RODULF HAD to wait another day for the letter from the mercenary guild master, requesting a meeting to finalise the details of the contracts. The letter he was really waiting for was from his blackmailer, but they had yet to follow up their first missive. He hurried toward the guild house, surrounded by his Blood Blades, unable to think of anything but the blackmail letter. He wondered if another would arrive that day. Would it give him any clue as to who might have sent it? Even a demand would give him an indication of what direction to look in. He cursed it for the distraction it caused. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. When he found whoever was behind it, he would make his displeasure known to them.
He ran through the possibilities in his mind as he walked, giving up on his efforts to ignore it. Money would mean that it was someone who did not have it. Favours would indicate someone who did. A threat to make known what he had done pointed to one of his lesser misdeeds. A threat to notify the authorities meant it was the Markgraf’s daughter.
He knew that such speculation was no different to a dog chasing its tail, but he agonised over every step he had taken in poisoning Aenlin. He had been a regular feature in the kitchens by then, and everyone knew he had taken the kitchen girl as a mistress, although no one would have dared acknowledge the fact. There had not been anyone around when he had put the poison in the broth other than the girl, and she’d had her back turned to him. Even if there had been someone else there, his familiar presence would not have drawn any attention. Quite the opposite. They all knew well enough to act as though he wasn’t there.
The poison had been a potent one. Anyone else sampling the broth would have at least fallen severely ill, so he knew that no one had. There were two loose ends to his plot, though there was no reason for either of them to connect him to Aenlin’s death. The first was the kitchen girl, though he was certain she had seen nothing and suspected nothing.
The second possibility was the man from whom he had bought the poison. He had disguised himself, and said he was buying it to kill a wolf. At the time he had still been a minor figure at court, doing his best to get to the top, and not nearly so visible as he was now. There was no reason for the apothecary to have recognised him, either then or now, but it was a loose end that was easily tied off.
He stopped outside the guild house and took a moment to collect himself. As soon as the contract was signed there would be no going back, and the clock would start to tick. He might have only a matter of days before the princess discovered that there was a large hostile army gathering within her realm, and took action against it.
Kunler greeted him at the door with a broad smile and gave the Blood Blades a nod of greeting, which they ignored.
‘I have all the paperwork ready to be completed if you want to come through,’ Kunler said.
Rodulf followed him to the office and sat, still finding it difficult to concentrate on anything other than the letter.
‘I’ve been able to find three more companies that would bring your total manpower to eleven thousand men, give or take,’ Kunler said. ‘If that’s satisfactory?’
‘It is,’ Rodulf said. ‘The Markgraf is ready to proceed immediately.’
‘Excellent.’ Kunler slid a stack of papers across the desk. ‘They’re the standard form Guild contracts. They’ve been used hundreds of times, with all parties satisfied. Saves on confusions down the road. A dispute over terms of agreement with a force of armed men isn’t good for anyone.’
‘Indeed not,’ Rodulf said.
‘You’re more than welcome to have a lawyer look them over, but he won’t do any better, and individual negotiations will take you months.’
Rodulf knew about the guild contracts, having used them before. ‘I’m familiar with them,’ he said. ‘And they’ll be satisfactory.’
‘I’ve marked the sections you’ll need to complete,’ Kunler said. ‘Just the length of service, and where signatures are required.’
Rodulf took the contracts, and started to leaf through them.
‘You’re a reading man, then?’ he said.
‘Aye,’ Kunler said. ‘My mother always said there’s more money to be made with a pen than a sword. Not as much excitement to be had, though.’
‘True enough,’ Rodulf said, as he continued to scan the contracts to make sure Kunler hadn’t added anything for his own benefit. ‘In some places, to wish someone an exciting life is considered a curse.’
‘Haven’t heard that before,’ Kunler said.
Rodulf filled in the length of service sections on the contracts and signed each one, using the Markgraf’s name, before returning the contracts to Kunler.
