The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “Biagio, this is absurd,” snapped Jelena. “What is this all about? Explain yourself.”

  “It’s important,” Biagio repeated. “That’s all I can say.”

  “That isn’t enough. You expect us to trust you with one of our ships, and you won’t tell us why?”

  “I cannot,” said Biagio. “But there will be no danger to your ship. All I ask is that it take me to the Eastern Highlands. From there it can just drop me off and return to Crote or to Liss or wherever you say. But I must have transport or the deal is off.”

  “Biagio,” said Kasrin, “Tell me what this is all about.”

  Biagio ignored his captain. “Queen Jelena?” he asked. “What do you say?”

  “I said I will think about it, and I will,” replied Jelena. “And your request for a ship. When I have an answer, I will tell you.”

  “Very well,” said Biagio. He was disappointed by the response and did nothing to hide it. “But I urge you to think quickly. This is a time of strange alliances, my lady.”

  Jelena didn’t argue the point. For her, things were getting stranger by the minute.

  ELEVEN

  The Rising Sun had docked in Talistan two days before its scheduled arrival. The unexpected swiftness of their voyage was a godsend to Alazrian, who was pleased to see the rough shores of his home again. It had been months since he’d been to Talistan, and though it looked almost identical to Aramoor, it was different because it was part of him. He waited above deck while the sailors of the Rising Sun moored the ship with ropes and hoisted sacks of food up and down the gangplanks, getting ready for their next voyage. Elrad Leth was already ashore arranging a carriage to take them to the House of Gayle. Alazrian could see his father on the dock arguing with a carriage-man. Next to him, as always, was Shinn. Alazrian shook his head disgustedly. Nothing ever changed. Leth wasn’t even a blood relative of the royal family, but he still acted as though he owned the place.

  But it was good to be home again, and Alazrian decided not to let his father ruin his homecoming. He had expected to sail straight back to Aramoor, but Leth had detoured them to Talistan claiming urgent business with the king.

  I wonder what that could be, thought Alazrian.

  His things were packed and ready to go ashore, but Leth had told him to remain aboard until transport was arranged. Alazrian looked out over the dock. It was much larger than the one in Aramoor, full of interesting people and exotic smells. Not far from his father, Alazrian could see a gang of merchant shipmen arguing over a cat. Cats were everywhere on the docks, the only deterrent to the constant wave of vermin that poured off the ships. There were dogs too, but these were far less numerous, and sometimes caged birds could be seen along with other interesting animals, all being hauled on and off the merchant vessels to be sold as pets to imperial ladies. Alazrian watched it all with interest. The warm fingers of the sun caressed his face, making him yawn.

  “Going ashore now?” asked a voice.

  Surprised, Alazrian turned to see Kello. The man regarded him with a smile.

  “Yes,” said Alazrian guardedly. “I’ll be going as soon as my father arranges transport.”

  Kello nodded. “Well, you just take care of yourself, boy. I doubt I’ll be seeing you any more.”

  “Off again so soon?”

  “Not too far,” said Kello. “We’ll be heading back to Aramoor just as soon as we drop you off.”

  “Aramoor? What for?”

  The porter looked around, then took a step closer to Alazrian. “You’re a good boy,” he whispered. “So do yourself a favor, eh? Don’t ask so many questions. Your father has a temper, especially when he thinks folks are poking around.”

  “Kello, look, I—”

  “Alazrian!” shouted Leth. He was looking up at the ship, his expression cross. “Stop tongue-wagging and get down here. Bring your bags. I’ve got a carriage for us.”

  Alazrian muttered a curse. He wanted to talk to Kello, but the fellow was already backing away. He gave the boy a final, warning wink.

  “You heard me,” he whispered. “Just keep quiet.”

  “Kello …”

  “Alazrian! Damn it, boy, hurry up!”

  “All right!” shouted Alazrian. Kello departed, and all Alazrian could do was watch him go, puzzled by his warning. He picked up his bags, slung the heaviest one over his shoulder, and started for the gangplank. Leth was at the bottom waiting for him. His own bags were held by Shinn and an emaciated-looking tramp that Leth had obviously coerced for pennies.

  “Come along,” Leth ordered. “The carriage is waiting.”

