“Is it my imagination,” Wrayan asked, as they watched a troop of smartly dressed, red-coated Defenders ride under the arch of the building, no doubt returning from a patrol, “or is this place crawling with an awful lot of Defenders?”
Brak nodded and looked around. “There do seem to be more than usual in the town. Maybe someone in the Dog’s Hind Leg will know why.”
“The Dog’s Hind Leg?” Wrayan repeated doubtfully.
“Great little tavern,” Brak assured him. “Good food, cold ale . . . and a few other enticements that set it above your average Medalonian establishment.”
“It’s a brothel, I suppose?”
Brak looked at him in surprise. “You’ve been there?”
“No. I’m just starting to figure you out, that’s all. You’re not the same person at all that you were in Sanctuary.”
“That’s because when I’m in Sanctuary, I’m Har—” Brak hesitated, looking around the crowded street, where it seemed every third man was wearing a red jacket, and changed what he had been going to say “An evil creature of the night,” he amended with a wry smile. “Out here in the human world, I’m human.”
“Doesn’t that get confusing?”
“Sometimes.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just decide to be one or the other?”
“I tried it once. Didn’t work. How much of that money have you got left?”
“Not much, why?”
Brak pointed to a corpulent man who had stepped out of a shop a few paces ahead of them. His brocaded waistcoat was stretched over a belly that it must have taken years to construct. Hanging from his belt was a fat purse that clinked with the weight of coin in it. “Our friend there looks like he could lose some weight.”
Wrayan smiled and stepped sideways as they passed the fat man, bumping into him. He apologised profusely, helped the man pick up his hat and then scampered after Brak, who had kept walking as if nothing had happened.
“Not bad,” Brak remarked when Wrayan produced the stolen purse for his approval. “You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?”
“Not as good as my pa,” Wrayan replied without thinking.
“You remember your father?” Brak asked.
Wrayan shook his head, desperately wishing he could recall more of his past. These odd, inexplicable flashes were driving him crazy. “Not really. I don’t even know why I said that. This is so frustrating, Brak! It’s like it’s all there—everything that makes me who I really am—but it’s just out of my reach!”
“It’ll come back to you, Wrayan.”
“I wish it would happen sooner.”
“These things always take time,” the Halfbreed assured him. “You just have to be patient.”
Brak arranged for rooms and a bath for them both at the Dog’s Hind Leg and then announced he wasn’t going to budge until he’d soaked away the top few layers of skin. Too restless in this new and strange place to relax, it was less than an hour before Wrayan had washed away the grime of the past few weeks, changed into clean clothes and headed back into the town for a proper look around.
He learned the reason for the increased Defender presence from one of the whores working in the Dog’s Hind Leg. The First Sister was in town, she explained. Something to do with a treaty she was negotiating with Hythria. The whore had little interest in politics and no time for the Sisterhood, apparently, since she followed her news about the First Sister with a tirade about the taxes one had to pay these days and how if the First Sister thought she deserved thirty per cent of every trick the whores of Medalon turned, then perhaps she should get on her back, open her legs, cop the odd black eye, and find out what it felt like to earn some of it herself.
Wrayan escaped the righteous indignation of the court’esa—which was what Medalonian whores called themselves, although they were nothing like the trained professionals in Hythria and Fardohnya—and went for a walk.
Now the streets were, unexpectedly, a lot less crowded—almost deserted, in fact—which seemed strange for the middle of the day. He stopped a young boy hurrying past carrying a faggot of firewood and asked him what was going on.
“Everybody’s gone to the East Road to see the Hythrun princess,” the boy explained, barely halting his hasty pace.
“Hythrun princess?” Wrayan asked, but the boy hurried on and didn’t answer him. Curious, Wrayan wondered if they meant Marla Wolfblade. He couldn’t recall if there were any other Hythrun princesses around, but he knew of her, thanks to Brak’s update about what was happening in the real world when he had first returned to Sanctuary. Something about her name had tugged at a long-buried memory. Perhaps, if he saw her again, it might come back to him. Perhaps the sight of her would lift the veil that surrounded his life before waking up among the Harshini.
