The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

“We will accept surrenders and homage, of course,” he added. “But we will make it clear that we will not tolerate backsliding. I am not King Edwin and I have no intention of allowing my sworn liegemen to change their minds.”

  He allowed himself a moment of sympathy for King Edwin. The poor man had never had the force to impose his will on his subjects. He’d been bullied into accepting a queen who couldn’t or wouldn’t give him children, something that had ensured his line would end with him. Reginald couldn’t imagine being so weak. His father had always been strong enough to keep the barons in line, even in the chaos that had spread across the land after the Golden City had fallen. Reginald had banged heads together for his father himself.

  “Those who submit will be watched carefully,” he told them. “And those who refuse to submit will be crushed.”

  Milhous took a breath. “There were – there are – three earls,” he said. “The usurper, formerly Earl Hereford. His family were, perhaps, the most powerful people on the Summer Isle, powerful enough to make the king their servant. They were certainly able to prevent him from putting his queen, Emetine Hereford, aside. Then we have Earl Goldenrod, who is probably fairly close to Hereford in power, and Earl Oxley. Oxley is the weakest of the three, which may make him amiable to diplomacy.”

  Reginald shrugged. Oxley might bargain or he might not. Either way, Reginald would make sure he held the whip hand. Weakest of the three or not, Oxley would still be powerful within his own lands. It would be best to ensure that all negotiations were conducted from a position of strength.

  Gars leaned forward. “What will the other two earls do, when we land?”

  “I think they’ll wait and see who comes out on top,” Milhous said. “Neither of them will welcome our arrival, but I can’t imagine that either of them are pleased with Hereford declaring himself king. From their point of view, the ideal outcome would be a battle that leaves Hereford grossly weakened, allowing them a chance to strike to re-establish the balance of power. Or even a stalemate that gives them a chance to come to favourable terms with us.”

  “Which isn’t going to happen,” Reginald said. His father had had problems with overmighty nobles, even though he’d been far stronger than King Edwin. Reginald had no intention of allowing that problem to persist into his reign. “And they have to know it.”

  “They may not,” Milhous pointed out.

  Reginald rather doubted it. Andalusia was the Summer Isle’s closest neighbour – and the country that had provided men and materials to King Edwin, when he’d sought to retake his throne. Anyone with half a brain – and he assumed the usurper had a working brain – would keep an eye on his neighbour, just to determine which way the neighbouring monarch was likely to jump. The Summer Isle’s nobility would have seen what Reginald and his father had done to their rebellious aristocrats, and trembled. It was unlikely that any of them would bare their throats for the blade.

  Good, he thought. I can take their lands and distribute them at will.

  “We may have to improvise, at times, once we arrive on the Summer Isle,” he said. “But for the moment ... I want to be ready to leave in two weeks.”

  Jones frowned. “It may be doable,” he said. “However, supplies may run short.”

  “We don’t have much time,” Reginald reminded him. “How long until the autumn winds start howling down the channel?”

  Gars made a face. “I hate sailing.”

  Reginald nodded in wry agreement. He understood soldiering, from marching in formation to advancing to attack the enemy. He’d done all of it and more. But sailing ... he disliked sailing. He hated feeling helpless on a wooden ship as the wind started to blow, threatening to tip them over or drive them onto the shore. And he’d have to take orders from sailors. He knew, all too well, that he didn’t understand sailing.

  Lord William didn’t look any happier. Reginald allowed himself a tight smile. Perhaps Lord William would remain below decks for the voyage. It wasn’t as if it would take that long to cross the channel. He’d already rounded up sailors who knew the route into the Summer Bay and made them pick out possible landing sites near Racal’s Bay. Who knew? Maybe Lord William would be so ill he’d have to be sent straight back home.

  “Now,” he said. “About the ...”

  There was a tap on the door. Reginald looked up and barked a command. His staff knew not to interrupt him, unless it was truly urgent. Whoever had disturbed them must have a very good reason.

