The Western Wizard (10 page)

The girl yawned. “Miyaga,” she said in a tone that implied he should not have needed to ask.

Miyaga’s confident fearlessness, despite the wary stranger in her bedchamber, aroused Garn’s suspicions. He studied the room by the rapidly dimming candlelight. Nothing moved. He heard no breathing other than his own and the girl’s. Satisfied they were alone, he dried moist palms on his tunic and headed to her bedside with the assurance of a man in a place where he belonged. “Is King Morhane your
noca?
” He guessed that her bravado stemmed from years of exposure to foreign courtiers. She had little to fear in a heavily guarded castle.

Miyaga hugged her knees to her chest, giggling. “You talk funny.”

Garn fought impatience, kneading his fingers to restore the circulation and to work away tension and pain. He supposed his Béarnese must sound as imperfect as Sterrane’s broken rendition of the trading tongue. “So, is he your grandfather?”

Still snickering, she nodded assent.

Garn threw up his hands in an exaggerated gesture of sudden understanding. “Then I’m your uncle, Garn.”

“Uncle . . . Garn?” She examined Garn, apparently uncertain of the significance of the title, but intuitively understanding it meant family.

“Which is
Noca
’s room?” Garn dropped his voice to a soft, conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve got a surprise for him.”

Miyaga’s eyes fairly danced. “Can I see?”

“Not yet. First tell me where his room is.”

“Down there.” Miyaga pointed to the left of the door to her room, stretched the trim of her robe to her knees, and smiled. “Two down. Are you really my uncle? What’s the surprise?”

Garn fingered his dagger, the child’s coy innocence like a lead weight in his chest. Miyaga’s description only confirmed the location of Morhane’s chambers, and Garn recognized his discussion with the child as a delaying tactic. No doubt she had to die; Garn dared not take a chance with his own life, the safety of his wife, and Sterrane’s kingdom. But the idea of killing a child awakened a deep-seated ache of guilt he never knew he could feel. Sorrow descended like a storm. His own son, Rache, might be nearly as old as Miyaga before Garn held him again.

Memories surfaced in a hot rush, of the baby’s near weightlessness against his chest and the joy that lit Mitrian’s eyes whenever Rache had smiled. Yearning formed a hard knot in Garn’s stomach. While his parents tended politics in a distant kingdom, Rache lived with the grandfather who had kept Garn a slave. While Garn attempted to usurp the mountain king with only a dagger and a flask of drugged wine, Rache was learning combat from the master of all swordsmen, adopting a reckless, savage heritage that might turn the world against him. Garn tried to picture his child, now a little more than two years old, but he could only visualize the baby he had not held for longer than a year. He knew that, in his place, Mitrian could not have slaughtered this little girl.
And neither can I.

Garn slid the dagger back into his pocket. As he did, his arm brushed the bulge of the drugged wine, and it
gave him an idea. Surely, the Wizard had left a margin of error on the amount of wine he would need for Morhane.
Even if there’s not enough for both, I’d rather put the girl to sleep and kill the usurper than the other way around.
“This is the surprise.” Crossing the room, he plucked the silver mug from her book shelf. “I brought a special drink for your
noca.
But because you’re so beautiful, I’d like you to taste it first.” He removed the bladder of wine, returned to Miyaga’s side, and perched on the edge of her bed. “You’ll try it for me?”

Miyaga stared into his green eyes. She wrapped a hand about his well-muscled arm as he filled the mug with wine. “I like you, Uncle Garn.”

“I like you, too.”
Obviously.
Garn handed her the cup, doubting Shadimar had given him enough of the sleeping poison for two, even if one was a child. Still, Garn did not brood. Getting Morhane to drink the drug-laced wine had always seemed the weak link in an otherwise reasonable plan. Shadimar had insisted that Garn take Morhane alive, leaving the pronouncement of punishment to the true king. When the time came, Garn hoped he would find some way to incapacitate Béarn’s usurper king.

Miyaga took it from him, sniffing doubtfully at the sweet, red vintage. With Garn’s encouragement, she took a mouthful and swallowed with a grimace. “Oh, it’s wine. Mother won’t let me drink it, but she’s dead and
Noca
doesn’t care if I. . . .”

Garn waved her silent. “It’s good. Finish.”

Obligingly, Miyaga took another swallow. Garn welcomed the reassuring return of caution that memory had dispersed. He placed his hand lightly on Miyaga’s knee as she drank, but his senses were focused beyond the door. His eyes riveted on the exit, alert to any subtle movements. He listened for the gentle tap of footsteps or the soft hiss of voices.

