Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (30 page)

They had only been here a day and a half and Sonten already had had enough.

He considered the servant as he followed him down the poorly lit hallway. His Grace was obviously taking no chances with the execution of his plan; he didn’t even trust the Count’s servants to carry a simple message, let alone accomplish the vitally important but relatively uncomplicated main task. It was essential that Count Marik remain ignorant of the real reason behind the Duke’s unexpected visit; they couldn’t take the chance that one of his chattels might drop some damning piece of gossip.

Sonten grinned. From what he’d seen of the lean Count so far, he shared the Duke’s mistrust. The man’s melancholy nature bordered on suicidal; Sonten would gladly have helped him on his way. But trustworthy or not, he was useful, and his men—such as they were—would swell his Grace’s forces, willingly or not. The General supposed they might be useful in the front lines, if only to shield the Duke’s warriors from the initial attack.

Dismissing the gloomy Count from his mind, Sonten concentrated on appearing supportive. He still had grave misgivings about the part the Albian Baron, Rykan’s secretive ally, was playing in all this, but the truth was that the Staff would never have existed without the Baron’s gold.

Sonten had never discovered how the Baron had obtained such colossal wealth and truth be told, he didn’t care. For although the Staff was lost, its creation had re-awoken the General’s long-abandoned dreams of power. Soon, he would have more important things on his mind than their outlander ally. That would be his Grace’s problem and Sonten would be free to explore his slowly emerging plans for Heron.

He grinned unpleasantly. The power-stealing capabilities of the Staff, useful though they had been, were not the only options open to an ambitious, unscrupulous man …

They reached the ill-fitting wooden door that led to the ducal chambers. His Grace had been given the Count’s own suite, but he was scarcely more comfortable than anyone else in this impoverished place.

Sonten snorted as he remembered the Duke’s expression on being shown these rooms. Never a patient or tolerant man, his Grace had stopped short of venting his outrage only by exerting considerable effort. Not through any desire to spare the Count’s feelings, but simply so as not to terrify him into a gibbering wreck. They needed the Count in as normal a mood as possible until the plan was executed.

The servant tapped on the door and opened it without a reply. He ushered Sonten inside where warmth and light from the twin hearths gave an air of comfort to the shabby room. Here, the wall and floor coverings were the best Sonten had yet seen, but that was all that could be said in their favor. They were obviously old—a generous soul might have said antique—but any value was overridden by their dilapidated state. In the Duke’s palace, they would be considered too threadbare even for dogs.

Pushing the mansion’s dilapidated state from his mind, Sonten bowed as the Duke stalked toward him from the sleeping room. Clad in his customary black and silver, his Grace the Lord Rykan was an undeniably impressive figure. Powerful and muscular yet agile and slim, he carried his forty-five years lightly.

Once again Sonten felt envy strike his heart but he ignored it, concentrating on the matter in hand. If his Grace should sense even a hint of his true feelings, Sonten would survive no longer than the duration of the Duke’s brutal pleasure.

He tried to gauge his overlord’s mood; except when his temper was roused, Rykan rarely displayed his emotions.

“Is there any news, your Grace?”

As Sonten had expected, the Duke’s voice remained level.

“Nothing definite, though I’m loath to place much faith in the Count’s scouts. I’ve decided to send out two units of our own men to watch for an approaching party and to keep an eye on that rabble he calls a fighting force. Hand-pick the men, Sonten. I want them to attack the party if possible to lend credence to the tale of unrest. Target the men only, of course, and no fatalities. Our foresight in panicking the peasants has brought admirable results, but we must keep up the pretense for another few days at least. The Count thinks it won’t be long now, although he’ll say anything to save his worthless skin.”

“And what of the Albian offensive, my Lord?”

“I agree with your assessment, Sonten, keep up the pressure. Our losses to date have been pleasingly light and you may convey my approval to Verris and Heron. I’m sending them fresh troops, and I want the action escalated once we return to Kymer. It shouldn’t be for long but we have to occupy the Albian forces and prevent them from interfering in my plan. The Baron thinks they could well mount a retaliatory assault unless their attention is fully engaged.”

Sonten sniffed. “Well, I can’t see it, myself.”

“I have no interest in what you ‘see,’ Sonten,” growled the Duke. “Just carry out my instructions. Until the challenge is formalized, I’m taking no chances. Anything that gets in my way—or anyone, General—will be dealt with. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

Sonten lowered his eyes. He could not allow his half-formed plans to shadow his tone or his gaze. Utter obedience and unswerving loyalty would ensure he stayed close to the Duke. And it suited Sonten to be very close to the Duke.

Bowing stiffly to hide his smile, he left.

Cal was panicking and Taran wasn’t having much success calming him down. Rienne hadn’t been seen since leaving Chief Healer Hanan—Bull had checked with her when Rienne didn’t return—and Cal was desperate to scour the Manor for her. Although Taran didn’t think Cal taking off on his own was a good idea, he understood how he felt. He was anxious for Rienne, too.

Suddenly Cal broke free of Taran’s grasp and bolted for the door. Just as he reached it, someone knocked brusquely. Cal yanked it open, obviously hoping to see Rienne. Instead, a man in dress uniform stood there.

