“Not necessarily.” Colborn’s face scrunched into a pensive frown, and he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Might be Rangvaldr will have better luck with them, especially among the Eyrr.” He shot a glance at the sleeping Seiomenn. “Maybe tomorrow, after he’s had a few hours’ rest.”
Aravon nodded. “I’ll talk to him, see if he’s up for it.” It was a risk; if it became common knowledge that a Seiomenn of the Eyrr—especially one as well-known as Rangvaldr seemed to be—was in Icespire, it could put the secrecy of their operation in jeopardy. Granted, it would take some serious mental agility to connect Rangvaldr to the mask-wearing Grim Reavers. Yet, if someone—the wrong someone—could somehow make that connection, it might not be worth taking that chance. “Did you come up with anything on Lord Virinus? Anything that could even hint that he was working with the Eirdkilrs or betraying the Prince?”
Again, Colborn shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, the old nobleman’s definitely not beloved of the people. Just saying his name nearly got me kicked out of not just one Fehlan mjodholl, but three. He’s often the one driving to clear up the Outwards, and his gold and political power forces the Prince’s hand in his favor more than anyone in the Princelands would like.” A grimace twisted his lips upward. “But being an utter bastard isn’t quite the same as being a traitor.”
Aravon stifled a growled curse. Empty-handed, again. Everything he’d found—even the letters at Steinnbraka Delve—could only hint at Lord Virinus’ involvement with the Shalandran mining operation. He had no more than his suspicions and guesswork to implicate the nobleman in a conspiracy with the Eirdkilrs.
“Then it’s time we come at this from another angle.” Aravon let out a sigh and ran a hand through his too-long hair. “We’ve got to start looking at the only other piece of evidence that we haven’t considered.”
Colborn cocked his head. “The Royal Seal?”
The question caught Aravon off-guard. Memories of the night after leaving Steinnbraka Delve flashed through his mind. They had found the Prince’s seal on the messages between Lord Aleron Virinus and the Shalandrans. He winced. How did I forget about that? One more ball he was letting drop.
He stifled a groan. “Yes, that, too.” He reached into the Duke’s pouch and drew out the wax seal. “But I was thinking about this.”
“Ahh, the carbuncle.” Colborn nodded understanding. “That mysterious insignia that no one seems to recognize.”
“The very same.” Aravon frowned down at the wax seal. “It can’t be a coincidence that it turns up in three places—beside the Duke’s murdered agent at Rivergate, in Otton’s purse, and on the letters to Lord Morshan. This is the one thing that connects all those pieces together. A tentative link, at best, but considering what we’ve got to go on…” He trailed off with a grimace.
“As good a plan of attack as any.” Colborn held out a hand, and Aravon passed him the seal. He stared down at the wax bearing the imprint of the eight-rod carbuncle. After a moment, he snorted and shook his head.
“What?” Aravon asked.
Colborn fixed him with a wry grin. “Two months ago, if you’d have told me that I’d be in Icespire digging into Princelander politics, I’d have laughed you off for a madman.” An incredulous look flashed across his face. “Then again, if you’d have told me that we’d do half the insane things we’ve pulled off in the last two months, I’d have handed you over to the Illusionist Clerics for a barking lunatic.”
Aravon smiled. “Not the sort of thing most Legion Captains or Lieutenants end up doing, is it?”
Colborn shook his head. “Work like this is best left up to men like Lord Eidan or the Duke.” His heavy brow furrowed, pulling his thick hairline down toward his bushy eyebrows. “Speaking of which, you think it might be time to get him involved?”
“Lord Eidan?” Again, Aravon frowned in thought. “I considered it, but given everything that’s happened…”
Colborn raised an eyebrow. “You thinking of still playing it close to the breastplate?”
“Until we’ve got something real, something tangible that Lord Eidan can take to the Prince, I think we’re better off doing this on our own.” Aravon let out a long breath. “At least for a few more days, until we can’t ignore Lord Eidan’s message any longer without arousing suspicion.”
