Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook

by Andrea K Höst

  Before Strake could work all the way up to being irritable, Aristide was ushered in, his glitter-sweet smile leavened by genuine curiosity. "Is there a problem, Champion?"

  "Jansette Denmore called on me last night."

  Strake's reaction told Soren she'd do well to avoid being propositioned in his presence. Dark brows snapping together, he looked briefly incredulous, then studied her face very closely indeed. Soren affected not to notice.

  By contrast, Aristide simply smiled, on the edge of what could well be genuine amusement. "Lady Denmore has been very diligently searching for another...patron," he said blandly.

  "Did you know she was a foreign spy?"

  Just the faintest narrowing of Aristide's eyes told her the answer. "You have some proof of this?"

  "Only her claim."

  "Jansette Denmore told you she was a spy." Rather than being annoyed, Aristide looked appreciative. "Then I must compliment you both, for I certainly had no inkling. Spying, yes, but not for one of our neighbours."

  "And how is this so important it warrants a morning summons?" Strake broke in, curtly. He was still studying her face, no doubt remembering just how Jansette had chosen to visit him.

  "Because she told me two things. One was to ask Lord Aristide whether he was missing a knife."

  This appeared to mean little to Aristide. He touched his belt knife, obviously present. "I am not a collector, Champion," he said. "I have no–" And then he was caught by 'could it be?' and stopped, those fine, pale brows drawing together. "I do not have a knife which could be stolen," he finished.

  "Trump blade?" Strake asked.

  "As I said, not a knife which could be stolen." But Aristide was frowning.

  "Often a proving piece for a mage leaving his apprenticeship," Strake explained to Soren. "A knife not physically present, but always there to be called upon in times of desperate need. Not an easy casting, and one which takes days to reset." He looked at Aristide, then said: "Call it."

  "It is not–" Aristide stopped again, plainly not able to set himself wholly at ease. "I would not be able to steal a trump blade," he said, and reached with one hand, a small movement toward nothing. Light flared, and Soren distinctly made out the shape of a weapon, no larger than a belt knife, with Aristide's fingers curving around where the haft should be. Then the light went away, and so did any hint of a blade.

  Aristide's fingers closed in on themselves, hiding the swirl of the saecstra. He looked down at it, and the exquisite line of his mouth flattened.

  "I shall look for it between my ribs, then," Strake said, with a philosophical note. "I take it the thing is very identifiable?"

  "It was a gift. And it would...taste of me." The mouth was still flat, his entire demeanour one of a man taking stock of altered circumstances. Then the smile came back, curving up from one corner of his mouth and then the other. Aristide did tend to enjoy irony. "Depending on how it was handled, the thing would simply scream 'Aristide' to any mage who happened upon it, between your ribs or not." He met Strake's eyes and held them. Soren, watching in more ways than one, saw his fingers rub across the saecstra mark again.

  "I'll leave a counter to your devising, then," Strake said, and looked back to Soren. Aristide's pale lashes lowered over those star sapphire eyes, then he, too, turned his attention to Soren, full glitter revived.

  "And what other gem did Lady Denmore choose to share?"

  Soren held up a belaying hand, and waited as Fisk knocked on the door and the Tzel Aviar came in. She saw them all seated before explaining, and they listened without interrupting. Further questions could only be countered with Jansette's claim of having nothing more and Soren was conscious of their dissatisfaction at not being able to interrogate the woman herself. But they did not push her on the point, and sat back to consider the development.

  Aristide broke the silence. "Mage assassin?"

  "Something less structured," the Tzel Aviar replied, in his unhurried manner. "This reinforces the impression of a natural defence. The Deeping births strange creatures at times."

  "This one wears the form of a man," Strake said. He sat very upright, staring across the table at the Tzel Aviar. He hadn't expected this kind of killer. "The garb of a man. Can we rule out the motives of men?" Or Fae. He did not say it.

