"You are certain he is heading north. Only a few roads lead there. Hire a tracker to find him and reward him well for the hunt."
Jared wheeled on the mage. "That's it? I could have come up with that. Can't a mage do better than that?"
Arontala fixed him with a cool stare. "There are uses for magic and uses for men. My magic confirms that your brother is alive and heading north. But without more precise information, I cannot summon harm without laying waste to a good bit of the population along the northern route."
"Then do it!"
Arontala looked faintly amused. "That would not be wise, sire," he replied, moving away from the wall. "Even you rule by consent of the people. My power can't alter that should enough of them seek to change it. There are still whisperings about your father's death. And about your suspicious dark mage," he added with a hint of irony. "They fear you, but they do not hate you. Yet. Wait until your brother is dead before you make your presence more onerous to them, or you will provide him the opening you wish to avoid."
Jared turned back to look out the window. "Then hire your assassins and pay them well. I want Tris dead."
"As you wish, my lord."
Jared looked back at him over his shoulder. "And the other matter? Did you secure it?"
Arontala crossed the room, but Jared did not seen him move. It was an annoying habit and Jared suspected that was precisely why the mage continued to do it. Arontala lifted the bowl with the soldier's blood and let his finger run along its rim. The mage's tongue whet his lips as he raised the bowl and began to drink, Jared saw a flash of white teeth that made him shiver.
"Feed your filthy habit elsewhere," Jared snapped. "A mage that can only go about in darkness is only half of use to me."
Arontala ignored the command and set the empty bowl aside, his mouth immaculately clean. "You should not speak of what you do not comprehend, my liege," the mage said dryly. "If you prefer, I can feed otherwise, but I am not sure that even you are strong enough... yet... to harbor a rogue vayash moru with impunity."
"Your precious dark gift has done me little good," Jared growled. "And as for rumors, do you think the commoners would believe I would give safety to one of your kind... after we've gone to such pains to exterminate the others?" He paused. "I still think they could have been turned to be... useful to us."
"Ah yes," Arontala said in that smooth voice Jared found so mocking. "Jared Drayke, slayer of vayash moru, defender of the kingdom. Even I could not turn and retain control of so many of... as you put it... my kind."
"Even you?" Jared sneered.
Arontala made a dismissive wave.
"There are still the palace ghosts."
"The dagger which slew your father was spelled to destroy the soul as well as the body. His body was burned, and the ashes mingled with dryroot and scattered under a full moon. There is no magic that can bring him back," Arontala replied.
"And the others?"
"Some of the spirits were banished," Arontala replied. "They cannot return unless I bid them come. As for your stepmother and her brat, their spirits are still here under my watchful eye," he said with a lethal smile as he walked around the pulsing, red orb in the center of the room. "They await the Feeding," he said, his hand hovering just above the surface of the orb. "They are quite safe in my Soulcatcher," he smiled.
"There is still Bava K'aa," Jared snapped. "I saw what she could do."
"Bava K'aa is dead."
Jared turned toward the mage and shook his head. "She was a mage. A strong one. She could will her spirit to remain."
"That was why we set the warding around the throne room when your father fell," Arontala replied. "And why I set the spell to banish the castle ghosts. If her spirit is here, which I do not sense, she did not come to Bricen's aid."
Jared began to pace. "No, she didn't," he replied softly, as if answering himself instead of Arontala. "But she always favored Serae's brats. And I think she always meant for Serae's son to rule." He looked up at the mage. "I want you to find her body and destroy it."
Arontala returned a skeptical look. "Bava K'aa was buried within a citadel of the Sisterhood. Nothing short of war could breech their protections."
"Why are you so clear on what can't be done and not on what can?" Jared exploded. "You're supposed to make sure that nothing interferes. If you can't do that, perhaps there's a stronger mage who can!"
Arontala looked faintly amused. "Perhaps. But I sense that you fear something more than Bava K'aa's ghost."
Jared stopped pacing in front of the empty hearth and stared into the darkness of the opening. "I've always heard that sorcerers must have a mage heir." He turned to face Arontala and forced himself to meet those mocking, dark eyes. "What if my cursed brother is her heir?"
