Warrior

by Jennifer Fallon

  “It’s better this way.” Marla sipped her wine and then smiled at him. “But never fear, Alija’s time will come. And if I can arrange it, I’ll be more than happy to have you aid me in her downfall.”

  “Just give me the time and place, your highness,” Wrayan said with unexpected ferocity. “If you’re going to take that bitch down, I want to be there.”

  Marla smiled and raised her glass in his direction. “To strange alliances, Wrayan.”

  Wrayan picked up his cut-crystal glass, leaned forward and raised it to clink softly against hers.

  “Strange alliances,” he said.

  Chapter 21

  It was late afternoon before Wrayan got back to the Pickpocket’s Retreat. As he rode through the crowded streets of the Beggars’ Quarter he surveyed his own little kingdom and smiled, thinking he probably ruled as much of Krakandar as Mahkas Damaran.

  He ruled the night, at least.

  Since returning home eight years ago, with his reputation as a thief in Greenharbour preceding him, he’d been marked as the natural heir to the Thieves’ Guild leadership. Four years later, when old Dasha Larenan died at the hands of his much younger wife, who was looking for the fortune she was sure the old man was hiding from her, there was barely a voice raised in protest about his successor.

  Wrayan’s father, Calen Lightfinger, had been renowned as the best pickpocket in all of Krakandar while he was alive, and Wrayan had powerful friends that nobody in the Guild could match. Nor did they try. It wasn’t even a merit thing. Wrayan knew he got the job because even professional thieves appreciated that you simply couldn’t do better than a Sorcerers’ Collective–educated burglar with the nickname

  “Wrayan the Wraith” who enjoyed the protection of the High Prince’s sister.

  The stable boy from the Pickpocket’s Retreat came out to take his horse. Wrayan handed him the reins and a copper rivet for his trouble, and entered the inn through the back door, which led into the kitchens. The cooks were getting ready for the dinner crowd and barely noticed Wrayan as he threaded his way past the benches to the door that led into the taproom. A couple of the kitchen boys waved to him as he passed, and he waved back. He didn’t linger in the stifling heat of the stoves. More than anything, he wanted to get out of his palace finery before too many people saw him dressed in such a fashion and started asking why.

  As he entered the dimly lit taproom, he heard Fyora laughing before he saw her. She was sitting across the room by the unlit fireplace, on the knee of a tall, dark-haired stranger, clutching a foaming tankard of ale. Although he couldn’t see the newcomer’s face, Wrayan knew instantly, and without a shadow of a doubt, who it was.

  “Found a new friend, have you, Fee?” he asked, coming up behind them.

  Fyora looked over her shoulder, still laughing. When she realised who it was, she scrambled to her feet and hastily began to load up her tray, trying to give the impression she was simply there to clear the table, not sharing a drink with a potential client. “Umm, Wrayan . . . I didn’t . . . I mean, I wasn’t . . .”

  The dark-haired man burst out laughing, although it sounded a little forced, as if he was determined to have a good time regardless of what was happening around him. “Don’t tell me this is the boyfriend you were warning me about, Fee?”

  The stranger had obviously been flirting with her long enough to learn her name. And Fyora was lapping it up. She only allowed people she really liked to call her Fee.

  “No! I mean . . . sort of . . .”

  “Party’s over, Fee,” Wrayan informed her, sensing something strange in the newcomer. “Go find somebody else to wait on.”

  Looking mortified that she may have ruined her chances (with either Wrayan or the newcomer—he wasn’t really sure), she fled the table in the direction of the kitchens.

  “That was a bit harsh. We were just getting close, too.”

  Wrayan shook his head, wondering if his idle promise to introduce Fyora to a real Harshini had been some sort of unconscious premonition. He took the stool opposite and studied the Halfbreed. He hadn’t changed, nor had he aged a single day since Wrayan had seen him last, but there was something odd about him. An air of darkness, even despair, which seemed completely out of character.

  “You’re back.”

  Brak took a swig from the tankard, then slammed it onto the table. “You haven’t lost your talent for stating the glaringly bloody obvious, I see.”

