Exile (12 page)

***

To his surprise and alarm, Queen Elena bid Draken to come alone to her private chambers for supper. He walked the hall, his boots echoing down the stone corridors, feeling more anxious with every step. As much as she intrigued him, he was uncomfortable with her power over his well-being.

Uncomfortable, he thought. She’s got me in a regular panic.

Her personal Escorts flanking the doors moved their hands to their sword hilts as he appeared. Captain Tyrolean, stoic as usual, announced him and took up position nearby.

She wore loose trousers covered by a long, sleeveless tunic of black, open-weave fabric. Draken caught a glimmer of her pale, slim figure beneath it. “Forgive my black. A tiresome custom. Mourning belongs to the heart anyway, don’t you think?”

Draken wasn’t quite sure how to answer, but mourning was something he knew well. “Indeed, the heart never seems to escape it.”

She smiled as if she approved of his answer, but he couldn’t relax. Instead he glanced around, trying to distract himself from staring at her. “Beautiful apartments, Your Majesty.” He meant it. Lighter than the rest of the Bastion, the walls were pale, the beams were bleached, and multi-colored beads hung in the windows behind filmy draperies.

“You should see the view outside.” Elena took Draken’s arm and led him to the window. She parted the beads with her narrow hand and indicated the water below her first-floor windows. This was the closest Draken had been to it. It exuded a faint, stale sea-scent.

Elena stood very close to him, their arms touching. “Would you like to see the errings feed?”

Not particularly. “If you wish it, my Queen.”

At Elena’s word, two servants brought a cart holding three wooly black goats around to the fence. As if knowing what was coming, they balked against their tethers. One of the servants grabbed up a goat and tossed it over the fence before it could bleat in protest.

The water bubbled around the struggling animal as it sank, and then worked its way, whistling in terror, back up to the surface. A man-sized, swift-moving shape appeared just under the surface, circling the struggling animal. The goat went under and did not appear again.

More pale shapes appeared. One lifted its head and looked not at the other two bleating goats, but at Draken and Elena. Smooth, scaleless, bloodless skin; lidless, flat eyes; a maw of dagger-teeth, and flat fish eyes regarded them.

“They look at us because I often feed them,” Elena said.

The other goats went with more protest. This time the water roiled with fervent hunger and blood. More heads appeared from the water, but the men took the cart away, ignoring the creatures. At last they sank without a ripple, and the crimson water fell black and quiet again.

Draken lifted his gaze to the first of the moons rising over the market and surrounding buildings, trying to erase the carnage from his mind. “Please come away from the window, Queen Elena. It’s not safe for you to linger in view.”

But he got the point. Only a fool would dare put one toe in the water. The errings enabled her to open the shutters to her ground-floor apartments day and night. The strings of beads in the windows let air pass, but concealed those within, rendering arrows virtually useless. Ridiculously simple, thought Draken, but effective.

“Come,” Elena said, laying another brief hand on his arm. “Dine with me.”

She sat and Draken helped her with her chair rather than allowing a servant to do it, common courtesy in Monoea. She glanced up at him, and he wondered for a moment if he’d done wrong. But she said nothing as he took his own seat.

As the servants hurried to lay plates before them, Elena asked, “Tell me about your family.”

Draken lifted his head; he’d been focused on reaching for his wine. He sipped and shook his head. “My parents are dead.”

“Truth?”

He suppressed a shrug. Why wouldn’t she believe him? “They’ve been gone a long time, Your Majesty.”

“You were raised on the Dragonstar Isles?”

That was the story. “Aye. Haven’t been back in a long time though.”

“No children? No wife?”

“My wife died,” he said. “And we had no children.”

“Did she fall ill?”

He lowered his gaze. To lie about Lesle felt a betrayal. “She was murdered, Your Majesty.”

“I’m sorry.” Her tone indicated sympathy, but he didn’t look up at her face to see if her expression matched her verbal sincerity. “Did you capture him?”

His voice caught in his throat before he could answer. He took another sip of wine. “No.”

“Did you try?”

He blinked. “I didn’t get the chance. But should one arise, I’ll take it.”

A moment passed before she replied, “No doubt he deserves to die for his crime.”

