Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (77 page)

Flay my flesh, this is vanity! I have but three I
somewhat trust among the Inner Circle, and two only because they are kin. I
have no spies of my own and rely on Caladris for information across the Empire.
Most of the Circle thinks I have usurped the imperial throne, and much of the
populace thinks I killed the emperor myself. Yet here I am, carving trophies
from my greatest kill.

As the snow continued to melt, the dragon sank slowly
toward the city streets, sometimes shifting ominously as the melt was uneven.
Bodies were exposed as the glacier receded against the combined heat of the
undercity’s furnaces and forges, and the heat generated by the bodies and
efforts of the workers around the dragon. Workers were diverted from dragon
duty to the clearing of the goblin corpses. It was a duty for those who were
found slacking, displeased the warlock in some way, or otherwise fell to those
of least social standing.

The goblins bodies were frozen from a night packed in
ice, and their frail bodies came apart all too easily with the effort it took
to disengage them from the snow. Exposed again to air after a partial night’s
decay prior to freezing, their odor was fetid and nauseating. Men wore dampened
cloths over their faces to move them, despite the frigid air, preferring the
cold to the retch-inducing smell.

“Fool!” Rashan barked, directing his ire at one of the
drovers, who had just thrown a claw the size of a greatsword into his cart.
“Those are not unbreakable. They are sturdy but worth more than you will earn
in a lifetime. Treat them with more care.”

Who is the fool? I essentially just told them all that
a little petty thievery will make them rich enough to retire. Now I am going to
have to watch them all the more carefully. There is no count of scales, nor of
the claws, and I do not yet know all the internal bits we are to excavate.
Something is bound to go missing and never be missed.

Annoyed at his revelation, Rashan drove the tradesmen
all the harder, reminding them not only of the value of those scraps of dragon
they were hauling but also the blood of friends and kinsmen that had been paid
for it.

Let guilt keep them honest,
the warlock figured.

Even in his most optimistic mood, it was unlikely to
work, but it was better than leaving them to plot their little larcenies from
the comfort of a clear conscience.

*
* * * * * * *

Brannis slumped against the wall of his bedchamber,
wincing as the impact jarred his broken arm. He breathed deeply to calm his
nerves, slowly regaining his composure after his confrontation with Duke
Pellaton.

Have I gone completely mad? I just threatened one of
the highest nobles in the western Empire. If I had been carrying a blade, I
would have killed him.

Brannis’s thoughts turned to the fables that he
remembered from Kyrus’s youth.
The Test of Kings
sprang painfully to
mind. It was a long tale, told through a succession of unlikely men elevated to
the crown by unlikely circumstance. Each had gone in as a good man, with the
best of intentions, but in turn, each was corrupted by the power of a crown on
his head. Brannis was no king, but he felt as though he had just failed
The
Test of Kings
, as had so many in the eponymous tale. He could not recall
quite how it ended, but it was something to do with a king finally realizing
that the only real power he had derived from the love of his people and their
loyalty.

Brannis had never been the most honorable of knights.
He considered himself more of a pragmatist in battle, willing to sully himself
with deceits and ruses rather than restricting himself to fighting his enemy on
even terms. While his dealings within the Empire were honest, and he treated
his subordinates and peers alike with respect, he was far from the ideal of the
old guard among the knighthood. The old guard would have been proud of him,
though, standing his ground to challenge an insult from one who was not his
liege. Placing honor above self-preservation was something that Brannis had not
learned at a young enough age for it to have ever made sense to him. His family
and his early schooling taught him that self-preservation was the ideal.

Do not touch that—it is hot and will burn you. Do not
eat that—it will make you sick. Do not provoke that man—he will plot against
you and you will die under suspicious circumstances that will never be
investigated with any rigor.

Knights did not think like that, or at least were not
taught to.

Do not break your word—no man will ever accept it
again. Do not visit treachery upon your foe—one day you may be in their power,
and they will remember. Do not let stand an untrue word against you—your honor
can never be fully cleaned once sullied. Do not take that woman to your bed—she
is the betrothed of your best friend, who could magic you into ash if he was
angry enough.

Brannis sighed. At least one lesson of the knights had
overridden his more cosmopolitan upbringing among the sorcerers. Juliana would
have gone through with it and trusted to discretion as her shield.

He knew that he could not be long from the activities
going on below in the lower levels of the castle, out in the city, and down in
the undercity. He was the focus of the recovery and repair efforts; the
soldiers would look to him once they were recalled to duty from their
well-earned respite, and the citizens already were busily obeying Brannis’s
orders, knowing him to not only be the Grand Marshal of the Empire, but a key
to the costly victory the night before. His presence would be missed, folk
would be seeking him out and asking for him. He could not be found cowering in
his room from his own temper.

To put at ease any wondering as to why he had run off,
Brannis hastily grabbed his cloak from the wardrobe where the servants had left
it and threw it about his shoulders. It was a poor excuse, but it would do. He
would have to make a point of heading outside at some point soon though, so it
would appear as if he had just wanted something warmer to go out in. He knew
what Rashan was doing out in the city, carving up the dragon into its component
parts, and he had little stomach for it. The dragon
was
fascinating, but
Brannis had seen it from close up already, at great speed and hurling toward
him intent on his death. He would be just as happy to not see it again, no
matter the number of pieces.

*
* * * * * * *

Pompous ass. He should be grateful he has a city left
at all after that dragon attacked.

