Lazaro’s smile went a shade thinner and he raised his goblet to his lips and took a sip.
“Rather be in Maresto now,” mumbled the mercenary to himself. “Getting rich on spoils... than all this... frippery.” And Livorna would be the biggest prize once northern Maresto was sorted, he thought to himself. A good scrap with the Black Rose was long overdue. He’d thought sure they would have come to blows a few weeks earlier but they had had a clean push through Persarola and the surrounding villages. Maybe Malvolio and his men had gone soft, drinking and wenching on the coast. He glanced over to Ursino who was mooning over his new lady. That was the real problem. Dithering. The weather was good and here they wasted time while the enemy gathered more forces to his banner and schemed new alliances. They had enough now to do the job. If Ursino would let the Blue Boar off the leash.
Looking to the far side of the roped-off lists, Lucinda smiled as she watched a few sergeants struggling to prevent a brawl among the two companies. The Duke leaned over, placed his hand over her wrist and spoke quietly into her ear, his moustache tickling her lobe. “Just as well they are using dulled weapons. Otherwise I’d have to recruit another whole army.”
She covered his hand with her long fingers. “It is a mighty host, my lord. They frighten me—even at play!”
“Somehow I do not see you being frightened by much of anything.” He gave her a tender look. “There is a strength that lies behind that beauty of yours. And that gives me strength too. We are soon to embark on campaign... I would have you join me.”
She regarded him with a certain look of intrigued scepticism. “I thought you would prefer not to hear from me on martial matters. You made that most clear.”
Ursino raised his eyebrows, recalling his admonishment to her at the revel. “Yes. I was perhaps hasty. Knowing you are a Seeker, I should perhaps have given you more credit for your cunning. I have seen that more in the past days when we talk. You have a confidence I find... alluring.”
She laughed lightly. “You like that I ride like a man.”
“I like that you seem to know the mind of man or woman. I have a handful of counsellors who barely know what day it is never mind what others are thinking—or plotting.”
She locked her eyes onto his own and spoke in a whisper. “Then let me prove my worth, my lord. You will soon receive a messenger. I have seen this.”
The Duke leaned in closer. “What are you saying?”
“It is news from Perusia. Tidings that will change everything. And that could have great significance for you.”
“You are a Seeker, but I did not think a prophetess. How do you know such things?” She could tell he was debating whether she was playing him or not.
“I possess many abilities. The blackrobe at the Ara is not the only one favoured of his God. I know what I say to be true. I have three things to tell you, one of which you already know. Let me whisper in your ear.” He narrowed his eyes but leaned in even closer to her. “First, you are cousin to the king. Second, the king is dead. And the third, Prince Sarant is a bastard.”
“That is a bold foretelling, my lady. Bold to the point of reckless.”
Lucinda remained expressionless. “But it is done. And... I shall tell you a fourth. The prince’s real father is known to you. A close enemy.”
Ursino leaned back, still staring at her face. He heard the neighing of several horses and looked up. Three riders had reined in fast in front of the pavilion, their mounts glistening with sweat, nostrils flaring. Palace guardsmen. The lead dismounted and entered under the canvas, stopping and kneeling before he reached the Duke. He bore a leather packet, tied with ribbon which he held out before him.
“A message from Perusia, your Grace. From the palace.”
Ursino snapped his fingers and motioned for another guardsman nearby to fetch the packet. He seized it, cracked the wax seal, and unwound the red ribbon binding it.
Lucinda watched, motionless, savouring the anticipation. Ursino unfolded the parchment and rapidly read the words upon it. He folded it, slowly, and turned again to Lucinda. She saw wonder in his eyes, wonder for her, and also a glimpse of a newly kindled fire: unbridled ambition. And then, she felt something rising within her breast, an inkling of something she had not felt for an age. It had been there for a few weeks but she had pushed it back down, denying it, whenever she was with him: an attraction, a longing. She realized that Ursino was not just a means to an end, she was finding a certain joy in his company. Lucinda smiled back at him, lips parting, and the pleasure in her heart overrode the whispers of caution from her head.
