Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2)

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  ‘We arrived on the same ship,’ Tol replied, losing patience. ‘The church hasn’t given me my own so I had to make do.’

  Suranna’s eyes narrowed, and Tol knew she didn’t believe him. ‘There are many rumours,’ she said after a moment’s consideration, ‘about your exploits in Norve. Most differ wildly, or are so ridiculous that they are surely fabrications of men with too much time on their hands.’ She cocked her head to one side, carefully studying Tol’s face. ‘There are two things they all agree on, however. Firstly, you travelled with a Sudalrese pair for at least some of your journey. Secondly, you disappeared from Kron Vulder in the midst of a furious fight. Coincidence, that you arrive with two southerners?’

  Tol grabbed her arm, roughly pulling the Meracian noble towards him. ‘Careful what you say,’ he hissed. ‘If word gets out about who I travelled with or where I’ve been, things could get very bad for the church.’

  ‘You’re hurting me!’

  ‘This isn’t one of your stupid power games; one word in the wrong ear and people will die, do you understand?’

  Suranna blushed, but her head bobbed in agreement. ‘I am sorry,’ she half-whispered. ‘I did not realise.’

  Tol let go of her arm, and Suranna pulled it quickly back out of his reach. She stared at him for a few minutes, and Tol thought he saw fear reflected in her eyes, perhaps realising what he was considering. It’s a risk, he thought, leaving her alive. If one person finds out I’ve been in Sudalra, Duke val Sharvina might soon get some unpleasant visitors. He wasn’t overly concerned about the duke, especially with such a defendable fortress, but Katarina was another matter entirely. I would never hear the end of it.

  ‘I won’t say anything.’

  He grunted. ‘Best you don’t.’

  Suranna straightened herself up, the colour fading from her cheeks. ‘I would still like to know what you are really doing here, though.’

  Tol raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You lie better than a knight has any right to,’ Suranna said, ‘but even if all you told me is true – and we both know it is not – then that does not explain why when faced with something this beautiful,’ her palm moved in a loose circle about her face, ‘I find you staring over my shoulder across the river at the mansions there.’ Her arm – the one bearing a pink mark from Tol’s grip – snaked over the table and Suranna rested her hand on his. She trembled slightly, but did not pull her hand away.

  ‘Whatever it is, I can help you. You can trust me.’

  Tol raised his tankard again and took a deep swig. ‘It is better you don’t know.’

  ‘I saved you from embarrassment,’ she protested. ‘I am faithful to the church; you can trust me.’ She gasped, hand flying up to cover her mouth. ‘She sent you here, didn’t she? That’s why you’re not with the Knights Reve. The angel sent you here.’

  Tol drank the rest of his ale before replying. ‘What I do, I must do alone. If I tell you anything – anything – then it puts a great many people in danger.’ He sighed. ‘If it was just me, I might tell you, but it isn’t just me; there are people depending on me, and I just can’t take the risk. The best thing for both of us is for you to leave and forget everything you’ve seen or heard since we met.’

  A practised mask of indifference slipped over Suranna’s face as she nodded briskly. ‘As you wish.’

  She rose to her feet, peering down with a frosty demeanour. ‘Lord Drayken will be coming after you, you know.’

  Tol nodded. ‘I figured.’

  ‘Do not die. The church needs you.’

  He smiled. ‘I’ll try not to.’

  Suranna’s expression softened. She gave him directions to her family’s home. ‘If you change your mind,’ she told him, ‘if there’s anything I can do to help you, let me know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She was already past him though, speeding back across the garden away from the river bank. Great, Tol thought, another beautiful woman I’ve managed to annoy. It seemed like a gift; every time Tol met a woman he found some way to say precisely the wrong thing. The Maker’s got a strange sense of—

  The thought died before fully formed. Tol had learned the truth from Kalashadria, and from Valeron’s journal, Angel’s Truth: there was no Maker, no deity who watched over Korte and its inhabitants.

  Thoughts like that turned a man’s ale sour.

