“Which, of course, you’ll be sharing with the performers,” Gabriel finished with a pointed gaze.
“Of course, of course. Just good business to keep the performers happy. Wouldn’t do to make them famous and have them bribed away by another caravan,” Linton said hurriedly.
“Uh-huh. I’ve never known you to split profits with anyone less than sixty-forty.” Jonmarc folded his arms.
Linton rolled his eyes. “By the Whore! Must you give up all my secrets! Yes, yes, I agreed to a fifty-fifty split. Only keep it down, or the dancers and jugglers will demand a bigger percentage and you’ll drive me out of business.”
Linton’s outburst managed to make Gabriel chuckle. “You don’t think Carroway’s thought of that?”
Linton glanced toward the musicians with a look of horror that Jonmarc suspected was only partially falsified for their benefit. “You don’t really think-”
Jonmarc shrugged. “I learned a long time ago not to underestimate Carroway. Not after the first time I saw him throw a dagger and peg a slaver between the shoulders, anyhow.”
“Fie!” Linton made the sign of the Lady in warding. “Don’t even mention that word around me.” Linton’s former caravan had been attacked by slavers hired by Jared the Usurper to hunt for Tris Drayke. Tris and his friends had barely escaped with their lives, and Linton had needed two years to rebuild. “On the bright side, between the plague and new management in Margolan, the slavers seem to have gone out of business. For now.” He sobered. “ ’Course, it’s the Black Robes a body has to watch for now.”
Jonmarc and Gabriel exchanged glances. “What do you hear?” Jonmarc asked.
Linton dropped his voice, so their conversation did not carry. “There’s talk along the river that the Black Robes are behind the people who’ve been disappearing. Heard that in Nargi, they’re working with the Crone priests to hunt vayash moru. Dhasson’s never held with that sort of thing, but can’t say that King Harrol will send his army out to stop it, either. Bad for business. Bad all the way around, if you ask me.” He shrugged. “Ah well, no need to talk shop when there’s ale to be drunk. Did I tell you that you give a damn fine party, Jonmarc? Damn fine.” And with that, Linton bustled away toward the barrels of ale.
“Did I mention that Maynard was quite open to the idea of helping the Ghost Carriage spirit vayash moru and vyrkin out of trouble spots?” Gabriel said. The musicians struck up a lively tune that had Carina tapping her toe and swaying to the music.
“Oh?”
“Says that being a legitimate business man is too stressful, and he wants to smuggle something to keep his hand in and his skills sharp.” Gabriel smiled, and his long eyeteeth showed, just a bit. “That’s part of the reason for the new vayash moru and vyrkin entertainers. Of course, Riqua and I have promised to make some introductions for him in return, introductions that will give him the stawar’s share of the Noorish rug market and some of the best Principality gemstones.”
“Of course.”
Carina had just tugged on Jonmarc’s hand to lead him to the dance floor when Neirin hurried in, scanning the crowd until he spotted them. By the look on the grounds manager’s face, there was trouble.
“There’s someone here to see you.”
Jonmarc spread his hands to indicate the crowded room. “There are several hundred people here to see me, or at least to drink my ale.”
“It’s Captain Gellyr. And he’s got a visitor with him from the palace.”
The sense of foreboding Jonmarc had managed to dispel returned, and his smile vanished. “Please handle the formalities for me,” he said to Carina, with a glance to Gabriel as well. “Let me see what’s going on.”
He followed Neirin to the manor’s entrance hall. Captain Gellyr was the commander of King Staden’s garrison at Jannistorp. Jonmarc’s previous interactions with the captain had been cordial, and Gellyr had been helpful in quelling unrest when a rogue vayash moru had violated the Truce, but it was highly unusual for him to show up unannounced at Dark Haven. Gellyr’s companion wore a traveling cloak, and at a glance, Jonmarc knew it for military issue. Boots, pants, and sword marked the other as a ranking officer, and Jonmarc felt any hope dim that this might be just a social call.
