The Warlord's Domain

by Peter Morwood

  "You still haven't explained why you came back."

  "That one, the guard with the red beard—have him empty the belt-pouch he took from me. You'll find out."

  The pouch held what Dacurre had expected it might: leaves of scrip drawn on the Crown Treasury, each with the red and black sigil stamps that indicated a nominal face value of one thousand Alban marks. They were crushed and twisted as if someone had begun to destroy them and then thought better of it. Dacurre unfolded one of the ragged bundles of paper and looked at it, nodding as he saw where the problem lay. "Rynert's authorization," he said. "These are useless."

  The taulath nodded, and smiled a thin-lipped smile that showed how much he was pretending not to care. "As you both know, I've been out of the country," he said. "One of my people here tried turning that garbage into coin. I found out when I got back. So here I am."

  "Trying to get your fee in silver," Dacurre finished for him. "Or get the value of it from Rynert's hide. A pity that he's dead."

  "Don't think I wouldn't have done it either," said the taulath. "I… we… have our principles. We don't like to be cheated."

  "Not cheated," Hanar Santon corrected. "Outmaneu-vered. You should have tried to get your money before you killed Aldric Talvalin, not afterward."

  "I said cheated, and I used the word correctly." For all that he was battered, bloodied and trussed like a bird for the oven, Fox was very much on his dignity—as much dignity, at least, as two high-clan-lords would give a mercenary killer credit for possessing. "Talvalin isn't alone and—"

  "Tehal Kyrin, too? You cold-hearted butcher!" Santon's voice went shrill with rage and as he came out of his chair his shortsword was slicing from its sheath again. "This time I will kill you!"

  "Sit down!" Dacurre glared at the younger man, then shook his head at the impatience of the younger generation. "Hanar, just every now and then why don't you stop and think before you make a fool of yourself?"

  "I don't know what you mean…"

  "Evidently. Think, I said."

  "But you heard him—he said—"

  Dacurre sighed. Once again the facts would have to be spelled out for Santon's benefit. It wasn't that the boy was stupid, far from it, but like his father before him once an idea got itself lodged in a Santon mind a team of horses wouldn't shift it. "He said that Aldric isn't alone. Present tense; doesn't that suggest anything to you? That perhaps he isn't dead either?"

  "Oh. I see… now."

  Fox had remained quiet while the two lords wrangled, but when Dacurre looked toward him again he shrugged as elaborately as his bonds allowed. "The girl doesn't concern me—and didn't then; she wasn't a part of the contract and I wasn't paid to deal with her. If she'd been in the way, well…" Another shrug. "But your dear king said nothing about a bodyguard."

  "Bodyguard?" Aymar Dacurre blinked in surprise. This didn't sound like the lethal swordsman he knew— or thought he knew. "Aldric Talvalin doesn't have a bodyguard. Never had one, so far as I know."

  "He's got one now: six Drusalans. And you might be interested to know"—the taulath Fox smiled like his namesake—"they're just as much tulathin as I am."

  Santon glowered at him, wanting to believe one aspect of the mercenary's statement but unwilling to trust the other. Before the Light of Heaven, Aldric was capable of doing such a thing, as he had proven himself capable of so much more, but while sorcery had a certain dark glamour to it the employment of tulathin was just dirty. It wasn't part of the Talvalin style. "How do we know that you're telling the truth about this?" he demanded. "How can we believe you about anything?"

  "My Lord Dacurre," said Fox, "tell him the reason why."

  Aymar didn't turn his head to address Santon directly, even though he could sense that he was being watched for a reply. Instead he gazed at the taulath. "Because," he said softly, "you believe me."

  Fox nodded. He believed completely and without any of the many doubts his own subtle and tortuous mind could conjure up, because this old, white-bearded, balding man held the dwindling duration of his life by a thread. If Lord Dacurre was unconvinced of anything that he was told, he would go searching for what he thought was the truth with all the means at his disposal. His Honor bound the promise of brief death; that same Honor bound the promise of a death that would be screams and anguish from the beginning to the end of it.

