Scrambling to his feet, Rory hurriedly ordered his ten-year-old brother, Sinjay, to take the little ones and run to Ma Baker’s house farther down the street. The soldiers weren’t paying them any attention. If anything, they were just getting underfoot. Nobody stopped the younger children fleeing the house. They were too interested in Patria. And Rory’s grandfather.
“So! A whore and her Hythrun lover, eh?” the soldier standing in front of Patria sneered, as two other soldiers struggled to hold on to her. Patria wasn’t going anywhere without a fight.
“He’s my grandfather, you idiot!” she snapped, and then spat at him to emphasise her point. A veteran of many spitting contests with her cousins, Patria’s aim was impressive and a gob of spittle slid down the soldier’s cheek. He wiped it away angrily and then backhanded Patria across the face for her trouble.
“Leave her alone!” Rory cried, aware how useless it was to rail against these men, but feeling he must. His temples were throbbing, his eyes watering with the pain building up in his head. “She didn’t do anything!”
“Not what we’ve been told,” the Guardsman with his boot on Warak Mariner’s face replied.
“Seems your little friend here was the last one to see Horrak alive. Just before someone dropped an anvil on his head.”
“Like I could even lift an anvil!” Patria scoffed, still struggling against the men who held her.
“Nobody could lift that anvil,” the soldier holding down Rory’s grandfather agreed. “No normal man, at any rate.”
“We figured it had to have been moved by magic,” the officer Patria had spat on explained.
“And then what d’ya know? We find out poor old Horrak’s last moments in this world were spent humping some cheap little whore who just happens to share her home with an old Hythrun posing as a fisherman. Seems pretty straightforward to me.”
The soldier standing over Warak bent down and dragged the old man to his feet. “We all know the Sorcerers’ Collective will do anything to get their filthy Hythrun tentacles back into Fardohnya.”
Patria looked at the Guardsmen in shock. “You think my grandfather is a spy for the Sorcerers’
Collective? You’re mad!”
“Don’t worry, Patria,” her grandfather advised with a resigned sigh. “I knew they’d find me eventually. I couldn’t keep hiding forever.” He turned to the officers. “You might as well let the girl go.
She knows nothing. It’s all my doing.”
Rory felt as if his head was going to rupture.
Their minds had been made up before they’d even burst through the door, so the soldiers needed no further convincing that Warak Mariner was the sorcerer they’d been looking for. But they weren’t going to let Patria go quite so easily. As they dragged his cousin towards the door, Rory cried out.
He’d only meant to object, he didn’t even try to do anything else, but with his anguished cry, his headache suddenly vanished and things started flying around the room. The stools by the fireplace, the pot hanging over the coals, blankets, cutlery—anything in the room that wasn’t nailed down was suddenly a missile. Rory had no control over his gift and no chance of directing the missiles. He just stood there as the maelstrom exploded around him and everyone ducked for cover.
It was obvious, even to the soldiers, who was responsible for the attack. Warak Mariner—the man they believed a sorcerer—was cowering on the floor, just like everyone else. Rory stood untouched in the middle of the chaos, his eyes wide and completely black, their whites consumed by the power he was inadvertently channelling. It lasted only a few moments, but it was enough. As soon as they could get clear, the soldiers fled the house.
And then it stopped, as suddenly as it had started.
Rory stared in confusion at what was left of his home. Patria and his grandfather slowly climbed to their feet, gazing at him warily.
“Rorin, lad?”
He looked at his grandfather blankly.
“Let it go, lad.”
Rory wasn’t sure what his grandfather meant, but the feeling of invincibility he’d been imbued with was rapidly fading. He looked around the room, shaking his head. “Did I do this?”
Warak nodded and gently took his grandson’s shoulder, studying him closely. “Aye, lad. You did.”
“Well, at least it got rid of the soldiers,” Patria said with a shrug. She didn’t seem all that surprised. But then, she’d seen an anvil flying through a wall, so maybe a few household objects didn’t impress her.