  Wrayan stared at him curiously, wondering at the Halfbreed’s sudden appearance. “What are you doing here, Brak?”

  “Can’t I just drop by and visit an old friend?” Brak finished off his tankard and picked up the one Fyora had abandoned. “I hear you’re the head of the Thieves’ Guild now. Congratulations. Dace must be beside himself with happiness.”

  “Haven’t spoken to him for a while. What about you?”

  “The God of Thieves only talks to me when he wants something. Is Fee really your girlfriend?”

  “She likes to think she is. Stop changing the subject. Why are you here?”

  “What?” Brak asked, looking quite wounded. “No pleasantries first? No ‘how are you, Brak?’ No

  ‘what have you been up to all these years, Brak?’ No, ‘how are the folks back home, Brak?’ ”

  Wrayan smiled as he thought of Sanctuary. “How are the folks back home, Brak?”

  Brak’s expression darkened and he hesitated before he answered. “Same as always. Shanan misses you.”

  “I miss her,” Wrayan replied, thinking it was Shananara té Ortyn’s fault that he would never be satisfied with a human woman. “What brings you to Krakandar?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone like you.”

  Wrayan glanced over his shoulder to see who was within earshot before he answered. “Like me?”

  “Yeah, you know what I mean: big, pretty, dumb . . .”

  “Very funny.”

  Brak also looked around to see who might overhear them before he added, quite seriously,

  “With ancestors that weren’t all human.”

  Wrayan leaned back on his stool and studied the Halfbreed warily. “There’s someone else with .

  . . my ancestry? How do you know?”

  “The ‘folks back home’ felt him touching the source. We thought it was you, at first, and then I realised it couldn’t be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because what we felt was coming from Fardohnya.”

  “Then why are you here?” Wrayan asked. “If this person is in Fardohnya, wouldn’t you be better off looking for him in Fardohnya?”

  “I thought you might like to come with me.”

  Wrayan laughed aloud at the very idea. “To Fardohnya? Are you mad? I can’t leave Krakandar.

  I’m the head of the Thieves’ Guild.”

  “It’ll get along without you for a few weeks, won’t it?”

  “That’s not the point, Brak. I have responsibilities.”

  The Halfbreed took a swallow from Fyora’s tankard and then looked at him closely. “I need you on this, Wrayan.”

  “You don’t need anyone, Brak.”

  “No, this time, I really do need you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the only safe place for this . . . person is in the Sorcerers’ Collective in Greenharbour.

  Once I find him, I need you to arrange that for me.”

  “You can arrange it yourself.”

  He shook his head. “You expect me to walk up to the front door of the Sorcerers’ Collective, announce that I’m the fabled Brakandaran the Halfbreed, that I’ve found a Fardohnyan with magical ability who I’ve kidnapped and brought illegally across the border?” He put his hand to his ear as if he was listening for something. “I can already hear the Sisterhood gathering for the next purge up in Medalon.”

  “Don’t you think I’ll get the same reaction if I walk up to the front door of the Sorcerers’

  Col
lective and announce that I’m the long-lost Wrayan Lightfinger and that I’ve found a Fardohnyan with magical ability that I’ve kidnapped and brought illegally across the border?”

  “Ah, but you have connections in high places, Wrayan. I hear you and the High Prince’s sister are very cosy.”

  “What I have, Brak, is a burning desire to stay well clear of Alija Eaglespike and anything to do with the Sorcerers’ Collective. I certainly don’t want to hand her another magician so she can fry his brains when she decides he’s too big a threat to her.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Then why ask me to help you?”

  “Because at this point, the lad is probably going to die anyway. They’ve already worked out what he is.”

  Wrayan shook his head suspiciously. “You don’t need my help to find him at all, do you? You know exactly where he is, and if you didn’t you’d just send the demons to look for him.”

  “His name is Rory,” Brak admitted. “He’s in a Fardohnyan dungeon just over the border in Westbrook. He was trying to get to Hythria when they caught him.”

  “That’s very tragic, Brak, but I’m not going anywhere.”

  “He’s only twelve.”

  Wrayan sighed. “What have you done, Brak?”