  “Will it take us to the castle?”

  “Yes, but I have business with Tassis. I don’t want you pestering him. Let’s go.”

  Leth, Shinn, and their human mule walked off toward the end of the docks. Alazrian hesitated before following. He gave a last inquisitive look at the Rising Sun, trying to locate Kello on its deck, but the porter was nowhere to be seen, and so Alazrian hurried off after his father. Leth had been right about his desire to see his grandfather. Biagio had put a thousand questions in Alazrian’s head, and he had hoped to test them out on the king.

  Tomorrow, then, he decided. Or tonight.

  All he needed was some private time with his grandfather. They would talk and laugh together, discussing his trip to the Black City and all its many marvels, and when Alazrian thought he had the old man’s trust, he would lay traps for him. There was still the chance that Biagio was wrong. Didn’t he owe it to his grandfather to try and find the truth?

  They found the carriage at the end of the dock, an exceptionally clean vehicle for so seedy a section of the country. The driver was a stocky man, well-dressed in a riding coat and knee-high boots that he kept meticulously polished. His carriage had two horses, one cream-colored and the other murky brown, but the mismatched pair seemed healthy and strong. Alazrian reached out and scratched the cream horse’s nose, making its ears perk up. He wished they had travelled on horseback to Nar City, but Leth’s avoidance of the Eastern Highlands had scuttled that idea. It was just one more mystery Alazrian hoped to unravel.

  Elrad Leth watched impassively as the tramp stowed his bags on top of the carriage, then waited politely for his money. Shinn climbed inside the coach, but Alazrian waited for his father to pay the man. A single coin came out of his pocket, which the pauper happily accepted. Leth smiled, knowing he had gotten a ridiculous bargain, then noticed Alazrian staring.

  “Get in,” he growled.

  “Yes, sir,” Alazrian said, then followed Shinn into the cart. Leth gave the driver a few sharp directions, then entered the coach and shut the door behind him. A moment later they were off, heading west toward the lands of Alazrian’s family and the House of Gayle. Alazrian let his forehead fall against the window as the carriage moved away. His last glimpse of the Rising Sun lasted barely a minute before the ship disappeared behind a wall of buildings. Out in front of them was an endless stretch of farmland.

  Just like Aramoor, thought Alazrian. Only better.

  Better because it was familiar. It was home, the place he had been born and where his mother had raised him, and where he had played out his first adventures, a make-believe knight searching the forests for dragons. The House of Gayle had always been a fine place to visit, a veritable labyrinth for a small boy to explore, and the thought of seeing it again excited him. Besides, it wasn’t just the seat of Talistanian power. For Alazrian, it was where his grandfather lived.

  It would be a long ride to the castle. Even though it was on the shore, the House of Gayle was remote, a fair distance from anything of consequence. So Alazrian closed his eyes and tried to sleep, ignoring Leth as he conversed with Shinn about the countryside. Soon his father’s banter drifted into mumbles, and the rocking of the carriage lulled Alazrian to sleep.

  When he awoke again he was closer to the castle, close enough to recognize the farmland to the north and the outline of the sea to the south. They were on a road in the
middle of a plain, populated with trees coming into leaf and lush with spring grasses. This was his grandfather’s property, Alazrian realized quickly. Unlike the Vantrans, Tassis Gayle owned thousands of acres around his castle. More than just productive farmland, it was a buffer zone between the stronghold and any would-be enemies. Attacking the House of Gayle meant being out in the open. Alazrian supposed it was logical. His grandfather was king, after all, and had earned a reputation as a military leader. It made sense that he thought of everything in military terms.

  “Almost there,” mused Elrad Leth as he peered out the carriage window. “Thank God.”

  Leth was growing impatient, drumming his fingers on his knee. Obviously he needed to discuss what had happened to him in Nar, and to finalize the plans he was making with the king. Exactly what those plans were no one knew for certain, not even Biagio. But they were dangerous designs, and Alazrian knew he had a decision to make. He still didn’t want to betray his family, and he hoped his grandfather might inadvertently change his mind.

