Iron Paladin (Traitor for Hire Book 2)

by Max Irons

  “Are we going?” asked Lonni.

  Galeron swallowed and nodded. He stood and offered Lonni his hand. She took it, fingers soft and cool to the touch, and they moved into the open, taking a position close to the outside of the throng of nobles prepping to dance. Lord Pendegrast stood off to Galeron’s right, swaying slightly and holding on to his wife for support.

  Lonni placed a hand on his upper arm, and Galeron slid his onto her shoulder blade.

  “Have you learned anything interesting?” she asked. “I could barely hear over the noise.”

  The harps started playing, and the crowd began to dance. Galeron repeated the movement pattern in his head. Step, step, sidestep. Step, step, sidestep.

  “No funeral for the princess,” he said.

  Lonni leaned her head in a bit closer as they circled around the floor, her eyes glowing in the firelight. “That’s odd, don’t you think?”

  Galeron nodded tersely and grunted as his knee collided with hers. They stumbled but kept gliding along with the crowd. “Something’s strange about that.”

  She shifted her grip on his left hand. “Were her wounds too gruesome to display?”

  That was always a possibility, but nobles operated under ceremony, and there were plenty of ways to hide such things. High-necked dresses, death masks, or covering the dead in flowers would all solve that particular issue. Someone had convinced King Balen to place Carys in the crypt without a funeral, but why would anyone bother to make those arguments? Galeron wrestled with that question as he steered them around a couple of shuffling older nobles.

  “Something else is going on,” Galeron whispered. “I can’t put my finger on it.” He hit her knee again. “Sorry.”

  She gave him a small smile. “You’re such an oaf.”

  His face burned, and he looked away. The song ended. Everyone came to a stop, and the dancing couples broke up and milled around, taking up new partners. Iven walked by and hissed at Galeron.

  “Try Lady Atalan,” he said. “Gray dress.”

  Galeron nodded and scanned the crowd, finding her at the opposite end of the hall. Lady Atalan, in a steel gray dress and corset, was a severe-looking woman without a partner. He approached her. How did a man ask for a dance? Lady Atalan’s blue eyes narrowed, and he bowed low.

  “Would you like to dance, noble lady?” Galeron asked.

  She said nothing. He looked up, finding her still studying him. His insides squirmed. The musicians struck up a new tune, and Lady Atalan nodded. “I accept, sir knight.”

  Galeron hurriedly put his arm around her and grasped her other hand as the music picked up and the rest of the dancers moved again. Off they went across the floor, and, despite the fact that Galeron was supposed to lead, Lady Atalan pulled him along at a much faster pace. He stumbled through the step pattern and accidentally brought his boot down on her toes.

  She glared at him. “Sir knight, watch where you put your feet.”

  Galeron winced. “Apologies, my lady.”

  “When did you learn to dance?” she asked.

  “This afternoon,” he said.

  Lady Atalan raised her eyebrows. “They do not dance in Broton?”

  “No, noble lady,” Galeron said. “We aren’t much for celebrations.”

  “A pity. Life is full of cruelty and malice. You should enjoy happiness when the chance arises,” she said.

  “Especially when there seem to be so few chances of late,” Galeron said.

  “True words.” Lady Atalan glared at him as his knee struck hers. “The death of young Carys has cast a shadow over Raya’s court.”

  Galeron swallowed his nerves. “I heard, noble lady, that she had no funeral procession. Do you know why?”

  She pursed her lips. “Princess Carys would never have ascended the throne, but she was always Balen’s favorite. He couldn’t accept her death, and he refused to do anything that would indicate she’d passed. It was Kolvein Mord who suggested the king forgo processions.”

  Galeron’s limbs trembled at the name. “A high position for a Delktian ambassador.”

  Lady Atalan glanced about. “Be careful what you speak of him, sir knight. He has ears everywhere and an uncanny knack for knowing the darkest secrets. Perhaps that is why King Balen values him. His information can be…useful in the right hands.”

  They swerved by Iven and a disgruntled-looking Lady Valerian. Galeron bit back a smile.

  “None of this is privileged information, sir knight,” Lady Atalan said. “It is all common court gossip, but perhaps you will find it useful.”