  *

  Tol distracted himself from maudlin thoughts by returning to his observation of the mansion across the river. It was bordered on either side by similar-sized structures, no doubt homes of other Meracian lords. The one that held his attention was painted a verdant green with bright yellow trim on the woodwork, door, and numerous gargoyles looking out from the roof over the river. Tol shivered involuntarily as he counted the gargoyles; though distant they still resembled the demon he had fought and killed in Norve, and that was an experience he would just as soon forget. The jagged pain as the demon’s corrupted blade sank into his shoulder, the sensation of flesh parting like butter, the fiery heat as the demon, laughing, twisted the blade, basking in Tol’s agony. Best forgotten, he thought, shuddering at the grim memory. Going up against a demon was most definitely a once-in-a-lifetime experience. For most, Tol knew, it would be their last experience. Not one I’d like to chance again. Luck had got him through it, and luck was as fickle as a drunk woman.

  The guard was coming back round from the mansion’s front in his slow loop of the grounds. Five minutes, Tol guessed, which left a window of opportunity to breach the building itself. He looked away as the guard wandered closer to the riverbank, suspicion creeping up on him like an old, old friend. The adjacent manors were barren of guards, and after a moment’s thought Tol realised he hadn’t seen one in the other grounds since he had arrived at the Skull Inn. Which means nothing good. If there were guards posted during the day then there would be more at night, of that he was certain. A pair out front, Tol guessed, maybe walking staggered patrols around the grounds. The rear garden was dotted with small fruit trees, a herb garden, and corpulent shrubs that would offer some cover in darkness. I could sneak around them if need be. Unlike the duke’s castle in Karnvost there wasn’t a convenient tree next to the foundations that would allow Tol to break in through an upper floor, but the green wall was speckled with thick tendrils of ivy which might just serve. In the dark, Tol would never have seen them, but in daylight they offered a means of entry almost too good to turn down. It all depends on how many guards are posted at night, he thought. One or two and he could be in and out before the alarm was raised, but any more than that and things were likely to go sour real fast. He chewed his lip, watching as the lone guard made his way back towards the house. If patrolling guards aren’t common in the city, then there’s a reason for that one.

  Tol smiled. It’s the right house. Men with nothing to fear post no guards.

  Tonight, he decided, he would show Lord Riasell kol Siadore that sometimes guards weren’t enough. Not for traitors to the church.

  18.

  Now that is going to be a bitch to breach.

  Tol sipped his tea under the tea room’s awning and stared across the road. Lord Savellus Borleia’s estate was large, impressive, and boasted high walls that, although bedecked with ornate scrollwork and flourishes, were built for durability and security. The wall was clear of ivy, convenient trees, or anything else he could use to get over the seven-foot lip. A pair of guards lounged against the wrought iron gates and a long stretch of open grass made a stealthy approach fiendishly difficult, even at night. There was another roving guard patrolling the inner grounds, passing the main entrance every couple of minutes.

  Father Michael would say the same. Maybe not in those words, but Tol felt the old man would have something profound to say on the subject of assaulting such a defensible estate. Probably something helpful like, “don’t do it,” or “best get your affairs in order first”. But Icepeak’s abbot was dead now, so there was no-one left to ask; Tol was on his own.


  Smaller mansions bordered Borleia’s own, modest ones like Lord kol Siadore’s riverside home that might work as an entry route. Tol couldn’t see any guards patrolling these properties, but he knew that night would bring them out like fireflies. It was an option, but increased the risk, and the idea of getting caught before he even reached his goal sat badly with him. The estate to the left was on the road’s corner, so that might be the easiest route, though he’d have to wait until the night-time revellers had abandoned the streets. Kol Siadore’s manor first, Tol decided. Easiest first, wait for the taverns to close and then find some way into this one.

  The alternative was egress through the rear: finding whichever property backed onto Borleia’s estate and – if it was poorly guarded – gaining entry through there. There would still be seven feet of wall to negotiate, but if Tol was lucky there’d be a handy tree next to the wall. And if I’m not, then I’ll have to risk a rope over the top.

  He sighed, sipping at the tiny cup with fingers that felt thick and oafish handling such delicate crockery. All in all, getting into Borleia’s estate was an unappealing prospect. No easy route in, no cover, and far too many keen eyes.

