Bloodstone (11 page)

"Take her, then, scheming farthead!" snarled Teres through a gracious smile. "What with wine and old age, I trust she'll sleep soundly... unless snores and foul breath disturb her rest!"

"Thoem, what a mouth to berate another's for foulness!" Malchion exclaimed in unruffled humor. "Were you my son, I'd feed you your ears for insolence! But as my daughter, your mindless insults only uphold the well-earned reputation of scold, of shrew!" "Oh, enough of this 'were you my son' bullshit!" Teres yelled, hands clawed. "Try me if you dare test my mettle, and I'll tear off your greasy ears with my teeth!"

"Lovely thing when she's angry, isn't she?" Malchion grinned.

Teres muttered an incoherent string of curses and lapsed into silence, determined not to provide her father further amusement. She clamped her short fingernails between straight teeth in vexation, striving to present an air of aloof dignity.

She was a strange creature, Teres, who had devoted most of her 25 years to denying her femininity, and with startling success. Her features were heavily drawn, though not masculine, and might have been called pretty, but for the thin scar crossing one cheek and a nose twice broken and never perfectly set. Her blond hair she wore in a heavy braid; coiled back over one tanned shoulder, and her ears were pierced to display thick golden rings--neither so much a concession to femininity as an impression of the warrior styles among certain of the barbaric forest clans of Wollendan. Small, high breasts and slim hips were all but concealed under the rough warrior's garb she habitually wore. Years of riding alongside her father to war and to hunt, of drawing bow and raising sword for the most reckless venture, had trained her strength to the equal of many men's--while any weakness was doubly compensated for by the grace and ruthless courage of her sex. Withal, her compactly muscled figure called to mind the lean strength of a man five or more years her junior, but without boyish awkwardness. Teres's was not an unpleasant appearance, although certainly exotic--barbaric perhaps the happiest adjective.

A half-hearted knock announced the entrance of Lord Malchion's chief steward, Embrom. Heedless of the others present, he interrupted the seriocomic tableau to cross the chamber and whisper a few sentences for only his lord's hearing.

"Damn!" Malchion muttered. "The devil calls at the least fortunate hour, so they say. Still..."

He grunted and tossed off his drink with a decisive gesture. "The old master shows compassion for the young punk," he proclaimed somberly. "Teres, I grant you first blush of Cosmallen's yet to be revealed accomplishments. Count this as yet another favor from doting father to unappreciative whelp."

Rising, he nodded to his guests. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, exigencies of my disordered household require that I take leave of our learned discourse upon spiritual matters. My servants will see to your needs, should some of you care to further indulge in metaphysical speculations. My cellar library has many an unopened volume of vintage wisdom crying for perusal."

With unsteady dignity he completed his departure. From the halls beyond echoed an enormous belch, followed by an outburst of laughter.

Teres swore and chewed a knuckle, gazing at the long-limbed slave girl as if she would strike her. "That obese goat grants favors as gladly as starved hound bestows a fat chop to stray cat!" she growled. "Go to my chambers, Cosmallen. I'll teach you pleasant games after I've learned what disagreeable schemes dear Father is playing." She stalked from the room with a perfunctory good night.

Nervously Cosmallen glanced toward her late master for some sign of reassurance, but Lian only shrugged and looked into his wine. Reflecting sourly upon the life of uncomplicated luxury that was promised to await beautiful girls in rich courts like Breimen, she wandered off to ask directions to her mistress's chambers.

"That was something of a... ah, bizarre interlude," remarked Lian after a pause. "Whatever happened to that vaunted stern morality of Wollendan's barbarian heritage?"

"A lie, as with most cherished traditions," commented Ossvalt cynically. Malchion's most trusted counselor--or so men said--stirred a gnarled finger through his wine and smoothed his mustache with the reddened tip. "High moral principles," he continued, "are not the sacred heritage of barbarism, anyway--just the revered illusion of peasants in any society. Sour-grapes rationalizing by petty minds relating to all matters which they lack the power and the imagination to master themselves."

"And wine breeds philosophers," thought Lian, who was not yet sufficiently drunk to ponder cosmic vagaries of human reason. "When I purchased the girl," he persisted, "I hadn't thought I'd be provoking a drunken quarrel between father and daughter over who'd drink first from the cup! Was Teres serious about bedding the wench, or was she only sincere in baiting her father?"

