The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (5 page)

Chapter Nine

The
strange man stood before Orvane Wense once more. His face was a study in
serenity.

            For
his part, the Thane of Kar was calm on the outside, but his mind raced as he
thought of the opportunities this man presented. To have a network of spies
unparalleled in Sturma, perhaps in the whole of Rythe…he knew not what rested
across the wide eastern seas, but certainly nothing so…intricate…could exist in
the Drayman lands to the west.

            He
wondered by what means the man before could know the things he knew. It was by
some means other than the mundane. He was sure of that much. But his new found
friend was tight-lipped on the subject.

            He
could have the information tortured out of the man, but then, what good would
that do? He would have to labour in ignorance, at least while it suited him to
do so.

            'And
so the Lord Protector?'

            'The
artefact is with him. He travels alone. Should you wish it, he could be dead by
morning.'

            An
attractive proposition. But Farinder’s death would avail him little. Already
the Stewards would be divided. No Thane could become a Steward…but then the
Stewards were only a measure to protect the crown. Until one came along who was
worthy?

            But
none save the royal line could wear the crown. What use usurping a throne with
no symbol of office? None would support the king, not without the Crown of
Kings. And that rested in the Cathedral at Kus, a useless lump of metal and
gems for all to see and none to hold.

            But
if it was true…the Stewards and the priests could hold it…did Farinder intend to
take the crown for himself?

            Was
that the reason behind this journey? Was that why the Lord Protector of the
whole of Sturma travelled light, heading south, in total secrecy? He even
travelled under the guise of an itinerant bard, one with means, to be sure.
From what he knew of the Lord Protector, the man liked his comforts. Wense
could not imagine the man travelling as a bard down on his luck.

            He
knew little of the man before his time in office, save that he had been a
bandit, pardoned and absolved of all crimes by his friend, Tarn, the last of
the line of kings. Tarn had managed to save Sturma from Hurth, Wense's greatest
rival among the northern Thanes, but at the same time had provided for the
future. Had he died without proclamation they could have chosen a new king…

            Wait…if
the crown could not be worn…

            What
a fool! The crown could not be worn by another because there was still a king.

            'Gods,
I am a fool!'

            'My
lord?' enquired the man before him.

            'Nothing.
Leave me. Allow me to think. Slow him down. Return to me when you have done
whatever it is you do. Tell me of it tomorrow, but for now leave me.'

            The
man walked out on silent feet. Wense did not notice him leaving.

            Everyone
had presumed that the crown had chosen this man Farinder, and that he had
followed the dying king’s last proclamation, to act as Steward to the country.
He had named no successor. Therefore, in the eyes of the Thanes, the issue had
been decided…there were to be no more kings. The Stewards would hold the crown,
for all purposes, and the Crown of Kings would reside as it always did in the
Cathedral on the Plains.

            But
why, then, could only the man Farinder hold the crown? What if his ability to
hold the crown was not because he was eligible by dint of the magic of the crown
to hold it, nay, to wear it even, but because he was its steward, protector of
the crown…why could none other wear it?

            Unless…Wense
turned over the possibility in his mind…

            If
it were true, then why the journey in secrecy? Could it be that Farinder had
finally decided to wear the crown?

            No.
From what he knew of the man he despised the trappings of power. He did not
seem enamoured with his state functions. He spent more time whoring and
drinking in the city than he did on matters of state. The stewards were the
power on Sturma, true, but Wense knew the brain behind this new state of
affairs was Durmont, the quiet secretary, and thus their benefactor the Thane
of Spar.

            Think!
Damn him for a fool…could it be true? The crown could only be worn by a king…but
if there was another of the blood they would be young…could Tarn have had a
brother he didn’t know about? No, that did not ring true. Could there be a son?

            If
there was a son, he would be too young to take the crown…but Farinder had been
close to the king…he could know. He could take the crown and hold it until…

            Wense's
head ached from the possibilities. It was not over.

            Why
would there be stewards unless another could come to take the crown in time?

            Farinder
knew something he did not. He was increasingly sure of it. He needed to keep
his strange new ally on his side. He would have to treat him with respect. The
man knew things no man should know, though. He would have to be wary, lest he
become embroiled in his own plots.

            He
took a glass from the table before him and sipped some wine. It was still warm.

            His
hands shook.

            What
if there really was still a king?

*

Chapter Ten

The
stranger, who had once been the Spy Master of Naeth, once an assassin in
Drayman lands, once, even, had called the continent Lianthre his home, walked
through the capital of Kar unhindered. People gave him a wide berth. Thieves on
the streets, the cutpurses and the headbreakers - all thought twice about
accosting him as he strode confidently down the darker alleyways toward the
poor quarter, where he had a simple room in one of the cities less salubrious
establishments.

            He
made the journey calmly and without interruption. Even though his movements
were sedate it did not take him long. He nodded politely to the barman as he
entered the bar, then headed up the stairs to his room.

            He
bolted the door behind himself and knelt upon the floor. He pulled a rug aside
to reveal a strange design painted beneath. Shuffling forward he placed himself
in the centre of the pattern, and concentrated.