Miyaga shook Garn’s arm. “Can I have more?” She raised the empty mug.

Garn frowned. Shadimar had said the poison worked quickly and that it was reasonably safe, but he did not want to give the child too much. “Rest,” he said. Limited
by time and the language barrier, he said nothing more.

Thankfully, that seemed enough for Miyaga. She yawned, crawling beneath the blanket. “You’ll be here in the morning?” She took his hand, her warm and sticky fingers nearly lost in his callused palm. Her squeeze, though feeble, reawakened the ache in his fingers.

“Yes,” Garn lied, uncertain what the morning would bring yet believing Miyaga would sleep through it anyway. With his other hand, he returned the wine pouch to his pocket. He remained at her side until her grip went lax and he recognized the familiar pattern of slumber that years caged beside other gladiators had taught him. He had learned to sleep on the barest edge of awakening, aware of every movement of his neighbors and their relation to himself, his food, and the tattered, foul-smelling rag that served as his only blanket.

Garn disengaged his hand, rose, and crept to the door. Back pressed to the wall, he clasped the hilt of his dagger and eased the door open a crack. The dimly lit corridor seemed deserted. Apparently, Morhane believed his outer gates impenetrable, and he saw no need for sentries in the inner bedchambers. At least, not in the hallways, which explained why the falling of the hatch had awakened Miyaga so easily. A child accustomed to booted footfalls marching outside her door all night would have slept through the noise.

Garn stepped into the corridor and pulled the door shut behind him. Many torches had burned to ashes in their wall sconces. Others guttered in a draft that swept the hall, creating a wave of flickering shadows. Anticipation tightened in Garn’s chest. As he crept down the passage, he cringed at the faint scrape of his sandals against stone. He passed a bronze-bound teak door with only a casual glance and stopped before a set of metal doors emblazoned with the royal crest, a rearing bear beside a crown. He smeared sweat from his palms across his tunic, then pushed on the door. It opened on well-oiled hinges, without a sound.

Finery dazzled Garn as he slipped inside Morhane’s room and eased the door closed behind him. In each corner of the room, hooks of gold and ivory supported
hooded lanterns. A wardrobe crafted from silver lined one wall. Three chairs and a divan stood in a neat array, all padded with blue silk that matched the sapphires circling the lock of a chest beside the couch. In the center of the room, a curtain trimmed with lace partially hid a dais.

Sinews taut, Garn studied the room, gaze playing across the ornate furnishings. Snoring obscured any other noises in the chamber, but instincts nurtured by years of living like an animal alerted Garn to a movement in the shadow of the wardrobe.

Garn crouched, dagger whipping free. A smoke-colored hound advanced toward him, stiff-legged. A ridge of fur rose along its back. Head low, the dog curled its upper lip to expose wickedly sharp teeth. It growled.

A single snort sounded from the dais, then the snoring disappeared.

Garn’s fingers locked on his dagger. His other hand hovered protectively near his throat. “Call off your dog.”

No answer came from the bed, but Garn knew whoever lay there had awakened. The dog continued toward him.

“Call off your dog. Or Miyaga dies.” Garn had no intention of carrying out his threat. Unsure whether the king would even care about the girl’s life, Garn waited, tense as a coiled spring.

No reply. The dog’s legs bunched beneath it. Its hackles spread.

Sweat broke out on Garn’s skin, but his voice remained steady. “So be it.”

A rambling, Western voice came from beyond the curtain. “Bosh.”

The dog paused.

“If you’re dead, you can’t hurt Miyaga.”

Garn’s attention remained on the dog. “I’ve given her a slow poison. Only I know the antidote. She has until morning.”

“You’re lying.” Anger entered the other’s tone, but Garn believed he heard doubt as well.

“Would you risk Miyaga’s life on that hunch?” Cautiously, Garn reached for the wine, uncertain where to take the stalemate. To spirit Morhane from his room to
show him Miyaga’s abnormally deep sleep meant risking the king shouting for his guards.

A hand slithered through a slit in the silks. Its next to last finger bore the king’s signet ring that Sterrane had described. On it, an exquisitely detailed gold bear clutched a milky gemstone with a black center, a unique pearl discovered in a monstrous, ancient oyster that must have engulfed a smaller one. The hand parted the curtain, revealing a dark eye fringed by a black brow as thick as Garn’s thumb. The other man studied Garn. Then, apparently noting the lack of an obvious weapon, he poked a bearded face through the slit. Curly black hair sprinkled with gray formed a coarse mane about craggy features. A medallion with the Béarnian royal crest nestled against his beard. “You’re lying,” he repeated.

