The Black Star (Book 3)

by Edward W. Robertson

  "Agreed. Time to order more bossen into Dollendun, too. Oh, you know what else you should do? Start thinking of how you'll spend our upcoming hoard of riches. I was thinking of buying a fleet, personally. Seems useful."

  They both knew the funds generated from this venture would go right back into bringing Gask to its oppressive knees, but it was amusing to pretend. Anyway, they'd been building to this for so long that no one could blame him for feeling buzzed.

  And through dumb luck—or, more accurately, due to a ruthless, singleminded, months-long campaign—they had come further than he'd ever imagined. The bossen gambit wouldn't be enough to wreck Moddegan by itself. But the kingdom had been sorely lacking in free labor since the norren had wrested themselves from their chains, and with fewer taxes out of Gallador and none at all from the newly-independent Narashtovik, the once-mighty Gaskan Empire was looking a little shabby around the edges. A bit wobbly. A good shove would only knock it further off balance. And if some other disturbance came along after that...

  Enough dreaming. He had just three days until he'd return to the palace and seal the deal. He still had to bring the bossen in from the country. Now that he'd struck a bargain with the king himself, he didn't think there would be any more attempts to steal it, but you never knew. Once the goods were on the move into the city, he didn't intend to let them out of his sight until he shook hands with Moddegan and replaced the crates of clothes with chests of silver.

  He spent the rest of the day down at the warehouse preparing it to shelter the wagons. The next day, while Taya pursued gossip and intrigue, he rode to the country and drove the bossen back to Setteven. They parked the wagons in the warehouse. He and the guards set up beds there, maintaining a constant vigil over their prize.

  The sun rose on the day of the deal. He dressed in his finery, even the ridiculous little tricorner hat currently in vogue. A squadron of redshirted cavalry arrived at the warehouse while he prepared, augmenting his guards. There were perks of doing business with the crown.

  Bathed and outfitted, Blays strolled into the daylight and saluted the commander of the cavalry. "Shall we?"

  The man nodded. Blays climbed into his carriage. The procession rattled over the cobblestones, barged its way across town, and crossed the causeway to the palace. The wagons ground to a stop in the gravel.

  There existed the chance, however remote, that Moddegan was on to them, and that this was an elaborate counter-sting. In case things went bad, he'd arranged for Taya to bug out with the wagons and hide at a safehouse in the country. Paranoid, but when you were dealing with this much money, there was no such thing as being too cautious. There outside the palace, Blays nodded to her and she nodded back.

  He was met by the same servant who'd summoned him to the king three days ago. As the two of them walked inside, guards and teamsters moved the wagons around the side of the palace to conduct the physical exchange of bossen and hard currency, which would be inspected by Moddegan and Pendelles' staffs. The two of them were too lofty to degrade themselves by being concerned with money.

  "His Highness awaits," the servant said.

  "Boy, even when he's sitting around he makes it sound impressive." Blays glanced through the marble foyer. He had a sword on his hip (ostensibly decorative) and a knife on his calf, but he saw no signs he'd be needing to put them to use.

  They climbed onto the lift and were borne up to the top layer of the edifice. The guards eyed Blays and allowed him past. Rather than being deposited in the cramped, windowless room where he'd first met Moddegan, he was escorted to a lavish, sprawling chamber of tables, chairs, chaises, and benches, with a stage at one end and a panoramic view of the lake and the city beyond. Servants bustled about, offering refreshments on silver trays to the handful of nobles present. Statuesque guardsmen flanked the windows, staring levelly.

  There was no sign of Moddegan, but Blays' attention was diverted by servants offering him crystal goblets of dark wine and assorted dishes of things stuffed and/or wrapped with other things. As he ate and drank, the people of importance drifted up to him in ones and twos to exchange standard party chatter: the weather; upcoming holidays; the ways Pendelles' homeland differed from Setteven, and which he preferred better.

  Yet they were also unusually forward about business matters. What else did he deal in? Did he believe demand for norren goods would continue to increase? Yes? To which nulla, then? This event was a celebration of the bossen deal, but it soon became clear that it was about something more: introducing Pendelles to the king's friends and business partners, so they too could fatten themselves on the new markets Pendelles was bringing to the table.