‘You have now,’ he said.
Kunler gave a hesitant smile, and sifted through the pile, weeding out every second one, which he returned to Rodulf.
‘Your copies,’ Kunler said. ‘Puts us all on the same page, so to speak.’
‘When can I expect the first companies to arrive?’ Rodulf said.
‘I’m told the Black Fists are two weeks away. The rest will arrive in dribs and drabs after that, but your complete force should be assembled within four weeks. Once they’ve got a contract, these lads don’t waste any time, and the contracts outline the penalties for any late arrivals. All that remains is the surety deposit to cover travel expenses and lost opportunity, should the contracts be cancelled before the companies arrive.’
Rodulf nodded and placed a pouch of silver on the table—coins freshly pressed at the Markgraf’s new silver mint.
Kunler hefted the pouch in his hand and smiled. ‘That should do nicely.’
Rodulf forced a smile in response. Two weeks, and the secret would be out.
RODULF’S HEART was in his throat when his clerk brought the morning post to him. There were a number of letters, but only one in which Rodulf was interested. After the clerk had left the room he shuffled through them and saw one addressed in writing he recognised immediately. Part of him had hoped there would not be another, but somehow he knew there would. He had waited for it each morning since the first, feeling as though someone had reached into his chest and was squeezing his heart. Sending a single letter would be too great a risk if they had not hoped to gain something. He opened it and read the contents.
That poor little girl.
HE SWORE and crumpled it in his hand. So they knew. Whoever they were. His first thought was to have the kitchen girl and the apothecary killed, but that would be like trying to kill a wasp by beating its nest with a stick. He was certain neither of them could connect him to what he had done, and to have them killed was to risk drawing attention to things that had thus far gone unseen. Still, it would bring certainty.
He leaned back in his chair and opened the crumpled note. There was a delicate balance to be found, but finding it was the trick. He looked at the writing. Despite the effort to disguise the hand, it was obviously that of an educated person, someone who wrote regularly and had mastered the skill to the point of it being effortless. There were not so many people like that around, surely? Then he considered all the bannerets, lawyers, notaries, scribes, bookkeepers, priests, students, and academics in the city. His head began to throb. He couldn’t even discount those who could not write. Scribes set up stalls in every square in the city where they would write or read whatever you wanted for a few coins.
His instinct was to kill anyone connected to the murder, unwitting though they might be, but he dismissed it. First, he needed to know more. Whoever was sending the letters thought themselves cleverer than him, and that was their first mistake. If they had made one error, they would make more. He could wait. It seemed they would be patient in making their demands of him, so he could be too.
CHAPTER 7
Wulfric woke to an incessant hammering on his door. He had spent so long in dangerous places that he looked for his sword immediately, then, remembering he was in the palace, satisfied himself with his dagger. He pulled on some clothes, then opened the door. Jagovere was waiting for him outside.<
br />
‘Now that’s the kind of welcome I always look forward to,’ Jagovere said.
Wulfric lowered the dagger. ‘You’re the one who said letting my guard down here could be fatal.’
‘Not quite what I had in mind,’ Jagovere said.
‘What’s so important? What time is it?’
‘Early. We need to go into the city a while,’ Jagovere said.
‘Why?’
‘Do you really want to go to a royal banquet looking like that?’
Wulfric nodded. ‘I suppose not, though right now I want to sleep a lot more.’
‘Well, come on. We’ll need to be quick.’
They left the palace, crossed the bridge and wandered into the city. The first thing that struck Wulfric about the place was how ordered it was. Parts of Elzburg had been like a maze of tight, twisting streets, alleys, and dead ends. Brixen seemed to have been planned from the start—with wide streets at right angles—rather than developing over the years naturally. It made for a far less disorientating experience.
‘Where are we going?’ Wulfric asked, after a few minutes of walking.
‘The tailor first, to see if there’s anything he can do for us between now and tonight, then a bath house for a wash and a shave. Can’t have you making Princess Alys’s guests ill because you smell like a boar that died three weeks ago.’
