The ragged man tr-4

by Tom Lloyd

  The study straight ahead was empty too, and finally he headed for the duchess' bedroom, off the study. The room was very dark, even with a faint glimmer of moonlight creeping through the clouds. The lamps were barely warm to the touch. A lifetime of night exploits had given Doranei excellent vision in the dark, but he still managed to blunder into an unseen table as he headed for the window to look down. Still no light from below, but he was running out of time.

  A sudden sense of being watched crept over him, causing the hairs of his neck to prickle as he whirled around, sword raised. The dark room remained still and empty, but the sense continued.

  And well it might, Doranei thought, reaching for the pouch of sparkle-dust again. That bloody door was barred from the inside.

  With a sweep of his sword Doranei smashed the nearest oil lamp and dropped the rest of the dust onto it, looking away with his eyes screwed up tight. The dust ignited and the lamp oil caught immediately, casting a weak light over the room. Doranei tugged a curtain from its rail and was about to set it alight when the shadows on the other side of the window suddenly billowed.

  He dropped the curtain and struck out at the shadows, but a sword materialised from nowhere and caught the blow. Doranei hesitated; short blade and long handle – this wasn't who he'd feared.

  'Zhia?' he said, startled.

  The shadows opened like a black flower saluting the moon. Zhia Vukotic appeared, resplendent in a blood-red dress and white silk scarf, with her sword extended.

  'My dear, you are one of the few people to ever look relieved when you find a vampire lurking in the shadows,' she said with a pained smile. 'I apologise for giving you a start.'

  'What are you doing here?' Doranei demanded, lowering his sword and advancing on his immortal lover. 'Where are the duchess and Ruhen?'

  'Escaped, I assume,' Zhia said, sheathing her sword on her back with a flourish. 'They had already gone when I arrived up here.'

  'Why are you here? Why did you bolt the door?'

  Zhia gave him a look that was almost too weary for irritation. Whatever she'd been doing, it had taken a toll on her.

  'I was elsewhere in the tower on business; Lady Kinna has apartments on a lower level. When I heard the commotion it was not hard to guess who would be heading this way. I don't know how your Brothers would react to seeing me here, but I assumed King Emin's pet white-eye would be at the fore. His kind are hard to talk down once their blood is up and I have no desire to kill your friends. I thought the bolted door would slow them up; I hoped they couldn't waste the time it would require to break it.' She gave a wry smile – then suddenly screwed her eyes closed, as if in pain.

  She gasped, shock blossoming on her face. 'By the Dark Place, I had forgotten how painful His presence was!'

  'Whose?' Doranei asked, looking around.

  Zhia straightened, as though a weight was lifted from her shoulders. 'That's better, He's gone now. Your Lord Death, that's who,' she added with a sour smile. 'What I crave the most I cannot bear the presence of. You must have killed Aracnan; He has come for His unclaimed son.'

  Zhia stopped, noticing the sword for the first time. 'Even your mages would have found it hard to draw the bolts to this room. I had hoped to lurk here undisturbed until He had departed. I hadn't expected you to be carrying anything so powerful. Did you kill Aracnan yourself?' She sounded sceptical.

  'I was there when he died,' Doranei replied, not wanting to waste time explaining any further. 'Can you find the child for me?'

  'I have already tried, but there's too much of a swirl of magic around the tower for me to find anyone not a mage.'

  Doranei faltered, his shoulders sagging. 'Then this was all for nothing?' he said distantly.

  'Not necessarily.' Zhia pointed to the desk on which lay a few books, a writing box and a silver sand-shaker. 'I had a look around while I was waiting for your men to lose their ardour for slaughter.'

  He moved to the desk, scanning the objects on it but seeing nothing out of the ordinary. 'And?' he prompted.

  With a twitch of her fingers Zhia caused one of the books to rise up, green light playing around the edges and illuminating the monogram on the front. 'I noticed an enchantment on one of the books and found it bore my brother's initials.' She let the book fall into his hands. 'Is this the journal you were looking for?'

  Doranei looked it over. It did indeed have entwined Vs on the cover, just as the novice Mayel had described to him. This had to be what Azaer had wanted from the abbot in Scree – what the shadow had sacrificed possession of the Skull of Ruling for.

