Iron and Blood (17 page)

 

B
y dawn, the snow stopped but Hool had not. She would not be moved from her place of mourning and the new Defenders that arrived with the break in the storm were not inclined to try. Her howls were hoarse and pitiful, each one as filled with raw pain as the first had been. It gave a strange, tragic air to the dirty work that had to be done. Bodies were loaded onto carts, fires extinguished before they could spread, blood washed from the halls. The Defenders who had fallen in the siege were laid in the yard alongside the grieving Hool. Tyvian wondered if their surviving Defenders had done this to appropriate some of Hool's grief for their own purposes. It was a strange thought, for him. He was having a lot of strange thoughts that morning.

His leg bandaged, Tyvian sat on the back of a cart, watching the cleanup, his wrists and ankles in shackles. He had his back to where Hool sat, her living pup still by her side, pouring her mother's agony out on all to hear. With every howl, he felt himself wince. To his surprise, the ring had nothing to do with it.

Is it my fault Hool's pup was killed?
He found himself wondering. The answer should have been obvious—­how could it have been? He had no knowledge of Sahand's plan for them—­he still didn't have that knowledge—­so he couldn't be held responsible.

Then why did he feel like this?

Another howl caused him to stiffen, and he tried to focus his attention on the designs embroidered into the shawl worn by his guard—­a Defender disguised, just as the rest of the reinforcements had been, in simple clothing that wouldn't have stuck out in the Blocks or Corpse Alley. It had worked thus far only because it was the Blocks and Corpse Alley, and no watchmen would come down here anyway unless directly bribed to do so. Hendrieux had chosen Sahand's urban hideout well.

Tyvian found himself, bizarrely, wishing Myreon were there for him to talk to. She was a good sounding board, if nothing else. He could tell her that he was feeling empathy for a gnoll, and she would inform him that he was a lying, cheating, scheming monster who was making it all up. Somehow that would have helped pull the stitch out of his guts that had rested there ever since he saw the dirty fur pelt in Hool's trembling hands. Somehow.

The idea of her seeking out her children was never real to me, Myreon. It was an abstraction—­a foothold on her personality that allowed me to use her, just like I use you or Artus or . . . well, everybody.

Another howl, another bucket of ice water poured down Tyvian's spine. It hardly mattered what Myreon thought anymore; she was almost certainly dead. Artus was dead, too, the poor fool. Running through an anygate and probably straight into Sahand's camp—­typical Artus. More heart than brains. To think the boy died at the hands of Banric Sahand . . .

“Dammit,” Tyvian snarled to himself. Wasn't he going to let Hendrieux kill the boy no more than a month or so ago? Gods, that seemed a long time past. Had he become so attached to Artus? To Hool? To even Myreon?

He had to be. Why else would he be sitting here, moping over how sad Hool looked and how terrible Artus's death had likely been and how much he actually seemed to miss bantering with Myreon. The damned ring had addled his brains. It had taken the calculating, cold, efficient man of the world he had been and made him into a . . . a . . . a what?

Tyvian leaned back and looked at the sky, wincing again at another one of Hool's wails. He let all his plotting and scheming of the last few weeks unfold in his mind's eye. How had he come here? How had it changed him? Was he different?

The revelations of last night came back to him with full force; he lay, half paralyzed with thought, running the scenario through his head. The ring had wound up on his finger because Eddereon wanted it there. Eddereon thought he was “worthy” of it, whatever that meant. It was Eddereon who tipped off the Defenders of Galaspin Tower to his own and Hendrieux's spirit-­engine operation—­easy enough. Galaspin Tower meant Tarlyth, and Tarlyth meant two things: first, that Myreon was the Defender dispatched, and second, that Tarlyth had given this information to the Sorcerous League. That would explain how Hendrieux knew, since Sahand was known in underworld circles to be a member of the League, even if most ­people didn't believe the rumors. Tarlyth informed Sahand of the Defender attack, and Sahand told Hendrieux to stay away. Being the dunce that he is, Hendrieux set Tyvian up for a bigger fall than it would have been otherwise.

