“A moment, my lady?” he asked. “Please?”
“One moment,” Tejay agreed reluctantly.
Adham turned to Damin. “Just in case this heavy-handed butcher botches things up and kills me, I better tell you what’s going on in Highcastle.”
“What is going on in Highcastle?”
“Nothing,” Adham said. “Hablet’s got less than three thousand troops mustered at Tambay’s Seat.”
“Are you certain?”
He nodded painfully. It was obviously costing him a lot to keep the agony at bay. “We went right through the pass into Fardohnya.”
“So there’s no invasion?”
He shook his head, grimacing at even the slightest movement. “Never fear, you’ll get your invasion, but it’s coming through the Widowmaker, brother, not Highcastle.”
Damin rose to his feet and stepped back to let the slaves lift Adham onto the stretcher. The trader cried out as they moved him. Caranth Roe fussed over him as the slaves picked up the stretcher, but Adham yelled at them to stop, turning to look at Damin as they tried to take him away. “One last thing. I found out who’s leading Hablet’s troops.”
“Who?”
“Axelle Regis.”
“Thanks.” That news wasn’t good. Damin had heard of Lord Regis.
“Enough stalling, Adham!” Tejay declared. “Get him out of here.”
The slaves obeyed their mistress and hurried from the hall with their patient, the physician following close behind. Damin watched them leave, shaking his head.
“Don’t, Damin.”
He glanced at Tejay. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t start blaming yourself.”
“You heard what he said, Tejay. He was stabbed defending me from the dreadful reputation you and that damned Denikan have had me spending so much time creating. How can you say I’m not responsible?”
“It’s not your fault, Damin. Adham looks for trouble. If he hadn’t been fighting over you, he would have found something else. You know that. So stop blaming yourself. You’ve got other things to worry about.”
Damin sighed reluctantly in agreement, thinking nobody had quite the same gift for putting things into perspective as his foster-sister.
Adham’s right, he thought as his stepbrother was hurried away to be treated for a wound that might prove fatal simply because he had felt the need to defend Damin’s reputation. It really is a pity that Terin and not Tejay Lionsclaw is Warlord of Sunrise Province.
CHAPTER 41
The High Prince of Hythria was taking his role as commander-in-chief of Hythria’s combined armies very seriously. A few hours later, when Damin and Kraig arrived at his massive pavilion located on a small rise overlooking the city, Lernen was prancing around the main chamber of the tent in an elaborate, gilded suit of armour inlaid with gemstones, the likes of which Damin hadn’t seen outside of an ancient Harshini mural in the Temple of Zegarnald in Greenharbour.
“What do you think?” the High Prince demanded as his nephew and the court’esa were admitted into his presence. There were several other slaves, all young, half-naked and beautiful, spaced around the main chamber of the pavilion holding up full-length mirrors up so Lernen could admire himself from every possible angle. “Don’t I look fearsome?”
Damin studied him warily, acutely aware of his mother’s inviolate rules when dealing with the High Prince: Never lie to him. Never judge him. Never betray him.
“It’s very impressive,” he agreed. “Did you have it made specially for the battle?”
“It was a gift,” he explained, preening like a young girl in front of the mirrors. “From the High Arrion.” Lernen looked over his shoulder and motioned one of the slaves to move the mirror a fraction so he could see what he looked like from behind. “Apparently, she’s starting to see the light.”
Damin raised his brow. “See the light, eh?”
“The Patriots are a spent force, Damin. Alija explained it all to me. She realises that I am the only rightful ruler of Hythria and has finally given up trying to put a member of her own family on the throne.”
Damin never ceased to be amazed by Lernen’s gullibility. “She told you that herself, did she?”
He turned to examine his profile from the other direction. “She did. When she gave me the armour. It was her way of apologising, you see.”
“Alija Eaglespike actually apologised to you?”
“Well … not in so many words … but it was her idea I lead our troops to war, you know. That says something, don’t you think?”
Damin frowned. It certainly did say something, but not what his uncle thought. “You didn’t consider the possibility she sent you here in such distinctive armour, I suppose, because it would make you a better target?”
