Ruby Guardian (11 page)

“It’s all right to speak of it,” Hetta said, trying to smile disarmingly at her whole family. “We can’t pretend they’re still here. We must accept it and move on.”

There was a moment or two longer of uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Hetta turned back to Emriana and asked, “Have you spoken to Vambran since he left? Any mention of how he and Kovrim are doing?”

Emriana shook her head, fingering the opal pendant that hung around her neck. “I thought about it, but I know he’s busy, and I haven’t wanted to disturb him. I might contact him this afternoon.”

Hetta sniffed. “Well, if I know Kovrim, he’s likely as not leaning over the railing of that ship right now.” Then, in a more serious tone, the elder matriarch added, “Waukeen, keep them safe. Cimbar is no place to spend the summer, and this summer is liable to be particularly unsettling, if Grozier gets his war.”

Marga started at the mention of her brother, but she didn’t say anything. She hoped no one noticed her

reaction, and she very carefully scanned the room to see. No one was even looking at her.

“And you know that’s exactly why Lavant sent them there,” Emriana said sullenly. “To get them out of the temple so he could do whatever he does.”

That uncomfortable silence threatened to return, but Hetta clicked her tongue. “Enough of this morbid talk. Whatever Grozier is cooking up, it isn’t happening right here, away from Arrabar. Or even in Arrabar, for that matter. Sammardach is in two nights. I intend to make certain House Matrell celebrates suitably when we return.”

At mention of the impending holy day, almost everyone’s face brightened.

“Oh, are we going to attend the ball at the Generon this year?” Emriana asked excitedly, sitting forward in her chair. “I want to see the fountain of dancing coins again!”

“Well, certainly we are,” Hetta replied. “And we must discuss what you’ll be wearing, child.”

As the conversation turned to thoughts of festivals and clothing, Marga excused herself and stood up from the table. She noted that only Xaphira was not eagerly joining in the conversation, and she could guess why. The mercenary’s last visit to the palace about twelve years before had not been a pleasant one.

The discussion of subterfuge and impending war, the threats to family, all of those were making Marga struggle to breathe. She felt stifled, as though the warm, humid air were crushing her. She had to get out of there.

Slipping away, she practically ran to her chambers and shut the door behind her. Stumbling across the room, she stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked a portion of the garden where her children normally played. She could see the two figures in the morning sun, huddled together around something

obscured from her view. She choked on a sob, watching them.

“Hello, Marga,” came a voice from the shadows, back inside the room.

Marga didn’t turn around, though her back stiffened at the sound of her brother’s words. “What are you doing here?” she asked tiredly. “Someone will spot you.”

“Not unless you tell them I’m here,” Grozier replied coldly, the warning in his tone more than a hint. “I came to see how my favorite sister was faring,” he added more cheerfully.

“Stop it,” the woman said, still not facing Grozier. “What do you want?” she demanded.

“Fine,” her brother answered. “What news?”

Marga sighed, hating herself for what he was making her do. “We’re returning to the city tomorrow night.”

Grozier grunted. “That’s not news. Tell me something I can use.”

“There’s nothing more to tell,” she answered harshly. “Emriana and Xaphira ran into some beasts in the woods this morning while out riding. Everyone is worried about Vambran and Kovrim. What more do you want?” She felt tears welling in her eyes, tears of anger and shame.

“Stop being difficult,” Grozier snapped. “I don’t have to remind you—”

“You don’t,” Marga agreed, cutting him off before he could say the words. “I know what’s at stake. I’m helping you, not causing you any trouble. So don’t hurt them. Please.” The woman still stared down at the two creatures playing in the garden below, her heart aching in terror and sorrow.

“Then just keep feeding me the information, and we’ll be the happier for it,” Grozier replied. “I do all this for them, too, you realize.”

“You do this for yourself and no one else!” Marga cried, turning at last to face her brother. Grozier stood beside the doorway leading back into her chambers. Behind him, Bartimus also stood, with that perpetual foolish grin on his face. Marga had hated the wizard since she had been a child. More than once she had caught him prying into her belongings or simply staring at her. She had no doubt that he had often used magical means to watch her undressing or in her bath—his glances were always too knowing.

