Korwane introduced them to the other two knights. Krom remembered Balvador, but Valeron he’d never met before. Looks like his father though.
Three clay cups arrived at a wave from Korwane, but Krom saw the smile disappear from Patrick’s face as soon as he looked inside. ‘Wine?’ the Vrondi knight exploded. ‘I came all this way and you can’t get me a proper drink? What kind of bloody war is this?’
‘Should have got here sooner,’ Balvador said. ‘We drank the last of the ale last night.’
Patrick hung his head. ‘Is there any left in the city?’
Krom elbowed him. ‘Enough.’ He looked at the three men seated in front of him. ‘We’re missing half an army.’
‘It’s complicated,’ Korwane said.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Krom said. ‘The Gurdal are coming and there’s not enough men to stop them. Did nobody tell the Meracians?’
‘They seem to be having some problems.’
Krom leaned forward, the weight of his arms eliciting a dangerous groan from the table. ‘They’ll have a bigger problem if they don’t send more men.’
‘It does seem fairly simple,’ Sir Patrick added. ‘What’s the problem?’
Krom swore as Korwane explained the schism among Meracian lords. ‘So we’re on our own?’
‘The last knights to arrive from High Mera said the king’s trying to bring the lords to heel. The vote was due to take place this morning.’ Korwane shrugged. ‘We have to hope the king won and will send more men.’
Krom thumped the table, ignoring the crack of breaking wood. ‘How could you let this happen?’ he roared.
‘Peace,’ Patrick urged, grabbing Krom’s shoulder. ‘How could we know?’
Krom fought the urge to punch his friend. ‘It’s the home of the Reve,’ he ground out through his teeth, ‘how could we not know?’
‘Meracia has a funny way of doing things,’ Korwane said diplomatically, ‘but even we couldn’t imagine them arguing over whether to defend their own borders. The lords are always embroiled in some power play; we’ll probably find the army arrives tomorrow and it was all a bid for some group of lords to gain favour over some other group.’
Krom glared at him as he felt Patrick’s grip tighten, trying to hold him on his seat. ‘Have you lost your wits, man, or are you really that simple?’
‘It is possible,’ Balvador said. He held up his hands as Krom gave him a pitying look. ‘Not likely, I admit, but it’s possible.’
What happened to them? Krom wondered. He knew the Truth, he’d read the book long ago and never forgotten the words within, never forgotten the steel within the men who had told the world an unforgivable lie to save its people. Not the smartest men, the first Seven – though they were wise enough to know it – but neither were they fools. He sighed; it was worse than he’d feared. Two hundred years of relative peace have left us soft.
He nodded to Patrick, and his friend finally removed his hand. Krom looked from Balvador to Valeron then finally settled on Korwane. ‘Do you really think it’s an accident?’ he asked quietly.
Korwane started. ‘What else could it be?’
Krom gave him a hard stare, and the knight had the decency to look ashamed as he realised. ‘Gurdal spies.’
‘They already tried for the Truth in Norve. The Reve should have known they’d try something, and you damn well should have done something when it looked like the Meracians’d turn.’
‘We are knights, Krom, not spies or assassins.’
‘Well, maybe we should be both.’
‘Why are we even listening to him?’ Valeron ran a hand through his immaculate blond hair. ‘He’s not one of us – since when did the Seven listen to the spawn of traitors?’
The room seemed to hold its breath, and Krom realised they were expecting him to hurl himself at Valeron. Maybe I would have, a few years ago. Sometimes his temper got the better of him – more often than he’d like to admit – but as Krom had got older he’d realised there were other ways to make your point. Smarter ways. A man soon learned that a blade in the dark got the job done just as well as an open fight, and usually better, without anyone trying to stop him.
‘Because,’ Balvador said in the tones of a man fast losing patience, ‘there’s no one here who knows more about war than Krom Kraven. When he’s not on the Reve’s business, it’s Krom and his men the Duke of Havak sends out to clear up King Harduk’s mess. So, little Lareon Valeron, the Seven will listen to a man who knows more about war than they do because,’ Balvador’s voice rose to deep roar, ‘we are not fucking stupid!’