“Lord Vahanian.” Gellyr’s voice was friendly but businesslike. “Good feast to you.” Gellyr was a large man, taller than Jonmarc, and perhaps a decade older, with enough scars on his face and hands that it was clear his rank had been earned the hard way. Though he wore no armor this night, his blond hair was cut short for a helm, and his manner would have marked him as a soldier in any crowd. The man beside him stood stiffly, and though the entrance hall was warm, he had made no move to remove his cowl.
Jonmarc nodded warily. “And to you.” He shook Gellyr’s hand, mentally noting that since neither of them had drawn a blade, it was going well so far. “If it’s the Moon Feast that’s brought you to Dark Haven, you’re welcome to join us. There’s ale enough for all.”
Gellyr shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m here on king’s business. May we speak to you in private?”
Jonmarc led them to Neirin’s office and lit the torches, then closed the door. “Now, what made Staden send you all the way out here on a festival night?”
Gellyr looked at his companion. “You’ll have to ask the general. I’m just the guide tonight.”
The man beside Gellyr lowered his cowl. He was a dark-haired man with intelligent, brown eyes and a hard line to his mouth. “So good to see you again, Lord Vahanian.” The venom in the man’s voice matched a deadly glint in his eyes.
“Gregor.” Jonmarc kept his hand away from his sword, but he was glad there was enough space between him and his guests to give him a chance to draw his blade if need be. “Don’t you have prisoners to bully?”
“I see the wound to your shoulder healed. Pity.”
“I’m surprised you kept your commission, since the last time you managed to throw both Martris Drayke and your own princess in the dungeon.”
Anger flashed in Gregor’s eyes, telling Jonmarc that the error might not have gone completely unpunished. “I had my orders. King Staden didn’t say why he wanted your group, only to detain you and bring you to the city. I don’t question a direct order.”
“Understanding is different from questioning, General.”
Gellyr cleared his throat uncomfortably. Gregor glared at Jonmarc and took a deep breath. “King Staden sent me with this.” He reached slowly beneath his cloak, keeping his eyes on Jonmarc’s sword at all times, and produced a sealed parchment. Gregor handed it to Gellyr, who handed it to Jonmarc. “Staden’s taken ill with the plague. He wrote this the night before I left, and by morning, he had lost consciousness. Despite what the healers have done for him, he may not survive.” Beneath Gregor’s anger, Jonmarc heard a note of sorrow.
“That parchment is his signed decree, in case anybody missed your investiture ceremony, making it clear that you are Princess Berwyn’s Champion,” Gregor said bitterly. “If he dies, it’s your responsibility to escort the princess to the palace and see that she’s safe until she can be crowned.”
Jonmarc broke the seal and read down through the formal document. Staden’s royal seal at the bottom left no doubt as to the letter’s authenticity. “I’m sorry about Staden’s health. Do you want me to call Berry?”
Gregor seemed to wince at the princess’s nickname. “Not yet. Wait and see. But the king wanted you to be prepared for the worst.” He paused. “The sickness came on him quickly. Just a fortnight ago, he and King Kalcen met aboard a ship at sea for two full days, working out an accord. We know they made agreements, and that a group from Eastmark is supposed to come to Principality soon to complete the pact, but Staden took ill before he was ready to tell anyone what commitments he’d made. If anything happens to him, the princess will have to pick up the pieces.”
A hard glint came into his eyes. “You know, even in Principality City we hear about the legendary healer, Lady Vahanian.
Staden gave specific instructions for her to remain here, at Dark Haven. He said it was too late for anyone to help him, but I wonder.” Gregor’s thin lips twisted to a sneer. “After all, she let my brother die.”
Jonmarc struggled to keep his hand clear of the pommel of his sword. “Trying to heal Ric nearly killed Carina. That was almost ten years ago. Tris Drayke summoned Ric’s ghost. Ric forgave her.”
“Well, I haven’t.” He paused. “Then again, your reputation’s reached the palace, too. Perhaps you deserve each other. A smuggler-lord and a fraud healer. Perhaps the plague will take her and give me my long overdue vengeance.”
Jonmarc didn’t bother with his sword. His right arm swung hard, connecting his fist with Gregor’s jaw before Gregor moved for his blade. Months of training against vayash moru opponents gave Jonmarc an edge in speed that few, if any, mortal opponents could match. Before Gellyr could move to break them apart, Jonmarc landed two more blows, easily dodging Gregor’s punches. He slammed Gregor against the wall and had a dagger drawn against Gregor’s throat.
