Herald of the Storm (19 page)

‘
Ka’i dellan
,’ Bolo toasted in his native tongue, raising his goblet to Merrick before swallowing the liquid down with gusto.

Merrick watched some of the sticky red goo run from Bolo’s lips and down his chin.

There would be no getting out of this.

‘Here’s to making coin.’
And living long enough to fucking spend it.

Merrick swallowed down the blood as quick as he could. It went down like a gob of someone else’s warm snot.

‘Indeed,’ said Bolo. ‘This has been a pleasure.’
I’m sure it fucking has
. ‘My men will escort you back.’

‘No need, I can make my own way. Until the next time.’ With that Merrick handed his goblet back to the henchman, turned and walked back into the dark, feeling his stomach churning, trying his best not to run like fuck.

As the iron door opened ahead of him, seemingly of its own accord, he could hear Bolo laughing in his chamber, quickly joined by the gruff braying of his sycophantic henchmen.

When Merrick was sure he was far enough away from the warehouse not to be seen or heard, he bent over, grasped his knees and heaved red snake’s blood onto the cobbled path.

That went well,
he thought, moving off as quickly as his trembling legs would allow.

But no matter how he tried to make light of it, to tell himself he had done all right, he still couldn’t get the image of three sickly-looking girls out of his head, or what might happen to them as he left them to their fate.

I
n the end she had gone for something modest. In fact the only thing that could have been considered daring about her dress was the lacing in the bodice. It was in the Valdoran style – long billowing sleeves, high and tight in the neck, cut from a thick slab of blue floral velvet that was already beginning to chafe at the waist and armpits. How did those northerners stand it?

Right now though, the cut of her dress was the least of Janessa’s problems. Right now she was fighting the urge to vomit, waiting in the vestibule, about to be announced to the crowd and paraded like the prize heifer.

At her side was Odaka, her ever-present shadow. He stood in silence, his stern, lean features fixed on the archway ahead from which flooded the sound of music and merriment. There was a big crowd, that much was obvious. All the great and good of the Free States come to Skyhelm to gawp and preen and fawn, while their nation was under threat of invasion, its king far to the north facing who knew what kind of danger.

The Feast of Arlor was traditionally held at the Autumn Equinox, and the streets of Steelhaven had already been filled with revellers celebrating the victory of their ancient hero of legend. For the great and good of the Free States, though, it was different: Arlor forbid that they observe their rites on the same day as the peasants. Consequently, a banquet was held at Skyhelm several days after the rest of the Free States, where the nobility could gather without having to feel they were on a level with the thronging masses. The arrogance of it sickened Janessa. She would much rather have been celebrating in the streets with everyone else.

Nevertheless, she had her duty to perform. She would have to walk out and smile and greet them all with the proper airs and graces. She could do with a friend by her side right now, but she had no idea where in the hells Graye was.

An old stentor, ready to announce her to the world, approached from beyond the archway. He was an ancient man, his thinning white hair swept to one side of his head, his back crooked, but still he looked impressive in his official regalia of red and gold. The old man gave a nod to Odaka.

‘It’s time,’ said the regent, not deigning to look at her.

Janessa felt her stomach churning, the blood draining from her face. Odaka took a step forward but she was rooted to the spot. When the regent had reached the edge of the archway and realised she was not at his shoulder he turned to glare at her. The old stentor glanced towards her too.

The crowd would be expecting her. All ready to look and judge, to snigger and laugh in their little conspiratorial factions. It was as though she was condemned to the gallows and the crowd was waiting with rotting cabbages, their mouths full of phlegm to spit on her as she passed. Who would help her? Who would come and save her from this?

Then the old stentor smiled.

It was a smile of reassurance that wrinkled up the old man’s entire face. She’d never met him before, didn’t even know his name, but there was something in that smile that reassured her – that made her realise everything
might
be all right. It reminded her of the smile her father used to give when she was hurt or lonely. That one gesture alone made her realise she had a duty to perform; a duty as important as that of any soldier on the front.

With a deep breath, she walked forward.

