The Lord of Lies: Strange Threads: Book 2 (4 page)

‘Of course. He’s a Captain of the Guard who has just learned that Loppolo might poison Braston.’

Rostigan nodded. ‘And what do you intend to do with him?’

‘Do with him? I don’t know. I barely know him.’

‘Mmm. We may be troubled beings, Yalenna, but there are still some hours left to us in which we can take reprieve from our burdensome, important tasks.’ He smiled faintly. ‘You should not be afraid to live in those moments.’

Yalenna didn’t respond.

To be lucky in love
– that was the blessing she had bestowed upon Jandryn, without ever meaning to. Would he be?

‘So Loppolo is to be king?’ Jandryn asked quietly.

‘Yes,’ said Yalenna. ‘Thus, for the sake of stability, it cannot be known that he played a part in Braston’s murder. We cannot afford civic unrest – we
need
the army Braston created. I won’t risk it dissolving with despair, or worse, rising up against the castle.’

‘We will
say,’ put in Rostigan, ‘that Despirrow killed Braston. It is true, more or less.’

Jandryn looked to Yalenna for confirmation, who nodded. ‘But what of these?’ he gestured at the nobles.

‘Leave them to me,’ said Yalenna. She turned to stare hard enough to make the nobles squirm. ‘You will remove yourselves from court immediately. Return to the farmers and honest folk you are supposed to preside over. I never want to see your faces in Althala again.’

The nobles mumbled to each other. One, a woman wearing too much jewellery, looked mortified by the idea, and opened her mouth to protest, but quickly thought better of it.

‘Guards,’ said Jandryn, ‘escort these fine folk to their rooms so they can pack up their belongings. They are to leave the castle
today
.’

Tursa shook off a guard’s hand. ‘I will walk of my own accord.’

Along with the others, he departed.

‘Nobles,’ said Jandryn, shaking his head. ‘Sometimes I’m ashamed to be one of them.’

Yalenna had never thought of him as a noble, but of course he had to be – he was otherwise too young to be Captain of the Guard.

‘What do we do now, my lady?’ he asked.

‘We must
speak to the people,’ said Yalenna. ‘Before they grow too anxious, before too many wild rumours hurtle about. We must also crown Loppolo.’

She glanced at a window – it was afternoon, too late to organise any official proceedings for that day.

‘Can you coordinate the heralds, Jandryn? Tell them the people will be addressed tomorrow morning in the square.’

‘As you wish, my lady.’

As he departed, she considered the door to the king’s rooms.

‘Come,’ she muttered to Rostigan. ‘Let us work out what needs to be said.’

Forger slapped his horse on the rump, though it certainly did no good. The beast was struggling under his bulk, with Forger’s legs so long they hung just above the ground. Although he readily absorbed the flickers of pain that issued upwards, the horse was supposed to be a mode of transport rather than a victim, and in that sense it was more annoying than useful. He shoved backwards off the beast and fell easily into stride with another horse that cantered alongside him, upon which Threver sat.

They were riding with the Tallahowan army, which marched across green fields towards Ander.
Born for this
, Forger reflected, glancing about at the thousands of soldiers glistening in their steel. Tallahowans had always had an imbedded sense of entitlement, and he was glad to be the one to channel it.

‘It has
been too long,’ he roared, ‘since we marched in pursuit of conquest – am I right, my friends?’

There came an answering cheer, though perhaps not as many-throated as Forger would have liked. No doubt some of the soldiers were still disturbed by his presence, perhaps even unsure over the rightness of their mission. Luckily, there were also plenty of veterans who knew better than to question a lord, not to mention the nobles with whom he had ‘forged’ allegiance. It was amazing what fat greedy toffs who would never have previously thought to join the rank and file would do once their pain was taken away. The army would find it hard to disobey when most of their leaders rode alongside them, turned into unfeeling monsters. These soldiers should all be very relieved that they were on his side – something he would quickly remind them of if he caught any deserters. Still, he wished that Karrak were here, with his talent for forcing belief into people’s heads, just to sure things up.

To his left rode Yoj, who he had ordered accompany him from the keep. He intended to make use of the pale-skinned torturer, to see if he could discover the man’s limits.

Make him work on a child
, he thought.
Or a baby!

‘How despicable!’ he chuckled to Yoj. ‘To torture an infant, for no good reason. What can it tell you? Nothing! Why, it cannot even beg you to stop. I wonder how long you could make it mewl?’

For his part, Yoj looked even paler than usual, but tried to force a smile.

Forger turned
back to Threver. ‘Where can I get a baby, do you think?’

Threver stroked his beard. ‘Perhaps one of the whores no doubt following in our footsteps will have one?’

‘Excellent. Send someone to see.’

Something silver flashed out of the air, and there was a dull thud as a dagger sank into Threver’s chest. The man jolted backwards in the saddle, and looked down in surprise at the protruding hilt.

‘My … lord?’

Slowly he pitched sideways from his horse.

Rage blazed in Forger, but there was nothing he could do. Threver was dead.

Another blade wheeled in and Forger leapt, reaching with his influence to grasp hold. He was too late, and fell outstretched onto his stomach as the dagger slammed into Yoj.

‘Save him!’ Forger screamed, pummelling the ground with his fists and kicking his legs. ‘Threaders! Healers!’

