Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2)

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  ‘There must be some lords who speak more forcefully against the army’s formation, who argue against the king. The ringleaders, who draw followers even from the lords.’

  ‘One or two come to mind, but you know how politics can be in Meracia: are they the true leaders, or puppets of someone in the shadows with an agenda of their own?’ Calderon shrugged. ‘Some lords are more easily led than others.’

  ‘It may be the only hope for your people.’

  Calderon nodded. ‘Very well.’ He shifted in his seat and took another deep draught of brandy. ‘The most influential of those supporting the anti-war movement is Lord Fel Drayken.’ His eyes narrowed as they locked on to Tol. ‘The man whose son you killed tonight.’

  Ah.

  ‘Are there others?’ Katarina asked. ‘Men who have tried to sway others to their cause?’

  ‘Drayken is the most influential of the lords,’ Calderon said. He thought for a moment. ‘Two others come to mind who have been most vocal in their opposition to the king’s orders. Lord Savellus Borleia has fewer holdings, but is a persuasive speaker. Yes,’ Calderon nodded, ‘I think he is with Drayken in this.’ He raised a finger to his lips, tapping it thoughtfully. ‘Lord Riasell kol Siadore also speaks openly against both the army’s formation and despatching them to the Spur. Those three, I would say, are the most influential in the court; their own men remain, I hear, close to their estates and have made no effort to reach the Spur. If you can convince them of their error then their supporters will likely withdraw their objections also.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Calderon.’

  Three? Tol thought. Three men who need to see the error of their ways, and if they’re anything like as proud as this man that will be no easy task.

  ‘It must be a play for power,’ Calderon said. ‘I am sure they are – like I am – unaware of how close the Gurdal are to Meracian lands.’ He shook his head. ‘I cannot imagine they would purposefully betray our nation.’

  Oh, I can, Tol thought sourly. If the hardy people of Norve could turn against the church, then a bunch of pompous lords infatuated with power would be prime targets for agents of the Gurdal. Either that, or they are just really stupid and think there’s no danger of the Gurdal reaching them in their colourful mansions. Tol had no trouble believing that, either. The question was, could he afford to spend time finding out which group the lords were in, or would it be best to strike quickly and deal with the consequences later?

  ‘There may be more,’ Calderon said. ‘I will set my informants to work and see what I can learn.’

  Tol sighed. More than three? This just keeps getting better.

  11.

  ‘All you had to do was keep quiet,’ Katarina snapped at him, somehow still managing to maintain a ladylike comportment as she stormed down the street. ‘Keep quiet and let me do the talking - was that really so much to ask?’

  Tol didn’t think she expected an answer, and a moment later the rant continued, ‘Now Lord Calderon – a great friend to my father and my country – thinks you an impertinent barbarian with the manners of a pig. Worse, he no doubt blames me – and by extension my father and homeland – for allowing a crazed animal to confront him in his home. His own home!’

  ‘He needed to hear the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ Katarina’s voice rose to a high-pitched whine. ‘And where has the truth gotten you? Disappointment and secrets no man should carry, that’s what the truth’s brought you. Do you feel better? Does your soul feel lighter for knowing the truth of things?’ She stopped and rounded on him, fists bunched against her hips. ‘Well, does it?’

  ‘No,’ Tol said quietly.

  ‘Sometimes a lie is kinder,’ Katarina said, the anger fading from her voice. ‘What if the lords cannot be swayed?’ she asked. ‘What if they are in league with these demons? One of the most powerful men in the city knows how desperate your task is; one word from him and you’ll never see daylight again.’ Katarina’s lip curled. ‘Except on the day they execute you.’

  She turned and started walking. ‘If anything happens to those lords, if they cannot be brought to see reason and you are forced to confront them, Calderon will know who to blame thanks to your candour.’

  ‘I guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead,’ Tol said. It’s best she doesn’t know that’s exactly what I was considering; quicker, cleaner, and a better chance of getting out of the city before anyone realises what happened and – far more importantly – who did it. He didn’t want to admit it, but Katarina was right: if he been less honest about his purpose, less truthful about how dire the situation was, there was a chance Lord Calderon might never suspect him when the bodies began turning up. And they will, he felt sure. That’s what it will take.