  One of his staffers entered the room and bowed. “Your Highness,” he said. “You asked to be notified when a sorcerer entered the city. One has just arrived.”

  “Very good,” Reginald said. His call for magicians hadn’t attracted many magic-users. It was a serious concern, if only because he had no idea how many magicians were waiting for him on the Summer Isle. “Was he invited to the castle?”

  “She, Your Highness,” the staffer said. “And yes ... she’s currently travelling with a group of mercenaries.”

  “Then ask them to wait for me,” Reginald said. He nodded to his council as he rose. “We’ll meet again tomorrow evening. Dismissed.”

  Chapter Seven

  Isabella could smell Humber hours before the city came into view, a stench of rotting fish mingled with the sour taste of far too many humans living in close proximity. Her stomach churned as they cantered down the road, racing the sun as it slowly dipped below the distant horizon. Sleeping outside was hardly a problem, particularly as the city’s walls seemed to be surrounded by tents and makeshift barracks, but it wouldn’t please Lord Robin. He’d want to get inside the walls before night fell and the gates were closed.

  Her body ached as they finally rode up to the gates. She’d been sitting in the saddle too long; far too long. She hadn’t ached so badly since she’d entered her training program, when her instructors – sadistic bastards to a man – had routinely beaten the crap out of her just to prove she didn’t know as much as she thought she knew. But she had to admit that their beatings had served a purpose, unlike the long-distance ride. She rather doubted that being a day late would cause too many problems for Lord Robin.

  The guards on the gate were alert, holding their swords and spears at the ready as the company came to a halt. Isabella thought she could see archers, half-hidden behind the arrow slits on the guardhouse. She didn’t really blame the Crown Prince for being paranoid, not with so many strangers surrounding the city. Mercenaries weren’t the most disciplined troops in the world – even regular soldiers could run riot from time to time – and the Crown Prince would want to nip any problems in the bud.

  She watched Lord Robin speaking to the guard, turning her head from side to side to check out her fellow mercenaries. Big Richard looked disgustingly alert, for someone who’d had a hangover only eleven hours ago; he eyed her with his piggy eyes, then made a show of looking away. The others didn’t look any better than she felt. They all needed hot baths and a long rest, but she doubted they’d get either. The mercenary camp probably didn’t have anything beyond the basics.

  Which means we’ll be crapping into a pit, she thought, sourly.

  She made a face. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, not even slightly. There would be no shortage of camp women and inexpensive whores, but someone would try it on, as sure as eggs were eggs. She readied a handful of really nasty spells, ones that would teach any would-be rapist a permanent lesson. No one would complain if she castrated a rapist and then dumped him in the cesspit.

  Lord Robin raised his voice. “We’re being invited to the castle,” he said. “Isabella, you’re with me. Dolman, take the others to the camp and find a spot to set up our tents. I’ll find you when we’re finished.”

  Isabella frowned. “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth,” Robin said. “You’re a sorceress and I’m an experienced war leader.”

  He pushed his horse forward, through the gate. Isabella followed, feeling a trickle of fear as they passed under the liquid channels. The gua
rds would have boiling oil up there, waiting for someone to try to force their way into the city. She’d never liked walking under the channels, even though she knew it was safe. Her imagination kept suggesting that someone was about to pour the oil onto her head.

  The smell grew stronger inside the city. Isabella muttered a spell under her breath, trying to dampen the stench a little. Humber was small and large at the same time, a complex network of stone houses leading down the hillside to the docks. Hundreds of guardsmen patrolled the streets, eying the mercenaries warily. There were only a few civilians – all of them male – in sight. Isabella guessed, as Robin led her up the road to the castle, that there had already been a string of incidents. The three men hanging from scaffolds, clearly visible as they approached the castle gate, were silent proof that the Crown Prince was determined to keep a firm grip on his men. Isabella nodded in approval. One had to be firm when dealing with mercenaries. Given an inch, they’d take a mile.