“It’s a temporary respite,” their grandfather warned. “They’ll be back, and in greater numbers, as soon as they can gather reinforcements.”
“I’m sorry, Grandpa.”
“It’s not your fault, Rorin. You can’t help what you are.”
“What are we going to do?” Patria asked.
“Get your cousin out of the city,” Warak replied. “Right now. Before they think to seal it.”
“They wouldn’t seal the city just to stop Rory,” Patria began sceptically. And then she stopped and looked around at the devastation surrounding them. “On second thoughts . . .”
“I’ll take him to the city gate,” the old man said. “You find the rest of your cousins and make your way to over Widow Marlin’s place. She’ll hide you all until I get back.”
Rory stared at his grandfather. “But I can’t leave Talabar! What about Pa?”
“I’ll explain it to your father when I get back. Right now, you have to get out of the city, Rorin.”
“But where will I go?”
“Hythria,” the old man replied heavily. “The only safe place for you now, my lad, is Hythria.”
That had been nearly a month ago. By living on his wits and honouring the God of Thieves every chance he got, Rory had been able to stay out of the clutches of the soldiers, but it was getting harder by the day. At first, he’d kept ahead of the news that he was a wanted man, but now those damn posters were cropping up everywhere. The likeness was a poor one, but the description was accurate and his blond hair rare enough to cause comment. He was still a couple of hundred miles from Westbrook and the safety of the Hythrun border, but even then he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He had nothing more than the name of a distant cousin in Greenharbour, who might or might not be willing to aid him. He wasn’t hopeful she would. His grandfather’s letter asking for help had been ignored, or her answer had arrived after Rory left the city. There was nothing to indicate this Luciena—assuming he could find her—would be willing to lift a finger to help him.
Rory didn’t have much choice, however, and thinking about it too much gave him a headache, which frightened him, because he was starting to associate those headaches with his uncontrollable magical talent. The last thing Rory needed now was to start hurling things around again. If he was going to do that, he might as well just go and sit in the town square with a target painted on his chest and wait for them to come for him.
With a sigh, Rory shouldered his pack and headed across the bridge as darkness closed in over the Jalanar Plains. If he didn’t think about it, he wouldn’t miss home too much. If he kept focused on the need to find a way to Westbrook, he could pretend he didn’t miss his father, or his brothers, or his grandfather, or even Patria. And if he tried hard enough, sometimes he could even pretend he wasn’t frightened.
As he reached the end of the bridge, Rory stopped suddenly. There was a poster stuck to the tall square pylon there. Wanted for murder, it proclaimed in large black letters that had smudged and run down the page in a recent rainstorm. Much of the rest of the poster was faded and unreadable, except for the word sorcerer.
That wasn’t what caught Rory’s attention, however.
What shocked him speechless was the little creature sitting on top of the pylon. It had large, liquid black eyes, grey wrinkled skin, and long drooping ears, and it was staring down at Rory as if it had been waiting for him to come along.
Rory stared up at the creature. He knew what it was. There
were pictures of demons painted on the walls of every temple he’d ever been in. But he’d never imagined he’d see one in real life.
“It’s rude to stare,” the demon told him. Its voice was surprisingly feminine and sounded rather peeved.
“Um . . . I . . . er . . .”
“A gifted wordsmith, I see.”
“Wordsmith?”
“Never mind,” the demon replied with a long-suffering sigh. “You can’t go into the town, boy, they’re waiting for you. I’ll show you another way around.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Lady Elarnymire,” the demon informed him, drawing herself up proudly. “Of the té Carn family. I was sent to keep an eye on you.”
“Keep an eye on me? By who?”
“By whom,” the demon corrected primly.
“Whatever. Did my grandfather have something to do with this?”
“Certainly not! I am an envoy of the Harshini, not some human fisherman.”
“The Harshini?”
“We’ll get through this faster if we dispense with the echoes, my lad.”
