Warrior

by Jennifer Fallon

  “So, how did your little excursion to the Mariner house go?” Elezaar asked as Xanda caught up with him. He resumed his waddle towards the main house with Xanda at his side. The townhouse courtyard was quite busy this afternoon, filled with the departing guards who had just escorted Marla back from the palace, several hawkers waiting for the head steward to inspect their wares near the kitchen gate, and a couple of slaves beating a rug from one of the upper rooms with lazy, uninterested strokes.

  “She refused the invitation,” Xanda told him, panting a little from the exertion. It was hot this afternoon. And humid. In his smart dress uniform, Xanda would be feeling the heat even more than Elezaar.

  The dwarf wasn’t surprised. “Just as your aunt predicted she would.”

  “You’d think . . .,” Xanda began, then he hesitated and looked across the walkway to where the Palace Guards were remounting in preparation for their return to the palace.

  The captain in charge of the detail, Elezaar noted with interest, was Cyrus Eaglespike. Alija’s son.

  “I’d think what?” he prompted, doubtful Cyrus could hear them.

  The young man shrugged. “I don’t know . . . that she’d be a little more grateful, I suppose. I mean, it’s not every day Aunt Marla offers to take in someone’s baseborn child and give them a name.”

  Elezaar smiled. Xanda had a rather romantic outlook on life that no doubt had much to do with the fact he was only seventeen. “I’m not sure Luciena Mariner would see your aunt’s actions in quite the same generous light, Xanda.”

  They had reached the main building. Xanda opened the door for the dwarf and then followed him to Marla’s study on the ground floor. Elezaar knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply.

  Marla was sitting on the cushions by the low table, sipping a glass of chilled wine, a thoughtful expression on her face. She was twenty-nine years old now, in the prime of her life, confident, beautiful and sure of her power. Her fair hair hung straight and trimmed to shoulder length, a fashion the princess had inadvertently set last year when, in a fit of pique on a particularly humid day, she had chopped off her long hair, annoyed by the time she wasted having it dressed each morning. Within a month, there was barely a woman in Greenharbour who hadn’t followed suit.

  Looking at her now, at how she had grown from a foolish girl into the most powerful woman in Hythria, the dwarf felt a surge of affection for his mistress. He had never been so fortunate in an owner and knew he would never be so lucky again. For that reason alone, he would have committed cold-blooded murder for her, if it meant staying by her side.

  “How did it go?” she asked Xanda as he and Elezaar crossed the large room to the table where she sat. Marla’s townhouse was barely a stone’s throw from the High Prince’s palace and his garden on the roof of the west wing, where he indulged in most of his perverse pleasures. There were no murals here, or statues of couples caught in improbable embraces. Just a long, carved and gilded table where Marla worked, a stack of documents awaiting her signature and the comfortable low table with its bright cushions where Marla was sitting. The only item in the room that gave any hint of the power this young woman wielded was the High Prince’s seal, which sat on the table next to a candle, and a half-used stick of red sealing wax.

  “Luciena Mariner refused your invitation, your highness,” Xanda told her, sounding a little peeved. “She was pretty snide about it, too.”

  Marla was unsurprised. “I imagine she thinks I broke my promise to her father. How did she seem?”

  “Angry.”

  “Was that all?”

  Xanda took a moment to reply. “I think she was frightened, now I come to think of it.”

  “Of you, Xanda?” Marla asked with a smile. “Good gracious, boy, what did you say to her?”

  “It wasn’t anything I said, your highness. I think she has other problems. I only saw one slave in the house and the walls were missing a number of paintings. Most of the rugs and quite a bit of the furniture were gone too.”

  “Debt problems?” the princess asked, turning to Elezaar.

  “I’ll look into it,” the dwarf promised.

  “Do that,” Marla said, taking another sip of wine. “And if she is in debt, find out who holds the promissory notes. How did your meeting go with Tarkyn Lye?”

