White Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “Do you have poison?”

  “No. I shall escape. I will avenge my father, and I will see Bokram dragged down.”

  “No easy task, Sashan. He has the support of the emperor. Even if you raised an army to match Bokram, you would still have to face the Immortals. They have never been beaten.”

  “Gorben will fall,” she said. “His ambition is too great, his pride colossal. My father understood this, but his timing was wrong. Gorben will not stop. He will continue to enlarge his empire. One day he will take a step too far. Against the Gothir perhaps, or the Drenai.”

  “What if he doesn’t fall?”

  She rolled toward him. “Then I shall find a way to woo him. None of his wives have given him sons. I shall give him sons. Then I will drag Bokram down.”

  “You do not lack confidence,” he said. “I do not believe, though, that Bokram is quaking in his boots at this moment.”

  “I hope that he is not,” said Jianna. “He seeks two women who are, at best, a nuisance. His only fear is that I will escape and be wedded to a prince with power. Even that will not worry him unduly, for there is no single prince with the fortune or the army to overthrow him.”

  “Then how can you succeed?”

  “There are at least fifty princes and chieftains who would like to wed me. Combine them and we have an army to sweep across the land.”

  “You plan to wed fifty princes? I think playing the whore has gone to your head.”

  “Malanek said you were intelligent and quick witted. Was he wrong?”

  “Strangely my wits are not enhanced by lying so close to a naked woman.”

  She laughed. “The story of men everywhere. And now I shall sleep.” She rolled away from him.

  Somewhere in the night he managed to doze a little, but every time she moved he would awake and feel restless. Once she turned and her arm fell across his chest, her head close to his shoulder.

  Just after the dawn he awoke, bleary eyed and weary. Jianna still slept. Dressing in a simple gray tunic and sandals, he went downstairs. Molaire was already in the kitchen, cleaning vegetables for a broth. She gave him a look which was meant to be scornful. Crossing to her, he kissed her cheek. “Your father would not approve of this,” she said, blushing.

  He gazed at her round, honest face. “Perhaps he would not,” he admitted.

  “And you look dreadful this morning. Totally debauched.”

  Skilgannon laughed and left the room, wandering through to the garden. Sperian was already there, kneeling in one of the flower beds, deadheading blooms and clearing away weeds. For a while Skilgannon helped him, then both men walked back to the house, scrubbed the dirt from their hands, and sat down to breakfast. Molaire left them and moved off to the laundry room. Skilgannon told Sperian about the thirty silvers that would need to be paid to Sashan.

  “Aye, that’s wise. Though I am not sure about her traveling to the market. I doubt she’s done any haggling in her life.”

  “I think she’ll do well enough. Are there watchers outside the house?”

  “Aye. Two men. They were here most of the night. They’ve been replaced this morning. Have you thought what you’ll say if Boranius returns? Has he ever met her?”

  The question caused a tightness in Skilgannon’s stomach. “I don’t know. I’ll ask her.”

  Sperian cut some fresh bread and several thick slices of cheese, which he placed on a tray. “You want to take this up to her?”

  Skilgannon returned to the bedroom. Jianna was awake, but still lying in the bed. “I brought you some breakfast,” he said. She sat up, the sheets falling away and exposing her breasts. Skilgannon swore. “Could you at least dress?” he snapped.

  “My, you are feeling tetchy this morning, Olek. Did you not sleep well?” Reaching out she took the tray, then sat and quietly ate. Pushing the tray aside, she rose from the bed. Skilgannon turned his back, and heard her laughter. “You may look at me now, my prudish friend,” she said. She had slipped on the yellow tunic dress and was sitting in a wicker chair by the window.

  “Have you ever met Boranius?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “The name means nothing.”

  “Tall and handsome, with golden hair. He was a student of Malanek’s.”

  “Ah, yes, now I recall him. Eyes the color of emeralds and an arrogant mouth. Why do you ask?”

  “He may come here. It would be best if he did not see you.”

  “Ah, Olek, you worry too much. The only time we met I was dressed in silks and satins. My hair was dark and I wore a tiara with seventy diamonds upon it. My face was painted, and he merely bowed his head to kiss my hand, then turned his attention to my father—who he was desperate to impress.”

