The Warlord's Domain (3 page)

“Lord King.” Hanar Santon rose and bowed. He was youngest of all the clan-lords present and most recent to his title, his father not half a year dead by formal suicide in the
tsepanak’ulleth
ritual. But he spoke no more than the brief formal salutation, for when he straightened from his bow it was to stare at eyes with no more life in them than wet pebbles, and the other, unsaid words congealed in his throat so that he fell silent.

Rynert gazed at him with a sere, level stare like that of a painted ikon. Lord Santon could have borne a shriveling glare of anger, outrage or condemnation, for that at least would have indicated some emotion. But this… was as if he did not even exist.

None of the others tried to speak after that. They were also feeling that their existence had been called into question. Had there been some sort of
feeling
up and down the Council table, one or other of the lords might have felt roused to put some question of his own— the question which had formed in every mind by now:
Why were we summoned here at all
... But without that feeling, that passion, that emotion—without
something
—it seemed better to them all that the oppressive silence remained unbroken.

“So.” Soft-spoken though it was, Rynert’s single syllable had all the impact of a stone dropped into a still pond. Though the king had not moved one iota from his straight-backed posture, there was as much power apparent to all as if he had sprung to his feet and struck the table with a clenched fist. His face, however, was calm.

And if that was
calm
, thought more than one of his lords, then
calm
is what we call a house with all its doors and windows boarded shut.

“If it is your desire, my lords,” he continued in that placid voice so unlike his own, “then I give you an hour in which to consider. In private.”

There was no mistaking his words and the small movement of his hands for other than a dismissal—and one which was welcomed by many. What seemed to be happening in King Rynert’s mind was rapidly becoming both something his lords wanted no part of, and something they wished to discuss among themselves. They rose almost in unison, made their obeisance—and followed the King’s Bodyguard out of the hall as quickly as their dignity allowed.

Rynert watched them go, sipping red wine from the cup before him, then drained the cup at a single draught; and only when the door clicked shut behind the last did he release his held-in breath in a long, slow hiss through teeth that had involuntarily clenched shut. So tightly shut that as he became aware of the reaction and released the pressure, he knew that tomorrow his jaw muscles would ache.

“All alone at last.”

The voice came from behind him and though Rynert had expected to hear it at some stage of the night, to have it come without warning from the shadows at his unguarded back was still enough to make him jump. He regained control of the reaction almost at once, and when he turned to face the darkness it was an unhurried, seemingly unworried movement. Even though his hand
was
on the hilt of his sword…

“Where is the other this time?” the voice continued. “Your bodyguard?”

Rynert slid a chilly smile across his face and even as his facial muscles moved, could not have said how much of the coldness was for effect and how much was genuine. “I no longer need him.”

“How nice for you.” The
taulath
emerged—seemed almost to condense—from the shadows where he stood, dressed in a gray so dark that it was almost black and yet not so dark as to lend his shape a definite outline. Only his eyes were visible; his head was covered by a hood, his hands by gloves and his feet by soft boots that made them noiseless as the paws of a cat.

The Shadowthief held no weapon, and there were none sheathed or holstered anywhere in plain sight— but Rynert knew that this didn’t mean the assassin was unarmed. Far from it… The sinister presence was making his heart pound in his ears again, and though it shamed him there was sweat on his brow; he didn’t betray its presence by wiping it off, and hoped that with the light at his back the telltale beads would, be invisible.

“You came here at my bidding,” the king snapped. “So be about your business.”

“I came here at my choice,” the
taulath
corrected, “and it is your business too, King of Alba.” His tone was gently reproving, a deliberate reminder of what Rynert had chosen to forget. “So tell me, what
is
your business this time? Theft? Espionage? Another killing… ?”

There was a silence as the king stared at the mercenary assassin, angry—and yet in the circumstances unable to be properly outraged—that an honorless person would presume to guess his employer’s intentions.

Rynert let it go no further than a glare, for if this
taulath
was the same one as he had dealt with before, any observation concerning honor or the lack of it would be returned with interest, and the discussion would degenerate into a nasty scene. As for the
taulath
himself, his eyes blinked mildly and his whole body posture radiated unconcern over what Rynert did or did not say and do.