“I don’t give a damn what you think. Carina’s my wife. No one speaks about her like that.”
Gregor spat blood from a split lip and laughed. “Princess Berwyn thinks you’re quite the hero. What would she think if she saw you now?”
“I’d think you were an ass, Gregor.” The voice came from the doorway. Berry stood framed in the entranceway, and her eyes glinted with anger.
“Your Highness.” Gellyr dropped to one knee. Jonmarc released Gregor and watched him warily as Gregor slumped more than bowed.
“Father sends you with a message, and this is how you represent the crown?”
“Your Highness, I did not mean-”
Berry made a disdainful gesture. All the coquettishness she had shown in the festival was gone, and everything in her manner left no doubt that she had been raised to rule. “I know exactly what you meant. I heard you from outside the door. Carina told me there were visitors from the palace.”
“You weren’t supposed to know.”
Berry’s fists were balled at her sides. “Not supposed to know my father is dying? Not supposed to prepare myself to take the crown if he doesn’t recover?”
Gregor flinched. “He didn’t want to worry you.”
“He’s my father. But he’s also the king. Not worrying me is a luxury we can’t afford.”
“He forbade you to return to the palace until… until he recovers or dies. He was adamant, m’lady. He does not want you to contract plague.”
Jonmarc could see the struggle on Berry’s face. “And as much as I want to go, that’s not a luxury we can afford, either. I will stay at Dark Haven… until we know how he fares.” She stepped closer to Gregor and Jonmarc stepped back.
“General, I command you to look at me.”
Gregor lifted his face. His lip was split. One eye was beginning to purple, and there was a small cut on his neck where Jonmarc’s blade had drawn blood.
“Jonmarc risked his life for me time and again. He rescued me from the slavers. He protected me on the road. He earned the right to be my Champion. He bears that title by order of the king. To question that is to question the king.” Berry had drawn herself up to her full height. Her voice, her words, and her bearing were unmistakably royal. Two years ago, Berry’s acting skills had saved her life, keeping the slavers from realizing just what a valuable prisoner they had taken. Now, Jonmarc realized how carefully Berry intentionally hid her upbringing to fit in at Dark Haven and to pass among the refugees without drawing attention to herself.
“I understand, Your Highness.”
“Here’s something else to understand, General. Lady Carina is a gifted healer. She told us what happened to your brother. I’m sorry for your loss. But she is a favorite of the king’s and of mine. You will not speak ill of her. And”-Berry paused for emphasis-“if letting the past go is too difficult for you, I can see about having you reassigned.”
“There is no need for that, Your Highness. I understand.”
Berry’s gaze was unyielding. “I hope so, General.” She drew a deep breath, and for an instant, Jonmarc could see the worry beneath her control. She turned to Jonmarc. “Neirin’s brought food for them and readied rooms so they can stay, since it’s late. But after this display, I wouldn’t fault you if they’re unwelcome.”
“They can stay.” Jonmarc resheathed his knife. “Just keep him the hell away from Carina.”
Berry held out her arm for Jonmarc to escort her, and he suppressed a smile at a gesture he knew was solely for Gregor’s benefit. After they had left Neirin’s office and were out of earshot, Berry took a deep breath. The fight and formality seemed to leave her, and she looked like a worried young girl.
“Do you think it’s true? Do you think he’ll die?”
Jonmarc winced at the despair he heard in her voice. She threw her arms around him and he held her close as though she were a frightened child. “Your father earned his reputation for stubbornness. He doesn’t give up easily. Even when I was just a merc, I heard stories about how he faced down raiders and fought off challengers to the throne. He’s tough.”
Berry struggled not to cry. “I saw how Mother’s death last year affected him. I don’t know how much of that fight he still has, with her gone.”
Jonmarc tipped Berry’s chin up to look him in the eyes. “He has you. I’m just getting used to the idea of being a father, but I know I’d battle the Formless One herself for Carina and my girls. Don’t borrow trouble.”
Berry sniffed back tears and wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she said, stepping back. “For everything.” She met Jonmarc’s gaze. “I’m glad you’re my Champion.”
