King of Ashes

by Raymond E. Feist

  Hatu knew what authority in the Quelli Nascosti looked like when he encountered it. This man might have played the role of common sailor on the last ship, but here he was definitely someone of rank. Costa pulled Hatu to the bow of the ship and looked around. ‘I want to be able to see anyone who might hear us,’ he said quietly. ‘I expected you last night.’

  Hatu blinked as he considered his answer. Excuses were rarely tolerated, and blaming a superior was rarely wise, but in this case he decided candour was his best choice. ‘You didn’t make that clear to me when we left the Isabela, else I would have come straight away.’

  Costa studied him, then smiled slightly. ‘Not afraid? That’s good, and you’re probably right. I should have made myself clear.’ Hatu noticed he kept glaring upwards slightly, as if Hatu had something on his head. ‘Did anything unusual happen?’

  ‘Someone followed me through the market, but I lost him,’ said Hatu. ‘I’m not certain why; it was crowded and nothing about the chest looks like it could be valuable.’ He shrugged.

  Costa studied him for a long moment, then said, ‘It’s that damn hair of yours. It’s like a beacon.’

  Without thought, Hatu reached up and touched his hair. Costa knocked his hand away and said, ‘Don’t call attention to it.’

  ‘What about my hair?’ asked Hatu. ‘I lost my colouring gel.’

  Costa’s brown eyes widened and he raised his brows as he said, ‘Gel? What about—’ He stopped and narrowed his gaze and said, ‘Who is your village master?’

  ‘Facaria,’ Hatu replied.

  A pained expression visited Costa’s face for an instant, as he looked heavenwards, then he returned his gaze to Hatu. ‘That explains it. He’s very … traditional. No gossip, rumours, or unfounded information under his watch.’ Costa said, ‘I’ll get more gel before we cast off. Once we’re home, you and I will visit Master Facaria and—’ He interrupted himself and asked, ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen years on my next birthing day.’

  ‘When is that?’

  ‘The sixth day of the Month of the Falling Stars, by the old accounting.’

  ‘Not that far away,’ said Costa, putting his hand on Hatu’s shoulder. ‘You were probably noticed because it was the first time you’ve been out on a bright day with clean hair.’ He pointed to the stern. ‘My cabin lies to the right side of the captain’s. Go there now and wait. I will find you a darkening gel personally. Now go.’

  Hatu did as he was instructed. If Costa was going to have words with his village master, the man was indeed important. As he hurried along to the stern cabins, he wondered what this business with his hair was all about.

  AS HE HAD ANTICIPATED, ONCE his hair was properly disguised again, Hatu was immediately put to work stowing cargo, and by the packed hold, he judged that Halazane was the ship’s final stop on a long voyage home. Ships that were under the control, directly or indirectly, of the Quelli Nascosti were rarely permitted to dock on the home island, so Hatu could finally feel some measure of safety when the ship set out that evening.

  After a quick meal, Hatu was summoned to Costa’s cabin. The big man waved for the youth to sit on a chest opposite his bunk, which put Hatu close enough to the older man to make him a little uncomfortable. Maintaining a respectful distance was always part of the students’ training.

  ‘Master Facaria?’ asked Costa.

  Hatu nodded.

  ‘So, what were you planning on doing when we reach Coaltachin?’

  ‘Give over the captain’s chest and tell the first master I found what happened.’

  Pointing to himself with his thumb, the man who had called himself Costa said, ‘Tell me what happened, boy. I am Master Reza.’

  Hatu knew it must be true, for no other man in Coaltachin would dare claim to be that man. His father was Master Zusara, the closest thing Coaltachin had to a king, as he led the Council. He was also the head of the most powerful family in the nation, controlling more regimes and able to summon more soldiers and sicari than any two masters combined. Reza was one of three strong sons who protected their family’s interests; each controlled a regime larger than the smaller families in the nation.

