by Alex Stewart
“He’ll come round eventually,” Ariella said, with a blithe optimism Drago found surprisingly endearing. “Everybody will.”
“Let’s hope so,” Graymane said, in tones which betrayed just how unlikely he found the prospect.
“If the ambushers were waiting for you,” Drago said, “they must have been sent before you set out. Did you leave right after the ceremony?”
Ariella shook her head. “There were still a few things to deal with. It was an hour or more before we were ready.”
“Then anyone who knew could have sent them,” Graymane concluded.
“No. Not anyone.” A picture was starting to come together in Drago’s head. “It had to have been an elf. One who knew about the marriage in advance.”
“He’s right.” Graymane was nodding in agreement. “And someone who had the chance to talk to Lamiel. I’ve met him, remember, and the ballads are right; he’s got no stomach for ruling, and turns every decision apart from what to order for dinner over to his ministers. Whoever it was must have accompanied you to Sylvandale, and convinced him to back their plan. Probably by promising him that with you gone, and Gorash out of the picture, all the gold would be his.”
“That sounds like Lamiel,” Ariella conceded. “He’s always put his personal appetites ahead of the good of the kingdom.”
“Then that narrows it down,” Drago said. “Who went back to Sylvandale with you who knew about your plans, and had enough status to get an audience with the prince?”
Ariella and Gorash exchanged glances, and Drago wasn’t in the least surprised by either of the names they uttered.
“The question is,” Graymane said, after a short silence, “what you’re intending to do about it.” He waved a dismissive arm at the tent flap. “I’ve seen your army, and it’s nowhere near ready to take back the Marches. You’re only holding on to the Barrens because Oaktwig’s feeding you enough information to outflank any attempt to wrinkle you out, and his soldiers’ morale is so low they’re not even trying anymore.”
“I’ve already told you,” Ariella said, a faintly icy tone creeping into her voice, “that’s why we’re playing the long game, building our strength up gradually.”
“So gradually you’ll have died of old age before they’re ready to launch a counter coup,” Graymane said. “And in the meantime, Lamiel’s assassins will just keep coming.”
“Yes, about that.” Gorash regarded him thoughtfully. “Just how worried do I have to be about this oath of yours?”
“You don’t.” Graymane shook his head emphatically. “I swore to avenge the queen’s death by killing you. As she isn’t dead, there’s no oath to fulfill.”
“And I’ve got what I came for,” Drago reminded him. As he spoke, he suddenly realized that it was all over. He could return home at once, and resume his life in Fairhaven, secure in the knowledge that only the usual lowlifes were trying to stab him in the back. The thought was oddly anticlimactic.
“How very reassuring.” Gorash sounded anything but. He turned back to Graymane. “If our plans are so flawed, what would you suggest as an alternative?”
Graymane shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. But I’ve been in wars before, and judging by what I’ve seen sneaking into your camp, you don’t have the resources to win one. You’ve barely got enough to lose properly, instead of being massacred.”
“Thank you. Most helpful.” Ariella’s tone effectively inverted the meaning of both phrases.
Drago hesitated. Common sense dictated, most emphatically, that he should walk out of the tent right now, and not stop until he reached the banks of the Geltwash somewhere within hailing distance of a boat heading downstream.
So it was with some surprise, not unmixed with resignation, that he heard his own voice say “I think I might have an idea.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Not as such.”
Dawn was breaking as Drago and Graymane made their way carefully down the path clinging to the cliff face, the quarry opening out beneath them in the soft gray light like a wound in the earth. No one seemed to be abroad yet; the only signs of life Drago could see were the bored and immobile sentries huddled around the doorways of the smelting and alchemical plants, and faint wisps of smoke rising from the campfires on the opposite cliff top.
Graymane shook his head ruefully. “If I could have seen where I was going last night, I would just have let you get on with it. I could have broken my neck scrambling up here.”