“But—”
The demon jumped off the pylon and landed in the dirt at Rory’s feet. “Just follow me,” Lady Elarnymire instructed. “And if you stop repeating every other word I say, I might even tell you who sent me.”
Chapter 13
Is it much further?” Luciena asked.
Marla opened her eyes. She had been dozing, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic rocking of the coach. She was tired from almost three weeks of forced inactivity, sitting in a coach each day as they travelled north towards Krakandar. It would be good to get home, just for the opportunity to stretch her legs.
“Another hour or two.”
“The last part of a journey always seems the longest,” her husband added, looking up from the book he was reading. He never slept in the coach, always seemed to be reading. It was a pose she had become accustomed to. Marla had never met anyone so well read as Ruxton Tirstone; it was certainly an unexpected boon in a commoner. But then, much about Marla’s fourth husband had proved to be unexpected, not the least of which was his intelligence and his wry sense of humour. She had expected neither.
Ruxton Tirstone was a spice trader, an unremarkable-looking man of average height with the sort of nondescript features that never seemed to settle in one’s memory on a first meeting. Ruxton was a self-made man, in his early forties, who owned the most comprehensive spy network on the continent.
He had agents from Yarnarrow far north in Karien, in Fardohnya, even at the Citadel in Medalon. Marla had wanted access to that network and after Luciena’s father, Jarvan Mariner, had died, she had set about finding a way to gain it.
She hadn’t planned to marry again. Three husbands by the time she was twenty-three had seemed quite enough for one lifetime. But when Elezaar approached Ruxton Tirstone on Marla’s behalf, the spice trader quickly realised he had something Marla wanted. He was newly widowed himself, with three children of his own whose futures he had to consider. He had a daughter, Rielle, he wanted to marry well and two sons, Rodja and Adham, who—even with his vast wealth—would never amount to anything other than merchants’ sons without the patronage of someone with Marla Wolf-blade’s impeccable connections. The common-born spice trader had held out for a wedding with the High Prince’s sister and, in the end, Marla had agreed. What he had was too valuable to allow it to fall into the hands of her enemies.
Strange, she reflected, how the most calculated and cold-blooded marriage I’ve ever entered into has turned into the most amiable. Laran Krakenshield had been a kind but distant husband. Her marriage to Nash Hawksword had been passionate and, for a short while, the happiest time of her life.
But good things rarely last and her second marriage had ultimately proved the most bitter and painful experience of all. As for Jarvan Mariner—Marla’s brief marriage to Luciena’s father had barely left a mark on her.
But Ruxton was different. Confident and astute, he knew his value to Marla and was unafraid of her influence. He had wealth independent of hers and did not seem intimidated by the power she wielded. And he had benefited enormously from the deal. A royal endorsement for his spices was something one couldn’t put a price on.
In keeping with their agreement, Marla had arranged for Rielle to marry Darvad Vintner, the Lord of Dylan Pass and a cousin of the Warlord of Izcomdar. Even that had been extraordinarily easy to arrange. As if Kalianah herself had blessed the couple, they had met at the races in Krakandar last summer and been instantly smitten with each other. A few words in the right ears and the trader’s daughter was soon promised to a Warlord’s cousin, because she also happened to be the step-niece of the High Prince. Ruxton’s sons, Rodja and Adham, would reap a similar benefit from their association with the Wolfblades. They were being raised in Krakandar, stepbrothers of the High Prince’s heir and receiving the same education . . .
At least they would be, Marla thought with a frown, if they hadn’t so willingly helped Damin, Narvell and Kalan drive one tutor after another from the palace with their pranks.
Still, she decided with a sigh of relative contentment, it has proven a very good arrangement for everyone. Ruxton Tirstone understood Marla’s obsession with keeping Hythria safe, just as he understood her obsession with keeping Damin and the twins safe from harm. As a stable economy was as important to his endeavours as it was to his wife’s, he aided her where he could, giving her unfettered access to the intelligence his spies gathered across the continent and beyond; intelligence from Karien, Fardohnya, Medalon and Hythria as well as the distant and vast southern continent, the secretive lands of the Denikans on the very edge of the Dregian Ocean. But most importantly, he supported Marla in whatever measures she took when it came to keeping their children safe. They had been married for five years now. Sometimes it felt like a lifetime. Other times as if it had happened only yesterday.