As usual, Arontala's eyes revealed nothing. "You have no reason to believe that. Your brother has shown less interest in magic than he has in ruling. Really, Jared, if you thought him to be such a threat, why didn't you kill him yourself? You had plenty of opportunities."
"If he has Bava K'aa's power," Jared continued doggedly. "Do you realize what that means? He could summon her spirit to fight me, use her powers against me and take the throne. If he becomes a Summoner, if he inherited grandmother's gift, then both the spirits and the undead heed his command."
"You are worried about children's tales and ghost stories."
"Then prove me wrong," Jared hissed, turning on the mage. "Drive out the Sisterhood. Make sure Bava K'aa can't return from the dead. And find my brother!"
"As you wish, sire," Arontala answered with a low bow Jared was not altogether sure was respectful. "But there are a few more details in which you might be interested."
"Speak."
"I have set a barrier spell on the border with Dhasson," Arontala reported, a smile at his own cleverness touching the corners of his thin lips. "It is particular to your brother. It will summon every dark thing in the Northern Lands as soon as he breeches the border." Arontala smiled his pleasure. "No one could withstand those... things... and live."
"No one but a mage," Jared muttered darkly. "My brother has the lives of a cat." He paced. "And while you tell me you are the strongest mage in the Seven Kingdoms, you have not told me who made those dark beasts, since they are more than you can conjure."
It was the first time Jared scored against Arontala, and the mage turned with a dismissive gesture. "It does not matter who made them," he said. "What matters is that we have made them useful."
"It doesn't matter who made them," Jared echoed dryly, "until that mage appears and demands his due."
"There are more pressing matters to worry about," Arontala responded impatiently.
"Like my brother."
"He is only an average swordsman, my liege," Arontala replied with patronizing mildness. "Even with help, there are too many of the creatures to fight. He will not survive crossing the border. Long."
"Your assurances are hollow," Jared snapped. "I can't rest until he is dead."
"You will not wait long, your majesty," Arontala answered, gliding to the window. "Have you so little faith?"
"Yes," Jared returned. "You have not delivered Isencroft to me, let alone rid me of my brother. If such a simple matter eludes you... "
"Only a weak king uses magic when statecraft will do," Arontala replied impatiently, turning from the window. "You have the covenant, signed by your father and King Donelan of Isencroft, sealing the betrothal of a princess of Isencroft with the ruling son of Margolan. I have already arranged for Catoril to travel there and bring Princess Kiara back to visit. You need only impress her. I should think even you can handle that."
Jared glared at the mage. "You were supposed to have solved the Donelan problem by now," Jared replied, beginning to pace. "The possibility still exists that he may forbid the marriage. Kill him and she has no choice. Isencroft is on the brink of famine. Even our proud warrior princess must see that there are no alternatives to Margolan's... protection."
&nb
sp; Arontala watched Jared with dry amusement. "It has been said that those for whom magic is most addicting are not mages. I have fixed Donelan in a wasting spell. He resists. To do more, over this distance, is a waste of my power."
"I'll judge that!" Jared snapped. "You were told to see him dead."
"Patience, my liege," Arontala said smoothly. "Patience. It is not wise to make too great a show of our powers. Not yet. Donelan has not been seen in months. If it were not for my scrying, one could assume his death already. And Kiara Sharsequin is not another of your empty-headed mistresses. She is Goddess Blessed and a skillful warrior. You will have to win her consent to the marriage with your own abilities." He smiled coldly. "Once the wedding is over, I will assure her death."
"More promises," Jared muttered. "Leave me. I'm tired of your prattle. Bring me news when your spies reach the northern roads. I want to know when my brother crosses the border."
Arontala bowed low with exaggerated grace. "As you wish, my liege," he murmured, but the glance with which he fixed the king gave Jared no doubt that the wizard's show of servitude was merely one more dangerous game.
He watched the mage leave and shuddered. The sorcerer could make all the reassurances he wished, Jared thought, but he was underestimating Bava K'aa.
