The Bloodsworn (14 page)

She kept her gaze on the floorboards as they entered, hoping it would pass for shyness. She didn't trust her expression not to give her away. The tension screaming inside her must surely be visible to anyone, even overconfident soldiers well into their cups. She resisted the urge to tug at the hood of her cloak for the tenth time. The cowl was generous, her hair pulled back in a severe braid. No one would see.
Casual
, she reminded herself.
Unremarkable.

She crossed the common room in carefully measured steps, like a doe picking her way past a pack of wolves, hoping they were too sated to stir. It felt as if every pair of eyes in the tavern were pinned to her, each one a cold needle piercing her flesh. She imagined bodies rising from chairs, hands straying to swords. Pure fancy, she knew. Gertswold was a decent-sized town; strangers were commonplace. No one would take any notice of her if she didn't give them a reason to. So her mind told her, but somehow, her nerves weren't convinced. Only a supreme act of willpower prevented her from glancing about to see who might be watching.

Somehow, she made it to a table in the back without attracting the attention of the predators. “We should have a good view from here,” Asvin said, pulling out a chair.

The barmaid came by with mugs of ale; she didn't even ask before thumping them down on the table, and she was gone before either of them could say a word. Alix feigned a wave at the girl's retreating back, giving herself an excuse to scan the room for the first time. No one seemed to have taken any notice of them. The place was crowded, and judging from the flushed faces, most of the patrons had been here awhile. Soldiers were scattered throughout, with a cluster of six near the
bar who appeared to account for the majority of the noise. Alix scrutinised them one by one, but didn't see their quarry.

“Something to eat?” The barmaid was back. She had a nervous way about her—furtive movements, downcast eyes. Alix didn't blame her. Being a serving girl in a tavern full of foreign soldiers had to be stressful work.

“No thanks,” Asvin said, “but I'll think of another excuse to bring you back to us by and by.” He winked, setting the girl's cheeks on fire. She hurried away.

Alix scowled at him. “This is your idea of keeping a low profile?”

“In a tavern full of happy people drinking? Why, yes it is. You, on the other hand, sitting there with your hood pulled low and your drink untouched, that sour look on your face . . . Which of us is doing the better job of blending in, I wonder?”

He was right, of course, but Alix couldn't help it. “What do you want from me? This place is full of
soldiers
.”

“That's the idea.”

“I know, but—” A burst of rough laughter startled her; she nearly upended the table in fright.
So much for making a cunning spy.
Saxon certainly wouldn't be impressed.

Asvin growled under his breath, dabbing at the ale she'd made him spill. “Relax, would you? I've done this a hundred times. No one has any reason to suspect us. We're just ordinary townsfolk having a drink.”

“Not many ordinary townsfolk in here. The Oridians have practically taken the place over.”

“Which is exactly why we're here,” Asvin said impatiently. “Look, this isn't my idea of a pleasant evening either, but it's our best chance of finding the men who took Rodrik. Everyone we asked gave us the same story:
This
is where the roaches come to drink. Sooner or later, our yellow-haired lad will show up, and when he does . . .”

“And when he does, we'll follow him, and very likely find that he's the
wrong
yellow-haired lad.”

Asvin rolled his eyes. “My lady of optimism. You got a better idea?”

She didn't. Wraith was right—there were too many of them to fight. Thirty in the garrison, if the townsfolk they'd spoken to had it right. Getting into Gertswold had been easy enough;
the soldiers weren't holding the town so much as using it as a base, and people came and went freely from the surrounding farmsteads. But attacking would be folly.
We'll do this quiet
, Wraith had said. Alix had agreed readily—until she'd learned what he had in mind.

“Regretting volunteering?” Asvin said into her thoughts.

She shook her head. “This is my mission. It's only right.”

“Well, then.” He hoisted his flagon. “Try to loosen up a little, will you?”

She did as she was told, taking a long draw of her ale. Maybe it would help calm her nerves.
This is no different than when you used to go down to the Crooked Mast to listen to gossip
, she told herself. Except, of course, that the Crooked Mast hadn't been packed to the crow's nest with enemy soldiers.

Time passed. Alix drank her ale. It tasted like fermented nuts, but it did seem to slow her racing pulse just a little. She glanced at the bar every now and then but generally kept her head down.