  “Even so. Boranius is no fool. He has men still watching the house.”

  “Then I should let them see me. I shall go to the market. You will give me coin. I shall buy a necklace and a new dress.”

  “You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he said.

  Her smile faded. “What would you prefer, Olek? That I simpered and trembled in this room, waiting for strong men to save me? I will succeed—or I will be captured and killed. No man on this earth will ever terrify me. I will not allow it. Yes, I shall enjoy going to the market. It is something I have never done. I will walk in the sunshine and I will revel in my freedom. I am Sashan, the whore. And Sashan the whore has nothing to fear from Boranius or anyone else.”

  He stood watching her for a moment. Then he nodded and bowed. “You are an exceptional woman,” he said.

  “Yes, I am. Tell me about the market.”

  They sat and talked for some time about the art of haggling, and that no one ever paid the first price mentioned. He also warned her against the places women were not allowed to enter, gambling halls, private taverns, and public temples.

  “A woman cannot enter a temple?” she queried.

  “Not by the main door. At the side there are entrances leading to galleries. Women cannot approach the altar, or sit in the altar hall.”

  “Ridiculous!” she stormed.

  “Nor once inside the building are they allowed to speak,” he told her, with a smile.

  Her gray eyes narrowed. “I shall change that once I have my throne.”

  Skilgannon recalled with great fondness watching her walk away from the house. The sun was shining on her bleached hair, and turning the cheap yellow tunic to glowing gold. She had subtly exaggerated the sway of her hips and had smiled broadly at the men passing by. It was a fine performance, born of arrogance and courage.

  Alone on the jetty Skilgannon glanced up at the moon. “There never was a woman like you, Jianna,” he whispered.

  The day had been long and tense for Jianna, Queen of Naashan. It had begun just after dawn, reading lengthy reports from the various southeastern war fronts in Matapesh, Panthia, and Opal. Casualties had been heavy, especially in the jungles of Opal, but her forces had captured the three main diamond mines. Shipments of these precious stones would enable Jianna to purchase more iron from Ventria, and weapons from established Gothir armorers. She had breakfasted with four princes from Northern Naashan, who had promised men for the coming battles in Tantria. After that she had met councillors and advisers, checking reports on tax incomes, and the condition of the treasury.

  It was now after dusk, and she was not yet tired as she strode with her bodyguard through the Royal Gardens, lit now by lanterns on tall iron poles. Behind her walked the captain of the Queen’s Horse, Askelus, a tall, forbidding man, and alongside him the wiry figure of Malanek, the former swordmaster. Both men had their hands on their sword hilts as they came into the open. Jianna laughed. “They say lightning does not strike twice in the same place,” she said.

  “You take too many risks, Highness,” offered Malanek. Moonlight cast shadows on his face, making the lines of age seem even deeper. No longer a fighting swordsman he had grown his hair, though he still sported the elaborate raised crest and ponytail that had marked him as the king
’s champion. His hair was dyed black—a small conceit, which the queen did not mind. She was fond of the old warrior.

  “I cannot avoid all risks, Malanek,” she said. “And look, am I not wearing the mail rings you had made for me?”

  “Aye, and they look very fine on you, Highness,” he said. “Which is, I think, why you wear them.”

  Jianna did not reply, but walked on. He was right of course. The thigh-length silver mail tunic, with its backing of soft lambskin, and its wide embossed belt, emphasized the slimness of her waist. It shimmered as she moved. Jianna strode on, sensing the tension in the two men as they approached the Lake of Dreams, a large marble pool, on which sat a statue of a fabulously attractive woman. Her arm was raised toward the sky. Entwined around it was a snake. The statue was of Jianna. Often the queen would wander her gardens, always stopping to gaze upon her own image.

  Ten days ago two assassins had leapt from the undergrowth close by. Both were dressed as palace servants. Only Malanek had been with her on that night. Despite his age he had acted with great speed, drawing his saber and darting in to block their assault. He had killed the first, but the second barged past him and ran at Jianna, knife raised. Leaping high she had hammered her booted foot into his face, hurling him back. Malanek had stabbed him through the lower back. The man screamed and fell. Unhappily the wound was deep and mortal, and he had died under questioning without revealing who had sent him.