  Tzel Damaris merely inclined his head, making no attempt to refute Strake's imputation. "We have gained no great advantage, knowing the killer is visible, or invisible, in moonlight. And any foe which falls within Selune's demesne will not be easily defeated."

  It was true. None of the men had received Soren's news with relief. They could post the description, vague as it was, but where would that get them? A few slaughtered guardsmen, most likely. And the factor of moonlight was the worst. Birth and death were the Moon's, and Soren could not keep back an image of the killer as some soft-footed avatar of the goddess, intent on avenging an insult Darest, or its Rathens, had not even realised they had made. You could not hope to win, fighting a god.

  "Will any of this assist you in tracking it by magic?" Strake asked, voice tight. The need to do something sat clear and square on him. Did it make it worse, to know that his family, his lover, had been killed by man and not beast?

  "Little." The Tzel Aviar was not one to soften a harsh truth. "Experimentation on a subject which is not even present, to overcome such formidable protections, may be possible. Given weeks, months."

  The Deeping man didn't press his point, didn't urge or warn or do anything but wait. And Strake said: "Very well."

  Then they began to plan exactly what Soren did not want. Bait to trap a killer.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "I still think this is woefully inadequate."

  "So you've made clear." Putting himself at risk had improved Strake's temper immeasurably. He even gave her a glimmer of a smile between scanning the horizon for glass-clawed killers.

  Soren shrugged under the weight of the Champion's Sword, and took a moment to try and believe that they could just march out to Vostal Hill with a handful of crack guards and bring down the Deeping killer. No casualties, no tears, and happily ever after.

  There was a possibility it might work. The thing – the man – had shown himself capable of locating the hunting party even in the depths of the Tongue, and if Strake truly was his target would surely leap at the chance to catch him outside the palace defences. The difficulty, of course, was exposing Strake just enough and no more. Too many guards and the assassin would have to be mad to make the attempt. Too few and they would be...too few. But none of Soren's carefully reasoned objections had swayed Strake's determination, and neither Aristide nor Tzel Damaris had supported her. Why was it they had to rely on two men whose motives could only be suspect?

  All three claimed she was to be their trump card. Aristide had said that with a particularly curling smile, to remind them all of missing knives and phantom plots. His point was that the Rose, unlike mages, seemed perfectly able to track the location of the assassin. Not only could Damaris and Aristide observe and attempt to discover why, but Soren could point out the killer's exact location and they would see if he was as immune to crossbow bolts as magic.

  And so they were walking out on Vostal Hill, ostensibly to watch the sunset. A mere half-dozen crossbowmen flanked them and a less-than-pleased Captain of the Guard was bringing up the rear. For Autumn the day had been quite pleasant, and Soren was busy being astonished at how many birds were lurking about a treeless hill, ready to explode into the air as they approached, and shriek or chirp or carol. But none of them sounded remotely like larks, and she'd stopped jumping whenever the latest flurry of feathers launched itself into the bleeding sky.

  "Why let her go, Champion?"

  Eyes made dark by the failing light, Aristide had trailed the question out like a hook for a fish.

  "Because I chose to," Soren replied, shortly. She was not the one to be baited this evening. "What information she had gathered she already had ample opportunity to pass on. He
r employer – well, could it be someone we didn't already think was taking an interest?"

  "You can put the next spy to the question," Strake said, in mock consolation.

  "I shall hope for one Lady Denmore's equal."

  Strake smiled again; Aristide's darts never seemed to do more than entertain him. But then he was back to raking hill and shoreline for something which could not be seen. Aristide considered his profile a moment longer, then looked past King and Champion to the quietly composed figure walking at Soren's side.

  Without palace-sight, she could not continue to study their faces without it being remarked upon. It made her feel like she was trying to tie a knot one-handed. When had that barrage of images become so much a part of her? What was the Rose making her into?

  The Rose was, of course, the critical factor and one Soren thought Strake was wilfully ignoring. It had shown itself less than inclined to come to his aid in the Tongue, which made relying on a warning from it dubious strategy indeed. But Strake wouldn't accept her argument when she'd raised it out of Tzel Damaris and Aristide's presence. The Rose, he said, would be warning her, not him, and that would be sufficient.