When the boy had said “everybody’s gone to the East Road to see the Hythrun princess”, Wrayan hadn’t realised he was telling the literal truth. Every one of Bordertown’s seven thousand or so residents seemed to be lining the eastern approach to the town to watch the long line of Hythrun Raiders escorting the princess to the negotiating table with the First Sister. There was a large pavilion set up on the open ground outside the town and close to a thousand red-coated and very smartly turned-out Defenders arrayed around it, both to protect the First Sister and hold back the curious crowd.
Wrayan arrived just as the Hythrun Raiders—near a thousand of them, he estimated—halted on the road outside the pavilion. In the centre of the column were two women, the younger of whom was obviously the princess. She wasn’t particularly tall, but she was remarkably beautiful, with long blonde hair braided with gold ribbons down her back, finishing just below her waist. She rode a magnificent golden stallion and wore an elaborate costume, also of gold, that seemed as much mist as it did actual cloth. It appeared to be made of layer upon layer of fine silk, so light that it stirred in the faint breeze created by her movement. The dress must have been hell to ride in, Wrayan guessed, but if she was planning to overwhelm her Medalonian audience, it was just the ticket.
Then the second woman dismounted and Wrayan turned his attention to her—and the world suddenly shifted focus. She was fair, slender and beautiful. Her green eyes were framed by lashes so long they looked as if they couldn’t be real and her hair was arranged in an elegant cascade of curls. She managed to make the formal shapeless robes of a sorcerer look almost as attractive as the dress of the princess beside her. The woman glanced around the crowd with a superior smile, her eyes sliding over Wrayan without seeing him, and then she nodded to the princess and followed her inside.
“My name is Wrayan Lightfinger!”
Brak didn’t appreciate being disturbed in his ablutions. He was immersed, neck deep, in a large tub of steaming, soapy water, his eyes closed blissfully, obviously enjoying the attention of the young court’esa who was washing his back.
He opened one eye balefully and looked at Wrayan. “I know that.”
“I was born in Krakandar,” he announced. “My Father’s name was Calen Lightfinger. He was a pickpocket. Still is, for all I know.”
Brak sighed and looked over his shoulder at the whore with a rueful smile. “I think we’re going to have to finish this later, my sweet,” he sighed.
The girl glanced at Wrayan and nodded reluctantly. She climbed out of the tub, wrapped a thin robe around her dripping, naked body and smiled warily at Wrayan as she let herself out, thoughtfully closing the door behind her.
“You’ve got your memory back,” Brak noted as soon as they were alone.
“I used to be a pickpocket,” he continued excitedly. “That’s why I’m so good at it! And why I can throw a knife like I can. My pa made me learn how. Made me practise it for hours. Said I needed to know how to defend myself, but only a fool got into a fight at close quarters. He said it was best for a thief to throw a knife and run. I remember it all! And you were right. I was the High Arrion’s apprentice. I was caught doing tricks in the Krakandar markets by the Lower
Arrion, Tesha Zorell, when I was about fourteen and she took me back to Greenharbour. Kagan used to think I was an Innate, but eventually he worked out that I must have been part Harshini.”
“Slow down!” Brak ordered, shaking his head at Wrayan’s tirade. “What happened? What made you suddenly remember all of this?”
“Alija Eaglespike.”
“Who?”
“Alija Eaglespike. She’s the wife of the Warlord of Dregian Province. And a sorcerer. An Innate.”
“Dace said it was an Innate who wounded you,” Brak confirmed. “But I could never understand how an Innate could wield that sort of power. Even I’d be taking a risk channelling enough force to burn out someone’s mind.”