  It was the fourth assassination attempt in two years.

  Jianna gazed at the statue. “She will be beautiful when I am ancient and a crone,” she said, wistfully.

  “Aye,” agreed Malanek, “but she will never ride a horse, nor see a sunset. Nor will she ever know the adoration of a people.”

  “Adoration comes and goes,” said Jianna. “The people threw flowers at the Ventrians and garlanded Bokram’s horse. They are fickle.”

  They came at last to the new gates and the high walls of Jianna’s private quarters. The two guards, both handpicked by Askelus, saluted and bowed. “Who is within?” Askelus asked one of them.

  “Four of the queen’s councillors, five royal handmaidens, the blind harpist, and a rider from Mellicane. The Ventrian ambassador has requested an audience. His messenger is waiting outside the gallery.”

  The guards pushed open the gates and Jianna walked through. “Shall I send them all away?” asked Malanek.

  “Ask Emparo to stay. I would like to hear his harp later. The Ventrian ambassador I will see tomorrow morning, before the council meeting. Have him brought here. We will breakfast together.” She arrived at the door to her chambers. “I’ll see the rider from Mellicane now. Askelus, you will stay with me.”

  The tall warrior nodded, and opened the doors to the queen’s apartments. Lanterns had been lit within, the light shimmering on silk-covered couches and ornately fashioned chairs. The five handmaidens, all dressed in gowns of white silk, stepped forward and curtsied as the queen entered. “You may all go to your beds,” said Jianna, with a wave of her hand. The women curtsied once more, and departed. Malanek strode off after them, returning with a round-shouldered officer. Jianna looked at the man. He had tired eyes. He bowed to her and waited.

  “You have ridden far, sir?” she asked.

  “I have, Majesty. Eight hundred miles in fifteen days. Mellicane is on the verge of collapse.”

  “What else did you discover?”

  “I have brought back all my papers, Majesty; reports on those loyal to your cause, and those we must . . . deal with. I have given them all to Malanek.”

  “I shall read them and call for you again,” she said, unable to remember the man’s name. “But why have you waited for me this evening?”

  “News of Skilgannon, Majesty.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, Majesty. He had left the church before the riders arrived. He is heading, we think, for Mellicane.”

  “Does he have the swords?”

  “He killed men in a small town, who were seeking to attack a church, Majesty. Our information is that he took swords from the attackers.”

  “He will have them,” she said.

  “Hard to believe he became a priest,” said Askelus.

  “Why?” countered Malanek. “Skilgannon brought passion to everything he tackled. And passion is a gift of the Source.”

  Askelus shrugged. “He is a fighting man. Hard to see him mouthing spiritual inanities. Love will conquer all. Forgive those who torment you. Nonsense. Soldiers conquer all, and if you kill those who torment you then you are free of torment.”

  “Be silent, the pair of you,” said Jianna, returning her attention to the messenger. “Who do we have following him?”

  “I have sent word to our embassy in Mellicane to watch out for him, Majesty. We also have the original twenty riders in Skepthia, and one skilled assassin we can contact. What orders shall I send?”

  “I will think on it tonight,” she told him. “Come to me in the morning.” With that she waved the man away. When he had gone Jianna sat down on a silk-covered couch, lost in thought.

  Askelus and Malanek waited silently. At last she glanced up at them. “Well?” she said. “Speak your minds.” Neither man said a word. Jianna’s heart sank. “Am I so terrifying, even to old friends?” she asked. “Come, Malanek, speak.”

  The old swordsman sighed, then took a deep breath. “You are rather hard on those who speak their minds, Majesty.”

  “Peshel Bar was a traitor. I did not have him killed because he spoke his mind. I had him killed because he tried to turn others against me.”

  “Aye, by speaking his mind,” said Malanek. “He thought you were wrong, and he said so to your face. Now no one with any sense will tell you what they really think. They will just mouth the words they think you want to hear. But maybe I’m too old to care. So I will answer you, Majesty. I liked Skilgannon. Still do. That man—more than any other—fought to win you this throne. I say leave him alone. Let him be.”

