Duke of Minds (Master of Monsters Book 4)

by Stephen L. Hadley

  Leo turned, marching from the chamber without another word. He expected the uproar to resume the second his back was turned. Instead, nothing but continued silence followed in his wake.

  The first person he spotted was Cirilla. She had lingered back near the spot where the chamber’s light yielded to shadows. Her expression was calm and controlled, but the dim lighting only served to highlight the paleness of her face and the faint trembling of her hands.

  Leo smiled at her then spotted Macnair. The captain was standing among Leo’s ducal guards, exchanging a few quiet words with one of the officers. Both men stiffened at his approach, Macnair saluting.

  “Excellency,” he said.

  “How much did you hear?” Leo asked.

  The man flashed a grim smile. “Enough.”

  Leo nodded and clapped the man soundly on the shoulder. Macnair was wearing leather pauldrons atop his uniform and the struck armor echoed dully through the hall.

  “Pass my orders to the rest of the Watch,” he instructed. “I want the streets secure by morning.”

  Macnair nodded. Leo would not have been surprised to find a hint of reticence or worry on the man’s face, but instead, he read only purpose and dignity. The discovery made him smile. He’d chosen well.

  And, as if guessing Leo’s thoughts, the man saluted again.

  “It will be done, Your Excellency.”

  Chapter Nine

  The two days following Leo’s invasion of the Council were quieter than he’d anticipated. There were rumblings of discontent, of course. A few overly loyal servants had rioted and assaulted members of the Watch, a half-dozen barons and baronets had elected to perish in a blaze of glory rather than submit to detention, and a handful of effigies bearing his likeness had been burned. But, on the whole, things had exceeded his most optimistic estimates.

  Perhaps that was why, for the first time since assuming the throne, Leo woke feeling rested. No hint of sunlight warmed the windows of his bedchamber. And, until the knocking sounded a second time, he wondered if it had been his own body that roused him.

  “Enter,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. Next to him, Cirilla groaned something and stole his pillow to cover her face.

  The door opened and, rather than the trow or elven face he expected, a horned, ice-blue profile stretched into the darkness.

  “Mate,” Sann hissed. Her voice was low enough it nearly passed as a whisper. “The child, Petre, wissshesss to speak-k-k with you.”

  Leo frowned but climbed from the bed without hesitation. Donning a soft, burgundy robe, he quickly exited the room and shut the door as unobtrusively as he could.

  “Petre’s here?” he asked, once he could speak without disturbing his wife. “Did he say what he wants?”

  Sann shook her head, tail lashing restlessly.

  “He did not,” she said. “He asssk-k-ked only for you. The dark-k-k onesss are with him now.”

  He nodded, indicating she should lead the way. Sann did as bidden, scowling at the elves they passed along the way. More than a few were nighttime guards—the rotations having been adjusted after the last attack—but the sight of the drakonid discouraged any who might have sought to accompany him.

  They soon reached the parlor. Light glowed in the crack beneath the door and even before he reached it, Leo could hear the irregular crackling of a fire in the hearth. There was no other noise, much less any conversation.

  Adopting a weary smile that was only somewhat disingenuous, he entered the room. Nyssa was already staring at him. She hadn’t belted on her swords, though her hands rested on her hips near the spots where they would have been. Petre, on the other hand, jumped slightly as the door creaked and spun in his chair. He rose quickly but seemed to struggle with his greeting.

  “Leo,” he said at last. “I’m sorry for coming so early.”

  “You’re fine,” Leo assured him. He cocked his head. Petre was one of the few nobles Leo had deliberately spared from his roundup. And although he couldn’t imagine what had brought the youth to his doorstep before dawn, knowing Petre, it wouldn’t be insignificant. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Petre said. He sighed, averting his gaze. “Nothing’s wrong. I just… came to say goodbye.”

  “What?” Leo blinked uncomprehendingly. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m leaving Ansiri. There’s a merchant ship leaving for Sutherpoint this evening. I’ve already spoken to the captain and arranged passage.”