Where did that leave him? Tyvian wondered. He wasn't sure, but something else was forming in the back of his mind, along with Sahand, Tarlyth, Theliara—­all members of the Sorcerous League. Sahand was in Freegate messing with something in the old ruins of Daer Trondor—­probably the old power sink sitting on the Saldor/Galaspin/Freegate ley line. To do this, he needed a lot of help. He got Hendrieux to kidnap alchemists, thaumaturges, and the like; he used Theliara and her menagerie to supply him with wild animals, for some reason. Tarlyth was probably involved in keeping the Defenders off Sahand's back while he did all this.

Enter Tyvian himself and the damned ring. Tarlyth and Theliara wanted
him
and the ring on his finger. What did Sahand want with that power sink, though? What was the Mad Prince's piece in all of this? How did it fit, and why had the three members started to pit their resources against one another? What did it mean for himself, wounded on a cart, with no friends left but a devastated gnoll?

Everything suddenly clicked. It happened so quickly that it made Tyvian gasp. “Gods . . . I've been blind!”

Sahand was a monster. He was a colossal, horrifying tyrant who ruled his miserable, winter-­locked principality with a brutality unmatched by modern rulers. Just over a quarter century ago, shortly after wresting control of Dellor by way of a bloody coup, Sahand had waited for the Duke of Galaspin and his armies to be called across the sea to defend Illin from the Kalsaaris, and then he invaded the defenseless Galaspin countryside. Villages that hadn't surrendered were burned. Men who would not kneel were executed, often in sight of their children, and then the women were ordered raped. It was said that the Mad Prince, as he quickly became known, wrote a letter to the Duke of Galaspin, assuring him that if he or his bannermen ever set foot in their home country again, he would catapult the duke's newborn grandchildren from the walls of the city. When the duke sent General Conrad Varner to free his suffering land, the Mad Prince did exactly as he promised. A memorial stood to the young princess to this day—­an obelisk of granite, surrounded by gardens, standing six hundred yards from the walls of Galaspin. Tyvian's face twisted in disgust just thinking about it.

Tyvian knew he was many things, but he was
not
Sahand. He was not the kind of person who tortured ­people for fun. He did not seek to master perverse sorcery. He did not starve a whole country just so he could horde gold for another war attempt. He did not hurl infants from catapults. He did not torture, murder, and skin what were, for all intents and purposes, someone's
children
. He, Tyvian Reldamar, might be a criminal, but he had
standards
 . . .

. . .
which was precisely why he hadn't been thinking clearly on this matter.

He hit the muddy ground of the courtyard at a limping, half run, half hop, his guard trailing behind. “Hey! Where do you think you're going, mate?”

The smuggler was surprised at how angry he was, suddenly. His hands shook so badly he had to ball them into fists. He planted himself in front of Hool and pointed at her forcefully. “Snap out of it, dammit!”

Hool's pup growled at him, its hackles raised, and stepped between Tyvian and his mother.

Tyvian ignored it and kept addressing Hool. “Are you going to sit here and weep for the rest of your life, or what?”

“Leave the beast alone, Reldamar!” The Defender who had followed him across the courtyard grabbed Tyvian by the shoulder.

Tyvian pushed him flat on his back in the mud. “Unhand me! You think I'm a monster? You think Sahand and I are the same, eh? Well we
aren't
. I am
not
that man, and I will
not
be bested by him.”

The Defender stared at him, open-­mouthed, and then climbed to his feet, calling for backup. “The bloody smuggler's lost his marbles!”

Tyvian grabbed Hool by the ears and pulled her face so he could look her in the eyes. They had lost their usual, predatory luster—­they were dull, like tarnished coins. “Is this it for you, then, Hool? You're going to give up?
Snap out of it!
”

Tyvian could hear the mud sloshing as the guards closed in. Hool blinked, her eyes focusing on Tyvian as though he had just appeared. “Brana . . . Brana needs medicine. He is hurt.”

“Hool, in eight seconds I'm going to be dragged away by these men. After that happens, get some medicine in my flat—­top shelf in the kitchen cupboard—­and then head for the old ruins in the mountains. Sahand is there, Hool. He
killed
your pup, do you understand? He is planning on killing many, many more.”

Two men wrapped their arms through Tyvian's armpits while a third hit him in the back of the knees. After he collapsed, they dragged him off. Hool watched, her ears alert. Tyvian smiled at her, said, “We haven't lost yet!”