“I won’t dare refuse you,” she said to her brother, ignoring the spectacled wizard behind him, “if it means keeping my children safe, but don’t pretend you have their best interests at heart! I can’t stomach the lies on top of the threats!”

Grozier didn’t say anything. He grinned at Marga, a look that had infuriated her all of her life. Finally, he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Straight and to the point. Now, what else do you have to tell me?”

Marga bit her lip, wishing there were a way to avoid giving the man every bit of news. But there was too much risk that he would find out some other way, and if he realized she had been holding out on him—she didn’t want to even consider it.

“Come on, I can see you know something. Tell me.” Grozier took his sister by the shoulders and squared her to him, making her look him in the eyes.

Marga’s stare was baleful. She hated him for what he was making her do.

“Xaphira seems to know someone who can help her find Junce Roundface,” she admitted. “She’s returning to the city again tonight to meet with her old friend.”

“Oh, really?” Grozier said, letting go of Marga’s shoulders and rubbing his chin with one hand. “That’s not good.” Then he got a wicked look in his

eyes. “Or maybe it is,” he added, smiling. “She might not be returning this evening, Marga, dear.” The man turned to go, and Bartimus stood straighter, reaching for something inside his robes with which to create one of his infernal magical doorways.

“Waukeen, Grozier,” Marga said, her voice breaking with humiliation and frustration. “Is there nothing you won’t do to get your way?”

Grozier turned and looked back at the woman as Bartimus channeled his arcane energy into a shimmering blue portal in the middle of Marga’s room. The wizard stepped through, but Grozier glared at his sister for a moment. “I’ll see you in a few days. Be certain you have something interesting to tell me.” Then he, too, passed through the doorway. It silently vanished a moment later.

Marga turned back to the railing of the balcony. Anger and helplessness welled up inside her, and she pounded her fist against the stone in fury. Then the tears began to flow. She stared down into the garden, watching the two half-sized creatures playing.

As if sensing her observing them, one of the two looked up at her and smiled.

Marga saw Obiron’s face, but then, and for only a moment, it flickered and changed, becoming a fea-, featureless gray face on a bulbous head with a spindly body. The thing waved to her, still smiling, but she could sense the mockery behind the gesture. Then it was Obiron again, a laughing child running with his sister through the blossoms and orchards.

Marga wanted to retch.

II • II

Captain Beltrim Havalla, leader of the Silver Raven Mercenary Company, was reclining his chair back, leaning it and himself against the bole of a large tree,

trying to take advantage of the limited shade, when he sensed that someone had arrived. He shifted his weight and looked over his shoulder to spot the visitor. In the midst of the open area where the command tents had been set up, Junce Roundface stood surveying the mercenary camp, his back to Beltrim. The mercenary captain sighed at the assassin’s sudden appearance and rose to his feet.

Another good nap wasted, he thought.

“What are you doing here?” Captain Havalla called out as he approached his patron. “We’re not due to relocate for three more days, yet.” Then his eyes narrowed. “My boys had better not have forgotten to let me know you were coming.”

Junce began to shake his head, gesturing for the captain to relax. “I didn’t send word ahead of time. This is an impromptu visit.”

Beltrim sucked his tongue between his teeth and nodded, relieved that his staff had not failed to deliver any urgent messages to him. “All right, then, what are you doing here?” he asked again as the two began to stroll toward the main tent.

Junce grinned. “Happy to see me?” he asked, obviously amused at the captain’s abrupt query.

“I’ve got no quarrel with you being here,” the captain replied, “so long as you keep putting coin in my coffers. I just worry that you’re here to make things messy for me and my company. As in, maybe you want to command, too.”

Junce’s grin grew larger. “I’m not here to step on your authority, Captain Havalla,” he said. “I just have a special assignment I want you to take care of. A unique mission, a side trip, if you will.”

