Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2)

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  ‘A victory?’ They both stopped at the voice, turning to see a figure on top of the slope. ‘Oh, bravo,’ the man said, slowly clapping his gloved hands together as two others crested the berm on either side of him. ‘You have bested a barbarian, dol Carasiddio? How touching.’

  The young man, accoutred in all of a noble’s finery, sneered down at the pair. ‘Enjoy the moment, Suranna. Did I not warn you of the consequences of trespassing? Was I unclear about forbidding you to duel here, in this most sacred of places?’

  ‘You should leave,’ she told Tol in a small voice as the three men began to descend the slope. ‘This is my fault, and none of your doing.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Leave while you still can.’

  Tol unhitched the second belt from his waist, gathering up the scabbarded duelling sword and tossing it to the earth beyond the square’s edge.

  He waited as the three men approached. A few years older than me, he thought. They all move with a duellist’s cat-like prowl, and the sense of entitlement that lordlings like to flaunt.

  Their leader, the central figure, was smiling broadly as he glanced over at the discarded duelling blade.

  ‘A wise choice, stranger,’ he smiled, stroking the wisp of a beard sprouting from his pale chin. ‘You may leave,’ he said with a magnanimous wave of his hand.

  ‘And what will you do?’

  ‘Only as I promised,’ the young noble assured Tol. ‘She has been warned of the consequences and now the time has come to teach the fool woman a lesson.’ He glanced to Suranna and smiled. ‘Perhaps a few scars on your face might remind you why women aren’t allowed to duel.’ He took a step forward, the three men only half a dozen feet from them now. ‘Well?’ he asked Tol. ‘Leave now, or share her fate.’

  Tol set his teeth and grasped Illis’Andiev. ‘Three on one seems poor odds,’ he said, ‘though I wager she could take at least two of you on at once.’

  The three men drew their duelling blades. ‘For that,’ the pompous noble said, ‘you will die.’

  Suranna drew her duelling sword again. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, ‘but you should have gone. These are three of the best duellists in High Mera.’

  Tol said nothing, waiting as the three young nobles approached. With Illis’Andiev back in his hands, Tol felt like himself again. No gentlemanly duelling, no silly rules about what was or was not allowed; just Tol and people in front of him he needed to kill. Simple is good, he told himself as the three stepped closer. The nobles’ leader whispered to the man on his right and the two swapped positions, so the leader now faced Suranna directly. Two for me, Tol thought as the trio drifted apart. The three men approached as one, a few feet between them, until they stood a few feet from Tol and Suranna. For a moment nothing happened, the two groups facing each other, motionless.

  The nobles’ leader lost patience. ‘Kill him,’ he snapped, the trio moving into action in the same instant.

  Tol batted aside the first thrust easily, another from his other opponent darting in a fraction of a second later. He fell back, Illis’Andiev moving in a blur as the two men worked in concert, a silversmith’s tinkling rhythm sounding as they hammered at Tol’s defences. They fought as Suranna had done, a clear series of movements underpinning their style: fast and fluid. The blades nipped at Tol, but none touched him as he caught dim glances of Suranna falling back against her own opponent. Step by step the pair retreated across the duelling floor, Tol’s opponents striking with renewed vigour as they realised victory would not be easy. Another step back, and Illis’Andiev danced left and right, high and low, fending off the measured jabs and thrusts.

  Back a pace, defend the next strike, back another step, parry the thrust. Back another pace, and Tol blocked another strike coming in from his left. And, now!

  Instead of retreating again, Tol took a step forward, wrong-footing the man on his right, whose body had fallen into the rhythm. Illis’Andiev snaked up past the slender sword’s guard, piercing the noble’s chest. The other man’s blade was already moving towards Tol. He followed through with his forward motion, stepping across the duellist as he fell. Illis’Andiev came free of his chest just in time to drop down and knock the incoming tip earthward. Tol flicked his wrist, Illis’Andiev scything up and across the second man’s torso before he could bring his sword back to guard position. By the time Tol had reversed the swing and brought the angel-forged steel back down through the man’s collarbone he was already dead, a long red line crossing him from hip to opposite shoulder.

