She ran on all the same, stopping finally when she knew she could run no more. The quiet of the forest surrounded her, dark and thick and vast, like sleep. She stood till she caught her breath, until her heart had slowed down a bit. Finally she began to feel the chill of the damp air. Tiny jolts stabbed at her muscles like invisible pins, making them jerk.
You can't stay here, she told herself. Night would come in a few hours, and even the worst idiot knew not to be in the woods at night, at the mercy of animals or bandits or leshy—or worse. She began to recall in greater detail folk stories to do with the forest's penchant for swallowing unwary travelers, without leaving so much as a trace.
She felt an added chill sweep her spine, found herself glancing over her shoulder between tree trunks and seedlings. No doubt the scuffle was over already, the victors proclaimed. She could make her way back toward the road again, keep out of sight in the brush, get just close enough to glimpse the outcome. If the knight had killed the two robbers he might have left her bag, having little need of a few coins and women's clothing. Or the knight may have fallen and been carrying money that a wounded knave would overlook. She could at least attempt to learn who he was.
The combination of fear and curiosity began to overwhelm her. She felt nervous energy forming deep within her bruised and twitching body. Go wide around to the south, she told herself. Approach from the higher ground, where the trees are closer to the road. Get up, she insisted. Quietly!
She felt the bruised knee protest as she put weight on it. When she rubbed at a scratch on her cheek, she came away with blood on her sleeve. Her back ached in at least two places. She thought of her petty concern over the sword bruise on her backside; she wouldn't be anything so pretty to look at now, she guessed, though it didn't seem as important anymore. She started back through the trees toward the road.
* * *
"Someone ahead, Captain," the lead rider shouted back. Grear followed his line of sight. Three figures moved about in the road just at the bend. He pulled his horse up and ordered his men left toward the edge of the road, then waited until all five of them had come in line. Without the clamp of hooves and the rustle of battle dress, he could hear the metal ping of clashing sword blades, and he realized what the movement was about.
"Our friend Kaafk said she'd be alone," Grear said, mostly thinking out loud.
The man nearest to him shrugged. "Maybe it isn't her?"
"He did say she might be followed, which would explain at least a part of this mystery."
"If it be her, do we kill them all?"
Grear frowned. He had never taken a job quite like this before: payment in bits and pieces, no clear idea who he was ultimately working for, killing children. The entire arrangement had been conducted by a messenger sent to Ikaydin with a good deal of gold and just enough information—sent specifically to seek Grear out and bring him to southern Ariman. Since his work in the Dokany Wars, he had enjoyed a reputation as a trustworthy assassin, but he hadn't realized his name had come to command such a price!
The order to kill the king's daughter had come from a man who met them near the seaward swamps just south of Bail, a velvet and silk merchant calling himself Kaafk, and someone Grear did not especially care for. The merchant seemed a coldblooded man, even to Grear—a man whose round face and carnival manner very nearly concealed the look of poison Grear recognized in his eyes.
But the order had been accompanied by more gold, and the promise of still more afterward. Then came talk of additional, quite profitable work to come after that.
Grear had his questions, about why he was to report to no one else but Kaafk, about the Bouren surcoats the merchant had given him and his men to wear, and about this strange, somewhat distasteful task of killing the young Princess Madia—all questions he would ask the merchant when he and his men arrived back at Bail.
In the meantime, he had already collected more gold than he had ever imagined, a fortune that would buy himself and his comrades some glorious days in Kopeth while waiting for Kaafk and his purse to return as promised (and many good years afterward). To Grear's mind, that was answer enough for a while.
"Draw swords," he ordered. He heeled the horse forward, riding at a slow gallop until they were almost upon the others. The three were a peasant man and a soldier, King Andarys', at a guess, and with them a young girl wearing a coat of leather and fur and clutching a brown drawstring pouch. The girl and the knight had no doubt been set upon by a robber, or robbers—perhaps the knight and the other man were both opportunists, fighting over who would get to collect a bounty set on the girl's head?