“But that’s what happened!” Wrayan told him. “It was just after the Warlord of Sunrise Province died. He left his province to his stepson and we were trying to arrange for Marla Wolfblade to marry Laran Krakenshield. Alija’s husband had been pushing to claim the throne for himself and Kagan didn’t want her to know what was going on, so he asked me to distract her while he got the High Prince out of Greenharbour for the wedding. Gods, Brak! I can remember every little detail! I waylaid her court’esa, Tarkyn Lye, and pulled down the mind shield she’d built around him, and then made him see these pretty lights—it was a joke, you see, he’s blind—and then Alija came after me for interfering with her court’esa and we met in the temple and she had all this power . . . she was so strong, Brak . . . I couldn’t do anything but shield my own mind from it. And then she made me drop my shield and that’s the last thing I remember before waking up in Sanctuary.”
“How did an Innate make you drop your shield?” Brak asked suspiciously.
Wrayan suddenly blushed as that memory came back to him, too.
Brak saw his face redden and smiled. “Idiot.”
“It was . . . well, it was an unfair tactic.”
“In my experience, there’s no such thing,” Brak replied. “What sparked this sudden rush of memories, anyway?”
“She’s here.”
“Who?”
“Alija Eaglespike. That’s why all those Defenders are in town. The First Sister is here to negotiate a treaty with the Hythrun. I just saw her. She’s part of the Hythrun delegation.”
“Is she now?” Brak asked thoughtfully.
“Yes! No more than half a mile away! What are we going to do?”
Wrayan waited anxiously, expecting the Halfbreed to leap out of the tub. Brak would be very interested in learning how Alija had been able to wield all that power, he knew. He had sworn to Shananara that he’d help Wrayan find out what had happened, after all. Shananara had told him that before he left Sanctuary.
“Well, I don’t know about you, boy,” Brak announced, settling back into the steaming water and closing his eyes, “but I’m going to finish my bath. Send my little friend back on your way out, would you?”
“Brak!”
“Patience, Wrayan.”
“The woman who tried to kill me is right here!”
“And she’s surrounded by a couple of thousand troops,” Brak pointed out with maddening calm, opening his eyes to look at him. “Defender and Hythrun. Let’s not do anything rash, lad.”
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Get drunk,” Brak advised, closing his eyes again. “You certainly look like you could use a drink.”
chapter 80
T
he thing that surprised Marla most about the First Sister of Medalon was her age. She was expecting an old woman, but Trayla Genhagan was only just in her forties, Marla guessed, a stern and humourless woman with dark hair severely pulled back into a bun and a gorgeously embroidered, high-necked white gown, which was—according to Elezaar—proof that she was a member of the Quorum, which, as best as Marla could tell, was the equivalent of the Hythrun Convocation of the Warlords.
Trayla seemed just as taken aback by Marla’s age, obviously not expecting a girl young enough to be her daughter.
The meeting was held in a large pavilion set up on the outskirts of Bordertown. The Defenders had constructed it for the sole purpose of hosting the treaty negotiations. Their first suggestion—that the meeting be held in Bordertown in the Defenders’ Headquarters—was met with a flat refusal by the Hythrun delegation. Marla’s escort was intimidatingly large, and matched, almost man for man, by the Defenders.
“So, Francil,” Trayla remarked in her own language to her companion, another woman dressed in white, after looking Marla up and down critically. “This is the High Prince of Hythria’s legendary sister, eh? The great beauty who almost brought Hablet of Fardohnya to his knees and damn near caused a civil war in Hythria?”
The women obviously didn’t realise that Marla spoke their language.
“Hardly what we were expecting,” Francil agreed. “She’s no older than a Probate.”
“These Medalonians seem little more than bitter and rather masculine-looking old women,” Marla announced to Alija—in Medalonian, just to make certain the First Sister understood her. “Exactly what we were expecting.”
Trayla bristled at Marla’s words and turned to face her. “Don’t think you can come here and insult me, girl.”
“Then do not attempt to insult me,” Marla advised calmly, in fluent Medalonian. “And you may address me as ‘your royal highness’ or ‘your highness.’ ‘Ma’am’ or ‘my lady’ is also appropriate, but usually only among familiars. I believe the correct term of address to a First Sister is ‘your grace,’ is it not?”