Until Asvin kicked her under the table, and slowly, as casually as she could, Alix looked.

Three more soldiers had just walked in. One of them, a thickset fellow who stood well over six feet, thumped his chest and roared something in Oridian that earned a round of cheers and raised flagons from his comrades.

“There's a big bloke,” Asvin murmured. “And what do you know? Take a look at his mate.”

She was already looking. She could see nothing else. “Yellow hair.”

“Yellow hair, in the company of a big bloke.” Asvin grinned. “You were saying, my lady of optimism?”

Alix's blood spiked, a sensation unsettlingly similar to desire. This was the man who'd hurt Ana. Alix barely knew the girl, but she was young and vulnerable and she was Rodrik's sister. Erik's niece, after a fashion. Alix owed the girl her shield. Her sword, if necessary.

In that moment, her nervousness melted away. She was the predator now. She settled in and waited.

It was a long wait. Dawn had broken over Gertswold by the time the yellow-haired soldier stumbled out of the tavern, still in the company of the two comrades he'd arrived with. By that
time, Alix and Asvin had slipped outside, having had the benefit of a good long look in a well-lit room. Sure of their target, they could afford to retreat to the shadows with the others.

When the yellow-haired man appeared, Wraith signalled to Alix and Asvin, and the three of them followed, leaving the rest to find their way back to camp. It wouldn't do to have all eight of them tailing the soldiers at once—they'd be spotted for certain, no matter how drunk their quarry might be. Still, Alix didn't relish the idea of attacking three on three; she hoped the yellow-haired man could be separated from his companions before they struck.

Their chance came when the Oridians veered toward a brothel. Two of them went directly inside, but the yellow-haired man lagged behind, ambling up to the side of the building to relieve himself. Wraith slipped behind the Oridian and hooked a meaty arm around his neck, taking full advantage of his considerable bulk to wrestle his prey into an alley. He ground the Oridian's face into the wall and pinned his arm behind his back.

“Look at that,” Wraith growled. “I always knew you roaches had tiny pricks.”

The Oridian's face twisted into a snarl, but he didn't struggle. He knew his attacker could break his arm with no effort at all. Still, he dared a threat. “I am a soldier of the Trionate, white-hair. You are a dead man.”

“You'd be surprised how often I hear that.” Wraith glanced over his shoulder. “Asvin, keep watch on the brothel.” Then, to Alix: “Ask your questions, but make it quick.”

She closed in, bringing her lips close to the man's ear as Wraith had done. He smelled of beer and stale sweat. “Indrask,” she said.

“What?”

In reply, Wraith took a fistful of yellow hair and slammed the Oridian's face into the wall.

“Indrask,” Alix repeated. “The man you took from there.”

The Oridian spat blood. “I have no idea—”

Impassively, Wraith slammed the man's face into the wall again. His nose broke open, loosing blood over his mouth and chin.

“Andithyrian,” Alix said, “but not white-haired. Withered right arm. You took him from Indrask. I'm not asking.”

The Oridian squirmed pointlessly. “What about him?”

“Where did you take him?”

“I do not—
Wait!
” He was theirs now; Alix could tell by the panic creeping into his voice. “I swear, I do not know. He was sent to the
Tartir
.”

Alix glanced at Wraith, but he shook his head; he didn't know the word, either. “
Tartir
. What is that?”

“The
Tartir
. Sadik.”

Wraith scowled. “You expect us to believe Sadik himself is interested in this man?”

“That is what they told me!” The Oridian's voice was too high, too strangled, to doubt him. “The commander said he had orders to take the cripple straight to the
Tartir
!”

“Which is where?” Alix demanded.

The man shook his head.

“Tell us,” Alix said, “and we'll spare your life.”

“I do not know where they took him. The
Tartir
comes and goes as he pleases. To meet with spies, they say, or his witch.”

Alix's breath caught; she seized the man's collar. “The witch—what do you know of him? A bloodbinder like Madan?”

“Like Madan, yes. The
Tartir
would go to see his experiments.”

“
Would
go. He doesn't anymore?”

“They are together now. At Ennersvale, with the bulk of our forces.” His voice dropped to a fearful whisper. “The men do not like it. The witch is evil, they say.”

