Return of the Guardian-King (16 page)

From the baker’s he walked down to the clearinghouse on the river to get his bales of wool entered in the sale roster today—fine Kiriathan wool, straight from the Heartland, his last bit of treasure—and then on to his appointment with the young son of the shipping magnate whom he was training in the art of the sword. The morning was completed with a frustrating and futile half hour at the Exchange attempting to collect the payment due him from his auction sale of the week before. Then it was off to Arvill Ang’s Tavern, where Kiriathan exiles gathered every noonday to exchange the latest gossip and news about Kiriath.

As Trap entered, he nodded to Oswain Nott and his cronies, sitting at his table by the front bay window. The man scowled in response, but Trap only smiled and walked on to his own table, where Temas Darnley, Wade Callums, and Walter Hamilton awaited him, nursing mugs of ale. Respectively an earl, a general, and an admiral, they had become his closest friends among the exiles. While rank-and-file military were welcomed into the Chesedhan army, their leaders were not. Thus the pair had been relegated to business pursuits. Callums played whist for money every night at one of the card houses and lived in a tiny attic on Cheapstreet, and Hamilton worked afternoons as a clerk in a printing house. Darnley, hardly recognizable as the foppish lord he’d once been, had arrived without a stitch of his once renowned wardrobe. Now he tutored a lesser nobleman’s children. All three men’s clothing was growing undeniably threadbare, and though none would admit it, Trap suspected this was their only real meal of the day. They’d all lost considerable weight.

In the beginning he’d come here hoping to hear news of Channon and the princes, but after more than six months with no word and no sign, he’d finally accepted the fact that Channon was probably dead. Now he wasn’t sure why he came.

He’d not been there long when the innkeeper called their attention to a newcomer, Roy Thornycroft, recently arrived from Kiriath with no more than the shirt on his back. He’d been a merchant and a secret Terstan who, upon learning his Mataian wife meant to turn him in, had sailed for Mareis on a business trip and never returned. Living on what he’d been able to sell off in port—including the vessel he’d come on—he’d made his way north to Fannath Rill much the same as the rest of them. And like the rest of them, his once-fine clothes were worn and shabby, his hands stained with the grime of travel and hard living.

The others received him warmly, eager for news of their homeland. The new Keep of the Heartland, he told them, had added yet another wing, the economy was in the gutter, there’d been terrible flooding, and the silt-heavy river emptying into the harbor at Springerlan had made the port too shallow for the big ships to come in very close at all, which everyone was grumbling about. There were rumors that Esurhites had already shown up at the palace to offer terms, but so far as he knew that was only rumor. The one thing for sure was that Gillard—or Makepeace, as he was now known—had issued an edict demanding all attend Mataian services and wear a red tongue of flame on their lapel in sign of their allegiance. And it was still illegal to speak Abramm’s name. A man had had his tongue cut out for it shortly before Thornycroft left.

He also echoed other reports that Makepeace had regained his former size and strength, allegedly the blessing of Eidon for purging his realm of Terstan apostasy.

When finally the merchant had wound down, the innkeeper prodded him to tell them the latest about Abramm. “It’s only rumor,” Thornycroft qualified, “but some say he was rescued the night before his execution . . . that it wasn’t him they burned but another.”

His words died into a silence so profound Trap heard the crack of the fire, the creak of the sign in the wind outside, and the muffled voices of the kitchen help. Then like the bursting of an invisible dam, sound flooded the room, everyone trying to out-shout one another with questions and comments and declarations of disbelief.

When the ruckus had settled enough that one voice could be discerned from another, Hamilton demanded, “Where is he, then? Still in Kiriath plotting his return?”

“I don’t know,” Thornycroft replied. “Some say he was so badly injured he can no longer walk. Others that he was spirited away to Thilos.”

“Why would he go to Thilos?”

“Well, it’s not exactly something that can be spoken of freely.”

“Where did you hear all this, Master Thornycroft?” asked Nott. “From a tavern drunk?”

The man looked so sheepish, Trap guessed that was exactly where he’d heard it. He felt the group’s enthusiasm deflate and took advantage of the lull to ask if Thornycroft had heard anything about the princes. He hadn’t. In fact, he seemed surprised to be asked. “They’re both dead, aren’t they? That’s the official report.”