As she reached the arch she saw what awaited her. The nine flags of the Free States had been draped from the ceiling, hanging down in all their heraldic glory. To the right hung the flags of the five provinces: the mountain leopard of Valdor; the rose of Braega; the red dragon of Dreldun; the black warship of Ankavern; and the hunting hawk of Stelmorn. On the left were the flags of the four city states: the gauntleted fist of Ironhold; the portcullis of Coppergate; the mountains of Silverwall; and at their centre, the largest and most prominent, the crown and swords of Steelhaven.

Below these, their faces covered in an array of brightly coloured and bejewelled masks, were the nobles and their courtiers. The crowd milled about, winding around and through itself like a seething mass of snakes, locked in a seemingly endless dance of pomposity, insincere flattery and snide calumny.

It sickened Janessa. All she wanted to do was turn and run, but it was too late now. At a signal from the stentor the orchestra, positioned high on a gallery overlooking the crowd, fell silent. In turn, once the music had ended with the clumsy parp of a bass horn, the masked throng slowly ceased its squalling and looked to see what was happening.

‘Her royal majesty, the Princess Janessa Mastragall,’ bellowed the old man in a voice deep and rich. How he managed to conjure such a sound from his frail and withered body Janessa had no idea, but it was not the time to ask.

Odaka paused at the top of the marble staircase, glancing down sternly at those below him. She waited with him, following his example, standing stock-still and regarding the crowd with all the hauteur she could muster. It really was like she was being paraded at market – all eyes were on her, assessing her, judging her suitability. It didn’t help that she was practically the only person present without a mask. But it wouldn’t do for the future queen to hide her beauty from the masses, would it?

Janessa almost laughed at the thought. Beauty indeed!

She’d been plucked and primped and perfumed before the Feast. Bathed in oils, her red curls washed and combed and bound, but she still felt like an urchin inside. Still felt wild. Only now it was as if the wolf inside her had been caged. Locked behind bars to be leered at and prodded with sticks until it performed – until it bit back.

‘Shall we?’ said Odaka, taking the first step down towards the waiting throng.

It wasn’t a request she could refuse.

Janessa followed Odaka down the staircase, her hand on his arm. For that, at least, she was thankful. She wasn’t used to navigating staircases in such formal attire, and had he not been there to support her she was sure she would have tripped over her hem or toppled over in the impractical shoes she’d been forced to wear, then gone tumbling down into the crowd. It would certainly have made an impression.

The crowd parted as she reached the bottom of the stairs, all eyes on her as Odaka led her across the carved stone floor of the dining hall. Janessa suddenly felt unable to breathe in the stifling air, but managed to hide her discomfort. Everywhere she looked people were staring, whispering behind their hands. In moments she was surrounded, hemmed within a tightly packed mass of heaving, seething bodies. All she could smell was a rich mix of perfume, all she could hear was the low hum of voices interspersed with the shrill giggles of ladies of the court.

Then the orchestra began to play.

It was like the first rush of rainfall in a storm, and it relieved the black cloud that had been hanging over her head. Suddenly the crowd was diverted, its attention taken. Yes, some still stared, but most went back to their previous conversations, as though they’d lost interest in a brief distraction. Janessa felt relief wash over her, but she knew this was just the start; she had an entire evening of preening sycophants to endure.

As though on cue, the fat waddling form of Chancellor Durket huffed its way through the crowd, eager to be the first to greet her. He was easy to spot, despite his full face mask. It was a bejewelled face of a fawn, but a pig would have been more appropriate. Durket had been her father’s Master of Coin for as long as she could remember. During that time his waistband had swollen as the Crown’s coffers had shrunk. With the many wars and the plague which the Free States had been forced to endure it had been difficult for the chancellor to keep his accounts balanced. But Durket had always managed to find enough coppers to fill his beak, even when the king had little to spend on his subjects.

‘Your majesty,’ said Durket, bowing as low as could be managed over his barrel-sized gut. ‘May I say how stunning you look this evening? Your dressmaker has clearly worked wonders.’