“And saved Gorash a job,” Drago joked, not entirely sure how serious the elf was.
“Not to mention the tentmaker who’s having to sew up the rip you cut in the back of my home,” Ariella put in, a little testily. She was following the others a pace or two behind, placing each foot carefully, even more uneasy about the precipitous drop than Graymane appeared to be; partly, Drago suspected, because the weight of the bulging satchel slung from one shoulder was affecting her balance. The hood of her cape was drawn up against the dawn chill, and whenever he glanced back, Drago found the face framed by it impossible to focus on, the image skittering from his eyes like a spun pebble bouncing from the water, leaving only a vague impression of unremarkable blandness. The queen and her husband had amassed quite a collection of spells, it seemed, finding them useful in their campaigns of guerilla warfare and espionage, and this one was supposed to obscure appearances in a slightly more subtle fashion than the shadow-weaving charms Quickfart had supplied to their agents in Fairhaven. Sometimes, it seemed, they couldn’t wait until dark to embark on some piece of skullduggery.
“Sorry about that,” Graymane said, with patent insincerity. “But it seemed like a good idea at the time, and the longer I was out in the open, the more likely it was that someone would spot me.”
“I’m surprised the ones who caught me didn’t notice you following them back,” Drago said.
Graymane shook his head again, with evident amusement. “Believe me, you had their undivided attention. If they hadn’t been making so much noise about it I’d just have taken out Oaktwig when he headed back, instead of hiding while he went by and going to see what was happening to you.”
“I suppose I ought to feel flattered,” Drago said, though in truth he felt anything but. Not for the first time, he was beginning to wonder if he’d made the right decision: he could have been on his way back to the river by now, instead of getting sucked even deeper into the quagmire of deception and duplicity in which he found himself. But he’d been lied to from the beginning of this affair, forced further out of his comfort zone than he’d ever believed possible, and his life endangered by the machinations of people to whom he and others like him were nothing more than convenient tools, to be used and discarded as it suited them. Before he went home, he intended to take control, show them in no uncertain terms that Drago Appleroot was nobody’s catspaw. He turned back, addressing Ariella. “Are you sure about this? You’re taking an enormous risk.”
“No bigger than you are,” she responded, in tones that made it clear that further discussion would not be welcome.
Drago shrugged. It had been his idea, after all, and no one had come up with a better one. Greenleaf was bound to have forwarded reports from Fairhaven, detailing his activities and the expenses incurred therein, but he didn’t suppose Stargleam had read them with any attention. At least he hoped not; their lives depended on it.
They reached the floor of the quarry without incident, though Drago had to scramble a bit more than the elves on the final drop from the end of the path, and began to pick their way through the scattering of detritus toward the ramps leading up to the garrison and the gnomish burrow nestling beneath it. As Drago had expected, a trio of people making their way across so wide an open space was hard to miss, and he began to notice figures on the cliff top glancing down at them with evident curiosity. A couple of armed and armored elves seemed to have taken up a station at the top of the ramp, observing their approach with more than casual interest. That was good: if someone in au
thority had placed sentries there to intercept them it would move things on nicely.
More gnomes were abroad now too, the first few to leave the burrow heading down the slope toward the mines. All of them gave Drago and his companions a curious glance as they passed in the opposite direction, but none spoke, intent on their own concerns. Until they were passing the burrows themselves, and a gnomish voice hailed them.
“Drago!” Clovis called out. Drago turned and saw his friend waving at him from the entrance to the main tunnel, the day’s docky hanging from his other hand. “What’s going on?”
“You’re not usually up this early,” Della agreed, appearing at Clovis’s shoulder with a puzzled frown. “Is something wrong?”
“Where have you been?” Clovis added. “I went to get you up this morning, and your bed hadn’t been slept in. We were getting worried.”
“It’s a long story,” Drago said, with a quick glance at Ariella and Graymane, who clearly didn’t have the patience for a full account. “The short version is, I’m a bounty hunter from Fairhaven, and last night I went out to take a crack at Gorash.”