I
n his youth, Tyvian concluded, Master Tarlyth had probably been a mountain of muscle. He had hands like garden rakes, each finger thicker than most ­people's thumbs. Tyvian wondered how a man with hands like that could achieve the rank of Master in the Arcanostrum, let alone Master Defender.

Let alone while being a traitor.

“Tea, Master Reldamar?” Tarlyth asked quietly. They were sitting in a private room in Arble Keep, a flimsy card table between them. The scent of blood and ash still hung in the air, despite the shutters of the narrow window having been thrown open. The floor had splinters of broken furniture and a few bloodstains, and Tyvian thought the presence of Tarlyth's silver tea set in the midst of all this was marvelous. It was just the kind of irony he was coming to associate with the Master Defender.

“No thank you,” he said, “I've no interest in what you consider to be good tea.”

“You're in quite a lot of trouble, son. I'd expect a bit more deference.” Tarlyth considered Tyvian with his heavy lidded eyes.

Tyvian met his stare evenly. “I don't really think I'm in half as much trouble as you pretend, actually.”

“You stand accused of murder, smuggling, and dealing in proscribed magical texts. This doesn't seem like a lot of trouble to you?”

“It's odd, you know, sending Myreon ‘Magus Errant' and then you showing up personally to rescue her. I mean, the whole point of Magus Errant is so the Arcanostrum coffers don't have to pay for the long-­shot activities of its agents. Yet here you are, risking a diplomatic incident, getting your men killed in combat—­not to mention committing career suicide—­just so you can rescue a junior mage Defender and capture a smuggler.”

Tarlyth sat back in his rickety chair. “I don't see why it's any of your business what I do or why. Especially not now.”

Tyvian smirked. “What
are
you doing here, Tarlyth? What's the
real
reason?”

“I brought you here to discuss what is about to happen to you, Reldamar, not indulge your petty inquiries.” Tarlyth frowned.

“Forgive me, Master Tarlyth, but I
know
what is going to happen to me already.”

Tarlyth's frown deepened. “Oh?”

Tyvian snorted. “Shall we dispense with the charade—­I'm finding myself in an impatient mood and, while I would ordinarily enjoy our little parry-­riposte of innuendo and veiled threats, let me be explicit. I know you have no intention of handing me over to Saldor for punishment; I know that you and Sahand, along with Angharad tin'Theliara Hanim and who knows
who
else, are in collusion on some grand project Sahand is heading up. I know this because you, Master Ultan Tarlyth of Galaspin Tower, are secretly a member of the Sorcerous League.”

The teacup fell out of Tarlyth's hand and shattered on the floor. Tyvian watched the big wizard visibly compose himself, locking his jaw and clamping his hands on the flimsy armrests of his chair as though restraining his body from some kind of emotional detonation. When he finally spoke, it was with a calm so artificial that Tyvian could practically smell the fiery rage burning just underneath. “You claim to know quite a lot.”

Tyvian didn't so much smile as show his teeth. “Let's not pretend all that I have thus far presented is inaccurate. Your reaction to my accusations alone confirms it—­for a man living a double life, you really are an atrocious liar. Now, let's see—­getting back to what you intend to do with me: you can't kill me, because you want
this.
” Tyvian held up his ring hand and noted how Tarlyth's eyes lingered on the plain iron band. “And you can't hand me over to the authorities because the
League
wants the ring, too, and the Arcanostrum will discover the presence of this rather sophisticated sorcerous artifact the very
moment
I am processed for incarceration preceding my trial. Obviously, once Saldor gets its hands on me, you and your League cronies won't.”

Tarlyth's face was boiling like a thundercloud, but still his voice kept its artificial calm. “That's what I can't do, but have you considered what it is I
can
do?”

“Yes, I was just getting to that. Sahand's behavior has been the primary clue to the whole affair, actually. He
isn't
interested in me; quite the opposite, in fact—­he's been trying to keep me out of his hair this entire time. He's had Hendrieux purchasing exotic wild animals, kidnapping thaumaturges and warlocks, and he's been using some very expensive magical hardware. Brymm, biomancy, and the bribes necessary to obtain exclusive use of the Phantoms' own private slaving anygate are, none of them, inexpensive enterprises. When we ­couple that with the secrecy he's been laboring under, one can only presume that his project, whatever it is, is both very important to the League as a whole and to him personally.