  Leo’s mind began to race. He frowned and glanced at Nyssa, but the trow’s face was unreadable save for a slight creasing of her brow. She too avoided his eyes.

  “Why… why now?” he asked. He began to pace, unable to help himself. “There has to be more to it than that. Is someone threatening you? I could—”

  “It’s not that, Leo.” Petre laughed gently and shook his head. “This is something I’ve been thinking about for months. Ever since my father died, really. And with everything that’s happened over the last few days, now just seems like the right time.”

  “The right time?” Leo echoed, a bit of heat creeping into his words. “Petre, I was counting on you—on your help! I told Lucius to leave you alone because you’re my ally!”

  “That’s just it. I’m your ally.” He lifted his hands to stave off Leo’s protests. “No, this isn’t about Grey. I have no doubt you’ll find a way to win; you always do. This is about what comes after.”

  “After? You mean the other nobles?”

  “That’s a part of it. By now, every last one of them knows I wasn’t detained. They’ll assume it was favoritism. And rightly so. Once they’re freed, every last one of them is going to be out for blood. You’ll be fine—you’re the Duke. But me?” He shook his head again and smiled. “Trust me. It’s better this way.”

  “The hell it is!” Leo snapped. “Petre, I need your help! I can protect you from the other nobles. They won’t dare lay a finger on your once I make it clear that—”

  “How am I supposed to help you?” The youth’s smile grew lopsided. “By listening to gossiping noblemen? You should have arrested me too if that was the idea. The only one left is Ferris, and I doubt he has anything interesting to share with the likes of me.”

  Leo wanted to argue. He opened his mouth to do just that but the words he wished to speak wouldn’t come. Truthfully, Petre had judged the entire situation fairly well. He couldn’t lie; nothing he might try would be convincing. But what was he supposed to do? Admit that he needed a friend?

  “If it has to do with my estate, you’re welcome to it,” Petre said. “Those kobs of yours finally finished the tunnel. They’ve probably made off with everything in the pantry by now, but you can help yourself to whatever’s left. I still have that painting too. You remember, the one you liked?”

  Swallowing hard, Leo struggled to find the right words. His throat was tight.

  Petre wasn’t finished. Rising from his chair by the fire, the youth made his way to Leo and offered his hand.

  “Besides,” he said. “It’s not like we’ll never see each other again. I’m sure you’ll find your way down to Sutherpoint eventually. I’ll introduce you to my mother when you do. Or, who knows? Maybe you’ll turn this wretched city around, and I’ll have no choice but to flock back with the rest of the Isles.”

  Leo stared at Petre’s hand for a long moment. He grasped it hesitantly as if he expected his fingers to ignite.

  “You’re a good man, Petre VanAllen,” he said. This time, it was he who averted his eyes. “A better one than I could ever hope to be. If this… if this is really what you need to do, then I wish you nothing but the best.”

  Petre exhaled shakily, and when Leo next looked up, there were tears in the man’s eyes.

  “Thank you, Leo,” he said. “For everything. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

  The words were heartfelt and lingered in Leo’s ears long after Petre had gone. He stood close t
o the hearth, his hands outstretched. But not even the nearness of the fire could wash away the feeling of the youth’s handshake.

  Leo didn’t believe in the gods. He’d seen nothing to suggest their existence, much less that they might take an interest in the lives and deeds of mankind. But if they were and if they did, then no amount of prayers and offerings would be sufficient to atone for his long-cherished lie. Petre would never—could never—know the role Leo had played in his father’s death. It was a secret he would take to his grave.

  “Seven hells,” he muttered. “Seven fucking hells.”

  ***

  Nyssa proved surprisingly patient, but after twenty minutes of vigil, she began to fidget. It wasn’t much, just a slight shifting of her weight from foot to foot, but in the near-silence of the parlor her every move sounded as loud as the stomping of iron-soled boots. Leo dismissed her then, suggesting that she get some rest. He knew her too well to imagine she would take him up on the offer, but at least he could spare her the obligation of keeping his miserable company.

