Warlord (56 page)

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Authors: Jennifer Fallon

BOOK: Warlord
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T
he more Wrayan Lightfinger saw of Damin Wolfblade, the less he worried about the future of Hythria. Against the most astounding odds, Marla had raised an intelligent, capable and charismatic young man who would rule with fairness and common sense; a man who could be both ruthless and compassionate—the latter
not
a trait he inherited from his mother, Wrayan decided wryly. The prince old Kagan Palenovar, Laran Krakenshield and Glenadal Ravenspear had schemed and plotted and prayed they would produce was finally come of age. Their gamble appeared to have paid off, although how much of it was his upbringing, and how much simply his nature, Wrayan couldn’t really say.
To learn even Zegarnald had smiled on this scion of Hythria didn’t surprise Wrayan in the slightest.
Wrayan considered him carefully, several hours later, as he watched Damin Wolfblade break the news to Rogan Bearbow and Conin Falconlance that he had persuaded the High Prince to lower the age of majority to twenty-five, which meant they were now both officially the Warlords of their provinces.
It hadn’t been an easy task, by all accounts. Lernen was feeling particularly peevish today and initially reneged on his earlier promise to sign the decree. Wrayan wasn’t sure what Damin had done to get Lernen to put his signature and seal on the document eventually, but he did it somehow. Along with tactics and politics, Marla had obviously taught her son how to manage the High Prince when he was in one of his moods.
The two young men were quite stunned by the news, Rogan recovering more quickly than his younger companion. Conin Falconlance was a distant cousin still coming to grips with the notion he was even the heir of Greenharbour Province. Rogan, on the other hand, had been raised from birth to assume the role of Warlord of Izcomdar and had effectively been doing so since his father died in the plague, even though he’d been breaking the law to do it.
“And this law your uncle has signed, lowering the age of majority, cannot be revoked by the Convocation of Warlords?” Rogan asked, when Damin had finished explaining their unexpected change in circumstances to them.
“The next High Prince could revoke it, I suppose,” Damin informed him. “But as that’s me, and I turn twenty-five myself very shortly—the day after which I intend to ride back to Krakandar and take it from my uncle—I can’t see myself doing that any time soon, can you?”
“It’s a pity you can’t lower the age to five,” Conin joked. “That would take care of Sunrise, too, and then every province would have a Warlord again.”
“Which brings us to the problem of what to do about Sunrise,” Damin said.
“Have you found someone for my sister to marry?” Rogan asked.
“She doesn’t want to marry again.”
“But after what you’ve told us about the strife in the Sorcerers’ Collective, you surely don’t mean to hand the province back into their control, do you?”
“Certainly not.”
“You have a regent in mind, then?” Conin asked.
“Not exactly.”
Rogan glared at him. “Is this supposed to be a guessing game, Damin?”
“No. I just haven’t really worked out how I’m going to break it to you, that’s all.”
“Perhaps you should just show them, your highness,” Wrayan suggested.
Damin had introduced him as a royal courier and one of his mother’s advisors. He’d omitted, wisely perhaps, the bit about Wrayan also being a thief.
“Maybe that would be better,” Damin agreed. He crossed the tent to the beautifully woven hanging dividing the living area from the sleeping quarters and pulled it aside. Standing behind it, waiting for her cue, was Tejay Lionsclaw.
“
This
is your new Warlord?” Narvell gasped.
Rogan looked at his sister with a frown. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why can’t he be serious, Rogan?” Tejay asked her younger brother, stepping into the main part of the tent.
Conin Falconlance stared at them in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Damin, but I fear Rogan is correct. The High Prince will never agree to a woman being appointed Warlord.”
“The High Prince has already agreed to it,” Damin told them. “It’s a done deal, my lords. Say hello to the new Warlord of Sunrise.”
“Damin …” Rogan began carefully, aware, perhaps, his sister probably wasn’t joking when she threatened him. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but … this can’t work. Surely you can see that. Even if the High Prince thinks it’s a grand idea, the people will not accept a female Warlord.”
“I think you underestimate the people of Sunrise Province,” Tejay suggested.
Rogan turned to Damin, shaking his head. “Sunrise Province is too strategically important to be used as a testing ground for your socially enlightened agenda, Damin.”
“I don’t have an agenda,” Damin replied. “What I have is a problem, which is that Sunrise doesn’t have a Warlord. What I also have is a perfectly viable solution. Are you objecting because you think your sister can’t do the job?”
“Of course not.”
“Will it ease your mind if I tell you there is no Harshini law that prevents her appointment? They’ve never judged anybody on their sex. And the God of War certainly doesn’t discriminate. Provided you worship him, shed blood for him, he doesn’t care what gender you are.”
“But what of the common people, sir?” Conin asked. “I fear Rogan speaks the truth. They will never accept a female Warlord.”
“Do you know that for a fact?” Tejay asked.
“Well … I haven’t asked them about it personally,” he admitted, “but I can’t imagine the peasants liking the idea …” His voice trailed off as he realised how indefensible his position sounded.
“I think you credit yourself with an understanding of the
peasants
that you don’t really own, my lord,” Wrayan suggested. “When was the last time you actually spoke to one? Not a slave or a servant in your employ, but one you might meet in the street?”
“Well, naturally, I don’t speak to them myself …”
“Why
naturally
?” Narvell asked, glancing at his brother with a puzzled shake of his head, before fixing his gaze on the young Warlord. “Do you think it’s unnatural to speak to someone not of your class?”