  It was going to be gargantuan task: break in to kol Siadore’s manor and kill him, then find some way to break into Borleia’s mansion and duplicate the feat. And then, assuming Tol survived that, he would have to make his way out of the city and reach Lord Drayken’s estate, slip through the excessive security and find a way to kill him, too.

  Tol frowned as he stared at the gates and the two men guarding the entrance. It’s going to get messy real quick. But there was no backing out, no one else who could do what needed to be—

  ‘Boy, you’re seven kinds of stupid.’

  Tol started in surprise as the chair opposite him was dragged out, and a gangly figure folded himself onto it.

  ‘You again. What are doing? Following me?’

  Kartane grinned. ‘Lucky for you I’m here, lad, before you get yourself into another scrape you can’t get out of.’ He held up a scarred hand as Tol opened his mouth. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Kraven, I’ve gone and done plenty of stupid things in my time. In fact, you remind me of me when I was younger. You’re certainly just as stupid.’

  Tol found his good humour evaporating. ‘You helped me out of a bind last night, but that doesn’t give you the right to insult me.’

  ‘Helped you out in Karnvost too, I seem to recall.’

  ‘You dragged me into that!’

  ‘Worked out alright, didn’t it?’

  Tol grinned. ‘I suppose it did. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.’

  Kartane’s arms swept out in an expansive gesture that startled a passing woman. ‘I’m saving your life again.’ He folded his arms back down, smile replaced with a concerned look. ‘Or don’t you realise what’s about to happen?’ His brow furrowed. ‘You don’t, do you?’

  ‘I’m just enjoying a drink, taking in the sights.’ Tol folded his arms and glared across the table, challenging the disgraced knight to argue.

  Kartane was only too willing to oblige, leaning forward and grabbing Tol’s forearm. ‘Right now those guards across the road see a lackwit northman who’s wandered into the wrong part of town and stopped ’cause he ain’t ever seen a proper house. In about two minutes they’re going to realise you’re planning a night sortie, and then you’re gonna be in a whole world o’ difficult questions, asked at swordpoint if you’re lucky, and in the dungeons of the Spymaster if you ain’t.’

  Tol glanced back across at the guards. They did seem to be paying more attention to him than Tol would have liked. ‘They can’t know for sure,’ he said.

  ‘You stick out like a whore in a palace,’ Kartane replied bluntly. ‘You can either admit you’re a total fucking idiot and we’ll go get a proper drink and have a little chat about knightly ways, or you can stay here and take your chances with them.’ Kartane nodded, seeming pleased with himself, and rose slowly. ‘What’s it to be lad? You fancy a proper drink?’

  Tol glanced back across the road. Damn it, he’s right. The guards’ demeanour had changed, he realised; they were far too alert for a balmy spring afternoon, and barely looking at the young ladies passing by at all.

  ‘I’m buying.’

  That decided things. Tol clambered out of his seat. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘Just the first round, mind.’ Kartane clapped him hard on the back. ‘You can get the rest.’

  Tol wasn’t really surprised.

  ‘And pay my bar tab.’

  Tol didn’t think he had enough money for that.

  *

  The Roving Blade was as grim and greasy as any Tol had been in. He had thought the Black Hand a flea-infested pit of villainy, but the Roving Blade was easily its equal, and possibly even worse. Kartane, it seemed, had a gift for finding the most wretched drinking holes wherever he went. It was private though: likely no Meracian knight would ever be seen in a tavern as rough as this, and Tol doubted even the men of the Reve would venture here. A half-dozen customers littered the bar room like corpses, flies buzzing round sticky pools of ale long untended, amber-like gloop adorning tables and chairs and the floor like a drunk painter’s incoherent attempt at art in the moments before unconsciousness.

  A fireplace was set into the far wall, but from what Tol could see it was rarely used; covered in sticky sap and cobwebs. A taunt of the innkeeper’s, perhaps: a reminder of what civilised customers might find in a respectable establishment.

  Tol pulled his gaze back to their table as Kartane reverently placed a tankard in front of him, its twin staying with the grizzled knight as he sat opposite Tol.