  Never hurts to be sure, Tol thought as he wrenched the blade free and turned his attention to the last man as he fought Suranna. He took a step closer, but Suranna’s blade dipped unexpectedly, her opponent sliding his own into her now unprotected shoulder.

  Tol heard a low whimper of pain followed by a heavy grunt. The last noble seemed frozen to the spot. He stood there for a moment, sword tip sticking out of Suranna’s shoulder. As the grunt died, so did its owner, and the young man slumped to his knees, slowly toppling over onto his side, a bright crimson stain flowering on his frilly tunic.

  A desperate gamble, Tol realised, as the fallen noble’s blade followed him to the stone. The woman had taken an injury so she might have a single opportunity to defeat her opponent before his strength wore her down. Brave, though, he thought.

  She wobbled on her feet a bit, her eyes meeting Tol’s own. ‘You’re still alive,’ she mumbled.

  ‘They’re not the best duellists in High Mera any more.’

  ‘I guess not,’ Suranna replied. She looked down at the dead noble, then at his friends. Her face drained of colour and Suranna raced over to the edge of the stone square, throwing up onto the muddy earth at its edge.

  A lace handkerchief appeared in her fingers, dabbing at the corners of her mouth as Suranna looked back at Tol, carefully keeping her gaze away from the ground. ‘I’ll be executed,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘I killed the son of one of High Mera’s most powerful lords. They can’t let me live, not after beating him in a duel.’

  ‘The leader?’

  Suranna nodded as the pair heard the sound of sword belts rattling. The sound was drawing nearer. ‘Run! We must run!’

  Tol bounded over before she could take flight, grabbing her roughly by the upper arm and ignoring the hiss of pain. ‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘that will only make it worse. Which of those two,’ he jerked his head towards the other two corpses, ‘is the least important? Quickly, woman.’

  ‘The one in red, maybe?’

  ‘He’s the one you killed,’ Tol whispered as shiny helms appeared over the lip of the hollow. ‘You understand? I killed this one.’ The bodies of city guards came into view, two of them stumbling down the slope towards them.

  ‘Trust me,’ Tol whispered.

  Suranna nodded, but Tol wasn’t sure she understood.

  ‘You’re just in time,’ he called up at the guards. ‘These young men attacked my companion and I.’

  *

  The younger of the guards seemed disinterested by the whole affair – just another duel gone bad. His middle-aged companion, however, wore the mask of deep suspicion that guards the world over soon learned; those who didn’t never lasted long in the dark streets. The older man led the questioning, Tol answering confidently and hoping that there weren’t too many holes in his story. Even with Suranna’s occasional confirmation, the guard seemed caught in two minds; ambivalent, perhaps, to another duel taken too far, but mindful of the finery covering the city’s latest corpses.

  ‘Can we leave?’ Tol asked, trying not to give the guard time to think. He stretched to his full height, and tried to look imposing. ‘My companion needs a physician, and I have a dinner appointment with Lord Calderon.’ They know my name now, he thought. As usual though, the Kraven name had done him no favours, and the guards had stared with naked disbelief, as if they couldn’t believe Tol would admit his blackened name. If they won’t release me, he thought, I can’t let them live to tell. Tol’s mission was dire enough
already; every guard in the city hunting for him would only make things worse. He waited, arms held loosely by his side. Don’t make me kill you.

  ‘Justice doesn’t step aside for dinner plans,’ the guard said, ‘and with three lords’ sons dead there’ll be others wanting answers, too.’ He turned his attention to Suranna, and Tol knew that the guard sensed her hesitation. Must be wondering whether it’s shock or deceit.

  ‘It happened like he said?’ the guard asked her. She nodded, but the guard didn’t seem convinced. ‘And I don’t suppose there were any witnesses?’

  They shook their heads in unison, a sinking feeling souring Tol’s stomach. ‘None left alive.’

  ‘I saw it.’

  The four turned as one, and found a shadowy figure strolling down the slope towards them, stopping halfway. ‘Saw the whole thing,’ a familiar voice announced. ‘Bloody funny.’

  ‘Nothing funny about death,’ the younger guard said, his expression paling as two dark eyes fixed on him.