Valeron sputtered as the normally placid Balvador’s face turned purple. ‘But… his ancestor…’
‘Is dead,’ Korwane finished, ‘just as your ancestor is dead, and mine, and all the others. Being one of the Seven is about using your head and doing what’s best for the Reve. Remember what Isallien told us when we lost sight of that? We’re supposed to be better than everyone else – we have to be better than everyone else.’
‘It’s not true anyway,’ Krom said as Valeron sulked over his cup of wine. ‘I doubt I’ve even been in more wars than you’ve had women.’
Valeron perked up. ‘No?’
‘No,’ Krom agreed. He smiled. ‘I heard you prefer boys.’
The knights roared with laughter as Valeron’s face coloured. Krom waited. A second passed as the laughter boomed through the inn, then Valeron launched himself up from his stool, drew back his fist, then promptly fell backwards as Balvador’s hairy knuckles hammered into the knight’s temple with a very pleasing thud.
Still moves fast for a big man, Krom thought as Balvador lowered himself back down, flexing his fingers. ‘I’d have happily done that,’ he said.
‘Pleasure,’ Balvador grinned. ‘Been wanting to do that for two weeks; you’ve only had a few minutes with him.’ They all looked down at the floor.
‘Looks like you’ve knocked him out,’ Korwane said.
‘Shame.’
‘Might be easier just to kill the fool,’ Patrick suggested.
‘I know,’ Korwane said, ‘but he’s still one of us. He might have no sense but have you seen him fight? We could use him on the field.’
Patrick nodded. ‘Say no more. Bad things happen at the end of battles.’
Krom peered over the lip of the table. ‘How long since he read the Truth?’
‘Half a year?’
‘Bit less, I think.’
Krom nodded. ‘Give the boy a chance. It’s a hard thing to bear.’ He looked at Korwane. ‘Isn’t it?’
He hid it well, but Krom could see he’d struck a nerve as Korwane stiffened.
‘Yes,’ the knight agreed, and Krom knew he was surely thinking of his younger brother stuck in Westreach. ‘Yes, it is. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.’
‘Annoying little shit though, isn’t he?’ Patrick said.
Balvador sighed. ‘You weren’t stuck on a ship with him.’ He reached over and emptied Valeron’s cup into his own. ‘So what are we going to do, Krom?’
‘How close are the Gurdal?’
‘We don’t know.’ The stool groaned as Balvador shifted his weight. ‘Last we heard it looked like they were closing in on Shade, but that was weeks ago.’
Things just keep getting better and better, Krom thought. ‘Who have we got down there?’
‘Benvedor, Vrillian, and Cilliador’s son – Catardor.’
‘Benvedor?’ Patrick pulled a face as he drank the rest of his wine. ‘He’s the better-looking brother?’
‘They’re twins,’ Krom told him, not quite able to hide the smile.
‘You’re sure? Benvedor’s the one from Stamwell Gap, right?’
‘No, that was Brounhalk.’ Krom let the smile fade and turned to the others. ‘If Meracia does send more men, there’s no guarantee they’ll get here in time. We need a fast march south, house-to-house fighting in each city. We fall back step by step and buy the fools enough time to send more men.’
�
�It might work,’ Korwane said, ‘but getting the Meracians to come with us could be… difficult.’
‘Aye, I saw the camp outside. Which idiot’s in charge?’
‘Convin arrived three days ago.’
Krom frowned; that didn’t sound like the general who had held a mountain pass in Karalvia with a thousand men against five times that number. ‘So why hasn’t he organised the Meracians?’
‘Ah. There’s a slight problem with the general.’
Krom cracked his knuckles. Is anything going to go right in this bloody war?
3.
They were all waiting in the Ninety-Third Passage. Tol followed Stetch through the door, rubbing his neck and still wondering how close Katarina’s bodyguard had been to killing him. He had assumed that Stetch had led him back to the inn to collect his things, but the lack of surprise on Stetch’s face as he saw the assembled crowd was enough to convince Tol that Stetch had expected his Sworn brothers to be waiting.