Nine
“FOR CROWN PRINCE Sarant! Vivat! Vivat! Vivat!”
The response from the throng of Palestrians in the market square was, not surprisingly, somewhat subdued as the shock of the king’s death rolled across the crowd. The herald threw up his arms with each cheer before rapidly scrabbling the scroll in his fists and stomping off to his next destination to announce all over again the death of King Sempronius, the naming of Sarant as heir apparent, and of Queen Cressida as regent. The mutterings carried from street to street, tavern to tavern and market to market. How did the king die? When would a coronation be held? Need the boy be twelve years of age before he could wear the crown? And who really was Queen Cressida, now dowager queen? Some upstart nobleman’s daughter from Colonna and she now leading the kingdom. God save us.
High above the city’s steep terraces where the rocky soil levelled out onto a plateau—the moneyed merchants’ quarter—Palazzo Danamis overlooked all. Nicolo Danamis again found himself in his father’s day chamber, a grand solarium recently renovated after the sacking of the palazzo the previous summer. The message from Perusia notifying the High Steward of Sempronius’s early demise and the new regency lay still upon his father’s table. It had not moved in nearly a week, merely tossed to the side after it had been read.
Necalli of Atlcali stood near the window but just out of the light, a grey presence in the corner. Nicolo looked again at the message from Cressida that he held in his hands. Delivered that morning by an exhausted royal courier whose bay courser, upon reaching the courtyard, had promptly sank to its knees, exhaled loudly, and died.
Rumour abounds... I do not feel safe here... some of the council have gone missing... I have not left the palace.
Valerian Danamis was leaning back into his chair, the usual look of resigned disgust that Nicolo had always felt was reserved particularly for him. It was something he had not missed in the past six years, if indeed he had missed anything about his father.
“She is newly widowed, for godsake,” said Valerian. “What would you expect her to write. She is unbalanced with grief.”
“The queen is made of strong stuff, even now. I swear it. She is deeply concerned and this cannot be without some reason.” Nico thrust the letter out to his father. “Read it for yourself. The council is beginning to fracture. Rumours are undermining her attempts to govern in the prince’s name. God only knows whose side the Chamberlain, that worm Raganus, is taking.”
“I may have been away a long time but my memory was not left behind in the south seas. And I remember well your dalliance with her. You might have pressed your suit and now we’d be ruling Colonna as well as Palestro.” Valerian sniggered and wiped his forefinger under his nose. He looked up at his son. “Is the boy yours?”
Nicolo folded the letter and did not meet his father’s gaze. “I don’t know. It matters not. The queen has asked for my help. She is gathering allies around her. Rightly so.”
Valerian scoffed. “Doesn’t matter? If he is your by-blow then the prince is no more a prince than I am. He’s a bastard and not the rightful king. You want to support a pretender?”
“And if he is the king’s son? You owe the possession of this city and your power to Sempronius—no matter that he was a useless fool. It is your duty to come to the defence of his heir.”
“And what army do you have to defend the queen? You would sail off to Perusia—w
ith our best men and ships—barely a year after the mutiny? You really trust the rest of them here?”
“I’ll take only two vessels and a few hundred men. You’ll have command of the bulk of the fleet, nine loyal captains who will follow you into hell itself if need be. Be my guest and pull Duke Ursino’s beard while I am away. But I am going to Perusia whether you like it or not.”
Valerian shook his head. “And what do you hope to accomplish there? When we’re fighting a war against Torinia?”
Nicolo walked to the window and cast a long glance at Necalli, who had remained silent during the exchange. “I expect to find who is stirring the pot, father. By God, I don’t know who has spread the tale but in eleven years not a word of Cressida and myself, and now this. You know as well as I that there is no better time to make a grab for the throne than now. That spider Ursino was kin to the king. These rumours are kindling for his bonfire. And will Duke Ridolfo in Milvorna support the queen as regent?”
