‘The more Wolves I have, the better,’ she said. ‘But I’ll respect their wishes. Until I have need of you, then.’
WULFRIC CALLED at Jagovere’s apartments on the way back to his own, to deliver the news. He knocked on the door and stood back to wait for it to open. He furrowed his brow as he heard what he thought was a woman’s laughter, then smiled when he realised Jagovere had likely managed to convince one of the ladies at court to come back to his room. There was some commotion in the room, more laughter, then the door opened and Jagovere appeared, his hair dishevelled and his clothes looking like they had been in a heap on the ground until a moment before.
‘Wulfric,’ he said. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I’ve just had a meeting with Her Highness.’
‘Ah. How did it go?’
‘We may be staying longer than I wanted.’
Jagovere laughed. ‘I suspected as much. She got you then?’
‘Might I come in to talk, or do you still have… company?’ Wulfric said.
Jagovere blushed, and cast a glance over his shoulder. ‘Of course. Come in.’
‘Where did you hide her?’
Jagovere smiled sheepishly. ‘She left via the servant’s door.’
‘Not a lady of court then?’ Wulfric said with a smile.
‘Ah, no. Not exactly.’
Wulfric looked at Jagovere and raised an eyebrow. A serving girl could equal the most noble of ladies in his eyes, but he realised that southerners’ feelings were different, particularly when they were nobles themselves.
‘What do you mean when you said the princess “got me”?’
‘You were set up. We were set up,’ Jagovere said. ‘You did the princess a pretty big favour killing Hochmark, and I don’t doubt for a second she planned the whole thing.’
Wulfric sighed and sat down. ‘I reckoned that was the case.’
‘I had a chance to do a little digging on the lay of the land when I went to the Brazen Belek, find out who’s friends with whom, and who isn’t. Hochmark’s been a thorn in her side since the restoration. Elzmark too, but the word is that Hochmark was trying to replace her. By all accounts he tried to marry her a few years back, but she told him to get lost. Since then, he’s been her biggest opponent.’
‘Why didn’t she just poison him?’ Wulfric said. ‘Isn’t that the southern way?’
‘I’d be offended, if there wasn’t more than a bit of truth in that,’ Jagovere said. ‘However, it isn’t that simple. Things at a royal court rarely are. A monarch rules on the support of their vassals—the dukes, Markgrafs, Grafs, and so on. They rely on the taxes they pay, and the men they provide in times of strife. Without any of those things, a ruler has no power, and a ruler with no power gets replaced pretty quickly.’
‘Killing a nobleman you’re not getting along with makes the rest of them nervous. All the more so when a great number of them are his supporters. No, Princess Alys’s position is tenuous enough as it is. To openly kill an opponent, or for him to have an unfortunate and unexplained accident, could be enough to finish her. She needed to find another way to do it, a method that showed everyone what she is capable of but one that even Hochmark’s most ardent supporter would have to admit he brought upon himself. Then enter the heroic and famous warrior, and her problems are solved.’
‘She removes her rival and ties me to her retinue in one move,’ Wulfric said, shaking his head. ‘Crafty bloody southerners.’ He slumped in the chair and reflected on the mess he had walked into. He heard a noise from the other room, and looked up. ‘Did you hear that?’
Jagovere shook his head, a confused expression on his face. ‘Hear what?’
‘I thought I heard something from the other room.’
‘Oh, it’s probably nothing. A bird at the window perhaps. And what does Her Highness want of you now?’
Wulfric frowned, but let it go. ‘She didn’t say much. Just that she’d call on me when she wants something. Made me “captain without mandate”. What does “mandate” mean?’
Jagovere sat and stroked his beard. ‘It means she’ll have you do whatever takes her fancy, whenever it takes it. Like as not, having the mighty and famous Ulfyr in her camp is all she wants. You’ve already killed one of her major rivals. That should put manners on the rest of them. For a while at least, lest they want Ulfyr knocking on their doors.’