  When he tried to open it he found the pages stuck together, and when he ran his finger down the edge he saw a tiny spark of light and felt something as sharp as a knife slice his skin. He withdrew his hand hurriedly.

  'It's a simple magical lock; it will not tax your king's mages for too long,' Zhia assured him, 'but right now, it is time for you to leave.'

  The look on her face told him not to argue and he realised she was right. He had already stayed longer than he'd planned; it was time to make good their escape.

  'Thank you,' he said awkwardly.

  Without warning Zhia made up the ground between them and grabbed him by his brigandine. Pulling him close she kissed him hard and fierce. When she withdrew the taste of her lips and the heady scent of her perfume remained.

  'Do not thank me,' she said, her face unreadable. 'Every step in your war against the shadow takes you further into pain. This may bring you a league of hurt.'

  'It is necessary,' he croaked. 'I do what I must.'

  She gave him a weak smile. 'As do we both.'

  This time it was Doranei's turn to pull the vampire close, half-lifting her off the ground and kissing her before he fled through the door. When he had gone she stared after him, her lips pursed tight. With a wave of the hand she extinguished the flames and was left alone with the shadows.

  'Do not disappoint me,' Zhia said softly. The shadows did not reply.

  CHAPTER 15

  It was not yet midday when Count Vesna reached the Tirah-Tebran border, and already he'd had enough. Advance warning of what was waiting there failed to lessen his disgust when he saw the banners in the distance – banners that had no place in this suzerainty. In contrast, the ruby shard upon his cheek tingled at the prospect of violence.

  At his side General Lahk observed them impassively, his only sign of disapproval the ordering of his personal standard be carried by the advance scouts, alongside the red banners of mourning. The general was also a marshal of Tebran, and it was into his small domain they were riding. Lahk's obedience to tradition was absolute, but Vesna doubted Suzerain Temal or Scion Ranah would care about the small rebuke, if they even noticed it.

  They had spent the previous night at the manor of Suzerain Tebran, once one of Lord Bahl's fiercest supporters; renowned for his strength, but now a broken man, drinking himself to death. His parchment-pale skin hung loose on his body, and when Vesna had broken the news of his scion's death in battle, he hadn't been sure if the suzerain had even heard him. Muttered apologies were all Tebran had given, and it had been left to his daughter, Anatay, to tell them why through her own grief.

  'He was frightened for me, frightened for us all. There was only one of his hurscals here; the rest were with you, my Lord. He had to grant them leave to stay, to march under arms in the suzerainty.'

  Vesna scowled and felt his armoured fist tighten around the reins. Threatening the weak to claim the protection of the law? It made the God in him bay for blood. Each suzerainty was a self-contained domain, subject only to the Lord of the Farlan – to ride battle-ready in another's suzerainty without permission was tantamount to a declaration of war, but with his troops not yet returned from the Circle City, Suzerain Tebran had nothing to back up his authority.

  Technically they were within the law, but it was a gross flouting of custom, and at any other time Vesna would have sorted it out at the point of his sword. Now, however, he had to ignore the breach
, the only way to avoid bloodshed on his return to Tirah. The heir to the Ranah suzerainty was a hot-headed thug who'd draw at the first provocation and whether a battle or a duel, it would only make a bad situation worse.

  'Suzerain Torl?' he called, turning in the saddle to catch the attention of the grey-haired suzerain riding a little way behind him.

  'My Lord,' Torl acknowledged, as formal in addressing Vesna as the rest of his fellow Brethren of the Sacred Teachings, despite their past years of close friendship.

  Isak, Vesna thought sadly, was this how your life was? Always set apart, even from friends? Never allowed to be just part of the crowd? He shook the thought away. Time for that later.

  'Do you know Suzerain Temal? I've met Ranah several times and he doesn't have the brains to get on his horse the right way round first try.'

  'Yes, my Lord, well enough. Temal's got precious little affection for his subjects, but I'd never thought the man disloyal – or religious, for that matter.'

  'So we have a whole new faction?' Vesna muttered. 'Gods, it's a wonder we ever got around to building a bloody nation here.'