            His
face seemed to waver for a moment, not settling on any one particular form. His
features appeared to melt and a red glow came from his eyes. The room was lit
well by the eerie light. The air before him shimmered, and then there was a
clearing in a wood.

            A
man, similar in appearance to the conjurer, stood from his seat on a fallen
tree and turned to face the man in the room. To him it seemed clear, but to the
man in the room the picture was wavering and insubstantial. It was an oddity,
for usually this method of communication was sound, tried and tested. The
painting he knelt upon was an anchor, and he should have been solid. But no
matter. It was results that counted.

            'Slow
him down. I do not care how you do it, but he must not reach the crown before
the winter. My lord will reach the same conclusion we have in time, but for now
we need to be patient while the stupid human thinks of things himself. He is
smart, for a human, though. I think we will not have to wait long.'

            'Is
he to be given safe passage? Should I reveal myself yet?'

            'No.
He is to be allowed to reach the Cathedral. Just slow him down. I care not how.
Do not make me repeat myself again.'

            The
man in the clearing bowed his head in shame. 'Your pardon, my lord.'

            'Granted.
Now, do not fail me. The energies taken to bring you here were substantial and
I do not wish to waste effort on a replacement. Know your duty, serve the
Hierophant in all things, and you may one day be favoured.'

            'I
understand.'

            The
man in the room waved a hand and the image was gone. The light slowly faded,
and once more there was only the glow of the candlelight in the room.

            As
the light faded, the stranger's features returned to normal, his shifting
countenance once again became human.

*

Chapter Eleven

The
Lord Protector of Sturma, first among Stewards, rose from his slumber and wiped
the dribble from his cheek.

            He
felt rested, although his backside still ached. He had slept well. He
remembered the night before, and the otherworldly wailing of the wind and
smiled at his imaginative thoughts running away with him.

            Roskel
rose gingerly and stretched, then he dressed, swung his cape around his
shoulders and checked his pack and his saddlebags. All was in order.

            He
took the chair from under the door and headed out into a new day. He could hear
the birdsong from outside, but otherwise all was quiet. The common room was
deserted. The kitchens, too, were deserted. He had hoped to buy provisions for
the next leg of his journey, but with no one here…he remembered…he was a thief.
Still, it was one thing sneaking into a noble’s bedrooms to whisk away a
bauble, another to steal from a poor village with little to offer.

            He
checked the pantry and found some freshly baked bread and a hank of ham, which
he wrapped and placed in his pack. That should keep him going for a while. He
stepped back into the common room and placed a gold piece on the bar. With
second thoughts, he realised that might be a bit stingy. He had no idea how
much things cost in the countryside, probably cheaper than in the city, but…he
placed another coin on the counter from his purse. Then he unbolted the front
door and headed out.

            It
was still early, but he hoped he could find someone to saddle his horse for
him. He walked around the inn to the back where his horse was stabled for the
night.

            There
was no one awake this early though. He could not find anyone in the village. It
was silent apart from the gentle wind whispering in the eaves and the rustle of
straw and hay in the stables. Not a soul abroad this fine autumn morning.

            And
not a sign of his horse.

            He
sat and put his head in his hand. Some bastard had stolen his horse!

            Already
he had visions of walking the remaining two hundred-odd miles to the cathedral,
and then the further fifty or so until he reached Ulbridge and his final
destination.

            Bloody
horse thieves. Where the hell had the stable boy been?

            In
fact, where the hell was the stable boy now?

            He
strode purposefully back to the inn and shoved the door open.

            'Landlord!'
he shouted into the silent building.

            'Landlord!'
he cried once more, with no answering shout. Not a peep. He pulled open the front
door again and headed out into the village. It was a tiny village, little more
than an outpost, somewhere for  weary travellers to rest their feet and provide
for a longer journey. But even so…Dow was in the sky already. There should have
been someone abroad this morning.

            But
there was not a soul. He tried a few doors and found them, without exception,
open. There was food upon tables, and beds turned down, but the town was
deserted.

            His
stomach turned at each new discovery and his body shook. He decided to waste no
more time. He was lucky to be alive.

            He
shouldered his belongings and headed south along the potted road that ran
through the centre of the deserted village. The road meandered around
higgledy-piggledy placed shacks and houses, until he came to the edge of the town
and found his horse.

            Upon
it was the horse thief.

            Minstrel
waited quiet happily at the edge of the village. The man astride her didn’t
seem to be interested in going any further. Roskel didn’t bother calling out.
He walked at a steady pace until he reached his horse, took one look at the man
and with a resigned sigh pulled the dead thief from his horse. Minstrel did not
complain.

            He
took one look at the man and kicked him in the ribs.

            It
seemed his journey was not so secret after all. The husk of the man, dried out,
was no man but a hierarch.

            Roskel
kicked him again, turning the creature over, and saw some black, shining stone
poking from the ground.

            When
he turned to look, the village was still there. He had expected it to be gone,
but it was not.

            Suppressing
a chill down his spine, he mounted the waiting mare and headed off on the road
once more, leaving the ghost town behind him.

*