He had to work to meet her astute gaze. “Aye, he does, my Queen. And he will.” He caught a peripheral movement: Tyrolean shifting nearer by a few steps.

They ate in silence for a time until she broached the subject of the search. “You’ve still found nothing?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Draken said, trying to find somewhere to put his gaze. The neckline of Elena’s tunic revealed enough of her breast he had to make a point not to stare. “Is there anything I should know? Have any enemies gotten so close in the past?”

He regretted asking as soon as the words left his lips. One did not question a Queen like a commoner, and to mention hostility or plots against her might be considered disrespectful.

If Elena took offense, she didn’t show it. “My Escorts would never allow it.”

Draken looked away again before his eyes dropped of their own volition to the pale swell of her breasts.
Reavan’s
Escorts might, he thought. It made sense the attacker had help from the inside, though he didn’t dare suggest it to her without ample proof. The Lord Marshal wasn’t in attendance this evening, which was just as well. Draken had learned some incidentals about local officers and nobles during the course of his investigation. These things hadn’t warmed his heart to Reavan or his ranks.

Elena stabbed a piece of fruit with her knife. “How do you find my city, Draken?”

Draken inclined his head. From watching her familiars, he’d learned she liked these little gestures of subservience. “It’s beautiful, Your Majesty. Your people are accommodating and welcoming. They seem quite happy here.”

It wasn’t a lie; the people did seem happy, if wary of the troops. Auwaer was clean and peaceful. The market bustled; the stall tenders were accommodating. Every tavern served cold ales and wines. But Draken wondered if the Akrasians didn’t crave escape sometimes. His paths had scored the city many times, and he had seen nearly all it had to offer in the past few days.

Elena finished her meal and leaned back in the corner of her chair, one arm resting on the back. The motion parted the neckline of her tunic even more.

Draken reached for his wine again.

“Is there anything I can give you? Anything you need during your stay?” Elena asked.

Draken thought for a moment how to answer, because there was something. “You’ve been most accommodating,” he began.

“Not too crowded in the one room.” Not quite a question.

This felt like tricky territory, but he needed a more important item besides his own room.

“We are quite comfortable,” he said. “Thank you.”

Elena rearranged herself in her chair, drew her arm down to her side and crossed one leg over the other.

“I do have one request,” he said, feeling more cautious than ever. But how often would he have her ear like this?

“Which is?”

“Weapons, Your Majesty.”

“Auwaer is quite safe,” she answered. “And you have Tyrolean and two Escorts with you.”

“Even so, I hunt assassins for a living, my Queen.” Draken fashioned a cold smile. “Someone always wants me dead.”

“What would you prefer? A sword?” she asked.

As a bowrankman, Draken wouldn’t have much idea what to do with a sword, but he wasn’t about to draw attention to his skills with a bow since the assassin had used one. “Knives should be sufficient.”

“Captain Tyrolean will see you to the armory before you retire,” she said, rising. “You should see the tailor as well. Since you’re representing me, you should be properly clothed.”

Draken looked down at his tunic, wondering what was wrong with it.

She bid him goodnight with stiff courtesy, though she offered her hands.

He bowed, lifting them to his forehead as he’d seen the courtiers do. “Thank you, my Queen, and thank you for supper. I’ll let you know as soon as I find something, and I pray for your continued safety.”

Tyrolean and Draken walked through the torch-lit corridors. Several doors hung open to reveal rooms crowded with lounging Escorts. Three men crouched in the hall, playing at stones, but they leapt to their feet and touched their fists to their chests as Tyrolean passed. He saluted them back without pausing his stride. Draken felt their stares on his back.

After they turned a fourth corner and Draken was hopelessly lost, Tyrolean stopped at a heavy door guarded by two female Escorts. They saluted and stepped aside.

“You have rank on all of them?” Draken asked, glancing back down the hall.

“I own two thousand servii and I am First Captain to Lord Marshal Reavan,” Tyrolean answered.

“I thought I killed Reavan’s First Captain,” Draken said.

“I’m the new one,” Tyrolean answered. His tone failed to indicate if he considered the promotion a favor.