  This had large and wonderful implications for he and Taya's campaign against the empire. He was too busy exchanging bon mots and advice with the upper crust to properly explore the avenues opening before him, but now that he knew they were there, he looked forward to turning them into his new stomping grounds.

  A hush fell over the room. Heads turned. The king had entered.

  Moddegan had ruled for decades and was practical to the point of severity. The sort who placed function several rungs above form. He wore a red doublet of elegant simplicity and a crown with as few frills as a wedding band.

  "Good morning," he said, stopping at the edge of the stage. "I hope you are enjoying yourselves. Please, continue to do so."

  Some of the younger nobles in attendance glanced around, awaiting some regal speech, but Moddegan descended the steps and crossed to Blays. "Lord Pendelles."

  Blays bowed his head. "Your Highness."

  "My people have assessed the goods. Should I inform them the transaction is complete?"

  "That depends. Do you think the palace is sturdy enough to bear all the shiny new coins that are about to flow into it?"

  Moddegan snorted, crooking the corner of his mouth. "You are well-practiced in mockery to turn it on a king—especially when you compel him to enjoy it."

  He made a small rolling gesture. A pole-bearing servant stepped out onto the broad stone balcony and waved a white flag back and forth. Far below, horses snorted and jangled.

  A thin servant stepped beside them. "Your Highness?"

  Moddegan didn't turn. "I am in the middle of something."

  "I had noticed the celebration, and would not dare to interrupt it." The man smiled with a happy arrogance. "Except that the matter I bring before you is directly relevant to it."

  "Cease interrupting me or you will be escorted to a place where you will have no company to interrupt."

  The servant adopted a look of shock. "You would imprison me for warning you of an attempt at treason?"

  Finally, the king turned to meet the man's eyes. "That would be a charge which, if presented falsely, would be grounds for the death not of the accused, but the accuser."

  "You wish proof," the man said thoughtfully. "What kind?"

  "Like the swords I'll turn on you if you keep stalling: hard and swift."

  The servant nodded, winked at Blays, and snapped his fingers. The man vanished—replaced by Dante fucking Galand.

  "Greetings, Your Majesty," he said, no longer disguising his voice. "We've never met, so I won't blame you if you don't recognize me."

  The king blinked and actually fell back half a step, faltering on his bad leg. Yet he managed to keep his voice level. "You are known to me."

  "There is no need for worry," Dante said. "It's not you I'm here to see. Rather, it's the man disguised in your midst."

  The king swiveled his head toward Blays.

  Blays tipped his head and sighed at the ceiling. "You idiot."

  Moddegan's jaw bulged. "What is your real name?"

  "Pendelles." Blays thrust back his shoulders. The jig was up. There was nothing left but to try to cause a riot and let his wits take it from there. "Pendelles Testicles."

  A blanket of silence muffled the room. As suddenly as that blanket being ripped from the bed of a man who's overslept, the chamber erupted with shouts, questions,
and the whisper of swords yanked from sheaths.

  "Take them alive if you can," Moddegan commanded, retreating. "But I won't blame you if you have no choice."

  "Great job!" Blays shouted at Dante. "You ruined everything and we'll spend the rest of our lives in a dungeon."

  Dante grabbed his elbow. "Wrong."

  The king's men advanced, sword tips glaring. Dante laughed. The stone floor beneath Blays' feet pulled away like oil sliding across a hot pan.

  Blays yelped and fell into the void. A plucky guard leapt after them in hot pursuit, but the stone swept back to its former shape, sticking the man fast at the waist. His legs kicked in confusion.

  Blays slammed into the ground. And into something else, too, judging by the jolt to his elbow. A plush rug had cushioned his fall. He pushed himself to his knees and examined his elbow. Blood pattered to the carpet.

  "Do you have any idea what you just destroyed?" he said.

  "Besides this table?" Dante grimaced and sat up amid its splinters. "You mean your attempt to refill the king's war coffers?"

  "I was going to empty them! To smash this whole kingdom!" Blays tried to rise, but his elbow quivered and gave out.