Wulfric didn’t think he smelled that bad, but he had not had a proper wash since Torona, so was not inclined to argue. The tailor certainly seemed like a good idea. His clothes were an embarrassment even to him, and he had nothing but contempt for men who preened themselves constantly. He also had no desire to reinforce the stereotypical image that Ruripathians had of Northlanders.
‘We’ll call to the tailor first so he can take our measurements and get started. There’s one I know of who works well under pressure. Hopefully he’ll still be in business.’
Wulfric was glad to still be half asleep as the tailor manhandled him into position to take measurements. Gladder still to learn that once the tailor had them, his involvement in the process was all but over. He allowed Jagovere to choose colours and styles. Jagovere was not an extravagant dresser, so Wulfric was comfortable leaving the details to him.
Wulfric had never given any thought to his clothes before—he had always worn whatever his mother, and for a time, Adalhaid, had made for him from whatever bolt of cloth they had traded for. Wulfric had been astonished by the tailor’s horrified reaction when Jagovere told him they would want the clothes for that night. His mother had been able to put together britches, tunic, and shirt in less than a week. He had not thought a man who did this for a living, and employed several people to assist him, would take nearly so long, but the time frame he was suggesting confirmed Wulfric’s suspicion that southerners were lazy at heart. As Jagovere offered more and more coin, the time frame shrank, until suddenly the impossible became possible and they were promised suits of clothes would be sent to the palace in time for the evening’s banquet. Seeing the tailor’s strategy, he felt his distaste for city life return.
Wulfric had fully woken up by the time they arrived at the barbers. His approach to trimming his beard had always been to grasp it by the end in one hand, while taking to it with his dagger in the other. Unruliness was dealt with by adding in the occasional braid, or a ring or two if he was feeling fancy, but for the most part he allowed it to find its own way. He had never been to a barber, and before coming south he hadn’t even realised it was a way a man could make a living. He wasn’t certain that Jagovere wasn’t making fun of him until they arrived at the shop, and he saw the barber at work. The shop‘s interior was panelled with dark oak and mirrors and smelled of oils and powder and tobacco. The barber was working on a customer, drawing a straight razor across his soaped face. The last time someone had a blade that close to Wulfric, he had cut him from navel to sternum.
The barber beckoned them in, and Wulfric sat hesitantly in the buttoned leather seat the barber indicated. He looked around apprehensively at the scissors, razors, powders, and bottles of scented oil. When the barber approached him with a straight-blade razor in hand, Wulfric could not stop his hand from going for his dagger.
Jagovere placed a restraining arm on Wulfric’s. ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘It’s all part of the process. You might even enjoy it.’
Wulfric sat still reluctantly as the barber lathered white foam that smelled of roses all over his face. He had to admit it was soothing despite his concerns, but not enough so to make him relax when the barber lifted the razor to his face.
‘Give him something tending toward fashion, but let’s not forget where he came from,’ Jagovere said.
Wulfric had a flash of panic and regret at allowing himself be talked into coming. He had never felt anything other than amused disdain for the southern dandies with their finely trimmed whiskers, and now he was to join their ranks.
The barber set about his work. With half of his face covered in foam it was difficult to see how things were progressing, and it was not until he was done that Wulfric could get a look at himself. The barber wiped the last vestiges of foam from his face with a heated towel, and stepped back. Wulfric peered into the mirror, seeing parts of his face that had been hidden to him since he’d passed into manhood. All in all, it wasn’t too bad. He didn’t have one of the waxed moustaches the more severe southern dandies wore, but he would not look like a savage at the banquet. Likewise, with a neat, single braid, he would not have been made fun of back in Leondorf.
