The Bloodforged (30 page)

“He's been doing that already,” Vel said, her brow furrowing.

“Exactly. And I need him to keep doing it, to establish a pattern. That way—”

“I beg your pardon, General, might I have a word?” Morris drew himself up, as if bracing for rebuke.

Rig had an idea what this was about. So did Vel, judging from the fury flooding her features. Rig crooked his neck, motioning for Morris to follow. “Let me guess,” he said when they were at a suitable remove from the others. “You want me to hold my tongue in front of Vel.”

Morris avoided his eye, but he still stood stock straight, the very picture of stubborn determination. “I accuse no one, General, but there is too much at stake to take chances, and we can't be certain she is not the spy.”

“If she is the spy, I've already said too much.”

The older knight met his gaze, steady as steel. “With regret, General, I must agree.”

Rig fought down an instinctive wave of anger. Morris was only giving voice to doubts Rig himself still harboured in a dark corner of his mind, a place shielded from the blazing inferno that roared through him every night, incinerating rational thought. Even so, having his second question his judgement at a time like this, when many of his other officers were already grumbling about his failure to answer the massacre at Raynesford . . . it was more than galling. It was dangerous.

“You've made your point,” Rig growled. “And it so happens that I agree—the details of the planning will be kept close for now. That means you and me, no one else, at least as far as the Kingswords are concerned. But I'm sure I don't need to remind you that we're already in it up to our necks. It was Vel who brought us Wraith. If she's false, then he is more than likely false too. Any way you look at it, we're rolling the dice.”

Morris nodded. “And so we must, because short of a miracle, that's all we can do. I know that, General. And I trust your instincts. That being said”—he shot a look over his shoulder—“you'd hardly be the first.”

. . . to be led astray by his groin.
Morris didn't finish the thought; he didn't have to. “You let me worry about that,” Rig said. “Right now, we have a battle to plan. Let's send the others off to bed, shall we?”

*   *   *

The candles had
slumped low by the time Rig finished laying it out for Morris, all the details he'd been mulling over for the past few days, combining and recombining them until they came together in his head. It might even have been dawn, though it was impossible to tell in that windowless room. His second had listened attentively, a soldier's blank mask over his features, holding his peace right up to the end. It wasn't until Rig
had fallen silent, leaning back in his chair with his eyebrows raised expectantly, that Morris reacted to what he'd just heard.

“That,” he said, “is completely insane.”

Rig smiled wanly. “I thought you'd like it.”

“I know you like to go all in, General, but this . . .” Morris shook his head. “This is beyond audacious. It's irrational. If it doesn't work—and I don't see how it can—we've lost everything. Not just the border. Not just the fort. The
war
, General. We have nothing to fall back on.”

“All true.”

“Then why—”

“Because we don't have a
choice
!” Rig pounded the table, sending the candles jumping. “We're outnumbered two to one, unless you count their advantage in bloodforged weapons, in which case it's worse. That's if they don't call up more reinforcements, which they could well be in a position to do, because the Trionate of Oridia covers
half the sodding continent
. Sadik can move at any time, choose any field, and be absolutely certain—
certain
, Morris—of smashing us into oblivion. The only reason he hasn't is that we caught him off guard, and our only chance is to do it again.”

Morris faced this tirade with the same grim focus he brought to the battlefield. “The reason Sadik hasn't moved on us yet is because we blew the bridge and now he can't get his brand-new siege engines across the water. He's trying to figure out a way to avoid having to start over yet again.”

“That's right, and when he decides it's too much trouble, he'll ford the river, and we'll be finished.”

“He's got nothing but time, General. What if he's just waiting for you to try something like this? After what happened at Whitefish Bridge, he's got to know you're ready to gamble. If we do this, we could be playing right into his hands.”

“We could be,” Rig agreed. “And it might not work. But I ask again, Morris, what choice do we have?”

An urgent pounding on the door brought both men to their feet. “Come,” Rig called.

Commander Rollin hesitated in the doorway, his face grey beneath his beard. “Word just came in from the ford, General.”

Morris swore. “Is Herwin under attack?”