  The Knights Reve are not assassins, Tol reminded himself as Katarina’s anger fell to staccato curses and half-hearted utterances castigating his foolishness – along with several questionable Sudalrese phrases that, if Tol understood correctly, seemed to be calling his parentage into question. Not assassins. But the abbot had taught Tol and the other students many skills that – although not strictly honourable to most knights – were well-used by the Knights Reve as they prosecuted their silent war against the Gurdal and their spies. Killing a sentry silently is little different to sneaking into a man’s chamber, he thought. The same skills, the same techniques. Not, perhaps, honourable, but Tol felt sure that most of the Reve would agree that results were more important than the manner in which they were realised. Especially with so much at stake. And Kalashadria? Would she understand? Tol thought she might, but he might have a quieter life if he at least tried to resolve the situation diplomatically first. That way no one can complain. Well, Katarina and Kalashadria would no doubt complain, and harangue him, but if there was no other option Tol was sure they would come round to his point of view. I just hope it’s before they scream until I’m deaf. Although, at times like this with his ears still ringing that didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

  *

  As they entered the Ninety-Third Passage Katarina finally ceased lecturing Tol. It was late now, only a handful of customers remaining, and Tol noticed that aside from a crinkle-faced old man he was the only person not from Sudalra.

  ‘You disappoint me, Steven,’ Katarina said as they drew level with the bar, the thin-faced polecat of an innkeeper scowling in sympathy at Tol. ‘I cannot risk getting caught in this mess you are brewing.’ She stopped and spun to face him, anger still writ across her face. ‘I represent my father and, by extension, Sudalra; we cannot be pulled into your mess. You are on your own.’

  She flounced off, storming up the backstairs as one or two faces turned their way. Alone again. So be it, he told himself. Somehow, though, he felt like he had lost something important.

  A hand clapped Tol’s shoulder as Katarina disappeared from sight, and he recognised the staccato laughter even before he turned to find Stetch hovering behind him.

  ‘Got you,’ the Sworn man chuckled with a nasty grin.

  ‘Sod off,’ Tol snarled, throwing the hand aside and taking two brisk strides to the bar, where the innkeeper looked even unhappier at his presence. The worst of it was, he knew Stetch was right. He’d been watching Katarina, and hadn’t heard the door open, nor heard the soft, near-silent steps behind him. Nor did I sense the presence of someone behind me. Mistakes like that could get a man killed; one moment of inattention was all it took.

  The innkeeper stared down the bar at Tol for a long moment, and he wondered how much she knew about his purpose in High Mera. The stare continued for longer than was comfortable so Tol returned it blankly. She moved after a moment, strolling towards him, her gaze fixed on a shadow looming over Tol’s left shoulder.

  ‘Ale,’ Stetch grunted as the innkeeper reached him. He spared Tol a pitying glance and added, ‘two,’ in a rare gesture of sympathy. Still, even faced with a man who she must surely know was one of the feared Sworn, the innkeeper hesitated a moment. She sighed softly and poured two ta
nkards of ale, sliding them across the bar. With an uncanny ability, the innkeeper managed to slop a sizeable portion of Tol’s over the tankard’s lip, a wave of ale rolling over the counter and dampening his already near-ruined shirt. So it’s going to be like that.

  ‘Six pennies,’ the innkeeper stated.

  Stetch picked up his tankard and clapped Tol on the back. ‘Pay,’ he grunted, striding off towards the back wall before Tol could argue. Tol took a breath and slid over the coins, but couldn’t resist tapping one just a little bit too hard so that it slid off the far side of the counter. The innkeeper scowled and he returned it with a smile. ‘Oops,’ he said, feeling slightly better as he strode over to join Stetch in the back corner. But I’ll probably have to watch her from now on to make sure she doesn’t spit in my ale. He thought of Katarina’s myriad warnings. Or poison me. By the look on the woman’s face that was more likely.

  Stetch was already halfway through his ale when Tol joined him, the Sworn man’s face almost expressionless, yet somehow still conveying a desire to attack something.

  ‘I’m surprised you left her,’ Tol said as he sat down, the door at his back.

  Stetch didn’t bother replying, just gave the barest shake of his head. Tol frowned. ‘You followed us?’

