Warrior

by Jennifer Fallon

  There were days when, confronted by the difficulties of disposing of someone so well protected, Alija wondered if she should even bother killing him. The more she saw of Damin Wolfblade, the more she was convinced that Cyrus would eventually take the throne, even if Damin were still alive. Alija knew the Warlords were sick of being ruled by wastrels and, in his six years in the city, Damin Wolfblade had proved to be little else.

  That was how she consoled herself, at least. The truth was, Alija had not had another opportunity in twelve years—until today—to rid the world of Lernen’s heir.

  “Tarkyn Lye is here, my lady,” Tressa announced behind her.

  Alija waved him forward, not taking her eyes off the royal box below.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Everything is set, my lady.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “And there is no way this can be traced back to me?”

  “I made certain nobody saw my face.”

  She turned and smiled at him briefly, even though he couldn’t see it. Tarkyn would sense her approval. He always did. “If this works, Tarkyn, I’ll see you are handsomely rewarded.”

  “I ask for nothing more than the chance to remain in your service, my lady.”

  “And the odd pocket full of gold, too, as I recall.”

  He shrugged and smiled ingenuously. “One of the many perks of remaining in your service, my lady.”

  “And you’re absolutely certain this can’t be traced back to anybody connected to me or Dregian Province?”

  “The man is Denikan, my lady. He barely speaks enough Hythrun to understand what was required of him. Even if he knew who hired him, he couldn’t tell anyone. And let’s face it, it’s a good chance he’ll be dead long before anyone gets around to questioning him, either from the bodyguards or his . . . condition.”

  “You didn’t allow him to touch you, I hope?”

  “Of course not, my lady.”

  Alija nodded and turned back to watching the track. The horses were lining up for the next race, a three-mile marathon that would test the mettle of every horse and rider taking part. With a satisfied smile, Alija snapped her fingers. Tressa hurried forward to do her bidding.

  “My lady?”

  “Go down to the royal box for me, Tressa. Tell the High Prince I’ll wager a hundred gold rivets on Lance of the Wind coming in ahead of that useless nag of his, King’s Ransom.”

  The slave bowed and hurried away to deliver the message. “You’re bound to lose,” Tarkyn warned. “King’s Ransom hasn’t lost a race all season.”

  “I can’t lose, Tarkyn,” she replied. Down in the royal box, Lernen got the message and turned to wave to Alija to acknowledge the wager. She smiled at him with satisfaction. “Not today.”

  “I hope you’re right, my lady.”

  Alija nodded. “You’ll know I’m right, Tarkyn, when you hear the bells tolling throughout the city a few days from now, announcing that the High Prince’s heir is dead.”

  Chapter 40

  It was well past midnight by the time Damin Wolfblade and his friends left the Lurching Sailor and made their way drunkenly out into the street. It was a clear night and all of them had done well at the races so they had much to celebrate.

  As they emerged from the tavern, Xanda Taranger had his arm around Adham Tirstone.

  Watching them stagger through the door ahead of him, Damin couldn’t say for certain who was holding up whom. They were, however, singing a loud and rather crude ditty about a crabby old whore called Davyna, forced to resort to some rather extreme measures to find customers. As the song progressed, the poor old whore’s efforts grew more and more obscene until even Damin winced to hear about it.

  Admittedly, it might have had something to do with the fact that, between them, Xanda and Adham couldn’t carry a tune in a water bucket, but he was sure someone would eventually complain. No sooner had the thought occurred to Damin than a screeching voice yelled at them to shut up; it came from the upper storey of the house across the street from the Lurching Sailor. Across the way, another couple of revellers, a court’esa on each arm, wove their way un-steadily down the street. Leaning against one of the pillars holding up the tavern’s awning was a Denikan sailor who looked rather the worse for wear.

  Other than that, the street was deserted.

  “Nobody in this city appreciates fine music,” Adham complained loudly, stopping unsteadily in the middle of the street to make an obscene gesture with his finger in the general direction of the owner of the screeching voice.