  He frowned. “Why would you help me?”

  “Lord Porter is the last of his line,” she said. “Control of the food supply is a great influence to wield, and should something befall him, a civil war would erupt over his holdings.” She sniffed. “House Porter’s grip on power has always been tenuous at best, and it has slipped once before. Raya paid the cost in thousands of men and three noble houses.”

  The music fell silent, and Galeron dropped his hands. “Thank you, Lady Atalan.”

  “I strive for order, sir knight, but favors do not come free,” she said, and she walked away.

  The next piece had a much faster beat, complete with pounding drums, and Galeron retreated to the edge of the dance floor. Rhythm dance, most likely. He wouldn’t be any use here. Lonni joined him next to one of the hall’s columns, and they watched the remaining dancers step, twirl, and shift in time with the beat.

  “You didn’t do so bad,” Lonni said. “You only hit me three times.”

  Galeron snorted. “At least we didn’t fall.”

  She grinned. “See? Not so terrible. What did Lady Atalan say?”

  He relayed the conversation he’d had to Lonni, and she tugged at one of her braids absently.

  “Why kill her?” she asked. “What does Carys offer that the other royal children don’t?”

  Galeron leaned one shoulder against the pillar. “It says our attacker has a personal cause.”

  “How so?”

  “Think about it,” Galeron said. “Carys was King Balen’s favorite. It’s a strike against the king’s heart, but not at the line of succession.”

  “That doesn’t narrow anything,” said Lonni.

  “No, it doesn’t.” He narrowed his eyes. “It could be coincidence that Carys was having an affair with Fletcher.”

  “Could be?” she asked.

  “I doubt it,” Galeron said, watching Iven dance with Queen Tulia. “Fletcher was supposed to be blamed, but that didn’t work. Perhaps there’s something else we haven’t considered.”

  “What if she did something?” Lonni flipped her braids behind her head. “Could she have angered someone and driven them to murder?”

  Galeron rubbed his forehead. So many possibilities. He needed more information.

  That was when the screaming began.

  #

  The music stopped, and the dance floor froze in place as a figure in their midst screeched and yelled, whirling around with arms outstretched. The crowd stepped back as the figure dove to the ground and curled up in a ball. Galeron started forward at a flash of gold. King Balen lay on his side, wailing incoherently.

  Queen Tulia rushed to Balen’s side and knelt. She rolled him over and brushed his face with her hand, but he didn’t respond. Galeron approached, his bones buzzing with the king’s echoing screeches.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Lord Pendegrast.

  King Balen’s eyes bulged, and he pointed up at the ceiling. “Drakes!” he screamed.

  Galeron looked up. Nothing, save for an oddly shaped dust cloud.

  “Has he been poisoned?” someone else asked.

  Tulia shook her head. “He is ill.” She motioned to one of the soldiers standing nearby. “Take him back to the royal chambers and send for his physician. It may just be too much wine and stress.”

  The soldiers picked King Balen up, one under each of his shoulders, and bore him back through the doors at t
he far end of the hall. The boom of the closing oak sent a collective shudder through the crowd.

  “Music,” called Tulia. “We honor the dead tonight, but your king is not among them. Let the celebrations continue.”

  The musicians picked up where they left off, resuming the driving rhythm dance, and slowly, the nobles took up the beat. Galeron retreated back to the pillars and stared at the ceiling.

  Painted into the vaults high above, the forces of Broton and Raya clashed with iron-clad Delktian armies. Drakes, those long-dead reptilian lizards, roamed some of the battlefields. Some painter had taken a bit of liberty with his history. Perhaps those had been the drakes Balen panicked over. Perhaps not.

  His gaze swept the images. Every war story, true or myth, had its place on the ceiling. Even Galeron’s own tales emerged in one corner of the vault, though the figure stabbing the giant skeleton was hooded and cloaked, bearing no resemblance to him at all. It was just as well.

  “What was that about?” whispered Lonni.

  Galeron swallowed. “It looked like the king had a fit.”

  “What does it mean?” Her eyes searched his face, as if the answer were written in his scowl lines.

