“So, that’s Mil,” Misha remarked as the sailors dug their oars into the water and they left the Orlando behind. His eyes were bright with the false well-being of the poppy-dust. He had just taken another dose, so, for the next couple of hours at least, he would be quite alert and rational.
“Not what you were expecting?” Dal Falstov asked from the stern. The captain had left the Orlando in Grigor’s care. There were other, more pressing matters to be seen to at the moment, than the relatively simple task of securing his ship.
“After all the stories I’ve heard about this place, I was expecting some huge black fortress with massive defenses, and reinforced towers and smoking gargoyles.”
Tia smiled. “Legends and rumors can be rather useful at times.”
Misha scanned the small village with interest. “You couldn’t defend this place against attack for more than a few minutes.”
“We know,” Tia agreed. “That’s why it’s so useful that everybody thinks we have a huge black fortress with massive defenses, and reinforced towers and smoking gargoyles.”
They beached the boat a few minutes later. There were several people waiting for them, wondering what had made the Orlando return so early. Dal sent one of the boys who came to meet them for Petra, the herb woman, to take care of Misha. When she arrived sometime later, she was leaning on the arm of an old man that Tia recognized as the man they had helped escape Elcast the night Morna Provin died.
“Master Helgin!” Misha declared in surprise when he saw the old physician. “What are you doing here?”
“Exactly the question I was about to ask you, your highness.”
“Take care of him,” Dal ordered the physician. “We’ll work out what to do with him later.”
Master Helgin nodded and led the way back down the beach toward the village, as Misha was carried between two sailors.
As Tia watched the prince being taken away, Porl Isingrin slipped down the black dunes toward them.
“Tia!”
“Hello, Captain,” she said as she turned to face him.
“Goddess! When we heard the news, we feared the worst. How did you get away?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Well, you can tell us up at the house. Lexie’s waiting for you.”
“Is Reithan here?”
“He will be soon. The lookout just spotted the Wanderer entering the delta.”
“Then we’d best get ready,” she warned. “We’ve got big trouble coming.”
Chapter 81
Dirk was wary of any summons to attend the Lion of Senet, particularly when it was delivered without warning, and required his presence on the terrace outside Antonov’s study. He had killed Johan Thorn on that terrace, and had no desire to revisit it in this lifetime.
Antonov was alone when Dirk arrived, sitting on the low marble balustrade, staring up at the night sky that was streaked with red, as if some giant animal had clawed a savage opening through the clouds.
“The beauty of the Goddess is everywhere we look,” Antonov remarked when he heard Dirk behind him. Then he turned to look at him. “Do you remember this place?”
“Very well.”
When Dirk offered no further comment, Antonov glanced at the paving, in the general direction of where Johan’s body had fallen. “They’ve never been able to completely remove the stain from the tiles.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps the next time I kill someone for you, I can do it without making quite so much mess.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, boy.”
“You sent for me, your highness?” Dirk replied. He wasn’t going to stand here and reminisce with Antonov. Not when it involved the killing of his own father.
Antonov remained seated, but turned on the balustrade until he was facing Dirk. “I wanted to speak to you about Alenor.”
Dirk was instantly on his guard. “Wouldn’t you be better served talking to Kirsh? He’s married to her.”
“But you’re her friend, Dirk. You two have always been close. And I know you visit her frequently. How does she seem to you?”
“I’m not sure if I understand what you mean, sire.”
“Does she seem happy to you?”
“She just lost her baby, and almost lost her life, your highness. It’s a bit much to expect her to be jumping for joy just yet.”
“I understand that, Dirk. It’s just she seems so . . . morose. She will barely speak to Kirshov, and my presence helps little. And the rumor that her miscarriage wasn’t an accident refuses to go away.”
Antonov sounded genuinely concerned. Was he afraid for Alenor, or merely impatient that she was not getting over her loss quickly enough? He was unashamedly impatient for an heir.
“Who would want to harm Alenor or her child?” Dirk asked, without giving any hint that he knew the answer.
“If I didn’t know better, I might think you were responsible,” Antonov replied, watching his reaction to the accusation carefully.
“Me?”
“You probably know enough herb lore to produce a concoction that would rid her of a child, and if Alenor dies without an heir, like it or not, you are the only other living Thorn besides Rainan.”
“If I wanted Alenor’s throne, your highness, all I need do is ask you for it.”
The Lion of Senet smiled. “Which is why I’m certain you had nothing to do with it. Still, the rumors concern me. As does her obvious depression.”
“Maybe she’s just homesick,” Dirk suggested, thinking that he might be able to do one small thing to aid Alenor. “That lady-in-waiting you have watching over her is worse than a drill sergeant. Perhaps if you allowed her own people to care for her, she might start to perk up a little.”
“Lady Dorra has done an excellent job with Alenor,” Antonov disagreed.
“Not if someone managed to slip Alenor an abortifacient, she hasn’t,” Dirk retorted.
Antonov was silent for a moment. He apparently had not thought of that. “Are you suggesting that it was Dorra?”