“Yes.” The king took his hand from his sword and sat down again, arrogantly, with his back to the hooded man. “Yes, indeed. Another killing. And no mistakes.”

“Rynert, Rynert…” The
taulath
padded around so that they were once again face to face, sat down on the corner of the table and nonchalantly swung one leg to and fro, seeming to admire the fit of boot and smoke-dark leggings. His voice and phrase of language were both excessively familiar. “Now really: were there any mistakes last time? Or the time before that?”

Another silence and a glare were Rynert’s only replies.

“There. You see. So—who will it be?”

Rynert told him and gave—sketchily—the same reasons he had elaborated to the Council. The
taulath
whistled thinly, whether in feigned or genuine surprise, and didn’t speak for several seconds.

“A friend, once,” he said eventually.

“How so?” Rynert’s question came back with an unmistakable snap to it.

“Simple.” Behind the mask there had to be a chilly smile. “You’re trying so hard to convince yourself that you’re doing the right thing. Too hard.”

“When I want your opinions…” Rynert began in a soft, dangerous voice, half out of his chair with one hand back on his sword-hilt. The sentence died there, for the
taulath
hadn’t moved a muscle, was still sitting there, watching with a calm deliberation that was somehow more ominous than any matching move towards a weapon. As if he didn’t care because he didn’t need to care; as if he felt certain that he, alone and empty-handed, could take Rynert to pieces any time he chose.

“I offered none. Reasons concern neither me nor mine, except through idle curiosity. Very idle. What does concern me is the fee.”

“As agreed.”

“Listen to the man. That was agreed before I knew who—and how much—you need… ah… want him dead.”

“What do you mean… ?”

“All your understated and yet so passionate concern for the honor of Alba, put in jeopardy by this one man; your fears for the political repercussions of his actions; and your outrage over his use of sorcery and the death of your Captain-of-Guards. Magnificent, Rynert—and meaningless. You forget, I think, our last discussion… and the last mission performed for you.”

“That has nothing to do with what brings you here,” snarled Rynert, slamming his fist against one arm of the chair.

Once again the
taulath’s
voice seemed to smile, although the eyes glittering through the slits in his mask were as cold and humorless as flint. “Let me refresh your failing memory. There was the matter of stealing certain things from the wizard, Talvalin’s foster-father— things like that portrait. A simple enough matter, and reasonably inoffensive even if not quite the way to treat a guest in your house. But to give all that information to the Drusalan Secret Police…”

“What of it?”

The
taulath
shrugged. “Tell the truth, Rynert, if only to yourself. After what you did, no matter what high-sounding reasons you produce, once he learns of all this Aldric Talvalin will be… annoyed. And you’re afraid that you know what form that annoyance might take. So you want him killed, before he considers doing it to you. And what’s one over-mighty nobleman more or less?”

“And when do mercenaries take it upon themselves to advise a king?” asked Rynert, his voice dangerously devoid of tone.

“Consider it a part of the service. Now, about the fee. Twenty thousand marks, in the usual division: half now and half on proof of completion.”

“You’re joking!” Even as he uttered the protest, Rynert knew well enough that the
taulath
meant what he had said. Just as Rynert knew that he would pay it. It angered him that a mere hired killer should have given so precise a summation of the truth, and caused him to wonder if any of the councillors had made a similar judgment. If they had… He crushed that line of thought into the back of his mind. Alban Crown Councillors were advisers to the king; but they were also noblemen in their own right and anything which impugned their dignity or honor was likely to be something they would regard as a personal insult. Deliberately or otherwise, Rynert had already offered enough veiled insults tonight for one more to be too many. His chest hurt, a grinding insistent ache that seemed always with him now, no matter what his personal physicians did.

The
taulath
was gazing equably at him when his thoughts came back to the here-and-now. As equably as the blank-masked face permitted, anyway, and with an air of smug satisfaction that neither the mask nor the featureless dark clothing could conceal. “And don’t tell me that you’ve come here without the money, my Lord King; you’ve never done so before.” He slid soundlessly from the table, all business now. “Talvalin. Where can I find him?”

