The Warlord's Legacy Read online

  “I see. I do hope that you’re not planning to conduct all your business in the same manner that you dealt with my staff.”

  “Not unless I have to.”

  A moment of awkward silence. “You realize, Cerris, that my cousin Duke Halmon actually rules here. The rest of us govern while he sits on the regent’s throne in Mecepheum, but we each own only a portion of the city’s lands. I can’t unilaterally make trade arrangements for all of Rahariem.”

  “Oh, I understand, my lady. You’re not the only noble on my agenda. I just wanted to get to know each of you, and to assure you that I won’t be taking the opportunity of the changeover to raise prices on goods and transport.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Cerris. And will you be taking Danrien’s place in the Merchants’ Guild as well?”

  “I thought,” he said carefully, “that it would be best to deal with the real power in Rahariem first, make certain my foundation was solid with you, before—”

  Irrial raised a hand. “You wanted to have the nobles backing you before you approached the Guild, so that they’d let you take over Danrien’s senior office, rather than starting you at the bottom of the heap as they normally do new members, no matter whose routes they now oversee.”

  Cerris felt himself flush lightly. “You’re quite astute, my lady.”

  Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Then perhaps we ought to discuss a lowering of prices, Cerris. Just to make certain that I feel comfortable backing your claim.”

  For a long moment, he could only stare. Then, “I should have bought out Rahariem’s coopers as well. At least that way I could have gotten some work done while you’ve got me over this barrel.”

  Irrial laughed—not the genteel titter of an aristocrat, but a full-throated guffaw that would have been at home in any tavern. Cerris couldn’t help but smile along with her as they began their negotiations.

  HE’D VISITED THE ESTATE often in the intervening years—perhaps, though he’d never have admitted it to himself let alone anyone else, more frequently than business strictly mandated—and he knew the layout well. He knew, too, that while his stolen uniform had been necessary to get him through the gate, and indeed across the property, it would stand out dramatically in certain rooms of the main house.

  Slipping through the kitchen entrance, he paused, letting his vision adjust to the faint light. He avoided the servants’ quarters entirely, for they, as with similar halls throughout Rahariem’s estates, were currently serving as billet to a squad of Cephiran troops. The servants who remained, those who hadn’t been pressed into work gangs, would instead be bunked three or four to a chamber in the house’s guest quarters. In silence born partly of skill and partly of magic—the latter to cover incidental sounds, squeaking stairs, and the occasional pop of aging joints—Cerris crept through those rooms now, and recognized one of the men therein. Sprawled across a sofa, snoring as though Kassek War-Bringer and Oldrei Storm Queen were wrestling in his nostrils, lay the butler Rannert. In all the days since their first meeting, Cerris had never once seen the old man smile, and even in the depths of what must be a worried sleep, his jaw remained fixed in a look of stiff propriety.

  The intruder stepped carefully away from the sleeping forms to the wardrobe, slipping on a hanging overcoat he pulled from within and leaving his crimson tabard behind. Back to the kitchen, then, to acquire the necessary props to excuse his presence should anyone awaken and challenge him. Finally, now looking very much the household servant—if, perhaps, a somewhat disheveled one—he trod softly up the stairs and along the hall toward the baroness’s chambers.

  Decorum demanded that he knock and announce his presence before entering Irrial’s boudoir, but prudence demanded with far more conviction that he not risk attracting attention. Working swiftly, Cerris lifted the latch and darted inside, allowing the door to click shut behind him.

  It wasn’t much of a sound, but the baroness, perhaps troubled at having enemy soldiers in her city and her house, proved a light sleeper. Snapping open a shuttered lantern at her bedside and grasping a long dirk from beneath her pillow, Irrial bolted upright—and stared. Cerris, a tray of steaming tea held aloft in one hand, gaped back at her. Her hair, tousled and tangled with fitful sleep, hung about her shoulders, and the flimsy nightshift she wore to bed was, put politely, neither as formal nor as modest as the gowns Cerris was accustomed to seeing on her.