“It is,” Trayla agreed. And added a moment later, “Your royal highness.”
“This is my advisor, Lady Alija Eaglespike. You may address her as ‘my lady.’ ”
“She’s a sorcerer?”
“She is.”
“Sorcery and religion are forbidden in Medalon.”
“Then I shall ask her very nicely to refrain from turning you into a toad,” Marla replied with a smile.
Trayla was not amused. “You’ve a pretty smug attitude for a supplicant at my table, your highness.”
“Medalon sued for peace, your grace,” Marla reminded her. “Not Hythria. My Raiders are quite happy to continue avenging the death of their Warlord.”
“Your damn Warlord wouldn’t need avenging if he’d stayed on his own side of the border.”
“That damn Warlord was my husband, your grace.”
Trayla took a deep breath, as if trying to control her temper, and forced a smile. “I think, perhaps, that we’re getting off to a bad start, your highness. Let’s have a seat and some tea, and begin this again, shall we? We are women, after all, and there’s no need for us to bicker and puff out our chests like men.”
Marla nodded and allowed the First Sister to escort her to a small table, where only two chairs were arranged, one on each side. Their advisors, it seemed, would have to stand.
Once they were seated and had been served tea in delicate porcelain cups (Hythrun porcelain from Walsark, Marla noted with interest), Trayla put on her very best diplomat’s smile and studied the young woman across the table.
“I think you will agree, your royal highness, that it is in the best interests of both Medalon and Hythria to cease this conflict. Peace is always more profitable than war.”
“Not if you’re a swordsmith,” Marla responded, taking a sip from her tea. It was awful—some foul, bitter green concoction—but the First Sister seemed to think it was drinkable.
“The Defenders tell me you’ve stolen more than a hundred head of cattle in the past year.”
“Cattle that would not even exist had not your farmers stolen one of our bulls and had him cover every cow in a fifty-mile radius of the border, your grace. Those cattle come from Hythrun seed. Can you blame us for taking back what was stolen from us in the first place?”
The First Sister shook her head in disbelief. “You can’t be serious! The incident you refer to happened more than two decades ago!”
“Do you have some stran
ge law in Medalon that says one may steal a thing and claim legal ownership of it, your grace, provided one manages to keep possession of it long enough?” Marla enquired with a raised brow. “What a quaint custom. And you say Medalon eschews honouring the gods? I’m sure Dacendaran, the God of Thieves, would greatly approve of such a law.”
“There is no such law, your highness, as I’m sure you’re well aware. I was simply referring to the fact that, in some cases, the cattle your Raiders are stealing are five generations removed from the incident you speak of.”
“The men your Defenders killed, starting with my husband, are not removed from anything, your grace. They all left families who grieve them. I have a son not yet two who will never know his father. There will be no peace without some reckoning for that.”
“Your husband was killed raiding inside Medalon, your highness. We are not the ones at fault here.”
“But you are the ones who wish to put an end to it,” Marla reminded her. “So what are you offering?”
“An immediate cessation of all hostilities,” the First Sister told her. “And an agreement from you that all cattle raids by your soldiers will cease immediately, and forever.”
“And in return?” Marla asked, knowing the First Sister would not have come all this way, or demanded the Hythrun meet with her, simply to tell her that.
“We will negotiate a price and agree to sell you the cattle you seem to so desperately need each feast day, your highness. At a reasonable rate, of course.”
“You want us to pay for what is rightfully ours?”
“Those cattle are not rightfully Hythria’s,” the First Sister insisted. “We are never going to resolve this if you keep insisting that they are.”
“Even if I were to concede the ownership of the cattle in question, your grace, your Defenders reacted in a brutal manner out of all proportion to the crimes they were supposedly avenging. Our Raiders took cattle. They only killed those attempting to stop them. They didn’t poison any wells, First Sister. Your red-coated thugs destroyed the livelihoods of countless Hythrun farmers along the border with their wanton barbarism. There must be some reparation for that.”
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