“Oh, I fought,” Conor said. “Like a tiger. Why, back home in Taern, I—”
“You told us all about that,” Alanya reminded him. “May we get to business.”
“Right,” Conor agreed. “What is it you need done, again?”
Alanya took the lead. “There has been an object stolen from a friend of ours. We want it found. Also, our friend is missing, and we need him found. We are working on that one, already. Last, our father died and others moved into his house before we could. It rightfully belongs to us. We are working on that one, too, but if it comes to a fight, we would like you on our side.”
“Fighting I can do,” Conor said with a grin, as if remembering happy days back in Taern. “Finding things is harder.”
“How about finding a thief?”
“Probably,” Conor admitted.
They haggled for a few minutes over a price, finally agreeing on one that Alanya felt comfortable they could pay—if they recovered their father’s estate. If they didn’t, they would have to borrow from Cheveray.
Once they had settled that, Alanya and Donial described the crown to Conor as best they could, neither of them having ever laid eyes on it. They told him when it had been stolen, and from where. Alanya knew that if they never found Kral, it would do them no good to have located the crown. But she still held out hope that he would turn up. When he did, she wanted to be able to hand over the crown so that he would not insist on going after it.
If she failed, and Kral went looking for the thing, she would go along for the hunt. She owed him that much. But she really didn’t want to have to leave Tarantia behind again. Better to have their hired champion locate it and bring it back before that became an issue.
Armed with the description and a couple of coins as a kind of advance payment, Conor left to get to work. He seemed particularly happy with the idea that he might have to knock some heads together in the Thieves’ Quarter to find what he sought.
“I AM NOT sure how long I can stand this.” Kral was not someone prone to complaining, but he felt his muscles stiffening already, shrinking from lack of use, from sitting in the Aquilonian prison cell. “How do you do it?” he asked.
“You try not to think about it too much,” Totlio suggested. “If you dwell on the days and weeks and months that are passing, you’ll go mad. I have seen it happen. Think about other things. I have composed an epic poem in here. Seven hundred and two stanzas, and counting. All in my head.”
Kral was astounded by the enormity of such an undertaking. “Surely you cannot remember all of that.”
“You would be surprised what you can do with your mind if you’ve no other use for it,” Totlio said from the darkness of the next cell.
“It’s either that or annoy me with his constant nattering,” the voice of Carillus joined in.
A voice Kral had not heard before sounded. “Annoy all of us, you mean!” Laughter from other, unseen cells greeted this remark.
“You, young Pict, might as well start some project of your own,” Carillus suggested. “You will doubtless be here awhile yet.”
Kral felt his spirits sink at the man’s prediction. He had expected nothing else, but hearing it stated so bluntly still depressed him.
“If you had only killed a Ranger, that would be one thing,” the guard continued. “Or even just him and his employer.”
“Who I did not kill,” Kral protested.
“So you say. But killing one of the King’s soldiers? If you ever leave here alive, it will be because you’re headed for the chopping block.”
That was a chance Kral was almost willing to take. He could not get out of his cell alone, he had determined. But if he was taken out for virtually any reason, he would have only the strength of humans—not stone walls—to contend with.
He didn’t know if he could prevail.
But at least he would have a chance.
IN THE WILDERNESS at the western edge of the continent, the sun shone down on an unusual gathering of Pictish clan leaders. Heaps of human skulls punctuated the meeting place. Smoke from at least two dozen fires hung in a haze over the village of the Elk Clan, where the leaders had agreed to meet, filling the place with the smell of burning wood and charred meat. Chiefs from nine clans had gathered to smoke pipes, eat and drink together, and discuss the looming problem of the Teeth of the Ice Bear’s disappearance. More were expected within days.
They sat on stones or downed logs or simply on the dirt in the main campfire area, in front of the clan’s Great Hut. Tangled elk antlers stood on either side of the big hut’s doorway, in mounds taller than the tallest of the Picts. Usam, the Elk Clan’s chief, a wrinkled old man wearing faded buckskins decorated with painted designs and a long spray of feathers, sat in front of his hut on a chair made of antlers with leather stretched between them.
He smiled, looking upon the assemblage before him. Interclan warfare had always prevented any kind of long-term unity among the various Pictish clans. The Aquilonians, constantly pushing westward, had posed a threat, but that threat had seemed best dealt with on a clan-by-clan basis. Never had there been one that menaced all equally.
But everything had changed. The youth, Kral, had promised to regain the Teeth and return it to its proper place in the Bear Clan village. Without the Teeth there, the Ice Bear would once again walk the Earth, destroying everything he came into contact with. One sweep across the wilderness could eliminate all the clans, and the forests that supported them, forever.
But Kral had gone away, leaving only Klea and Mang in his place. Klea was doing her part to harass the settlers at Koronaka. She still sought the Teeth. Mang had devoted himself to traveling from clan to clan, trying to bring everyone together.
Usam considered himself a visionary and saw the possibilities others had missed. He offered the Elk Clan’s village as an impartial meeting place. It looked as if most of the clans would send their chieftains, or at least an elder, as a representative. Each one who came brought gifts, of course, as tradition dictated—Usam had enough meat for the winter already stacked behind his hut, if it could all be salted and preserved in time. His women were working on that now.