It wouldn’t be the first time days had passed without messages passing between them. They had been locked in combat with the enemy or too busy sneaking through hostile territory to risk sending Snarl off needlessly. But the longer he delayed responding to Lord Eidan’s request for their location and current mission, the higher the chance their secrecy backfired and aroused the spymaster’s suspicion when they finally revealed their presence in Icespire. And, with Duke Dyrund dead, Lord Eidan was their only link to the Prince. The only one who knew the truth of their existence.
“What about for this?” Colborn held up the wax seal. “Didn’t the Duke put him in charge of looking into the matter of this insignia?”
Aravon inclined his head. “You’re right.” With the Prince’s might and his position as a nobleman of the Princelands, Lord Eidan was far better-suited to dig into the matter than them, which was why Duke Dyrund had handed the task off to the spymaster. But keeping their presence in Icespire a complete secret was a priority…for now. “Here’s what we do: dig around for a day or so, hit up local scribes and heralds, and see if you can find out anything about that seal. If you come up empty-handed, then we break our silence and send Snarl to Lord Eidan. No risk of our being discovered, not until we’re desperate or hitting all dead ends.”
Colborn inclined his head. “Sounds fair. I’ll start at first light.” He half-turned to go, but paused, hand hovering over the door latch. When he glanced back at Aravon, his expression had grown pensive. “Anything else you want me to dig into while I’m out and about?”
Aravon narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”
Colborn’s lips twitched downward. “At Lord Virinus’ mansion, that was her, wasn’t it?” He fixed Aravon with a piercing gaze, heavy with meaning. “Mylena.”
The mention of his wife sent a chill down Aravon’s spine. He’d almost managed to forget the pain of seeing her, of being so close he could reach out and touch her, only to turn away—all for the sake of the mission. The memory of her face—olive-green eyes rimmed with kohl, chestnut hair pulled into oiled braids that made her heart-shaped features all the more beautiful—drove that dagger of sorrow and pain a little bit deeper in his gut. After a long moment, he nodded.
“Any idea why?” Colborn asked.
Aravon thought for a long moment before shaking his head. “She’s never been one to attend such celebrations. Neither of us were.”
“That’s what I thought, given what you’ve told me of her.” Colborn’s face revealed nothing, but a gleam of curiosity—or was it suspicion?—flickered in his ice-blue eyes. “I figured you might want to know what she was doing there. If it were me…” He trailed off with a little shrug.
The Lieutenant was right. Aravon could think of no reason why Mylena had been present at Lord Virinus’ mansion, so soon after the grand spectacle of her father-in-law’s funeral. He, too, wanted to know what had brought her there.
“Yes,” he finally said. “Find out, if you can.”
“Of course, Captain.” Colborn nodded, his expression inscrutable, and pulled open the door to their room. A moment later, the latch clicked shut behind the departing Lieutenant.
Swordsman’s teeth! He’d been back in Icespire for less than two days, and already the situation had grown mind-bogglingly complex. From political machinations and intrigue to hooded assassins that fought like demons, things seemed to be spiraling out of control. Aravon found himself wishing for the simplicity of a battlefield, of an enemy he could face and fight hand to hand, weapon to weapon. That was the fight he knew—the clash of steel, the screams and shouts, the thrust and parry of armies—not this dance of shadows, the warfare of polite smiles and clever
words. That battle was better left to men like Duke Dyrund, Lord Eidan, and the Prince.
Sighing, he turned back to his bed, only to find Rangvaldr stretched out across the little cot. Insisting that the Seiomenn take it easy had immediately backfired—now he had nowhere to go to rest.
But despite the exhaustion after the day’s exertions, Aravon had no desire to sleep. Not yet, at least. If he closed his eyes, he’d see the cold, lifeless faces of his father and Duke Dyrund. See their bodies lying side by side on their marble funeral biers. Hear the mournful funereal dirge, feel that overwhelming wave of misery, anguish, and loss. He could put off sleeping a while longer, if only to delay the inevitable truth.
His father was gone. The man he’d loved, admired, despised, resented, and tried all his life to impress…gone. That reality hurt too badly to face at the moment. He needed time to come to terms with what that meant for him—a life without the man that had been General Traighan.