  Tarkyn Lye was the court’esa belonging to Alija Eaglespike, the High Arrion of the Sorcerers’

  Collective, and the most senior member of the High Arrion’s household. As Elezaar’s counterpart in the enemy camp, the blind court’esa could be relied upon to provide as much misinformation about his mistress’s movements as he could possibly manage.

  “He assures me the High Arrion will be leaving for her husband’s estates in Dregian Province at the beginning of summer, along with the rest of his retinue.”

  “Do you believe him?” Xanda asked.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I,” Marla agreed. “Have a message sent to the High Arrion inviting her to accompany the High Prince in the public parade through the streets of the city when he also departs for the Retreat Season. Inform the High Arrion that Prince Lernen firmly believes such a gesture will reassure the citizens of Greenharbour of the close and abiding goodwill between the High Prince and the Sorcerers’

  Collective and that his highness would be further honoured to have her accompany him to the border.”

  “You’d have the High Arrion accompany the High Prince to the border?” Xanda asked, sounding a little surprised. He was a member of the family and, on principle, trusted nobody who wasn’t.

  Marla shrugged. “Alija either agrees to accompany my brother to Naribra before heading home to Dregian so I can be certain she’s left the city, or she refuses and publicly insults him.”

  Xanda smiled. “That’s rather sneaky of you, Aunt Marla.”

  Elezaar nodded his agreement. “Alija’s too good a politician to do the latter over something as trivial as a street parade. Once she’s gone, Tesha Zorell will be effectively in charge of the Collective until the end of summer and we can breathe a little easier for the next three months.”

  “You’re lucky we have a Lower Arrion you trust.”

  Marla laughed sceptically. “I don’t know that I trust Tesha all that much, Xanda. I just know she’s not as ambitious as Alija. That makes her much less trouble.”

  Marla’s restraint in her dealings with Alija Eaglespike never ceased to amaze the dwarf. Alija had been the lover of Marla’s second husband, Nash Hawksword, right up until he died. She may even have been involved in the first attempt to assassinate young Damin when he was barely four years old (and who knew how many attempts since then). A man would have called her out, demanded an opportunity to defend his honour, gone to his grave rather than stomach such an insult.

  But not Marla Wolfblade.

  In all the time Marla had been here in Greenharbour, effectively ruling the country in her brother’s name, the dwarf had never seen her falter; never seen her give even the slightest hint she knew of the affair or suspected Alija of being behind any plot to kill her son. The High Arrion assumed she and Marla were friends, that the princess relied on her counsel. Nobody but her closest family and allies knew Marla was simply biding her time, waiting with the patience of a spider for Alija to falter.

  When the blade falls, Alija won’t even see it coming.

  And neither, Elezaar fretted, would he, because of Marla’s admirable, but infuriating, willingness to wait. It sometimes drove Elezaar to distraction. He often wished he could find a way to prompt her into action. Marla had plenty of reasons to seek revenge, but every time he reminded her of it, she would calmly remind Elezaar that Damin was still a boy. Marla Wolfblade was prepared to wait and do nothing about Alija Eaglespike until the day he turned thirty, if it ensured her son grew up to be the High Prince she was hoping for.

  Which is a fine and noble sentiment, the dwarf thought, except it robbed Elezaar of the only thing he wanted out of life—with t
he possible exception of staying close to Princess Marla. Revenge. For Crysander. For my brother.

  “Speaking of Tesha,” the princess added, “I need to talk with Wrayan when I get to Krakandar.

  Tesha’s looking to retire soon and I’d like his opinion on her replacement.”

  Elezaar shook his head, frowning at the notion. “You’re going to consult the head of the Krakandar Thieves’ Guild about who should replace the Lower Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective?”

  “Wrayan Lightfinger was the High Arrion’s apprentice for ten years, Elezaar. He knows the likely candidates better than anybody. And he has no vested interest in who gets the job. His is about the most reliable opinion around.”