“Bah! It only matters that there is a king on the throne. Who that king may be is of little concern.”
“And what of Lord Piero Polo?”
Valerian leaned forward. “What of him?”
“He would sell his own mother to gain favour and fortune. I do not trust him.”
“He already has favour and fortune.”
Nico shook his head as he stared out the window. “His new friends are more than curious about Valdur. What if they took a more active interest in the outcome of the succession?”
“The Sinaens? They have their hands full with their own empire in the east.”
Nicolo turned back to his father. “Then why do they keep such a large presence in Perusia and Colonna? Polo is scheming with them. I can smell it.”
“Your little mutiny last year has rattled you, boy. Piero Polo has ever been a friend to this house, and to the rightful king of Valdur.”
“My queen has summoned me. I am going to her.”
“Do you hear him, Necalli? Rashness. Bloody rashness. You had best watch yourself, my boy. Your first duty is to defend Palestro. That is what your warrant as admiral states.”
Nicolo thought then about how many times he had wished to put a dagger into his father, since he had been eleven. Fate had seemed to reward him when Valerian disappeared into the distant ocean, but it had laughed in his face when the old man turned up six years later, as cruel as ever. “The city is well defended. I shall not be gone more than a month.”
“Well, sod you then.” Valerian tossed his quill to the table and ran his hand through his tangled white mop of hair. He then pointed a bony finger at his son. “If you go—and I won’t stop you—you will take Necalli with you.”
Nicolo froze. “Necalli? Why him?”
“He’s as much an explorer as I, indeed a great captain in his own land. He should see Perusia, meet the court. And you should heed his counsel when he offers it.”
Necalli gave a slow bow and Nicolo gritted his teeth. “Father, I have my men. Gregorvero will be at my side. With respect to Master Necalli, I do not think it is a good time for a merman to arrive at Perusia. Not with the split in the Temple there about the new holy texts.”
Valerian laughed. “The new holy texts? Do you take me for an old incontinent fool? You don’t give a shit about the split in the faith. You just don’t wish to take my advice, or help.”
Necalli turned to face Nicolo with his arms open in a gesture that Nicolo took to be an effort at accommodation. “Captain Danamis, my lord, I would be most grateful if you would consent to take me with you.” He blinked as he spoke, his Valdurian accented with an odd sibilance. “I will obey you in all things, and I will fight by your side if need be. It means much for me to see more of your kingdom. Please give me this chance.”
Nicolo looked at the merman. He was as smooth as any Perusian courtier and would no doubt fit right in, as slippery as the rest. So very different from the rough and rude merfolk he knew of his world who wore their friendship or enmity openly for all to see. Nicolo turned to his father. “Very well. He can come along, but I leave before the week is out.”
Valerian’s familiar look of disgust reappeared on his leathery face. “You think you know everything don’t you, boy?” He shook his head slowly. “The Xosians are an ally of Palestro now. Some day you might find out why.”
LATER THAT DAY, Danamis rode down to the west gate, two of his men-at-arms accompanying him on foot, swords at their waists. He wore a burgundy doublet and red hose, tall boots pulled up to his knees, and a long silver-hilted dagger at his hip. Pushed down low just above his brow was a black woollen hat, pheasant feather and egret flash pinned to the front with a jewel the size of a plum. Palestro was heaving at the port side: fish being unloaded and sold by the loudest people in Valdur; one of his carracks, the Drum, offloading wool bundles, taken off a Torinian merchant ship the afternoon before. The smell of hot tar and pitch wafted to his nostrils in the heat of the afternoon. It was a smell he had grown up with, a comforting scent. Those that recognized him stopped to doff their hats and bow. He returned their greetings, his horse’s hooves clopping on the cobbles of the seafront piazza. The gate was open as it always was during the daylight hours. The city militiamen went rigid on spying his approach, their comrades rushing out of the gatehouse to join them.