"Bright Ommem only knows!" shrugged Ossvalt, licking clean his mustache. "The tales of Teres are as wild as they are many, and since she revels in her infamy, half the stories are probably authored by Teres herself. Wild Teres, the old Wolf's cub grown up deadly as any she-wolf! Teres who dresses like a man, drinks like a man, yearns for battle like a man, rides like a man, fights like a man, curses like a man, loves like a man--excels a man in just about any pretension of virility, so she boasts. Her maids limp around all scratched and bruised, swearing she shaves her face each morning to remove the stubble. That's, a lie, though she'd grow a beard if she could. First broke her nose when she was fifteen--fell off her horse dead drunk trying to ride it through the great hall one night--but she claims it was a battle wound. Scar on her face did come from a battle a few years back--because she scorns to wear a proper helmet. Never lain with a man, but killed or maimed a dozen or more who've tried it, so she claims. Hell, you decide how much or how little to believe... I'd grow sober before I'd recount half her ringing saga!"

"Well, so much for the pristine warrior maid of legend," Lian pronounced. Although Teres's fame had traveled across the Southern Lands, he had found her presence more disconcerting than anticipated. "Still, the whimsy that leads Malchion to indulge his daughter's posturing strikes me as ill-advised. Can't say I'm looking forward to leading my men into combat with a girl ranked above me in order of command."

Ossvalt grew serious. "Understandable sentiments, perhaps, but I'd avoid expressing them in open conversation. Teres's position is unassailable, so far as Malchion is concerned--and the Wolf may grow old, but never question his control of Breimen! We're no squabbling rats' nest of grasping factions like our esteemed friends in Selonari!

"And if you will accept the well-meant advice of one who persuaded Malchion to send for you and your men, cease to think of Teres as anyone other than Malchion's son. To look upon her otherwise is indiscreet, and indiscretions have a way of proving unfortunate for the ambitious."

The remaining revelers were drifting away, leaving the two closeted. Ossvalt leaned on the other's steadier shoulder, sloshing wine on his bare arm, and continued his confidences. "Certainly Malchion considers Teres as his son. She's his closest heir, and the Wolf means to pass on to her all this wealth and power he's fought to consolidate in Breimen. Teres is his only prospect--at least, if he's to have the egotistic pleasure of founding a blood dynasty. So Teres is his son--and since a woman has never really made it as a ruler among the clans of Wollendan, Malchion has spared no pains to mold his daughter into warrior lord. A work of art, that, in a twisted sort of way. Oh, the Wolf's cub has fangs as sharp and ready as the sire. Grizzled old Wolf and snarling she-wolf, to lead the whole damn pack. They're a splendid pair, those two--deserve each other, that's for sure!"

"But a libertine of Malchion's glorious stature must have fathered more than a few sons!" Lian interjected, relaxing his belt a notch.

"Don't know how closely you may have followed events on the southern frontier, Lian," Ossvalt explained, with a thoughtful slap to his expansive middle. "Being close to it all, you forget that the attention of the world may not be focused on Breimen. Anyway, you may recall that Malchion had two sons and a daughter by his first wife... all of whom died before passing infancy. Then Teres, whose birth Melwohnna never really recovered from. So he took a second wife when the first died, and Ahranli bore him a son and daughter. Then came the conspiracy of that unhanged traitor Ristkon and his friends, and the three of them were massacred in the botched assassination attempt on Malchion. Third wife was barren, or likely it's true that the Wolf picked up some dread disease whoring with his troops on one of his campaigns. Had a bastard son named Besntuin, for whom he had great hopes at one time. But Besntuin was a halfwit, and it was probably fortunate when he was stomped into the mud by an outraged stallion, before he grew old enough to shave.

