Wolfblade (39 page)

Inaction was making Mahkas edgy. He was snapping at his nephews
when their games became too rowdy and had reduced Darilyn to tears again this morning when he grew tired of her constant whining about how long it was taking for her new harp strings to get here from Greenharbour and told her to shut up. Even Riika’s sweet gentleness was wearing on him. One more heavy sigh, one more wistful look into the distance when someone inadvertently mentioned Glenadal’s name, and Mahkas was sure he would have to strangle his youngest sister, too.

Still, Mahkas was hopeful things would improve soon. With two provinces to administer, Laran had more than he could handle and Sunrise needed to be sorted out. Logically, Laran should head back to Krakandar to look after his interests there while his younger brother set about making Sunrise secure. Mahkas could see himself in that role. He didn’t really want any more power than that. But he was certain he deserved some consideration.

Laran owed him that much, at least.

More than anything, Mahkas wanted to go home an important man. Krakandar Province might belong to Laran, but it was Mahkas’s home too. He wanted to be recognised for his own achievements, not bask in the reflected glory of Laran’s accomplishments. In a perfect world, he would head back to Krakandar after subduing Sunrise, marry his promised bride, Bylinda Telar, the daughter of Krakandar’s most wealthy merchant family, and settle down to a life of comfort and respect.

In a perfect world
. . .

Putting aside his worries about his future, Mahkas glanced up at the sky as he crossed the bridge between the southern and northern arms of Winternest Castle, thinking it might snow again later today. Mahkas spent much of his time in the castle’s northern wing. It was the business end of the fort and usually filled with traders and soldiers, unlike the southern half which was filled with whining women and irritating small boys.

The Raiders on the stone bridge high above the road saluted Mahkas as he crossed over. He returned the salute and exchanged a friendly greeting with them as he passed. Mahkas enjoyed being popular among the men. It made him feel as if he was in command because the Raiders liked and respected him, not because he was their Warlord’s penniless half-brother.

Once across the bridge, he jerked open the door that led to the stairwell and took the narrow torch-lit stairs down to the lower levels. Despite the fear of attack from Fardohnya once Hablet got wind of the fate of his promised bride, trade was still brisk between the two countries. With the pass further south at Highcastle blocked by snow, probably well into next spring, all the traffic was now being funnelled through Winternest, making it much busier than usual.

Nash Hawksword had been and gone. After waiting around for over a month for something to happen with his Elasapine Raiders, following their visit to Highcastle, Nash eventually decided to return home to Byamor. It
had only taken a week before the first off-duty brawl had broken out. Both commanders had agreed it might be for the best to have a little space between the forces. Nash was still close enough that Mahkas could call on him and have him arrive with reinforcements in a few days if the need arose, but an extra couple of thousand Elasapine, Krakandar and Sunrise troops hanging around Winternest and nobody to fight but each other was simply asking for trouble.

The main hall of the northern side of Winternest was part customs house, part tavern and part administration post for all the commerce between Fardohnya and Hythria. As usual, it was full of people trying to get their documents processed by the rather frazzled-looking customs men whose job it was to decide what tax was payable on each load going in and out of Hythria. Mahkas didn’t envy the men their jobs. Most of the merchants heading into Hythria had already been taxed on the Fardohnyan side of the border for the privilege of leaving the country. They were never happy to be taxed again a few hours later for the privilege of entering Hythria. A lot of the merchants were regulars on the route, but to hear them protest about it, you’d think the taxes had been imposed just last week instead of centuries ago.

Mahkas pushed his way through the crowded hall to the bar at the other end where a small tavern was doing a roaring trade, keeping the throats of all these thirsty merchants well lubricated. The man behind the counter saw Mahkas approach and dipped a cup of ale for him from the open barrel behind the counter, waving away any payment.

“On the house, Captain,” the tavern-keeper told him with a grin.

