King Breaker (3 page)

‘Comes of being too smart.’

Orrade snorted. ‘Something you don’t have to worry about.’

Byren grinned.

‘Be serious.’ Orrade leant across the table. ‘All going well, we’ll be in port tomorrow evening. While you were negotiating with the Merofynian nobles, I had a chance to speak with Agent Tyro. He said the mage could possibly organise Ostronite mercenaries—’

‘I won’t use mercenaries to reclaim Rolencia.’

‘Cobalt used them.’

‘Exactly,’ Byren said. He was happy to accept gold from the Merofynian treasury, because so much of it had been stolen from Rolencia. Not that he blamed his betrothed. He shook his head. ‘Isolt wanted to send me home on one of her ships with a Merofynian escort.’

‘She meant well. An escort would add to your importance.’

‘Not a Merofynian one.’ Byren grimaced. ‘I’d rather call on the spar warlords, but I can’t expect them to honour their oaths, not after the debacle at Narrowneck.’

‘You couldn’t have anticipated that the abbey mystics master would be taken over by a renegade Power-worker and open the gate.’

Byren exhaled in frustration. ‘Doesn’t change the fact that I lost the Battle of Narrowneck and now I need to prove myself to the spar warlords. I won’t use Ostronite mercenaries.’

‘Not even if Mage Tsulamyth vouches for them?’

Byren shook his head.

‘You’ll need more than your honour guard to retake Rolencia.’

‘Aye.’ Talk of the mage reminded him of Piro and, as much as he adored his little sister... ‘It’s time Piro grew up. She’s old enough to be betrothed. I don’t want to force her into anything—’

‘But you need an ally who will loan you an army,’ Orrade said. ‘But it gains you nothing to promise her to one of the spar warlords. They lost the majority of their warriors when Narrowneck fell. One of the Ostronite ruling families would be useful, or...’ Orrade looked up. ‘Didn’t King Rolen’s spies report that one of the Snow Bridge city states had conquered the others? Do you remember who led them?’

Byren shook his head. ‘I should have paid more attention to foreign affairs, but...’ This time last year, his father had been secure on the throne, Rolencia had known thirty years of peace, his parents had been planning their jubilee and he’d been searching for a gift to outdo his twin. He’d found it in some rare lincurium stones, which he’d had set on matching rings for his parents. There’d been a pendant, too. Whatever had happened to them?

‘If I learnt one thing from Agent Tyro and Lord Dunstany, it’s this,’ Orrade said. ‘To win back your father’s kingdom, you have to win the people as well as the crown. Cobalt has ruined your reputation. He claimed your mother had Affinity, which annulled her marriage to your father. He claimed you ran off when you heard about the invasion—’

‘Father sent me to fetch the warrior monks.’

‘The men who heard King Rolen give that order are all dead. Cobalt has Rolencia convinced you left your parents and sister to die. Then, when you lost the Battle of Narrowneck, he branded you incompetent as well as a coward.’

Byren flushed. ‘That—’

‘That is what I overheard in the taverns and on the street corners. So you see, you have to win the people to win the throne.’ Orrade shrugged. ‘I’d slip into the castle and kill Cobalt m’self, but it would only confirm what he’s said about you.’

Byren sprang to his feet and paced the cabin. ‘I need to convince men to flock to my banner.’

‘Exactly.’ Orrade frowned then shrugged and rubbed his temples. ‘Sorry, can’t think for this confounded headache.’

‘You’re not...’

Orrade rolled his eyes then winced. ‘Not every headache is the precursor of a vision.’

‘More’s the pity.’ Byren slumped in a chair. ‘I could do with some direction right now.’

‘All in good time. Four days ago you escaped execution, crushed Palatyne and claimed the Merofynian throne.’

‘Do you think Cobalt’s heard the good news?’ Byren relished the thought of his cousin’s dismay.

‘Can’t have. He has no pica birds.’

‘What I’d give to—’

‘Not all messages get through. The birds can be eaten by predators or lost in storms.’

Byren shrugged. ‘They’re still a great advantage. No wonder the ruling Ostronite families kill to protect breeding pairs.’

Orrade went very still, then grinned.

‘What?’

‘I just recalled that Cobalt has a small personal guard of Ostronite mercenaries but the majority of his men-at-arms are Merofynians, on loan.’ Orrade smiled. ‘When they hear you’ve claimed Merofynia, they’re sure to abandon him and sail home.’

Byren grinned. With Orrade at his side, Piro safely on her way back to Ostron Isle and Fyn looking after his interests in Merofynia, he didn’t need to worry.