  Zusara was first among equals, it was said, and what he lacked in official authority he more than made up for by using his influence. If a close vote was called in the Council, it was his that carried the most weight, and while some claimed he was simply good at forging consensus, Hatu remembered Facaria had once said that while no man could ever become king of Coaltachin, Zusara had come closer than anyone else in history. He was also something of a legend because he rarely left his home and seemed reclusive. He was like a spider at the centre of its vast web: the master always knew what was occurring at its edge, without ever leaving its heart.

  Hatu began his story with the killing of the merchant and his flight from Numerset, but when he came to describing the attack on the ship and he and Donte’s attempt to flee in the longboat, he felt deep feelings stir. A profound ache rose up and threatened to break his calm as he started to recall his conversation with that vile witch, Madda. He found himself fighting back tears and his voice grew thick with emotion when he described Donte’s fate and the discussion between Madda and Sabina. Before he knew it, tears were coursing down his face.

  Reza leaned back, resting against the bulkhead behind him, saying nothing until Hatu reached the end of his story. He allowed the young man a moment to regain control.

  Quietly, Reza said, ‘You did well, but there are now more questions than there were before. I’ll take you to my father and summon Facaria. The Council will want to hear this. And you should remember as much as you can about these Sisters of the Deep.’ He waited to see if Hatu would say anything and then indicated that the youth was dismissed with a nod of his head.

  Hatu left the cabin and made his way to the crew bunks belowdecks. He wondered what Reza had meant by ‘more questions’, but as he was both emotionally drained and work fatigued he let the curiosity fade away, found an empty hammock, and lay down. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

  • CHAPTER FIFTEEN •

  An Unexpected Visit and Rumours of War

  Daylon tossed the reins of his mount to a lackey as he nodded to his son. ‘Good ride,’ he complimented the lad.

  Marius was his second son, two years younger than Daylon’s heir, Wilton. His little ones were daughters, Linnaya, who would be playing with dolls somewhere in the keep, and the baby, Betina.

  Balven appeared as Daylon expected, tousled his nephew’s hair, and said, ‘Catch anything?’

  The boy laughed and made a face. ‘We weren’t hunting. Just riding.’

  As the boy started to hand the reins to another lackey, Daylon said, ‘Tend your own horse, Marius.’

  The youngster gave his father a dark look but said nothing as he followed the lackey. His father called after him, ‘When you’re as expert at caring for your animal as John over there’ – he indicated the groom who had taken his own horse – ‘then you can have someone else do it. If you can’t care for your mount in the field, who will do it? If you don’t know what they need, how will you know your retainers are caring for them correctly?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ came the annoyed response.

  When the boy was out of sight, Balven laughed. ‘God, he reminds me of you at that age.’

  ‘A god?’ asked Daylon. ‘Which one?’

  Balven held up his hands, as if surrendering, and in a theatrical tone said, ‘Please, my lord, it’s but a simple expression; don’t have me whipped.’

  ‘Used to be “gods” when we were boys.’

  ‘Anyone who thinks that the temples and churches of the old gods are returning is foolish, my lord,’ said Balven quietly as he moved closer to his half-brother. Almost whispering, he said, ‘And it invites the accusation of heresy.’ He paused for a moment and added, ‘You’ve not opposed the One Church, but you’ve also not embraced them. It’s starting to be noticed.’

 
‘You have a recommendation?’ Daylon asked, knowing his half-brother most certainly did.

  ‘Build them a shrine. A tidy little shrine off in the corner of the keep somewhere; and make sure the icons of other gods are gone before one of their … what do they call them? Episkopos, yes. Before one of their censer-swinging, low-chanting, obnoxious prelates comes to consecrate the shrine. Have them visit on whatever holy day seems appropriate and you’ll avoid that quick burning.’

  Daylon nodded. ‘I suspect it feels like a very slow burning to those tied to those stakes. Very well, see to it.’ Looking past his body man’s shoulder he said, ‘Who’s here?’

  Balven turned to see Daylon take stock of the extra horses being cared for in the stable and nodded. ‘Baron Rodrigo of the Copper Hills arrived while you were out.’

  ‘Unlike him to appear without prior notice,’ said Daylon. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s either in the great hall, chatting with Baroness Linnet, or in the kitchen molesting one of the girls.’