Alix's heart raced. This was it. It
had
to be. “Ennersvale . . .”

“At the border,” Wraith said. “About where we started. Roaches have been there a while.”

It made sense. It also meant another three days lost as they retraced their steps back to the border. Alix cursed inwardly, feeling another handful of sand slip through the timeglass.

“Let me go,” the Oridian said. “I told you what you wanted.”

Alix hesitated. It was true—he'd told her what she wanted. But this was also the roach who'd hurt Ana. Who'd struck a twelve-year-old-girl so hard that the bruises still showed more
than six weeks later.
But he's powerless now, and you told him you'd spare his life . . .

Wraith drew his dagger and opened the Oridian's throat. The man sagged, gurgling and thrashing, blood soaking his crimson tabard.

“Why did you do that?” Alix snapped. “It was my decision to make!”

Wraith whirled on her so suddenly that she recoiled. In that moment, she hardly recognised him; he scarcely seemed human at all. He loomed over her, thrumming with menace, his hulking form seeming to take up every inch of space between them.
Not Wraith
, she thought dimly.
Wrath.

“That's a roach,” he snarled, gesturing with his bloodied dagger. “An enemy. His people occupy my country. They murder and they rape and they do whatever they please. Killing him is not only my right, it's my fucking
obligation
. This is war. Do you understand that?
War.
It makes no difference if this sack of shite is pinned against a wall or coming at me with a spear in melee combat. He's fair game either way. So spare me your self-righteousness,
my lady
.”

When he backed away, Alix's lungs seemed to fill with just a little more air.

He stalked off, melting into shadow. All Alix could do was follow.

“T
here will be panic,” Osmond Swiftcurrent said. There was a faint note of denial in his voice, as though he didn't quite believe what he was hearing. He wasn't alone in that; the faces round the table all wore the same horrified look, as if Liam had just announced that he planned to give the contents of the royal treasury to charity.

“We will avoid panic if we manage the announcement properly,” Highmount said with his usual cool assurance. “And provided that we here, as members of the King's Council and representatives of the crown, do not ourselves give in to it.” His hawklike gaze did a slow tour of the table, subjecting each council member to a long, piercing look. “I will not have you retreating to your family estates, my lords. Our place is here.”

“Our place is with His Majesty,” said Sirin Grey. “And yet His Majesty is not here.”

Liam resisted the urge to glance at Rona. This was the moment they'd dreaded. They'd spent two full days planning this meeting, since how they navigated it could well determine whether Liam and Highmount lived to see another sunrise.
Steady, Your Highness. You knew this was coming, and you know what to say.

Sirin Grey continued. “This council has been remarkably indulgent, my lord chancellor, in accepting excuse after excuse for His Majesty's absence. But a matter of this gravity? You cannot seriously expect us to authorise an evacuation of the capital on your say-so alone.”

Raibert Green cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I'm afraid I must concur, Chancellor. I quite understand the caution you have exercised in the matter of His Majesty's health. But surely that concern pales in comparison to what is before us now? This could be the end of the Kingdom of Alden. She needs her king.”

“She has her king.”

All eyes swivelled to Liam.

He took a moment to return those gazes, one by one, as Highmount had done. He lingered on Rona's, drawing strength from it, her voice still fresh in his ear.
I know growing into this role hasn't been easy for you, but you're out of time. It's now or never.

The great lords and ladies of the realm gazed at him expectantly, and just for a moment, his nerve deserted him. It was like one of those nightmares where he found himself standing naked in the sparring ring before a crowd of jeering onlookers. Except this crowd would do worse than jeer if he didn't take control of the situation.
Now or never
, he reminded himself.

“With respect, Your Highness—” Sirin Grey began.

“She has her king,” Liam repeated firmly. “And she has her prince. My brother has always trusted in the wisdom of this council, and I have done the same. I ask that you continue serving as you have, with prudence and conviction. I welcome your questions and your criticisms. But make no mistake, my lords, it is I who will take the final decision here, as prince of the realm, acting with my brother's proxy.” He paused to let that sink in, praying to all the gods that it sounded more convincing than it felt.