Beltrim let his own scowl deepen as they reached the opening to the command tent and stepped inside. He wasn’t about to tell the man that side trips weren’t part of the deal, as Junce—or rather,

whomever Junce was representing—paid well enough to make even five side trips worthwhile. But sometimes, side trips had a way of turning into campaigns all their own, and as often as not, they created tactical problems with the original plan later. As the two men sat down at a table where numerous maps were spread out, Beltrim grunted, signaling that Junce should continue.

“There’s a small group of mercenaries, a rival group, if you will, who just landed on the beach not far from here. Actually, they walked onto the beach after their ship went down out in the Reach, but that’s neither here nor there,” the assassin added, chuckling at his own humor. “I need you to go remove them from the field of battle.”

“Mercenaries?” Beltrim asked, letting his scowl fade away a bit. “What’s their name? Whom do they serve?” He was beginning to like the request more and more after all. His men had been itching to get into some sort of engagement for most of a tenday, and instead they had been forced to make camp, sitting in reserve to guard a larger force’s flank.

“These are elements of the Order of the Sapphire Crescent,” Junce explained, and he began looking at the topmost map on the table, which showed the ‘ region around Reth. “They’re here,” he said, pointing to a spit of land only a couple of miles from where the Silver Ravens were positioned. “There are perhaps two dozen of them, maybe a few more.”

“What are they doing there?” Beltrim asked, already beginning to formulate strategy. “How well armed?”

“I told you,” Junce answered. “They literally walked up onto the shore after their ship sank. They have sufficient magic that I would advise you not to take them lightly.”

Beltrim eyed him appraisingly, trying to measure the man and his words. Thus far in their business

relationship, Junce Roundface had neither exaggerated anything nor led Captain Havalla astray with misinformation. He was inclined to take the assassin at his word, but then again, there was always a first time for everything.

“All right, I’ll get my men moving. But what, exactly, do you want done with them?”

At the question, Junce began to rub his chin thoughtfully. Finally, he said, “Capture as many as you can, and kill anyone who won’t surrender. The prisoners, you will relocate to Reth, where I will deal with them myself. But don’t let any of them slip through.”

“Why are they so important to you?”

“I have my reasons. Suffice it to say that there are members of the group that I have a history with, and I can’t afford to have them roaming around the area while we’re having our little war.”

Beltrim shrugged and nodded. “Good enough for me,” he said, rising. “We’ll be ready to move out within the hour.”

“Good. I knew I could get results with you. That’s why I made the pay so generous.”

At that comment, Beltrim smiled. “We’ll take care of it,” the mercenary captain said.

“Good. Now I must beg my leave of you. Many other details to attend to.”

As Beltrim nodded his understanding, the man across the table from him stood, gave a quick overly dramatic salute, muttered something unintelligible, and vanished. Beltrim snorted at the brazen display of magic then turned to find one of his aides and get his men rousted.

There was fighting to be done.

I)

The shift in temperature between the outskirts of the Nunwood and the Grand Trabbar’s private chambers was abrupt,

but Darwin was used to it. As the vista changed from coastal grassland to opulent study before his very eyes, the man couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction. His magical boots were one of his most prized possessions, and even after all those years of owning them, he still delighted in their use. They had saved his neck on more than a few occasions, and being able to instantly teleport himself to distant places and back with a thought and a word had given him the upper hand in numerous scrapes over the years.

“I wish you would at least find some closet in which to appear and knock on my doors like a proper guest,” Grand Trabbar Lavant

muttered, not even looking up from the huge desk where he sat, furiously scribbling on a sheet of parchment. “I like you, but I enjoy my privacy more.”

Darvin chuckled. “You would protect your privacy at the cost of having someone see me roaming around your grand temple?” he asked. “Spotting someone such as myself deep in its interior, knocking at your doors, would certainly raise some unpleasant questions, don’t you think? How secure would your position be if the other high priests knew that you consorted with the likes of Junce Roundface, known scoundrel?”

‘Lavant sighed. “Enough. Your point is made. Just do not make a habit of showing up in the dark of night. I might confuse you for a burglar and slay you on the spot.” Lavant did look up then, giving his visitor a level stare.