  “And has it occurred to you, your highness, that you have no say over who replaces Tesha when she retires, either?”

  It was Marla’s turn to smile. “Of course I have a say. I’ll just take Alija aside and ask her to promise me that whoever I have privately chosen for the position of Lower Arrion doesn’t get the job, because I believe they have hidden loyalties to the Patriot Faction.”

  “How does that help?” Xanda asked.

  “Alija will promise to do her best to keep my candidate out of the job, Xanda. I’ll pretend to be pathetically grateful. Alija will make certain the candidate she now believes is secretly one of her Patriots is appointed, and then she’ll come to the palace and apologise profusely for not being able to prevent it. I’ll accept her heartfelt apology and assure her that I know she has the best interests of the High Prince at heart, and thank her for everything she tried to do for me. She’ll go away thinking I’m an idiot and we’ll all be happy.”

  “I don’t think anybody in Hythria makes the mistake of thinking you’re an idiot, Aunt Marla. Not any more.”

  “I miss that, actually,” she said, placing her wineglass on the low table. “I used to get things done with much less fuss when people didn’t stop to wonder why I was doing what I was doing.”

  “Ah, the good old days, eh?” Elezaar chuckled.

  Marla smiled. “Will you follow up on Luciena’s debts, Xanda? Elezaar will be able to tell you what the problem is in a day or so. I’ll leave you to take care of it as you see fit. You have my permission to use the Palace Guard if things look like they’re getting out of hand. I have rather a lot invested in that girl. I really don’t want anything to happen to her.”

  “I’ll take care of it, your highness.”

  She smiled and offered him her palm. Xanda kissed it with a bow and let himself out of the office.

  “He’s growing into quite a charming young man,” Marla remarked with satisfaction.

  “At least, you hope Luciena Mariner thinks so,” the dwarf amended.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Fool,” she sniffed, quite offended by what he was implying.

  He stared at her with his one good eye. “You’re not hoping the notion of the dashing young lieutenant coming to her rescue will prompt Miss Mariner into looking favourably upon your nephew as a potential husband, then?”

  “That’s a wicked thing to suggest!” the princess replied, full of wounded indignation. “As if I would ever try to manipulate people like that!”

  Elezaar smiled fondly at his mistress. “Of course not.”

  Marla looked at him, concerned. “Do you think Xanda sees through me as easily as you do?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about your nephew, your highness. He’s seventeen, which means he’s far too full of raging lust and bravado to take much notice of anything you’re doing.”

  The princess laughed. “Well, that’s a relief! Have you made arrangements for my meeting with Corian Burl?”

  “Everything is as you requested, your highness.”

  Corian Burl was the High Prince’s chamberlain, but he belonged, heart and soul, to Marla.

  Originally a court’esa, he was one of the men who had trained Elezaar and his brother Crysander in their youth. Too valuable to waste, when he reached the end of his useful life as a court’esa, Corian had been sold to a family in Pentamor Province, where he served as the estate’s Chief Steward until the owner died and the son inherited the estate. Anxious to make his own mark on the world, the son had sold off a number of his father’s older slaves, Corian Burl among them, around the same time Marla Wolfbade had realised she needed somebody she could trust implicitly to run the palace and the High Prince’s affairs when she returned to Krakandar each year for three months to spend time with her children.

  Hearing his old master was up for sale, Elezaar had brought Corian to her attention. That was the day Elezaar realised just how much the pupil had exceeded the master. Rather than buy him outright, Marla had left Corian to sweat in fear in the slave pens of Greenharbour’s markets for nigh on a month. It was only at the last moment, as the hammer was about to fall, that her agent made a bid for the old man. Concerned by her heartless disregard for the old man’s welfare, Elezaar had asked the princess why, if she was planning to take his advice and purchase Corian Burl all along, had she left the old man to suffer in the slave pens.