  In a single instant, a dozen apologies and excuses, any one of which might have salvaged the situation with everyone’s dignity intact, flashed through Cerris’s mind. So of course, what blurted unbidden from his mouth was, “Wow, that really is a lot of freckles.”

  “Cerris!” she protested, flushing hotly. She nearly cut a finger on her dagger as she dropped it, the better to clutch the heavy blankets to her bosom. “What the hell …?”

  “Oh! Oh, gods, I … I’m sorry, I …” Stammering like a schoolboy, blushing as darkly as she, Cerris finally had the presence of mind to turn his back, allowing the baroness to haul the concealing blankets up to her chin. It said more for his good fortune, and less for his manual dexterity, that he didn’t upend the tray in the process.

  “You can turn around,” she told him, her tone bewildered and more than a little cold. He did so, to see her sitting upright and utterly concealed, save for her face, beneath the quilts. “Cerris …”

  “I’m so sorry, my lady,” he told her. “I didn’t intend to, ah …” He cast about desperately for a way to phrase this. “To startle you like that,” he finished lamely.

  “Startle. Right.” She chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. “You know, there was a time in Imphallion’s history when you’d have had your eyes put out for something like this.”

  Cerris couldn’t help himself. “It might’ve been worth it,” he said, and he was almost certain, when she looked down and growled something, that it was to hide that familiar twitch of her lips.

  Finally having regained his composure, Cerris approached the nearby wardrobe, selected the first blouse and skirt that looked manageable without the aid of servants, and looked away once more. He could all but hear her pursing her lips at his selection.

  “Color-blind, are we?” she asked as she dressed. Once done, she put a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him to face her. “What are you doing here, Cerris?” she asked seriously. “If you escaped from your work gang, why in the name of all the gods aren’t you miles away by now?”

  He stepped aside, poured them each a cup from the teapot he’d brought from the kitchen. “I need your help,” he told her softly. “And then we’re both getting out of here.” He seemed surprised even as he said it.

  ‘Oh, please. Tell me you’re just saying that to make sure she helps you,’ his mind taunted in the demon’s voice. ‘Given the stellar accounting you’ve made of yourself with women so far, anything else is either delusional or masochistic, wouldn’t you say?’

  Cerris found himself grateful that he was already blushing from before, since it hid the shameful flush that newly rose to his cheeks. In any case, it was done, and he focused away from his inner dialogue to listen as Irrial spoke.

  “… commoner might just disappear,” she was saying, “but I think if one of the nobility vanishes, they might well come looking, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Are you afraid of that, my lady?”

  “No,” she said, and he found he believed her. “I could do a lot more good outside this damn house. But this sort of thing takes preparation, Cerris, and I’m just not—”

  Cerris raised an interrupting hand, nearly spilling his tea. “You misunderstand,” he said. “I’m not planning on making our escape tonight. Actually, in another hour or so, I need to sneak back into the barracks before I’m missed.”

  Irrial blinked twice, perhaps checking her vision since her hearing was obviously faulty. “What are you … I don’t …”

  “I need you to help me find something, Irrial,” he said, unaware that he’d dropped the proper forma
l address. “Something that’ll give us a vital edge. I can’t leave without it.”

  “What?”

  “A weapon. One that would certainly have been claimed by someone of rank. The Cephiran officers meet with the nobles and Guildmasters regularly, don’t they? To make sure the city’s running to their specifications?”

  Irrial nodded. “Twice a week, so far.”

  “Then you’ve a better chance of spotting it than I do. It was taken from my home when they attacked, and I want it back.”

  “ ‘It’? You’re being awfully cryptic. What sort of weapon?”

  Cerris sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “Cerris, what are you trying—”

  “Have you ever heard,” he asked slowly, as though deciding how much to trust her, “of the Kholben Shiar?”

  “What? You’re joking, right? They’re a myth.”

  “They’re not. I have one. Or I did, anyway.”

  Maybe it was his eyes, maybe his voice, or maybe the fact that he’d have to be insane to risk escaping—and then breaking back in—on a jest. Whatever the case, Irrial obviously chose to believe.