  ‘So speaks a man who hasn’t seen much of it.’ The clouds masking Griskalor, the grey demon moon, parted, and Tol fought to keep a straight face as the moonlight illuminated Kartane’s pale face.

  ‘Of course,’ Kartane continued, fixing his gaze on the older guard, ‘used to be a knight’s word would be enough for the Watch. Seems times have changed.’

  The guard was unfazed. ‘You know these two?’

  ‘The lad; can’t say I’ve seen the woman before, though I wouldn’t mind seeing her again.’ His tone suggested clothes were entirely optional.

  ‘And who are you? Who speaks for him?’

  Kartane’s fingernails began drumming a marching tune on the pommel of his sword. ‘A knight of the Reve,’ he said quietly, ‘just like the one behind you.’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘You’re lucky my young friend there isn’t of a mind to deliver you to the Pit. Turning your back on an armed man? You look like you’ve lived long enough to know better.’

  The guard swallowed hard, but kept his eyes on Kartane while his partner spun round to face Tol. He smiled at the guard, but made sure his hand was well clear of his sword. A skittish guard is friend to no-one, Tol told himself.

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘Kartane,’ the knight replied with a broad grin, the smile spreading as the colour drained from the guard’s face. ‘I see you’ve heard of me.’ The finger-tapping rhythm stopped and Kartane looked over the guard’s shoulder, his eyes meeting Tol’s.

  ‘Try not to kill anyone else tonight, boy,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  Both guards heaved a sigh of relief as Kartane disappeared back over the top of the depression, his shadow soon lost from sight.

  ‘I wasn’t to know,’ the older guard grumbled. ‘I thought you were just trying it on. How was I to know you’re really him?’

  Tol froze. ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘Course,’ the younger guard said. ‘Everybody’s heard of the angel’s knight.’

  And that means Calderon knows, Tol realised. And if she hasn’t heard already, Katarina’s about to hear it from someone else. That, he knew, would not end well.

  ‘You’re free to go,’ the older guard said, grabbing his young companion and herding him away from Tol and Suranna as fast as he could.

  ‘You are really a knight?’ she asked, her voice thick with disbelief.

  ‘Real knights don’t need lace,’ Tol snapped. Just a bloody sharp sword.

  9.

  Lord Calderon did not look like a man fast losing patience. With his frilled purple shirt, baggy trousers resplendent with more tassels than even Katarina would wear, and a bright yellow silk cravat, Ren Calderon looked very much like the Meracian noble he was. Which is really the same thing as lacking patience, Katarina told herself. His heavy red jowls didn’t twitch, and his cultured voice remained as even as ever, but Katarina knew her father’s man in High Mera – and by extension all lords of Meracia – tolerated poorly any perceived insult to their station. In Sudalra the nobility was less preoccupied with appearances, but Meracian culture had evolved to the point where, as her father put it, “nobility is all about the appearance of style, rather than the presence of wisdom or the qualities that inspire the common folk.”

  And now he’s waiting for Steven, while already wondering how to repay the slight.

  ‘I must apologise again, Lord Calderon,’ she said. ‘I am sure only a grave reason would have prevented my companion’s timely arrival.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of that I am quite sure,’ Calderon said with great patience that didn’t quite reach his green eyes. ‘Do not trouble yourself over the matter, my dear.’

  And when he arrives, Steven will not even have the faintest idea he has made another enemy, Katarina thought. There were some redeeming qualities to the young brawler, but navigating his way through the uncertain ground of Meracian politics was almost certainly not one of them. Which again raises the question: why him? Why did an angel choose a simple man for a task needing stealth and cunning? Why a bear rather than a fox? Katarina suspected the angel had an agenda in this matter. The alternative, of course, is that she is stupid and doesn’t understand the first thing about Meracia. That, she decided, would probably be worse. Depending, of course, on the creature’s agenda.

  ‘More wine?’

  Katarina nodded, and Lord Calderon leaned out of his chair, scooping up the decanter and topping up her glass. The myriad colours of his front drawing room played across the crystal as it caught the candlelight; loud, bright colours that hurt Katarina’s eyes. Loud and brash, that’s the Meracian culture, encapsulated in the very decorations of their homes.

