Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  “They claimed to be incapable of violence,” Lecter pointed out.

  Hablet snorted. “Didn’t stop them letting the Halfbreed off the leash every now and then when they got their noses out of joint.”

  “What did he do?”

  “The Halfbreed? I’ve no idea. Even my father never found out exactly what Brakandaran threatened my great-grandfather with to make him toe the line, but we ended up having to withdraw from Winternest and pay compensation to Hythria.”

  “Even so, the Harshini are long gone, your highness,” the eunuch assured him. “And even if he ever actually existed, Brakandaran the Halfbreed is long dead, too. I don’t think you need worry on that score.”

  Hablet shrugged. “Maybe. But I think—for the time being, at least—I’ll restrain myself. There’ll be a chance later to deal with any Wolfblade heirs. They have to be born first. And, after all, this only becomes a problem if I don’t have a son, eh?”

  “Exactly, your majesty.”

  “Has she got good hips, this daughter of Orly’s?”

  “Broad and true, your majesty.”

  “And she’s court’esa trained?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Speak to Orly then. I need to start taking some wives and getting a son of my own. Then it won’t matter how many brats Marla Wolfblade pops out. Tell Orly I’ll take the wench off his hands.”

  Lecter smiled. “I will, your majesty. Although, perhaps not quite in those words.”

  The eunuch bowed and turned to head back down to the gardens.

  “One other thing, Lecter,” Hablet told him as he walked away.

  “Sire?”

  “I want my coach back.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Give it a few days—we don’t want to appear disrespectful—but send a message to Lord Krakenshield and tell him that after he’s done with it, I want my coach back.”

  “Is that really necessary, your majesty? It’s only a coach.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing, Lecter.”

  Lecter bowed deferentially. “As you wish, your majesty.”

  Hablet turned back to watching the column wend its way up the road toward the foothills and the border, thinking he was right to stick to his principles.

  The King of Fardohnya was—in his own mind, at least—a very principled man.

  chapter 57

  O

  ne of the advantages of relentlessly prowling the bridge spanning the road between the northern and southern keeps of Winternest—other than the tragic figure he portrayed—was that it gave Mahkas an excellent view of the road leading into the Widowmaker Pass. When Laran appeared in the pass, Mahkas was confident he would know of it first. When his brother returned, he would get to Laran before anyone else could, which meant he would find out what Laran had learned about Riika in Fardohnya and be in a position to allay any suspicions he might have, be suitably outraged at the ransom they were demanding for her return, and be there to offer his aid in whatever capacity Laran needed him. All of which, he knew, would simply strengthen his position in his older brother’s eyes.

  In light of this, Mahkas was furious to learn that on one of his rare absences from the bridge to answer the call of nature, Raek Harlen and a small advance party had returned from Fardohnya bearing dispatches from Laran. By the time he emerged onto the chilly walkway, Raek had already left the bailey and entered the southern keep to deliver the messages he carried.

  Mahkas hurried across the bridge to the southern keep, desperate to intercept the letter from Laran before Darilyn got her hands on it. She wouldn’t care who it was addressed to. Darilyn was itching to get her share of the ransom and a letter from Laran was likely to contain the details of any payment he had negotiated for Riika’s release.

  When he threw open the door to the main hall, he was surprised to find only Veruca by the fire, her knitting needles clacking rhythmically as she warmed her toes in front of the fire.

  “Where is Lady Darilyn?”

  “In her room,” the old slave replied. “Those strings she’s been waiting on for her harp arrived this morning. She’s been there all day, cussing and swearing like a trader trying to fix it. Won’t do those boys any good to hear that sort of language—”

  “One of Laran’s Raiders just arrived from Fardohnya with a letter from Lord Krakenshield,” Mahkas cut in. “Where is he?”

  “I sent him to Lady Darilyn.”

  Mahkas cursed and all but ran the length of the hall.

  “Won’t do those boys any good to hear that sort of language . . .” Veruca called after him grumpily.

  Mahkas knocked and opened the door of Darilyn’s room without waiting for permission to enter. His nephews looked up from their game.