  “He murdered Damalon. Have you forgotten that?”

  Malanek glanced at Askelus. The tall warrior said nothing. Malanek gave a wry laugh and shook his head. “I had not forgotten, Majesty. Forgive me if I do not grieve for him. I never liked him.”

  Jianna rose from her couch, her expression tense, her gray eyes angry. When she spoke, however, her voice was controlled, almost soft. “Skilgannon betrayed me. He left without the permission of the queen. He deserted my army. He stole a priceless artefact. You believe he should escape punishment for those crimes?”

  “I have said my piece, Majesty,” said Malanek.

  “And what of you, Askelus?” she asked.

  “You are the queen, Majesty. Those who obey your orders are loyal, those who do not are traitors. It is simple. Skilgannon did not obey your orders. It is for you to judge him—or forgive him. It is not for me to offer advice. I am merely a soldier.”

  “You would kill him if I ordered it?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “Would it sadden you?”

  “Yes, Majesty. It would sadden me greatly.”

  Dismissing both men Jianna saw the councillors who had been waiting, listened to their advice, made judgments, signed royal decrees, then called for Empora, the blind harpist.

  He was an old man, but if she closed her eyes and listened to his music, and his soft, singing voice, she could imagine what he must have been in his youth, golden-haired and sweetly handsome. She wished he could be young now, and that she could take him to her bed, and banish for a while all thoughts of the man whose face filled her mind, and whose form walked through her dreams.

  Lying back on her couch, the sweet music filling the room, she remembered Skilgannon’s face as she left the house that day to walk to the market. He had been so young then—a few weeks from sixteen. His handsome face was serious, his expression stern. She had wanted to lean in close and plant a kiss on that grim mouth.

  Instead she had walked away down the avenue, knowing that hi
s eyes would not leave her until she turned the corner.

  Jianna sighed. Tomorrow she would order him killed. Perhaps when he was dead she would stop dreaming of him.

  11

  * * *

  It was after midnight when Skilgannon returned to the Crimson Stag. The tavern was almost empty. Druss was still sitting at his table, Diagoras stretched out on the floor beside him, fast asleep. Two Vagrian officers, with braided blond hair, were drinking quietly some distance away, and an old wolfhound was nosing around beneath the empty tables, looking for scraps.

  “Hello, laddie,” said Druss, his speech slurring mildly.

  Skilgannon looked down at the unconscious Diagoras. “The curse of the young,” said Druss. “Can’t hold their liquor. Damn, but I need some air.” Resting his massive hands on the table he half pushed himself upright, then slumped back to his seat. “On the other hand, it is pleasant sitting here,” he concluded.

  “Let me give you a hand,” said Skilgannon. The older man’s pale gaze locked with his own.

  “I’ll manage,” muttered Druss, heaving himself upright, and swaying. Easing himself from behind the table, he walked to the front door and out into the night air. Skilgannon followed him. Druss rubbed at his eyes and groaned.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I am as long as I don’t blink,” replied the axman. “I need something to clear my head.” There was a water trough close by the wharf’s edge. Druss staggered toward it—colliding with one of the Vagrian officers as he was leaving the tavern. The man fell heavily. “Apologies,” muttered Druss, moving past them. The Vagrian pushed himself to his feet and glanced down at his cloak. It was smeared with horse droppings.

  He rushed after Druss, swearing at him. The axman turned and raised his hands. “Whoa, there!” he said. “This noise is splitting my head. Speak quietly.”

  “Speak quietly?” echoed the Vagrian. “You drunken old Drenai fool.”

  “Drunk I may be, laddie—but at least I don’t smell of horse shit. Is that some new Vagrian fashion?”

  The officer swore, then punched Druss full in the face with a straight left. The Vagrian was a big man, with wide shoulders, and Skilgannon winced as the blow thudded home. A second punch, a right cross followed it. It never landed. Druss caught the man’s fist, and spun him, hurling the Vagrian into the horse trough. “That should get the stains out,” said Druss. The second Vagrian ran at the old man. Druss blocked the punch, and grabbed the man by his throat and crotch. With one heave he lifted the Vagrian above his head and staggered toward the edge of the wharf.