  The Halfbreed looked at him with a puzzled expression. “What do you mean?”

  “Is this one of those ‘balance’ things you’re so fond of?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Wrayan lowered his voice a notch, certain Brak was lying to him. “Don’t you remember? After we killed those Kariens in the mountains outside Sanctuary? You took time out to save some little girl lost in the woods three days later because it restored the balance.”

  “So?”

  “So, I’m just wondering what you’ve done that requires you to break some twelve-year-old you’ve never met out of a Fardohnyan dungeon and find him a home in the Sorcerers’ Collective?”

  Brak shrugged. “Let’s just say this one’s on credit.”

  “Which means you’ll probably have to do something really bad to make up for it,” Wrayan joked, wondering if he was simply imagining the dark veil of despair that shrouded Brak’s aura. He hadn’t seen the Halfbreed for years. Maybe Brak was always like this and he just didn’t remember it.

  Wrayan glanced around the room again. It was filling slowly as people finished work for the day, but the taproom was large and they were still quite safe from eavesdroppers. “Look, I’m not trying to be difficult about this, Brak. But really, even if I wanted to go with you, how would I explain a trip to Fardohnya?”

  “I thought thieves and assassins knew no borders.”

  Wrayan nodded in understanding as he realised what Brak wanted of him. “I see. You want me to arrange a meeting with someone in one of the Thieves’ Guilds in Fardohnya so you and I have an excuse to be in Westbrook. Why didn’t you just come straight out and ask me that in the first place?”

  “More fun this way. Will you do it?”

  He sighed, wondering if he should go through the motions of objecting or just give in now to save time. In the end, he settled on the latter. “It’ll take some time to arrange. Will your boy last that long?”

  “Elarnymire is keeping an eye on him for me.”

  “You could just have the demons meld into a dragon, land you on the roof of Westbrook castle and break the lad out yourself in a spectacular blaze of magic, Brak.”

  Brak patted Wrayan’s hand patronisingly. “Not real clear on the meaning of the phrase ‘staying hidden so everyone thinks the Harshini are extinct,’ are you, son?”

  Wrayan smiled. “I know. It’d be nice to think you could do something like that, though. And not have to worry about it.”

  “The irony being that if the Harshini didn’t need to stay hidden, I probably wouldn’t need to break some poor child out of a dungeon for the crime of being able to wield magic. They’re accusing him of murder, by the way. And being a Hythrun spy. King Hablet is firmly of the opinion that anybody with the slightest hint of magical ability is a Hythrun spy.”

  “I’ll have to write a few letters.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Wrayan rose from the table, wondering how much trouble this was going to cause. What Brak wanted of him was no small favour. “Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble while you’re here.”

  “I’ve had a lot more practice at keeping a low profile than you have, Wrayan. I can take care of myself.”

  “I’ll talk to you later then. I do have a job, you know. I have a few things to take care of first.”

  “Excellent!” Brak declared, leaning back in his seat. “In that case, would you mind sending the lovely Fyora back to me? Both my tankard and my lap are empty.”

  Wrayan sighed. Some things about Brak never seemed to change. “I’ll send her back.”

  Brak raised a questioning eyebrow. “And you don’t mind if she and I . . . ?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “You’re a good lad, Wrayan.”

  “I’m an idiot for letting you talk me into this,” he corrected.

  “You don’t really think that. Not deep down.”

  “You’re reading my mind now?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Brak was more than capable of reading Wrayan’s mind, although he was determinedly blocking any hint of his own thoughts from betraying him at the moment.

  “I don’t have to read your mind. I know you.”

  And that was the problem, Wrayan knew, as he headed back through the taproom towards the stairs. Brak knew him well enough to know that if the Harshini had asked him to dance naked on a bed of burning coals, he would have done it. Not because he felt he belonged to the Harshini. Not because he believed in them, or even because there was something odd about Brak, some secret he was obviously hiding, although that fact alone intrigued Wrayan enough that he was almost willing to go along with the Halfbreed just to find out what it was.

  Mostly, Wrayan admitted to himself as he climbed the stairs to his room, he would do this because helping Brakandaran the Halfbreed might mean a chance to see the Harshini princess, Shananara té Ortyn, one more time.