Despite his heavy robes, Jared shivered. As for ghosts, the palace had more than its share. Now, despite Arontala's warding, he swore he could feel their presence, waiting, mocking, angry. He must make sure Tris could never draw on their power, never turn them against him as they savaged the attackers of King Hotten generations ago. Arontala says he's banished them, but maybe they're just beyond the gates, he thought. And they're waiting. He looked back outside, struggling to calm his thudding heart. The living he could master, but the dead were another matter entirely.
Chapter Seven
Tris and the others made camp at the edge of a small forest, just far enough within the tree line to hide themselves from the village below. There were many people on the road, returning from festival or taking goods to the last fairs before winter, and so Harrtuck made a small fire without concern.
"Now what?" Tris asked Vahanian as the mercenary sat next to the fire, a hot mug of watered ale gripped in his hands against the cold.
Vahanian glanced up at him. "Now, we find some cover for going north," he said, draining his mug and setting it aside. He clasped his hands and looked into the fire. "A caravan's good cover," he said after a pause. "Lots of people for camouflage and they still make decent time on the road."
"Won't that be slow?" Carroway asked, finishing his dinner. "I mean, they have to stop a lot to sell their wares and give their shows."
"Beats four fugitives and a guide trying not to look obvious," Vahanian said, never taking his eyes off the fire.
"So what are we going to do?" Soterius asked, setting his plate aside. "Just walk up and say, 'Hello there, we want to be your hired swords?'"
Harrtuck laughed and even Vahanian smiled. "A little like that," Vahanian said. "If they're passing anywhere near here, there's a caravan I have in mind. An old friend of mine named Maynard Linton owns it. Maynard will take us on, no questions asked, and keep his theories to himself if our guards seem overly well-bred," he said, with a pointed glance toward Tris and Soterius.
"How do we find him?" Tris asked.
Vahanian shrugged. "There's a town on the other side of the forest. I'll go down to the tavern. Tavern keepers always know where the caravans are."
He left within the hour, heading down the slope into the village while Tris and the others stayed hidden in the forest. Vahanian paused at the outskirts of the village to take stock. It looked quiet enough. Some of the banners from the holiday remained aloft from the corners of buildings, fluttering cold and forlorn on the autumn breeze.
The tavern was on the edge of town, its broken sign askew and unreadable. Vahanian made his way up the sagging steps, toeing a drunk out of the way, and pushed open the greasy door. Something skittered across his boot as he entered. The tavern was full, testimony to a lack of competing facilities, Vahanian was sure, rather than to the food. He sized up the clientele- third-rate merchants, petty cut-throats, fewer and uglier whores than usual, and one or two freelance fighters who appeared to be nothing more than common thugs.
He took a place at the bar so that his back was to a wall, and casually rested his boot on the rail of a chair as the barkeeper brought him a mug of ale. For a candlemark, he listened silently as the patrons grumbled about taxes and guardsmen, muddy roads and too much rain. He listened more closely when the talk turned to trouble in the north, but heard nothing more specific than rumors of dark magic and fierce beasts. As he listened, he watched the crowd. There were few enough inns on the way north, making it likely for those who traveled frequently to spot one another. That included bounty hunters, whom Vahanian wanted to avoid more fervently than ever.
"Heard anything about caravans coming this way?" he asked, draining his mug. He slid his coin across the sticky wood.
The barkeeper shrugged, bit the coin, and threw it into his apron pocket. "I hear there's some coming," he replied in a voice that suggested that he sampled too many of his own goods.
"Any in particular?"
"Maybe. Heard something about Couras's caravan passing through here going south in a few weeks," the barkeeper added, wiping out a glass and setting it back to be used again. "Heard tell that Linton's caravan was heading north, might be here in two or three days."
