Wolfblade (80 page)

“There was . . . an accident,” he explained. “Wrayan lost his memory. So he fell back into what was familiar, I suppose. His father was a pickpocket, so his choice of profession is not that hard to comprehend.”

“And this has exactly
what
to do with me?” Marla asked, a little impatiently. She was tired and Kagan seemed to be rambling.

“In his travels, Wrayan saw something, your highness. Something that concerned him enough to break his silence about where he’s been these past five years. Something that concerns you.”

“You have me intrigued, my lord. What is this great mystery he saw?”

Kagan stopped and turned to her, taking a deep breath before he replied.

“He claims he saw your husband, my lady. In the bed of Alija Eaglespike.” Marla laughed. “Oh, that’s ridiculous!”

“That’s what I said, your highness,” Kagan replied, resuming his pacing with even greater frenzy, “but Wrayan was adamant. He and Nash were good friends once. He’s not likely to mistake him for another man. He claims it couldn’t have been anybody else. He also maintained that it appeared to be an ongoing affair of some significant duration.”

“I never heard anything more preposterous in my life!” Marla told him, still laughing at the absurd notion that Nash was sleeping with any woman other than her. “And I can’t believe you gave it credence enough to wake me in the middle of the night to tell me of it.”

“Believe me, your highness, if I could dismiss this out of hand, I would have. But Wrayan was convinced. And given the events of the past few days, there is reason to be suspicious.”

Marla’s amusement was rapidly turning to anger with what the High Arrion was implying. “Surely you’re not suggesting this has something to do with the attack on Damin?”

“If Damin were to die, your highness, Lernen would have no choice but to adopt Narvell as his heir or get married and produce his own. You know
the likelihood of the latter as well as I. Damin’s death will result in Nash Hawksword’s son becoming the next High Prince of Hythria.”

“Nash loves Damin as if he were his own son.”

“But his own son is Narvell, not Damin, my lady.”

Marla shook her head. “It’s not possible. I would know if my husband was having an affair.”

“Are you sure?”

“You think I wouldn’t notice the change in his behaviour if he was suddenly cheating on me?”

“If the affair has been going on for some time, as Wrayan believes, if it predates your marriage to Lord Hawksword, your highness, how would you tell?”

“Now I
know
you’ve lost your mind,” she declared. “You’re implying that Nash and Alija have been lovers for . . . what? Three or four years? That’s so absurd, it’s laughable. Alija has a husband, you know. Surely he would have suspected something if that were the case?”

“I could give you the names of a dozen men who’ve slept with Alija Eaglespike, your highness, and Barnardo hasn’t got a clue about a single one of them. Don’t rely on the Warlord of Dregian’s powers of observation for your peace of mind.”

“It’s not possible, my lord,” she insisted, shaking her head. “Nash loves me. He loves Damin. And he’s not a traitor. You will have to look elsewhere if you hope to find my support in bringing your nemesis down.”

Kagan stared at her, obviously distraught. “You think I’m doing this to get at Alija?”

“I don’t know why you’re doing it, Lord Palenovar. And to be honest, I don’t even care that much. But I do know that you’ve always hated her. Alija told me that herself. You resent her power. You know she’ll be the next High Arrion after you and are desperate to discredit her. She told me once that you lie awake at night, thinking up ways to get at her. I thought she was imagining things, but now I’m not so sure.”

“But your highness—”

“I love my husband, my lord, and Alija Eaglespike is my friend. She has never done anything to hurt me; never offered me any advice that wasn’t sound. You, on the other hand, arranged to have me married off to the King of Fardohnya, then reneged on that deal and had me married to a complete stranger, simply so I could bear an heir for my brother with enough Hythrun blood in him to make you happy. And now, when I am finally married to the man I love—and who loves me, I hasten to add—you feel the need to drive a wedge between us by coming here in the middle of the night with your wild tale about a dead apprentice sorcerer who has become a thief appearing to you to tell you that he’s seen my husband in bed with one of my best friends.”

“Your highness, you misunderstand—”

“I know you’re not well, my lord,” she added, a little more sympathetically, “but please, don’t bring your fevered dreams to me without proof. I will not be a party to your scheme to manipulate the succession of the High Arrion from beyond the grave. When you die, the Sorcerers’ Collective will choose the most likely candidate to replace you, and you will have no say in the matter at all.”

Kagan opened his mouth to object further, but then he shook his head, as if it wasn’t worth the effort. He bowed awkwardly instead. “I apologise, your highness, for disturbing you at such a late hour. Please forgive my rudeness.”

Without waiting for her to dismiss him, Kagan strode from the room. A sick and pathetic old man, Marla thought, desperate to win at all costs, even though everyone in Greenharbour knew he was dying.

It was the early hours of the morning before Nash climbed into bed beside Marla. She was still awake. Kagan’s preposterous claims had planted a seed of doubt in her mind, making her feel like a traitor. But even though she was sure in the deepest part of her being that Nash was true to her, the niggling doubt refused to go away.

Once planted, the seeds of distrust took root quickly, Marla discovered.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Nash whispered, as he slid into the bed beside her and realised she was awake. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Did you have a good night?” she asked, turning to look at his face in the darkness.

He smiled. “It was excellent. But I won’t kiss you. I must smell like a barrel of ale.”

“You smell just fine to me.”