“You could have been killed!” Della said, looking gratifyingly horrified at the prospect.
“I nearly was. Luckily she’d got there first,” Drago said, jerking a thumb at Ariella. “Caris Silverthorn. We’re in the same line of work back home.”
Clovis, Della, and a handful of openly eavesdropping gnomes glanced briefly at the queen, then back to Drago, who they clearly felt was of far greater interest. The glamor she’d invoked was evidently holding, although most of them probably wouldn’t have recognized her if her own face was still visible anyway; the real test would come in a few minutes time, when they were talking to elves, some of whom had met Ariella before.
“You mean she killed Gorash?” Della asked, edging away from the elven woman a little despite her incredulous tone.
“As dead as the queen,” Graymane said, with a straight face, and Drago nodded.
“Saw it myself,” he agreed. The gathering miners looked at one another, then at Drago, still trying to take in the sudden transformation from rookie co-worker to hard-bitten gnome of action.
Clovis coughed, a little awkwardly. “Well,” he said, “I’m sure you’ve got lots to do. And so do we. See you later. Probably.”
“Yes. See you,” Della said, turning away with a faintly forced air of casualness and a dismissive wave, which made it more than evident that she didn’t really expect to do so.
“Count on it,” Drago said, with equal sincerity, and a pang of regret which quite surprised him. He hadn’t given his new friends so much as a passing thought when the idea of being able to go home had occurred to him a short while before, but now he’d seen them again he felt oddly reluctant to leave them. Della particularly. His profession didn’t lend itself to lasting friendships so much as alliances of convenience with people whose company occasionally turned out to be enjoyable, as a kind of bonus, and the short time he’d spent here had given him a glimpse of a different way of interacting with people which had come as a pleasant change.
But then miners seldom had to worry about someone trying to kill them . . .
“You!” Ariella’s voice brought him back to the present, and the realization that he was still a long way from being safe. She waved a peremptory hand, attracting the attention of the guards waiting at the top of the ramp. “Where’s the commander of this pathetic excuse for an army?”
“You need to watch your mouth, girly.” The tallest and most burly of the guards clearly didn’t appreciate being addressed like that, particularly by a civilian, and even more particularly in front of an ever-growing throng of work-bound gnomes. “Or someone’ll have to shut it for you.”
“It’s been tried,” Ariella assured him, her hand drifting to the hilt of her sword. “But what do you know, I’m still talking.” She began to walk up the slope toward the guard, and Drago felt his own hand drifting toward his weapon as he followed her. Graymane, too, was looking a little uneasy, and picked up his pace to walk beside her; recognizing him, the guard’s demeanor became noticeably less challenging. He sketched an awkward salute.
“Begging your pardon, sir. I didn’t realize she was with you.”
“She isn’t,” Ariella snapped, “he’s with me. Take us to your boss.”
The guard looked at Graymane, who nodded a brusque confirmation.
“That’s more or less the case. Tell Oaktwig we need to see him now. This won’t wait.”
“Of course.” The guard glanced from elf to elf, clearly trying to work out which one he should be most wary of. Graymane he already knew wasn’t to be trifled with, and although Ariella was an unknown quantity, the fact that she obviously had Graymane’s tacit support was inclining him toward caution. Drago, to his complete lack of surprise, wasn’t even registering as a potential threat. “This way.” He turned, and began to lead the way into the heart of the encampment.
Ariella shifted the unwieldy bulk of the bulging satchel slung across her shoulder to a more comfortable position, and began to follow, Drago and Graymane falling in beside her. She nodded, in curt satisfaction. “That went well,” she said.
