Imperial Spy (12 page)

‘All right, Ambassador, you can come out now.’

‘I said, “You can come out now”, Ambassador,’ the voice repeated steadily. ‘Don’t try anything silly. I’m armed and I have no qualms
about striking down a woman. Come out from under the cover and let’s go into the house where we can speak in more comfort.’

Femke’s mind raced, but there was little she could do except comply. The Lord had her trapped. It might be possible to disable or kill him and escape again, but that would pile on more
trouble. Killing a Lord of Thrandor would do little to prove her innocence of the murder of Baron Anton. The man had known she was here, but had not alerted the Royal Guards. Why? It would be
interesting to see what he was up to, she decided. Would he prove an unexpected ally? Experience told her this was unlikely. It was more probable that her intuition of danger when running from the
Palace had been correct; rather than escape from it, she had leaped into its jaws.

‘Very well, my Lord, you have me at a disadvantage,’ Femke said, also keeping her voice low. ‘I accept your invitation. Would you happen to have any dahl brewing? I left the
Palace in rather a hurry this morning and didn’t get to finish my cup. It was most inconvenient.’

‘I’m sure that a cup of dahl can be arranged,’ the man drawled, his voice containing a hint of amusement at her cool request.

Femke drew back the cover and squinted at the dark silhouette in the doorway. The man was of medium height, but judging by his outline he was overweight. She could see that his hand was riding
on the hilt of a sword, which was belted at his ample waist. Lords did not wear swords as a standard form of dress, so he must have donned it after the guards had left. Was he just wearing it to
intimidate, or did he know how to use it? His bulk suggested the former, but Femke’s intuition led her to believe the latter. He did not look agile at first glance, but who was to say he had
not been a master swordsman in his youth?

As Femke eased out of the shadowy corner there was the faintest of crackling sounds, which she instantly recognised as the tearing of cobwebs. Spiders did not particularly bother Femke, but an
involuntary shudder rippled through her body. Despite the pain it sparked, she brushed herself down vigorously. She ran her fingers through her hair several times, but could still feel a tingling
sensation of movement over her scalp.

‘The use of a bath would be welcome right now as well,’ Femke said, trying to maintain a casual tone.

The Lord ignored her, taking a moment instead to look cautiously around outside whilst constantly monitoring Femke for any sudden movements. Femke did nothing to promote any more unpleasantness.
The pain emanating from her various bruises and cuts was making it difficult enough to stand properly. She had stiffened considerably in her cramped hiding place, and the last thing she felt like
doing was to run again.

‘Come quickly. Get in the house before anyone sees you.’ He backed out of the doorway, beckoning to her with his free hand, his head constantly on the move as he watched for Royal
Guards.

Femke complied as well as she could and staggered out into the daylight. Her best estimate told her she had hidden for less than an hour, yet it was enough for her eyes to have adjusted to the
dark. Her right eye was still particularly sensitive. Whatever had lodged in it during her near miss with the crossbow bolt made it water in the bright light. Despite struggling to focus it was
hard not to see all the blood on her hands and clothes.

‘What the . . . ?’ she exclaimed.

‘No time for that now, Ambassador – get indoors. Quickly!’

Femke felt a firm shove between her shoulder blades and nearly fell as she stumbled along the short path around to a side door into the large house. The drips that Femke had assumed to be sweat
as she had fought with the lock of the shed, and subsequently in the warmth beneath the timber cover, had largely been rivulets of blood from one or more head wounds. Although she could not
remember any impact, Femke assumed that one or more of the stone chips sent flying by the crossbow bolt had cut her. Scalp wounds always bled profusely. Femke had seen enough to know that the
slightest scratch could bleed spectacularly if it were in the right place.

‘Damn!’ she swore under her breath. It was going to be difficult to run anywhere looking like this. Her joking comment about a bath was more appropriate than she had known.

Femke staggered through the door and the Lord closed it softly behind them. They were in a kitchen area, though there were no signs of any kitchen staff. Femke turned and took her first proper
look at her captor. The man looked familiar, though when Femke had seen him in the Palace, he had not worn the gloating smile he had now.

Femke had seen many Noblemen around the Palace during her short time there. There were always small groups of them wandering through the corridors. The King had briefly introduced her at a
session of Court on her second day in the Palace, and she had used the opportunity to speak with several of them after the daily cases had concluded. Was this man one of those she had spoken to?
She did not think so. Femke had a good mind for detail and would have remembered his name if she had spoken with him before.

‘So, Ambassador Femke, I understand you’ve been having some adventures up in the Palace. You’ve stirred up the Royal Guards so that they’re buzzing around like angry
hornets. What have you done to upset them so much, I wonder? Are you disposed to telling me, or will I have to wait until I visit the Palace later?’

Femke considered the question for a moment. There was something about this man she did not like. He was slimy. He reminded her of a bloated toad, with a hungry grin and greedy eyes. A picture of
his tongue shooting out to capture her and draw her into his mouth flashed through her mind. A chill ran down her spine.

‘I have been set up, Lord . . .’

‘Count actually – Count Dreban,’ the rotund Noble supplied, his face looking smug and more toad-like at her ignorance.

‘Count
Dreban,’ Femke corrected with a nod to acknowledge the error. ‘I’ve been framed on a charge of murder, when I’m here on a mission of peace. The whole
situation is bizarre.’

The Count’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of murder and his eyes narrowed with an unsavoury hunger. ‘Murder?’ he asked, his voice clearly relishing the taste of the word upon
his tongue. ‘Not the King?’

‘No, my Lord, the King lives. It’s Baron Anton who has been murdered, and someone cleverly made it look as though I was his killer.’