A gentle flutter round the table, a frisson of disapproval. The horrified looks were back too, with that same hint of denial. Those expressions would turn his bone marrow to liquid if he let them. Arranging his features into his best Battle Face, he deliberately squared off against the scariest among them, meeting Sirin Grey's eye levelly. It was the look he used
on his enemies, the one that let them know he was a foe to be feared.
Come at me if you dare
, that face said.
I'm ready.

Norvin Gold harrumphed into the silence. “You intend to proceed with Chancellor Highmount's suggestion, then? Evacuate the capital?”

“I do, and precisely in order to
avoid
panic. You don't wait until you're attacked to reposition your forces. That ends up in chaos. People tend not to follow orders very well with the enemy waving weapons in their faces. But if we act now, while we have the luxury of time, we can move in a measured, organised way.”

“That sounds very well, Your Highness,” Sirin Grey said coolly, “but words are easier than deeds. In ordering the city evacuated, we are sending a clear message that we expect it to fall.”

“Not necessarily,” Highmount said. “It is a matter of how we communicate. If we simply order evacuations and leave the public to develop their own narrative, then yes—they will likely conclude the worst. But if we do not surrender that space, if we instead fill it with a carefully crafted message, we stand a reasonable chance of casting this as a tactical manoeuvre that will help us defeat the enemy.”

Lady Stonegate hummed sceptically. “You give the people too little credit, Chancellor. They are not fools.”

Highmount's expression suggested a differing opinion, but luckily Rona Brown spoke up first. “Not fools,” she said, “just human beings who desperately want to believe everything will be all right. They will cling to any scrap of hope you give them, and gladly.”

“Very true,” said Raibert Green. “I've seen it a dozen times on the battlefield. Men will gladly suspend their disbelief if their commander gives them half a reason to.”

“How fortunate,” Sirin Grey said, “since half a reason is all we have.”

Liam swallowed an irritable reply. “Chancellor Highmount and I will begin preparing an address to the public, which I will deliver personally once we've worked out the details. As to those—Lord Green, I'd like you and Lady Brown to oversee manoeuvres on the walls. The men have been idle for too long—let them hone their edges. Lords Gold and
Swiftcurrent, I want to see a proposal for the reinforcement of the gates. Make sure to consult the clergy—they have some interesting tricks up their sleeves. Lady Stonegate, the chancellor tells me your estate here in the city has an impressive vault.”

Her Ladyship nodded gravely. “That is so, Your Highness.”

“Good. We've no chance of getting the contents of the treasury out of the city altogether, but if we're discreet, we should be able to hide it on your estate for a time, if the worst comes.” Liam glanced round the table again. “Have I forgotten anything?”

“You have not assigned me a task, Your Highness,” Sirin Grey said.

“Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something.”
Ideally involving flint and tinder and Your Ladyship's noble arse.
“If there's nothing else, my lords, we're adjourned.” He stood, effectively rendering his last remark rhetorical. The lords and ladies filed out of the oratorium.

“Now that,” Rona grinned, “is more like it.”

Even Highmount gave him a look of grudging respect. “Well handled indeed.”

“It helps to have a good battle plan,” Liam said. “Thank you for your help these past two days, both of you.”

“Plans are of little use if not executed properly, and you carried them off smoothly. It seems you have begun to hit your stride at last, Your Highness.”

Praise from Albern Highmount? Liam might have fainted clean away had Sirin Grey not reappeared at the door.

“A word, Your Highness?”

Liam's pulse faltered. He should have known it had been too easy. “Please,” he said, gesturing at a chair.

“We are rather pressed for time,” Highmount said. “What can we do for you?”

She smiled. “Where is the king?”

Her bluntness was calculated to shock, and it worked. The question struck Liam like a body blow, stealing the air from his lungs.

Highmount, though, weathered it masterfully enough for both of them; he merely lifted an eyebrow. “I am afraid I do not understand the question. You know where His Majesty is.”

“Quarantined in the royal apartments, yes.” She smoothed a fold in her dress. “Except I don't believe that, I'm afraid.”

Liam scowled, letting his anger mask his fear. “What exactly is so hard to believe about it? Has Erik never fallen ill before?”