  ‘How long’s he been here?’ asked Daylon as he turned and began walking towards the main entrance of the keep.

  Quickly falling in next to his half-brother, Balven said, ‘Less than an hour.’

  ‘He’s still flirting with my wife, then. He won’t begin plaguing the household girls until he’s had a cup or two of wine.’

  The two men hurried into the keep and entered the great hall. Daylon saw his wife, Baroness Linnet, enduring Baron Rodrigo’s attempts at charm. She suffered his banter with a fixed smile that reminded Daylon of the painted masks worn by players at the fair. Upon seeing her husband she brightened noticeably and said, ‘Here he is!’ to Rodrigo.

  Linnet was Daylon’s second wife, as political a marriage as could be arranged. She was kin to three of the four current kings of Garn and counted half a dozen barons as her relatives. His first wife, Marie, had died in childbirth beside their stillborn son; she had been the love of his life, a fact Linnet had known since the day of their first meeting. Daylon still grieved for Marie.

  While their marriage held no great passion, Linnet and Daylon had come to know each other well; they accepted one another’s flaws and accommodated the needs of their marriage and their families’ alliance. It was a comfortable relationship; he paid her enough attention that she felt no need to seek it elsewhere, and he had even abandoned his habit of bedding common girls when away from his castle. In most ways, Daylon considered it a happy marriage, though he was occasionally visited by fits of melancholy when thoughts of Marie came unbidden to him; they had been so young when they met, who knew if he would have felt the same, this many years later, had she lived. He pushed aside morbid introspection and conceded that Linnet tried hard and succeeded in being a good baron’s wife.

  She was a striking woman in her thirties, a full seventeen years younger than her husband, her dark hair showing the first hints of grey. Her eyes were green and when she stared at him, Daylon found them piercing. She had never been what he counted pretty, but her figure was still trim and her angular features were unusual, and could be beautiful when she smiled and laughed. Their sex life after four children was still a pleasure, if not as active as it had been when they were younger. By Daylon’s estimation, she was still a few years from taking a younger lover, and he wasn’t sure if that would bring him anger or relief.

  Certainly Rodrigo found her attractive enough, and Daylon played at being jealous when it suited his mood, always confusing the Baron of the Copper Hills. Daylon had discovered how much he liked confusing Rodrigo years before, and rarely felt guilty for doing so.

  Daylon extended his hand and the men shook as Linnet rose and said, ‘Well, now that you’re back I’ll leave you to your man talk.’ As she started to sweep from the room, she asked, ‘Should I send in another pitcher of wine?’

  Reflexively, Daylon glanced through a window at the height of the sun and judged it close enough to supper that indulging wouldn’t leave him snoring an hour before his normal bedtime. He nodded and Linnet departed.

  Balven waited until the servant appeared with the wine and waved the girl away as he took it, filled Daylon’s flagon, and topped up Rodrigo’s.

  After taking a sip, Daylon said, ‘So, what brings you to Marquenet so unexpectedly?’

  ‘I’m in need of a master weapons maker. You remember Brembol?’

  ‘Fine master of his craft,’ said Daylon.

  ‘Only better man I’ve seen was that fellow you used to have; what was his name?’

  ‘Edvalt,’ said Balven without hesitation.

  ‘Yes,’ said Daylon, glancing at his half-brother. ‘Edvalt Tasman.’

  ‘Whatever happened to him?’ asked Rodrigo.

  ‘He earned his freedom.’ Daylon was silent for a moment, then continued, ‘After the battle.’ The Baron drained his flagon as if to dull the memory.

  Rodrigo needed no clarification of which battle Daylon referred to. They had rarely spoken of that great betrayal, both keeping their own counsel on how they felt about the destruction of the king of Ithrace, but when they needed to reference it, they always called it ‘the battle’.

  ‘Well,’ said Rodrigo, ‘old Brembol is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Daylon motioned for his cup to be refilled and Balven obliged. ‘He wasn’t that old.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Rodrigo. ‘He wasn’t, but his liver certainly was, given his love of strong drink. He preferred whisky, and lots of it. His apprentice found him one morning last week at his table, forehead on the wood, a half-filled cup of whisky clutched in his right hand.’