  Torl gave a noncommittal shrug. The ageing warrior had never been one for ceremony and was dressed like any cavalryman, only the badge with his Ice Cobra crest indicating he was a nobleman.

  A red cape of mourning hung over Vesna's divine-touched left arm, hiding it from onlookers, but the rest of his clothes followed tradition. His oiled hair was tied down one side of his neck to cover the blue tattoos of knighthood there.

  'General Lahk? How do you want to play this?'

  Lahk looked back at the divisions of Palace Guard following them before replying, 'We cannot be sure of their intentions, and until proved otherwise we must assume they are allies. They have broken no law.'

  'I suppose so,' Vesna said reluctantly. 'Riding on through would be insulting to their stations, however strongly Lord Fernal ordered us to return without delay.'

  'They're not here to fight – no Farlan suzerain takes on the Ghosts, however mauled we might be.'

  Vesna looked around. The Tirah Highway passed through mainly forested ground, but there were villages and towns around and clearings and fields dotted the landscape. Here there were sufficient trees to obscure his view, and space for a few legions of troops to wait for the order. The mountain-lines of the Spiderweb range stopped at Tebran's outer border, but ridges of high hilly ground remained and anyone advancing towards Tirah would continue to be at the disadvantage right up to the city walls.

  'They might if they have reinforcements nearby – our scouts and scryers could have missed an ambush easily enough.'

  'Of the nearby suzerains the only one whose loyalty was in question was Suzerain Selsetin, and he died in battle at the Byoran Fens. There is no man of Duke Certinse's ilk here,' Torl pointed out. 'What would be their reason for such a risky venture, my Lord?'

  Vesna shook his head. 'I don't know – and that's what has me worried. The past six months has shown us that the usual rules of the great game need not apply. I'm inclined to see hostility in any move I do not understand.'

  'Sir Cerse,' Lahk called, prompting the colonel of the Palace Guard to urge his horse up to Lahk's.

  Vesna watched him approach with a sense of sadness. Sir Cerse had been an eager young soldier when they first met not long ago – a political appointment, but keen to earn the loyalty of his men. Now there was a grim set to his jaw and a bandage covering one ruined eye. The colonel of the Ghosts had earned the respect of his men, but Vesna recognised all too easily a soldier who'd lost something of himself on the way.

  'Sir Cerse, call a halt and ensure the men are ready for whatever might happen. We'll take two squads as escort and proceed to greet our peers.'

  'Are you sure?' Vesna asked once Sir Cerse had returned to issue the order. 'Won't that just encourage them to act rashly?'

  '"If your enemy intends to act, encourage him to do so rashly",' Lahk quoted in response. 'My authority ends with the military side of matters. Suzerain Torl, Count Vesna; I suggest you discuss the politics with Ranah and Temal, it is not my domain. If they do indeed intend us harm, let that come about before they discover Count Vesna's new allegiance.'

  'I take your point,' Vesna admitted. He sighed and touched his black-iron fingers to the sword on his hip. 'It will be easily done, but let's hope it won't come to that.'

  Riding ahead with a battle-scarred squad of Ghosts on each side, the three veterans did not speak until they passed through the advance companies of troops. They found themselves at an inn where Suzerain Temal and Scion Ranah were waiting. It was a big place, a three-storey stone building overlooking the single bridge across a tributary of the River Farsen, which cut through the heart of Tirah.

  Soldiers were all around, and Vesna could see the inn's serving girls were struggling to meet the demand just from the hurscals. The more he looked, the more troops he saw – mainly light cavalry, of course, but also what appeared to be a division's worth of archers and spearmen.

  'Good morning Suzerain Torl, General Lahk,' called Suzerain Temal, rising from his seat at a round stone table on one side of the inn named after it. He spared Vesna a look, but nothing more, making it clear he did not expect the lower-ranked man to speak until invited to do so. Vesna might be a hero, and Isak's right-hand man, but he was still a count, and ranked below both suzerains and generals. 'Please, join us in a cup of wine.' Palms upturned, Temal had pointedly dispensed with the usual formalities, something Vesna hoped was a good sign. That he was excluding Vesna was no great surprise; a suzerain had the right to speak only to his peers if he so chose, and if Vesna didn't speak, it was less likely Ranah would either.