There was no saving Yoj, however, and he knew it. Salarkis’s daggers always struck true.

What had he been thinking? He should never have told Salarkis the names of anyone he valued! Now, as punishment for his stupidity, he had lost both his favourite new toy, and an advisor whose advice had actually been quite good.

He let his head fall into the grass, pressing it down all the way to the dirt.

During
Despirrow’s frozen night, Mergan found himself trapped inside a tavern where he had been in the midst of a feast. Alone once again, he had fallen into old habits, and counted things for too long.

At least there was a better view than in his previous confinement. He liked to look upon one young woman in particular, whom he had generously allowed to join him at his table. She had eaten enthusiastically, and Mergan hoped to earn her affection in return. It had been so long since he had thought about sex that it was almost a surprise to remember what it was – to feel urges returning as his body regained strength. He knew he was a crazy old man, but hoped she would somehow see beyond that. Perhaps the great deal such a gift would mean to him would convince her it was worth giving?

As the night continued unabated, he had ample opportunity to inspect her from all angles – the sweep of her hair, the smile on her face. (It had been directed at him, hadn’t it? He sat down again, trying to find his original position, to make sure.) He admired the shape of her bosoms under her blouse, the fine hairs along her arms, the little crumbs of food on her lips. He looked her over until he knew every pit and pore of her. He played guessing games about her name, where she came from, her life story … at least it was a way to pass the time. When he had to relieve himself – for he had been full of food and drink when the freeze snapped in, so his bodily functions persevered for a while – he made sure it was always out of her eyesight. Even so, he feared greatly that
that
would be the moment when time unstopped, and she would glance over to see him squatting beside the bar. The night, however, had lasted well beyond the complete evacuation of his bowels.

At some
point, as Mergan sat slumped against the wall, his mind wandering like a bird caught in stormy skies, he found himself thinking about Yalenna. He remembered her face from when she was younger – a potential new student at the School of Threading in Althala when Mergan had first met her, her hair already changing from pale blonde to white. A shy thing, looking up at him pensively and clutching her hands together as her father rattled on.

‘You’ll take her?’ asked the man, his eyes darting about as if he were uncomfortable, as if he wanted to be away from there. He had a jaunty look to his clothes and a shallowness to his person that Mergan did not care for. ‘Go on, my child,’ he said, ‘show the threader what you can do.’ He gave her a pat on the back that was probably meant to be encouraging, but which held all the tenderness of a slap on the thigh.

Mergan crouched
down to the girl’s eye level and smiled kindly. ‘It’s all right, little one.’ He gave his fingers a waggle. ‘Your father tells me you have a great gift.’

Yalenna glanced up at her father, and it broke Mergan’s heart to see her defer to a man who cared for her so little.

‘Look,’ Mergan said, and pointed across his office to his desk, where various bendy sculptures stood, like thin animals with long legs. He reached with his influence to make one move, made it totter clumsily across the desk, and another lurched out of its way. He made them turn and sway their heads, and then between them something like a wildercat sprang up suddenly on the spot. He earned himself a little yelp, and a look of wonder from the girl.

‘Are they alive?’ she whispered.

Mergan chuckled. ‘No, not alive. It was me who made them do those things. Do you want to try?’

Her eyes widened. ‘How?’

‘Can you see into the other place? The one where the patterns swirl, where there are twines and twists inside of things?’

She nodded doubtfully.

‘Then maybe you can reach out and make the wildercat jump. Like this, see?’

He held out his hand, still watching her. She copied his movement, her brow crinkling as she stared at the sculptures. A moment later, a gust of wind blew up out of nowhere and scattered the oddments to the floor. The girl cried out in alarm, and tucked her hands firmly into her armpits. Her father gave a nervous titter.

‘’M sorry,’ she
mumbled.

‘No, no,’ said Mergan. ‘My dear, it’s nothing to be afraid of. You have a leaning towards the elements, perhaps? Time will tell.’

He straightened up as her father rested his hands on her shoulders.

‘See?’ said the man, with a false air of pride. ‘She can thread, just like her mother, Spell rest her. You’ll take her on?’

‘We will. You wish her to board with us, is that right?’

‘Aye.’ The man produced a clinking bag. ‘That should cover a year, I understand? I will be back and forth – my business takes me all over Aorn – but I will check on her when I can, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Mergan, wondering if the fellow ever meant to return. ‘Well, I shall alert the matron to our new arrival. It will be good to have you with us, Yalenna. You will find others like yourself here and make good friends, I have no doubt.’

He could see that the girl was putting on a brave face, but there was a glistening in her eyes.

‘You two can say your goodbyes in the courtyard,’ he said. ‘Then Yalenna, come back and find me, and I will make the necessary introductions.’

As they
left his office, he tutted quietly, and wondered at men who lacked the capacity for love.

He blinked slowly, coming back to himself in the tavern. The face of the little girl faded away, replaced with her older self, who had been about twenty when she had stopped ageing – her once-innocent expression screwed up in anger – and the fleeting warmth delivered by his memories felt like a cheat. After all he had done for her! Paying her way himself whenever her father failed to show up in time, and afterwards, when he stopped appearing altogether. Yet she had betrayed him so completely. Left him to rot, as he rotted now, again. He rubbed his brow furiously, and the image of her shattered to a thousand pieces.

A thousand and five? Or a thousand and ten?