“You dragged me halfway across the Empire for a children’s bedtime story? Princesses and towers and wicked lords? Father of Fires, what next?” He kicked back from the table and stood up, a jolting violent movement which brought Voord’s guards out of their seats with swords half-drawn. “Sit down, you two. I won’t bite!” Neither man moved, and he shrugged. “Then please yourselves.”
“Hear us out, man. At least hear me.” Bruda hadn’t risen to his feet, indeed hadn’t changed his posture in the chair at all. He radiated calm as a fire radiates heat, and when Aldric glared he matched it stare for stare. “Sit, please. Be still. Listen to what we have to say, then be angry if you must.”
Aldric held Bruda’s gaze for several more seconds to prove he wasn’t looking away because he had to, then slowly, carefully resumed his seat.
*
Aldric Talvalin had been told many things already, Bruda knew, but not the unpalatable truth behind his being brought here. No one had yet decided how and when he should learn that, but Bruda had expressed a wish to be there when it happened. Now he wasn’t so sure. He knew a great deal more than he had any right to about this Alban clan-lord, but it was the way he and Goth and Voord acquired such information that lay at the bottom of all. It had been a distasteful process of spies and threats and thievery and blackmail, despite its benefit to the Empire he served – and loved, though he only admitted that on rare occasions, in private and the maudlin stage of drink. If there had been another way…
But there had not.
Bruda wasn’t Hauthanalth Kagh’ Ernvakh for nothing. He commanded the Guardians of the Emperor’s Honour, as old and respected a position as any in this young Empire, and to do so he was himself a man of honour. That made him unlike Goth with his plots and stratagems and, especially, unlike Voord whose personal advancement coloured everything he did. But Bruda believed himself very like the young Alban who sat bolt-upright and stared and dared them all to make sense of his disrupted life. Aldric too was an honourable man, not only as the Albans defined the word, but also as the Prokrator himself regarded it. That made him deadly dangerous, a whetted blade poised and ready to fall. But where? On his captors?
Or on the king who had betrayed him?
“Aldric-an,” Bruda said quietly, “Princess Marhala was taken twelve leagues from the frontier. More than thirty miles inside hostile territory. So why do you think she’s held in Egisburg, a city only three leagues from the line?”
“Well within range of a mounted assault-force,” added Goth, and Aldric whistled thinly through his teeth.
“ ‘Here’s your prize. Come take it.’ And if the army sends in a force—?”
“Then the Empire goes up in flames from end to end. War, to justify having a Warlord.” Bruda leaned forward, his face taut. “Will you help us, Aldric-an? As your king desires?” He watched as the Alban settled back into the padded embrace of his chair and looked from face to face with hooded, unreadable eyes, feeling sure the young man had already made up his mind.
*
“This whole affair,” said Aldric, “is so twisted that trying to work through the basic permutations gives me a headache. And it stinks of intrigue. That’s not a perfume I like. So, just for your so-comprehensive records, king or not, duty or not… No, I won’t.” He allowed the small sounds of astonishment, anger or downright disbelief to fade away, then glanced bleakly towards Hautheisart Voord. “I’m sure you’re eager to change my mind. Get on with it. Convince me.”
He wanted to know what his allies-to-be were really like, what lay beneath the dutiful, heroic expressions they hid with masks of metal. This was a way of finding out, and he expected threats of violence like those uttered by Hautmarin Aralten aboard Teynaur. What he didn’t expect was the exultant smile that stretched Voord’s razor-cut mouth. It sent a tiny shiver of apprehension up his back as he guessed, far too late, that being convinced by the Drusalan Secret Police might involve threats that weren’t so commonplace. What could they promise? What could they do?
He learned.
“This report from Teynaur is enough to place its subject in the hands of the secular authorities on a charge of sorcery,” said Voord. “It would be time-consuming, a waste of our investment, and in any case mere death is no threat to a kailin of Alba.” Aldric could have differed with that opinion, but good sense kept his mouth shut. “So,” continued Voord, “I examined our dossier, and found ways of turning his much-vaunted pride and honour to our advantage.” He tapped one finger on the table and Garet slid a folder towards him across the polished surface. Voord opened it, flicked through the contents with the bone and leather talon of his left hand, then extracted two sheets.