  Someone must have sent a runner to the castle, as a fresh-faced young man was waiting for them just outside the massive stone building. He bowed politely to Lord Robin, then motioned a pair of stable boys to take the horses while he escorted their riders inside. Isabella clambered down, cursing her aching body under her breath. For once, Lord Robin looked just as worn. They’d been in the saddle for far too long.

  “Thank you for coming,” the man said. He looked from Lord Robin to Isabella and then back again. “Do you want to freshen up before you meet the Crown Prince?”

  “Yes, please,” Lord Robin said. “We are not particularly clean.”

  “Please follow me,” the young man said. “I’ll show you to the washroom.”

  Isabella followed him through the castle, looking around with interest. It had clearly been allowed to fall into disrepair over the years, although teams of workmen were hastily patching holes in the defences. She had no way to be sure, but she rather suspected that whoever held the castle had a mansion in town. The interior was cold and smelly, the mud-stained floors charred and pitted ... it was hardly suitable for a lord and lady. It didn’t strike her as particularly defendable, either. The townsfolk had built their homes far too close to the castle’s walls.

  It must have been different, back in the day, she thought. But the absence of any real threat made the owners lazy.

  The washroom was communal, unsurprisingly. Isabella made use of the facilities, then took a basin of water and washed her face and hands. There was no point in trying to change. She didn’t have a spare set of clothes with her – she’d left them in her saddlebags – and anything the castle could provide would probably be unsuitable. She wasn’t wearing a dress and she doubted the castle’s seamstresses had bothered to sew leathers designed for wearers with breasts. The gods knew she’d had to have hers specially sewn years ago.

  Lord Robin coughed. “You look a mess.”

  Isabella scowled. “So do you.”

  She rubbed her legs as Lord Robin headed for the door, then followed him. She was going to be stiff tomorrow, no matter what spells she used. And she couldn’t show weakness in front of the men, any more than she could wear a dress. If they started to think of her as a weak and foolish female, it would only be a matter of time before one of them did something stupid, even though she’d fought and bled beside them. She didn’t want to have to kill one of the mercenaries to make a point.

  The man led them up a narrow flight of stairs – narrow enough to make it hard for someone like Big Richard to get up without trapping himself – and into a small sitting room. A fire roared in the fireplace, but it still felt cold. Isabella looked around with interest, noting the empty bookshelves and places on the stone wall that had clearly been designed to take a painting or two. She’d been right, she decided. Whoever owned the castle had moved out long ago.

  A door opened, revealing the Crown Prince, followed by a middle-aged man who had a sour expression on his face. Isabella didn’t know the Crown Prince by sight, of course – all the paintings she’d seen were insanely muscular, to the point she doubted the poor man could walk – but no one else would wear a golden breastplate, marked with the double-eagle insignia of his family. Personally, she thought the golden armour was a little too striking, but it did distract attention from his face.

  Lord Robin bowed, politely. “Your Highness.”

  Isabella followed suit, ignoring the sniff of disapproval from the sour-faced man. She was a sorceress, not some brainless beauty from a lineage so pure that there was more than a hint of incest hidden somewhere in the family tree. It was important that the Crown Prince saw her as a person, rather than a tool. Or someone to be married off, for that matter. She’d had too much of that from her family already.

  She studied the Crown Prince with interest, aware that he was studying her back. He was tall and handsome, his face unmarred by scars ... his reputation as a soldier was either exaggerated, then, or understated. His frame wasn’t anything like as muscular as his portraits, unsurprisingly, but it was clear that he was a very strong man. He didn’t move like an untried one, either. Someone had given him some decent training, which had then been refined by experience. His blond hair was a little too long for her liking – she’d been brought up to expect men to cut their hair short – but otherwise ... he was a handsome man. And not too handsome to be true ...

  “Your Highness,” she said.

  “Lady Sorceress,” the Crown Prince said. He studied her with frank interest. “How powerful are you?”

  “I studied at the Peerless School,” Isabella said, flatly. “And I graduated with high marks.”

  The sour-faced man sniffed. “They all say that.”

