by Tim Stead
“You killed him then,” Keron said.
“Falini? Yes, and some others who were there.”
“There are stories going around already,” Keron said.
“Stories?”
“They say a demon killed him, that it escaped through a locked window or door.”
Francis smiled. This was exactly what he wanted, but he had wanted the dukes to be afraid. Now Falini was dead and Derali had fled the city.
“I have to go and see the general,” he said, cleaning his plate with a scrap of bread.
“You said he tried to kill you.”
“Yes.”
“Won’t he try again? He’s got a lot of men.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Francis said. He could not fail to notice that Keron had asked him nothing about Falini – how he had killed him, how he had escaped – the big man had just accepted it. In a way it was disturbing. Keron had been his equal, a friend, and somehow he had become something else.
He decided to walk up to the general’s house. Delarsi might think he was dead because nobody but Keron had seen him since Falini had been killed, but it would be rash to assume that. He still needed to be careful.
He called his thief gift as soon as he was out of Keron’s place, and made his way carefully through the lamp lit streets. They were empty for the most part. Trouble always drove people indoors. There were patrols, though. He recognised the colours of the city regiments, so the general’s plan had been put into effect, and the city was his.
Each time he heard horses he shrank back against the walls and waited for them to pass. Three times he had to step aside, and each time he watched them go by with interest. The soldiers walked their horses. They talked among themselves and seemed easy with it, so there was no real trouble. The plan had worked better than he could have hoped.
He reached the general’s house.
There were more guards than usual on the gate. Francis considered his options. He could drop all of them now, but his experience at Falini’s estate had taught him to be careful with his new power. Half a dozen men might be too many if he wanted to keep a clear head. He didn’t think they would have orders to kill him on sight. The general was too arrogant to be properly afraid of a smith from Dock Ward.
He dropped his gift and walked up to the gate fully visible. The guards watched him come. One of them was one of the three who’d been outside his place the night before, and Francis thought he detected a touch of apprehension among them.
“I’m here to see the general,” he said. If he played by the rules, if they thought he knew nothing was amiss then he had the best chance of getting through. It was essentially what he’d done to Falini.
“Follow me.”
He followed, and noted that this time a second guard followed behind him. They led him across familiar ground, through the main door of the general’s house and into the reading room.
There were five men here, and Francis recognised two of them. The general was standing close to the fire, a glass of wine in one hand. In the moment before he recognised Francis his expression was one of triumph, quickly transmuted into surprise.
The other man was Major Terrel Biali, the man that he and Johan had spoken to on First Bridge. Francis knew enough about military insignia to know that two of the other men were the colonels of the city regiments. The last man was a major. So it seemed as though the general was entertaining the commanders of his new consolidated force.
“Francis Gayne,” the general said, more for the benefit of the others in the room than his own. “I admit that I’m surprised to see you. We thought you’d perished in the massacre at Falini’s house.”
“No,” Francis said. He was aware that the two gate guards had followed him into the room and now stood either side of him, half a pace behind. In a way that was a comfort. It took one man to kill, two men to hold him. He decided to lead the conversation in his own direction. “You tried to kill me,” he said.
“Not at all,” the general said. He didn’t seem worried by the accusation. “What makes you think that?”
“Three men waiting for me outside my house last night. One of them’s behind me now.”
“Of course you’re mistaken. They were there to see you home safe and take your report.”
“One man, or perhaps two, but three men hidden behind a wagon?” He shook his head. “You should send better men, General.”
It had been a weak attempt to mollify, and now the general dropped it. “Perhaps I should have.” He drained his glass and took his time filling it again. The officers watched him silently. This was the general’s show, and they were not about to interfere.
“What do you think you’re going to do about it?”
“You agreed to help us,” Francis said.
“And you believed that?” The general shook his head. “Why would I help a smith from Dock Ward? Why would I help the mob take control of the city?”
“We are not the mob.”
“You look like it to me, Gayne.”
“I thought you a man of honour,” Francis said.
“Honour? What do you know of honour? Is it common currency in the gutter?”
“More than you’d think.”
“I don’t need you any more, Gayne,” the general said. “You’ve served my cause well, but you have dangerous ideas, and it just wouldn’t be wise to leave a man like you behind my back.” He nodded, and Francis felt his arms seized from behind. He didn’t struggle.
“So this is your honour,” Francis said, allowing all the contempt he felt into his voice. “You kill a man you swore to help.” He looked at the watching officers. “Remember this moment. You ally yourselves to a man who cannot be trusted – a man who sent men to kill the rightful king of Afael.”
The last was a stab in the dark, but it seemed right. Who else could have followed him to where Rubel was hidden? Who else could have tipped off Falini as to Calitanto’s involvement? He wondered that he hadn’t seen it before. The general looked uncomfortable. One of the colonels stepped forwards.
“What’s he talking about, Delarsi?”
“Prince Rubel,” Francis said. “He survived the first attack. I was hiding him.”
“He’s lying,” the general said.
“I can take you to the body,” Francis said.