Vahanian nodded and sipped his drink. He froze as he recognized a squat man with oily blond hair rising from a table in the back. He had an inkling the man was looking for him, back in Ghorbal. When it came to tracking prey, bounty hunters seemed to have all the time in the world. If the hunter made a calculated guess about Vahanian's direction, he would check out the inns first. Bad enough if Vahanian were about his usual business, but with the fugitives in tow, it made the risk unacceptably high. He would have to do something about it. As Vahanian watched, the bounty hunter made his way among the crowded tables toward the door. Vahanian turned slightly so that his face was hidden as the man passed, then set his drink aside when the door closed behind the man and followed him into the night.
In the darkness of the alley behind the inn, Vahanian tackled the squat bounty hunter from behind, locking his arm around the man's throat. "So, Chessis, you're still in business," Vahanian said, tightening his grip.
"Let me go, Vahanian. I'm not looking for you."
"Right," Vahanian replied, maintaining his pressure on Chessis' throat. "And I'm not worth a lot of money to you dead."
"That was a long time ago," Chessis croaked. "They've probably retired the purse by now."
"Somehow, I doubt it. What are you doing here?"
The bounty hunter twisted slightly, enough to bring his boot around, and Vahanian realized almost too late that there was a blade set in its toe. The knife sliced his pantleg as he released his hold and jumped back, pulling his own blade. Chessis dropped into a defensive squat, circling and looking for an opening. In the narrow alleyway with its tangle of overhead laundry lines, drawing a sword would be impossible. Instead, Vahanian crouched, knife in hand, ready to spring.
Chessis lunged. Vahanian parried. Chessis feinted, then lunged again, his knife scoring against Vahanian's arm. With an oath, Vahanian pivoted, his left foot snapping out towards the surprised bounty hunter, letting his boot connect hard against the man's knife hand and sending the weapon skittering down the alleyway. Before Chessis could recover, Vahanian spun, slipping within the bounty hunter's guard and burying his knife deep in the man's chest. With a groan, the oily-haired man clutched at the spreading stain on his shirt and sagged to the ground, just as Vahanian felt the point of a sword in his back.
"It may be too close to fight with this," a gravelly voice said, "but I have plenty of room to run you through, Jonmarc."
Vahanian dropped his knife and raised his hands. "Hello, Vakkis."
"Some day, bef
ore I kill you, you're going to have to teach me that footwork," Vakkis remarked coolly. "You're really a marvel, Jonmarc. I may miss you when you're dead. Escaping from the Nargi is feat enough. Learning their ancient fighting skills is another." Vakkis made a "tsk tsk" in the back of his throat. "It's going to be much quieter for me after you're gone, Jonmarc."
"I never knew you cared, Vakkis," Vahanian replied. "I'll be glad to give you your first lesson now, if you want." The jab of the sword's point between his shoulder blades was his reply.
"You know, Chessis was telling the truth," Vakkis went on. "We aren't looking for you, at least, right now. I've got another client."
"Slime spreads," Vahanian remarked, and this time, the sword jab drew blood.
"Where is Martris Drayke?"
"How in the hell would I know?"
"Turn around, slowly, and keep your hands up," Vakkis replied, keeping the point of his sword against Vahanian's flesh as the fighter turned, and bringing the sword to bear above his heart. "Now, I'll ask again. Where is Martris Drayke?"
"You're getting old, Vakkis," Vahanian replied. "Hearing's going. I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
A slow smile crept over Vakkis face. "You actually don't, do you?" the bounty hunter chuckled. "This is more satisfying than I'd dreamed. Jonmarc Vahanian, played for a fool."
"I'm glad one of us is having fun. Mind letting me in on the joke?"
A cold smile made Vakkis's pointed features even harsher in the moonlight. "They managed to elude me in Ghorbal, but I heard they'd teamed up with you. Our little kingslayer, Martris Drayke of Margolan and his friends seem to have bought themselves a guide," Vakkis said, watching Vahanian with amusement. "You really didn't know, did you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
To Vahanian's astonishment, Vakkis reached into his cloak and withdrew a small purse filled with coins, which he dropped at Vahanian's feet. "Even by your standards, there's fair compensation in there for information," Vakkis said, stepping back a pace and lowering his sword. "Now, where is Martris Drayke?"
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