by Tim Stead
“You’ve been busy,” the general said.
“Busy?”
“Falini. I assume that was you, signing yourself on the wall.”
“Aye, that was me.” Francis was pleased to see that Delarsi was impressed.
The general sat down and waved Francis to a seat opposite. He poured a glass of wine and Francis accepted it.
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Delarsi said.
Francis sipped his wine. It was better than he was used to.
“I had to kill three men to get to him,” he said.
“Not the men,” the general said, his eyes sharp, “The girl. You butchered his fourteen year old daughter in her bed. That was you, wasn’t it? The son’s half mad with it. He’s offering ten thousand crowns for your head.”
Fourteen years old? He’d killed a fourteen year old girl? He felt nauseous, tried to hide it by sipping his wine again and looking away from the general. He’d thought she was… well, older. The image of the serving girl at the kitchen door came to mind.
“Aye,” he said. The word tasted bitter. “Ten thousand, you say?”
“No need to fret,” Delarsi said. “He has no idea who you are, and besides, he’s too busy fighting Duke Derali.”
“But your men know.”
“My men are loyal. They will not betray you.”
Easy for him to say, and it was hard for Francis to believe. “Ten thousand crowns loyal?”
“Loyal to the death,” Delarsi said, and Francis thought he meant it, but to his mind you could never trust a man that much unless he were kin, end even then… He shook his head.
“Are the city regiments ready to move?” Francis asked.
“At my word,” the general said. “They are keen to preserve the city, and impatient to act.”
“But they will hold until you say?”
“Of course.”
It worried Francis. The general had become his only conduit to the city regiments and that meant that the old man had real power. It was even possible that Delarsi meant to seize the crown for himself, a thought that had not occurred to Francis before. Now that it had, he chided himself for being so slow. Of course that was what the old man intended. He would ride the popular uprising and install himself. Fortunately Francis still had an ace to play, but it was best if the old man thought him stripped of cards.
“The prince is dead,” he said, trying to weigh his voice down with loss.
“Dead?” Delarsi leaned forwards. “They found him? Falini’s men?”
“Aye, three of them. I can’t say how. They killed the prince and we killed them – hardly a fair exchange. I am sorry to have lost you so great a piece in the game.”
The general sat back in his chair and sipped his wine. He seemed almost to have an air of satisfaction about him. “I’m sure you did your best,” he said. “Well, I hadn’t counted on the boy surviving. We’ll make do.”
Again Francis got the strong impression that the general was not really put out by news of the prince’s death. It pleased him. If that was the case he would be mightily displeased with the truth.
Francis drank off the rest of his wine in a single gulp. It was the last thing he would ever eat or drink in this house. He had come to realise that he was nothing more than a convenience to Delarsi, and once he had ceased to be convenient it would suit the general very nicely if he ceased to be altogether, and he did not think the general was above poisoning him.
He moved his left arm and felt the comforting weight of his custom made knife against his forearm. As long as he had his blade and his gift he was a danger to anyone that crossed him. He would set his friends to watch the general, to see what he got up to.
“What did you do with the body?” the general asked.
“Dumped it in the river,” he replied – his prepared answer. “It’s better if some people think the prince is still alive.”
“Yes,” the general said. He smiled and poured himself another glass of wine, waved the decanter in Francis’s direction, but Francis shook his head. “Yes, I suppose some people will be better kept clinging to the hope.”
Another possibility occurred to Francis. What if it hadn’t been Falini’s men that had tried to kill the boy? Whoever had sent them had not received a report of their apparent success because all three had died. They could have been sent by anyone – Falini, Derali, or even the general. Now that he thought of it, the general was the only one who knew who he was, the only one who knew he had the prince, and the only one who could have had him followed.
What if he had killed the wrong man? What if a fourteen year old girl had died for nothing?
“I have to go,” he said. “There are matters that I must see to. You will send word before the regiments make their move?”
“Of course,” the general reassured him. “But it will be days yet, perhaps weeks. It depends on the dukes. We must wait until one of them is defeated and the other weakened. That is the time to strike.”
Obviously, Francis thought. He felt the sting of condescension.
“I will await your word,” he said.
As he walked back down through the troubled streets it occurred to him that the thing between him and Delarsi was now simply a question of timing, of who would move against the other first.
Knowing what he knew, Francis thought himself a little favoured in the matter.
42 Departure
“You must stop disappearing like that,” Degoran said. “It makes me nervous.”
Narak lounged in a comfortable chair, made a little less snug by the twin blades he now wore on his back.
“I was chasing the last remnants of the plot to kill you,” he said. “I haven’t dug up the root of it yet, but it’ll take a long time to grow back after being cut so close to the ground.”
“Good news, I suppose,” Degoran said.
He was eating his midday meal in his private chambers, and Narak had declined to join him. He had eaten at Col Boran before Pascha had sent him here. As soon as he had been admitted to the king’s chambers he had seen that their departure was close. Various things that the king used on a regular basis were missing and the papers had been tidied away from his work table.
“Are we leaving tomorrow?” he asked.
Degoran looked at him sharply. “How did you…?” He shook his head. “I was a fool to think it a secret, I suppose.”