Delarsi could not afford to let this go on. He pulled a knife from his belt and stepped towards Francis, but Francis had had enough. He threw off his captors, the two guards falling to the floor dead, the life torn from them, and reached out to the general with his imaginary hand. He did not snatch, but touched the old man, and the general gasped and stumbled to his knees. The blade fell from his hand.
There was confusion among the colonels and majors, but Francis ignored them. He stared down at the stricken man.
“Not what you expected?” he asked. “How did you think I killed Falini and his friends? With a blade?” He put a foot on Delarsi’s shoulder and pushed him backwards so that he sprawled on the carpet like an upturned tortoise, too weak to right himself. Francis allowed his concealed blade to slip into his hand. “I should gut you for what you’ve done. You betrayed your king and the people of Afael, and all for your own ambition.” He knelt and rested the blade on the general’s belly. “Frankly I don’t care about the king, but you shouldn’t have sent men to kill Rubel, and you shouldn’t have tried to kill me. But I need a commander who understands the position, and who better than you? I hold your life like a candle in my hand, and I can snuff it out at any second. You can feel it, can’t you?”
The general couldn’t answer. He was gasping for breath, clutching at his chest, his face red, his eyes wild.
“So, do you want to live or die?”
It was clear that Delarsi was incapable of reply. He was struggling just to breath.
“What I take away I can restore,” Francis said. He sheathed his blade and placed the flat of his hand on the general’s chest. He had learned from his experience healing Pri
nce Rubel, and he allowed only a trickle of power to flow from him. It seemed much easier to control than it had the first time.
Delarsi healed. His breath came more easily, and he lay back on the floor, no longer in such extreme distress. Francis stood. He turned to the colonels.
“Whatever allegiance you owed him, you now owe to me and the people of the wards. This city will be governed by its people – not him, and not me. Do you understand that?”
Three heads nodded, but one of the colonels stepped forwards.
“You killed our colonel, or one of your assassins did.”
“It was me,” Francis said. “He betrayed us. Anyone else who betrays us will meet the same end. Consider that fair warning.” The colonel looked angry, but he said no more.
Biali spoke up, and his question was unexpected.
“How did the prince die, Gayne?” he asked.
Francis felt the anguish of that moment again, like a spike in his chest – the sudden rush of horses sweeping Prince Rubel from the mouth of the alley and nothing he could do to save him.
“It was an accident,” he said. “He stumbled in front of a horse. But he died stealing food from Falini’s men to feed his people. There are worse ways to die.”
Biali seemed to accept that. Perhaps Biali was a man he could trust, but it was too soon to be sure.
54 Cain Arbak
It was a conference like no other. For a start, Narak was missing. He was still in Bas Erinor with the king. Add to that the fact that Kirrith had summoned them all, and finally it usurped the usual custom of Col Boran, which tended to be a place of separate ways.
They gathered on Pascha’s terrace, principally because it was the only private space in Col Boran that could accommodate two dragons. They sat at either end, Kirrith to the south and Bane to the north, and in between the men and women of power.
Pascha looked put out, Cain thought. He sat with Sheyani close to the rail, looking back towards Pascha’s apartments. To his right Skal Hebberd, one time Avilian lord of Latter Fetch and later King of Telas, sat with his wife Hestia, the Queen for whom he had abandoned his own lands and nation. Beyond them Sithmaree stood with Jidian the Eagle, and Cain could see that Jidian was delighted to be here. The Eagle thrived in company, especially if there was food.
Caster the swordmaster sat close to Pascha, and on the god mage’s other hand sat Callista.
There could not have been a greater gathering in the kingdoms.
“You called us,” Pascha said, addressing herself to the great dragon that loomed on the southern wall. “Now will you tell us your purpose?”
“I have news from Bas Erinor,” Kirrith said, his voice rolling across them like thunder.
“News?” Pascha’s tone was sharp. The only news would concern Narak and the king.
“Narak is safe,” Kirrith said. “The king is unharmed.”
Cain noted the different words the dragon had chosen. The scrupulous honesty of dragons was often a good source of information, he had found.
“So what is your news?” Pascha demanded.
Kirrith paused. If it had been a man about to speak Cain would have said that he paused for effect, but he didn’t know if dragons were the slaves to rhetoric that some men were. He suspected it might be so.
“The king has degraded Duke Alwain and named a new duke,” the dragon said.
Definitely rhetoric, Cain thought. He’d delivered his news without delivering his news. Withholding the name was a cheap trick.
“And?” Pascha was showing her impatience.
“The new Duke of Bas Erinor is Lord Cain Arbak of Waterhill.”
Cain heard the words, but for a moment it didn’t sink in. He had long since ceased to think of himself as Lord of Waterhill. It was just his home, but everyone was staring at him. Sheyani touched his hand.
“Cain?”
“Me? He can’t name me duke. I’m Farheim.”
“There is nothing to stop him,” Kirrith said. “The law is clear enough. You are still a lord of Avilian and owe allegiance to the crown.”
Cain turned to Pascha, who was also staring at him. “Eran?”
“It seems that this is kingdom business,” she said, and her face had become unreadable. She turned back to Kirrith. “Did Narak have a hand in this?”