  "And because of your belief in me," said Aymar Dacurre, "I choose to believe in you. Hanar, he is speaking the truth as best he can. There are matters here I do not begin to understand, and matters beneath them that I have no desire to understand. Talvalin is alive. Good. But unless, being alive, he is doing something to keep Grand Warlord Etzel safe at home, his life or death is of small importance here."

  "Etzel is dead."

  The silence that followed on Fox's words was such that all in the room except for the taulath might have been struck dead themselves. Hanar Santon and the younger guards had known the name of Warlord Etzel as a kind of bogeyman rather than as a figure with any reality, political or otherwise, and to be told of his death was a greater shock in its way than to learn of the death of a parent. Dacurre was simply relieved. He knew that other and more complex feelings would soon take over, but just for the present Fox's news came as a tonic to offset the weariness of so many, many sleepless nights.

  It was only a matter of minutes before the first niggling suspicion cut into his private euphoria. "But how did you come to know this, when you knew nothing about Rynert?" he demanded, and fixed the taulath with a quizzical stare. Fox matched and returned it with as much added expression as the reflection in a mirror.

  "I heard about it through my usual sources of Imperial information—sources which have little interest in Alba even when they have nothing else to occupy their minds. What occupies those minds right now is the new Warlord's behavior. You might find it encouraging. He hasn't been seen in public since it was announced eighteen days ago that he had assumed the rank and style of Woydach. From the commands that issue from the citadel in Drakkesborg he seems more intent on recovering those provinces which have seceded from the Empire over the past few years than in pursuing Etzel's old policy of war against Alba. Either way, he's secure; and so, it seems, are you. Assuming that my sources are correct, of course, and that you can get anyone in this country to believe the word of a taulath.'''

  "Never mind that," snapped Dacurre, never at his best when someone else presumed to guess at what he might be thinking. "I'll make them believe."

  The taulath Fox inclined his head, gazing at nothing in particular; then he smiled a uniquely chilly little smile as if at some private and unpleasant joke. "Of course you will. Alban clan-lords always pay attention to what tulathin say, when it comes second-hand from one of their own. Except that they're not paying attention to anything you say at all right now, are they? Oh, and before you think to have it beaten out of me, the new Warlord is a man called Voord… late of the Secret Police. You might well know his name already…"

  Dacurre and Santon looked at one another. They knew the name indeed; they knew, too, how closely Voord's actions in the past few years had intertwined with the military and political fate of Alba—and with the making of a notorious swordsman and sorcerer from the honor-fixated survivor of one of Alba's oldest fami-lies. When they had at last learned all that there was to be known about the situation, it had seemed to both of them that Fate had woven opposites together for the sake of entertainment: life and death, honor and magic, Aldric Talvalin and Voord Ebanesj. What the end of the skein might be, neither man felt qualified even to guess.

  The taulath who called himself Fox sat still and silent now. He had said all that there was for him to say, freely and without the need for violent persuasion, and all that remained was for Aymar Dacurre to keep his promise. There was not—nor since his capture ever had been— any chance of reprieve or escape; the taulath understood that and waited quietly to die. Once the two clan-lords finished their hasty whispered discussion, the short time of wa
iting was over.

  Hanar Santon nodded once to Dacurre and stood up, more calmly now than on the past two occasions when he had surged out of his chair fired with the desire to kill. There was no longer hot blood in what he did, but the vast impartial weight of the law.

  "Man-called-Fox," he said, "Aymar Lord Dacurre is satisfied with your… assistance. The law has given us your life, and even if we were inclined we could not return it. What we return, by the command of Lord Dacurre, is your choice of means to take your leave of the life held forfeit. So choose." Santon remained standing, but said nothing more.