  ‘You must have another good “weapon-smith” in Copper Hills,’ said Daylon.

  ‘I have many fine ones, if you need a wagon wheel banded or a plough blade fashioned. While a few of them are adequate at making simple weapons for the rabble who may answer my oathmen’s call, I prefer the best I can find for my castellans and household. There seems to be a shortage of fine weapons makers, these days.’

  ‘And why this sudden need for fine weapons?’

  Rodrigo had known Daylon for years and understood his relationship with Balven, so he felt free to speak his mind. ‘It’s been quiet these last few years, but you know another war is coming.’

  Daylon shrugged noncommittally. ‘War is a constant risk in our time.’

  Rodrigo took a long pull of his wine and indicated that Balven should again refill his cup. Daylon’s body man obliged and the lord of the Copper Hills said, ‘I’ve never understood your desire to act coy, Daylon. You’re not some falsely shy nobleman’s daughter trying to cozen a suitor into believing she hasn’t ridden the stable boy’s cock a dozen times. You read the winds of change better than any man I know.’ He drank again, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It was you who told me, after that miserable battle on the cliffs at Answearie, that we should not think of …’ Rodrigo paused, looking frustrated. ‘Hell, I don’t remember exactly what you said; I try to put the Betrayal out of my mind as much as I can, but I know you commented on the long game. You were thinking of the future.

  ‘Well, that future will come soon. Lodavico is readying for another war, or I’m as stupid as they come. He’s stopped invading his neighbours and converted how many? Five, six baronies are now part of Sandura or indirectly controlled by Lodavico. I don’t know how many free barons he’s converted to oathmen, but the border raiding in the east has got worse. It’s as certain as I sit here that many of those “raiders” and “bandits” are Sandura’s men.’

  Daylon fell silent, taking a long sip of wine. Finally he said, ‘I just heard a report of a raid into the Covenant, near the Narrows.’

  ‘Sandura?’ asked Rodrigo.

  ‘According to the story I heard, they weren’t who they claimed to be. Slavers perhaps, but clearly intending to sell young men to Sandura as soldiers.’

  Rodrigo’s face became a mask of puzzlement. ‘Drafting soldiers is tricky. You just create a happy band of deserters at the first opportunity. My fath
er taught me a little military history, and he made it clear that having both sworn men and unwilling levies serve together was a bad notion, forcing you to have one part of your army guarding another part while a war rages on.’

  ‘Your father was right. Press men for ships, yes, as you only have to keep guard on them in port, but in the chaos of a battle? Worse, if the battle swings against you, such men may switch sides.’

  ‘Something besides soldiers, then? For slave labour?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Daylon. He glanced at Balven, who indicated with a slight nod that he understood his brother’s wishes: by tonight dispatches would be carried east to agents employed to gain information and return it as quickly as possible. With luck, within a month Daylon would have a decent idea of what Sandura was doing with these captured men.

  Rodrigo accepted another glass of wine from Balven. ‘What worries me most are his links to the Church of the One God,’ he said. ‘They have certainly reordered the … order of things.’ He laughed at his own clumsy turn of phrase.

  Daylon smiled. ‘Something to be worried about.’

  ‘I try to be tolerant – as a boy I dropped more than a few coins in various offering plates, as my father taught me – but this “most holy king” thing Lodavico has been given by the Church …’

  Dryly and quietly Balven said, ‘Can’t have come cheaply.’

  Glancing at Balven, then back to his host, Rodrigo said, ‘It’s more than the gold, Daylon. He’s given offence to those who still hold ties with the old temples and churches, declaring war on them, if not overtly, and he has ordered the destruction of all temples and churches in Sandura that are not of the One God.’

  ‘Now, that I hadn’t heard,’ said Daylon. ‘I’m not surprised, but still …’ He sat silently for a minute, then said, ‘I believe your instincts are correct, my old friend.’

  Balven said, ‘If you’ll indulge me, my lord, I fail to see how King Lodavico’s pledging allegiance to the One God benefits him.’