  Soren could only hope the Deeping assassin didn't come.

  "Belsen Cove," Strake said, stopping on the crown of the hill to point across the bay. With the sun setting at their backs, the far shore became a raft of warmth: burnished gold and yellow-green above dark blue water. "It's a little further south than immediately convenient," Strake continued. "But if you're serious about those ships, that seems the ideal location."

  "We need craftsmen more than a site, Your Majesty."

  "And, of course, when that clutter in the dock area is cleared out, it would be natural for the city to expand south to meet your ship-builders."

  Strake had made no bones about his opinion of the city's decay, and before Vixen's death the two men had been jousting over the feasibility of simply ripping out all the crowded, shoddily built houses which had been squeezed into the docks. Replacing them would be costly, but Strake did not seem able to stop worrying at the subject. His tone was always light, but barely covered tangible discomfort.

  Although he had conceded that the port was a little impaired by the constricted access, Aristide was ever ready to sprinkle salt on any attempt to place the appearance of the docks above other priorities. He produced a particularly bland expression now and said, "If we do attract shipwrights, we could direct them to making cosmetic changes about the foreshore."

  "You think the skills transfer?"

  "It's all working with wood. Putting it up, tearing it down."

  "Don't forget the masonry." Strake nodded north-east to the heart of Tor Darest, a patchwork of sun-kissed roofs and evening shadows on yellow stone. "Has ship design changed so much that sandstone is a major component?"

  "Stone ships could be made possible."

  They continued in the same vein, and Soren rolled her eyes, inadvertently catching the gaze of the Tzel Aviar. The Fae listened with the same stone-dropping-into-a-well imperturbability with which he met everything else. Faint concentration, no sense of emotion. It was highly unlikely that either Strake or Aristide had forgotten the Fae's presence, but the same quality of self-containment which captured the eye made it easy to accept him as a silent part of the background.

  They had started down the southern slope of the hill, the same path she had followed with Vixen. Directly ahead and curving back to their left, the beach became an uncertain glimmer in the gloom of the hill. The lights of Tor Darest were hidden by Vostal's bulk and the shipping tower at Sapphire Point was the only gleaming mote to the south-west, where the coast travelled south from Eldavar River to form the western reaches of the Bay of Diamonds. The sun was now only a memory of colour and all around them was shadow beneath a darkling sky.

  "This is the best time of day."

  Strake, gazing up at the lucent heavens. A few faint stars wavered at the limit of visibility and the occasional gull floated in and out of view, heading across the bay to find a perch. It had grown markedly colder and the wind was picking up, bringing the tingle of salt. Above the shush of waves, Soren could hear perfectly well the breathing of the seven who accompanied them, but so far as the Rose was concerned, no-one and nothing else stood on Vostal Hill.

  The sky, she thought, was exactly the colour of Strake's eyes. Blue and black at once. "When does the moon rise?"

  "An hour or more." Aristide took a step forward as he spoke, then stopped and looked back at Strake for direction.

  "We wait."

  -oOo-

  "I don't intend to do it all at once," Strake said, breaking a long silence. "But I mean to have Vostal Hill made into gardens."

  This was directed at Aristide, who shifted on the rock he had chosen as a seat. "Why?"

  "Because I'm not so profligate as to tear down that monstrosity called the New Palace and restore the garden which was there."

  A pause. "There is a certain logic to that."

  "No argument?" Strake didn't affect surprise, was simply asking.

  "That would depend on your schedule." Aristide allowed sand to trickle from his palm. The moon, a crescent above the sea, did not cast nearly enough light to make this visible, but between them the three mages had enchanted the vision of the entire group, so that night became, if not day, a blue-stained dusk.

  Dusting his hands together, Aristide stood. "We should return to the palace. A long delay in the chill will only make us sluggish. Another sortie later at night may bear more fruit."