The High Prince’s brows knitted together in concern. He obviously hadn’t considered that. “Do you think so?”
“It seems more logical to believe that, Uncle Lernen,” he suggested, crossing his arms, “than accept the idea Alija Eaglespike has suddenly abandoned her lifelong quest to remove you from the throne.”
Lernen lifted the impressively plumed helmet from his head and stared at Damin suspiciously. “Isn’t that what you’re after, nephew?”
“Me?”
“Your mother told me about your grandiose plans to have me lower the age of majority.” The prince’s eyes narrowed. “Getting a little impatient, are we? Got your eye on my seat a little sooner than I’d like?”
“I have no wish to be High Prince a moment sooner than I have to, Uncle Lernen,” Damin assured him, not offended by the accusation. He was used to Lernen’s irrational bouts of insecurity and knew arguing with him about it only made things worse. “I want you to lower the age of majority so I can go back to Krakandar after we’ve dealt with Hablet and do something about Mahkas Damaran.”
Lernen seemed unconvinced. “Your mother used to sing his praises all the time.”
“My mother and I have a somewhat different view of things these days,” Damin replied, not wishing to get into specifics.
Marla had written and told him that Lernen knew about Leila and Starros, but she’d given no indication of his uncle’s feelings on the subject. Damin didn’t want to talk about it anyway, particularly not with Lernen. It was a very fine line he walked with his uncle. A glance in the wrong direction could send the old man into a frenzy. He couldn’t risk Lernen getting a fix on the notion that Damin wanted his throne and that lowering the age of majority was his way of achieving it.
“I told her I wouldn’t do it. You’re going to have to wait for my throne, nephew, like all the other vultures.”
“I know.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“Would there be any point?”
Inexplicably, Lernen smiled. “You’re a good lad, Damin. I like that you don’t get angry at me when I don’t let you have your own way. Did you really get so angry at Mahkas that you cut his throat?”
“Sort of,” Damin replied uncomfortably.
“Did he bleed much?” Lernen asked, his eyes alight with anticipation of his nephew’s answer. Lernen liked blood. Other people’s blood. By all accounts he got hysterical if he thought it was his own.
Damin shrugged, wishing he could find a polite way to change the subject. “I didn’t wait around to find out. Anyway, Rorin healed him before he bled to death, so I suppose there couldn’t have been that much splashed around.”
“You didn’t hit an artery, then,” Lernen concluded. “Blood sprays like a geyser when you hit an artery, did you know that?”
“Yes, Uncle, I knew that.”
Lernen’s gaze suddenly shifted to Kraig, who was waiting patiently by the entrance. “Who’s that?”
Damin beckoned Kraig closer. “Don’t you remember?”
It was a vital question. The only person in Hythria, besides Tejay, Marla and Damin, who knew the true identity of Kraig and his companions was the High Prince, who’d met the Denikans in Greenharbour when the
y first arrived in Hythria. Damin needed to establish if his uncle remembered who Kraig was, and if he didn’t, to make certain it stayed that way.
The prince frowned and leaned closer to his nephew. “Am I supposed to know him?” he asked in a loud whisper. “He looks vaguely familiar, but Denikans all look the same to me.”
“You may have seen him before, Uncle,” Damin agreed. “In Greenharbour. Mother sent this one and two female court’esa to Cabradell as a gift for Lady Lionsclaw, don’t you remember?”
Lernen was fairly susceptible to suggestion, and it wasn’t actually a lie. Marla really had sent Kraig, Lyrian and Barlaina to Tejay disguised as court’esa. What they were anxious to avoid at all costs, however, was the High Prince remembering the real reason at an inappropriate time.
“I think I remember something about that,” Lernen said, obviously struggling to recall the incident. “Was I pleased about this gift?”
“I believe you thought it a marvellous idea, Uncle.”
Lernen shrugged uncertainly. “Well then, I suppose I must remember him. Why is he here?”
The Denikan stepped forward and bowed respectfully to the High Prince. “I asked Prince Damin if I might be allowed to pay my respects to you, your highness,” Kraig answered before Damin could stop him.