  “Delusion, perhaps,” said Galeron. “Maybe he really had too much to drink. Maybe he’s sick, and the fever madness took him over. Or…” His voice trailed away. There was one other thing, but most who survived the war never really talked about it.

  “Or what?” she pressed. “Was he poisoned?”

  He shook his head. “There’d be others with delusions. He drank from the same bottle as Queen Tulia and the high mages.” Galeron cast a furtive look at the dancing crowd, but no one else stopped their movements. “Some who came back from the wars…well, they didn’t come back right.”

  “Right?” One of her eyebrows went up.

  “When Soren’s father disbanded part of the army, we gathered outside Harracourt for a few days. Final reports were documented, payments given, that sort of thing. It was only at night when the screaming started.” He stared at the floor. “A lot of men dreamed they were still fighting, still back in the mountains. For a few, dreams didn’t stay dreams. Minds broke. They thought Delktian mages burned them when they were wide awake.”

  Lonni’s mouth hung open in a small “O” shape. “What…what made them—”

  “Who knows,” Galeron said. “One medicus I talked with figured it was like a sunburn. A man doesn’t notice it at first, but keep him out long enough or throw hot water on him, and it sears the skin.”

  “Is King Balen suffering from this…mindburn?” asked Lonni.

  “It’s possible,” Galeron said. “We’re in trouble if he is. In Raya, a king’s a king, whether he’s mad or sane.”

  The music ended, and Arlana, her blue low-cut dress swishing about, approached.

  “Would you like to dance, sir knight?” she purred.

  Galeron raised his eyebrows. “That’s forward even for you.”

  “Mmm, I’m an impatient woman,” Arlana said, wicked smile playing across her lips.

  Galeron bit back a retort and walked onto the floor with her. A gray figure swept in the corner of his eye, but when he looked, no one was there. He and Arlana took positions in the middle of the floor, his hands falling into a familiar pattern, and they began to dance as the music started. Arlana pressed close, and the sharp aroma of rose water and cloves washed over him, making his nose tingle.

  “Tell me, Galeron,” she whispered. “What have you found?”

  He swallowed. Her presence, especially this close, dulled his wits like a bottle of mead. “I…Carys didn’t have a funeral.”

  “Interesting,” Arlana said. They shifted around Iven and Julia, and Iven cast him a smirk. “What do you think it means?”

  “Ah…someone didn’t want her body seen,” Galeron said.

  He kept his eyes elevated, staring past Arlana’s right earlobe and determinedly not at her heaving, voluminous chest. She was doing all of this on purpose, possibly because she enjoyed keeping him off balance. It worked. He knew the games, but she was just that good.

  “You’re probably right,” Arlana said, leaning in closer. “But why? Everyone knows she was murdered. What’s to hide?”

  Galeron’s breath caught, and his limbs gave an involuntary shudder. “Something might look strange. Whoever killed her doesn’t want her body examined.”

  “Which means what?” Her breath tickled his ear.

  Why had the musicians picked such a long song? Weren’t they getting close to the end? He stumbled, and Arlana’s knee collided with his, but she chuckled.

  “Nervous?” she asked.

  Keep your thoughts focused. Hard to do with Arlana pressed against him like that. It felt so…natural, as if she belonged there, in his arms. No, that was part of her game. Answer the question.

  “It’s going to be small,” he said. “A man could overlook it in the heat of the moment. She…”

  His voice trailed away as Kolvein danced across his field of vision, tightly gripping a bronze-haired woman in his arms. Galeron’s heart skipped a beat, and a surge of fire rushed up his guts and into his throat. The Delktian had Lonni. Kolvein shot him a wide smile and wiggled his eyebrows before he and Lonni moved away.

  His grip on Arlana’s hand loosened, but the logical part of his mind stopped him short. Diving at Kolvein and beating him to a pulp would cause a scene and raise further issues for Iven. He had to play calm. Kolvein wouldn’t do anything to Lonni with so many people watching. Immune from punishment or not, harming her wouldn’t do him any good.

  First Melia, and now Lonni. I can’t keep anyone safe.

  “What were you saying?” asked Arlana.

  “Nothing,” said Galeron. “I know what I need to do.”

