Warrior (24 page)

Wrayan smiled. “Well, I don’t think you’ve scared her too much. The most recurrent thought I picked up from her mind was ‘welcome to the family’ so you must be doing something right.”

Marla nodded, obviously relieved. Then she smiled a little sheepishly. “You know, both Elezaar and Corian Burl think I’m a fool for believing a word you say. They think you’re nothing but a very clever confidence trickster.”

“If I was that, your highness, I’d be charging you more for my services than a free lunch once a year.”

Marla laughed softly and took a seat behind the desk of the book-lined room, indicating that Wrayan should take the seat opposite. She obviously wanted something else from him.

“Did you know that Tesha Zorell is thinking of retiring?” she asked, as she poured him a glass of honey-coloured wine with her own hand.

“No, I didn’t. But I suppose it’s not that unexpected. Who’s taking her place?”

“I was hoping you’d have a suggestion.”

Wrayan shrugged a little uncomfortably, the goings-on in the Sorcerers’ Collective something he thought he had left far behind him. “It’s been more than a decade since I was a member of the Sorcerers’ Collective, your highness.”

“And there’s not a single contender for the position of Lower Arrion who wouldn’t have been there while you were the High Arrion’s apprentice, Wrayan. I want to know who I can trust. More specifically, who Kagan trusted.”

“Nobody springs to mind as an outstanding candidate,” he said thoughtfully. “Kagan always gave me the impression he universally despised everyone in the Collective. It’s a bit hard to pin down who he might have thought well of. Particularly after all this time.”

“You’ll give it some thought, though?” the princess asked. “And tell me if you can think of a name?”

“The only name that springs to mind is Bruno Sanval.”

“Kagan trusted him?”

“He drank with him,” Wrayan clarified. “Which was close enough to an endorsement for Kagan, I suppose. But I doubt he’d be interested in the job, your highness, even if you could somehow arrange to have him appointed. And you’d probably have to send an expedition into the very bowels of the Sorcerers’ Collective library to find him. I don’t think he’s seen daylight for the past fifteen years.”

“Is he a librarian?”

“No. That would mean duties that take him away from what he really cares about.”

“Which is what?”

“The Harshini. He’s obsessed by them. Kagan once claimed Bruno was trying to memorise everything about them in the library in case it burned down.” Wrayan smiled at the recollection. He hadn’t spared Bruno a thought in years. “He was particularly obsessed with the idea of locating Sanctuary.”

Marla raised an eyebrow, amused. “Then I imagine he’d be rather interested in talking to you.”

“Probably.”

“Have you never been tempted to send him a note telling him you’ve been to Sanctuary? Just to put the man out of his misery?”

“No.”

The princess smiled in understanding. “But you think he’s the best man for the job?”

“I think Kagan despised him marginally less than the rest of his peers. But please, don’t take my word for this. For all I know, he’s a raving Patriot.”

“I’ll look into it when I get back to Greenharbour.”

“You can’t influence the appointment of the Lower Arrion, your highness,” he warned. “You may have to just learn to live with the fact that Tesha’s successor is going to be someone of Alija’s choosing.”

Marla smiled coldly. “I don’t have to learn to live with anything of the kind, Wrayan. The Lower Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective will be someone of
my
choosing, not Alija’s.”

“Why keep playing these games with her, your highness? Why not just have her killed and be done with it?”

Marla didn’t respond immediately. Nor did she seem shocked by the question. But then, nobody else in Hythria knew what Wrayan knew. The secret he shared with the princess was a bond forged eight years ago in Zegarnald’s temple in Greenharbour the night Kagan Palenovar had died. That was the night Wrayan came out of more than five years of hiding to inform the princess that her husband, Nash Hawksword, and his lover, the Innate magician, Alija Eaglespike, were behind the plot to kill her son, Damin.

Not even Elezaar knew Nash Hawksword was dead because Marla had arranged it herself. Only Wrayan knew the truth—because he was the one who had organised Marla’s first meeting with the Assassins’ Guild.

“I’d do it myself, if you commanded me, your highness,” he offered.

“You’re a thief, Wrayan, not an assassin.”