“One: the steading of Tervasdal in Valhol.” Aldric’s head jerked up. “Two: the citadel at Seghar.” There was a self-satisfied undertone to Voord’s voice as he arranged both sheets on the table with finicky neatness, spinning the moment out. “And three: a fine Andarran stallion in the stables of this very stronghold. Kyrin and Gueynor and Lyard.” He smiled at Aldric and pressed his right hand flat against the documents. “Do you want to hear the details?”
Aldric gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles went ivory-pale. He got to his feet again, very slowly this time like a man oppressed by vast weight, and only Bruda was close enough and quick enough to catch the hatred glittering in his eyes like a drawn blade. Yet there was no trace of it when he turned towards Goth, shoulders sagging like those of a man broken in body and spirit, all defiance gone as he stumbled over his speech.
“The… My… Sir, I-I’m convinced. When do we go?”
“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” said Goth. “First you need clothing and armour.”
“I already have armour, sir.”
“But not for Egisburg. Ride through that city’s gates in Alban harness and you would never leave again. You’ll need our cavalry equipment.”
“I want my own weapons.” There was a sudden hardness in his voice that left no room for argument, like an actor forgetting the role he played, but it was gone an instant later. “If there’s need, I should carry what I know how to use.”
Goth looked past him towards Bruda, and Aldric’s peripheral vision caught the Prokrator’s nod of consent accompanied by a hand-sign which meant nothing at first. It was a gesture he might have used himself in a noisy tavern, signalling for an increased measure, but here it seemed completely out of context.
Until Goth spoke again.
*
“To carry personal blades,” he said, “Prokrator Bruda directs that an officer must also carry high rank. A brevet of hanalth should be enough.” This time it was Voord who shot out of his chair, knocking it over in his haste. The babbled words of outraged protest fell silent when Goth raised his hand with a look that dared him to argue further. Voord did.
“You can’t do this!” he blared, all affronted dignity. “You can’t give such promotion—”
“Hautheisart Voord!” Bruda’s voice was sharp. “The Lord General has just done so.”
“But-but that means…” Disbelief struggled with the reality of the situation and reality won. “That means he’s senior to me!” Voord stared at Bruda then at Goth, hoping this was a black joke played on him for his earlier foul manners, hoping to see a smile or a twinkling eye, but the only amusement he saw was on Aldric’s face. And that made things much worse.
“You’re correct, hautheisart,” said Goth. “He is superior.” Aldric’s smile got slightly wider but Voord was past noticing subtle nuances of tone. This affair was more important to him than even caution, and his next words bypassed the general in favour of his own commander.
“Prokrator Hauthanalth,” he said, using Bruda’s full title for the same reason Aldric’s had been used by Goth, as preface and emphasis for an appeal. “Sir, tell me I don’t have to heed his commands.” An abject ‘please’ was unspoken but obvious and if Voord hadn’t been so ill-mannered earlier, Bruda might have said what his lieutenant wanted
to hear. Instead…
“This is only for protective colouration, Voord, so nothing of the sort should happen.” He shot a warning glance at Aldric. “But if, if an officer of…of apparently superior rank…gives you an order before witnesses, then as his subordinate you will obey it.”
Voord was pallid at the best of times, but now what little colour was in his face drained away to leave it as white as chalk. His hand slammed against the table-top, his maimed left hand, as if his fury needed to cause pain but the only person he could hurt with impunity was himself.
“I will not!” Voord’s voice was shrill and tremulous. “I’ll take no orders from that fatherless son of a whore, that—”
*
Lord-Commander Voord Ebanesh abused Drusalan prisoners and subordinates without a second thought but had no experience of Albans. Otherwise he might have been more guarded in his choice of words, or at least realised how close he was when he said them.
Both mistakes at once meant Aldric didn’t even have to move, except for one fist backed by all the focused power of a swordsman’s trained muscles, before slamming Voord’s further opinions back into his mouth. That punch didn’t quite lift the man off his feet, but it snapped his head back on his neck and staggered him enough that those feet shot from under him. The hautheisart crashed to the floor in a clatter of harness and weapons, blood bright on his face from lips burst by the hammer-and-anvil impact against his own teeth. His mouth sagged open, revealing a ragged splinter of incisor gleaming white against the red.