  “Hello, Uncle Mahkas,” Travin said cheerily. They were sitting on the floor near their mother, playing with the porcelain mounted knights that Jeryma had sent them. “Did you want to come play with us?”

  “I can’t at the moment, Travin, I’m busy.”

  Darilyn was sitting on the stool by her harp, still as a rock, holding Laran’s unopened letter on her lap.

  “Darilyn? I believe that’s addressed to me.”

  His sister looked up at him blankly for a moment. Then she reached into her lap and tossed the folded parchment at him. It landed at his feet. Mahkas stepped forward cautiously to pick it up.

  “Travin, Xanda,” Mahkas said, deliberately keeping his voice level, “why don’t you go find Veruca? She’s in the main hall. Tell her I said you could have a treat.”

  “What sort of treat, Uncle Mahkas?” Xanda demanded.

  “Anything you want.”

  “Is something wrong with mama?” Travin asked.

  “Just leave, Travin.”

  The boys didn’t need to be told again. They dumped their porcelain horses on the table beside their mother’s tools and the wires, bits, levers and pegs she’d taken off the harp and ran from the room, already arguing about what constituted a treat. Mahkas closed and locked the door behind them and turned to face his sister.

  “This is it, Mahkas,” she said, her voice barely containing her excitement. “They say fortune favours those who take risks.”

  “Shut up!” he ordered impatiently, unfolding the letter. He read it aloud, mostly to stop Darilyn talking. “My dear Mahkas, it is with a heavy heart that I must report that our beloved sister Riika is dead—” He looked at Darilyn in shock. “Dead? How can she be dead?”

  Darilyn shook her head wordlessly, clearly not believing what she was hearing.

  “It appears she was kidnapped,” Mahkas read, “in the mistaken belief she was Marla Wolfblade, a tragic error that cost Riika her life. When it was established that she wasn’t the sister of the High Prince, the Fardohnyans executed her out of hand, without waiting to establish her true identity.” Mahkas stopped reading, feeling physically ill. “By Zegarnald, Darilyn, what have we done?”

  “Dear gods!” his sister gasped, covering her mouth with her hands in horror.

  Mahkas turned his attention back to Laran’s letter. “It is my belief that Hablet himself was involved, but I cannot prove it. He and that leech, Lecter Turon, had a very plausible story worked out—one that lay the entire blame on the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook, a man named Symon Kuron.” Mahkas almost dropped the letter; his hand was shaking so hard. “Symon Kuron? But he was the slaver . . .”

  Mahkas held the letter in both hands to stop the parchment from shaking before he continued. “Hablet gave me Kuron’s head and balls as a gift, to apologise for the misunderstanding and agreed to several million gold rivets in compensation, but none of this will bring Riika back or case the pain I know we share at the loss of our beloved sister. I am bringing her body home and expect to be back by next Fourthday. Will you arrange to have everything ready? I intend to head straight for Cabradell after a night’s rest. Jeryma will want her daughter buried in the family vault next to Glenadal.”

  Mahkas couldn’t bring himself
to look at Darilyn as he took a seat near the table before reading any further; his knees no longer had the strength to hold him. “I have another favour to ask of you, brother,” Mahkas read on, his voice shaking almost as much as his knees. “Before I left Qorinipor, Lecter Turon informed me this monstrous plot was made possible because of a traitor in our midst. His exact words were ‘a member of your family’. It may be that he was just trying to cause disharmony in the family, and besides, I cannot bring myself to contemplate the notion that Darilyn would stoop so low as to betray her own sister. I would appreciate it if you could investigate who in the household had reason to turn on us, and, although I am loathe to think ill of a member of our own family, a few subtle questions to establish Darilyn’s involvement (or lack of it) in this terrible business would also be prudent.

  “I trust you’ll see this letter does not fall into the wrong hands, and that we can root out the traitor in our midst without causing any more grief to the family. I’ll see you soon. Yours in sorrow, Laran.”

  Mahkas hung his head in shock for a moment before he looked up and stared at Darilyn. “He thinks you’re involved.”

  “But not you,” she pointed out angrily. “How convenient.”