The question of Mylena also plagued him, and it, too, would keep rest at bay. Why had she been at Lord Virinus’ mansion tonight? At that celebration—the nobleman’s way of turning the General’s and Duke Dyrund’s deaths into a platform upon which to jockey for power in Icespire. Too many questions with no answers. At least, none he could get in his current situation.
A part of him wanted to abandon his disguise, to march straight into Lord Virinus’ mansion and demand answers. To march into his house and take his wife into his arms, to once again see the sons he hadn’t laid eyes on in far too long. He could be done with the life of secrecy and return home. Just a few miles away from where he stood, his family waited for him.
Yet, as he strode down the stairs of the Wrinkled Pig and out the back entrance into the night, his steps led not west toward the Eastbridge and Azure Island, but northeast, toward the Shattered Shield. The tavern would offer him ale to soak his sorrows, and a place to listen in on whatever gossip floated around the city. At that moment, the hunt for information would offer a distraction from the aching in his heart.
The shadows of Portside seemed denser than usual, the glow of the Icespire somehow grown feeble, incapable of pushing back the deep darkness between the tall buildings. Light streamed from open doors and windows, accompanied by the sound of laughter, revelry, and the occasional hint of music. Even at the late hour, long after the Lady’s Bell rang out midnight, the bawdy houses and taverns of Icespire remained in full operation.
Aravon counted on that. Counted on Legionnaires, mercenaries, men of blood and battle, to thirst for drink that would help them forget the woes of their past and present, the anxieties of their future. Ale- and wine-loosened lips were far more likely to reveal information that would prove useful in his hunt for the traitor.
The lanterns burning outside the Shattered Shield illuminated a pair of drunken mercenaries slumped against the front wall, snoring loudly, a circle of pale yellow ale spilling from the tipped-over tankards clutched in their insensate fingers. The patrons within the tavern weren’t far better off—most of the men sitting on the mercenaries’ half of the taproom sprawled over tables, hung off benches, or sagged against the wall, so far into their cups they appeared ready to drown. The few Legionnaires drinking at their bar were solemn, silent. The hard-eyed men barely gave Aravon a second glance as he entered.
Aravon caught sight of a familiar bald head at the bar, though Emard’s dark, lean Voramian features were obscured by the huge tankard tipped up to his lips. Striding up to the bar, Aravon signaled to the tavernkeeper for a drink and slid onto the scuffed wooden stool beside the Eventide mercenary.
“Evening, Emard. Or should I say, morning?”
Emard finished his drink and, lowering his tankard, turned to face Aravon. “Ather, d’you hear about—” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing. “So you found work, eh? Almost a shame. We just got recruited for a big new job, and I figured Eventide could use a half-decent man like you. But I suppose the Steel Company’s not a bad company to join.”
The words caught Aravon off-guard, and for a moment, he had no idea what the man was talking about. Realization dawned with an icy chill and he glanced down at the Steel Company chain-and-plate mail he still wore.
“Oh, yeah.” His mind scrambled to concoct a convincing cover story to explain the armor. “Kind of a last-minute thing, them snapping me up.”
“Could be worse.” Emard shrugged and turned back to his tankard. “Then again, given the bloody hell they’ve been raising tonight, could be better.”
“What happened?” Aravon plastered on a confused and curious expression.
“What whore’s bed have you been hiding under?” Emard shot him an incredulous glance, surprise etched into his eyes. “You didn’t hear about the uproar on Azure Island? At the mansion of the bloody Lord Virinus himself!”
Aravon widened his eyes. “No.” Of course he knew—he’d been there, after all—but information tended to twist in often-interesting ways when passed around as rumor. “What happened?”
“The old nobleman’s nephew wound up dead.” Emard released his tankard and tapped two fingers against his leather breastplate. “Took a pair of crossbow bolts to the chest, from what I hear. Poisoned bolts, too.”
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up, curiosity flaring within him. “Poisoned?” That was one piece of information he hadn’t known.
“Aye.” Emard dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Something wicked and bloody painful, so goes the stories of those who heard his screams. And a poison no one this side of the Frozen Sea has ever seen. People are saying it’s the Keeper-damned Hunter of Voramis.”