  The suzerain was a man of nearly forty summers. He had a welcoming smile. He wore his sword on his right hip because a childhood injury had robbed him of most of the use in his right hand. He'd not joined the army when Lord Isak had called his nobles because of it, but Vesna had heard he was a fair left-handed swordsman all the same.

  Torl and Lahk dismounted and returned the suzerain's greeting. Vesna followed them. He had no intention of speaking until addressed, but the hatred on Scion Ranah's face made it obvious he'd be easy to provoke, whilst keeping within the bounds of protocol. Ranah disliked Vesna intensely – a matter of principle more than anything else. The fact that Vesna had seduced the scion's sister was less of concern than Ranah made out; in truth, he was jealous.

  Ranah was a handsome man, and his unusually light hair made him striking among the dark Farlan. He was also a talented warrior, and he coveted Vesna's reputation more than he did his octogenarian father's seat. Count Vesna was the man Ventale Ranah was trying hard to be, but his exploits thus far had earned only his father's scorn, and he'd been completely ignored by the storytellers.

  A man easily provoked into rashness, Vesna though as he reached for a cup and poured himself some wine.

  'The invitation did not extend to you, Count Vesna. Your jewels are better-suited to a whorehouse than a table of peers,' Scion Ranah snapped.

  'Suzerain Temal,' Vesna said, raising his cup in toast and ignoring Ranah, whose outburst had permitted him to join the conversation. Temal would have to keep control of Ranah or lose face. 'We would be glad for a chance to sit down and discuss the state of the Land with peers.' He drained the cup and smiled. 'But in the interests of harmony I suggest you send the boy away before his mouth gets him into mischief – unless it's mischief you intend?'

  Before Ranah's coughs of fury could resolve into a challenge, Temal drained his own cup and raised a hand to stop the scion speaking.

  'We do not intend mischief, I assure you; we are all nobles of the Farlan, after all. However, Count Vesna, perhaps a less antagonistic tone might be politic? I hardly think "boy" is the right description for a man only five summers younger than you.'

  Vesna shrugged off the reprimand, deserved as it was. As a count he outranked Ranah, at least until the man inherited his father's suzerainty, and Vesna intended to make fu
ll use of that. 'The last time I met the scion he was less than gracious towards me. It was only admiration for his father that prevented me from calling the scion out.'

  'That or cowardice,' Ranah interjected, which earned him an admonishing look from Temal.

  Vesna ignored him. 'I choose not to acknowledge any man inviting a challenge, but my position within the Land has changed and I can no longer overlook an insult.'

  With his iron-clad hand Vesna slipped his sword partway from his scabbard, just far enough to reveal the misty white lines of the Crystal Skull melded about the black-iron blade. 'Nor would I even break a sweat in a duel with any man present.'

  Temal's eyes narrowed, and he gave a small nod of understanding. 'Be that as it may, I would ask you to show greater civility in future.'

  He turned to Ranah. 'Any mention of a man's honour is similarly uncivil and goes against our purpose of being here. I would appreciate it, Scion Ranah, if you would retire and see to those messages we were discussing earlier.'

  Ranah scowled, but as there was nothing he could do he turned without a word and stalked away, disappearing into the inn and slamming the door behind him. Once he was gone, Suzerain Temal broke into a relieved smile and gestured for his companions to sit.

  'I apologise,' he began. 'I spoke to Ranah before you arrived and he assured me he would behave.'

  'Easily forgiven,' Torl said, 'but the treatment of Suzerain Tebran is less so. Whether or not it was Ranah at fault, you choose the company you keep, Temal – you know what sort of man he is.'

  Temal nodded, looking glum. Shrewd politician that he was, he knew the ramifications of implying a threat to gain the right to march under arms in Tebran. A suzerain ignored the customs surrounding their law at his peril; neighbours became far less friendly with a man they couldn't trust. 'Such are the times that a man must keep company he finds distasteful. I will make suitable apologies to Tebran; my intention is quite the opposite from setting noble houses against each other.'