Rollin shook his head, and then Rig knew—knew with a sinking, sickening certainty—what he was going to say.

Morris had tried to warn him.
He's a good man, but hot-blooded. All alone up there by the ford, and Raynesford on his patch . . .

“He's taken his men, General,” Rollin said. “He's crossed the river.”

“I
t is such a great pleasure to meet you at last,” said King Omaïd the Third, hoisting his wine cup. “I told His Majesty last night that I was very much looking forward to it.”

Alix smiled awkwardly. She wondered what the king had been told to account for her absence at dinner the night before. Not the truth, she suspected, or he'd have offered some kind of apology. “That is very gracious of you, my lord,” she said, following the instructions Ambassador Sommersdale had given her.
My lord, not Your Majesty, and make sure not to show your teeth when you smile. It's considered vulgar.
“I have very much been looking forward to meeting you as well, and seeing the legendary beauty of your palace.”

“And? Does it meet your approval?” Omaïd smiled, a faint flicker of the lips, nowhere near reaching his clear green eyes. He was smaller than Alix would have expected—small even for an Aldenian, let alone one of the famously towering Harrami. He looked young too, almost boyish.
He could stand a beard
, Alix thought, though of course that would have been impossible, since no Harrami could grow one. Besides, however fresh-faced he might appear, his eyes gave him away: keen, watchful, reserved.

Those eyes were trained on her now, awaiting a reply. “My approval?” she echoed lightly. “If only I had seen anything comparable, to lend credibility to my opinion. The truth is, we have nothing in Alden to equal the artistry you have here, if my good king will forgive me for saying so.”

“I quite agree,” Erik said, sipping his wine. “With due respect to our artisans, they are far too attached to the old Erromanian style. They consider Andithyri to be the height of culture, and simply refuse to turn their eyes west.”

“Or east, for that matter,” said Chancellor Kader, pausing to allow a servant to spoon potatoes onto his plate. “Our Onnani cousins have some truly wonderful woodwork, yet so few of them are employed as craftsmen. It seems their style of carving is not greatly prized in your country.”

A swipe, if a mild one, an oblique reference to the lingering prejudices of an empire long dead. Alix had expected a few remarks like this; the Harrami were notoriously self-righteous when it came to Erromanian history. She just smiled blandly. Across from her, Lord Sommersdale did the same, in the time-honoured fashion of diplomats.

Not Erik. “It is strange, isn't it,” he said, “how one tends to undervalue the fruits of one's own garden. Take, for example, the complete absence of any art from the mountain tribes in your beautiful palace.”

Lord Sommersdale's hand froze momentarily on its way to his wine goblet. Alix grabbed her own cup and took a hasty gulp, forcing herself not to look at Erik.

“And the Grand Library?” Omaïd asked, deftly steering them back on track. “How did you like it?”

“Exquisite,” Erik said with a wistful sigh. “Truly, if I had a month, I could spend every hour of it perusing those shelves. Not just the books, but the maps, the tapestries—all of it. Even the architecture is astonishing.”

“I am so pleased to hear it,” Omaïd said in his soft, inscrutable voice. “We are tremendously proud of it. They say it took the Halla kings four generations to build.”

“And more than a little coin, I should think.” Erik raised his wine goblet. “To time and gold well spent.”

Omaïd lifted his eyebrows in acknowledgement and drank.

Alix gazed down at her plate, a little helplessly. The food
looked and smelled delicious, but she simply couldn't see any way of eating it without surrendering her dignity entirely. It was one thing to pick up a roll of bread, or even a piece of roast chicken, with one's bare hands. But this food was so . . .
saucy
. It was like a sort of stew, but she couldn't see a spoon anywhere, except those the servants used for serving. Alix glanced surreptitiously at Lord Sommersdale, noting the way he tore off bits of unleavened bread to pick up chunks of meat. He had gravy on his fingers. They all did. There was no shame in it, obviously, but she just couldn't shake her mother's voice in her head:
A lady does
not
lick gravy off her fingers, Alix Black!

“You had a terrible time through the mountains, I hear,” said the chancellor. “My condolences on your losses.” Omaïd seconded the sentiment with an arch of his eyebrows. Alix still hadn't grown used to this strange affectation. Why couldn't the Harrami simply nod like everyone else?

