The Art of Hunting (19 page)

The dragon’s dark eyes glittered. ‘You would fight him openly?’

‘Naturally,’ Paulus replied.

‘When?’ the dragon said. ‘And where? I see no arena here.’

‘The games will be held in the Halls of Anea, two months from now,’ Paulus said.

The dragon chuckled. ‘Emperor Hu might object to that. I seem to recall that he sealed the halls.’

‘The only power Hu has left is the power to keep my throne warm.’ The young prince raised his voice to address everyone present. ‘Any man who wants to swear allegiance to me
will be given the opportunity to do so at the forthcoming tournament. And any man who doesn’t will be given the opportunity to face me in the arena or thereafter be known as a
coward.’

The dragon made a deep sound somewhere between a purr and a growl. Invisible fumes poured from its nostrils, warping the air around it. It raised its head again. ‘I will spread the word
for you. And I believe Lord Conquillas will agree to this. He will . . .’ It paused, as though considering its next words, but then it glanced at the ring of soldiers and appeared to have
decided not to voice its opinions aloud. Instead, it lowered its head again and its eyes thinned. ‘It will please him. But does your fiancée agree to withhold her talents?’

‘We do not hide behind women,’ the prince replied.

The great beast turned its gaze upon Ianthe. ‘You agree to this? To avert your gaze always from Lord Conquillas?’

Its teeth were mere inches from her face and the stink of rotting oceans nearly overwhelmed her. Her heart rushed with fear. But she was going to be queen and so she stood in the face of the
monster and said, ‘The prince does not need my protection. However, I will not stand idly by while a traitor threatens the life of those closest to me. His enemies are my enemies. Tell
Conquillas that I will
not
avert my gaze from him.’

A profound sadness came into the dragon’s eyes. It observed her for a moment longer, before it lifted its long neck and inclined its head. Sunlight flashed rainbow patinas over the scales
on its neck. ‘Very well,’ it said. ‘I will inform Lord Conquillas of your decision.’

It rose on its hind legs and unfolded vast wings across the heavens. The quality of light in the courtyard changed.‘I imagine he will agree to your terms,’ he said to Paulus and Cyr.
‘The idea of slaying both of you before witnesses will undoubtedly appeal to his sense of theatre.’ It thumped its wings – once, twice and thrice, and then rose in a glimmering
blue-green gale. Wind rushed across the onlookers and snapped the flags on the palace spires.

Ianthe watched it soar skywards, diminishing as it headed south across the valley. And then she turned to Paulus. The prince smiled and took her hand. Was that pride she saw in his eyes?

He led her back inside the palace, accompanied by his uncle. When the three of them were alone, the young prince closed the door behind them and came over. For a moment he just stared into her
eyes, a half-smile on his lips.

Then he slapped her.

Ianthe gasped.

The prince clenched his fists and half-turned, fuming. ‘Foolish girl,’ he said.

‘
What?
’

‘Do you want the world to think I hide behind women?’

She stared at him in silence, her face flushing as the sting spread across her cheek. And then she said, ‘I did it to help you. To show my loyalty . . . my love.’

‘You helped
him
by embarrassing me!’

‘I’m sorry.’

Cyr laid a hand on Paulus’s shoulder, but he spoke to Ianthe. ‘His Highness knows that you acted out of love,’ he said. ‘That you had his best interests at heart. His
anger is not directed at you, Ianthe, but at himself for permitting you to be put in danger.’

Paulus closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. When he opened his eyes again, his temper had cooled. He moved to take her hand, but she flinched away from him. Suddenly his eyes flashed
regret. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I acted . . . Please forgive me.’ He reached for her hand again.

Ianthe pulled her hand away.

‘Cyr is right,’ Paulus said. ‘I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. I blame myself.’

She turned to go.

He seized her. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Ianthe, please, hear me.’

She could have driven him to his knees with a single thought, or ripped his mind apart like so much scrap paper. But instead she looked down at his pale hand, his skin so smooth and cool against
her own, and she forced herself to relax.

‘Forgive me, please. I promise never to strike you again.’

‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said, blinking back tears. ‘But I can’t just stand back and watch you die in a tournament when I could stop it with a thought. You can’t
ask me to do that.’

‘He won’t kill me,’ he said.