  “Actually, I think you’ll find they appreciate it very well,” Damin laughed as he stepped down onto the street. “Which is why they’re yelling at you to stop.”

  “Well, that’s a fine state of affairs!” Adham snorted indignantly. “What do we do now?”

  “We could go back to my house,” Xanda offered with a crooked smile, clinging to Adham to maintain his balance. “Luciena likes music.”

  “I’m not that drunk,” Adham announced, pushing Xanda away so he could attempt to stand on his own two feet. “She’s gonna kill you for staying out so late as it is . . . not my job to add to the body count.”

  Xanda shook his head, struggling to maintain his balance. “She won’t kill me. She loves me.”

  “When you’re sober.” Damin was drunk, too, but not quite as far gone as his cousin. He turned to the other two men who had accompanied them out of the tavern. Big men who were conspicuously armed, both were sober and neither was smiling. They weren’t friends. These men were hand-picked bodyguards. “Goren, go find a litter to see Lord Taranger home, would you?”

  The man on the left nodded and turned back into the tavern. If the Lurching Sailor didn’t have a litter of its own, the owner would know where to get one at this time of night.

  Xanda looked at Damin, quite forlorn. “You’re sending me home?”

  “I’m keeping my promise to Luciena.”

  “What did you promise her?” Adham asked. Not having a wife to concern him, he obviously thought Xanda’s predicament quite amusing.

  “That Xanda’d be home before dawn.”

  “What possessed you to promise her that, you fool?” Xanda gasped in horror.

  “She did promise not to disembowel me in return for this one small favour.”

  “See!” Adham declared smugly. “This is what you get for having a wife, Xanda. Damin and I don’t have to be home before dawn.”

  Xanda shook his head. “Damin, Damin, Damin. You’re going to have to stop listening to Luciena when she says things like that. You know she doesn’t mean it.”

  “She tried to kill me once before,” he pointed out reasonably.

  “A mere youthful indiscretion and, anyway, she failed miserably, as I recall. Or have six years in Greenharbour made you lose your edge so badly that a girl could take you down these days?”

  Damin grinned at the idea. “Wanna find out?”

  Before Xanda could respond to Damin’s challenge, Goren emerged from the tavern. “The owner’s litter is out on a job, my lord, but he says we’ll find one easily enough over on Moss Street.” It wasn’t an oversight on Goren’s part that he addressed Damin as “my lord” and not “your highness.”

  There was no need to draw undue attention to Damin’s identity when they were simply out on the town having a bit of fun.

  Adham nodded in agreement. “They line up outside Madam Leska’s waiting for her customers.

  No doubt the litter bearers think anyone who can afford one of her court’esa can afford a ride home afterwards.”

  “I heard they lined up outside Madam Leska’s because after her court’esa are done with you, a man isn’t capable of walking anywhere,” Damin laughed. He put an arm around his cousin and the other around his stepbrother and steered them in the direction of Moss Street. “Still, I would like to be a fly on the wall when Xanda tries to explain to Luciena why he arrived home in a litter hired from Madam
Leska’s.”

  Weaving down the street drunkenly, Xanda frowned at his cousin. “You really are an evil little bastard, aren’t you, Damin Wolfblade? The gods help us all when you’re ruling the whole damned country.”

  “Well, I am planning complete world domination, you know,” Damin informed them cheerily. “I thought I’d invade Fardohnya the first week and then wipe out Medalon on my way north to obliterate the Kariens a couple of weeks after that. Then we might take a short break while we plan our conquest of nations across the southern oceans.”

  “Could be fun,” Adham agreed. “Do we have to rape and pillage all the way, though?”

  “I suspect we do. I don’t think I can really call myself an evil tyrant if I don’t at least make the effort. Why?” he asked his stepbrother curiously. “Do you particularly want to rape and pillage?”