"So Teres is heir apparent by default. Got passed over rather callously in her early years. Hell, it was plain enough to a child, even, that Malchion was only interested in a son or three. Suppose that made some impression on her--be a son if you want attention. Never got a lot of that, with her own mother dead, and no other woman she ever got close to, really. Just the Wolf, and he was rough enough to crush any spirit but one that might be swept along with the flood. So Teres was a tomboy far back as anyone ever noticed, and it amused Malchion to encourage her mimicry of himself and his companions. Then after it came about that Teres was his only heir, he devoted his all-out efforts to reshaping her into a son. Taught her to hunt, to ride, to fight--personally oversaw her training in arms. She made him a good enough son, too--I've seen her in battle, and I wouldn't have wanted to face her even in my prime. She could probably fit in among your mercenaries without a hitch, if her sex wasn't known. Probably raise too much hell for discipline, though. Her father and his kind are the only company she's ever kept--treats other women just as a man would. I'm sure she even thinks of herself as a man. Life in Breimen is sure going to be interesting if she succeeds her father."

"Weird!" muttered Lian. "Another round?"

"Why not!" Ossvalt blearily agreed. "I tell you, Lian, we have fallen upon strange days."

Malchion, meanwhile, having made his departure, followed Embrom in thoughtful silence to his private chambers. The chief steward opened the chamber door for his lord, glanced about the room suspiciously, and stood waiting until Malchion dismissed him with instructions to be certain his privacy was not interrupted. Closing the door behind him, Malchion was alone in the room with the man who had come calling at this late hour of night.

The man who awaited him was featureless within the hooded pelisse that enswathed his massive frame. In the poor light, his face was hidden by the cloak, only the vaguest indication of profile being discernible behind the shadow. Even details of clothing lay submerged, for the cloak's dark blue folds fell to boot top. A series of stylized designs across the shoulder of the garment identified the wearer as an acolyte of some minor outland sect whose followers were known to make lengthy and seemingly pointless pilgrimages Which did not account for the sinister aura that overlay the chamber like the enveloping folds of the stranger's cloak.

The late night visitor, unexpected but not uninvited, filled a second silver chalice with wine as Malchion entered. Part of the sleeve fell back from corded left arm as he replaced the ruby glass decanter, so that lamplight shone upon the ring encircling the middle finger of that hand. The Wolf, whose undimmed eyes grew more alert with age, noted something altered about the ring, whose striking gem had impressed his attention on an earlier occasion. Absently he realized the nature of the changed appearance: previously the bloodstone ring had fitted very loosely over the finger, while now its circle was closed to the point that the silver-white metal seemed almost set into the flesh. The stranger, then, had found time to have a jeweler adjust the ring's fit.

"Fine hour to make a call," grumbled Malchion, accepting without thanks the proffered cup of his choice wine. "I assume your coming here was not witnessed."

"My information requires your urgent attention; I came when I could," Kane replied, wondering somewhat at the other's petulance. "Needless to say, all my movements have been governed by faultless discretion."

"The words of one of my most gifted spies--before he was assassinated two steps from what I had supposed was a secret entrance to this keep!" Malchion returned. "Well, how did it go, and what can you tell me?"

Kane shrugged back the hood. His face seemed haggard--strange, considering it had only been a few weeks since he had left Breimen bound for Selonari. "It all went smoothly enough," he began. "As I outlined the last time we talked, I slipped out of Breimen without notice, cut north to the coast, caught a ship and doubled west down the coast to Jadenbal. There I made port, got involved in a respectable tavern brawl, and left a discreetly traceable trail from the coast to Selonari. No problem making contact with Dribeck--he's as clever as they say, but what suspicions he may have had were allayed. Wasn't overly difficult to convince him that I was an unemployed mercenary captain a few cuts above the usual grade, and he became interested with little prodding in my yarn about fantastic weapons of elder-world science that lay waiting for someone to claim in a lost city within Kranor-Rill.

"He gave me a small command, which in turn gave me access to a great deal of information that will interest you. So when I decided I'd learned enough of importance, I led an expedition into Kranor-Rill to steal secrets from toads. As I'd expected, the Rillyti were not pleased. I led my men into their ambush, made sure there were no survivors, then escaped through the swamp by another route, stole a horse and rushed back to you. All at considerable risk, I may remind you, for which I expect your promised generous recompense."

"The price was agreed upon," Malchion reminded him.

Kane pursed his lips. "Aspects of our deal were somewhat vague," he persisted. "In view of the importance of--"