  The warrior rolled his eyes, and he gave Tol an appraising glance.

  ‘To make sure no one else followed?’

  The impatience was clear on Stetch’s face, his head tilting in a hint of a nod. Tol realised he had guessed right. ‘And did anyone follow us?’

  Stetch shook his head and Tol heaved a tiny sigh of relief. He had been so busy trying to ignore Katarina’s lecture that he hadn’t really paid much attention to his surroundings. Father Michael would have me whipped for that, he thought, and rightly so. Except the old abbot was dead now, one of the many victims at Icepeak where a demon and the mercenaries of the Band of Blood had slaughtered the abbey’s monks and trainee knights. Everyone except me.

  ‘Trouble?’

  Tol nearly spilled his ale, surprised at the question. Stetch tilted his head towards the stairs.

  ‘Apparently I disappointed her.’

  Stetch laughed. ‘Happens.’ He drained the dregs of his tankard and hefted it in the air. ‘Ale?’

  Tol nodded, quaffing the rest as Stetch snapped his fingers to get the innkeeper’s attention. Tol tried to keep a straight face and not wince, but when he saw the dark look on Stetch’s face he realised there was no contest, not really. And if she knows anything, the innkeeper knows that to ignore him is to bring down a whole lot of wrath. Tol looked away from Stetch’s murderous glare, and tried not to shudder. There was something almost feral about the man, made worse by a veneer of seeming humanity that Tol was beginning to suspect Stetch wore only so as not to draw too much attention to himself. Not because there is much kindness in him – if any at all – but because it serves a purpose. Tol couldn’t help but wonder if all the Sworn were as dangerous as the man seated in front of him. He decided he didn’t want to find out.

  ‘It’s not free,’ the innkeeper barked as she dumped two tankards on the table. Tol kept his gaze on Stetch so as not to anger her further, but the warrior simply pointed at Tol. ‘Pay,’ he said again.

  The second round of drinks passed quickly, and the third followed soon after, Tol content to drink in silence as the two men eyed each other like animals trying to decide whether the creature in front of them was prey or predator, dinner or diner.

  ‘I know you can talk,’ Tol said as the innkeeper deposited another two tankards, ‘and I could really do with some advice about now.’

  Stetch stared blankly across the table, and held Tol’s gaze for a full five seconds. Finally, he smiled, not a trace of warmth in it. ‘Look like a fucking nursemaid, do I?’

  ‘A little bit.’ Tol regretted it instantly, but to his surprise Stetch roared with laughter, the remaining few patrons shifting uncomfortably on the far side of the room. Tol heard at least one of them get up and leave as the nerve-jarring noise faded.

  Stetch reluctantly unwrapped his fingers from his tankard, and waved his outstretched hand towards Tol. It was about as close to an invitation as he would get, Tol realised.

  ‘There’s at least three of them,’ he began quietly, ‘three lords opposing the army’s march on the Spur. Their soldiers wait on their estates while other lords’ regiments are already halfway to the Spur.’

  Stetch shrugged.

  ‘I’m running out of time,’ Tol explained. ‘With the time it took us to sail…’ He tried to work out the numbers in his head. ‘If the last regiments don’t march within three or four days it will be too late.’ Stetch nodded, a look of either mild sympathy or inebriation on his face. ‘She wants me to talk to them, try and convince them to change their minds, commit to the war.’

  Stetch raised an eyebrow. ‘Who?’

  It took Tol a second to realise what the warrior meant. ‘Both, probably. Katarina, for sure, but maybe the angel too.’ Kalashadria had warned him not to use her name unless necessary. ‘Better,’ she had told him, ‘if Alimarcus doesn’t hear a cacophony of prayers with my name. Better for you, if you need me.’ That had decided it.

  Tol sighed. ‘Katarina might be right; I just don’t know enough about these Meracians.’

  An eyebrow arched, the disdain clear on Stetch’s face. What does she know? his face seemed to ask as he drained the last of his ale, slamming it down on the table and giving Tol a pointed glare.

  Tol nodded in resignation, staggering to his feet and wobbling over to the bar. ‘Two more,’ he told the polecat through a thickened tongue.