“It was a trial,” Erik admitted. “Quite frankly, I despaired of ever arriving here. It seemed as though all the gods were set against us.”

“One can imagine,” Kader said. “Such a series of misfortunes. We too feared for your arrival, overdue as you were.”

“Some misfortunes are more predictable than others,” Omaïd said, sweeping a bite of potatoes into his mouth. “Travelling the pass at the climax of avalanche season was ill-advised. It would have been better to wait until later in the spring.”

It would have been better if you hadn't obliged us to come in person.
Alix was careful to keep the thought from showing on her face.

“We did not dare,” Erik said. “By the time the snows had melted, it might have been too late.”

It might already be too late.
That thought Alix did not trouble to conceal.

“Even a week would have made a difference,” Omaïd said. “You will find the pass a much easier journey on your way home. Besides, one shudders to think what would have become of your kingdom if you had perished in that avalanche.”

“They would have persevered. My brother would have ruled in my place.”

Alix flinched inwardly.
Oh, Erik, if Liam ever heard you say that . . .
He'd pass out, or throw up, or both.

There was a stretch of silence. Then Omaïd said, “The tribes will be punished, of course. I will see to it.”

“I don't think that's necessary,” Erik said.

Once again, Alix forced herself not to react. It would have been a presumptuous thing to say to any ruler, let alone a king as famously prickly as this one. Omaïd's boyish face remained expressionless, but Kader shifted in his seat, and Lord Sommersdale stared fixedly at his plate.

“They did let us pass, after all,” Erik went on. “It is your prerogative, of course, but—”

“I am so pleased you think so,” Omaïd said mildly.

“Forgive me,” Erik said, suitably abashed. “It is only that I would grieve to see you put men's lives in danger on my account, when the matter resolved itself on its own.”

“The tribes have grown too bold of late.” The king spoke softly as ever, but there was a hint of ice there now. “They are no longer content merely to commit treason in the mountain passes. Now, they come down from the hills, into the villages.”

“Into the villages, really?” Sommersdale
tsk
ed. “That is bold.”

“They are mocking us,” Kader growled into his wine goblet. “Trying to show how impotent we are, that they may come and go as they please.”

“Perhaps they merely want to trade with the villagers,” Erik said.

Alix fought an almost overwhelming urge to kick him under the table. Erik had been known to do this before—to play polemicist simply for the intellectual interest of it—but only among his closest confidants. Now was
so surely
not the time. What could he be thinking of?

Omaïd flashed his thin smile, his gaze shifting to Alix. “Is that what they are doing in the Blacklands, Your Highness? Trading with the villagers?”

“No indeed, my lord,” she said—a little too quickly, a little too loudly. “They come to raid.”

“Though to be fair,” Erik said, “they apparently consider the foothills to be part of their ancestral lands.”

Alix's mouth fell open. Then—what else could she do?—she laughed. “Now I
know
you're just having fun with us.” She reached for her wine goblet, hoping her hand wasn't shaking. “For a moment there, I actually thought you were serious.”

Sommersdale gazed expectantly at Erik, a tortured smile plastered to his face. Erik paled, as if he'd only just recognised the dangerous turn the conversation had taken. He grabbed his own wine, lifted it halfway to his lips, visibly casting about for a way to cover his mistake. After a moment's hesitation, he took the escape Alix had given him: He winked, a boyish grin playing about his lips. “You know me better than that.”

“But our kind hosts do not, Your Majesty,” Alix said, trying for affectionate exasperation, half achieving it. “They may not realise you are only teasing.”

“You're right, of course,” Erik said. “Please forgive me, my lord.”

Omaïd smiled, but the green eyes narrowed slightly.

“It must have been a ghastly experience,” Kader said. He was trying to move the conversation along, Alix knew, to get past this frosty silence, but she wished he'd changed the subject altogether.

She jumped in before Erik could reply. “It was. Genuinely harrowing. I thought for certain they were going to kill us. There was one in particular—Fahran, his name was—he was just spoiling for it. And they did kill one of our number, in fact, a member of my royal guardsmen.”