She turned her glacial gaze on him. “Of course he has, Your Highness. He has had consumption, a broken leg, and even a bout of Red Fever. And never, in any of those instances, did he allow himself to remain bedridden for days on end, let alone weeks. Our good king finds it impossible to sit still for more than a few hours at a time, whatever his condition. And yet now, with his kingdom facing the gravest crisis in its history, His Majesty falls so gravely ill that no one has seen or heard from him in over two weeks. Meanwhile, the chancellor continues to claim that the sickness is not serious. So which is it? Is the king at death's door, or is he merely suffering from a sniffle?”

“We don't have time for this,” Liam growled. “We've got the Warlord at our doorstep, and—”

“Let us not play games, Your Highness,” Sirin said coldly. “I know the truth.”

Liam's heart froze in his breast.

A long, thin thread of silence quivered between them. Sirin Grey glared at Liam. Highmount made a steeple of his fingers. Rona gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles went white.

“You have played your hand well until now, Your Highness, but your luck has run out. Even the most artful rumours circulating among the servants have exhausted themselves. The council grows suspicious. Your story loses credibility with each passing day, and the vultures have begun to circle. If you would bring the situation in hand before it is too late, you will tell me the truth.”

“That sounded like a threat,” Rona said, folding her arms in a manner that just happened to jostle her armour.

Sirin paled, but her expression didn't change. She was tough, Liam had to admit.

“Tell me,” Highmount said, “what exactly is this truth you claim to know?”

“Come now, Chancellor. It is obvious what's happened. Frankly, I am astonished you would be part of it.”

Liam felt like throwing up. Maybe that wouldn't even be such a bad thing. At least it would bring a swift end to the conversation. If he was going to be accused of high treason, he'd rather get it over with.

“I would have thought you'd have better judgement . . .”

Here it comes . . .

“. . . than to let His Majesty leave the city.”

Liam stared. He had no words. He didn't even have breath.

“Don't look so surprised, Your Highness. You forget, perhaps, that I was engaged to Erik White for years. I know perfectly well his elaborate code of honour, not to mention his penchant for boyish adventure. He couldn't stand to remain here, tucked away safely in the palace, while Riggard Black took the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders. He's gone to the front, and your lady wife has gone with him.”

Liam realised his mouth was hanging open slightly; he closed it with a snap. He cast about for something to say, but thankfully, Highmount spared him the effort.

“I assure you it is more complicated than that, Lady Sirin. His Majesty is not merely indulging some misguided sense of principles, let alone an appetite for adventure. You can be certain I would indeed have no part of that. I am afraid that a very serious matter has arisen at the front, one that requires his personal attention.”

Liam scratched his chin just to make sure his mouth wasn't hanging open again. He had never seen anyone lie so seamlessly. Without even missing a beat, Highmount had fabricated an entirely new story to fit Sirin Grey's assumptions.

“I fail to see what could possibly be more important than presiding over the evacuation of the city,” Sirin said.

“We did not anticipate the need arising quite so soon,” Highmount said, “but His Majesty's letters from the front indicate that the Warlord could make his move at any time.”

Her eyes narrowed. “But I still don't see—”

“I am certain I do not need to tell you, Lady Sirin, how terribly important it is that you keep this information to yourself.” Highmount regarded her gravely. “Your family has ever had a reputation for doing its duty, recent aberrations notwithstanding.”

Gods, the man was an
artist
. Sirin Grey wanted nothing more than to restore her family's reputation, so thoroughly ruined by her brother. With a few choice words, Highmount was subtly offering her a way to do just that, while simultaneously suggesting that if she didn't, she was little better than her traitorous sibling.

Sirin drew herself up stiffly. “My loyalty to the crown is what brought me here, Chancellor. I could easily have voiced my suspicions to the council.”

“And the crown salutes your devotion,” Highmount said. “I am certain that when His Majesty returns, he will wish to thank you personally.”

He left that little carrot dangling, tantalisingly vague. It was all Liam could do not to shake his head in awe.

Sirin narrowed her eyes. “I will keep your secret, my lords, for now. But I warn you: if His Majesty does not return forthwith, or if I believe the kingdom to be at risk, I will not stay my tongue.”

“Fair enough,” Liam said with a taut smile. “Now, if you don't mind . . .” He gestured at the map lying on the table before him. “War planning and whatnot.”