  ‘Last ones,’ she said. ‘You tell him.’

  Tol slid over the coins and rejoined Stetch at their table, the inn now empty of all other drinkers, just the two of them and a very sullen proprietor remaining.

  They drank in silence, Stetch peering over the rim of his tankard with a blank expression. The muscles in his face had slackened somewhat, Tol noticed. He didn’t seem quite as fearsome, quite as murderous, and looked younger. Early twenties, Tol guessed, maybe halfway to thirty. Still, he guessed the Sworn weren’t chosen for their friendly attitudes, and someone as clearly unhinged as the half-drunk Stetch might actually, to a certain devious kind of spymaster, be an asset rather than a liability. Kind of like how Norve keeps Havak close, an implied threat to anyone that crosses the line: Harm our people and we’ll unleash the barbarians.

  ‘So?’

  He wanted to know what Tol was going to do. The problem was Tol didn’t know himself. He shrugged, surprised as Stetch unleashed a feral snarl.

  ‘Reve answer to who?’ Stetch asked with a slight slur.

  ‘The Seven, I guess,’ Tol replied, hoping that this last ale wasn’t the one that would send Stetch homicidal.

  ‘You?’

  He took Stetch’s point. Although never officially welcomed into the ranks of the Knights Reve, Tol had taken the oath at St. Helena’s, witnessed by the withered old crone and those nuns who called themselves the Sisterguard. It’s kind of… implied, I guess. Formal or not, I answer to the Seven. Except, it had become more complicated than that: Tol had sworn himself to Kalashadria, saved her life and had his own saved in return. And then she named me knight.

  Stetch grunted, apparently realising Tol had caught up. He reluctantly pulled his hands from the tankard and raised them, palms up. They rose and fell alternately in a mimicry of scales.

  ‘Angel?’ Stetch asked, raising the left hand. It came down and his right rose. ‘Seven?’

  Who’s your master, he seemed to be asking. Tol foundered a moment. ‘How…’ Katarina couldn’t have said anything to Stetch, he had entered the inn after them, so… He was there, Tol realised. Either the man was close enough to the mansion to hear our conversation or followed us so close on the way back that he heard her lecture. The first was doubtful, even for someone as sneaky as the Sworn of Sudalra. Which means he had to be close, within a dozen feet of us as we w
alked back. Tol felt himself sobering up. And I never heard or saw a thing. He felt cold, frost tracing his spine.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tol said, his shoulders dipping. ‘Either? Both?’

  ‘Can’t have two masters.’

  Tol nodded glumly.

  ‘Sworn have one.’ Stetch seemed to have more to say, the man looking troubled as he sought the right words. ‘Mostly we listen,’ he said with a noncommittal tilt of his head. He wore an expectant look on his face, and Tol nodded his understanding; there were times when the only way to do the right thing was to do something very unpleasant.

  Stetch swallowed and licked his lips, his eyes clear and focused as they fixed on Tol. ‘Worry ’bout consequences later,’ he said. Stetch tried what Tol suspected the man thought was a friendly smile but it failed to be anything more than moderately disturbing. ‘If you live long enough.’

  Stetch quaffed a sizeable portion of his ale, sputtering as he shook with quiet laughter, a trickle of ale dripping down his chin. ‘Consequences later,’ he repeated, genuine amusement etched across his face. ‘Should be our motto.’ A half-jest, Tol knew, but the warrior couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. He chuckled alongside Stetch anyway, laughing even though he knew it wasn’t that funny. They both stopped at the same time, and an uncomfortable silence dragged on for half a minute as Stetch stared into the fireplace, seeing who knew what in the dwindling flames. Men of hard choices, the Sworn. Stetch hid it well, but his masters hadn’t eradicated all of his humanity, just battered it down until only a tiny fraction remained. Will I end up like him? Tol wondered. Probably not, he realised. If the lords, demons, or Gurdal don’t kill me, there’s a good chance his mistress will – or at the very least drive me insane.

  He sighed, his thoughts returning to Katarina as he closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them Stetch was staring straight at him.

  ‘How do you put up with her?’ he asked, sure Stetch knew who he meant. ‘Always insults, always belittling people, stamping her foot to get what she wants.’