  “Well, I’m sure it’d be fun the first few villages we passed through, but it must get rather tiring after a while. I’m not sure I’d have the stamina to see me all the way to Karien. And Xanda would have to ask Luciena first, before he could rape and pillage anybody.”

  “You’re assuming I even want to have anything to do with your diabolical scheme,” Xanda said, sounding a little miffed that Adham thought he might have to ask his wife’s permission.

  “Don’t you want to be my evil minion?” Damin asked, wounded that his cousin might even consider refusing. “It’ll be great fun! I’ll even promise not to kill you out of hand unless I’m really feeling out of sorts.”

  “A minion can’t ask for much more than that,” Adham declared with a loud hiccough.

  Xanda thought about it for a moment and then nodded unsteadily. “Promise to stop promising my wife you’ll have me home before dawn and we might be able to do business, your royal evil-tyrant-ship.”

  Damin agreed with a laugh and, with Goren leading the way and the second bodyguard, Clem, following behind them, the drunken young men turned into Fisherman’s Lane, which would take them through to Moss Street.

  “Of course, if you let Xanda be a minion, you’ll have to make Travin one, too,” Adham warned Damin as they traversed the dark lane. “And probably Kalan, ’cause she’s such a bossy little thing, she’ll never let you rule the world unless you cut her in for a piece of the action. Rorin might come in handy, too, being a sorcerer and all.”

  “And Rodja can be your bookkeeper,” Xanda suggested. “All evil empires need someone to keep the books. I mean, how do you know what spoils you’ve collected if you haven’t got someone like Rodja to count it all for you?”

  “And don’t forget Starros,” Damin reminded them, getting right into the spirit of things. “He’ll have to be my chamberlain. Do you think he’ll get upset if I tell him I want a eunuch for the job?”

  They reached the end of Fisherman’s Lane. Across the street, a line of litter bearers waited patiently for the patrons of Madam Leska’s to conclude their business. He turned at the sound of someone falling. Behind them, the drunken Denikan had followed them but had slipped and lay facedown in the lane. Dismissing the foreigner as inconsequential, he turned his attention back to Madam Leska’s, which seemed to have the total attention of his stepbrother and his cousin. A line of flaming torches lit the path leading to the rather grand foyer some thirty feet from the edge of the road and they could hear the music and laughter from across the street.

  “Maybe,” Adham suggested thoughtfully, “we should take a quick look inside?”

  “Or maybe not, my lords,” Goren informed them, glancing back over his shoulder at his three charges.

  Adham glared at the big man impatiently. “When Princess Marla hired you, Goren, did she advertise for a bodyguard or a killjoy?”

  “A babysitter,” Goren replied bluntly. “Stay here. I’ll organise some litters.”

  “We only need one for Xanda,” Damin pointed out.

  “The others are for you and Master Tirstone, my lord. It’s time you were getting home, too.”

  “Ha!” Xanda barked triumphantly. “I might have a wife waiting to kill me when I get home, but at least I’m not still answerable to my mother.”

  Adham burst out laughing at that. Damin wasn’t nearly so amused. Even drunk, he was painfully aware of the truth in Xanda’s words.

  “I’ll have you know—,” he began, but he didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. The drunken Denikan had picked himself up and staggered into their midst.

  “Whoa there!” Clem said, grabbing the sailor before he could lay a hand on the prince. “Go sleep it off somewhere else, eh?” He shoved the man clear, but the Denikan seemed oddly determined to approach them.

  “You prince?” he asked in broken Hythrun, refusing to be put off.

  He sounded desperate, rather than drunk, Damin thought.

  “You prince? You help?”

  “I told you already,” Clem insisted, “there’s nobody here for you, my lad. Back to your ship now.

  Move along.”

  “You prince?” the Denikan insisted, pushing past Clem desperately as he tried to approach Damin. He coughed painfully, his spittle flecked with blood. “You help! They say you help!”

  “He knows who you are,” Xanda remarked in a voice that suddenly sounded remarkably sober.