More important than their gifts, however, was the simple fact that they were visitors in his village. When they all agreed on unification, as he was certain they would, they would be his guests. They would naturally look to him for leadership.
Leadership he would be happy to provide . . .
5
ALANYA STOOD IN the courtyard of her father’s house—her house, now—with Donial by her side. The remaining staff, five of the twelve who had once been employed here, were arranged before them on the stairs leading up to the large front door. They all smiled warmly at the siblings and seemed happy they had returned. For her part, Alanya felt as if she had thrown off an enormous burden. Not that she was happy yet—as long as Kral remained missing, she wouldn’t be. But she was closer to it than she had been.
Lupinius’s body had finally been removed from the grounds and burned on a pyre. She and Donial had kept away from the final ceremony. Cheveray had, through his contacts, put out the word that the two young people had only just arrived in Tarantia—too late for the funeral, and therefore too late to have had a hand in the murder. He had learned that the surviving Rangers—Calvert, Trey, Constantus, Ondene, and Kelvan—had already sought and found other employment, so the chances that they would be actively looking for Lupinius’s killer were slim.
As mistress of the house, she knew she should say something. Her father would have, at any rate. He always seemed to have the right words for any given situation. She thought it over, and finally came up with a few sentences, which she delivered with as much confidence as she could muster.
“Thank you all for staying,” she said. As she spoke, she let her gaze roam over the group. They were all, to a man or woman, old. Older, probably, than the parents of her parents. They had probably stayed on because they had no better place to be, nothing else they could d
o.
The reason didn’t matter. The fact that they were here was good enough. “I know my father treated you all well,” she continued. “Like family. How Uncle Lupinius treated you I cannot say, but I would guess not the same way.”
She paused, in case any of them wanted to respond. But they were silent, just watching her. “Thanks to the efforts of our father’s friend Cheveray, the house of Invictus is now the house of Alanya and Donial. You are all welcome to stay on here, in your present capacities, if you so choose. If you prefer not to, we understand that and wish you the best. You will all continue to be paid, and you can stay in your own rooms. Nothing need change except who is mistress of the house.”
Alanya wasn’t yet sure how she would live up to those promises, just as she didn’t know how she would pay Conor, if he earned anything at all. Cheveray had promised her that money would not be a problem, that Invictus had wealth that would become hers. But she didn’t know if that was true; hadn’t seen any indication of it, anyway. So she was a bit nervous about that part.
“Anyway,” she went on, “like I said, we are happy that you are all here. And we are very happy to be home, where we belong. So thank you all.”
The servants stood there for a moment longer. Alanya turned to Donial, making it clear that they had been dismissed. “How was that?” she asked.
“Not bad,” he said. “Father would have done it better. Or me. But not bad, for you.”
Little brothers, she thought. “I should have left you in the woods.”
“Was it your choice?” he replied.
She didn’t bother to dignify his remark with an answer, but went inside her home—her home!—to savor the sensation.
Cheveray had summoned her from her room earlier that day, announcing that a visitor waited downstairs for her and Donial. Both had hurried down, expecting that it might be Conor with some news about the Teeth.
It was a Cimmerian. But not Conor.
She recognized him as soon as she entered the room. He stood near the window, blocking most of the light that came in. He was a massive figure. He wore a pale blue silk blouse, belted at the waist with a wide leather girdle to which a broadsword and a long dagger were attached. Below that were black breeches of some fine material, tucked into tooled-leather boots. A few streaks of gray showed in his black hair, but not many. When he moved toward her, she could see that his face and arms were scarred from a thousand battles. Blue eyes blazed in that face, but his smile was warm and meant to put her at ease.
She fell to her knees the moment she recognized him, with a furtive glance back to make sure that Donial did the same.
“Your highness,” she said. “Cheveray said not who was here, and I did not hear your approach.”
“I came in alone,” King Conan said. His voice was friendly but firm, with a slight rasp of age. “My retinue waits in the street.”
“But . . . why come here?” Donial asked. From the tightness in his words, Alanya could tell that he was nervous. She was, too. She could barely control the shaking in her limbs. She waited anxiously to see if he would answer Donial’s question or strike him for being so impudent as to ask it.
“Because Cheveray asked me to,” Conan answered. “And because your father was a man I trusted implicitly.”
“But—”
“Rise, Alanya. Donial. I am not one to stand on ceremony, particularly in the house of an old friend.”
Alanya obeyed at once, though the motion put her at the mercy of her own unstable legs. The King seemed to recognize her distress and pointed to chairs. “Sit, please,” he said. “You, too, Cheveray.”
The old man lowered himself to a seat with a grateful sigh. Alanya and Donial followed suit.
“Cheveray explains to me that you find yourselves in an awkward situation,” Conan said, when he had also taken a chair. “Your uncle Lupinius had laid claim to your father’s estate. He said further that the two of you were missing in the Pictish wilderness and presumed dead. Given those circumstances, his claim could hardly be denied. Since the night of his murder, the house, grounds, and all property belonging to your father have been under guard. Had you not come forward, it would have become property of Tarantia.”