  The song finally ended, and he released Arlana, whirling around to scan for Kolvein and Lonni. Where had they gone? His heart pounded in his ears as he searched each face. There! He spotted them next to one of the fountains and forced himself to walk, not bolt, to her. Kolvein was playing a dangerous game. He still had hold of Lonni’s hands and was whispering something in her ear.

  His chest tightened. He couldn’t let Lonni get hurt, not since she was here because of him. Kolvein would regret it if he’d hurt her. The Delktian looked up as Galeron’s boots thudded across the stone. One corner of his mouth turned up in a sneer.

  “You have such lovely taste in women, paladin,” he said. “She’s not a simpleton like the milkmaid. No rumor will turn her mind against you.” He licked his lips. “But how to take her from you?”

  Galeron’s hands curled into fists. “Release her.”

  “And Princess Arlana asked you to dance. A woman asked man. Such a rare treat. Did you enjoy prancing with that harlot?” Kolvein shook his head. “You’re a dog. You left your bone in favor of a nicer one, and…oops…it appears another claimed your scraps.”

  His breath caught. “I will break you, Kolvein Mord.”

  Kolvein slid closer to Lonni, and she stiffened. “What will you do? Pound my face into the stone? Shatter my teeth? Threats won’t do you any good.”

  Galeron took another step forward. “I won’t ask again. Take your hands from her.”

  He sighed. “All I wanted was a nice dance, but you won’t allow me that.”

  Galeron grabbed him by the front of the shirt. “I warned you.”

  “Be careful who you threaten, informer,” Kolvein said.

  He froze. What did…how could he know? A sliver of ice wormed its way through Galeron’s intestines. It was impossible. Had someone talked?

  “You see,” Kolvein continued, still in Galeron’s grip. “You killed a sleeping necromancer and a half-trained rebel mage and think yourself greatest of mortals. Oh, I admire your tenacity, but you’ve stepped into something so much bigger.” He tapped the crown of Galeron’s head with one finger. “We’ve been locked in a game of wits since you stepped off the Bonnie Fair, but you didn’t even know you were playin
g.”

  Galeron let him slip from his grasp, and Kolvein landed on his toes. “You’re lying through your teeth.”

  He shrugged. “What’s a lie but a truth you wish you had? I’m winning, Galeron Triste. In two days’ time, our little game’s done.” Kolvein smiled and strode away. “Good luck.”

  A snarl of rage caught in Galeron’s throat, and he started after Kolvein. Whatever game he was playing, killing him would put an end to it. Lonni grabbed his arm and jerked him back. He winced as the limb wrenched in its socket. Easy to forget how strong she was.

  “He wants you to attack him,” she hissed. “Don’t be a fool.”

  One of the musicians struck a chord on his lute.

  “Lords and ladies.” Lord Atalan strode before the musicians, his arms spread wide. “For our final dance on this solemn evening, the grand Orpheus Pulchro will deliver the ‘Ballad of Torwin’s Gulch.’”

  He gestured to a balding man in a ruffled yellow doublet and black hose. The man pulled his lyre into position, and the ruff about his neck shifted, revealing a large, thick scar that ran about his throat. Had someone hung him?

  “Astound us, Master Pulchro,” said Lord Atalan.

  “Come on, let’s dance.” Lonni gripped his hand and pulled him into the assembling couples.

  He followed, his eyes still straining to find the Kolvein’s fabric cap bobbing among the crowd. What were the Rayans thinking, allowing a Delktian in the kingdom? Had they learned nothing from the wars? People beyond the Njal Mountains couldn’t be trusted. A flat, metallic taste coated his tongue, and his muscles quivered.

  Cool fingers traced the scars on his cheek. Galeron glanced back at Lonni, who placed her hand on his upper arm.

  “You can’t do anything about him right now. Clear your head.” She stepped close as Orpheus and the musicians took up their new tune.

  Galeron swallowed, and the fingers of her other hand slowly interlaced with his own. That wasn’t the way she was supposed to do it, but her skin felt so good against his. He couldn’t bring himself to adjust the grip. The music echoed through the hall, but this song differed from its predecessors. A deliberate, haunting melody, its tones throbbed with eerie fingers that peeled back layers of the heart.