‘If it leaves me free to do what I want, then I’ll let her say I’m her man for as long as she likes, but I won’t be caged up like a hunting dog.’
‘Do you have any choice?’
‘You’re the expert on all of this,’ Wulfric said. ‘You tell me.’
‘The answer is the one you will not like, but for the time being you’re her man, and you’ll just have to make the best of it.’
Wulfric sighed in frustration. ‘I’m going to eat,’ he said. ‘If I’m stuck here, I might as well take advantage of the kitchens. Coming?’
‘Ah, no,’ Jagovere said. ‘I ate not that long ago.’
‘Your loss,’ Wulfric said, moving to the door. He opened it, then it occurred to him that he hadn’t asked Jagovere if he was going to stay at the palace with him, and he closed the door again. He turned back to Jagovere, and his jaw dropped when he saw Varada, wrapped only in a sheet, step out from the other room. Her eyes widened when she realised he was still in the room. Jagovere’s face went even redder than before.
‘I, ah, we…’ Jagovere said.
Wulfric roared with laughter, and gave them their privacy.
CHAPTER 13
There were times when Rodulf missed the simplicity of life in the North. Hardly anyone could read or write, so you dealt with people face to face. You could look them in the eye with an expression that would strike fear into their hearts. Not so with a letter. He could never quite make written words carry the same menace as those he spoke. Life in the south seemed to function purely at the mercy of letters. He waded through a pile of them every day. Status reports on the movements of the approaching mercenary companies; statements of account from the silver mines; ledgers on the daily expenses of plotting a rebellion; titbits of information and gossip from spies, informants, and those who sought his favour. Finally, there was news from Grenville on the happenings in Brixen, carried by the most expensive of homing pigeons. Bad news, as it transpired. Lord Hochmark was dead.
Unbeknownst to him previously, Lord Hochmark had become one of the Markgraf’s, and by association Rodulf’s, biggest allies. He was causing so much fuss in openly opposing the princess that she had not the time or resources to look elsewhere. Now that Hochmark was dead, Walken, Markgraf of Elzmark, was uncontested at the top of the naughty nobleman list. While he had not taken to direct opposition, he paid only lip service to royal authority, and such behaviour would not go unnoticed.
‘Piss on it,’ Rodulf said, his frustration getting the better of him. He looked back at the note. All of Hochmark’s estates had been forfeited back to the crown. That meant more manpower for the princess, and more money in her coffers. He had been hoping that Hochmark’s levies would ignore her command to mobilise when the Elzmark broke out in rebellion. Now the second-largest feudal host in the principality was at her disposal once more. He had not expected that. It would make things more challenging, a fight a little more likely, but he was confident they had enough men, and who really cared about dead mercenaries and peasants?
The note went on to describe the manner of Hochmark’s death—in a duel against the famed Ulfyr. Grenville said he was convinced the whole thing was contrived, and Rodulf had to admit it made sense. She had told all the nobles that she now had a coldblooded killer in her service, and was smart enough to employ him to deadly effect within the confines of law and social convention. Anyone who was vacillating in their loyalty to her would now likely rethink their fidelity. He had to smile. She had more steel and brains than anyone had given her credit for, and the man who had underestimated her the most had paid the highest price. Rodulf wouldn’t make t
he same mistake.
Ulfyr might have Her Highness’s court scared into line, but his death would undo that. Rodulf wanted her stripped of the prestige Ulfyr brought, which meant he needed to be killed as soon as possible. Ulfyr was only a small problem, but the scales were so finely balanced that even the smallest of pebbles could tip them over. Rodulf would take every advantage he could from her. He took a sheet of paper and started to pen his response to Grenville.
AS KUNLER HAD PROMISED, the Black Fist were the first mercenary company to fall into view from Elzburg’s walls, their banner, a black fist on a field of white, flying proudly at their head as they marched toward the city. There was no official reception, however, and the Markgraf had to be content with watching their approach surreptitiously from the city walls so as not to draw any more attention to their impending arrival.