“Not at all. I’m simply suggesting that Dorra works for you, your highness, not for Alenor. Her first and only consideration is what you require of her. Alenor is merely a job to her. Get rid of the woman. Let Alenor send for some of her own friends from Kalarada until she’s well enough to return home. Unless you think she’s plotting against you, or you suspect she has a lover stashed away in the garderobe, there’s no need to watch her so closely. It can’t be easy for her—or Kirsh—to have someone constantly looking over their shoulders, especially during such a trying time as this.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Antonov conceded thoughtfully.
They were interrupted by Barin Welacin before Dirk could aid Alenor further. The Prefect of Avacas stepped out onto the terrace from the study and glanced at Dirk curiously, before bowing to Antonov.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, your highness,” he said, his mild-mannered, pleasant face creased with concern. “I’ve just received news from Tolace that I thought you would want to hear.”
“Is it Misha?” Antonov asked, with a certain degree of resignation. Dirk wondered if this was finally the news that Misha had died, which everyone seemed to be quietly expecting to be delivered at any moment.
“He’s not dead, your highness,” Barin hurried to assure him. “At least not that we’re aware. He’s missing.”
“What do you mean he’s missing?” Antonov snapped. “How can he be missing?”
“There was a fire in Tolace, your highness. Deliberately lit, it was discovered afterward. The fire was in one of the storage rooms of the Hospice, and far from your son’s accommodation. He was never in any danger from the flames. Afterward, however, there were only two people unaccounted for. One of them was Prince Misha.”
“And the other?”
“A Lady Natasha Orlando,” Barin told him. “From the duchy of Grissony in northern Senet.”
“Grissony? I’ve never heard of it.”
“That’s beca
use it doesn’t exist, your highness.”
“Then who was she?”
“Tia Veran,” Dirk said, not bothering to hide his smile.
Both Antonov and Barin Welacin looked at him.
“The Orlando name is a new twist,” he explained, “but she always goes by the name Natasha when she’s in Senet. If Misha is missing, your highness, the first place I’d be looking, if I were you, is the Baenlands.”
“Are you suggesting the Baenlanders have kidnapped my son?”
“Well, they’ve tried everything else they can think of to get at you.”
Antonov was silent for a moment, and then he turned to Barin. “Fetch Kirshov, and the High Priestess. And Palinov, too.”
“I’ll leave you then, sire, to deal with this...”
“The hell you will,” Antonov snorted. “You’ll stay right where you are, Dirk Provin. You’re the only person I have who has any reliable knowledge of these Baenlanders. It’s time to prove that you really are genuine in your desire to serve me and the Goddess.”
The High Priestess was the last to arrive, as she had returned to the Hall of Shadows and it took some time to get a message to her. She took a seat on the terrace beside Antonov, and listened carefully as Barin explained all that had happened, adding in the intelligence that Dirk had provided about the identity of Lady Natasha Orlando.
“Tia Veran?” Kirsh asked with concern. “How can you be certain it was her?”
Dirk thought he looked more than a little guilty. Since it was Kirsh that allowed her to escape, he was probably blaming himself for this. Or if not himself, then Dirk.
“It’s the sort of thing Tia would do,” Dirk informed them.
“Do you know this girl well, then?”
Dirk shrugged. “Reasonably.”
“Then where would she have taken him?” Barin asked.
“The Baenlands, of course,” he replied, his tone leaving no doubt about how stupid he thought the question was. “Where else would they go?”
“And you are certain you don’t know the way through the delta?” Antonov asked him, watching him closely.
“I swear by the Goddess, your highness,” Dirk lied smoothly, his face open and honest, his whole demeanor radiating sincerity. “I cannot tell you the way through the Spakan River delta.”
“Then we’ll have to find somebody who does,” Kirsh said, giving Dirk an accusing look.
“Anton, have you considered waiting until you receive a ransom demand?” Belagren suggested. “Perhaps the best way to deal with this is to wait until they contact us, and we find out what they want.”
“I will not deal with those pirates,” Antonov declared. “I don’t care if all they want is two sacks of flour and a milk goat. I will not trade with them.”
“Even if it means saving Misha’s life?” Dirk asked curiously.
“Even if it means that,” the Lion of Senet agreed harshly.
“The High Priestess’s suggestion does have merit, your highness,” Palinov ventured. “I mean, we all know how sick the prince is. There is no guarantee he will survive long in the care of the Baenlanders. Perhaps we should simply take a ‘wait-andsee’ approach?”
“You’re suggesting I simply leave my son to die, Palinov?”
“It’s a harsh way to put it, your highness, but yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
Antonov did not immediately dismiss the suggestion out of hand. Kirsh, however, exploded with fury at the idea. “Absolutely not!” he cried. “How dare you sit there and suggest that we leave my brother to die in the hands of those barbarians!”
“Settle down, Kirsh,” Antonov warned. “We must consider every possibility here, even the unpalatable ones.” Then he turned to Dirk. “What do you recommend we do, Dirk?”
“It’s not really my business, your highness.”
“I’m making it your business, Dirk. You know these people. What are they likely to do with Misha?”