  Twenty minutes later, they sighted the House of Gayle. The limestone and brick structure stood on a green tor surrounded by a moat and a parade ground of trampled dirt. An overgrown garden of weedy wildflowers surrounded the southern facade, and a thick growth of lichens clung to the stones, climbing up to the pinnacle of the main tower. A drawbridge hung open over the stagnant moat, bidding entry through a dentate gate, beyond which waited a dusty courtyard. Soldiers drilled around the grounds, patrolling the castle in their green and gold armor, while at the peak of the structure flew a single flag, the charging stallion standard of Talistan.

  Alazrian grew eager as they approached the castle. Already horsemen were riding out to escort them, and soon Tassis Gayle’s army of slaves would descend, offering them baths and wine. And there would be food, too; fresh meat and bread and vegetables, all the things that were so rare and rationed aboard ship. Alazrian’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. It was good to be home again.

  The coach driver let the horsemen come alongside and guide him toward the castle. He exchanged a few words with the soldiers, but Alazrian couldn’t hear them over the squeaks and bumps of the vehicle. The castle grew until finally the horsemen led the carriage past the grounds and onto the drawbridge. When they drove beneath the spiked archway, a sudden darkness eclipsed the carriage, but only for a moment. When it passed they were in the courtyard, surrounded by the king’s servants. Alazrian recognized most of them, and the sight of so many familiar faces heartened him.

  The carriage came to a halt. Two slaves rushed up to the running board and opened up the doors. Leth wasted no time in getting out. He shouldered roughly past Shinn, almost knocking over the slaves in his haste to exit the coach. Alazrian followed him, then Shinn descended. Waiting for them were two of King Tassis’ advisors. Their names were Redd and Damot.

  “Governor Leth,” said Redd warmly. “Welcome home. We didn’t expect you back for another two days.”

  Leth nodded, bored with the pleasantries but courteous enough to endure them. “Thank a strong wind and a smart captain, I suppose,” he said. “It’s good to be back. I have business with the king. Have you told him I’ve arrived?”

  “Yes, Lord Governor,” replied Damot, his voice the twin of Redd’s. “The king is looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Good, because my business can’t wait,” said Leth. “Where is he?”

  “The king is in his drawing room,” answered Redd. “As I said, he is eager to hear of your trip to the Black City.” His eyes flicked toward Alazrian and he smiled. “And to see his grandson again.”

  “That can wait,” Leth said tersely. “I must speak to the king alone. It’s urgent.”

  “Very well,” agreed Damot. “Your business; is it about Dinsmore, by any chance? I should warn you—the king is livid about the affair.”

  “Dinsmore? What about him?”

  Redd and Damot exchanged troubled glances. “You haven’t heard, then?” asked Redd.

  “Heard what?”

  “Lord Governor, Viscount Dinsmore is dead,” said Damot. “He was assassinated by Jahl Rob and his Saints.”

  There was a terrible silence, and this time even Shinn seemed surprised. Alazrian felt a rush of shock, and Leth, who never took bad tidings with grace, began to redden like an apple.

  “Son of a bitch,” he rumbled. “Son of a bitch! When did this happen?”

  Redd thought for a moment, then said, “A week ago, I think. It happened at the Tollhouse. And not just Dinsmore either, but nine other soldiers. It was a massacre, Lord Governor. A dark day, truly.”

  “No,” seethed Leth, storming away from them all. “It will be a dark day for Jahl Rob!”

  When he was gone, Alazrian leaned against the carriage shaking his head in astonishment. “Assassinated,” he whispered. “I don’t believe it.”

  He watched his father disappear into the castle. Somehow, he didn’t think it would be wise to follow.

  Alazrian waited until the following morning before seeing his grandfather. Instead of fretting over his audience with the king, he spent the evening in his chambers taking advantage of the comfortable bed and the hospitality of the slaves. Exhausted from his voyage back from Nar City, he slept soundly and dreamlessly, and when he finally awoke it was a new day, full of spring sunlight. He dressed quickly and hurried downstairs to the breakfast he knew would be waiting. Weather permitting, Tassis Gayle always took his breakfast on a stone porch overlooking the ocean at the back of the castle. He would be there already, spreading jam on his biscuits and waiting for his grandson. Hungry from his long slumber and anxious to see the king, Alazrian took the steps two at a time, flying down the spiral staircase and passing servants with a courteous “good morning.” Near the kitchens he smelled breakfast cooking and heard the rattle of pots and pans. It was a big castle and feeding so many slaves and staff took effort. Alazrian slowed as he passed by the kitchens, careful not to collide with anyone. He saw Redd swipe a confection from the warming stove. The advisor spotted Alazrian, offering a sheepish shrug.