  “I loved Riika,” Mahkas reminded her. “You’ve always resented her. And made no secret of the fact.”

  Darilyn swung her foot around the big gilded harp until she was facing him on the stool. She had such big, ugly feet, he thought idly. A bit like her personality. “You hypocrite!” she hissed. “This was your idea, Mahkas Damaran! You set it up! And now I’m to be blamed for it? I don’t think so!”

  “We need to deal with this carefully,” he advised.

  “Carefully? You mean in a manner that keeps you looking innocent, don’t you?”

  “Laran doesn’t really think you’re involved,” he tried to assure her. “The letter says—”

  “The letter says: a few subtle questions to establish Darilyn’s involvement!”

  “Yes, but I’m sure—”

  “I’m not going to take the blame for this, Mahkas,” she warned. “Not on my own.”

  “You certainly don’t expect me to confess my part in it, do you?”

  “Gods, no!” she snorted scathingly, jumping to her feet. “Mahkas Damaran take the blame for something he did? Perish the thought!”

  Mahkas watched her pacing back and forth with a growing sense of panic. To save her own neck Darilyn could—and would—expose his participation in the plot to kidnap Riika the moment their elder brother stepped into Winternest. Although she derided him at every opportunity and blamed him for the death of her husband, Darilyn was more than a little afraid of Laran and the power he wielded over her. Without Laran she was penniless. Without Laran she had no protection, no status in life other than that of a minor nobleman’s widow whose sons would inherit their father’s estate but to which she had no access. Her fear of alienating Laran guided most of her actions, Mahkas knew, and her actions from now on were all going to be directed at shifting as much of the blame as possible to Mahkas, to spare her own neck.

  But Laran still trusted Mahkas. That was obvious from this letter to him questioning Darilyn’s motives. Preservation of that trust was the most important thing in Mahkas’s mind. He studied his sister carefully for a moment, aware that her desire to shift the blame in this affair was probably just as strong as his desire to remain untarnished by it.

  “I’ll tell Laran you had nothing to do with it,” he promised, hoping that would silence her. “I’ll just have someone executed before Laran returns tomorrow and then you’ll be exonerated.”

  “And suppose he wants proof your dead body really is the perpetrator of this crime?”

  “I’ll . . . I’ll claim the person confessed.”

  Darilyn nodded anxiously. “Yes, he might believe that. Who?”

  “Who?”

  “Who will you kill? I suppose it will be easier if it’s a slave. But which slave? It will have to be a house slave. Nobody else would have known where Riika was going to be.”

  “Veruca?” he suggested, caught unawares by her question. Mahkas had no intention of killing one of the slaves. He abhorred unnecessary bloodshed and, in reality, only those who knew of his role in this disastrous affair were a danger to him. One of them was the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook, Symon Kuron, and he was already dead.

  “No! Not the nurse,” his sister objected, wringing her hands nervously. “Find someone else. I need her to look after the boys.”

  He nodded, thinking the only other person who could expose him was Darilyn. Mahkas needed to silence her more than anyone else.

  “I’ll think of someone,” he promised. “Would you like me to have your dinner sent to your room?”

  “What?” she asked, confused by the abrupt change of subject.

  “I think it might look better if you stayed here in your room,” he explained. “Once word gets out about Riika, nobody will think it strange that you’ve retired to deal with your grief in private. I’ll get Veruca to take the boys for the evening. And I’ll make sure you’ve nothing to do with my investigations, too. When I find our culprit, you won’t be anywhere near the scene so nobody can later accuse you of perhaps coercing a confession from an innocent to protect yourself.”

  “You’d better make this look good, Mahkas,” she warned. “If Laran has even a moment of doubt about the guilt of the dead slave you present him with, he’ll go back to thinking I’m to blame. And trust me, if he does, I won’t be taking the blame alone.”

  Mahkas rose to his feet and stepped in front of Darilyn to stop her pacing. He put his hands on her shoulders and smiled encouragingly. “It’ll be all right, Darilyn. I’ll fix this. You don’t need to worry about it.” He put his arm around her and guided her to sit on the chair by the table he had just vacated. “Why don’t you sit down and stop pacing. You’re making me tired just watching you.”