“Sharp fangs,” said Aldric to no one in particular. “Not as poisonous as everything else in that mouth.” He sucked the oozing, ragged skin across his knuckles to ease its sting, stared at the wound for a moment, then worked his jaws and spat a jet of mingled blood and saliva across the floor just short of Voord’s right hand. “But you can never be sure with snakes.”
“Kakyu shu’aj!” Voord yelled the obscenity as he scrambled to his feet and slapped hand to makher hilt. Then he jolted to a standstill with the blade still sheathed, speed and distance misjudged yet again, for Aldric had already reached for something among his bundled gear on the bench.
That something was Isileth.
Now her edge hovered so close to Voord’s windpipe that a mere flick of the wrist would shear it. The longsword was far steadier than anything held by the hand of a broken man should be, and the flint-hard eyes staring at him down its length no longer showed any sign of defeat. Voord looked at the blade, at the hand, at the eyes, and realised the sum of those three things equalled his own death.
“Halt!” Goth’s voice, parade-ground harsh, slashed through the room. It broke whatever connection ran from a gortaiken hungry sword to its wielder’s mind and muscles, or perhaps only caused an instant’s pause between intent and action. Either way it saved Voord’s life, because though neither Aldric nor the hautheisart had moved, something savage vanished from the air.
“You heard what he said.” Aldric didn’t shift his gaze from Voord’s face or Isileth Widowmaker from the man’s throat, but at least he spoke instead of driving the taiken home. “All of you.”
“No. He’s too valuable.”
“Valuable?” Aldric coughed a single humourless laugh. “You mean he’s an investment like me? Then he should have invested a few seconds of thought in what he said before he said it.”
“Look at his face, man! Look at what you did! Isn’t that enough for one ill-chosen word?”
“No.” Aldric sounded vindictive. “Not yet.”
“Let them fight.” Bruda’s words flew full in the face of a superior’s direct command and drew everyone’s attention. “With taidyo staff-swords. There’s a sheaf of them among the weapon-gear. Or since Voord’s worth more undamaged – as are they both, Lord General – let the Alban fight with somebody else.” That was as much challenge as suggestion, but no one reacted by so much as the flicker of an eyelid. “You say to him, ‘look at Voord’. I say to you, ‘look at him’. He’s like a crossbow, wound up and dangerous. And besides…” Bruda shifted slightly, sitting bolt-upright in his chair, and he no longer looked approachable. Instead that formal posture transformed him into everything an Imperial hauthanalth and a Chief of Secret Police should be: arrogant, sinister and menacing. “Besides,” he tapped the folder on the table, “I want to see if he’s as good as this claims.”
“If you think I’ll entertain you by—” Aldric began, then bit the words off short as tau-kortagor Garet stood up.
“You talk of insults, Alban. The things that feed your honour. Do you remember how you insulted me aboard Teynaur? I do, even if you don’t, and if you want a fight,” he spread mailed arms wide, “here I am.”
Aldric stared. This was the same baby-faced cadet who had seemed almost friendly as the warship came into dock. And yet he wasn’t the same at all. Once again he looked older, meaner, and far more capable of violence. If this was Drusalan friendship, it was as transient as snow in springtime. No matter. He had no need of such friends.
Bruda had spoken truth about him. The cold killing rage shuttered behind his eyes was still for Voord alone but, no matter how he tried to hide it, he was angry enough to fight with anyone. It was the cumulative effect of insults, of being used and abused by so-called allies, of being treated like an inanimate object bought and paid for, like…
Like an investment. Light of Heaven, that word burned like vitriol.
When he slid Widowmaker back into her scabbard Aldric spoke no needless hands-off warning. In Goth and Bruda’s presence nobody would be fool enough to touch the sword, and they had too much sense to do it themselves.