  Dante swabbed his cut with a handkerchief, then swathed it in nether, sealing the wound as quickly as it had appeared. "Bullshit. You've been enriching these people for over a year!"

  He got to his feet, pulling Blays up with him. A bald old man gaped at them like a breathless eagle. Boots stomped upstairs. Shouts rang through the cavernous halls. Dante grabbed Blays' elbow and dashed toward the terrace.

  "What are you doing here?" Blays said.

  "I came to explain. To—apologize." Dante flung open the door to the brittle daylight. "And to snap you out of whatever madness sent you down this path."

  Blays wanted nothing more than to explain in detail how Dante had just saved Narashtovik's worst enemy. That bit of knowledge would fester in Dante's gut for sure. But there wasn't time. Dante had a route out of the top layers of the palace, and if Blays didn't follow, he'd be caught and tortured.

  He dashed out onto the stone sweep of the terrace. "I don't need your apology. All I need is for you to leave me alone."

  "It doesn't have to be this way. I had no other choice."

  "Than to kill the only woman I've ever loved?"

  For an instant, that silenced him. Dante reached the waist-high railing at the edge of the balcony. Others extended beneath them in narrow terraces, each ledge separated by a twenty-foot fall.

  Dante gritted his teeth. "If I hadn't, we all would have died. What else could I do?"

  Blays glanced behind them; no pursuit yet. "You can wave your hands and put a hole through a marble floor. How hard would it have been to get her out of harm's way?"

  Dante got a vague look on his face. Blays felt it in the air, the way he always did when Dante summoned the shadows prior to accomplishing something ridiculous. A yard-wide ribbon of stone shot from the edge of the balcony and slanted down to the one below it. But it didn't stop there. The same thing was happening on every level. The strip was bent up at its edges. Like a slide.

  Dante fell on his ass. His face had gone as pale as a cavefish.

  "Maybe there was," he gasped. "Maybe there was another way and I was too foolish to see it. But I can't undo it. No one can bring back the dead."

  "You're right," Blays said. "It's done. And so am I."

  The color seeped back into Dante's cheeks. He stood, shakily, and stepped over the railing onto the top of the slide. "You're sure?"

  "I'm sure. And what are you going to do about it?"

  A look stole over Dante's eyes. One Blays knew too well. Dante gestured for him to cross the rail. "Bring you to your senses."

  "Once again, you've opened my eyes to what I must do."

  Blays stepped over, peered down the slide, and shoved Dante over edge. Before Dante had time to cry out, Blays jumped onto the slide.

  Air whisked past his face. The slide was as smooth as the stones at the bottom of a mountain stream, and he accelerated quickly. Something thumped behind him, but he didn't bother to turn. He had no illusions Dante was dead. The damned warlock had probably turned the stone below him into a friendly mud puddle. Even if he hadn't had time for sorcery and had snapped a few bones, he could knit them back together with a snap of his fingers. Blays' only hope was to outrun him.

  The slide was providing him an admirable head start. His eyes watered. He lay back, gliding on his shoulder blades and the worn leather heels of his boots. The tip of his scabbard skittered. He clamped the weapon to his thigh.

  After shooting down three levels, he sat up to slow down and get a look around. Below, his caravan was already on its way across the causeway. Guards were shouting from up top, but the lift would take a couple minutes to get downstairs. The grounds immediately in front of the palace were clear.

  And he was approaching them at an amazing speed.

  He splayed his feet, attempting to drag his soles without yanking his legs off. It helped, as did spreading his arms to the wind, but he was still descending at lethal speed. He pulled his sword from his belt. As he hit the gentling curve of the slide's end, he leaned into a crouch, flung the blade as far ahead as he could, and leapt.

  Turf soared beneath him. He tucked his chin to his chest and angled his wrist over his head, letting his arm fold as it struck the ground. He rolled onto his shoulder, somersaulting three times before skidding to a stop. His whole body smelled like damp grass. It hurt pretty badly, too, but he got up, ran back for his sword, and charged onto the gravel road, where a groomsman readied a horse.

  "Ah, right where I left it," Blays said.