“Yes, but Abramm was officially reported dead, too, yet you’ve come here saying otherwise. Ever see any bodies?”

“No, but . . . I can’t see them doing that. The Mataians would call it evil and barbaric.”

“They’ll torture ’em and kill ’em, but they won’t stake out the bodies,” Callums said. “Aye, they’d not want to be like the barbarians, that’s sure.”

That led Thornycroft off onto other topics as Trap sagged back into his chair, pushing his empty mug around on the table. He glanced at Darnley, Callums, and Hamilton, all of whom were staring at him thoughtfully. “Do you think, maybe—” Hamilton began.

“No,” Trap said flatly. “He’s dead, and we do ourselves no favors hoping otherwise.”

He stared at the half-eaten food on his plate but found himself suddenly without appetite. “Well, I have books to do this afternoon, so I’d best be off.”

As he left, the daily arguments over how they should retake Kiriath were just heating up. Should they use Maddie’s unborn child as a claim to the throne? It shouldn’t be hard now to build a good army—if she married Tiris, could they count on him to fund it?

Trap moved out of earshot, grateful to leave it all behind. As he walked back to the palace he reflected on the unexpected strength of his reaction to Thornycroft’s suggestion that Abramm still lived. Hope had soared within his breast, hot and eager, a wild joy fighting to express itself, even as caution held it in. He of all people understood how one might be delivered from an execution. But common sense argued otherwise. If Abramm lived, surely Trap would know. More than that, Maddie would know. Abramm would never have let things go this long without contacting her.

Besides, Trap had it on good authority that Gillard himself had attended the execution, and Gillard would certainly have known if it weren’t Abramm.

No. It was a false alarm, and the reaffirmation of that fact triggered a grief that cut so deeply he could hardly breathe. As his throat seized up in a hard and painful knot, he staggered to a stop, leaning against the brick wall of some building and blinking back the tears as people passed him to and fro, bumping his shoulder erratically. Despair swooped upon him like a curling black breaker.

Why did you take him and leave me here alone?
he wailed.
I am little help
to his widow, and I’ve only made a mess of things with his sister. She’d have been
better off with a Chesedhan. . . .

The black wave receded and he came back to himself, struggling to find Eidon’s peace as he had never struggled in his life. More and more of late he felt he was losing his way, and repeated pleas for some glimmer of something to reach for were always denied.

“Serr?” A hand clutched his arm, and he opened his eyes to peer into an old woman’s wrinkled face.

“Are ya alright, serr?”

“Aye. Thank you.” He pushed away from the wall and continued on his way.

Back in his study, he went through the latest receipts, entering them into the account books before turning his attention to the various properties and businesses he was considering for purchase. But he couldn’t make himself concentrate. His mind had turned to a block of wood. He read the words and numbers as if they were meaningless symbols, and the sense of depression grew heavier. He knew Eidon had his hand on all of it, knew there would be times of hopelessness, recalled the stories in the FirstWord, where the people of the shield were over and over led to what seemed a last stand, a dead end, no opening, no hope in sight. And then it came. The mountain opened, the water parted. The winds came and shredded the rocks. . . .

My Lord, I know all this. But my feelings are so dead. What is there for me
to do now? With Abramm gone, his sons killed, his wife soon to be taken by
another . . . his sister . . .
But that thought only made it all a hundredfold worse.
What place for me, Lord?

The question he’d uttered mentally dissipated into that same old blankness. For a moment there was nothing at all. And then a single thought answered it, a line from the Second Word.

“I see your deeds. I know the heart with which you do them, my son. And I
do not forget, nor overlook your faithfulness. Hold fast. Do not grow weary. Your
reward is coming.”

Do not grow weary
. He felt incredibly weary. More weary than he’d ever felt in his life. But he knew that how he felt made no difference. He would claim that promise. No matter how hopeless it all looked, it would all come out right. He
would
believe.

Sighing, he turned back to his accounts.

Less than half an hour later his assistant stuck his head round the door to inform him he had a visitor, and a moment later, in walked Shale Channon.

Trap stared at him, mouth agape. Had he fallen asleep and this a dream?

The man stiffened to military attention and brought a fist to his chest in salute. “Captain Channon, sir, come to report, and sorry it’s taken me so long.”