Tol followed him across to the back of the inn. Spread around three tables waited the survivors of last night: Suranna and the nuns on the left, the bulging, bruised face of Victoria on the right table with one of the Sworn from the council chambers sitting between her and the rest of the group, almost like he was sheltering Katarina’s sister from their influence. Holding court at the centre table sat Kartane, still in the same bloody clothes as the night before and presiding over a modest audience of empty glasses. Next to him sat another knight, his tabard perfect white, unstained by battle or travel.
All eyes turned towards the pair as the door creaked shut behind them. Victoria was the first to react, bouncing out of her chair and practically leaping across the floor to meet them, her Sworn companion only two paces behind.
Tol came to a stop beside Stetch as Victoria stuttered to a halt a few feet in front of them.
‘Stetch?’
He gave a brief shake of his head, reaching forward to put a hand on Victoria’s shoulder. ‘I’ll get her back,’ Stetch promised quietly. Tol thought it was the most human gesture the man had ever made.
Sensing Tol watching him, Stetch glared at him. ‘Ten minutes,’ he grunted. ‘Be late,’ he added, challenging Tol to test his patience.
Tol nodded, and left the trio, heading over to the others. He could feel Suranna and Rachel watching him, dying to ask him what had happened. They looked so hopeful Tol had to look away. Kartane just nodded once and kicked out a chair.
‘Bad few days,’ he said as Tol flopped onto the vacant seat.
‘Yeah.’
Kartane nudged a half-empty glass across the table. ‘Look like you need it,’ he offered with a shrug as Tol stared open-mouthed.
‘Thanks.’
‘She dead?’
‘No,’ Tol said, the silence around him thick as winter fog. ‘Calderon has her.’ He picked up the glass and stared at the murky liquid. ‘We got to the docks too late; missed their boat by minutes.’
‘Ship,’ the other knight corrected absently. Tol ignored him.
‘The Sworn’ll get her back,’ Kartane said. ‘If anyone can do it, my money’s on Chatty.’ He gestured to the Sudalrese trio still standing in the middle of the room behind Tol. ‘By the looks of it, he’s planning just that.’
‘Yes.’ Tol took a deep breath and raised his head. ‘I’m going too.’
‘You will do no—’ The other knight fell silent as Kartane punched him hard on the shoulder.
‘Which way did the ship go?’ Kartane asked.
Tol thought for a moment. ‘East.’
‘And where do you think Calderon’s going?’
Tol hesitated a moment; it wasn’t something he had considered. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
The other knight was shaking his head, drumming his fingers on the table and looking at Tol like he needed kicking in the head. Tol felt an overwhelming urge to get in the first strike.
‘I guess, under the circumstances,’ Kartane said, ‘I can understand why you ignored my advice on thinking—’ he studiously ignored the snort of disbelief from the knight next to him ‘—but there’s only two places for him to go: Siadendre or Obsidian.’ Kartane softened the news with a crooked smile. ‘Might be getting a little bit busy round those parts soon.’
The knight next to him sighed quietly. ‘Your brother was right,’ he said, carefully stroking his perfect moustache, ‘you’re a hard man to like, Kartane.’
‘This,’ Kartane said with a jerk of his head towards the man, ‘is Isallien.’ He said it like it was somehow important but Tol just looked at him blankly.
‘His father was Istador.’
I know that name…
Kartane gestured to the sky. ‘He took over from his father.’
Tol had never met the man, but he remembered the name: Istador, one of the names given to him by the Mother of St. Helena. ‘One of…?’
‘Yes,’ Kartane answered with the patience of a drunkard. ‘One of them.’
Tol studied the knight carefully. He was young, probably only a few years older than Tol. Meracian, clearly: the spotless tabard, fastidiously tailored clothes underneath, perfectly arranged hair (oiled to the point of danger near a naked flame), and the none-too-subtle aroma a man might encounter in an expensive brothel left no doubt in Tol’s mind. He eyed the man carefully, making a conscious effort to keep his palms on the table. So this is one of the Seven. ‘Still deciding whether to kill me?’ he asked.
‘You told him?’ Isallien asked Kartane.
‘He was going to ask the Reve for help with the demon,’ Kartane shrugged, utterly indifferent to the displeasure on Isallien’s face. ‘I had to explain why he couldn’t.’