“But we are not missing, or dead,” Donial pointed out.
“Of course not,” the King agreed with a grin. “We know that now. Which means that all of Invictus’s lands and wealth—including what I suspect you’ll find a generous pension—belong to you. I would rather return your father to you, alive and well. Since that is beyond the realm of the possible, I hope that you will accept these things as partial payment. He served me well, and I should like to reward his children, in the absence of being able to reward him.”
Alanya was at a loss for words. Could this really be happening? The legendary king of Aquilonia, sitting with her and asking her to accept something from him?
She realized that he was waiting for her to say something, to give a response to his request. His eyes burned into her, and she felt her cheeks crimsoning beneath his gaze. “Yes, your highness, of course we will accept any generosity you choose to offer us.”
“It is not generosity,” Conan corrected. “Simply your due. I am sure you had a hard time on the border, especially when the truce failed.”
“But, your highness,” Alanya said, unable to contain herself. “The Pictish threat has been vastly overstated. I know that—”
Conan cut her off. “My intelligence suggests otherwise,” he said. “I know not precisely what happened at the Bear Clan village, although I hear that there are conflicting stories. But my agents in the area tell me that something seems to be in the offing now, and I’ve ordered a force to the region to respond to it.”
She wanted to say more, to ask after Kral, to know a thousand things about the relationship her father had had with him. But he rose and tossed a smile toward Cheveray. “I must be off, old friend. Thank you for bringing this situation to my attention, and I am glad that I was able to help. As for you two—follow in your father’s footsteps if you can. Work to keep the peace between Aquilonia and our neighbors. Since you are Invictus’s offspring, I’m convinced that if you simply follow your hearts, you will make valuable contributions.”
Alanya cast Cheveray an imploring gaze, silently begging him to ask the King to stay longer. He responded with a shake of his head. Barely perceptible, but she understood it. Leave him alone, it meant. Be happy with what you have.
After the King was gone, she and Donial turned to one another and burst out laughing.
That had been early afternoon. Now she looked around the home that Conan had restored to her. The staff had done their best to clean up, after the ravages of Lupinius and his Rangers. Trash had been collected, broken furniture repaired. To Alanya’s eyes, it looked almost like the home in which she had grown up. Considering that she had, very recently, been worried that she would never again see anything beyond the log walls of Koronaka, she was thrilled to be back. She couldn’t wait to get in touch with her friends, now that ownership was settled, and let them know she was home.
Arigan found her when she went to the room that had been hers. It was obvious that Rangers had stayed here—it smelled like unwashed men, and the whitewashed walls were still grimy. She didn’t like the idea of taking over her father’s room, especially since she knew Lupinius had done the same. But she might not have much choice.
“Lady Alanya?” Arigan said from the doorway. The old woman had been a nanny to Alanya from the time of her birth, then Donial. She had been kept on as a cook when they were too old to need nannies anymore.
“Yes, Arigan?”
“Welcome home, Lady,” she said. She crossed the room to give Alanya a frail, tentative hug. Her frock was nearly as gray as her hair, and she wore an apron that had been white once, but held the stains of a thousand meals prepared. “I am so glad to see you.”
“Not as glad as I am, Arigan,” Alanya swore. “I had thought I would never see you, or this place
, again.”
“I know your father wanted you both to have it,” Arigan said. Her eyes were moist, and Alanya thought, with some surprise, that the old woman might weep. “When Lupinius came, I thought the worst had happened.”
Alanya sat down on the room’s only bed. “It had,” she said. “He killed Father, Arigan. Or had him killed. I am sure of it. I just know not how to prove it, now that he cannot confess his crime.”
“That does not surprise me,” Arigan said. “He always did have a dislike for his brother. Envious of the things Invictus earned, but not willing to work hard enough to make his own way in the world.”
“I never saw that before,” Alanya admitted.
“You were too young,” Arigan told her. Her tone was hushed, so that Alanya had to strain to hear her. “By the time you were old enough to have noticed, Lupinius had moved away. Gone to seek his fortune, he said. More like gone to find someone fool enough to give him one.”
“He very nearly did,” Alanya replied. “Or someone he could steal from, anyway. He even stole from me.”
Arigan tsked and shook her head. “I am not at all surprised,” she said again. “Nothing about him surprises me. Did he take more from you than this house and land?”
“Oh, yes,” Alanya answered. “He took a mirror Father had given me, my mother’s old mirror.”
“I meant to ask you about that,” Arigan said, as if she had just remembered. “Your mother’s mirror. A very precious item, indeed. Do you have it now?”
“I got it back,” Alanya said. She didn’t go into detail about how. “There is one other thing I have not found, though. A crown, belonging to a friend.”
“I have seen no crown,” Arigan said. “But about that mirror . . . did your father ever tell you about its properties?”
Alanya was confused. “Properties?”
“There is more to that mirror than meets the eye,” Arigan said.
“He suggested that it might be magic in some way,” Alanya admitted. “Cheveray told me the same thing. But I have no idea what is magic about it.”
Winds of the Wild Sea Page 4