After he passed through the hulking stone arch and towers and over the wooden bridge, he dismounted and handed the reins to one of his men. “Wait here for me,” he commanded. A curtain of purple flowers clung to the stonework of the battlements, cascading downwards into the shallow ditch below. He skirted this and made his way down to the mer encampment. The high palisaded double gates were already open to receive him and he strode through and entered a clearing with a fire-pit, a huddle of palm-thatched huts just beyond.
Citala was at centre of a group of she-mer, facing off against two huge mermen who bellowed their displeasure. One kept slamming the butt of his spear into the ground as he leaned forward. Citala was holding firm, her voice raised as high as the mer warriors who confronted her.
“Citala! What goes on?” Danamis stopped before he reached the group, feet spread wide.
The mermen turned and halted, exchanging looks with each other.
“These two have come from my father,” shouted Citala in Valdurian. “Making demands.”
Danamis was certain what those demands were. He kept his place and put his hands on his hips. “Tell them I wish to parley with them, if they will let us speak for a few moments first.”
“I have been telling them to leave.”
“I can see that.”
Citala gestured with her outthrust arm for the mermen to move away. They grumbled but complied, hefting their weapons and moving off to one side. Their eyes settled upon Danamis as he walked forward. He could see that the she-mer had moved around Citala to protect her from the warriors and now they relaxed a little, stepping back to give Danamis room.
Danamis addressed Citala without taking his eyes from the mermen. “They want the myrra, I suppose.”
She nodded. “And they want it now. I told them I would be coming back to see my father shortly. That hasn’t satisfied them.”
Danamis’s thumb worried the pommel of his dagger. “Are you sure these two are from your father?”
“Yes. I know them. And they say if they go back empty-handed then Atalapah will come with all his warriors to remind you of your promise.”
Danamis exhaled deeply. Citala had been lucky enough to get by this long without having to come to grips with the myrra trade but time had now run out. “Citala, you must let them have the myrra. I have one bundle—well, most of one bundle. They can have that for another chest of gold, as before.”
She looked at him, her eyes full of pain. “It is not what I want, for them or for us here.”
Danamis reached out and touched her shoulder. “I know that. But the alternative is worse. Give them the myrra. We will figure something else out later.”
One of
the merman banged his spear, his nostrils flaring in annoyance, his skin mottled from grey to a brighter purplish hue.
“Citala, listen to me. It is the only way. I came to tell you I must journey to Perusia. You can come with me. We will bring the myrra and stop at Nod’s Rock. Hell, these two can come with us if they don’t fancy swimming back.”
Citala muttered under her breath, then paused. “It only prolongs the misery for them. And what happens when it runs out? Strykar has not brought you more leaf in months.”
“I can’t answer that. But we can buy ourselves more time. Tell them.”
“Very well. I must see my father before I find him turning up here. I will go with you as far as Nod’s Rock.”
She spoke quietly to the warriors, the fight evaporating from her. They, in turn, exchanged a few words before nodding their agreement. Citala pointed to a rack of fish standing near the gates. One of the merman gave a jagged smile, razor teeth flashing, and they wandered off to their meal as if nothing unpleasant ever had happened. Citala gestured for Danamis to follow her into her hut.
“Tell me why you are sailing to Perusia?”
He put his arms around her and she returned his embrace. “Because I must. The king is dead and the queen has asked me to protect the prince. He is just a boy. She does not know who to trust and her enemies are circling.”
“Why you, Danamis son of Danamis? Has she not her own army to safeguard her?”
“She trusts me, Citala. That is why.”
“You never told me you know the queen of Valdur. She must think much of you to ask such a thing.”
Danamis gave her a weak smile. “I have served her husband, as did my father. Now I must serve her.”
Citala’s brow furrowed. “And then you will return... here, to Palestro?”
He nodded, already feeling guilty that he dare not share the entire story. “We leave in a few days. Two ships. But you must name one of your people to look after the colony while you are away.”
“I have a council now. They will do what they must until I return.”
The Witch of Torinia Page 10