  “Master Leth,” said Redd through a mouthful of pastry. “Your grandfather is taking breakfast out on the balcony. He’d like you to join him.”

  “Thanks,” replied Alazrian. “I will.”

  The balcony was close to the kitchens, past a cooling corridor and through an archway. Alazrian saw the bright morning beckoning beyond the arch, and spotted his grandfather sitting at an intricately molded iron table, sipping a cup of tea. An elaborate spread of meats and breads covered the tablecloth. A collection of jam jars glinted colorfully in the sunlight. The king was obviously expecting guests, for there was more food than one man could comfortably consume in a week, but Tassis Gayle was alone at the table, a stroke of luck Alazrian hadn’t expected.

  “Grandfather, good morning,” said Alazrian as he stepped onto the porch. “It’s good to see you.”

  Tassis Gayle quickly lowered his teacup and rose, beaming when he saw his grandson. “Alazrian, my boy!” He came around the table to embrace the boy warmly. “How was your trip to Nar City? It’s something, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, it is indeed,” agreed Alazrian, laughing. “Really, it’s like nothing I ever imagined. It’s so …” He shrugged. “Big.”

  Tassis Gayle chuckled. He looked vital in the morning light, invigorated by the fresh air and the appearance of his grandson. His hands on Alazrian’s shoulders made the boy flush. He looked into the old man’s eyes and saw nothing there but the deepest affection—and that omnipresent touch of mania.

  “Breakfast,” said the king, sweeping his arm toward the table. “You remembered, eh?”

  Alazrian smiled. “Of course I remembered. I’ve been looking forward to it. The food we got on ship was, well, less than great.”

  Tassis Gayle frowned. “My slaves fed you last night, yes?”

  “Oh yes. They took care of me, Grandfather, believe me. I shouldn’t be as hungry as I am.”

  “
Well then, eat,” bade the king. He took his chair again and gestured for Alazrian to sit beside him. Alazrian did so at once and instantly a slave materialized from the corner of the balcony, setting a plate down before him and covering his lap with a cloth napkin. The smartly dressed servant poured him tea without being asked, but all the attention made Alazrian uncomfortable. He had never gotten used to having slaves serve him. But he let the man finish, grateful when he finally returned to the corner to wait like an unseen statue.

  “So, tell me,” said the king as he forked a stout sausage onto his plate. “How did it go?”

  “Didn’t Father tell you?” Alazrian took a sip of the tea and watched his grandfather over the rim of his cup. “He met with you last night, didn’t he?”

  “Politics,” grumbled Gayle. “That’s all your father and I ever talk about. I want to know what happened to you in Nar. What did you do? Did Dakel treat you well?”

  “Very well,” said Alazrian. “I had my own room in the Tower of Truth. It was magnificent. It overlooked the entire city!”

  His grandfather sighed. “It’s some city, indeed. Been a long time since I’ve seen it, but I bet it hasn’t changed much.” He cut off a chunk of the sausage and stuffed it into his mouth, eating with relish as he reached for the plate of biscuits. “And the Black Palace—what did you think of that?”

  He held out the plate of biscuits for Alazrian, who chose one carefully.

  “Thank you,” said Alazrian. “Yes, I saw the palace. Hard not to. It’s the tallest building in the city.”

  “Taller than God,” commented Gayle. “High enough to catch clouds.” He smiled at his own joke. “And what about the women, eh?” The king looked around, pretending to be secretive. “You can’t even walk down the street without being propositioned.”

  Alazrian felt himself blush, remembering the young woman he had encountered on the way to the library. Suddenly he was happy to be with his grandfather again. He never talked like this with Elrad Leth. But just as quickly his happiness turned sour. Soon he would betray the king. He took a bite of his biscuit, but its sweetness did nothing to bury his shame.