  Darilyn let him sit her down, still wringing her hands. “Maybe it would be better if we told him what we did. He’ll be angry, of course, but if we—”

  “We can’t tell him, Darilyn!” Mahkas cried, shocked by the mere suggestion. “There’s no forgiveness for this, no easy way out.”

  “Laran would never make an orphan of his nephews,” she reasoned. “He might be angry, but he wouldn’t kill me. He feels guilty enough about Jaris being killed. He wouldn’t take away the boys’ mother as well as their father. And it wasn’t as if I actually did much. I mean, you were the one who brokered the deal . . .”

  Darilyn’s reasoning frightened Mahkas. As he paced the room in her stead, he realised that in her own selfish, self-absorbed mind she was already distancing herself from him; heaping the blame at his door. At this rate, by the time Laran got back from Fardohnya, she would have talked herself into believing that she’d had nothing to do with it at all.

  He looked at her, thinking her more threatening at that moment than any man he had faced in open combat. He was behind her now, the small round table between them.

  “Laran won’t be thinking of your boys, Darilyn,” he tried to warn her. “Right now, the only thing he’s thinking of is Riika.”

  Darilyn dropped her head into her hands and started crying again. Mahkas was certain it was for herself and not the sister she’d helped to kill.

  “I can’t do this, Mahkas,” she sobbed. “It’s one thing to make a bit of money. But this is murder. I can’t live with it.”

  Nice of you to decide that now! he thought angrily. He realised then that he was going to have to silence Darilyn, one way or another. The danger she posed to him was extreme. One hint that Laran suspected either of them was involved in Riika’s death and she’d blurt out everything. On the table between them lay the pieces of her partially dismantled harp, the wire she’d been waiting on for so long to fix the broken strings and the two small horses with their proud riders that Laran had given the boys.

  “You’re going to have to live with it, Darilyn,” he told
her unsympathetically. Still standing behind her, he glanced up at the beam that supported the ceiling. Would it hold her weight?

  Darilyn kept sobbing but didn’t answer him. She wasn’t crying for Riika, he knew. There was no room in Darilyn’s self-obsessed mind for grief. Riika’s demise meant only the danger of being exposed as a conspirator in her death.

  Darilyn is a bad person, he thought, wondering how long the coil of harp wire was, and if he could get to it without alerting Darilyn to his intentions. Mahkas and Laran had both understood instinctively how shallow and selfish she could be from the time they were small children together. She cared for nobody but herself. Even her children ranked a poor second to her own desires.

  “I swear, Mahkas, if you—”

  He cut her off mid-sentence with a loop of the harp wire. Tossing it around Darilyn’s neck he pulled back with all the force he could muster. The thin wire sliced like a razor through her larynx before she could cry out, sending a spray of blood across the room as he pulled back on it. Pulling the wire even tighter, he clambered onto his knees on the table behind her for better leverage, his wounded arm crying out in protest as he strained against the stitches. A fountain of blood spurted across the rug from her severed arteries, some splashing so far Mahkas could hear it hissing as it hit the fire. She thrashed maniacally on the chair, unable to get her hands under the wire as he squeezed the life from her. With the last of her strength, Darilyn reached behind her, flailing wildly. Her right hand knocked the tools from the table and finally closed on one of the boy’s porcelain horses. She slammed it down, hitting his wounded arm more by luck than anything else. Mahkas ignored the sharp pain and pulled the wire tighter. Dear gods, how long was it going to take her to die?

  Not much longer as it turned out. After a few more moments of uncontrollable thrashing, Darilyn slumped in the chair, her almost severed head lolling backwards on the table. Mahkas jumped clear of her open, accusing eyes, gasping for breath and knocking the table over in the process. His heart pounding with fear, his blood racing with the thrill of death, he glanced down to check his clothes. Miraculously, by staying behind her, he had escaped the torrent of blood, but the rest of the room was awash with it, already reeking with a sickly stench as the blood on the hearth began to steam.