  Isabella didn’t hesitate. She lifted her hand and cast a spell. There was a brilliant flash of green light, followed by utter silence. The sour-faced man was gone. In his place, a large warty toad was sitting on the ground, blinking in confusion. The Crown Prince let out a peal of laughter. Isabella couldn’t help feeling a flicker of admiration. There was no fear in his eyes, even after seeing her use magic. Most men were terrified when they came face-to-face with a witch.

  “Impressive,” the Crown Prince said. “And how long will he stay a ... a frog?”

  It was a toad, not a frog, but Isabella kept that thought to herself. “How long would you like him to stay a frog?”

  The toad let out a croaking sound. No one handled their first transformation particularly well, even if they were transformed into an animal instead of an inanimate object. The sour-faced man had to be panicking, wondering if he was stuck that way for the rest of his life. It wouldn’t last long, if she left the curse alone, but with a few minor changes she could prolong the transformation indefinitely.

  “Unfortunately, Lord William is meant to be helping me,” the Crown Prince said. “Turn him back, please.”

  Isabella hesitated, just for a second. There was an edge in the Crown Prince’s voice that annoyed her, even though she understood. He wanted – he needed – to test her willingness to obey orders as well as cast spells. And yet ... she wasn’t working for him just yet, was she?

  She released the spell. The man – Lord William – appeared in a flash of green light. He was trembling, shaking from head to toe. No doubt it was his first transformation. Outside the Peerless School and other magical communities, it wasn’t that uncommon. The shock alone must have terrified him. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to shout and scream, then closed it again. He was too scared to say a word.

  “A vast improvement, no doubt,” the Crown Prince said, dryly. “Are you willing to work for me?”

  “I work for Lord Robin,” Isabella said. The title sounded empty in her voice. Whoever had fathered Lord Robin hadn’t left him anything he could use to establish himself. “But I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”

  ***

  Reginald was torn, if he were forced to be honest with himself, between an urge to giggle inanely and a desperate desire to run. He was a soldier, but he knew – all
too well – that he couldn’t fight magic. The girl in front of him – the young woman, really – could turn him into a frog with a snap of her fingers ... or worse, if she wished. There was no shortage of stories about kings and princes who’d been turned into slaves by magic, all spread – he was sure – to ensure that no monarch defied his court wizard.

  He studied the sorceress, trying to see ... he wasn’t sure what he was trying to see. She didn’t look like any sorceress he’d ever seen. She wore a set of mercenary leathers over a dark green shirt and pair of trousers. Her clothes were designed to hide the shape of her body, he realised slowly. The swell of her breasts were almost completely concealed behind the leathers. He would have taken her for a man if he hadn’t known she was a woman.

  Her face was feminine, he noted, although her close-cropped dark hair made her look like a slightly effeminate man. No Adam’s apple, of course. She carried a nasty scar on her right cheek, as well as a bruise that looked to be fading slowly. And she was tall. The taller the magician, the stronger the magic. Or so he’d been told. Too many of his lessons in magic had been mindless generalities rather than anything useful. She was nothing like a woman of the court, yet ... she was attractive ...

  He pushed that thought down, hard. His father had given him a handful of magical protections, amulets that had been passed down the generations, but they weren’t perfect. The court wizards – damn them – had made that clear. And if he pressed her, he might end up a frog too. No one would follow him after they’d seen him turned into a frog. It would be the end of his authority.

  “I need someone to provide magical support,” he said. “And I also need someone to serve as liaison between the mercenaries and me. Lord Robin and his men will be welcome to serve in that role.”

  The woman glanced at her companion. That was interesting. It was hard to be sure, of course, but Reginald was fairly sure that Lord Robin – Lord Robin – was no magician. And that meant that she respected him enough to follow his lead. They didn’t orientate on each other like lovers, which suggested they probably weren’t sleeping together, but ... Reginald shrugged. It wasn’t as though Lord Robin ran a troop of regular soldiers. A mercenary captain could hire whoever he wanted.