’ll have some ordinary mounts saddled and meet you downstairs.”
“Cowardly thieves or not, no point tempting fate with a sorcerer-bred mount,” Rorin explained before Cade could ask what was wrong with the horses they’d arrived here with. And then he glanced at Starros with a grin. “There’s a lot of thieves out there.”
Starros smiled, but didn’t seemed offended by the Lower Arrion’s thinly veiled accusation. He turned to Marla, adding, “Don’t wait up.”
Marla sighed. “I remember when you were the sensible one, Starros, and Damin was the lunatic. What happened to those days?”
Starros walked over to Marla and kissed her on the cheek. Whatever the relationship between these two, it was obviously a long-standing and very fond one. “We grew up, Marla. And Damin became a High Prince.”
“That explains Damin,” Marla agreed, as Cade h
eaded out into the hall with Rorin. “What’s your excuse?”
Cade didn’t hear the rest of the exchange, but it did make him wonder. Perhaps, while they were touring “the seedier parts of town,” Starros or Rorin might explain why the fearsome Princess Marla treated the Warlord of Krakandar like one of her own children.
“HAS MARLA BEEN giving you merry hell?” Starros asked once they were well away from the palace.
“Actually, she’s been far better than I was expecting. Princess Adrina painted her highness as something of a shrew.”
“I think Adrina’s take on her mother-in-law’s character is a little skewed,” Rorin chuckled.
Starros nodded in agreement. “Marla’s a tough old bird, Captain. Don’t let her fool you into thinking anything else.”
“You know her very well?”
“All the Wolfblade children grew up here in Krakandar,” he said, which explained quite a bit. “Me among them. Marla wasn’t exactly the mother I never had, but she was probably the favorite aunt I never had. Are you looking forward to getting home?”
Subject nicely changed, Cade thought. “Very much.”
“Well, I hope Lord Tenragan isn’t too disappointed to find himself on the other side of the negotiating table with the dread Princess Marla rather than his good friend, the High Prince.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing what Hablet’s going to do when he finds out who is negotiating for Hythria,” Rorin said.
Cade was about to ask what the Lower Arrion meant by that, when he and Starros reigned in their horses and began to dismount. He looked around and realized they were outside a tavern. The sign announced it was the Pickpockets’ Retreat. The windows glowed yellow from the candlelight inside and the sweet voice of a minstrel spilled into the street leading a chorus in a cheerful song about sampling the silverware that seemed to have some sort of double meaning, given the raucous laughter whenever the phrase was repeated.
“Do Marla and Hablet know each other?” Cade asked as he dismounted.
Before Rorin could answer, a tousle-haired lad of about eight or nine hurried over to them and bowed theatrically. “Mind ya mounts for ya, me lords?”
“Andry, why aren’t you home in bed?” Starros asked with a frown. “It’s far too late for someone your age to be out hustling the Retreat’s customers.”
“Boy’s gotta eat, Lord Starros.”
“Boy’s gotta get some sleep, too,” the Warlord told him. He tossed the lad a coin. “You take the horses for me and my friends ’round to the stables out back and then go home. Tell that lazy, good-for-nothing father of yours I said you weren’t to be working the late shift. He wants money to drink, he can hustle his own coin.”
“Yes, sir,” Andry agreed with a forlorn expression. Cade and Rorin handed him their reins and he led the horses down to the lane, to what Cade assumed were the tavern’s stables.
“Friend of yours?” Cade asked, a little bemused by the power this Warlord seemed to have over the citizens of Krakandar. He tried to imagine the reaction he’d get in the Citadel if he tried sending some grubby street urchin packing on the grounds that he should have been home in bed.
“His father is a member of the Thieves’ Guild. We look after our own.”
Still no further enlightened, Cade followed Starros and Rorin into the tavern. The Warlord was greeted by almost everyone they passed as they made their way through the crowded tavern to the only empty booth in the corner. As soon as they were seated, the tavern owner—a portly man with a fabulous mustache—hurried over to take their orders. “Evenin’, Lord Starros. The usual?”
Starros nodded. “And the same for my friends.” He glanced around at the crowd, adding, “Big crowd for a workday night, Phyn.”
“It’s the minstrel,” Phyn replied, jerking his head over toward the fireplace, where the young man in question was playing a battered old lyre. The silverware song had finished. He was singing something about being far from home, and although he was barely into the second verse, there were already a few grown men dabbing at their eyes. A pretty blonde was working her way around the tables as he sang, holding out a hat for contributions. “Came in the other day looking for work. Karien lad, he is. Wish I could convince him to stay permanently. Place has never been busier. Can I get you anything to eat?”
“Just the drinks, thanks, Phyn.”
Once they were alone, their conversation covered by the sweet song of the minstrel, Starros resumed their earlier discussion. “I’m sorry, what was it you were asking?”
“How often Princess Marla and King Hablet have crossed swords,” Cade reminded him.