  ‘Will Lady Jemmara be joining us for dinner?’

  ‘Alas, no.’ Calderon’s jowls deepened to a darker crimson hue. ‘My wife’s health has been failing lately,’ he confessed, ‘and my physician could find no cause save the sea air.’ He sighed. ‘We visited some of my relatives inland a few weeks ago, and Jemmara is staying with them for the moment. My hope is that her health will return soon, but I am not altogether convinced of the physician’s diagnosis.’

  Katarina offered a sympathetic smile. ‘Some do favour guesswork over medical knowledge. But, let us hope the diagnosis accurate in my aunt’s case.’

  An indiscreet cough drew their gazes to the doorway, where a butler with a face pinched tighter than a crab’s claw hovered like a bad odour.

  ‘There’s a ruffian at the door,’ he told Lord Calderon. ‘Claims he is here for a dinner appointment. My lord,’ he added after a moment.

  Katarina winced. ‘Tall, blond, surly?’

  ‘Yes.’ Again a pause, and a strained expression on the butler’s face. ‘M’lady.’

  ‘Your friend?’

  Katarina nodded, trying to keep the shame from her face. ‘More of an acquaintance,’ she muttered.

  ‘Let him in, Briggan, and show the young man to the dining room.’ Calderon smiled at Katarina. ‘You have piqued my interest, Lady Katarina. Come, let us meet your friend.’

  Katarina followed Calderon into the hallway, heading deeper into his mansion as the butler sauntered off towards the door. He walked like he owned the place, and Katarina found her eyes narrowing as she glanced back over her shoulder.

  ‘I thought your butler’s name was Wilson,’ she said as Lord Calderon opened the dining room door. ‘Father said he has been with you for many years.’

  ‘A sad story,’ Calderon said as he ushered Katarina into a large white room, twenty feet of mahogany table stretching to the far wall. Calderon followed her in, leading her down to the far end where three places were set. ‘A good man, Wilson. Served me faithfully for many years.’ Calderon sighed, and pulled out the chair next to the table’s head.

  ‘What happened?’ Katarina asked as she sank onto the chair and Calderon slid it back under the table.

  ‘A robbery, the Watch said. One day he didn’t return from his errands… They found him floating in the bay a day later.’

 
; ‘A poor run of luck, my lord: first your wife, and then your butler.’

  Calderon smiled. ‘Ah, you are your father’s daughter sure enough. You suspect my enemies.’

  Katarina nodded as heavy feet blundered down the hallway. ‘It had crossed my mind.’

  ‘Mine, too,’ Calderon admitted quietly, his eyes now on the door. ‘The man was unimpeachable; a rare quality in a Meracian butler.’

  ‘And your new man?’

  Calderon didn’t answer, as the butler reappeared in the doorway. After a second the butler seemed to remember his duties. ‘My lord, may I present…’

  A figure stepped past him, black shirt with fresh holes and dark smears that looked suspiciously like blood. A nasty cut lingered on one cheek, a bloody smear spreading out beneath it. How has he managed to turn himself into such a dishevelled state in so little time?

  ‘Tol Kraven,’ he announced.

  Calderon rose swiftly. ‘The Knight of Angels? A pleasure to meet you, young man. Please, come in and be seated.’ Calderon gestured to the empty seat opposite Katarina and sank back into his own chair. ‘Such interesting company you keep, Lady Katarina. The Knight of Angels indeed!’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, with a hard glare at Steven. ‘He is such a modest man, though, that he rarely mentions his title at all.’ Steven had the decency to wince as he met her gaze and dropped into his seat. Then he opened his mouth, but Katarina spoke first.

  ‘And is there a reason why the magnificent Knight of Angels saw fit to ignore my exhortation for a timely arrival?’ She raised an eyebrow and put the full force of her disapproval into it. ‘Perhaps a reason why you appear before a Meracian lord looking like you fell off a mountain?’

  Steven looked across the table at her, his big eyes wide. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he said. ‘Why would a woman dress as a man?’

  Katarina suppressed a giggle, and fought to keep her face expressionless. Surely not? Perhaps it wasn’t just Stetch she would have to watch with the local maids.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he repeated, crossing his arms and glowering across the table at her.