Although rumours of a campaign in the new Northlands territory were whispered in taverns and coffee houses throughout the city, Rodulf didn’t want to make it too obvious, and had developed another layer of subterfuge with which to mask their pretended purposes until enough of them had arrived for the Markgraf to announce his true intentions.
He rode out to meet the mercenaries as they marched toward the city. Their commander was not difficult to find, riding in the van beside the company standard bearer.
‘Welcome to Elzburg,’ Rodulf said when within earshot. The column continued to march, so Rodulf turned his horse and dropped in beside them. ‘I am Lord Lieutenant Rodulf dal Leondorf. The Markgraf has tasked me with liaising with your company.’
‘Banneret-Captain Gasten Royeau, Master of the Company of the Black Fist, at your service.’ He doffed his riding hat respectfully.
‘Due to the nature of our preparations for this campaign, it is felt that hiding our true purpose will be beneficial to all parties in the long run,’ Rodulf said, trying to make himself heard over the sound of feet marching to the beat of a drum behind him.
‘Not to the enemy’s, I hope,’ Royeau said.
Rodulf indulged him with a thin smile. He had all the swagger of one of Leondorf’s warriors, making Rodulf’s manners turn to bile in his mouth. There was an ostentatious white-and-black feather in his hat, and the hilt of his sword was gold and jewelled.
‘As soon as you’ve established your camp, I want you to set up recruitment stands. I’ve briefed the master of the Mercenaries’ Guild house to do likewise. For the time being, we want to make it look like you’re here on a recruiting drive. Quite a few dispossessed warriors have been coming down from the Northlands looking for work, so we’ve seized on that as reason for you being here.’
‘Makes sense. We’ll get to it as soon as we’ve settled in. Any update on the campaign plans?’
‘No,’ Rodulf said. ‘You’re the first to arrive, and we expect it to be two or three weeks before the full force has mustered.’
‘Capital,’ Royeau said. ‘We took on some new hands before coming up here, so it’ll give us time to drill them into shape.’
‘If there’s anything else you need, you can send word to me at the palace. The details for city visits for your men in their free time can be arranged once you’ve camped.’
‘Oh, we don’t give them much in the way of free time, do we, sergeant?’ Royeau said.
The sergeant, who carried the standard, grunted in amused agreement.
‘At least not until the job’s done,’ Royeau said. ‘I’ll be sure to let you know if there’s anything else we need.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Rodulf said, doffing his hat before galloping back to the city.
RODULF GREETED the fourth blackmail letter with curiosity. There had been so much to organise with the arrival of the Black Fist, and in anticipation of the others to join them, that he had not had the time to give the notes much thought. He opened it up, and read it with a wry smile.
Justice is coming for you.
THAT WAS CURIOUS. He wondered what they meant by justice. Was it a threat that they would precipitate his meeting with the nebulous concept? Or did it set the stage for a ‘give me x, or else justice will get you’ demand in the next one? It didn’t matter, as it gave him nothing more than food for further speculation.
He was flipping the piece of paper between his fingers, feeling his frustration grow, when something caught his eye. When the light hit it at the right angle, he could see a design on the paper. He walked over to his window and pressed it to the pane, lighting the page through. It was a watermark, or a portion of one. The watermark of the paper’s maker.
Rodulf smiled. It was a small victory, but his first one in this little game. There could not be many paper makers in the city, probably no more than three or four. More than usual, due to the presence of the university, but few enough that the maker of this piece would not be difficult to track down.
He returned to his desk and thought, the initial enthusiasm of his discovery being replaced by the puzzle of what to do next. He rang the bell on his desk, and his clerk appeared at the door a moment later.
‘Have the captain of the City Watch report to me immediately,’ he said.
THE CAPTAIN of the City Watch looked confused as he was ushered into Rodulf’s office. Word of Rodulf’s increase in power and his treatment of those who displeased him had spread wide, and it was obvious from the trepidatious look on the captain’s face that he feared he was about to experience it first-hand. It was a satisfying sensation for Rodulf. It confirmed that he had finally arrived, that it was known throughout Elzburg that he was a man to be reckoned with.