‘You don’t know that!’

Paulus smiled. ‘But I do. I will come to no harm, Ianthe.’

She hesitated. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘You’ll just have to trust me.’

She took his hand and clutched it desperately. ‘But what about Emperor Hu? You’ve just declared war on Anea.’

The prince smiled. Even Cyr chuckled.

‘Hu is the least of our worries,’ Cyr said. ‘Thanks to you the Haurstaf are leashed. Our only foes are human, and we do not intend to mount a
campaign
against
them.’

‘Cyr’s patron will deliver Losoto into our hands,’ Paulus said.

‘Your patron?’

The two men exchanged a glance. Paulus said, ‘Do you remember when we first met, Ianthe? I told you that the Unmer speak to our gods in dreams.’

She nodded.

‘Cyr’s patron is named Fiorel.’

Her eyes widened. ‘The Father of Creation!’

‘Fiorel appeared to Cyr in a dream,’ Paulus said. ‘He has promised to give us the means to take the city. Losoto will fall.’

‘But why is he helping you?’

‘All I can tell you is that it is to our mutual benefit.’

Paulus lifted her hand and kissed her fingers.

Ianthe felt a tingle as his lips brushed her skin. The sensation was so electric she half-expected to see a drop of blood fall from her palm.

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘And I’ve been such a fool.’ He held her shoulders and gazed deeply into her eyes. ‘Do you forgive me?’

Her whole body trembled. She smiled up at him. ‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘And I do trust you. I’ll never spy on you, Paulus. You know that, don’t you?’

He leaned forward and kissed her. ‘I know,’ he said.

Crouched in a shadowy alcove behind a nearby pillar, Granger watched Ianthe depart. Marquetta and Duke Cyr remained in the entrance hall for a minute longer. They waited until
Ianthe had gone.

‘She was naive and foolish,’ Cyr said, ‘but you can’t deny her bravery.’

The young prince shook his head irritably. ‘I don’t need a brave wife,’ he said. ‘I need a loyal one. The words she spoke out there might well come back to haunt her in
the form of a void arrow.’ He raised his hands before him and stared at them as though he might throttle someone by will alone. ‘I cannot revoke my future queen’s words. We must
keep her safe and hope Conquillas intends to spare her until after the tournament.’

‘We could ask him to,’ Cyr said. ‘Ianthe isn’t his primary target. His vendetta is against you and I. If you sent him a message, I believe he would honour a request to
leave Ianthe alone. He is still an Unmer lord.’

Marquetta gaped at him in disbelief. ‘You want me to
beg
Conquillas?’

‘Well, then we must keep our faith in the current plan and hope the archer enlists.’

‘He will enlist. Conquillas will not be able to resist the opportunity to fight either of us in open combat.’

‘But he’s cunning,’ Cyr said. ‘He’s known for his ability to smell a trap.’

‘Even so,’ Paulus said. ‘Conquillas will come to Losoto anyway. He’s that arrogant. Tell me, Uncle, in what form did Fiorel appear to you?’

‘As a yellow butterfly.’

‘Then he was in good humour. And what form will he assume at the tournament? One of our own sorcerers, perhaps? Or a humble sellsword?’ The prince grinned. ‘That might dampen
the dragon lord’s legend.’

‘He would not say.’

‘We will know him when he stands over the archer’s corpse.’

Cyr nodded.

‘Something is bothering you, Uncle?’

‘I was just thinking. What if Conquillas kills him?’

The prince frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘If Conquillas kills Fiorel at the tournament, what’s to prevent him from going on to kill us? We could not withdraw without losing all honour.’

‘Conquillas won’t kill Fiorel.’

‘He killed Duna.’

‘Duna was a reckless child,’ Marquetta said. ‘Fiorel is one of the oldest and most powerful entropaths in the cosmos, the architect of four great rifts – a being who can
assume any form he chooses. There will be no contest.’

‘Perhaps we should have a reserve plan,’ Cyr said. ‘Just in case.’

‘You doubt your own patron?’

‘No, I . . .’ Cyr was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘But I feel the hand of more than one player in this. I think Thomas Granger has a patron too, although he
doesn’t know it. His acquisition of that sword and armour was not part of the plan. Someone is helping him.’

‘An entropath?’