“Can’t this wait?” Oaktwig asked testily, as Ariella swept past the guard guiding them and into his office, a sparsely furnished room in a hut barely distinguishable to Drago’s eyes from any of the ones surrounding it. He looked up at Graymane, who had entered hard on the queen’s heels, and scowled, playing the part of the querulous and obstructive bureaucrat once more. “I have a great deal of work to get on with.” Once again, Drago was not surprised to be entirely ignored.
“No, it can’t,” Graymane said, and Oaktwig laid his pen aside with a theatrically long-suffering sigh. “We’ve news of the bandit Gorash.”
“There’s always news of Gorash,” Oaktwig said tolerantly, “and if you believe half of it you’ll be chasing your own tail interminably. What’s he supposed to have done now?”
“Died,” Ariella said, dropping her satchel onto the commander’s desk with an ominous thud.
Oaktwig glanced up at her curiously, and Drago tensed; but the glamor held, and the elf returned his gaze to Graymane almost at once. “And who’s this, may I ask?”
“Caris Silverthorn,” Graymane replied smoothly, with a cursory introductory wave. Apparently struck by an afterthought, he indicated Drago too. “And Drago Appleroot. They’re bounty hunters from Fairhaven. The king’s agents there hired them.”
“Did he, indeed?” Oaktwig looked as affronted as he was supposed to. “Then why wasn’t I informed?”
“Probably for the same reason I wasn’t,” Graymane replied, with a fair semblance of impatience. “His Majesty didn’t think we needed to know.”
Oaktwig nodded, pretending to accept that as readily as any mid-level functionary as unimaginative as he was trying to appear would. Now that he’d seen the mask slip, though, Drago could see the elf’s mind racing behind the bland facade he was working to present; wondering if his connection to the rebels was known or suspected, whether the news of Gorash’s death was genuine, and, most important of all, whether the queen was safe. “Quite so,” he said blandly. “Bound to have had his reasons. Probably thought we’d just get in the way.” He glanced at Drago. “So you’re not a tunnel rat after all, then?”
“Not much of one,” Drago agreed. “But it gave me a chance to keep my ears open. And my eyes.” He smiled, in a manner he hoped would be vaguely disquieting. “Which can see in the dark, remember. Well enough to have spotted someone climbing the other side of the quarry last night.”
“Really?” Oaktwig raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Did you challenge them?”
“There wouldn’t have been much point,” Drago said. “By the time I got there, they’d disappeared. But I got close enough to where I’d seen them to find a pathway up the cliff, leading into the woods.”
“Did you indeed?” Oaktwig injected just the right tone of faintly bored skeptici
sm into his voice. “And that’s where you met your confederate?” He nodded at Ariella. “Miss . . . Silverthorn, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” Ariella agreed untruthfully, “but we weren’t working together. I left Fairhaven about a week before Drago was even hired, and hiked overland to the Barrens from Birch Glade. I’d been watching the bandits’ camp for three nights, waiting for a chance to sneak in and scratch Gorash, but their sentries were too good to risk it. Then I got lucky.” She nodded in Drago’s direction.
“I got jumped by a band of goblins in the wood,” Drago explained, keeping it simple, “and they dragged me off to their camp. Probably wanted to ask a few questions before they killed me.”
“Which made the perfect diversion for me,” Ariella said. “I just had to sneak in while the perimeter guards were distracted. I knew where Gorash was sleeping, so I cut a hole in the back of his tent and slit his throat before he even woke up.”
“An interesting story,” Oaktwig conceded, “but scarcely believable.” He looked at Drago quizzically. “The bandits just let you go, did they?”
“Not as such,” Drago told him, “but as soon as Gorash was found dead, they rather lost interest in me. Started turning the camp upside down looking for the assassin. Just left a couple of guards to keep me from making a run for it.”
“Big mistake,” Ariella said, nodding judiciously. “I thought I owed him something for giving me the chance to collect the bounty, so I took them out for him on my way back to the woods.”
“You took one of them out,” Drago said, nettled at the implied slur on his professional competence, despite the fact that the story was a complete fabrication. “I got the other two.”