The dog stalked forward again, now dangerously close to Garn. “Six elephants around a tree. A giraffe with its head wrapped in vines. . . .” Garn began a calm recitation of Miyaga’s mural to prove that he had just come from her room. He broke off suddenly, finishing with a command. “Call . . . it . . . off!”

“Bosh, here!” the man said.

The dog sidled to its master. Its ears twitched toward Garn, and its thick tail fell in supplication.

Though relieved, Garn did not drop his guard. He studied the man before him. His sleeping robe shimmered purple in the veiled lamplight. His figure and features reminded Garn of Sterrane, though this man held himself with far more grace and confidence. The black locks, liberally flecked with gray, fell past his shoulders. His wide girth proclaimed wealth. The signet ring made the identification certain. Clearly, Garn had found the king.

“Who are you?” Morhane asked. “How did you get past the guards?”

“Sit here.” Garn indicated the jeweled chest.

Morhane hesitated a moment, then strode from the dais without a hint of fear, purple robe swirling about his ankles. He paused before the chest.

“Sit.” Driven to paranoia by the king’s composure, Garn swept the room with his gaze. Stepping cautiously around the king, he tore open the curtain. A metal-framed
bed sat upon the dais, empty except for a rumpled pile of furs. For an instant, Garn thought he saw movement further in the room. His head jerked toward it, but he saw nothing out of place.

The dog growled. Morhane took a seat on the chest, tapping it with both hands. “This box holds more gold than you could carry.”

“I don’t want your money.”

A faint noise scraped beneath Garn’s words. He spun toward the sound, seeing nothing.

Morhane made a sudden noise. The dog launched itself at Garn.

Garn whirled to meet the attack, slammed suddenly by a beast that weighed nearly as much as he did. Teeth gashed his right forearm, then clamped onto flesh. Garn turned a pained scream into a gasp, the dagger thudding to the ground. He staggered, jerking the dog off-balance. He lashed his left hand up to its throat and strained against it. His foot lurched against the knife, sending it skidding across the planks.

The dog bore in, its teeth crushing through muscle, seeking bone. Agony roused anger, and Garn drew on the strength that Colbey had taught him to find within himself. He kicked, driving his foot into the beast’s gut. Garn’s flesh tore. The dog hurtled through the air, crashing into the wall. Bone snapped, and it slid to the floor, limp.

Blood trickled from Garn’s arm with a heat that only fueled his rage. The battle had placed him between Morhane and the only door, and he remained there, green gaze boring into the king. “You idiot. Is this how little you care about your granddaughter?”

Morhane’s mouth split into a cruel grin of triumph that seemed horribly inappropriate. An instant later, Garn knew without the need to look that someone stood behind him. The tip of a blade gouged his spine. “Don’t move.” The speaker radiated a confidence Garn dared not challenge. He froze.

“Put your hands behind your back.” The bodyguard spoke fluent Béarnese, yet his accent reminded Garn of the dialect used by the regular citizens of the trading city of Pudar.

Garn hesitated less than a second, yet that was too long.

“Now!” the man said. He did not shout, yet the authority in his voice became nearly irresistible. Clearly, he was the thing that had twice flitted across Garn’s peripheral vision, using Morhane and the dog to mask his progress.

Garn searched for his dagger. It lay on the planks, halfway between him and the king.

Morhane laughed. “What took you so long, Mar Lon?”

Almost instantly, cold steel jabbed Garn’s back, a grim, nonverbal warning from a guard forced to address his king instead of reinforcing his threat. “Sire, I timed it as well as I could. Are you displeased?”

Garn dove, rolling, for the dagger. Scooping it into his hand, he spun into a crouch, the movement splashing blood from the dog’s bite on his arm.

Mar Lon charged, meeting Garn as he rose. The sword tip poked the base of Garn’s throat. Even as Garn whipped up the dagger to meet the attack, his mind registered the grim certainty of death. The world’s slowest warrior could bury the blade into his windpipe before he could complete his defensive strike. Still, he finished the arc from momentum and habit. Years in the pit had taught him not to consider the consequences of defeat. Death only meant an end to the cycle of hunger, chains, and forced murders, the slashing agony of whips and the pounding bruises or stinging blade cuts inflicted by enemies. Day after day, battle after battle, he fought for no better reason than survival, to continue a life he hated because he had no other.