Rodulf had cut the watermark from the note, not wanting to reveal that he was being blackmailed. He slid it across the desk to the captain, who stared at it, a picture of confusion.
‘I want you to find out who the papermaker with that watermark is,’ Rodulf said, ‘and I want a complete list of their clients over the past few weeks. You have men trained to investigate these things?’
The captain nodded.
‘Excellent,’ Rodulf said, not giving him the chance to speak. ‘Make it your priority. I’ll expect to hear from you in the next day or two. Be discreet. You can show yourself out.’
He waited until the captain was gone before removing the Stone, which was pressing uncomfortably against his midsection, from his pocket. He placed it on the desk, and stared at the ancient etchings across its surface. He had once done that frequently, but now only occasionally. It still captivated him as much as the first time he had held it, but it struck him that he had needed to use it less and less. Power seemed to sustain itself once it had been obtained. He was thankful for that. Using it placed such a great strain on him now, there was no way he could use it as liberally as he once had.
What would once have required all of his concentration and a firm hold on the Stone to achieve now required a single command, usually without any help from the Stone. There were some for whom it was still required—those with the strongest personalities, and even then it didn’t always work—but there was a strange sense of relief in no longer being quite so reliant on it. The Markgraf was the only man for whom he was not willing to forego the Stone. It was vital for Rodulf to keep him on a short yoke, especially when his goal was in sight.
CHAPTER 14
There were few attractions to the palace for Wulfric. Although he now had an official position, and the dignities that went with it, he didn’t feel comfortable there. Adhering to social conventions required effort, and prevented him from ever being at ease. The only saving grace of life in the city was that he’d discovered a tavern tucked up against the northern wall that was frequented by Northland émigrés. He had tried many before finding this one, and they had all been the same—a taproom of people sitting around a spaeker telling the tales of Ulfyr and Jagovere and Enderlain the Greatblade. It was like being stuck in a repeating dream that he could not wake from. Even he was growing bored of Ulfyr the Fantastically Wonderful. Sadly, it seemed that no one else was. Jagovere had said it was because life in R
uripathia had been hard since the war, that the people were hungry for heroes and stories that gave them hope. He could understand that, but he would have preferred it if they had been about someone else.
The tavern by the wall was different. They had little interest in Jagovere’s stories, but listened intently to the blind spaeker who sat in the corner and told them tales of Jorundyr and Ulfyr, and dragons, and draugar. It felt like a cool breeze in the heat of Darvaros.
Wulfric sipped at a bitter ale, shipped south from a village in the Northlands that Wulfric had never heard of, and listened to the tale of Jorundyr slaying Fanrac, the demon king, and meeting Ulfyr for the first time. He had heard it at least a hundred times, a thousand perhaps, but it never grew old. He wondered if their stories started out like his had, a seed of truth hidden in the centre of the fruit of exaggeration and hyperbole, and felt instantly deflated.
‘New around here, friend?’ a man said.
Wulfric looked up. If the accent was not enough, his appearance confirmed he was a Northlander, with cropped sandy hair and braids and beads in his beard.
‘New enough,’ Wulfric said.
‘From the North?’
‘I am.’
‘Well then, let me stand you a drink. An ale for my friend,’ he said. ‘So, what brought you south?’
‘Looking for work,’ Wulfric said.
‘Find any?’
Wulfric nodded. ‘With some rich fella up at the palace. Jumps at his own shadow.’ Something he had learned at court was to never reveal more than you had to.
‘Rich fellas are like that,’ the man agreed.
Fresh mugs of ale arrived. Wulfric raised his mug and knocked it against his drinking companion’s.
‘Name’s Haldan, by the way,’ the man said, holding out his hand.
Wulfric shook it. ‘Wolfram,’ he said. ‘What brought you south, yourself?’
The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3 Page 10