‘I do not have an answer to that, Your Highness.’

‘Why would Fiorel’s kin contrive against him? They need this world as much as he does.’

‘It might not be an entropath at all. A traitor among the Unmer? Or else the sword itself has some great designs of its own. These old blades are cunning and treacherous.’

‘And how does Granger fare today?’

Duke Cyr shrugged. ‘No word from his chambers.’

The pair began to walk away. They continued to converse but Granger could no longer discern the words. He had been unable to hear the dragon’s conversation from his bedroom window, and so
had come to the palace entrance to eavesdrop. Now he stood there for a long moment, mulling over what he had heard.
A patron?
That merely confirmed his own feelings.

As he stepped out from behind the pillar and headed off into the west wing of the palace, he was deep in thought. That the prince and his uncle were plotting to murder Conquillas came as no
surprise. He could have guessed
that
without hearing it from the conspirators’ own lips. Even Conquillas himself would guess as much. The dragon lord had a reputation as a formidable
warrior. Marquetta and Duke Cyr knew it would be suicide to meet him in the arena.

So the duke’s patron, the shape-shifter Fiorel, would be at the tournament. One of the most powerful gods in the cosmos was going to disguise himself as a mortal man and slay Conquillas in
a public arena. Such a plan benefited both sides. Fiorel would rid the Unmer of their most formidable foe, while exacting revenge for his daughter’s death.

Fiorel would not even have to reveal his true identity. He might assume the form of a simple sellsword or footsoldier. For an Unmer lord like Conquillas to die at the hands of an ordinary man
would be a terrible humiliation: the legendary warrior cut down in the opening rounds of a public brawl.

As Granger hurried along a corridor, he was all too aware of the weakness in his limbs and pain in his chest. It felt as if his heart was overworked. The tournament was of little concern to him;
he had more pressing matters to consider. Ianthe was safe here for the moment at least. Prince Marquetta clearly despised Granger’s daughter, and yet he needed her: enough to lie to her,
enough to marry her, enough to
apologize
to her – which was unheard of. The poor girl was too lovestruck to see through his deceit. Granger’s own safety, however, was far less
assured. His Unmer hosts had already tried to kill him once. Since the sriakal had failed to do its job, they would undoubtedly find some other way to murder him if he remained here. Simple poison
would suffice, or even a blade in his guts while he slept. Evidently they were not prepared to wait until the sword enslaved him. Even in his weakened and addled state, even so close to death
– and for Granger enslavement would surely mean death, for there would be nothing left of his mind – these Unmer lords had chosen not to dismiss him.

That simple fact continued to give Granger hope that there might still be a way to rescue the situation. The sword hadn’t taken him over completely yet. He could still resist its desires.
But for how much longer? There had to be a way to halt the process. He needed an expert on Unmer artefacts. He needed to find Ethan Maskelyne.

And find him fast.

Granger arrived at the armoury and opened the door.

A stone partition wall topped by a wire grille divided the chamber in two, with a door providing access between the two sections. This would be locked, leaving a well in the stonework as the
only way items could be passed back and forth between the two sections. Behind this barrier were kept the racks of Unmer and Haurstaf weaponry – including, Granger hoped, his sword, his
shield and his armour. The guard behind the grille glanced up from a book he was reading, then closed it quickly and sat up. He was one of the former Haurstaf guardsmen – a native Awler by
the look of him – and had probably held this position before the Unmer ever escaped their cells. His gaze wandered over Granger’s brine-scarred face.

‘Colonel Granger,’ he said. Then he frowned. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Just here to collect my things.’

The guard looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m not allowed to release them.’

‘It’s my property.’

‘I appreciate that, sir,’ he said. He seemed genuinely torn. ‘But I can’t let them go without word from the prince or his uncle.’ He gave Granger a regretful shrug.
‘Orders.’

Granger grunted. ‘What if I paid you an obscene amount of money?’

‘Look,’ the guard said. ‘I’m going to do you a favour and pretend I didn’t hear that.’

Granger nodded. He wasn’t going to get his stuff back without force, and that would cause as many problems as it solved. He’d just have to beg, borrow or steal something in Port Awl.
He glanced back at the guard. ‘Sorry to have bothered—’

But then his breath caught in his throat.