It was difficult to tell who was fighting who, Grear thought, dismounting with a wave at his men to follow. No matter, he thought. The girl matched the description of the princess closely enough.
"Take him!" he shouted, pointing three of his men to the knight, certain that even in Bouren armor those odds would be enough. His other two men lunged at the highwayman, one fending off the young man's fatigued first swing of the ax, the other dodging to the opposite side and swinging his own ax with both hands. The ax ran through the boy's side and ripped out the front, and the boy's body fell almost at once. Grear saw the look in the girl's eyes as she turned toward him, the horror as he approached.
He stepped nearer and she raised her sword to defend herself, anticipating the need to block his attack. She turned her head wildly, searching for the two men circling behind her now, checking on Grear in front of her again. Grear took a stance and nodded, and suddenly advanced. She blocked his blade well enough, then jerked suddenly as the men behind her both thrust their blades into her and withdrew. She crumpled with a gasp beside the boy.
Grear looked over his shoulder. The knight lay dead, bleeding from both his arms and his abdomen. The men had tackled him, held him down and hacked through his mail with their battle-axes. One of Grear's troops had a bleeding gash in the vambrace protecting his arm—it looked as though the knight had cut it deep.
"All right, we're not through with this yet," Grear shouted. "Kaafk wants her to vanish." His men groaned in unison, but said nothing in particular. Grear bent over the girl, noticing the gold medallion she wore around her neck. "It's her all right," he said, nodding, working the chain over her head. He stood looking at the engraving. "We'll bring this, and the bag, to the meeting at Bail. But not until we've dug a quick and proper hole."
Grear put the medallion away, then grabbed one of the girl's arms. Easy money, he thought, and more to come. One of his men grabbed the other arm and together they dragged the body off.
* * *
Madia hid in a hollow in the center of a patch of sumac, peering through leaves. On the road she could see a half-dozen mounted men wearing armor and long tunics bearing what appeared to be the crest of Lord Ivran of Bouren. The girl and her brother lay dead on the ground, as did the knight that had come charging up on foot. Madia stayed very still, breathing quietly, watching as the soldiers dragged all three bodies behind thick brush. They dug a single large, shallow hole, pushed the bodies in and covered them up. They worked quickly, checking the road as they did, then they took to their horses again.
When they left she stayed, thinking, waiting for the courage or the inspiration to move again. Madia crouched on the one good knee with both arms wrapped around herself, shivering. Lord Ivran of Bouren had sent his men to kill her!
But why? What would Ivran or his son have to gain by killing me? Unless the rumors were true, and they really did want a war? Unless Lord Ferris was right. . . .
But that did nothing to explain the crazed knight from Kamrit—charging up all alone, obviously prepared to slay anyone in order to get at her. Whoever was he? Whatever was he trying to do?
How many people wanted her dead or captured? How many more? She felt a crushing urge to run home—to her father, to Anna—but they had both already betrayed her, and someone there certainly may have sent the dead knight!
She felt tears in the corners of her eyes and
tried not to let them come; she didn't seem to have any choice. After a moment she got the sobbing under control, sniffing it back, and felt a little bit better, though she soon noticed the air growing even colder, or so it seemed.
Time to get moving, she told herself. Already it was beginning to get dark. She scrambled from cover and searched the road for her shoulder bag and sword but found nothing. Then her eyes noticed the light color of something caught on a bush near the path the others had taken to the burial site. She hurried over, knelt and pulled it out: the peasant girl's worn vest. She put it on, ignoring the thick aroma that lingered in its weave. She was a little warmer, she decided.
As she started up the road she heard horses, many of them, approaching from behind. She left the road again and ran until she found another sheltered hollow in the trees and sumac, where she lay down and waited. Eventually the riders passed, perhaps two dozen in all, mounted soldiers from Kamrit. She thought she recognized the lead rider as Captain Tornen, though in the poor light of the setting sun it was difficult to tell.
She nearly cried out to them. Then she thought better of it and kept her mouth shut. When they had gone, she curled up, shivering. She fell asleep watching the moon rise in the sky.