“They will be punished, rest assured.” Omaïd wiped his fingers on an exquisitely embroidered napkin.

“Savages.” Kader shook his head in disgust. “Godless, lawless heathens, fighting among themselves. They build nothing. Create nothing. No order or authority. Content to wallow in their ignorance, to scratch out a living as our ancestors did, in a time before civilisation . . .”

“I found them quite impressive, really,” Erik said.

Alix couldn't help looking at him this time, and what she saw confused her almost as much as it frightened her. An angry gleam lit his eyes, and his colour was inexplicably up.

“Did you?” Omaïd tilted his head, as if in mild curiosity. It was the velvet cloth over a curved blade. Alix knew it. Sommersdale knew it.
Anyone
sitting in that room, let alone a diplomat as shrewd as Erik, would have sensed the thin layer of ice cracking under his feet.

And yet he tramped on. “I once thought as you do, Chancellor, but now I see that my attitude was rooted in ignorance.”
He said it casually, as though he were chatting to his family back in Erroman, instead of sitting across from the
King of Harram
, praising his bitterest enemies. Worse, Alix could see that his nonchalance was entirely feigned. Beneath that conversational air, Erik was
furious
. For some reason, he'd taken grave offence at the chancellor's words, as though they had been directed at his own subjects, instead of the people who'd taken him captive.

Nor was he alone in concealing a mounting rage. King Omaïd's eyes glittered like emeralds. “We are ignorant about our own people?”

“I can only speak for myself, but I found them to be much more worldly than I had presumed, and much more principled. Neither are they as disorganised as the chancellor suggests. They are quite formal, actually, and highly respectful of their chosen leaders.” Erik tore off a piece of flatbread and used it to mop up a bit of gravy. “It is a pity no one has taken the time to study them more closely. Any number of misunderstandings might have been avoided.”

“Misunderstandings.” King Omaïd arched a raven-black eyebrow. “Do enlighten me, Your Majesty, as to what kinds of misunderstandings might have been avoided. The demarcation of our mutual border, perhaps?”

“Have you considered a form of autonomy? A concession to their local system of governance?”

Alix fought down a growing wave of panic. She cast about for something,
anything
, to say that might avert the disaster hurtling toward them, but she'd already used up the only trick she could think of. Sommersdale was no help; he just stared like a stunned rabbit. It was as if they were trapped in a nightmare, paralysed and unable to speak, watching in horror as Erik slashed his own wrists.

Chancellor Kader barked out a laugh, a clumsy cover for his outrage. “Why, you must be jesting again, Your Majesty!
Their local system of governance?
They have no governance! They are barbarians, pure and simple. Oh, I can see where the simplicity of their traditions might have a certain . . . whimsical appeal. Spending a few days among them might well offer one the illusion that these people are reasonable, can be dealt with as such. But I assure you, Your Majesty, it
is
an illusion.
They are unrepentantly violent, a collection of petty warlords who cannot even pause long enough in their own squabbles to come together for anything.”

“They came together once,” Erik said, “when they fell upon Erroman. I tried to convince them to do so again, to band together and rise up as their ancestors had done.”

And here, at last, was the fatal blow. Alix knew it the moment he'd spoken, even before King Omaïd went rigid in his chair. She closed her eyes.

“You tried to convince them to band together.” The King of Harram spoke slowly, deliberately, each word a separate condemnation.
“To rise up.”

“Against the Trionate,” Erik amended hastily. “Not against Ost. Of course not against Ost.” The anger was gone from his eyes, fled in an instant, replaced by raw dismay. He knew what he'd done. Too late.

Omaïd dropped his napkin onto his plate. “I wish you luck, Your Majesty, in convincing your new friends to come to your aid. Perhaps, when the war is over, you can spend some more time among them, and bestow upon us the fruits of your study.” He rose, obliging the rest of them to do the same. Erik couldn't even meet his fellow king's eye; instead his gaze fell, unseeing, to the table, as if he'd woken from a nightmare and couldn't quite believe where he was.

King Omaïd quit the dining hall, sidling gracefully past the startled servants and their beautiful plates of untouched dessert.