  Chapter 22

  The problem of what to do with her future continued to plague Kalan Hawksword as summer wore on, exacerbated no end by the preparations for Rielle Tirstone’s wedding, speculation about which husband Luciena would settle on ( that was easy, Kalan thought, she’s been making moon eyes at Xanda from the day she arrived) and Uncle Mahkas’s unsubtle hints about Leila one day becoming Damin’s bride. As the weather grew hotter and emotions in the palace grew more fraught over such earth-shattering things as wedding dresses and flower arrangements and attendants’ hairdos, the only thing that seemed to lie in the future for the women of her family, Kalan decided miserably, was getting married.

  Kalan didn’t want to get married. It wasn’t that she had any particular objection to the institution of marriage. It was just when you got married, you had to marry a boy, and kiss him and all that stuff. She wasn’t so clear on what the other “stuff” involved, but she knew that was what court’esa were for, and if you had a decent court’esa then why burden yourself with a husband? At ten, Kalan knew people were already starting to speculate about her future. Although she wouldn’t marry until she was sixteen at least, there were plenty of likely contenders. And all of them were old. Really old. Some as old as twenty.

  Her only escape, Kalan finally concluded, was to find something useful to do.

  Kalan knew the way her mother thought. To escape marriage, she would have to think of something she could do that would convince her mother that she was more useful to Damin when he became High Prince if she remained unmarried. She spent a great deal of time thinking about the problem and finally decided that she needed help.

  The help Kalan settled on was Elezaar.

  Since Elezaar had assumed his new duties as their tutor, the palace children had settled into t
heir daily lessons with a degree of fatalistic acceptance. There was nothing to be gained by tormenting the dwarf. He belonged to Princess Marla, so they couldn’t threaten to have him sold off or dismissed, the way they had with other tutors. He had known most of the children since they were born and could tell in an instant if they were lying. He knew the palace almost as well as the children, so they couldn’t even hide from him in the slaveways. And worst of all, he wasn’t the least bit shy about reporting their progress (or lack of it) back to Princess Marla.

  Despite this, the palace children were genuinely fond of the dwarf, so generally the lessons proceeded with little disruption. Even Damin managed to sit still for longer than his normal attention span, particularly if Elezaar was explaining his Rules of Gaining and Wielding Power.

  It was after their lessons one hot afternoon, some six weeks after Princess Marla had returned to Krakandar, that Kalan decided to approach the dwarf and enlist his help. Elezaar had dismissed the children early today, partly because Darvad Vintner, Rielle’s fiancé, had arrived for the wedding, along with Rogan Bearbow, the Warlord of lzcomdar, his daughter and son, Tejay and Rogan, and numerous other invited guests, and the whole palace was in an uproar getting ready for the ball scheduled the following evening to welcome them all to Krakandar.

  The other reason they’d been dismissed early, Kalan secretly suspected, was because after Damin replied “on the bottom” in answer to Elezaar’s question about where the historic Treaty of Westbrook had been signed, they were all laughing so hard that even the dwarf realised he had no chance of getting any more sense out of them that day.

  Elezaar was packing up the warboard when he realised that Kalan hadn’t left with the others.

  The warboard was actually a large table into which had been built a miniature relief map of Krakandar Province and the surrounding terrain. This was where the boys learned tactics and strategy. Tiny armies of figurines painted in the colours of each of the Warlords, as well as the bordering nations of Fardohnya and Medalon, could be manoeuvred around the board, attacking or defending Krakandar, depending on which army the players commanded. Today, Damin, with Adham as his lieutenant, had been in command of a troop of Medalonian Defenders and had conquered Krakandar against Starros and Rodja’s defending Raiders after a long and drawn-out struggle. The older girls had been excused because of the party and, by rights, Kalan should have been with them, but the dwarf knew Leila and Rielle were in their rooms trying on every dress they owned while they decided what to wear for tomorrow night’s ball. Taking pity on her, Elezaar had let Kalan stay and help with moving the figurines around, rather than spend the morning with her stepsisters, choking with boredom.