Chapter IV
"Lord Ferris, the merchant has arrived!" the soldier announced. A second figure stood in the doorway behind him, a large man in a gold embroidered cape, a velvet coat and mullen cap.
The demon Tyrr made the body construct's head nod, made Ferris' voice say, "Let him enter, then leave us." The guard bowed, opened the door, then disappeared. The merchant Kaafk closed the heavy chamber door behind him.
"You will be pleased, my lord," Kaafk said demurely.
Tyrr went to one of the thick wooden chairs positioned about the single large table that dominated the room. A gold accented jug, filled with wine from the ports of Neleva, graced the table's center, accompanied by a pair of finely carved flagons. Wine was an economical device Tyrr had found handy when dealing with men. A bowl of sweet cakes rested there as well, quite useful in dealing with Kaafk in particular. "Sit," Tyrr said, "and specify."
"Grear and his men were successful." Kaafk smiled broadly, as if telling a joke. "I met them as we arranged, near Bail, and completed payment. They were able to provide me with these."
Kaafk pulled a large leather drawstring travel pouch out from under his cape and opened it, then produced a bloodied fur and leather coat and a large gold medallion, all the Princess Madia's. "They buried the bodies, as I instructed."
"You know this?"
Kaafk paused, stuffing the coat back in the bag. He looked up, smiling again, his very fat face growing even wider. "I have found Grear to be a man who does what he says, or I would not deal with him. And on my trip home, I went by the site where they found her. The ground is stained, but that is all.
"When I met with them they still wore their Bouren surcoats and armor. I told them to put the clothes away, but to keep them about, for times to come. One never knows."
Kaafk paused again, tossed the bag on the table, then he sat down and tossed the medallion as well; it bounced twice before it came to rest near the table's center. "They took payment and departed without incident, and they've agreed to remain in the region, and at our service as we require. I told them we might also pay well for any useful information they come by." He filled a cup with wine and sipped it several times. As the drink settled, Kaafk's face went slack, then rebounded, another full grin, ears riding up above tight cheeks. "Grear and his men are a pleasure to deal with. As their reputation suggests."
A focused man, Tyrr thought, if rather pompous—a combination that made him both useful and annoying at the same time. This was a man unfettered by common regard, bound only to himself and his greed and, of course, to Tyrr. He watched the mood of the wine begin to spread over Kaafk's chunky features.
"I visited Kopeth as planned," Kaafk said, setting the empty flagon down. "I spent two days meeting with my messengers, who have been in Lencia. There is unrest, they say, even fear, though it is hard to tell what shape these things will take. They could not get anyone near King Ivran to talk, even for a sizable offer, though most may simply not have known very much." He leaned back, taking in a deep breath, expanding his great torso. His eyes sparkled.
Tyrr disliked the human affinity for making conversation a game, a petty, often wasteful practice, but it was just these sorts of weaknesses that, when kept in mind, made mankind so pliable. He took the bait: "Yes?"
"However!" Kaafk went on, tipping his head boyishly to one side. "I did personally manage to spend those nights with a most enjoyably unprincipled young girl who claimed she was somehow related to a Bouren lord, and who had recently been to Lord Ivran's castle. She told me Ivran's eldest son Jaran is calling in homages and training troops, though outwardly, neither Ivran nor any of the other northern kings seem to have any genuine plans to make war—perhaps only to guard against it. Which agrees with what my messengers said. The mood seems to be one of confusion."
"Confusion allows for manipulation," Tyrr said. And on any level I desire. Once King Andarys was dead, the vassals north of Ariman might let go of their loyalties to the old kings and give consideration to the new. In time they might serve Lord Ferris of their own accord. Though it was also possible, Tyrr believed, that they would raise objections, and might conceivably unite and turn against him. Tyrr did not intend to allow that progression. By one means or another, sovereignty would at least be maintained—at least. The four northern fiefs were too valuable to leave to their own lords for long in any case.