P
IRO BRACED HER
feet, adjusting for the rise and fall of the deck. She loved the way the sleek sea-hound ship, built to hunt down Utland raiders, cut through the waves.

‘Don’t try to match a man’s strength,’ Bantam told her. A faded scar made one side of the wiry sea-hound’s mouth lift in a perpetual grin, but real laughter lit his eyes as he gestured to the big boatswain. ‘If Jaku gets into a fight, he can throw his weight around. But we’re small, so we have to use our wits.’

‘I can’t always talk my way out of trouble,’ Piro objected.

‘Watch and learn.’ Bantam’s black eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘I’m you, and Jaku is some big lad who fancies lifting my skirts.’

‘Here, girlie. I’ve got something for you.’ Jakulos leered, lunging for the older sea-hound, caught Bantam’s wrist and pulled him closer, making elaborate kissing noises. Piro would never have guessed the big man had a yen for the stage.

The cabin boy giggled. He perched on a water barrel lashed to the mainmast, swinging his skinny legs. Runt was all of ten and, for him, this was as good as a summer fair.

‘You’ll never beat Jaku,’ Bantam said. ‘So go with him. Make him underestimate you. Like this.’ The quartermaster sagged against the bigger man’s chest, put on a falsetto voice and cringed. ‘Please don’t hurt me, sor.’

Little Runt gave a hoot of delight.

Bantam ignored him and stayed in character. ‘I’m a good girl. Please don’t...’ But even as he said this, he reached down, grabbed the other man’s balls and twisted.

Jakulos doubled over, cursing fluently in Merofynian. Runt gasped with horror, then collapsed laughing. Piro winced.

Bantam grinned as he stood over his moaning friend. ‘What’re you complaining about? That was just a love pat.’

‘I shoulda known not to trust you,’ Jakulos ground out. ‘Next time I’ll play the girl.’

‘There won’t be a next time,’ Piro said. ‘I won’t forget.’

‘She’s a real mulcy,’ Jakulos muttered.

‘Mulcy?’ Piro asked.

Bantam gestured to the boatswain. ‘Jaku grew up on the streets of Port Mero. It’s slang for a girl who fights back.’

‘Mulcy... Mulcibar,’ Piro muttered. ‘After the Merofynian god of war.’

‘Told you she was smart.’ Bantam winked at the big boatswain. Then he turned to Piro. ‘Make sure you really do hurt him. Don’t just anger him. That’ll make him mean. The moment he lets you go, run. Get outta there fast, because if he catches you, he’ll make you pay. Understood?’

She nodded. Back home, Captain Temor had said it was her brothers’ job to protect her, but she’d had to save herself when the castle fell. Of all her brothers, only Fyn had taught her how to escape unwanted attention, and his techniques had been more... polite. If Fyn had a fault, it was that he was too honourable. She, on the other hand, was determined to survive at any price.

Grumbling under his breath, Jakulos came to his feet. Runt caught her eye and grinned.

‘What if I can’t break free?’ Piro asked Bantam.

‘Then you take that little knife you keep hidden here, like a real mulcy.’ The sea-hound’s hand slipped into the waistband of her breeches and deftly freed her paring knife; she was sure he’d grown up picking pockets. ‘And you cut him here.’ He indicated the top of her thigh, deep in the groin. ‘Or here.’ He indicated her throat. ‘A man’ll bleed out fast in those two spots. Or you go for here, up under the rib, straight for the heart—’

‘Bantam!’ Captain Nefysto’s voice cracked like a whip.

Piro glanced over her shoulder to find that the captain and the mage’s agent had come out of the reardeck cabin. She should have picked a better time for the lesson, but they would reach Ostron Isle tomorrow. Bantam glanced to Piro. She’d let him assume the lessons had been authorised by the captain.

Nefysto strode over, knee-length coat flying open to reveal boots and hard-muscled thighs encased in tight breeches. ‘What are you doing with the kingsdaughter?’

‘Nothing, cap’n.’ The quartermaster returned Piro’s paring knife. ‘Nothing that she didn’t ask for.’

Piro tucked the knife away. ‘It’s true.’

‘Knife fighting is hardly suitable for—’

‘I might have been born a kingsdaughter, but that didn’t protect me when the Merofynians invaded,’ Piro told Nefysto. She had no time for soft words and blandishments. ‘I saw my father murdered under a flag of truce and my mother cut down in our own hall. I only survived because I escaped as Lord Dunstany’s slave. And I never want to feel helpless again!’