Aravon’s forehead wrinkled in genuine confusion. “You say that name like it means something.”
“You don’t—?” Emard’s eyes flew wide. “Watcher’s balls, Ather, you really have spent too much time with your head up your own arse.” He shook his head. “Fiery hell, how can you not have heard of the Hunter?”
Aravon shrugged. “What’s to know?”
“A killer, the best of them, the sort who drives fear into even the Bloody Hand and King Gavian.” Emard’s brow furrowed, his eyes going dark. “No one knows who he is or even what he looks like, but the one thing that’s certain is that the bastard’s unstoppable when he’s got his sights set on a target. And bloody hard to kill! The fact he’s still alive after some of the shite he’s pulled is proof enough there’s something not right about him.”
Aravon could attest to that claim, at least. No one should have been able to walk away from the wounds the assassin had taken—Aravon’s sword had severed the artery in his neck, and Colborn’s thrust had to have hit his lungs, heart, or some other major organ. Yet, the assassin hadn’t just survived; he’d fought back, like some creature of nightmare. And, Aravon had to admit, come damned close to killing them all. Had they not faced him together…he shuddered at the thought of how the battle might have turned out.
“But if the Hunter’s in town, it means there’s bad business afoot.” Emard poured the last of his tankard’s contents down his throat and set it down with a shake of his head. “Bad, bad business.”
Aravon gestured for the tavernkeeper to bring the mercenary another drink. “What do you mean?”
“Way I hear it, the Hunter of Voramis isn’t your run-of-the-mill killer.” Emard accepted the fresh tankard with a nod of thanks. “Only the right kind of people can afford his services, if you catch my meaning. The sort with pockets deeper than Icespire Bay. Not a lot of men on Fehl with that sort of wealth.”
“Aside from Lord Virinus, of course.” Aravon offered.
“There’s him.” Emard inclined his head. “Prince Toran, too. The Duke of Eastfall, maybe half a dozen others. None of whom would give two wet shites about offing a mainlander nobody. Which makes me think old Lord Virinus himself might have been the target, and the unlucky Lord Bannitus just got in the way.”
Aravon pondered that statement. There had been nothing accidental about anything the assassin did. E
very stroke of his sword had been deliberate, every movement calculated with precision. If he’d wanted Lord Virinus dead, he wouldn’t have missed. Certainly not twice.
Which begs the question, who would want Lord Virinus’ nephew dead? Aravon puzzled over the thought. Someone who wants to send a message to Lord Virinus?
Prince Toran wouldn’t hire an assassin to kill Lord Virinus—Aravon had only met the man once, but he’d grown to be a good judge of character, and the Prince didn’t seem the sort to go with a contract killer. The Prince, like Duke Dyrund, would find a more direct way to deal with the matter.
Lord Virinus might have motive to kill his own nephew; Keeper knew the nobility of Icespire could be a fractious, back-biting lot that wouldn’t hesitate to use lethal measures to resolve petty disputes or slights. But there was no mistaking the abject terror and shock staining Lord Virinus’ face as the assassin, this Hunter of Voramis, came crashing through the glass window. He might be a traitor, responsible for the death and capture of hundreds of Princelanders and Fehlans, but he couldn’t possibly be that consummate an actor.
So who else could it be?
Try as he might, Aravon couldn’t find an answer. He’d never even heard of Lord Bannitus—according to Emard, a nobleman recently arrived from the main continent of Einan—so he had no idea who might want him dead, even as a pointed statement to Lord Virinus.
“…had the Steel Company not been there.” Emard’s voice snapped Aravon from his thoughts. “Damned rotten timing, or the Mistress’ own luck, depending on who’s talking.”
“What’s that?” Aravon reached for his tankard and took a sip.
“The Steel Company.” Emard shot him an irritated look. “They were there in Lord Virinus’ mansion—hells, in the very room—when the attack happened.” He gave Aravon a curious look. “I figured you’d have heard about it by now, seeing as you’re their newest recruit.”
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 51