Isallien sagged in his chair. ‘I would have listened,’ he said. ‘Perhaps not the others, but I would have listened.’ He turned to Tol. ‘It was an unfortunate set of circumstances which led us to consider your future, and we did not have all the information else…’ Isallien waved away the possibilities. ‘So, too, is the problem with the Black Duke’s daughter. The Sudalrese will tend to their own, and you can do little to help, Kraven. You must go to Galantrium where you can make a difference. The Reve needs you to call the angel when the Gurdal come; we simply cannot risk losing you over a girl.’
Tol saw the miniscule shake of Kartane’s head a second before he launched himself out of his chair. He forced himself to relax and put his hands back on the table. How good is he? Tol couldn’t help but wonder; Kartane had actually looked genuinely concerned.
‘Idiot!’
Tol turned. Stetch held up the fingers of one hand. Five minutes. He twisted back round to face Isallien, the Meracian’s face unreadable.
‘I don’t have time to get into an argument with you,’ Tol said. ‘So I’m going to go and rescue my friend, and when that’s done I’ll come find the Reve. If you try and stop me then I swear I’ll never call the angel and we’ll see how that works out for you.’
Isallien looked aghast. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Sure he would,’ Kartane said.
‘You are not the only one who has read the Truth.’
‘No,’ said Tol, ‘but I’m betting I’m the only one who remembers her full name.’ He slid his chair back and stood, Isallien watching him all the way.
‘I have to believe the angel will return,’ Isallien said quietly. ‘I am sorry, Tol, truly I am, but I cannot let you leave – the risk is too great.’
There was a gentle tap as Kartane’s dagger appeared on the table next to the empty mugs. ‘Seems to me,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘that Kraven’s saved the Reve twice now, and all you’ve done is debate whether to kill him. I reckon you owe the lad, so if he wants to go rescue a prickly Sudalrese Pit hound then I reckon we ought to let him.’
Isallien glanced at the dagger. ‘There’s too much at stake.’
‘There’s more truth than what’s written in that book,’ Kartane said quietly. ‘Truth enough to break the Reve, you ask me.’
Tol started in surprise.
It was pure chance that brought Kalashadria to me. That, he realised, was what Kartane was talking about: if not for hearing Galandor’s full name from Tol’s lips they would be facing the demons alone while she watched from within Alimarcus’ battered shell. Maybe it was what Galandor had intended all along – to lure his successor using curiosity – but Tol knew that enough knights would believe the angels had abandoned them that the Reve might fall apart. The Reve can never know. Kartane had been right about that.
Isallien steepled his fingers and peered over the top. ‘I know how much your word is worth.’
Tol winced, and it felt like the whole room held its breath.
Kartane was still a moment. ‘True enough,’ he said, his voice so steady and calm that Tol was sure the man was anything but calm on the inside. This isn’t going to end well, he thought.
‘What we didn’t tell the lords,’ Kartane continued in perfect, worryingly neutral voice, ‘is what else we found out there. The demons took our angel, and Kraven got her back.’ He reached forward, hand hovering over the table. Not the knife, Tol prayed.
Kartane snagged the mug he had put in front of Tol and drained it in one go. ‘Those things really know torture,’ he said quietly. ‘Make the Gurdal seem like children.’ He peered into the mug but there were no answers there. ‘You want to know your chances of getting the angel’s help without Kraven, go take a look in the hunting lodge east of Drayken’s manor.’ He looked up from the mug and Tol saw the echo of horror written on Kartane’s face. Isallien couldn’t help but notice it too, the Meracian knight’s face paling as he recognised the truth of Kartane’s words.
‘Aye,’ Kartane said gravely, ‘now you understand.’ He looked to Tol and jerked his head towards the stairs. ‘Go get your things, lad. Chatty’s looking antsy.’
Tol hesitated. ‘You’re sure?’
Kartane grinned and leaned back in his chair. ‘Go. Isallien and I are going to have a little chat. Don’t worry,’ he added when he saw the alarm on Tol’s face, ‘I’ll keep it civil.’
Tol made it two steps before he realised what was missing. ‘Where are the nuns?’
‘Left a moment ago,’ Kartane shrugged. ‘Guess they weren’t keen on another adventure.’
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