“Not unless he has greatly improved his ability to deceive,” the dragon said. “It was the king’s idea.”
“Alwain will not acquiesce,” Skal said. “He has the army with him.”
“Will they follow him?” Hestia asked.
“He is popular with most of the southern Avilian lords,” Skal said. “And the soldiers are loyal, for the most part, to their lordships.”
“Where is the seventh friend?” Cain asked.
“In Bas Erinor,” Kirrith said.
“Their strength?”
“Two thousand,” the dragon replied.
“That can be grown,” Cain said. He was already starting to see numbers and walls, strategies and positions in his head. It didn’t look good.
“Are you going to accept this poisoned cup?” Sheyani asked. She looked worried.
“It is not his place to accept or refuse the elevation,” Kirrith said. “The king has chosen him. Cain Arbak is the Duke of Bas Erinor. He can stay at Col Boran and do nothing, but he will still be the duke until the king names another.”
“I have to, don’t I?” Cain said.
“It is your choice,” Pascha conceded. “It seems that either way there will be a civil war in Avilian.
“I will go with you, Cain,” Skal said. “You’ll need a good man at your back.”
“I appreciate the offer, Skal, but you were King of Telas, and your grandson sits on the Telan throne. Your presence may draw Telas into the war, and can Berash stay out if Telas is in?”
“Then I will go,” Caster said. The swordmaster had sat silent through everything, but now he leaned forwards. “What’s the point of us when we don’t help when help is needed? It’s clear enough which side of this we should stand.”
“You’ve spent too much time with Narak,” Pascha said.
“And you not enough,” Caster replied.
Cain wouldn’t have dared such a rebuke, but Caster was one of the old men of Wolfguard. He’d known Pascha for nigh on a thousand years, and more to the point he was the man who’d taught Narak how to fight. Now that he, too, was Farheim he was probably the best blade in the kingdoms behind Narak himself.
“This is not one of your trivial games,” Pascha replied. “It will not be so easy to put this right and walk away with a smile on your face. You have no idea where this will lead.”
“Neither of the Great Wars was trivial, Eran,” Caster said, “and some of us were instrumental in their ending, and I did not see anyone smile.”
It was a deliberate provocation. Cain knew that of all those gathered here who had been alive at the time Caster was the only one who had not been at Fal Verdan. Narak had forbidden it, and Caster had resented the fact that he had played no significant part in the war.
“I will not stop either of you,” Pascha said. “You can go with Cain and mind his back, and I suppose there will be three of you?” She looked at Sheyani, who nodded.
“Where Cain goes, I can only follow. I cannot let him stand alone against those who would kill him,” she said.
“Bas Erinor will be the better for your presence,” Pascha said.
“So it is decided,” Kirrith said. “Three will go, and Cain Arbak will be Duke of Bas Erinor.”
“Only as long as I must,” Cain said.
“Then I will send you,” Pascha said. “Collect what you need and return here within the hour.”
Cain stood up. He would need armour, a good blade, the usual clothes he took when travelling. He knew Alwain well enough to know that he would resent what had happened. One way or another there would be blood spilt over this, but perhaps it was the medicine Avilian needed for its ills. He hoped so. He didn’t like to thi
nk that he was doing the wrong thing for the right reason.
55 Trouble
Mordo was in trouble. It was obvious that in spite of all his precautions that some of the Duranders were closing in. One of them had been hanging around the roof garden where Mordo had shot the unfortunate Josetin, muttering various incantations and waving his hand over a small flame. Mordo had never really understood Durander magic. It seemed too difficult and trivial when compared with the god mage’s power.
Yet for all that he was getting worried. The muttering mage had wandered past his office a couple of times, and Mordo was not yet ready to quit Col Boran. He had packed all that he needed, it was true. He could leave at a moment’s notice, but he was still without the final piece of the puzzle.
He looked over a piece of paper that lay on his desk. It was a request for payment from a tile maker in the small settlement at the foot of Col Boran. The man had asked for payment for four ornamental tiles for the lesser hall.
Mordo stood and checked the boxes behind him. It took him seconds to lay his hand on the original order, which had been for two tiles. They were more like small clay paving slabs, really, eighteen inches to a side and an inch and a half thick, richly ornamented. They took time to make, and the idiot had made four.
The god mage could afford to be overcharged, but it offended Mordo’s sense of balance to pay. He picked up a pen, ready to scrawl an impolite rebuttal on the tile maker’s note, but stopped before ink touched paper.
He put the pen back into its holder and stood up. He knew just where the tiles would be. There was a small store room at the foot of the next building down. It held what few building materials were needed for repairs and enhancements to the palace.
Mordo walked down several flights of stairs, crossed a bridge and down more stairs until he came to the store room door. He wasn’t sure. There was a wild idea forming in his head, and perhaps he would pay for the four tiles after all.
He unlocked the store room and stepped inside. He lit the lamp that stood by the door and the room emerged from the darkness. There were no windows. He scanned the room and there, at the back, he saw the tiles leaning against the wall. He took the lamp with him and knelt beside them. He picked one up – it was heavy – and examined it.