  The taulath looked at his judges and shrugged. "Why say, when you both know already." He was staring now at the vial Dacurre held in finger and thumb. "That way."

  "In wine?" offered Dacurre. It was courtesy, not curiosity, which prompted his question, for by tradition someone about to die either by legal execution or by their own hand in the tsepanek'ulleth ritual was accorded more respect than their crime or their rank might have warranted. It was not, and never had been, a matter open to question.

  "No, just in my mouth. The broken glass cuts, you see, and the venom enters the bloodstream…" There was a glint of cold amusement in Fox's eyes at the way young Santon winced.

  Dacurre did not afford him that pleasure, but the old man's lips went very thin. Poison had played its part in the shaping of Alba, but it was a part lacking in any honor. "You will forgive me," he said, "if I ask you to put your head back and allow me to drop this… this choice of yours from a distance safely away from your teeth and any splinters of glass you might consider surplus."

  The taulath laughed aloud, very softly but with real rather than gallows humor. He had the look of someone who appreciated the black joke. "If we had met in another place and another time, my lord," he said, "I think I might have liked you—enough at least to grant you the same favor you grant me." He tilted back his head and opened his mouth as a child might when being dosed with medicine, received the pellet and crunched it like a sweet.

  "How long?" Dacurre asked.

  "My lord, I thought the questions were finished." Fox grinned, and there was blood on his teeth; slivered glass glittered between them like diamonds. "And anyway, I don't know. Nobody does for certain. The herbalist who distils it says 'quite fast,' but he hasn't used it so what does he know?"

  Fox chuckled—then gasped, his eyes going wide as his whole body spasmed against the straps holding him into the chair. It passed, and he relaxed enough to grin that bloody grin again. "Perhaps he does know some—" Another convulsion drummed his heels against the floor, and whatever he had been about to say was lost in the chattering of his teeth. There was sweat on his face as the clench of muscles calmed to an irregular tic in all his limbs, but he was still grinning though by now it was more the rictus of a naked skull. "Uncomfortable," Fox somehow contrived to say, "but not really painful. Better than a tsepan any—"

  His jaws clicked shut and cut the words off short as a final spasm killed him.

  Chapter Five

  There was rioting in Drakkesborg. Its cause was straightforward enough; even in the second-wealthiest city in the Empire—and there were those who quibbled even at that qualification of "second"— prices double and even treble those of bare months past were not to be borne. Such inflations happened every once in a while, the consequence of poor harvests, but never before had the merchants dared such market-place piracy as they were attempting now, and never before had the Grand Warlord allowed them to get away with it once the matter had been brought before him by citizens' deputation. Ironarse Etzel, they called him in the lower city—that and other, coarser things—but it could never be denied that here in Drakkesborg at least he always had time to hear complaints and problems. Until now.

  The majority of rumors could be easily discarded; too high-flown for belief, most of them, and the remainder unlikely at best. But the fact remained that Woydach Etzel had been neither seen nor heard from for close to three weeks now, and that was where informed speculation took the place of rumor. There were those who said that speculation was just rumor in a finer coat, but they were the same bandiers of semantics who listened eagerly to the latest piece of gossip—or rather, educated opinion—and contributed their own thoughts to whatever the opinion had concerned. All in the most elegantly turned phrases, of course.

  The business of these shocking prices, for one thing: nothing to do with poor harvests, at least not this year since the harvest had been if not spectacular then certainly more than adequate. No, the problem this time was the Emperor's intransigence. A mere child, truculently refusing the advice of elders and betters that had been quite adequate for his father and brother. A shame that Ravek had died so suddenly—he would have made a much better Emperor, certainly more tractable than Ioen who was so eager to dance to the tune of his chief military commander. Coerhanalth Goth, wasn't it? Nothing but a common soldier. All his fault, probably. Dividing the Empire down the middle like a wheel of cheese, what way was that to run a country? And he was probably responsible for the trade sanctions behind these price rises. A Lord-General, eh? Maybe—but not a gentleman.