Trap leaped up and skirted the desk to embrace his old friend, the man solid and warm and smelling too much of dust and old sweat to be a dream. “Eidon’s mercy, Shale!” he exclaimed. “I thought you must be dead! Where have you been?”

“I figured ye wouldna hold out much hope fer us, odds bein’ what they were. We tried t’ see the queen, or princess or whatever she is here, but they been puttin’ us off, sendin’ us here and there all day. Finally someone mentioned ye were here, and . . . I knew I couldna wait. She’d kill me if I did.” He cracked a lopsided smile.

Trap stared at him, listening to the soft rhythm of his own breathing.
We?
Us?
The floor rocked beneath his feet. “Light’s grace, man,” he whispered. “You mean to tell me you’ve not come here alone?”

The smile became an open grin. “Yessir. That’s exactly what I mean to tell ye.”

CHAPTER

9

While Trap was going about his errands in the city, Maddie had spent the morning preparing for her journey to Deveren Dol. Jeyanne helped her, though there really wasn’t all that much to pack. She needn’t worry about social appearances, and the convent had everything else. Mostly she was bringing warm and comfortable clothes, her books, lirret, and musical compositions in progress.

Ronesca had invited her to lunch, a two-hour ordeal during which the older woman interrogated her about her luncheon with Draek Tiris ul Sadek three days before. Tiris had contrived to present the invitation at the very end of the week, just when Maddie should have been leaving for Deveren Dol and then conveniently—for Maddie, anyway—postponed it to several days later. By now there was no doubt about her pregnancy in the mind of anyone who looked at her, and ul Sadek had definitely looked at her. She pointed this out to Ronesca, arguing that since he was obviously the one Ronesca had her sights set upon as Maddie’s future husband, why should Maddie flee to Deveren Dol to hide from him what he already knew? The trip would take over a week, in the cold. . . . She could even go into early labor on the trail.

Despite the logic of Maddie’s reasonings, Ronesca remained firm. Maddie would go, spend the rest of winter and early spring there, then at summer’s start return to be presented to the court. That was the plan Hadrich had approved, and that was what they would do. And since Maddie had received a letter from her father stating as much in his own hand, there was little more she could say to stop it.

Thus she returned to her chambers, resigned to her fate, and discovered two men waiting in her sitting room in billowing black pants and short white jackets, the typical uniform of Tiris’s servants. One of them held a large box wrapped in red silk. As she entered they bowed in perfect unison. Then the shorter one introduced himself and presented the box to her with Tiris ul Sadek’s compliments. “There is this, as well,” he added, handing her a large ivory-colored envelope sealed with red wax.

She took it without comment. Tiris had already given her a going-away present, an intricately carved wooden box in which she might keep her papers and writing utensils. Nor was it the first gift he’d sent her. She was not officially bound by her acceptance of any of it, but with each one he pulled her closer to him emotionally. And it didn’t help that all his gifts had so far been perfect choices.

This one was no different, for inside the box was a fine woolen cloak with ermine-trimmed hood. It was tightly woven to keep out the wind but soft as a dandelion puff and lined with gold silk—perfect for riding through the cold drifts and chilly mornings that undoubtedly lay before her. Even in the rain this would keep its warmth.

The servant helped her don it, and it swirled about her like oil, close enough to keep out drafts, but light and supple for comfort. She ran the back of her hand up the silken lining, marveling at its softness. It took only moments, though, for her to grow warm in it, so she took it off and handed it to Jeyanne to pack for the trip.

“It’s wonderful,” she told the servants who had brought it. “Tell Draek Tiris I am very pleased.”

After they left she stood there toying with the heavy folded note, smiling as she thought again of the luncheon he had hosted for her. It had been far more elaborate than she’d told Ronesca, nor had she mentioned she’d been his only guest. He was an extraordinarily handsome man, and his voice was positively spellbinding. He’d told her the story of his discovery of the ruined dragon city of Chena’ag Tor—or at least
a
story, and an entertaining one, at that. She still wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or playing with her. The part about hearing dragons roaring within its walls had especially strained believability. When the luncheon ended, he returned her to reality, lamenting her upcoming journey, arguing with her as she had with Ronesca that it was purposeless. “And you absolutely must stay the full three months?”