  Adham nodded his agreement. “He followed us from the Lurching Sailor.”

  “You Prince Damin!” the Denikan cried, loud enough to attract the attention of the litter bearers outside Madam Leska’s. “You help!”

  “Shut him up, Clem,” Xanda ordered, looking around in concern, but the bodyguard didn’t need to be told. He already had his hand over the sailor’s mouth to keep him quiet. The Denikan struggled weakly against Clem’s hold, but either he lacked the strength to fight off the big bodyguard or he wasn’t very serious about it.

  Damin stepped a little closer and studied the young man curiously. He was, like every Denikan Damin had ever seen, handsome, dark-skinned and muscular, his long dark hair arranged in an intricate series of thin braids threaded with beads. He wore an open vest and his skin appeared bruised beneath it, as if he’d been beaten, quite savagely. Damin indicated that Clem should let him speak. “What do you want with me?”

  “You prince? You help?”

  He took an involuntary step backward. The man’s breath was foul, but it was the stench of sickness, not sour ale.

  “He keeps saying that,” Adham remarked. “It’s like they’re the only Hythrun words he knows.”

  “Do you speak Denikan?”

  The young trader shook his head. “Not even a little bit. What about you, Xanda?”

  “I know the words for how much and get your hands off my wife,” Xanda joked. Then his smile faded. “Some sailor knowing a few words of Hythrun doesn’t explain how he knows who you are, Damin.”

  The Denikan said something in his own language; a rush of words that meant nothing to them.

  The outburst appeared to exhaust the young man and he sagged, semi-conscious, in Clem’s grasp.

  “He’s burning up,” the bodyguard remarked with a frown.

  Damin looked at the sailor with concern, reaching out to check his fever just as Goren arrived back with the litters he’d arranged to take them home.

  “No!” he shouted, slapping Damin’s hand away. “Don’t touch him!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Look at him,” Goren ordered.

  “He’s covered in bruises,” Adham pointed out, a little puzzled.

  “They’re not bruises,” Goren warned. “He’s bleeding into his skin. Did he touch you at all, my lord? Any of you?”

  Damin shook his head, wishing it was clearer. “He was asking for me, but Clem stopped him before he got too close. Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

  “Not for certain,” the big man replied. “But I can make a pretty good guess.” He turned his attention to Clem, who was still holding the young Denikan sailor. He had a grim, almost resigned look on his face. The two bodyguards stared at each ot
her for a moment before Clem lowered the Denikan to the ground. Goren turned to face Damin and the others. “I want you to get in those litters and go home, my lords,” he ordered. “Now. No argument. No complaints.” There was something in the voice of the big, normally taciturn man that warned them this was no longer a laughing matter.

  “You’ll take care of the Denikan?” Damin asked, brushing aside Adham’s puzzled demand for an explanation.

  “For all the good it will do,” Clem warned, looking up at the prince. He was squatting over the sailor, who appeared to have lapsed into unconsciousness. “He’ll be dead soon.”

  “And what about you, Clem?” Damin asked, acutely aware that he was the one who had put himself between his prince and the danger this foreigner represented.

  “I’ll take care of Clem,” Goren promised. “But he can’t go back to the palace.”

  “Damin? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, Adham. Take the litter and go home. You too, Xanda.”

  There was no trace of frivolity in the young prince’s voice. The others looked at him strangely, unused to seeing him so grave, and then did as he bid, turning for the litters with no further argument.

  As soon as they were on their way, Damin turned back to Goren.

  “You need to get out of here, too, your highness.”

  “I know,” Damin agreed. Then he asked the question he’d been too afraid to voice while his stepbrother and cousin were nearby. “It’s plague, isn’t it?”

  Goren nodded, glancing down at Clem with a frown. Clem knew it, too, and that he was probably going to be its next victim. Across the street, the music and the laughter coming from Madam Leska’s continued unabated, oblivious to the danger on its very doorstep.