And every time I come home to Krakandar, my children have grown taller. Older. More distant.
“You’ll see them soon,” Ruxton remarked, glancing across at Marla, as if he knew what she’d been thinking.
“They always seem to have grown so big,” Marla sighed, as the carriage rattled on past the lush lowlands of Krakandar. She could tell they were almost home. The deep peaty brown soil of the south had given way to the fertile red soil of the north. The cattle were a deep red-brown, with dopey white faces and haunches fat with juicy marbled beef, not the ferocious black and white behemoths they preferred in the southern provinces, with their stringy meat and their tasteless offal. There were sheep more often now, too, as they travelled north, sitting on the lush grass and watching the large retinue trundle by. Their by-products of meat, wool, leather and parchment were staples of Krakandar’s prosperity, even more so since Mahkas had adopted the policy several years ago of encouraging breeding from ewes inclined to produce twin lambs.
There was just something about this place, Marla thought. The water here was clearer, the sky bluer and the grass greener. It was probably just her imagination, she realised; a subconscious need to believe that she had done the right thing to leave her children in Krakandar while she stayed in Greenharbour, covering for her brother’s incompetence.
“I’ve missed out on so much of my children’s formative years,” she remarked, still staring out of the carriage, “leaving them in Krakandar to be raised by Mahkas and Bylinda.”
“And they’re all still alive because of that decision,” Ruxton pointed out sympathetically. He put a finger between the pages to mark his place and closed the book he was reading. “Don’t keep beating yourself up over it, Marla.”
“Is the danger to the High Prince’s heir so extreme that you need to stay parted from your children for so long each year, your highness?” Luciena asked curiously. Three weeks of close confinement in a carriage with Marla and Ruxton had not yet put the girl at ease with her new family.
She still insisted on referring to Marla and Ruxt
on as “your highness” and “Master Tirstone” and questioned them often on the smallest details about Krakandar.
“The first time they tried to kill him, Damin was only four,” Marla explained, without elaborating about who “they” had been. She turned her attention back to the passengers in the carriage. “I won’t risk an attack succeeding.”
“My father once told me the worst thing about power was that it made people envious, and that once they envied you, avarice was the next dish on the menu.”
“Your father was a wise man,” Ruxton told Luciena. Then he smiled. “Although for a man who got rich trading on the misfortune of his fellow sea captains, the sentiment was probably a bit tongue in cheek.”
Luciena straightened in her seat, visibly offended. “My father was an honest man! He would never get rich trading on other people’s misfortune.”
“He traded on their ignorance more than their misfortune, probably,” Ruxton told her. “Your father acquired much of his shipping fleet by trading on the naivety of the Denikans. Jarvan Mariner’s voyages across the Dregian Ocean were quite legendary, in fact. He was one of the few who ever made it to Denika and back and managed to show a profit.”
Marla frowned at Ruxton for repeating such nonsense. It was hard enough winning the girl over without Ruxton impugning her beloved father’s memory. “Ruxton is only telling you part of it, Luciena.
But it’s true your father acquired much of his shipping fleet by backing the promissory notes on other vessels and then calling them in when their owners couldn’t pay after a particularly bad season. I don’t know that I’d go so far as to call that trading on other people’s misfortune. Or their ignorance. It’s a fairly sound and common business practice.”
“You have the black heart of a true merchant prince, Marla,” Ruxton observed with a wink in Luciena’s direction. “No wonder Hythria does so well under your guidance.”
“It’s probably the only reason I put up with you,” she responded tartly.
“She really is very fond of me,” Ruxton explained to Luciena. “Really.”
Warrior Page 12