Juliana had watched the encounter between Brannis and
Duke Pellaton, as had many of those in the castle that morning. For a moment,
she actually believed that Brannis was going to run him through—and she would
not have blamed him—but he had left his sword somewhere under the collapsed
glacier. The duke was myopic, seeing only the damage done to his city—no, not
to the city, but to his treasury. She had paid attention, and heard every word,
and not once had the duke mentioned the loss of life, either those suffered or
those lives saved by Brannis’s actions and orders. She had seen the glacier
wall collapse, had seen the host of goblins that had been assembled to enter
through the gate the avalanche blocked, and had seen the cannons they’d brought
with them.

Cut off from the battle outside, she had heard
secondhand what Rashan had done. After taking the dragon by surprise when the
ice gave way beneath its feet, the warlock had fallen upon the goblins like the
demons of the fairy stories, untouchable by the weapons brought to bear against
him and slaying all that he encountered. Actually Rashan had gone far out of
his way, hunting long into the predawn hours to chase down survivors who had
fled the battle. As best everyone could tell, there were no survivors down on
the plains, save one lone human sorceress, whom the goblins had kept captive at
the behest of their human ally.

Juliana had not seen the woman herself, who had named
herself a Fifth Circle when the demon confronted her, but Juliana was no fool.
A sorceress of the Fifth Circle could have escaped capture if she had really
wanted to, and by all accounts, the goblins had taken no real precaution to
hold her against her will. The girl was a harlot or a turncoat, in Juliana’s
opinion. The sorcerer they had encountered in the upper mines no doubt held
some sway over her, but she doubted that it was by magic. That Megrenn was
strong—Inner Circle strong—but that was no excuse for failing to slay a man
whose bed she no doubt shared. A threat to the Empire was worth taking a risk
for; it was worth murdering for, even if it meant her own death if caught or
unsuccessful.

Juliana had never met this woman but hated her
already.

After the duke had finished his argument with Brannis,
they each had left in opposite directions: Brannis to the upper floors, and
Duke Pellaton to the feast hall. Overcoming her natural inclination to trail
after Brannis, Juliana decided to lurk after the duke instead. The old man
fumed and was carrying his cane in his hand like a sword, limping along down
the main corridor of the castle with servants and workers alike scattering at
his approach. Someone was bound to feel that seething wrath, and she was
interested to find out who.

He was an old man and slow even with the aid of his
cane, so she had no trouble keeping pace with him even as the ranks of those
busy about their duties closed in behind him and business resumed its course in
his wake. Sorceresses were not far below angry noblemen on the list of people
who are not harassed by crowds, and Juliana found that her black Circle garb
was heraldry enough to announce her status. The duke showed no sign that he
knew he was being followed. There were people all about, too many to keep track
of with the extra people all about.

She followed through the corridors until the duke
reached the great hall, which was apparently his destination. Preparations were
under way for a huge feast—by order of the warlock. She had heard about it
shortly before turning in for the night, but it seemed that the duke had not
been quite so well informed.

“What is all this?” Duke Pellaton bellowed to the room
at large, not seeing anyone who appeared to be in charge of the efforts.

Juliana had not entered the great hall with him but
rather kept to the corridor outside, so she could not hear what must have been an
unsatisfactory response.

“I do not care what that usurper said! Get this all
out of here at once. This is still
my
city. I have walls, homes, and
shops to be rebuilding! I cannot afford feasting at a time like this. If I find
so much as one bottle of wine or brandy missing from my personal stores, I
shall have your hide.”

The room had grown silent in light of the duke’s
tirade, but not quite enough for her to make out the response. The pause was
long, though, before the duke spoke again.

“You ought to think who shall still be here next week.
I assure you it will not be that … that creature … outside. Now clear the hall!
All of you!” the duke shouted.

Juliana’s jaw clenched—she despised petty tyrants.
Greater tyrants were new to her, and she had yet to settle an opinion on her
future oathfather, but the men who enjoyed belittling those weaker than
themselves when insecure about their own authority were a particular peeve of
hers. She knew that the warlock was going to be angry that his orders were countermanded,
and whom Rashan held accountable might go a long way in helping her form
opinions of those greater tyrants.

And if she did not see justice done, there was a
certain dagger she had picked from the corpse of her would-be assassin. Duke
Pellaton may have been a horrid ruler and awful father, but those were
forgivable. The danger he posed to Brannis, should he carry through with any of
his blustering threats, was not.

*
* * * * * * *

The room had been cleaned, and the bedclothes changed,
but Celia knew of the murder that had taken place in the room they had given
her. One of the Circle sorcerers from Kadris had been lodging here and had been
slain by a goblin assassin. The floor still smelled of lye where the servants
had no doubt scrubbed away blood. It seemed that it was the only room left that
had been deemed suitable for a sorceress to stay in, but Celia would have
preferred a room whose dark history was more a subject of ancient history than
yesterday’s gossip.

“I have been invited to the feasting tonight, and I
have naught but borrowed clothes to wear. Ill-fitting ones, I might add,” Celia
informed the ladies’ maid that had been assigned to attend her during her stay.

The girl’s name was Chartra—she refused to call her
“Miss Chartra,” as the Duchess Pellaton had—and she seemed to be as young as
Celia looked, perhaps eighteen summers, give or take a summer here or there.

“I know this is scant notice,” Celia said, “but what
can you do?”

“Well, milady, I can take that dress in if you like. I
am a fair seamstress, and it should not take long,” Chartra said.

Celia looked down at the dress she wore, stolen from
the wardrobe of the rather plump Lady Feldrake, and shook her head.

“No, I think not,” Celia replied. “Even if I cared for
it in the least, it is dirty and battle worn, and I slept in it besides. Are
there dresses to be purchased anywhere in the city? I have no coin, but the
warlock assured me that all costs I incurred would be covered by the imperial
treasury. He said I was to be well attired for the revelry, so let coin be no
object.”