  “Because I want him to be grateful to me,” Marla had replied. “And I want him to remember what awaits him if he crosses me.” Then she had smiled thinly and added, “Besides, if I’d expressed an interest in him any sooner, the price would have gone through the roof at auction. I have learned something being married to a common trader, you know.”

  Yes, Elezaar thought, you have long ago surpassed your teacher, your highness. You even scare me sometimes.

  “I can’t wait to get this business with Luciena settled and get home to Krakandar,” the princess was saying as Elezaar dragged his attention back to her. “I miss the children so much. Whoever came up with the idea of the Retreat Season really was a thoughtful soul.”

  “It was Damin,” Elezaar told her.

  “Damin?”

  “Damin the Wise,” he explained, unable to break the habit, even after all this time, of falling into the role of her tutor whenever the opportunity arose. “Or Damin the First, depending on who you ask.

  The High Prince your son was named after. Apparently, he was concerned the Warlords spent too much time at court and not enough time seeing to their own estates, so he banned them from the capital over summer. It got them out of the city and back to their own provinces in time for the harvest; meant nobody could really move on anybody else politically for a few months of the year—although he wasn’t averse to the odd border skirmish to keep his Warlords on their toes, I gather; and it gave him a perfectly legitimate excuse to retreat to his own estates in the Naribra Valley and escape Greenharbour’s humidity during the rainy season.”

  “A wise ruler, indeed,” Marla agreed.

  “Let’s hope his namesake proves just as astute.”

  “Well, he’s certainly proving inventive,” Marla reminded him with a frown. “According to Mahkas’s most recent letter, between Damin, the twins and the Tirstone boys, they managed to convince their last tutor the Krakandar Palace is haunted. He fled the palace a gibbering wreck, by all accounts.”

  “A situation Lord Damaran apparently did nothing to prevent,” Elezaar pointed out disapprovingly. He distrusted Marla’s brother-in-law for no reason he could ever pin down. There was just something about him that hinted at dark secrets Elezaar would dearly like to discover.

  Marla recognised his tone and shook her head. Over the years, they had arrived at a point where they now just agreed to disagree about Krakandar’s Regent. “Mahkas has never let me down, Elezaar.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I can’t understand why you don’t like him. He’s doing a fine job as Regent. The province has never been in better shape.”

  “So he claims.”

  She smiled at his scepticism. “I’m far too wily to merely accept Mahkas’s word for it that he’s doing a good job, Elezaar. I do have other sources, you know.”

  “Did your other sources tell you about the raid into Medalo
n last year that almost cost us another war with the Defenders?”

  She sighed. “If you mean the raid in which several of our men were ambushed, killed and then cremated in a deliberate act of provocation by a gang of Medalonian thugs, then yes, I heard about it.

  Mahkas did what he had to in order to deter such foolishness in the future.”

  “He crucified a whole family of farmsteaders, your highness, including the children.”

  “He got his point across, Elezaar. Just because his methods are not those you or I would employ doesn’t make them any less effective.”

  He shook his head, frowning. “I can’t believe you’re willing to defend such barbarity, your highness.”

  “The Medalonians cremated our dead,” she reminded him. “They burned our men like rotten sides of beef. Surely you’re not suggesting such a sacrilege should have been let go unpunished?”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting his punishment was just?”

  Marla sighed wearily. They’d argued over this so many times. “I’m not trying to defend him, Elezaar, nor do I like what Mahkas did. I’m simply saying there’s nothing I can do about it. Mahkas is Regent of Krakandar and he protects my son and his inheritance as if he were Damin’s own father. I’m not going to jeopardise that arrangement because he does the odd thing I disapprove of.”

  “If he’d done it ten years ago, when Palin Jenga was on the border in command of the Defenders, we’d never have got off so lightly,” Elezaar warned, wishing the princess could see past her brother-in-law’s devotion to her son and recognise some of his faults as well. “That we’re not at war with Medalon over that incident has more to do with their own internal problems than fear of Mahkas Damaran.”