“Thanks,” Mahkas replied, as if he wasn’t expecting such generosity. It was an act of course. Mahkas hadn’t paid for ale all the time he’d been here. The merchants of Winternest knew how to stay in favour with their new Warlord’s brother.

Taking a sip from his tankard, Mahkas made his way to the table nearest the roaring fire that warmed this end of the hall. There were two men seated at the table, both Fardohnyan merchants by the look of them. Mahkas knew the man on the left—Grigar Bolonar, a slaver from somewhere near Lanipoor. The man on his right was a stranger. He was completely bald and had the furtive air of a man trying to look inconspicuous.

“Hello, Grigar,” he said, curious about the man’s companion.

“Lord Damaran!” the merchant cried, jumping to his feet. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“I’m sure the sight of me has made your day,” Mahkas replied with a smile. “Who’s your friend?”

The bald man rose to his feet. “Symon Kuron,” the man replied, offering Mahkas his hand. “I’m here in Hythria with a view to purchasing breeding stock for my slaves. The blonde colouring so common among your people is highly sought after in Talabar, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Mahkas replied, wondering why the man seemed so anxious to explain his presence in Hythria. He really didn’t need to know his reasons for being here. Didn’t care much, either. “I trust you’ll find what you’re looking for in Greenharbour.”

“Actually, my lord, I was hoping not to have to go that far.”

“Then your next best option is Warrinhaven. I hear old Murvyn keeps quite an impressive stable.”

Symon Kuron smiled. “I thank you for your assistance, my lord.”

“You’ve no need to call me lord,” he replied. “Captain will do.” The merchant raised one eyebrow curiously. “But are you not the half-brother of Sunrise’s new Warlord?”

“That doesn’t make me a lord,” he said with a shrug, swallowing down a good half of his ale in one gulp. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Trader Kuron. Grigar.”

He turned away, not wishing to get into any discussion about his title, or lack thereof. And certainly not with some greasy Fardohnyan merchant.

“Do
you
have any slaves here I could purchase, Captain?” the slaver asked.

Mahkas turned back to face him. “No.”

“But I saw you earlier today on the battlements with a young woman of most exquisite aspect. Is she not for sale?”

He smiled. “Absolutely not.”

“Then the rumours are true?”

“What rumours?”

“That Laran Krakenshield has hidden his new wife away here in Winternest for fear of a Hythrun assassin?”

Mahkas laughed aloud at the very idea. “You should know better than to listen to rumours, Master Kuron.”

“Of course, Captain.” The merchant bowed with courtly grace. “Please accept my apologies for paying such rumours any credence at all.”

“You’ve no need to apologise. Just don’t repeat the rumours and give them life.”

“Of course not. My lips on this matter are sealed for an eternity.”

Mahkas looked at the man askance for a moment and then downed the rest of his ale. “Good,” he said, slamming the tankard on the table. “See they stay that way.”

A little while later, when Mahkas was returning to the southern wing of the keep for lunch, he found Raek Harlen on the bridge between the two towers, stamping his feet against the cold. He stopped and glanced down over the road then turned to look at the young man.

“Raek, have you heard the rumour that Marla Wolfblade is here in Winternest?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the lieutenant replied with a short laugh. “It’s been around for a while. I first heard it not long after your sisters arrived, I think.”

“How the hell did it get started?”

“Riika probably.”

“You think
Riika
started the rumour?”

“No. I think Lady Riika’s presence here started it,” Raek explained. “She’s the same age as Marla Wolfblade and the same colouring, from what I hear, and few people realise that Glenadal had a daughter, he kept her so sheltered in Cabradell. Do you think it’s a problem?”

Mahkas shook his head. “I think it’s a joke, actually. Hasn’t anybody thought to correct the Fardohnyans?”

Raek smiled. “Why bother? If everyone thinks Princess Marla is here in Winternest rather than Lady Riika, doesn’t that make it safer for Riika? Anybody looking for her will think she’s still back in Cabradell.”