  “My gods.” She began pacing the length of the bedroom and back. “Rumor has it that Audriss the Serpent and Corvis Rebaine each had one, you know.”

  “Did they.” His voice, flat as an undertaker’s slab, made it a statement rather than a question.

  “I saw an axe hanging at Rebaine’s side, the day he took Rahariem.” She was whispering, her expression unfocused. “I don’t even know why I noticed it, there was so much else about him … Was that it, do you think? The Kholben Shiar?”

  Cerris said nothing, and Irrial scarcely seemed to notice his silence. She shook her head as though dragging her thoughts more than twenty years forward, back to today. “If you don’t know what form it’s taken, how am I supposed to recognize it?”

  “It keeps certain traits,” he said, hoping now that her memory wasn’t too precise. “It’ll have runes and figures adorning the head, blatant no matter what it looks like. If you stare at them long enough, they’ll even seem to move.”

  She nodded, though her expression remained doubtful. “All right. And if I find out who has it, what then?”

  An hour and more they spent in discussion, making arrangements, suggesting adjustments to each other’s plans. Night was pregnant with the dawn by the time they’d finished, and Corvis—with a lingering “Thank you” whispered in Irrial’s ear—had just enough time to recover his stolen uniform, make his way back through the gates, and sneak into his bunk, where he waited to rise—exhausted but newly determined—with the guards’ morning summons.

  Chapter Three

  TWIN COLUMNS OF HORSEMEN, clad in burnished steel and draped in iron-hued cloths, wound along the highway, a single armored centipede scurrying across rolling coastal hills. Every tabard, every shield, sported the hammer-and-anvil emblem of the Blacksmiths’ Guild—as though the sheer quantities of quality armor and mail weren’t evidence enough of that particular loyalty. Although they moved at a stately, even staid, pace, the drumming of a hundred hooves shook the earth, melding with the distant waves into a single endless, rolling percussion. The ocean’s tang filled every visor, and each soldier knew with a sinking certainty that, though his armor gleamed brilliantly now, he would spend many an hour this evening polishing and scraping, lest the coming rust dig too deep.

  Between the columns rolled a carriage-and-four, rumbling and thumping over every rut in the road. It, too, was painted iron grey, and it, too, bore the hammer-and-anvil. The driver, a narrow-faced, leather-clad man with sandy hair, held the reins idly in one hand, content to allow the horses to set their own pace. Beneath him, the passengers were concealed from view by curtains of golden cloth.

  Another rise, another dip in the road, and the column drew to a halt as the men took stock, their destination finally in view. For most, who had never been so far from Mecepheum, nor come anywhere near the sea, the sight of Braetlyn was an exotic wonder.

  Sprawled along several miles of meandering coast, the province consisted primarily of fishing towns. Trade and travel flowed constantly among them, by land and by sea, and those largest communities in the center had begun to meld, early signs of what might one day sprout and blossom into a sizable city. Many a sail fluttered and flapped out atop the waves, nets draped over the sides. The scents of an economy based largely on the fish caught by those nets, day after day, staggered several of the riders like a physical blow.

  Above it all, perched atop a low hill, watched a sturdy keep of old stone, surrounded by a palisade of sharpened stakes. From its towers flapped the peculiar ensign of Braetlyn, the crimson fish on a field of blue too dark to accurately portray the sea it was intended to evoke.

  The polite thing to do—the safe thing to do—would be for the riders to wait, perhaps after announcing themselves with a trumpet blast, for knights of Braetlyn to come and escort them the rest of the way. Instead, after their moment of examination had passed, the soldiers of the Blacksmiths’ Guild resumed their march, wending their way into Braetlyn proper.

  Citizens poured from their homes, unaccustomed to visitors making so grand, so ostentatious—and indeed, so militant—an entrance. Faces roughened by life in the sun and by the salty spray of the sea stared at the armored forms and the carriage they escorted. On the fishermen, the craftsmen, the carpenters, and the bakers, those faces twisted into expressions of distrust, and occasionally even fear. The local men-at-arms, however, showed little expression at all, despite the caravan’s failure to await a proper escort. Some even looked happy to see the new arrivals, and none wore the crimson-and-blue tabard of their supposed home.