  She went, leaving him to dark thoughts and the crackling of the fire.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, warming his hands until they were pink and tender, but the logs were practically ash and coals by the time Nyssa returned so it must have been at least an hour. The trow had donned her swords in the meantime and was accompanied by a familiar face in an even more familiar uniform.

  Leo turned at Nyssa’s knock and forced a smile.

  “Captain,” he said. “I missed you at our last meeting. Was Danvers really the best replacement you could find?”

  Summers saluted but did not laugh or smile at Leo’s joke. Instead, he strolled forward until they were nearly cheek to cheek.

  “Forgive the delay, Your Excellency,” he said. “I have news from the north. The counts are on the move.”

  It was the perfect distraction. In an instant, all thoughts of Petre, lies, and loneliness vanished. Leo nodded, locking eyes with Nyssa where she lingered in the doorway.

  “Wake Cirilla,” he ordered. “And find Lucius—he shouldn’t have left yet. We’ll speak in the dining hall.”

  It took less than a quarter of an hour for Lucius to join them at the table, but Leo was not in a waiting mood. He sat in his usual spot at the head of the overlong table, one hand intertwined with Cirilla’s and the other thoughtlessly rotating the stem of his goblet as he listened to Summers’ report.

  “The mayor reported that Quinn had passed through the area a few days earlier,” the captain explained. He glanced over as Lucius entered, nodded a greeting, and then continued. “Poor man looked exhausted. The planting season only just began, and Quinn’s officers pulled near about every able-bodied man off the farms. They’ve got babes as young as four out helping till the fields.”

  “We’ll send aid if they need it,” Leo said impatiently. “But there’ll be time to worry about that later. What about Quinn? Did the mayor say where the army was headed? Any idea of their numbers?”

  “South.” Summers shrugged, grimacing. “He said he’d heard the other counts were marching sou’east to conscript men near Marshton and Beck. But there’s no word on how fast they’re moving or how many men they’ve gathered.

  “Beck is hardly southeast from most of their major holdings,” Cirilla pointed out. She squinted contemplatively, her fingers stiff and chilly against Leo’s. “If the rumors are correct, they could be taking their time. Maybe they’ve decided it’s more important to gather as many men as possible than to march against us before we’re ready.”

  “Or it’s intentional misdirection,” Leo countered. “All it takes is a loose-lipped officer or two. Have them mention a false destination in passing and they can sneak up on us before we know it.”

  “True,” she admitted, shrugging. “But it’s impossible to be certain. The only thing we know is that a week ago, Quinn’s men were spotted near…” She trailed off, glancing at Summers.

  “Haleshire,” the captain supplied. “With favorable winds, it’s two days sail from Ansiri. But I doubt you need to worry about that, Your Excellencies. Our fleet outnumbers the rebels by three, perhaps four to one.”

  “That’s what we thought about Sutherpoint,” Leo said. Merely mentioning the isle pinched hard beneath his sternum. “Though you’re probably correct. So, assuming they’re marching rather than sailing, how long do we have?”

  The three of them turned in unison to Lucius. If the elf noticed their stares, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he continued to scratch his chin against the knee he’d drawn up to his chest.

  “Lucius?” Leo said.

  He did not look up. Before Leo could prompt him further, however, he shifted in his chair and adopted a more traditional, baron-like posture.

  “It depends on the size of their host,” he said. “How many supplies they’re bringing with them. The quality of the roads.”

  “The roads are fine,” Leo said. “Dirt, not stone, but they’re well-maintained and broad enough for at least two wagons. As for the rest, just assume the worst.”

  Lucius nodded and resumed his silence for a long while. Eventually, he grunted.

  “We have at least a fortnight,” he said.