Smoke wafted out the door as Tyrolean opened it. Shelves, ten strides long, bowed under the weight of the weaponry stacked on them: staffs and spears, swords of every length, sheaths, bows, arrows, quivers, straps, crates of feathers and arrowheads. Servants worked at long repair benches and a hot, smoking forge. Smoke from the torches and forge constricted Draken’s lungs, though a broad stone flue penetrated the ceiling and shutters hung open. The servants stopped at the sight of Tyrolean, and one scurried to take a knee before them.

“We don’t need your help at the moment,” Tyrolean said. “Be about your business.” He indicated the knives, and watched as Draken perused the inventory.

“Is there a place I can try this?” Draken held up one of a pair of throwing knives.

Tyrolean didn’t answer, but strode toward another torch on the wall and lit it, and then another. The flickering light revealed a range with straw targets at one end of the hall. He came back to stand next to Draken, who chose a target and threw.

The knife was well-balanced, and Draken was pleased with the throw. It sank deep into one of the targets, heart height. He strode down to retrieve it.

“Well done, my lord,” said a servant. He was young, perhaps fifteen. His filthy skin glistened with sweat from working the forge.

“You dare speak to your better, boy?” Tyrolean said, backhanding him across the face.

The young man backed away, bowing, lifting a hand to his bleeding nose.

“I take no offense,” Draken said.

“He needs to learn his place.”

Draken looked at the sweating, cowering boy with lowered eyes, and thought he knew his place well enough. “I’m finished here. These are sufficient.”

“Are you so sufficient with a sword?” Tyrolean asked.

A thorny question, which Draken decided to evade. “My goal is to apprehend, not kill. I have to get my hands on my prey to apprehend them, and a sword just gets in the way.”

“You told Queen Elena you would kill your wife’s murderer, given the chance,” Tyrolean said.

“That’s different. Personal,” Draken answered. No harm in letting Tyrolean think him dangerous. “And a thrown knife would suffice to the purpose.”

“My hope is to see the face of the man who kills me,” Tyrolean said. “It is honorable to kill in the light, not from the shadows.”

“She was…” Gutted. Bled. Her skin flayed back from her bones. But Draken stopped himself in time. Betraying how she died could betray his true purpose and his history. “Her killer will get what justice he deserves. If it’s a knife in the back, then so be it. It’s better than my wife got.”

Tyrolean’s eyes narrowed speculatively and he nodded. “If that is all…”

“These knives will do,” Draken repeated, putting them in their forearm braces.

They walked out of the armory, but the boy would not leave Draken’s mind. He was all for respect for elders, but it had seemed harsh treatment for a compliment. “The apprentice who spoke to me. Is he a slave?”

“He is a pureblood Akrasian apprentice, and will one day be well compensated for his trade,” Tyrolean answered. “Under Queen Elena, all freeborn are afforded opportunity to learn a trade at the Crown’s expense, Brînians included. One day, she hopes to eradicate even slavery, instead offering everyone apprenticeships.”

“You’re rather more enlightened than I expected,” Draken said. When Tyrolean didn’t answer, he added, “That was a compliment, if you missed it, First Captain.”

Tyrolean gave a crisp nod. “Our Queen holds up her actions as an example to all Akrasia.”

If this was true, Draken wondered what Queen Elena would think about Reavan taking a Moonling captive to sell at the slave markets. But he didn’t dare speak of it. Even with this glimmer of sophistication displayed by Tyrolean, the man still reported to the Lord Marshal. Once they reached the tailor’s quarters, Draken politely bid the First Captain goodnight, but Tyrolean turned away without reply.

After a half-hour of enduring the tailor measuring, prodding, selecting fabrics, and clucking under his breath, Draken was finally allowed to go back to his room. Once there, Draken recounted his conversation with the Queen as he pulled off his shirt and boots. Even though it was bedtime, he sat at the table to strap on his new wrist sheaths.

Osias sat next to him. “It is good you’re armed. Let me help you.”

“Elena’s not happy with my progress,” Draken said, extending his arm. “But Mance or not, somebody had to have seen something. Sevenmoon, not so tight, Osias.”

Osias adjusted the buckle. When he finished, Draken lay down on the bed. Exhausted, his spine resisted relaxing. He’d been on his feet all day, followed by the disquieting dinner with the Queen.