Forethought, Tyrr reminded himself. Careful planning and execution. Flexibility, and above all, control! These were the keys that would unlock the future and free him from the failures of the past—his own, and those of all the others. He must resist indulging in the hedonistic, reckless overconfidence that seemed to come so naturally to his kind. Forethought, flexibility, control!
Kaafk was nodding. "Manipulation is a fine thing, my friend," he said, chuckling now, an action Tyrr had not yet mastered, but one he was working on. "It allows us to do what we like." He leaned forward again, refilling his flagon. "I will admit, I feared the great kings of the north at first. The fool Andarys has let the fiefs have their way in recent years. I thought they would react to minimal pressure, and they have not. Your confidence amazed me at first, yet it is borne out! And my profits have already begun to soar. You are not the fool I took you for!" He laughed heartily now.
Tyrr felt a surging urge to recite an ancient chant adding poisons to the wine, so that he could watch this bloated impudent braggart twist in final agony. Control, he reminded himself again, forethought! How easily these things could be forgotten. He fought the impulse.
Tyrr had arranged for Kaafk to avoid paying most of the tolls imposed by the many vassals of Ariman and by the king's highway guards. Half of that windfall, of course, went directly to Tyrr—or rather, Tyrr thought, to the private treasury of Grand Chamberlain Ferris. The rest went to Kaafk, who was usurping trade territories and merchandise at an amazing rate. Which would likely be maintained, once King Andarys was removed and the existing tolls on regular trade and travel were raised, and once new ones were imposed, the situation would improve all the more.
"We have no room for fools," Tyrr remarked. "I foresee the prospect of many troubles, but by the time most of them arrive, great wealth and control will be mine. I plan to build armies to rival those of Hual Andarys. In the meantime, any trader who is not with us or cannot bear the expense will leave an opening which I expect you can easily fill."
Kaafk was still grinning, his servile mind easily following Tyrr's. "It will be my pleasure, my lord."
"Pleasure is something you think a great deal about, isn't it?"
"As anyone who can afford it will."
"I see." Tyrr waited while Kaafk again poured more wine. He would finish the wine jug and would be worthless for several hours after that, as was usual with men, espe
cially Kaafk. No matter, their discussion was nearly through.
"So, what of old Kelren Andarys?" Kaafk asked then. "Why have I heard no new news? You speak of his death, and yet there is no death. What would you—"
The body shook. "Enough!" Tyrr sought control yet again. Kaafk looked up, then seemed to shrug Tyrr off. The tone of Kaafk's voice had soured notably, something that could well be considered disrespectful, foolishly self-important, quite stupid. Something Tyrr or any of his brethren would have killed a man for once. But this was a new Tyrr, a wiser being, splendid, evolved! Tyrr stopped shaking and slowly absorbed the comment. "Kelren Andarys will soon be gone," he explained.
"You said he'd be gone by now, long dead, yet he lives."
"He is gravely ill," Tyrr said, still holding back.
"Still, he lives," Kaafk repeated.
Tyrr felt the pull grow more unyielding. The topic was a frustrating one, and he required no criticism regarding it. But even a splendid Tyrr couldn't do business with dead men. And Kaafk, after all, was right about Kelren.
"Something keeps the king alive," Tyrr made the voice say. "I have tried many spells. If you have seen the king lately, you know of their effects. He is nearly gone; he simply has not died yet. He will."
"What else do you plan to do?" Kaafk asked, chewing sweet cakes now, obviously enjoying them.
Tyrr hated this minor interrogation enough to feel an enormous, fully renewed, urge to annihilate the merchant. Yet again he thought better of it, insisted on it, and noted that the task was getting somewhat easier with practice. I must stick to my plan, he repeated in his mind, to that which sets me apart from the many that have gone before me—from Tybree! "That," he stated, "is my concern."
Kaafk shrugged, downed another sweet cake, then swilled his wine a third time and set the flagon on the table. He sat there a moment, cheeks slightly rosied, immense calm in his eyes as his mind apparently wheeled in random directions.
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