“A guess” Narak said. “Where are we going?”
“There’s something you don’t know, then?”
Narak shrugged. “I could guess.”
“Bas Erinor,” Degoran said.
It was what Narak had thought. It was a bold move. The Duke of Bas Erinor had left that city the day before, heading for the perceived threat of Berashi soldiers massing on Avilian’s western border.
“You’re going to replace Duke Alwain, degrade his blood.”
“I am,” the king agreed.
“That’s harsh,” Narak said. “It’s a noble lineage, and might be again.” He remembered Duke Quinnial as though it were yesterday. He’d grown up with a crippled arm and no expectation of power, and those things had probably made him a better man, a kinder ruler. Narak had found no fault in Quinnial’s older brother, Aidon, other than a slight lack of wit compared to his sibling. They had both been fine young men.
He wondered what Quinnial would make of his great grandson Alwain losing the seat.
“I know that you were close to the family many years ago, but sons are not their fathers. I cannot see another way to repair the kingdom. The feckless nobility follow Alwain’s lead and they’re bleeding the country dry. Every day I hear reports from Afael – civil war, regicide, siege and starvation – and it’s like prophecy. It’s Avilian’s future.”
“It’s a time of change,” Narak said. The war with Seth Yarra had put ideas into people’s heads, and the common folk as much as the nobility. Those ideas weren’t going to simply die away – Afael showed that if it showed anything.
&
nbsp; “Does change always have to be so bloody?” Degoran asked – a rhetorical question, Narak assumed, because he certainly couldn’t answer it. In his own experience there were always people who resisted change, and the bigger the change the bigger the resistance. If there was power involved it usually led to war – civil or otherwise.
“I’m just here to keep you alive, King Degoran,” he said. “I leave the philosophical questions to those foolish enough to answer them.”
The king finished his meal. A servant was called and the remains were taken away. When they were alone again the king resumed their conversation.
“I’m glad to see you properly armed now,” he said. “It always seemed odd to me to have a bodyguard who eschewed a blade.”
“I expect some resistance to your cause,” Narak said.
“I’m not a fool, you know,” Degoran said.
“What do you mean?”
“I was given the finest education, especially history. For some reason it’s thought kings should know history above all else. I know that Narak Brash is the true name of the Wolf: your name. When you called yourself Brash I guessed you wanted to hide who you were, so I played along, but you always looked like you were incomplete. Now I see the swords I see what it was.”
It was Narak’s turn to be a little surprised. He had not thought that the king would guess who he was. But calling yourself by an old, half forgotten name was not really much of a disguise.
“I never lied,” Narak said.
“No. But I am curious. Why? Why are you here, and why not as yourself?”
Narak thought about that for a moment. Why was he here? Because it had seemed like the right thing to do. Degoran was a man he respected, and the only man who could divert Avilian from its catastrophic course. The second question was easier to answer.
“When people see Wolf Narak they see too many things. They would think me the master and you the servant, and that is not the case. I am here only to protect you. I offer no advice. I have no agenda beyond your continued survival.”
“And why am I so blessed?”
“Avilian needs you. I have always had a soft spot for the kingdom.”
Degoran shook his head. “It is a whim, then,” he said. “I am protected on a whim. Well, I cannot say that I am not thankful that the wind blew you my way, Deus.”
“Brash,” Narak insisted. “Please continue to call me Brash.”
“As you wish.”
“And you may yet find that the wind has blown a storm your way. I do not think that Alwain will be easily set aside.”
*
The following morning was a banner day for Golt. Half the king’s regiment, five hundred men on horseback, filled the streets with colour and polished steel. They were by far the prettiest army that Narak had ever seen. He wondered if they could fight half as well as they looked if it came to that.
Narak guessed that he was the worst dressed man in the city. He wore simple white cottons, a brown leather jacket that reached down to his thighs and a pair of blades on his back. His boots were well enough made, but he had not thought to polish them.
He rode the same horse he had used on the king’s hunt. It had the advantage of knowing him, and so was less skittish than a fresh mount would have been. He sat in his saddle and watched the king’s soldiers form their perfect lines, brush away offending smudges and creases on their glorious uniforms. It was astonishing, really. Every lance was a pennant, every man a prince.
Degoran emerged from the castle at the last minute, and he had clearly made an effort not to be outshone by his own men. He was truly a king dressed for battle, a gold breastplate, a cloak of black fur, a jewelled sword, black breeches trimmed with silver and pearls. It was impractical, but the man carried it off with style.
He steered his mount to Narak’s side.
“You’d be surprised how well they fight,” he said.
“I was wondering.”
“Most of it will be shed at the first camp,” Degoran went on. “They’ll look like proper soldiers tomorrow. The show is for the noble citizens of Golt, and it’s traditional.”
They rode out of the city’s main gate in some style. A few people were on the streets and they stood and watched the king depart. Most would assume that he was going to join his queen, if they thought anything at all. The king travelled behind a hundred strong vanguard with Narak at his side and outriders flanking them both.
Outside the city they turned north-west, following a track worn by thousands of travellers over the years. It led them up onto higher ground and the king’s highway running east and west. They turned west.