Damin cringed in anticipation of Lernen’s reaction. Kraig really didn’t understand what it meant to be a slave in the presence of the High Prince.
“He spoke to me!” Lernen gasped, jumping back from the big Denikan in alarm.
“Don’t worry, Uncle,” Damin assured him, with a warning glare at Kraig. “I won’t let him address you directly again unless you want it.”
Lernen shrank back from them both, alarmed that the slave had uttered a word in his presence without permission. “He’s awfully large, isn’t he? How can you be sure he’s tame?”
“He’s quite tame,” Damin told his uncle, wondering what Kraig must be thinking right now. Fortunately, the Denikan’s expression was inscrutable at the best of times, so Lernen couldn’t detect anything of the prince’s true feelings. “I just thought you’d like to meet him again … perhaps you might enjoy his company …”
“No!” Lernen screeched. “Keep him away from me! In fact, I don’t wish to see him. Never again! Not ever, do you hear?”
“As you wish, Uncle.”
“Take him away!”
“Shall I come back later?”
“If you want; just don’t come back with him,” the prince insisted. He turned to one of his patiently waiting slaves, still holding the mirrors in place for their prince. “I’m not in the mood to be a warrior anymore. Get this thing off me.”
Damin motioned Kraig to leave, stepping outside a moment later to the sound of Lernen complaining about the weight of his damned armour and how Lady Eaglespike had probably only given it to him so he’d stand out on the battlefield, making it easier for an enemy arrow to find him.
Damin stopped outside the pavilion, squinting a little in the bright sun. Kraig was waiting for him. For a moment, the prince said nothing, content to stand beside Damin and survey the chaotic war camp laid out before them and in the distance, the sprawling city that was Cabradell.
“It occurs to me,” the Denikan observed after a time, “that your High Prince is not entirely sane, Damin Wolfblade.”
“Ah,” Damin replied. “You noticed that.”
“It also occurs to me,” Kraig added, “that if you played the seed game even half as well as you played your uncle just now, you would soon be considered a master.”
Damin glanced at the Denikan, not sure if Kraig was complimenting him or censuring him. “I just arranged for you to stay out of Lernen’s way for the duration of the campaign,” he pointed out. “I thought you’d be grateful.”
“I am grateful,” Kraig assured him. “I am just not used to being surprised, that’s all. You have depths I did not previously suspect, your highness. I must take this into consideration, or risk losing all I have won from you.”
Damin looked at him askance. “You do know we’re only joking about winning the continent from me, Kraig. Don’t you?”
“Were we?” the Denikan asked with a raised brow.
Damin wasn’t amused. “You really do think you’re rather funny, don’t you?”
Kraig smiled thinly. “Don’t you?”
Damin didn’t answer him, distracted by the sight of Almodavar hurrying through the camp toward them.
“Lady Lionsclaw told me I’d find you here,” the captain said, as he approached. He saluted Damin but pointedly ignored Kraig. Even in the normal course of events, as far as Almodavar was concerned, the Denikan was a court’esa and beneath the notice of a Raider in the service of any Warlord. Given Damin’s behaviour of late, which the captain apparently blamed on his fascination for his new Denikan slaves, the old man was even less inclined to acknowledge Kraig’s presence.
“Is it Adham?” Damin asked, fearful Tejay had sent Almodavar after him to deliver even more bad news.
Almodavar shook his head. “Worse, I’m afraid.”
“How could it be worse?”
“One of the scouts just rode in to let me know the troops from Dregian, Greenharbour and Pentamor Provinces have been spotted on the main road from Warrinhaven. They’ll arrive by midday.”
“Wonderful,” Damin said, rolling his eyes. “That’s all I need.”
“Does the arrival of more men not please you?” Kraig asked curiously.
“It’s not the troops, Kraig,” Damin explained with a sigh. “Those I welcome with open arms.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“It’s their Warlords,” he replied, thinking the day had just gone from bad to infinitely worse. “My extremely distant cousin, Lord Cyrus Eaglespike, the Warlord of Dregian Province, and no doubt his good friend and constant shadow, Toren Foxtalon, the Warlord of Pentamor, are about to grace us with their noble presence.”