“Colonel Vassa,” said Bull, pushing past Cal and flipping a quick salute. “What can we do for you?”

Vassa came into the room, glancing at Cal and Taran. He was slightly younger than General Blaine but no less imposing. Taran felt his heart clench because Vassa didn’t look like a man bearing good news.

“A short while ago I found Sergeant Morin collapsed on the floor of one of the lecture rooms.” Vassa’s voice was sharp with dislike. “He had injuries to his balls. I marched him down to the duty sergeant, who forced him to confess what had happened.” He glanced again at Cal and Taran saw his friend’s dark face go quite pale. “It seems he tried to rape your young lady.”

Taran felt the fear and anger that raced through Cal’s veins. He put a hand on his Apprentice’s arm.

“He swears he didn’t hurt her. Apparently, she disabled him before he could do anything, but I found his knife on the floor. The blade had blood on it that certainly wasn’t Morin’s.”

Cal made a strangled sound and Taran barely heard Bull thanking the Colonel. When he left, Bull turned to them.

“Cal, you come with me, we’ll search the east side of the Manor nearest the pharmacy. Taran, go rouse Robin and ask him to help you search the west side. Tell him we’ll keep in touch. If neither of us finds her, we’ll meet in the commons.”

Taran nodded and went to thump on Robin’s door. The Captain answered immediately and when Taran told him what Vassa had said, he led Taran off at a run.

They did a thorough search of the rooms on the Manor’s west side with no success. Everyone they met was asked if they had seen Rienne, everyone they met shook their heads. After an hour of fruitless searching, Robin led Taran back to the commons.

Bull and Cal got there first but as Robin had linked with Bull beforehand, Taran already knew they had no luck either.

Cal looked sick and Taran had a hard knot of fear in his guts.

“Perhaps she went outside to look for us and got lost,” said Robin. “She’d have been pretty distressed, perhaps she couldn’t remember the way back. Do you think that’s possible, Cal?”

“How should I know?” retorted Cal. He was wringing his hands in panic. “She’d be in shock. She could have gone anywhere.”

“Calm down, Cal, we’ll find her,” said Taran, hoping Cal couldn’t sense his own anxiety. “We know he didn’t manage to … hurt her.”

But Cal refused to be calmed. “Do we? Do you trust what that bastard says? I don’t. He obviously did something to her, Vassa found that bloody knife, remember? A man who could try something like that might say anything. Just let me get my hands on him, I’ll break his bloody neck!”

“Alright, Cal,” said Robin, and Taran saw him trade a swift glance with Bull. The older man nodded. “There’s one avenue of inquiry left,” he continued. Cal swung around and he held up a hand. “I didn’t want to do this as the Major doesn’t get much free time, but it’s very possible that she could find Rienne.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” said Cal, swinging toward the door.

Bull grabbed his arm. “Whoa, lad. Don’t go off like a broken bow. The Major might be sleeping, she might not even be in the Manor. Robin will go ask her if she can help. The rest of us“—he fixed Cal with a firm eye—“will wait here.”

Robin left and Cal reluctantly stayed where he was. They all waited anxiously, Cal’s eyes never leaving the door. Taran’s heart began thumping painfully as, after an interminable wait, he heard Robin returning.

The Captain was running and he skidded to a stop at the door, amazement on his face. “You’ve got to come see this.”

“Have you found her?” snapped Cal. “Is she alright?”

“Just come. And keep quiet.”

They followed Robin to the Major’s office and filed through the room.

“Quiet,” he warned, before pushing open the inner door.

They all stared in astonishment at the two women lying on the floor.

“Rienne!” said Cal, starting forward.

Robin hissed at him but Bull was grinning. It seemed he had spotted something.

“It’s alright, Robin,” he said, picking up the empty bottle of firewater and inspecting it wryly. “They’re not going to hear you.”

“Sullyan won’t be drunk,” interjected Robin. “She doesn’t drink alcohol.”

“I think you’ll find she is.” Bull was smiling broadly.

Robin clearly didn’t believe him and went closer, raising his brows when he smelled her breath. “But she never drinks.”

The women slumbered on, oblivious.

Bull chuckled. “Well, she did tonight.”

Taran felt a whisper touch his psyche and realized it was Bull, accessing his metaforce. He wondered why.

Suddenly, the big man snorted. “Robin. Read the room.”

“Bull,” said Robin indignantly, “that’s a gross invasion of privacy. I’m surprised at you.”

“Just shut up and do it. You’ll get a surprise.”

Despite his reluctance, Robin did as Bull suggested. His control was so fine, Taran could only just feel him sampling the top layer of the room’s metaphysical atmosphere. After a few seconds, he flushed red with embarrassment.

“Oh, Robin,” laughed Bull, “I never knew you were such a prude.”

Robin smiled wryly. “I’m not, I just never realized she wasn’t.” He eyed Cal. “It must be Rienne’s influence.”

Cal looked up. “What must?”

“Share it with them,” said Bull. “The Major won’t mind.”

By now, Taran’s curiosity was climbing the wall. He was pleased when Robin said, “I suppose you’re right. Taran, Cal, remember what we were working on today? Just relax your thoughts and I’ll show you what I picked up from the substrate.”