Conin looked quite offended by the question. “Does Charel Hawksword allow
you
to consort with the peasants?”
“Actually, he encourages it,” Narvell replied, taking a step forward to confront Falconlance. “He says it stops the highborn from turning into pompous, self-important—”
“Enough!” Tejay snapped, glaring at the two young men. She turned to her brother, shaking her head. “If you want a reason why we need female Warlords, Rogan, take a look at these two as a shining example. Five minutes we’ve been discussing this and they’re already having an argument about something that’s got nothing to do with the discussion at hand.”
Wrayan glanced across at Damin, who’d had the sense to step back and let Tejay convince the others herself. The prince was smiling faintly as he watched her, but made no move to interfere.
“That doesn’t alter the fundamental problem with your appointment, Tejay,” Rogan replied, obviously not unsympathetic to his sister’s plight. “Even if I agreed with you ruling Sunrise, I just don’t know how you’re going to be able to hold on to it.”
“The same way you’ll hold on to Izcomdar, Rogan. By being good at what I do.” She turned and looked at the others. “Besides, isn’t holding on to the province
my
problem? If I take Sunrise and lose it a week, a month, even a year from now, you can all pat yourselves on the back about how right you were. In the meantime, I at least deserve the chance to prove I can do this, don’t I?”
Rogan considered his sister for a moment and then nodded. “You’re right, Tejay. If you can hold Sunrise, you deserve to keep it.”
“You’re
supporting
this?” Conin asked in surprise.
The new Warlord of Izcomdar put his hands on his hips. “I do. And so do you, young Falconlance.”
“Why?” Conin asked. To Wrayan, he seemed more than a little taken aback by Rogan’s threatening stance.
“Because the new Warlord of Sunrise Province is my sister and I’ll kill any man who tries to interfere. If the people of Sunrise want to rise up and overthrow her because she’s a despot, or a tyrant, or just a hopeless incompetent, that’s one thing. But there won’t be any outside interference, Conin. Not from Izcomdar. And certainly not from Greenharbour.”
“Nor Elasapine,” Narvell promised on behalf of his grandfather.
“Nor Krakandar,” Damin also assured them.
They all fixed their gaze on the young Warlord from Greenharbour, who nodded reluctantly.
“There will be no interference from me,” he agreed. “But I’d like to know how you’re going to get Eaglespike and Foxtalon to agree to this.”
“They don’t have to agree,” Damin said. “The High Prince has decreed this and the Convocation can’t overrule him. But even if we needed the Convocation, five of the seven provinces are represented in this tent. We’d have the majority.”
“I think I’d like to be there when you tell Cyrus,” Rogan said. “Just to see his reaction.”
“His reaction to the news his mother is dead is what I’m looking forward to,” Narvell announced cheerfully. “Can we do it soon? And can I watch?”
“Grow up, Narvell,” Tejay scolded.
“Sorry, my lady.”
“Narvell does have a point, though, Tejay,” Damin said. “We need to talk to Cyrus and Toren as soon as possible.”
“No time like the present,” Rogan suggested.
“I agree,” Damin said, turning toward the entrance. “Almodavar!”
The old captain had been waiting just outside. The tent flap opened as he ducked inside. “Your highness?”
“Fetch the Warlords of Dregian and Pentamor here, would you, Captain? Use force if you have to.”
Almodavar cracked a rare smile. “With pleasure, your highness.”
The captain ducked back through the entrance and Damin turned to his companions. “This is going to be interesting.”
Rogan shrugged. “I’m just looking forward to issuing orders to my own people that don’t have to be approved by some foreign Warlord first …”
Wrayan didn’t hear much more of the discussion. As Rogan was speaking another Raider slipped into the tent and approached the thief with a folded note. He opened it curiously and when he saw who it was from, he folded it again and followed the Raider outside.
“Brose Rollin!” Wrayan exclaimed, recognising one of his own men from the Krakandar Thieves’ Guild. He was standing just outside the tent with Rorin Mariner. The man was splattered with mud and looked exhausted.
“Didn’t expect to find you in the war camp, Wrayan.”
“Didn’t expect to find myself in a war camp, either. But I know how I finished up here. What’s your excuse?” He glanced at Rorin. Wrayan had only been in camp a couple of hours himself. He didn’t think anybody knew he was here. “And how did
you
know where to find me?”
“Damin told me you’d arrived when he came to see Lernen. I’ve been in the High Prince’s pavilion for the last couple of days, helping out. And your man here is carrying a message for Damin, actually, not you. From Starros. When Master Rollin showed up just now, I thought you might want to speak to him first.”
Wrayan studied the thief. He was a burglar; a good one, too. And always reliable. “Is something wrong in Krakandar?”
The man nodded wearily. “
Everything
is wrong in Krakandar, Wrayan. You can’t imagine what it’s been like since you left. The city is still sealed. People are starving. Everyone is terrified … I guess it’s why we decided to do something about it.”
“This sounds ominous,” Wrayan said. “Who is
we
exactly?”
“The Thieves’ Guild. And some of the other guilds. Well, all of the other guilds, actually. Once word got around about what we were planning, every man and his dog seemed to want to help. And that includes some fairly high-placed people at the palace, too.”
Rorin looked at the young visitor in alarm. “What the hell are you planning, exactly?”
Brose seemed reluctant to confide in them. “Starros said I was to speak only to Prince Damin.”
“You work for me, Brose Rollin, not for Starros,” Wrayan reminded the burglar. “Answer Rorin’s question. What are they planning to do?”
The thief hesitated. Behind them, a very unhappy-looking Cyrus Eaglespike and an equally peeved Toren Foxtalon approached the tent in the company of Geri Almodavar and a dozen or more Krakandar Raiders as an escort.
Brose waited until the two Warlords had entered the tent before continuing.
“We’re going to steal the population of Krakandar.”

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