“This is not a good thing, I gather?”
Almodavar rolled his eyes contemptuously. Damin wasn’t sure if it was because of Cyrus Eaglespike’s impending arrival or the fact his prince felt the need to explain anything to a slave.
Damin ignored the captain’s obvious displeasure and glanced at Kraig. “I think you’ll find Almodavar would rather have another visit from the plague. For myself, I just think Cyrus is a pompous pain in the backside, and his little friend, Toren Foxtalon, isn’t much better.”
Kraig nodded in understanding. “We have a saying in my country: Dead enemies are far easier to live with than live ones. Perhaps this war will be kind to you, your highness, and they will be taken honourably in battle.”
The old captain eyed the slave suspiciously. “That’s an odd attitude for a slave.”
“I am an odd slave,” the Denikan replied with a perfectly straight face.
It’s time, Damin decided, watching the Denikan and the old Raider captain size each other up, to let Almodavar know who Kraig really is. There would be hell to pay, he guessed, if he didn’t do something to explain his strange behaviour to Almodavar, and soon. And with Cyrus Eaglespike in the camp, things were likely to get even more tense. He couldn’t afford to lose Almodavar to some stupid brawl, defending his prince’s honour.
After what happened to Adham, Damin was acutely aware of the possibility.
“Let’s ride out to meet them,” Damin announced. “All three of us. I’m sure Cyrus will appreciate the gesture. Conin Falconlance is probably with them, too. Conin I can put up with for short bursts if he doesn’t agree with Cyrus too often.”
“You really are starting to lose your mind, aren’t you, your highness?” Almodavar remarked sourly.
“Riding out to meet them will give us a chance to talk,” Damin added. “Without being overheard.”
The old captain studied Damin for a moment then turned his curious gaze on the Denikan.
“I think,” the old warrior said slowly, “that sounds like a grand idea.”
Damin turned to Kraig. “Do you ride?”
“In my country, I am considered—”
“Let me guess—an expert horseman,” Damin finished for him. “Now why am I not surprised to hear that?”
The Denikan prince cracked a rare smile. “Perhaps you are beginning to fully appreciate my worth, your highness.”
“He might be,” Almodavar remarked, “but I’m certainly none the wiser.”
“Then let’s go somewhere we can talk,” Damin suggested. “There are a few things I need to explain about my new slaves, Almodavar.”
The old captain eyed him warily. “There’re more than a few things you need to explain, my lad. And the explanations,” he added ominously, “had better be good ones.”
CHAPTER 42
Wrayan waited with Marla for several hours before concluding that Galon Miar had ignored her invitation to her townhouse to discuss his proposal. Wrayan wasn’t even sure what the “proposal” was, only that Marla seemed uncommonly anxious to learn what was really going on in the mind of the assassin and was more than a little peeved he had dared to refuse her summons.
Irritated and severely put out by the assassin’s rudeness, Marla retired an hour or so before midnight. Wrayan wasn’t nearly so upset at the assassin’s failure to appear. To get involved with a man like Galon Miar was dicing with disaster and in his opinion, Marla’s ongoing dealings with the Assassins’ Guild were fraught with danger. Besides, her departure left Wrayan free to attend his own business; business he should have taken care of as soon as he arrived in the city.
It was time, Wrayan knew, to pay a visit to Franz Gillam and the Greenharbour Thieves’ Guild.
He let himself out of the house a little before midnight and headed through the lamp-lit streets of the better part of Greenharbour on foot towards the darker, seedier part of town. The night was still and humid, the air thick with the rancid and unmistakable aroma of the Greenharbour docks when Wrayan arrived at his destination.
The Doorman waited outside the Thieves’ Guild headquarters as if he hadn’t moved since the last time Wrayan had visited this place some twenty years ago. A little thicker around the girth and a little greyer at the temples, the big man seemed otherwise unchanged. Nor had his temper improved, Wrayan discovered, as the Doorman moved to block his way as the thief approached the entrance.
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