Jonmarc managed a lopsided grin. “I’ll try to stop beating up your generals.”
That got a laugh from Berry, though tears glistened in her eyes. “I haven’t quite forgiven Gregor for the way he treated us when he threw us in the dungeon. But Father forgave him because he has a good record on the battlefield. We might need him. I think he’ll watch his tongue after this-if you didn’t break his jaw.”
Jonmarc rubbed his own bruised knuckles. “I wasn’t trying to, but then again, my last few fights have been with vayash moru. They don’t break as easily, so I’ve gotten in the habit of hitting harder.”
Berry sobered. “If we go back to the palace, I’d like you to bring Laisren, too. I know Gabriel will need to help Carina here at the manor, but I’d like you to have someone else you trust completely, and I’ve heard enough to know Laisren understands both court and the army.”
Jonmarc frowned. “Are you expecting a challenge?”
Berry shrugged. “Under normal circumstances, no. But look around. These aren’t normal circumstances, not with the plague and a lean harvest and the Black Robes kidnapping victims for Shanthadura. Now we find out Father’s made commitments to Eastmark and we don’t know what promises he made. It’s just a feeling I’ve had for a while now, like there’s a storm coming. I was hoping I was wrong, but now, with Father ill-”
Jonmarc laid his hand on her shoulder. “As Carina tells me all the time, don’t fight the battle until it’s time.” He forced a smile, although he was certain it did not fully reach his eyes. “I can still hear music playing. Carroway’s counting on his best patron to appreciate his performance. And I know Carina asked the cook to make the apple tart you like so much. So why don’t you go have some before it’s all gone?”
Berry mustered a wan smile. “Thank you. That sounds perfect. Maybe the wassail won’t be gone, either.” She stretched up on tiptoe to kiss Jonmarc on the cheek. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell Carina about Gregor. No need to open old wounds.”
“Thanks, Berry.”
“I’ll have them pour a brandy for you, so hurry back!”
Jonmarc watched her go and he took a deep breath. Down the corridor, he could hear Neirin leading Gellyr and Gregor to their rooms for the night. Principality had managed to remain
remarkably stable given the chaos that had been Margolan’s lot over the last few years. Staden’s reputation as a fair ruler with a firm hand had a lot to do with that. It was a bad time for the crown to pass to a young, untested heir, even one as bright and strong-willed as Berry. Despite the feast night and his own visions of the Dark Lady, it was not Jonmarc’s custom to pray. But just in case, before he returned to the feasting, Jonmarc lit a candle in Istra’s chapel beneath Dark Haven, for the health and soul of King Staden.
Chapter Fourteen
I don’t know how you get used to just riding up to the castle gates as if you owned the place.” Rhistiart rode alongside Cam. It was market day in the palace city, and down the long road that led to Aberponte, vendors cajoled and bargained with passersby to purchase all types of foods, housewares, and jewelry. Cam and Rhistiart maneuvered their horses carefully through the throng as children ran across their path and shoppers bumped and jostled their way through the crowd.
“Every now and then, I wonder at it myself,” Cam admitted. “You’ve seen Brunnfen. It’s hardly the center of the aristocratic world in Isencroft. ‘Backwater’ doesn’t seem to quite cover it. That used to stick in Alvior’s craw. The few times he went to court with Father, he came home fuming because he wasn’t dressed properly and he was ashamed. That didn’t go over well with Father. He was more practical. It didn’t matter to him whether he had the latest fashions or not. That’s probably one reason he and Donelan got on so well.”
They rode in silence the rest of the way. Cam kept trying to imagine just how he would break the enormity of Alvior’s betrayal to Donelan, and he hoped the king would maintain his usual practicality in his response. After all the blows he’d taken from his older brother over the years, Cam had no desire to bear the brunt of the king’s wrath for Alvior’s treachery. Rhistiart seemed to sense Cam’s mood and, for once, kept his songs and stories to himself.
They passed the lower guards with a cheerful greeting from the soldiers who recognized Cam and welcomed him back. Stable hands ran to take their reins as they reached the courtyard. Cam headed for the broad palace steps, and turned to see Rhistiart standing still.
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