Nash didn’t take the bait. He snuggled down beside her and gathered her into his arms. “You’re too good to me, Marla. Most wives would yell at a man for coming home drunk in the wee small hours after a night out with the boys.”

Nash didn’t sound drunk. Or smell it either. He smelt clean and wonderful, the way he always did.
As if he’d bathed before he came home
, a traitorous little voice in her head whispered.

“Make love to me, Nash.” In all the time they had been married, she’d never had to ask him that. Not once.

“Now?”

“No, next Fifthday!” she laughed softly. “When did you think I meant? Of course,
now.”

“It’s awfully late, my love. And I’m very tired.”

Worn out from your mistress, are you
? the traitor in her head asked.

Stop this!
Marla told herself angrily.

But she couldn’t help herself. “Don’t you want me any more?”

“I always want you. You know that.” He kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes, determined to sleep. “But can’t a man be tired
once
in a while?”

Of course you can be tired. But why tonight, Nash? Why, on this night, of all nights, couldn’t you just take me in your arms and make me believe there’s nobody else
?

“I’m sorry.”

Nash didn’t respond to her apology. He was feigning sleep, she was certain. Nobody lost consciousness that quickly without a blow to the head.

“I love you, Nash,” she told him softly.

“I love you, too,” he murmured, pulling her closer.

After a time, his breathing became deep and even and Marla knew that he really was sleeping this time. She lay awake in his arms until dawn, wishing she hadn’t sent Elezaar away.

But then, even if the
court’esa
were here and she had someone to confide in, all he could have done was remind her of the Fourth Rule of Gaining and Wielding Power.

Trust nobody but yourself
.

A
few days after he’d been to visit Kagan, a messenger from the Thieves’ Guild was waiting for Wrayan at the boarding house when he got home in the early hours of the morning after relieving a dour matron on Durony Street of most of her jewellery. The message bearer was a scrawny lad of about nine who sat on the top step outside the boarding house, cleaning his filthy fingernails with a wicked-looking blade while he waited for Wrayan to appear.

“You the Wraith?” the lad asked as Wrayan approached. It was still dark although the air was balmy. Summer was fast approaching and with it Green-harbour’s notorious humidity.

Wrayan stopped and stared at the boy, puzzled by the question. “The what?”

“Wrayan the Wraith,” the boy explained. “That’s who Gillam told me to wait for.”

“Wrayan the
Wraith?”

“Hey, don’t blame me,” the child shrugged. “And it could be worse. Last chap I delivered a message to was called Taryn the Turd. Nice threads, by the way,” the boy added, looking Wrayan’s leathers up and down with a covetous eye. “Bet you could go just about bleedin’ anywhere without bein’ seen, dressed like that. Where’d you get ‘em?”

“They were a gift from the Harshini,” Wrayan told him.

The boy scowled at him. “Fine, don’t tell me then. Make you look like a bleedin’ fancy boy, anyway.”

“What does Gillam want?” Wrayan asked.

“He wants to see you.”

“Did he say why?”

“Do I look like his bleedin’ secretary?”

“Did he say when?”

The boy rose to his feet and dusted off his filthy trousers. “Now.”

Franz Gillam was the head of the Thieves’ Guild in Greenharbour. He was a nondescript little man, with white hair and a slow smile that sent a shiver down the spine of any man reckless enough to cross him. He was the sort of man you could walk past in the street and never even notice—one of the qualities that made him such a good pickpocket. Although Wrayan was a burglar, being the son of a well-respected pickpocket made him quite a favourite with the old man. It didn’t hurt that he’d been making a tidy fortune for the Guild since arriving in the city, either. Gillam got a cut of everything the Guild earned, so, in a way, Wrayan was responsible for his current prosperity.

Although not as blatant as the Assassins’ Guild, who actually had a sign outside their building a couple of blocks from the High Prince’s palace, the Thieves’ Guild made no secret of their headquarters. It was a two-storey, red-brick building down near the wharves with a rather pretentious marble portico out the front and a doorman—known only, oddly enough, as The Doorman—who wore the livery of a nobleman’s slave and had the ability to break a man’s kneecaps with his decorative staff on little more than a nod from Franz Gillam.

Gillam smiled as Wrayan walked into his office, furnished entirely with items stolen from all over the city. The head of the Guild liked to lead by example, he claimed. The comfortable leather sofa had once belonged to the High Prince, it was rumoured, although how anybody could manage to lift something so large and cumbersome and sneak it out of the palace was beyond Wrayan. He suspected the story was either an outright lie or Gillam had acquired it by deceit rather than theft. Neither would have bothered the little man. It was a given that if one honoured Dacendaran, one frequently honoured Jakerlon, the God of Liars, in the same breath.

“I hear old Widow Saks is missing some rather valuable trinkets?” the thief said as Wrayan took a seat on the High Prince’s sofa.

“She hardly goes out any more,” Wrayan shrugged. “Seemed a pity to leave all that nice jewellery lying about the house gathering dust.”

“You see!” Gillam declared with an approving nod. “That’s what people just don’t get about us, Wrayan. We’re actually performing a civil service for the citizens of Greenharbour. We’ve saved her
how
many hours a week dusting that stuff? Cleaning’s such a chore, too.”

“And it’s so hard to find decent slaves these days,” Wrayan agreed with a grin. “What did you want to see me about?” He thought it couldn’t be too bad. Gillam would have sent The Doorman, not a lad, to collect him if Wrayan had transgressed against the Guild’s rules in any way.