  Ignoring them completely, the columns followed the road up the final hillside, halting before the drawbridge and the gates—the lowered drawbridge, and the wide-open gates—of Castle Braetlyn.

  Here, and only here, a quartet of armored guards wore Braetlyn’s ichthyic ensign. Three sets of gauntlets clenched tightly on three gleaming halberds, while the fourth knight approached the newcomers. His salt-and-pepper beard was clearly visible, for he carried his red-plumed helm beneath one arm.

  “None may enter Castle Braetlyn under arms,” he announced, his voice calm but loud enough to carry over the constant song of the sea.

  “Out of the way!” one of the armored horsemen snapped. “We’re here to see—”

  “I know who you’re here to see,” the knight replied, offering the mounted soldier a withering glance before returning his attention to the carriage. “There’s only one person here to see. You still shall not enter under arms.”

  “You’ve no right to stop us, you—!”

  “Sergeant!” The carriage door drifted open, allowing a sharp, commanding voice to emerge from within. “We are guests here, and we will behave as such.”

  The horseman grumbled something under his breath, seeming determined to bowl the knight over with the force of his glower alone, but nodded curtly.

  The woman who stepped from the carriage was as broad of shoulder as many of the guards ostensibly sent to protect her, and her bare arms were corded with muscle. Her dark hair, wearing just a few streaks of grey, was pulled tightly back in an unflattering bun, and she was clad, not in formal gown or finery, but in a sleeveless tunic of emerald green and leggings of heavy wool. She carried under one arm a small wooden box, latched with an ungainly padlock, and from her thick neck hung an iron pendant: a hammer-and-anvil that did not quite form the ensign of the Blacksmiths’ Guild nor quite the holy icon of Verelian the Smith, but something in between.

  “Lady Mavere,” the knight of Braetlyn greeted her, and if there was any resentment in the clench of his jaw, he managed to banish it from his voice. “You are, of course, always welcome.”

  “You are too kind, sir knight.” With a gesture, she waved the driver down from atop the carriage. “You needn’t fear for your lord’s safety,” she assured the soldier. “My assistant and I will see him alone. My m
en will remain outside.”

  “With the rest of your mercenaries,” one of the other gate guards muttered, just loud enough to be overheard. The elder knight, and the emissary of the Blacksmiths’ Guild, both pretended not to notice.

  “Is my lord Jassion expecting you?” the knight asked instead.

  “I’m sure he is, since one of you surely informed him of our presence as soon as we crested the hill.”

  A scowl was all the response he offered. “Very well. Follow me, please.”

  “Isn’t it astounding,” the driver whispered to Lady Mavere as he fell into step behind her, “just how much ‘please’ sounds like ‘bugger right off’?”

  In the presence of the elder knight, she was too much the diplomat to grin.

  Scattered around the edges of the courtyard, and framing every doorway, stood marble nudes that were either exquisite replicas of Imphallion’s classical style, or just perhaps actually dated back to lost antiquity. Impossibly beautiful women reached with beckoning hands, overly muscled men clasped leaf-bladed swords, and all watched the newcomers with empty stone eyes. A few of the statues were not standing at all but lounged supine, draped across the edges of the stairs, leaving just enough room between them to approach the inner keep’s doors. Mavere, impressed despite herself, could only wonder just how deep the baron’s fascination with Imphallion’s lineage and antiquity might run.

  Yet the rest of Castle Braetlyn was not so well kept as were those magnificent sculptures. The structure flaunted its infirmity, an aging warrior who knew his best days were long behind him but dared anyone else to tell him to his face. Flaking mortar had been hastily patched, entire bricks replaced, and the brass chandeliers within the entry hall were polished well enough to shine, but not to remove the verdigris and tarnish that had long since set in. It was not the wear of true neglect so much as signs of a slapdash effort by servants who knew that they were hideously outnumbered in their battle against the castle’s many years.