  ‘Make the most of it,’ Kartane said gruffly. ‘Ten years since I stood a round.’

  ‘You were in the mines that long?’

  He grinned. ‘No. Four.’

  Tol smiled and raised the tankard. ‘Thank you.’ He took a sip, and found the ale strong but not at all unpleasant. Kartane mirrored Tol’s actions, but he was conscious of the knight’s eyes carefully regarding him. They sat like that for half a minute, supping their beer without speaking while Kartane just stared across the table.

  ‘Better than the stuff in the Black Hand,’ Tol said, beginning to get uncomfortable under Kartane’s eyes.

  ‘You’re a lot like him.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘My father?’

  Kartane nodded. ‘Stubborn as a tree. Course, he wasn’t as dumb as you back when I knew him, but maybe he’d already got it out his system by then.’ He shrugged. ‘Or maybe you was dropped on your head.’

  Tol bristled but Kartane just smiled. ‘Quick to anger, too. You have that in common with him, too. And Kur, according to certain accounts.’ He raised an eyebrow, checking that Tol understood his meaning.

  Angel’s Truth, that was what Kartane meant, Sir Hunt Valeron’s account of the battle outside Galantrium that had birthed a religion, a crucible of blood and terror in which the Knights Reve had been shaped. The secrets of the church were buried in the book which Tol had kept safe on his journey across Norve, secrets which the Gurdal and their demon masters had sought to possess. Not for the truth itself – the demons already knew that they were neither led by nor opposed by any deity – but for the chance to destroy the church in the words of Hunt Valeron, its greatest hero. An irrefutable proof that would shatter the church even as it marched to war, but against the odds Tol had kept the truth safe and met Galandor’s successor. Nothing had been the same since then.

  Tol nodded gravely. The Reve had preceded the church and, along with the angel Galandor, had created a religion to unite the nations against the threat of the Gurdal and their demon masters.

  ‘A good man in a storm, your father. A better man on a battlefield.’ Kartane slurped his ale loudly. ‘In most respects you seem to take after him, which leaves me wondering why you’d be doing something as plain dumb as surveying a lord’s estate in the middle of the day and not giving a damn who sees you doing it.’<
br />
  The lie was already waiting. ‘I—’

  ‘Shut up.’ Kartane was glaring at Tol now with such intense focus that Tol found himself squirming in his seat. He forced himself to sit still, and after a moment he saw Kartane nod.

  ‘Better,’ the knight said. He took a deep draught of ale, and Tol saw some of the fire bleed out of his eyes.

  ‘So who put you up to it?’ Kartane asked. ‘The Duke?’

  Tol froze, a moment of animal panic. His breath whooshed out in a great gale of relief as he remembered that it was Kartane who had directed him to the docks where Katarina’s ship had been berthed, the ship which had taken him to Sudalra and her father, Duke val Sharvina. ‘No,’ he said.

  Kartane’s face soured. ‘Your winged friend, wasn’t it?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, reading the look on Tol’s face. Kartane sighed heavily, reaching for his tankard. ‘What kind of demon-spawned disaster have you gone and got yourself into now?’

  Tol opened his mouth, but realised he didn’t know what to say. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘The beginning, usually.’ Kartane smiled. ‘Best get another round in first; listening’s thirsty work.’

  *

  Tol laid out the whole sorry tale, explaining Kalashadria’s instructions, his discovery of the traitors in High Mera, and his plan - if it could be called that – to execute the three lords, thereby stopping the opposition to King Rodera’s deployment of the Meracian Army. Kartane was quiet as Tol explained, listening intently while demolishing his drink. He stopped the story once, demanding another ale, but sat silently when Tol returned. The knight’s eyes flicked from ale to Tol and back, but Tol knew he was listening to every word. Finally, he finished outlining events since arriving in Meracia. Silence reigned as Kartane slowly digested everything he had heard while he drained his third ale. When the tankard was empty, the grizzled knight slid it aside, the full weight of his gaze fixing uncomfortably on Tol.

  ‘There’s no going back from a decision like this,’ Kartane said.