To Femke’s surprise the Count began to laugh; a deep, slow laugh that was far from humorous. Another shiver ran down her spine as she watched the Count’s mirth build. For a moment
Femke considered attempting to escape there and then.

‘Baron Anton! The Baron who would be King – murdered! Ho, ho, ho! Very funny, young lady, though you probably fail to appreciate the finer points of the situation.’

‘I fail to see the humour in murder, Count Dreban. Particularly when I stand accused of it.’

The Count continued to chortle, pleased at Femke’s news and unconcerned by her situation. At last he gathered his composure. Dreban smiled at her; the toad that had caught the juicy fly.
His blue eyes glittered with malice.

‘You’re not Thrandorian, Ambassador,’ he said cryptically. ‘If you were, you would appreciate the beauty of the scenario. It is quite simple. Our glorious King, Malo, who
to my mind is neither glorious, nor worthy to be King, has done nothing during his reign to lift Thrandor from the mire of obscurity. Indeed, he has failed so totally in his duties that he has
neglected to sire an heir for when he finally performs a worthy service and departs this world. The lack of an heir has sparked a lot of interest as to who would gain the throne in the event of the
King’s death.’

‘I can see how the lack of an heir apparent could cause excitement amongst those who are in a position to stake a claim,’ Femke replied, choosing her words with care. ‘We had a
similar situation in Shandar recently. Was Baron Anton one of the stronger claimants?’

‘Anton? Hardly!’ Dreban snorted. ‘He has . . .
had
no Royal blood at all. It was Malo’s idea to put Anton in the frame for the throne. It’s been widely known
in the King’s Court for some years now that Malo intended to announce Anton as his successor. Once he had done so, the dynasty of the present bloodline would have ended for ever with
Malo’s death. Anton and his family would have founded a new dynasty and Malo would have been seen as a traitor to his kin for centuries.’

‘What about the recent military victories? You can’t dismiss those out of hand. Believe me, the Shandese Emperor takes King Malo very seriously. Given that before he took the Mantle,
Emperor Surabar was a military general of the highest calibre, I would say King Malo has restored Thrandor’s reputation as a strong country over this last year. I’m surprised he
isn’t universally seen as a hero.’

‘The military victories!’ Dreban spat derisively. ‘I can dismiss them, and I will. On both occasions some commoner brat, who had no more Noble blood in his veins than a sewer
rat, saved Malo. The King had no part in saving Thrandor. The truth is he was extraordinarily lucky on both occasions, and he knows it. The best thing Malo has done for Thrandor is to fail to
produce an heir. It will give one of the more able branches of the family a chance to demonstrate what kingship is about.’

‘I assume that if Baron Anton was the King’s favourite to take the throne, this gained him a lot of enemies,’ Femke said thoughtfully.

‘I would say “rivals” rather than enemies, Ambassador,’ Count Dreban countered, though his face contradicted his words. ‘We do not conduct our politics by bloodshed
here in Thrandor. Life in Mantor is not barbaric’

‘If you say so, Count Dreban, though to date my experience of your city would have me believe otherwise.’

‘Oh, I doubt the murder of Baron Anton was politically motivated, Ambassador,’ the Count responded.

‘Really? How can you be so sure?’ Femke asked, intrigued by the surety in his tone.

‘I have the reputation in Court for being the most ruthless of the Nobles, yet even I would not stoop to such base levels. I do whatever underhand acts are necessary to undermine and
discredit my rivals, but I would never resort to murder and there are none amongst our Nobility who would have the stomach for such bloody tactics. Mark my words, Ambassador, this is not a
political killing.’

‘But if it wasn’t political, then who killed the Baron?’ Femke asked, not convinced by the Count’s argument. In Shandar there was always someone ready to kill in order to
achieve his aims. It was an occupational hazard for those in power there and it was hard to imagine Thrandor was completely free of this sort of thinking too.

‘I have no idea. I’m intrigued to find out, but as far as the rest of Thrandor is concerned, the answer to that question will be obvious. The visiting Ambassador is the random
element involved. Of course you did it, and I will collect the glory for having captured you and brought you to justice. Who knows, it could give me an edge over the others in the new succession
battle that is going to brew.’

The Count rubbed his hands together, his eyes distant for a moment as he revelled in his good fortune. Femke, meanwhile, was working hard on this latest turn of events. She did not want to make
her position worse by injuring the Count, and she was not convinced she was in any fit state to disable him without doing so. But it seemed unlikely that the Count would take her straight to the
King. If he had wanted to do that, then he could have handed Femke over to the guards when they had knocked at the door. No. If her assessment of the situation was correct, Count Dreban would lock
her up and allow the King to sweat whilst the Royal Guards combed the city in vain. This meant she would have time to effect an escape. With luck she need not leave under such stressful
circumstances as she had left the King’s Palace.

Femke’s deductions proved correct, though her hope that the Count would treat her with respect for her status proved ill founded. The Nobleman watched her with a hungry, lecherous
expression as he forced her at sword point to strip to her underwear, though he made no move to touch her. His eyebrows had risen as the small arsenal of weapons secreted about her person came to
light. By the time Femke was standing in her underwear, she was sure Dreban considered her much more likely to be an assassin. If he did, he made no comment. Instead he piled her things on the
kitchen table next to her small knapsack. Without saying a word, he lit a torch from the kitchen fire and gestured for her to move through another door.

‘May I have water to clean up my wounds, Count Dreban?’ Femke asked as she was guided to a flight of cold stone steps to a cellar. The Count was taking no chances. He held his blade
at her back the whole way down.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary. It will make more of an impact if I present you looking like a fugitive, Ambassador,’ he replied. ‘Presentation is everything in
politics.’