  Soren was surprised when Strake didn't argue, simply heading down the beach over the tide-smoothed sand. Perhaps the wait was preying on his nerves.

  "Both the killings here seem to have occurred after midnight," Soren offered.

  "Others did not."

  She was not the only one who had learned the signs of temper which would creep into her Rathen's voice. Aristide turned his assessing gaze on the set of his King's shoulders, and the Captain of the Guard increased her pace. Now was not the moment for Strake to decide he had a better chance of drawing out the killer by sending his defenders away. He had the sword from the treasury strapped to his hip, and was gripping the hilt as if charging off into the dark with it drawn was the only thing which could alleviate his disappointment.

  "I hesitate to suggest further investigation of the Rose," Soren said, quite honestly. "But it may be the only way we're going to find this thing."

  Aristide, keeping step with her, produced a gentle smile, as if he thought her far too obvious. But Strake's hatred of the Rose was enough to divert him.

  "We know its abilities from the runes," he said, looking back with a predictably irritable frown. "Our energies are better spent trying to draw the assassin out. In the short term at least."

  He hadn't liked his own qualification, and increased his pace. Worried he'd pull ahead of them, Soren felt a prickle of unease, then a pitch of dismay. The Rose. It had so rarely been tangible since their return, she'd almost forgotten that weird sense of conflict. Her step faltered and, on cue, breathing.

  It was the Tzel Aviar who touched her arm, questioning her without words. Soren forced herself to walk on normally, then murmured: "On the crest of the hill. Can you see anyone?"

  She didn't follow his glance up, already knowing the answer. The Rose was not shrieking its fear, but it was a definite warning. And – the breathing sounded the same. Slow, unhurried inhalations. Not a monster, but a man.

  "What is its location?" the Tzel Aviar asked. The words caught Aristide's attention, but there was no fear of exposure from that source. He merely moved a step closer to hear her answer.

  "Almost directly above us. A little behind now and a couple of hundred feet away. Not moving."

  "But likely to if we all turned and took aim. I wouldn't care to wager on the shot." They walked on in silence as Aristide surveyed the beach. Then, when Soren's nerves were screaming for the delay, he called: "Aluster."

  Use of his giv
en name, when Aristide had remained so determinedly formal with his King, was warning enough. Strake's long stride didn't check, but his head came alertly up and, staring ahead, he said: "Where?"

  "Forty feet behind and well above. I've marked the general area with a scrape in the sand."

  To their credit, only one of the guards so much as glanced, and he covered it well. Soren, her heart indulging in small cartwheels, took a much-needed breath and added: "It's still not moving."

  "Too many of us here," Strake said, immediately. "I'll head back. Accompany me, if you will, Tzel Damaris."

  With an unexpectedly accomplished turn for acting, Strake checked as if he had discovered some loss, looked down the beach, and then strode back along the line of their footprints in the sand. "Position for the best possible shot," he said to Aristide as he passed. "Soren, signal them when it reaches that stump-shaped rock."

  Assuming that it came straight down the hill toward Aristide's barely visible mark, that it moved at all, that it would fall obligingly in with his plans. Soren struggled to put the Rose's unease at a distance as the Tzel Aviar wordlessly followed Strake down the beach, with the Captain of the Guard tagging stubbornly at their heels. The guards, proving their worth, drifted in a casual cluster in their wake, surreptitiously checking their weapons, none of them looking directly at the target rock.

  "Just yell," Aristide advised, frowning in concentration. He was to try and break the assassin's invisibility while the Tzel Aviar performed divinations. "Is it moving?"

  "It – yes." She could not decide whether to be pleased or dismayed as the presence shifted. A step, two, down the slope. Strake was drawing closer, his head bent attentively toward the Tzel Aviar, as if they argued some point. The guards were full of sidelong glances as they spread down the beach, and Aristide left Soren to follow them a short distance behind. It would be all too obvious if not for that protective cloak of invisibility, which surely made the assassin arrogantly careless. No way for him to know she could hear his every breath.