“That’s true, I suppose. I just can’t believe those idiot Fardohnyans don’t know the difference between Riika and the High Prince’s sister.”

“Maybe we all look alike to them,” Raek suggested with a chuckle.

“You could be right, Lieutenant,” Mahkas agreed before heading off to the southern keep and the prospect of a nice warm lunch. He thought no more about it.

K
agan Palenovar hurried along the walkway between his room and his sister’s private apartments, a brisk wind tugging at his robes. As the chill of winter gradually gave way to the promise of spring, the winds here in Cabradell increased, howling down the mountains as if they were desperate to escape the high country, making the whole valley quite unpleasant for the few months until summer’s heat warmed the air and subdued the winds for a time. They didn’t call the Cabradell valley the “Valley of the Winds” for nothing.

Kagan had returned to Cabradell with Laran, Jeryma and Marla Wolfblade several weeks ago and was finally satisfied that things were settling down. Charel Hawksword and Bryl Foxtalon had returned to their provinces. The High Prince was back in Greenharbour and the other Warlords had retreated in a sulk to ponder how such a strange turn of events could have come about without them knowing anything about it beforehand.

Desperately worried about Wrayan, Kagan would have preferred to return to Greenharbour straightaway to track down his missing apprentice, but there had been too much to be done, too many alliances to juggle, too many balls to keep in the air, to risk leaving things to chance straight after the wedding. The time had come for him to leave now, however. Wrayan’s continued absence kept him awake at night for fear of what had become of the young man. He had to return to Greenharbour and find out what had happened to him.

The Convocation of Warlords had backed off with alacrity after Charel Hawksword was able to get Bryl Foxtalon to join their loose alliance. Once Laran had a majority of the Warlords prepared to back his plan, even Lernen’s arbitrary decision to endorse Glenadal’s will made little difference. Laran was going to keep Sunrise, with or without the High Prince.

Hablet had done nothing either, except behead the unfortunate ambassador
charged with delivering the news about Marla. Lernen was hopeful that would be the end of the matter, but Kagan wasn’t so sure. One dead ambassador seemed much too small a price to pay for an insult to a neighbouring monarch.

Marla, of all the players in this drama, had surprised Kagan the most. When she learned her unwanted marriage had been averted only by organising another unwanted marriage to take its place, he had expected a similar performance to the one he witnessed at the ball in Greenharbour. But the princess was remarkably accepting of the situation.

Kagan was suspicious of the change in her at first, but after a time, he recognised the influence of a calmer, more mature mind. It took him a while to realise who was responsible, although when he did work it out, he wasn’t really surprised. Clever
court’esa
frequently managed to work themselves into positions of profound trust. Alija’s first—and only—
court’esa
, Tarkyn Lye, was closer to his mistress than anybody else, including her husband. She certainly took his advice more often than Barnardo’s.

The dwarf
court’esa
, Elezaar, had obviously understood the unique nature of the opportunity he had been given the day Marla petulantly chose him over a more suitable companion and intended to make the most of it. Although he rarely left his mistress’s side, he made no attempt to win her over with his skill as lover or a Fool. He had made himself indispensable by helping Marla navigate the dangerous political waters she was now swimming in. That might have concerned Kagan, except it seemed it was the dwarf who had convinced Marla that the brighter future lay along the path of cooperation, not defiance, and with his advice, what could have been a situation fraught with tension was working out with remarkable ease.

Marla’s sixteenth birthday passed almost without notice in the wake of her hurried marriage to Laran. Jeryma had made an attempt to celebrate the occasion, but they were on the road at the time, camped for the night some eighty miles south of the capital on their journey back to Cabradell, so the celebrations had been haphazard at best. Kagan suspected Jeryma was riddled with guilt about forcing the marriage between her son and the young princess and was doing her utmost to ease Marla’s transition into the family, as if that would somehow make her actions forgivable. Perhaps she even saw herself reflected in the eyes of Marla Wolfblade.