Garet had already selected a taidyo and was whipping the four-foot length of oak from side to side. It was unusual for anyone other than an Alban to be familiar with longsword play – Gemmel was a notable exception, as in much else – and as he watched Garet’s posturing Aldric wondered if this was yet another test set up in advance. He didn’t care. If Voord had arranged it, then the hautheisart’s smashed mouth would remind him to be more cautious next time.
“I can’t damage you the way you deserve,” said Garet as he stalked across the floor, “but I’ll teach you how to treat Imperial officers.”
Aldric seemed oblivious to the threats. He tugged one staff-sword after another from their canvas sleeves, chose one whose chequer-carved grip best fitted his hands, and hefted it to test its weight and balance. Garet was still talking, threatening, boasting, casting doubts on Aldric’s ability and on the worthiness of fighting with sticks. But Aldric knew stick-fighting of old, and the damage it could do; a solid blow from a stave like these had snapped his ribs.
That was why he laid his own taidyo aside and buckled on the sleeves of his battle armour, provoking more derisive comment from the already-mailed Garet and a certain amount of muttered observation from the other. The steel plates of the vambraces were a better defence against percussive impact than the strongest mail-mesh ever made, and if Garet didn’t know it already, he would find out soon enough.
Aldric swung the taidyo from low to high then down again, swept it across at the level of his eyes and finished with a diagonal to right and left. They were simple moves to check the fit of the armoured sleeves, but as Garet watched him Aldric could see confusion cross the Drusalan’s face. It was enlightening. He didn’t know as much about Alban longswords as he claimed, and if so, then…
“Ow!” Aldric winced as cramp stabbed like a silver bolt through one shoulder-joint and made him gasp. It might have been a legacy of being unhorsed in Tuenafen, or helping to propel Teynaur to port. The reason was of no account and even Aldric wasn’t sure if he had meant it to be so obvious. What mattered was that Garet had heard the gasp, seen the wince and drawn his own conclusions.
“I’m better than you, Alban,” the tau-kortagor said. “I’m better because I’m faster, and I’m faster because I’m younger. That’s why I’ll hurt you, Alban, and why there’s not a thing you can do about it.”
Gar
et shifted into a stance Aldric recognised. It was one of the ready positions for the makher, a weapon as different from the taiken as night from day. Now he was sure who would win and lose. Who would be hurt, and who would do the hurting. He subjected the stance to a slow, unimpressed head-to-toe examination, then looked his opponent in the eye and went “Tsk-tsk.”
An instant later Garet’s taidyo was lashing at his face.
Aldric didn’t block the cut, no true cut at all but a slash more suited to a man with a club. Instead he gave ground with an evasion as neat as a dance-step and didn’t even bring his own sword up into ward. It broke the first and last rule of weapon-play; toying with an unknown opponent invited disaster, and it was a rule he usually obeyed. Yet with the opening for a counter right there, he withheld the return blow and gave only a mocking grin.
Garet snarled and made a makher-style jab straight at Aldric’s eyes.
It would have been more effective if the staff-sword was makher length, but it had more than a foot of reach that the Drusalan didn’t know how to handle properly and again Aldric did something he would never risk with live blades. He deflected the incoming point aside, turned inside the weapon’s arc and caught it between forearm and elbow of his left arm. A tug on the hilt and a sidewise twist wrenched the taidyo so easily from Garet’s hand that it seemed he had given it up of his own free will. The disarm was a cheap, showy trick, but it demonstrated overwhelming skill and that was what counted.
“You’re better than me?” Aldric said, grinning. “I don’t see it.” There was no purpose in continuing this farce any longer, so he sketched a salute and turned away to return both taidyin to his gear.
“Garet,” said a voice behind him. Aldric scarcely recognised Voord’s urbane tones but apart from a single shrill expletive, he hadn’t heard the hautheisart speak since feeding him his own teeth. He looked back and saw the other escort – Tagen, was it? – on his feet with one hand on the pommel of his sword. Aldric tensed until he realised none of that malign attention was directed at him. Instead Voord stared at Garet over a bloodied kerchief that concealed most of his face, and though that muffled, mangled mouth spoke no further words aloud, the cadet read enough meaning in his commander’s eyes.
The Dragon Lord Page 18