Nice! Backhanded compliments about her dress, and superb that they were coming from a boar wrapped in ribbons.

‘Thank you, Chancellor,’ Janessa replied, trying to sound regal. She was pretty sure she didn’t. ‘And might I say you look somewhat resplendent yourself, this evening.’ Janessa tagged the last on as an afterthought, but it sounded quite genuine as she said it. She couldn’t help but be pleased with how well she was settling into the fawning insincerity of it all.

‘Your majesty is gracious with her praise.’ Durket smiled, but she could see his eyes behind the mask, and they most definitely weren’t smiling. ‘Now, if I might have a word with the regent, there is a matter of state to discuss which I’m sure would not interest your majesty.’

‘Of course,’ she replied, her hands balling into fists, though she resisted the temptation to punch Durket’s condescending face.

The chancellor took Odaka by the arm. The tall regent gave her a glance, which Janessa couldn’t quite read. It was a curious mix of concern and threat, as if he was both ordering her not to make a fool of herself, whilst at the same time wanting to stay there to protect her. Nevertheless, Odaka allowed himself to be ushered away by the portly chancellor to discuss whatever grave matters of state they considered beyond her understanding.

Once alone, she barely had enough time to accept a goblet of wine from a passing serf before she felt a presence at her shoulder.

‘Your majesty.’

It was a female voice, one that Janessa didn’t recognise, and its honeyed tone made her skin crawl slightly. A small, middle-aged woman stood beside her, a half smile on her weathered face which, just as Janessa’s, was not covered by a mask. Her dress was immaculate, purple satin with silver filigree, the sleeves night black.

‘In the absence of your chaperone, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Baroness Isabelle Magrida of Dreldun, and this is my son, Leon.’ She gestured to a youth beside her. His fox mask was pushed up far enough to expose a mouth, currently being stuffed with a goose leg. He couldn’t have looked more uninterested.

Seeing the ill manners of her son, the baroness frowned. Young Leon dutifully concealed the goose leg behind his back and bowed with surprising grace.

‘It is an honour to meet you,’ Janessa replied, inclining her head, not too much, not too little, as she had been shown by her governess. ‘And please accept my condolences for the loss of your husband. I know my father thought very highly of him.’

In fact he had considered Baron Harlan Magrida a devious snake whom he was well rid of, but even Janessa knew that at court many truths were best left unsaid.

Isabelle’s mouth twitched slightly as though she were about to smile her thanks but thought better of it. ‘Yes, we are all deeply aggrieved at his loss, not least his subjects who loved him with a vigour, and are now forced to bear the brunt of the Khurtic hordes.’

By all accounts Baron Harlan’s subjects had considered him an ogre, and would probably thank the Khurtas given the chance.

‘And I am sure my father will do all he can to see the invaders driven from our lands and your people restored to their rightful place.’

‘Indeed. And on that day, my son Leon stands to inherit a powerful kingdom. He will be Baron of all Dreldun and Steward of the High Forest.’

Actually it was a province rather than a kingdom, since the establishment of the Free States, but Janessa was prepared to let that go.

‘And a fine lord he’ll make too, I’m sure.’ She glanced at Leon, who had by now restored his mask, but still looked as though he would rather be anywhere else.

‘We would love for you to come visit us, when finally this conflict is ended.’
Oh no, here it comes.
‘I’m sure the Dreldunese air would suit you.’ Almost on cue, Leon slipped his mask up, raising an eyebrow and smiling.

Janessa had to admit he was handsome, though his manner smacked of arrogance – the way he stood, his disdainful insouciance, even his lacquered hair. She found herself lost for words. What was she supposed to say to such an invitation? What was the proper response? To refuse would be seen as an insult but to accept might be tantamount to betrothal.

Janessa felt the oppressive air pervading the dining hall once more. The massive chamber began to spin at the edges, the music seeming to grow louder and discordant.

Where in the hells was Odaka? Wasn’t it his job to ensure this kind of thing didn’t happen?

‘Please excuse the interruption, your majesty, but the Lord Governor of Coppergate wishes an audience.’