The captain’s eyes widened. She’d finally made him see past her looks. Good, because if she had to listen to one more of his poems she’d jump overboard.

The sea-hound captain gave Piro a bow, his long black curls falling forward. ‘You’re right, kingsdaughter. Ultimately, we must take responsibility for our own lives.’

Pleased, she looked to Agent Tyro. He’d counselled her to put up with the Nefysto’s gallantry, to be polite and patient like Isolt, but that wasn’t her nature. Never would be. And now she wanted Tyro to acknowledge she’d been right not to reshape herself to suit others.

Instead the agent’s dark eyes held a strange intensity.

Disconcerted, she blinked.

‘Piro’s right,’ Agent Tyro agreed, expression avuncular now. ‘She only escaped because she swapped her velvet gown for a dead servant’s pinafore and the poor maid was identified as Pirola Rolen Kingsdaughter in her place.’

‘And because Lord Dunstany hid my clean toes.’ Piro added, incorrigibly honest. Dunstany had known who she was right from the start. He’d helped her get out of the castle, and he’d endangered himself to protect her from Palatyne. She’d grown to trust him, love him even.

But all along, Dunstany had been Agent Tyro in disguise, and she didn’t know if she could ever forgive him. Putting her back to Tyro, she turned to Bantam and Jakulos. ‘Show me more.’

Chapter Three

F
YN CLIMBED THE
mainmast. Reaching the crow’s nest, he shaded his eyes to study the eastern shore of the Landlocked Sea. Today there was no wind, and the sea reflected the foothills of Merofynia’s majestic Dividing Mountains. He felt he should bring Isolt up here but, despite the dangers they’d shared, he didn’t know if she had a head for heights.

The oars of the royal barge cut the still water in rhythmic strokes, leaving twin ribbons of lace-edged eddies in the vessel’s wake.

With no wind, the royal yacht would have been becalmed; it was just as well they’d taken the barge. But that wasn’t why Dunstany had advised them against the yacht. For over two hundred years, Merofynian kings had used the royal barge to visit their nobles, and fifteen-year-old Queen Isolt needed to invoke her proud heritage.

Fyn sighed. He should join Isolt and her court and resume his role as lord protector. Strange, in some ways, he’d been happier as a sea-hound captive. But that was before he’d met Isolt, and he wouldn’t go back. Not for anything.

From above, he watched her dark head as she made for the prow with Abbess Celunyd. The abbess was always at Isolt’s side, always whispering. Everyone was eager to win the young queen’s favour. Just as well Isolt had grown up watching the same sycophantic dance around her father.

Barefoot and nimble, Fyn climbed down.

‘...the lord-monk. He never leaves her side,’ Neiron complained.

Fyn froze and looked down to see Captain Neiron and his best friend at the base of the mainmast.

Lord-monk
... Fyn grimaced as he rubbed his head, feeling the bristles. Eventually, his hair would grow back and hide the abbey tattoos, but he had a feeling the nickname would stick.

Neiron was captain of the queen’s guard; the second sons of noble families, they strutted about the city in dashing uniforms, filling their days with one part weapons practice and two parts drinking and gambling.

‘Lord-monk’s only one man,’ Elrhodoc told Neiron. ‘One man can’t change the fate of a kingdom.’

‘Palatyne nearly did.’

‘That upstart spar warlord? Look what happened to him.’

Neiron nodded. ‘But I don’t see why we should accept a Rolencian king for our queen’s consort.’

‘A deposed Rolencian king at that!’

Righteous anger made Fyn’s heart race. The Merofynian nobles had been grateful enough when Byren defeated Palatyne.

Elrhodoc slid his arm around Neiron’s shoulder. ‘Queen Isolt’s a pretty little thing and sweet-tempered. No sign of her father in her. She should take a Merofynian lord for her husband and forget this betrothal made by dead men. Your brother’s ship has not returned. It’s time to declare him dead, may he feast in Mulcibar’s halls forever. You’re next in line for the title—’

‘I’m sworn to serve the queen.’

‘Just think how much better you’d serve her in bed!’

They both laughed.

Fyn bristled. As the grandson of King Merofyn the Fifth, Byren was more entitled to the throne than Isolt
or
her father, who had taken the crown by assassinating his cousin, Byren’s uncle, King Sefon. Isolt was only queen because her father had been an ambitious bully who did not scruple to kill his own blood. Not that Fyn blamed Isolt; like him, she’d been a child at the time.

He waited until Neiron and Elrhodoc moved off, then made his way to join Isolt, thinking he must not fail his brother. Somehow he had to ensure Merofynia remained loyal to Byren.