“Ah . . . that’s right. Well, as far as I know they’ve only met the once, back when Marla was still a girl.”
“But that once was enough,” Rorin said, “to spark a feud that lasted more than thirty years until the demon child arranged the marriage between his daughter and Marla’s son—against the wishes of both Hablet and Marla, you can be sure—which put an end to it.”
Cade shook his head. Founders, why is diplomacy never easy? “Lord Tenragan was hoping this treaty renewal would be a formality.”
“I’m sure he was,” Starros agreed. “His ability to keep the peace is what keeps him in power and the Sisters of the Blade from regaining any of their former influence.” Starros smiled at Cade’s expression. “What? You think we don’t keep abreast of Medalon’s internal politics. Krakandar borders Medalon, Captain, in case you’ve forgotten. I remain vitally interested in the goings on in the Citadel.”
“Nothing is a secret these days,” Cade lamented. “That’s the problem with the Harshini being back—no offense, Rorin. It’s just news travels too fast and not always the news you want broadcast.”
“Such is the cost of the Sisterhood failing so miserably at genocide,” Starros sighed with mock sympathy. Then he turned to look at the minstrel. “That lad is really very good, isn’t he?”
Cade hadn’t really been paying attention, but he stopped and listened for a moment. The young man had a voice almost as pure and sweet as the Harshini who performed so regularly in the Citadel’s amphitheater. “He’s remarkable.”
Phyn arrived with the drinks, three foaming tankards of ale. Starros stopped him as he turned to return to the bar. “When he has a break, tell the lad to come over.”
“Of course, m’lord.”
Phyn hurried off to deliver the message and Starros turned his attention back to Cade and Rorin.
“He reminds me of the concerts the Harshini put on in the Citadel.”
“I’m hoping the Sorcerers’ Collective Harshini will sing at the convocation later this year,” Starros said. “It might go some way to mitigating the boredom of sitting around a large table agreeing with the High Prince for a week, when he really doesn’t need the permission of the warlords to do anything he damn well pleases.”
Cade frowned. “Then you’ve not heard . . .”
“About Damin? Marla told me as soon as she arrived. But the convocation is at the end of summer. A lot can happen by then.”
“You’re not worried about him?”
“Of course I’m worried,” Starros said, lowering his voice a little. “But that’s not something I’m going to announce in a public tavern, is it?”
“Do you have something to announce, my lord?”
Starros and Cade both jumped with surprise to find the minstrel standing beside them, his battered old lyre tucked under his arm.
“Whatever this great announcement, allow me to sing it for you so the whole world may share your joy!”
“That won’t be necessary,” Starros told him with a wry smile aimed at Cade. “I just wanted to compliment you on your performance. You have a remarkable voice. It’s a gift from the gods, I’m sure.”
The lad seemed to find that amusing. “I’m sure it must be, my lord.”
“What’s your name?”
“I am Mica the Marvelous.”
“Well, Mica, keep up the good work
. I’m sure you’ll be welcome here at the Retreat as long as Phyn has a crowded taproom every night.”
The minstrel bowed expansively in response to the compliment. As he leaned forward, a tiny golden lyre on a chain fell forward out of his shirt. Cade stared at it for a moment, and then when it occurred to him where he’d seen it before, he leapt to his feet. “Arrest him!”
Starros and Rorin stared up at Cade with a bemused expression. “Excuse me?”
“He’s the lyre thief!”
“The what?”
Mica looked just as puzzled as Starros. “I can assure you, my lord, if I was going to steal a lyre, I’d have picked a better one than this old thing.”
“Not that one; the one around your neck.”
Mica reached inside his shirt and drew out the tiny golden lyre. “You mean this cheap little trinket?”
“It’s the stolen lyre from the Temple of the Gods in the Citadel.”
The lad shook his head. “But I’ve never even been to the Citadel. And this was a gift from my wife.” He turned and beckoned the young woman over. “Aja! Come here! Tell the man where you bought this! He thinks I stole it from the Citadel!”
The young woman hurried to her husband’s side. Mica might be acting innocent, but she looked panic stricken. She was a pretty girl with blue eyes and honey-colored blond hair that didn’t really seem to fit with her olive Fardohnyan complexion. “What are you talking about?”
“This!” Mica said, holding up the chain again. “Tell them where you bought it.”
“Talabar,” Aja replied without hesitation. “I bought it for a wedding present when we got married three years ago. Cost me nearly ten rivets. Is there something wrong with it?”
Starros rose to his feet and placed a calming hand on Cade’s shoulder. “No, my dear, just a case of mistaken identity, I fear. Sing us another song, minstrel.”
The lad glared at Cade for a moment and then took his wife by the hand and made his way through the crowd back to the stool by the fireplace.
“Sit down, Captain.”
“That is the missing lyre,” Cade insisted. “It was solid gold. No way she bought that for ten rivets, in Talabar or anywhere else.”
The Lyre Thief Page 36