The highway was wide enough for the regiment to ride three abreast in comfort, and the king rode with Narak and an officer who served as his aide, a major who went by the name of Fordane. Major Fordane was a tall man, grim faced and correct, and he rode in silence unless the king spoke to him.
By evening they had covered thirty miles, and Degoran called a halt about an hour before dusk to give them time to set up camp. The men quickly discarded their dusty dress uniforms and began the business of putting up tents, lighting fires and breaking out the evening rations.
Narak sat on his own near the king, watching the soldiers erect the royal tent. He would sleep outside. He always did unless it was raining. He preferred the open air. It brought him the scent of anything that was near, forewarned him better than any sentry.
He found a tree to lean against and watched everything. The smell of food was enticing. It seemed that the royal regiment travelled well in more ways than one.
Major Fordane approached him.
“My lord, the king asks, will you dine with him?”
Narak was not especially inclined to be in company this night, but it seemed churlish to refuse the king’s hospitality. He followed Fordane across to the king’s tent and was announced, somewhat unnecessarily, he thought, by the major.
Inside the tent there were two braziers, a table, a curtained area which Narak assumed concealed the king’s bed, and a couple of chairs. It was simple enough by campaign standards.
Narak sat down opposite Degoran.
“I have questions,” the king said.
Narak poured himself a cup of wine. “Questions?”
“The assassins. Who sent them? Was it Alwain?”
“I’m not certain, but I doubt it.”
“You said you’d come close to the source. Who did you find there?”
Narak considered how much he ought to tell the man. He didn’t want Degoran to think there was a split in Col Boran, that someone there was seeking his life – even if it was true.
“A Durander,” he replied. “An Abadonist.”
“A mage?” The king leaned forward in his chair. “They’re ways and roads, aren’t they? Why didn’t he just open a door into my bed chamber and send his men in that way?”
“Two reasons, I think.” Narak sipped at his wine. “Firstly, if he failed it would be obvious what he was, making finding him that much easier. Secondly, and you should be aware of this, the castle at Golt is protected. No Abadonist can open a way past its walls.”
“I’d never heard that,” Degoran said.
“It was done when the place was built. King Nalidan had rendered some considerable service to the occult throne – I can’t recall exactly what – but the Duranders considered it important enough to grant him and his line protection from that kind of invasion. There are other tricks to the place, too.”
Degoran sat back as the first course was brought in through the tent flap and laid on the table – a soup, though by the scent of it there was blue cheese involved somewhere. Narak tasted it carefully, but found it delightful.
“You should write a book,” Degoran said when the servants had gone.
“A book?”
“Aye, a history. There will never be a better person to write one. You’ve seen it all.”
“The dragons are older,” Narak said. “Perhaps you should ask Kirrith. I’m
sure he’d be glad to do it.”
“But dragons are so close mouthed. He wouldn’t tell you half of what he knew. And they’ve stayed hidden for so long. They were never involved.”
“Not being involved could be seen as an advantage. There would be accusations of bias.”
“The dragons never lie, but I think you’re more honest,” Degoran said.
“An odd statement.”
“You know what I mean. Honesty is not simply avoiding lies.”
“So it is, but you believe I’d write what I know? There are some things that I could never put on paper, some truths are private.”
Degoran shrugged. “It was just a thought,” he said.
Narak dipped at his soup, spooning the smooth mixture into his mouth. It was a seductive thought, to write a book, to set out his version of things. He did not doubt that it would be read, but he was not certain that he had the skill, time, or perseverance to do it.
Perhaps he would write some notes.
43 Apprentice
“He looks weak to me,” Master Franioso said, hands on hips, face dark with soot. Francis had to agree. Prince Rubel, or Jackan as they were now calling him, looked puny.
“Cousin’s boy,” he said. “I’m doing them a favour.”
“I’m not,” the master said. He looked Jackan up and down again. “We’ll see how he swings a hammer,” he said. “Give it a week. If he can’t work he’s out.”
“That’s fair,” Francis said, and it was. If he hadn’t been one of Franioso’s best metalworkers he knew the master would never have accepted such an unpromising boy. There were plenty of strapping lads around the ward who’d be glad of the chance.
The master walked back to his personal forge.
“You’ll have to work hard,” Francis said.
“I know, you told me that already,” the boy said.
“Right.” Francis looked at his forge. The fire was out, the bunker next to it was three quarters empty. “Fill the bunker,” he said. “There’s a pile of charcoal in the street behind the forge and you’ll find a barrow and spade over there.” He pointed.
To Jackan’s credit the boy didn’t complain but set off at once to fetch the barrow and Francis set to digging the ash out of the forge. As he cleaned it out, set a new fire and got it going the bunker steadily filled, and he looked up to see the boy rushing off yet again, bouncing the barrow across the workshop floor, his face already streaked with sweat and charcoal, his shirt rapidly acquiring the familiar grey colouring so prevalent here. He had to admit that he’d expected the prince to baulk at the work. It was hard and thankless being a smith’s apprentice – at least for the first year. It was all fetching and carrying, pumping the bellows and staying out of the way.