“They won’t kill him,” he assured them. “At least, not deliberately. They may ask for a ransom, they may even insist you withdraw from Dhevyn.”
“They must know that will never happen, no matter what they threaten.”
“The more sensible ones will understand, but Tia’s more passionate about her cause than most. She won’t give Misha up for anything insubstantial.”
“It doesn’t matter what the ransom is,” Antonov repeated. “I will not pay it.”
“Then your only option is to launch a rescue mission,” Dirk advised. “If you won’t deal with them, then all you can do is go in and get Misha out yourselves.”
“But we don’t know the way through the delta,” Kirsh reminded him.
“Then you should pray to the Goddess for guidance,” Dirk replied. “Because I don’t see any other way for you to rescue Misha from Mil.”
Chapter 82
If Marqel had detested being taught to read by Dirk Provin, then being forced to memorize the complex instructions for sailing through the Spakan River delta was infinitely worse. Dirk refused to write them down, making her come to his room each evening to learn the next part, but only after he was satisfied that she remembered the previous night’s instruction without error.
She knew why he was doing it. He did not trust her, and by giving her the instructions piecemeal, he was preventing her from taking any action until he decided it was time. So she struggled to remember the landmarks and the turns, all the while cursing him for his attention to detail.
After nearly two weeks, Marqel had learned all but the last few instructions to Dirk’s satisfaction. She stood in the center of his room and repeated them back to him in a bored voice, then glared at him.
“Satisfied?”
“It’ll do. Although I hope you’re planning to put a little more enthusiasm into it when you speak with Antonov.”
“How am I supposed to do this, anyway?” she asked. “Just go up to him and say, ‘Excuse me, your highness, but I was chatting to the Goddess the other day and she told me how to get through the delta’?”
Dirk allowed himself a brief smile. “I think we can be a little more subtle than that. Can you cry on cue?” Then he laughed at his own foolishness. “Of course you can,” he scoffed, answering his own question. “You can magically make bruises appear, too, as I recall.”
“You want me to cry?”
“Being spoken to by the Goddess is a singular honor. You’re going to be very moved by the experience. And humbled, although that might be asking a bit much of you.”
“I can be anything you want.”
Dirk looked at her disdainfully. “There’s a line I’ll wager you’ve used a lot.”
“Jealous?”
“I thought we’d established how little I desire you, Marqel.”
“Do you really?” she asked curiously. In Marqel’s world there was nothing she could not achieve, nothing that was out of her reach, if only she was prepared to use her body to get it. It seemed unbelievable that Dirk Provin was not driven—at least in part—by the fact that she had chosen Kirsh over him. She stepped closer to him and smiled. “Is that why you chose me to do this thing?”
He shook his head at her in disgust. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You ought to know,” she reminded him, close enough now to reach out and take his hand in hers. He did not resist as she placed his hand on her breast and pressed it close.
“Don’t you remember what it was like, Dirk?” she whispered.
He nodded wordlessly, his hand sliding up until he was caressing her throat.
“I remember,” he said softly. Then his hand began to tighten around her windpipe. His metal-gray eyes bored into hers and suddenly she was afraid. “Now here’s something for you to remember. If you ever try something like this on me again, you will speak to the Goddess, Marqel. In person.”
He let her go with a shove. She staggered backward, gasping for air.
“You could have just said no!” she accused, rubbing her neck
where he had gripped her.
“You seem to respond so much better to threats,” he remarked in a conversational tone. “Let’s go over it one more time.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Still rubbing her neck with a petulant scowl, Marqel did as he ordered.
Marqel knew she wasn’t as clever as Dirk Provin, but she was not as stupid as he assumed. By the following evening, he had told her enough of his plan that she could judge its merits and flaws for herself.
Mostly, she didn’t have a problem with it. The only point on which she vehemently disagreed with Dirk was the fate of the High Priestess. Dirk wanted to see her humiliated. He wanted to glory in Belagren’s shame when she realized he had double-crossed her.
Marqel considered that an indulgence they could not afford. More specifically, an indulgence she could not afford. It was all right for Dirk Provin. He was protected by the knowledge he had about the upcoming eclipse, so Belagren would not dare harm him, but she could have Marqel’s life snuffed out in a moment.
Marqel did not actually dislike Belagren enough to care much whether or not she got to witness her disgrace and humiliation. All Marqel was concerned about was that she would be out of the way. Besides, it would be much more poetic—not to mention dramatic—if, on the same night the Goddess chose Marqel as her voice, the former holder of that salubrious position was taken to the Goddess’s bosom to sit at her right hand... or wherever she damn well wanted to sit.
Making her own modification to Dirk’s plan was easy.
Belagren suspected nothing. Marqel had stayed in the palace at Dirk’s request because he had found countless menial and useless tasks for her to undertake as his assistant. If the High Priestess thought it odd, she made no comment about it. If anything, the contempt with which Dirk always treated Marqel probably made Belagren think he was doing it out of spite, which she would understand and, in her current mood, probably tolerate indefinitely.
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