  And so it went on. Etzel, the story went, was closeted with his own chief military men, organizing a strategy to recover the Western Empire, remove Ioen from subversive influences, and very possibly bring the secessionist provinces back into the Imperial sphere of influence— although this last was scoffed at rather, for Etzel himself had let it be known that if places like Vreijaur and Jouvann were unwilling to remain a part of the Empire, then he would be unwilling to invite them back when they discovered the error of their ways. Although the man really should have taken the time to listen when that company of solid wide-waisted worthies had brought their petition to the citadel, or at the very least come out to receive it with his own hand rather than sending a lackey of no matter how high a rank. To be busy was one thing, and quite understandable; to be discourteous was another thing entirely.

  That was what had sparked the riots, more than the prices or the scarcities or the rumor-mongers: the notion, seized on by people of the lower sort, that if they were to gain any satisfaction they would have to find it themselves. Reasonable requests had turned swiftly to demands, then threats, and before anyone with authority to stop it could do anything the stones began to fly. Market stalls were torn down and torn apart, the traders who owned them were pelted with broken fragments and with their own expensive produce—as much of it as re-mained after the looters were done with it—and though no injuries more serious than black eyes and bloody noses had so far been reported, it was only a matter of time before Authority reacted and someone was killed. At least, someone among those who were still capable of dying…

  "Giorl, please—none of that matters now. Just do something…" The Grand Warlord of the Drusalan Empire lay on his back and panted like a dog with the effort of uttering coherent speech rather than the wordless whimpering which was all his mouth could usually form during these sessions. The woman he addressed— or more properly, pleaded with—paid him small heed and continued her gentle probing of his wounds. If her hands were gentle, the expression on her face was not.

  "I'm doing it, damn you! But I still want to know what bloody horse-doctor put these bloody stitches in." The voice was angry, yet curiously dispassionate, that of a skilled artist outraged by needlessly sloppy work. "And why they rotted out before the wounds healed. Because I have to find the fragments, good my lord, before you start to rot as well. Another. And this one needs to be cut free, too. Here. Swallow this; all of it." The stuff in the cup was a liquid mingling of sweet and bitter, she knew, and knew how hard it was to choke the fluid down, and how long she had to wait before it took effect. Not long, that much was certain. "Schü'ajn nahr kagh-hui dah

  Her words became a soft monotone of curses in half-a-dozen languages as she selected something small and glittering from the flat metal case beside her. Voord braced himself, trying to blot out what was about to happen by staring at
her clean white browband and the locks of red hair that feathered over it. He had always found Giorl attractive—the attraction of the unattainable since, being married and that unusual thing, faithfully so, she had invariably rejected his advances with more or less good humor—and never more so than when he watched her work. Perhaps because he had never been the subject of that work. Even today, filled with pain and soporific drugs, the sight of her preparations and the first chill touch of an instrument had brought immediate, blatant arousal. That drained away perhaps three seconds later when, despite the soporifics, he began to scream.

  Giorl Derawn knew that she was many things to many people: a good wife with a good husband, rare enough these days; a good mother to her daughters and to the third child on the way which she hoped would be a son; a good—indeed indispensable—servant of the Grand Warlord whoever he, she or it might be; and never mind the good, she was the best cutting-surgeon in the city of Drakkesborg.

  She had often wondered why. Most surgeons were men, nowadays, and the old freedoms for working women were being eroded by the military society in the Eastern Empire, but nobody had ever dared to question her skill. Maybe it was her ever-increasing knowledge of anatomy, or her ability to distance herself from the work in hand whatever that work might be—to filter out the reactions and the noises and see only the area of flesh on which she worked—or her lack of emotional concern about the pain involved. It was a part of what she did, that was all, and her customary response to questions, arguments and pleas was simply to remember and invoke what giving birth was like.