  “What?” Summers exclaimed. “That’s absurd! They’d have to travel, what? Six leagues per day? On foot? Half their men would die of exhaustion before they even reached Ansiri!”

  The elf did not even glance at the man. Instead, he drew a leg back up to his chest and rested his chin on it once more.

  “Two weeks is a worst-case scenario,” he continued. “And even then, it would only be a vanguard that reached us. In all likelihood, we have more than twice that span. But you asked me to assume the worst.”

  Leo nodded gravely. “You truly believe they could travel so swiftly?” he asked. “These are conscripts we’re talking about. Farmers, miners, threshers—not trained soldiers.”

  “Do you remember the first time we spoke?” Lucius asked. The elf’s eyes were strangely vacant, as if he was doing his best to avoid remembering the very encounter. “I told you that I’d once led a cadre. Those under me were not trained soldiers either. Yet we managed ten leagues in a single day on more than one occasion.”

  From the corner of his eye, Leo could read the skepticism creeping into Summers’ features. He could hardly blame the man. Lucius’ claim was the sort of boast one might hear in a tavern from a drunken member of the Watch. But there was no bragging or deceit visible in the elf’s eyes.

  He nodded again.

  “A fortnight then,” he said. “Very well. It’s not much time, but we’ll plan accordingly. Fortunately, we should have the first batch of arms from Ferris’ smithies any day now. Once our army is fully equipped, we’ll move out.”

  Lucius and Summers grimaced in unison. Cirilla, on the other hand, whirled to face him directly. She didn’t speak, but her eyes were brimming with questions.

  “Yes?” he nudged.

  She opened her mouth to speak then closed it and shook her head. “It can wait. Was there more to be said?”

  Leo considered it. He felt as though there were a million things yet to be discussed. Plans, logistical considerations, and all the endless minutiae of strategy dangled over his head like so many knives. But, now that the question had been put to him, he found that he had neither the desire nor the wherewithal to address them.

  “That will suffice for now,” he said. And, as Summers and Lucius rose, he glanced between the pair. “I need time to think. Join me for dinner.”

  Summers saluted immediately. Lucius, on the other hand, offered only the meagerest of bows.

  “As Your Excellency wishes.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Leo didn’t bother replying. He continued to sit, running his thumb back and forth over Cirilla’s knuckle while ignoring the curious stare of the woman herself. Finally, once they were alone, she leaned forward to forcibly meet his eyes.
>
  “What’s this about marching off to war?” she said. “You decided not to consult me first?”

  He snorted, sipping his wine. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know,” he said. “Of course I’m going. Who else is there?”

  “There’s Lucius.”

  “Lucius is a soldier. And a damned good one as far as I can tell. But I’ve known him for all of three months. I’m not about to trust our lives—and Ansiri—based on one season alone.”

  Cirilla grumbled, squeezing his hand tighter and lifting it to kiss the back of his palm. The affection did little to soften her scowl.

  “I still don’t like it,” she said. “There’s no law that says you need to march out and meet the counts. You could stay here, train, fortify, and wait for them to come to us.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” Leo said. He pulled his hand from hers and pinched the stem of his goblet between his thumbs. “Each additional day that Grey has to prepare puts us at a disadvantage. Detaining the nobles bought us some time, but sooner or later the treasury will run dry and every farmer with an elven slave will come to demand payment. I need to win this before that happens.”

  “I know.” Unable to occupy herself with Leo’s hand, Cirilla rose and immediately seated herself on the arm of his chair. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and gently kissed the top of his head. “But I still don’t like it. And I especially don’t like the idea of you leaving me here to go pillage your way across the Isles.”

  Leo said nothing. He stared at his wine, turning it slowly.

  “What’s this? No clever comeback?” Cirilla teased. She hesitated. “Leo? Is something wrong?”

  He chewed his lip, slowly mustering the energy to broach the subject.

  “Petre left,” he said at last. “He’s heading to Sutherpoint.”