‘Hair next,’ Jagovere said. His own beard and hair had not taken nearly so long to deal with, needing only neatening rather than the complete overhaul Wulfric had received, so he sat in the chair next to Wulfric contentedly puffing on a twist of tobacco and surveying the transformation. ‘Nothing too extreme. He’s the Wolf of the North, after all. Can’t have him looking too gentlemanly. More heroic warrior, less scarecrow, should be about right.’
The barber nodded, and attacked Wulfric’s hair, causing Wulfric to wince every time a tangle or knot was dealt with. Jagovere was having a pleasant morning with his twist of tobacco and comfortable chair, while Wulfric felt as though he was undergoing a subtle form of torture.
When the barber held the looking glass before him for a closer look, Wulfric had to admit that it certainly made him look far more like a southern gentleman than a northern savage, and for the time being, that suited his purposes perfectly. He smiled as he looked at himself in the mirror. The man staring back at him was one who could walk into the Markgraf’s palace in Elzburg without anyone so much as giving him a second look.
THE PALACE HAD BEEN LARGELY empty during Wulfric’s brief time there. Jagovere had said that it was a bad sign, an indication that the nobility neither feared being absent nor saw any potential benefit in being on hand. However, it was starting to fill when they returned from their adventure in the city, and was heaving with people by the time he went down to meet the others before going on to the banqueting hall together. Music that sounded unfamiliar to Wulfric drifted through the high-ceilinged hallways, mingling with the excited chatter and laughter of the great and good of Brixen.
Wulfric felt a hot flush of anxiety when he considered that the reception was largely in his honour. The people weren’t there for the honour of having been invited by Princess Alys, they were there to see him, Ulfyr, The Wolf of the North. His palms grew clammy, and he could feel sweat bead on his forehead. The situation wasn’t helped by his new suit of clothes. They were as fine as money could buy, but he was not used to the style and cut, nor the weight of the fabric. It was as hot as Darvaros in the palace that night, between the fires, the candles, and the people. Even though he now looked the part, the thought of all that scrutiny made him want to throw up.
He stopped halfway down the stairs, as he realised much of the light wasn’t coming from candles. Ornate silver candelabras held dozens of small glass spheres glowing with bright, warm light. Wulfric stared at one, watching the magical light s
wirl within them.
‘Magelamps,’ Jagovere said, joining Wulfric on the stairs.
‘I know,’ Wulfric said, more sharply than he intended.
‘Sorry,’ Jagovere said. ‘I didn’t know you had them in the Northlands.’
‘We don’t. I knew someone once who owned one. Never seen that many in one place, though.’
‘What are you being so snappy for?’ Jagovere said.
‘Your silly bloody stories,’ Wulfric said. ‘Everyone thinks I’m Ulfyr the World Destroyer, and it’s your bloody fault.’
‘“Ulfyr the World Destroyer”? I quite like that. I might use it.’
Wulfric gave him as hostile a look as he could muster.
‘You can’t hide up here on the stairs all night. Don’t worry. Just be yourself and leave the rest to their imaginations. When someone already believes something to be the case, it’s hard to convince them otherwise. Anyway, the stories aren’t all that far from the truth. Even the made-up ones are patched together from things that happened. You’ll be fine. I’m the one who has to get up in front of this lot and narrate one of them.’
Wulfric grunted. Perhaps the storytelling would divert some of the attention away from him. Their friends all featured in the stories as well, giving him hope that it might not be as bad as he feared. He nodded, and started down the stairs.
They met with the others in the foyer to the banquet hall. They had made concerted efforts to scrub up, and even Enderlain looked presentable. Varada, on the other hand, put them and most of the gathered nobles to shame. Though her fondness for directing blades toward his nether regions had dampened his ardour, he could not help but react to her appearance. Her dress, hair, and makeup accentuated her already stunning features, turning her into the type of woman of whom men dreamed. He realised this was one of the many things that had made her an effective spy. Seeing her now, he could almost forget that she was lethal with a blade and had killed many men. Even so, a night with her might be worth dying for.
The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3 Page 6