  He brandished his blade in customary threatening manner. The groomsman ran off with a moan. Blays jumped onto the horse's side, wrestled himself into the saddle, and drove it toward the causeway. Men cried out behind him.

  Too bad for them. They should have taken the slide. He thundered forward, gaining rapidly on the dawdling caravan, which had no reason to believe anything was wrong. The rearmost riders turned. He put away his sword and waved his hands over his head, then gestured forward, urging them on. They exchanged a look, then called to the drivers. The wagons picked up speed.

  He reached them at the same moment guards spilled from the palace doors. Taya detached from the caravan and rode back to meet him.

  "It's over," he said. "Dante found me. He exposed me to the king."

  Taya eyed him levelly. "You're sure?"

  "Given how absurd the events of the last three minutes have been, this could be a wild fever-dream. But if we are in fact real, I'd advise you to get out of town as fast as possible. Continue our work however you can."

  "And you?"

  "He's got my blood," Blays said. "Sneaky bastard pretended he was healing me. With that, he can track me anywhere."

  "So where will you go?"

  "The one place he can't follow."

  "That tells me nothing," she said. "Which I suppose is for the best. We'll regroup and continue as best we can."

  "Sorry to leave you in the lurch," Blays said. "It's been wonderful to work with you, Taya. I'll see you again some day—promise."

  As unruffled as ever, she nodded, then turned to their men and began barking orders. Blays sighed and charged forward. At the gates between the bridge and the Street of Kings, he waved gaily to the redshirted guards, who nodded back. Blays wasn't surprised they hadn't caught on. They were used to keeping people out, not keeping them in.

  He cut south through the city. It was what they'd expect—if they believed he was in league with Narashtovik, the obvious first leg would be the southern road to Dollendun—but they had no way to catch up with him. Not if he kept riding.

  He juked around pedestrians, hat long gone to the winds, just starting to feel the aches in his shoulders and ribs. It was incredible how swiftly he'd accepted his fate, adapted his whole plan. Deep down, he must have known this day would come. While he'd been playing spy games,
his inner wolf had been preparing for the moment he'd have to jump out the metaphorical window.

  Either that or he was just damn good at this.

  He tore out of the city, raced down the road toward Dollendun, then veered southwest into the vacant hills. By early evening, with spears of yellow light shooting in from the west, he stopped atop a ridge to give the horse a breather and to scan the lands behind him.

  No sign of pursuit. But Dante would come. Blays couldn't rule out the king, either. Moddegan had nethermancers of his own, and who knew what tricks they had tucked in their voluminous sleeves. Additionally, Moddegan must be highly confused. He had apparently been conned by an impostor, an enemy, into parting with a fortune—yet the bossen was legit. He'd be highly motivated to hunt Blays down and hang him by his thumbs until he revealed the purpose behind his scam.

  That, in turn, meant Blays was highly motivated to continue running as fast as humanly possible. Or more accurately, as fast as equinely possible. Tragically, his mount was already beginning to flag. Farms dotted the landscape, snugged into the draws between hills where streams flowed north toward Setteven. Blays stopped at a house, spoke with the farmer who lived there, and arranged to swap his exhausted horse for a fresh one. The farmer cannily extracted two precious rings from Blays as well. An outrageous price, in the normal world, but Blays would soon have no cause for money. Besides his blades, the only thing his current possessions were good for was to get him to his destination.

  Blays made sure to snag a lantern and oil in the deal. He knew he'd have to sleep eventually, but he wanted to put more miles behind him first. If a broken leg befell his horse—a sturdy workhorse, but rather less impressive than the fancy-stepping palace mount he'd just left behind—Dante would catch him within a day.

  Trails snaked through the hills, but nothing you'd call a proper road. For the most part, he had to travel the night at a walk, picking his way forward with the help of the lantern and the moon. By midnight, he'd had enough. He camped in a draw, tearing up brush and grass to form a rudimentary cave-tent, but he'd forgotten to get blankets from the farmer, and that night the cold autumn wind nearly killed him. He got up after a few hours, less from the urge to keep moving as from the need to stir his limbs enough to get warm again.