“I… don’t know.”

The
taulath
stared at him, not believing his ears. “If I had known what you were going to say, Lord King, the price would have been far higher still.” Then, gathering himself together somewhat: “But you must have some intimation of his last whereabouts, surely?”

“The Drusalan Empire… probably,” Rynert smiled faintly, “as far from the city of Egisburg as he can get.”

“He was involved in
that
?”

“He was directly responsible for it.”

“Then small wonder you want him out of the way. If he’ll do that to his enemies, who knows what he might do to an ex-friend…”

“I told you before—”

“—And I decided not to listen. Oh, I and my people can find him for you, King Rynert—and kill him for you, too—all for the price I asked before I found out how much work was involved. But I’ll expect some small favors afterward. Nothing costly; just immunities and pardons. As many as needed, and as often as needed.”

“Feel free to leave now.”

“Haven’t you forgotten something?”

Rynert looked at the dark silhouette, thinking how utterly inhuman it looked, and reached inside his tunic. The
taulath
tensed, relaxing only when Rynert’s hand came out holding nothing more aggressive than a roll of treasury scrip. He looked at the sheets of paper as if they were poisonous, then peeled off ten and flipped them disdainfully toward the assassin, with exactly the same gesture as a man might make when flicking something foul off his fingertips.

“These are good?” the
taulath
said, looking at where the scrip-sheets lay at his feet and as yet making no move to pick them up. “You know I prefer coin.”

“And I prefer what I prefer. Take them or leave them.”

The assassin took them; but lifted each sheet from the floor with such elegance that whatever loss of dignity Rynert had intended was quite absent. “They had best be good, Lord King; I’m not beyond going to work on my own account.”

“Get out,” said Rynert. The
taulath
watched him for a moment, not moving, then began slowly backing toward whichever window or unguarded door he had used to get in. When the man paused, evidently on the point of yet another dry little observation, Rynert’s patience snapped, “Get away from me!” he screamed, springing from his chair and drawing his sword with a rage-born speed and energy he hadn’t known that he still possessed.

And on the instant of his scream, the doors burst open and Rynert’s guards came running in. Hard on their heels were the noblemen of the Alban Crown Council, all now armed with their newly-recovered swords. Still crouched in a fighting posture that was made foolish by his wide eyes and shock-gaping mouth, Rynert stared at them only to find that none of them were staring back at him but rather at the place behind him where he had last seen the
taulath
. There was a soft laugh from the mercenary, still in plain view for just that instant too many, then silence as he took his leave as quickly and quietly as he had arrived.

“Rynert.” Hanar Santon spoke it: just the name and nothing else. He was looking now at the roll of treasury scrip still resting on the arm of Rynert’s chair, and had plainly drawn his own conclusions from all that he had seen.

The king colored and his hands clenched into fists. “I have a title, my lord,” he said.

“No, not now.” Santon shook his head; it was less a negatory gesture than that of a man trying to clear his mind of confusion. “My father took his own life because he felt that he had failed you, yet you repay his memory with this. You have no title, Rynert; you’ve forfeited that. And duty, and respect, and honor. I defy you, man. I offer you defiance and I challenge you to change my views.”

In the dreadful stillness they could all hear how harsh and rapid Rynert’s breathing had become. The quick flush of rage had drained out of his face and left it white as bone. “What about the rest of you?” he asked at last.

Heads turned imperceptibly toward the man whose seniority of age, rank and respect made him their chosen spokesman. Lord Dacurre looked at them all, then walked to the King’s Chair and leafed through the roll of scrip-sheets. They fell through his fingers to the floor like leaves in autumn. “Lord Santon speaks for us all,” the old man said. “You must give an explanation, or—” Dacurre drew the sheathed
tsepan
from his belt and looked at it for a moment before setting it down on the chair’s cushion, “—do as Endwar Santon did. The choice is yours, Rynert
an-Kerochan
.”