“For Alija, I’d consider a career change.”

Marla shook her head. “I thank you for the offer. But I can’t risk it. Things are quiet now. Alija thinks she has the upper hand. She’s given up on her husband, Barnardo, taking the throne and has her eye on her eldest son, Cyrus, instead. He’s not even twenty, so things will stay quiet for a time yet.”

“You’ve more patience than I, your highness.”

“I don’t like surprises so I really have no other choice. If I know what’s happening, I can control it. Hythria’s stability is what allows me to maintain control. If Alija died unexpectedly, there would be chaos and I have no idea who would become High Arrion.”

“And if she dies under the slightest suspicion of foul play, even if they didn’t suspect you, the Warlords would turn on each other, looking for the culprit, and we’d have a civil war,” Wrayan deduced, seeing her problem. He hated politics. Things were much simpler in the Thieves’ Guild.

“It’s better this way.” Marla sipped her wine and then smiled at him. “But never fear, Alija’s time will come. And if I can arrange it, I’ll be more than happy to have you aid me in her downfall.”

“Just give me the time and place, your highness,” Wrayan said with unexpected ferocity. “If you’re going to take that bitch down, I want to be there.”

Marla smiled and raised her glass in his direction. “To strange alliances, Wrayan.”

Wrayan picked up his cut-crystal glass, leaned forward and raised it to clink softly against hers.

“Strange alliances,” he said.

It was late afternoon before Wrayan got back to the Pickpocket’s Retreat. As he rode through the crowded streets of the Beggars’ Quarter he surveyed his own little kingdom and smiled, thinking he probably ruled as much of Krakandar as Mahkas Damaran.

He ruled the night, at least.

Since returning home eight years ago, with his reputation as a thief in Greenharbour preceding him, he’d been marked as the natural heir to the Thieves’ Guild leadership. Four years later, when old Dasha Larenan died at the hands of his much younger wife, who was looking for the fortune she was sure the old man was hiding from her, there was barely a voice raised in protest about his successor.

Wrayan’s father, Calen Lightfinger, had been renowned as the best pickpocket in all of Krakandar while he was alive, and Wrayan had powerful friends that nobody in the Guild could match. Nor did they try. It wasn’t even a merit thing. Wrayan knew he got the job because even professional thieves appreciated that you simply couldn’t do better than a Sorcerers’ Collective–educated burglar with the nickname

“Wrayan the Wraith” who enjoyed the protection of the High Prince’s sister.

The stable boy from the Pickpocket’s Retreat came out to take his horse. Wrayan handed him the reins and a copper rivet for his trouble, and entered the inn through the back door, which led into the kitchens. The cooks were getting ready for the dinner crowd and barely noticed Wrayan as he threaded his way past the benches to the door that led into the taproom. A couple of the kitchen boys waved to him as he passed, and he waved back. He didn’t linger in the stifling heat of the stoves. More than anything, he wanted to get out of his palace finery before too many people saw him dressed in such a fashion and started asking why.

As he entered the dimly lit taproom, he heard Fyora laughing before he saw her. She was sitting across the room by the unlit fireplace, on the knee of a tall, dark-haired stranger, clutching a foaming tankard of ale. Although he couldn’t see the newcomer’s face, Wrayan knew instantly, and without a shadow of a doubt, who it was.

“Found a new friend, have you, Fee?” he asked, coming up behind them.

Fyora looked over her shoulder, still laughing. When she realised who it was, she scrambled to her feet and hastily began to load up her tray, trying to give the impression she was simply there to clear the table, not sharing a drink with a potential client. “Umm, Wrayan . . . I didn’t . . . I mean, I wasn’t . . .”

The dark-haired man burst out laughing, although it sounded a little forced, as if he was determined to have a good time regardless of what was happening around him. “Don’t tell me this is the boyfriend you were warning me about, Fee?”

The stranger had obviously been flirting with her long enough to learn her name. And Fyora was lapping it up. She only allowed people she really liked to call her Fee.

“
No
! I mean . . . sort of . . .”

“Party’s over, Fee,” Wrayan informed her, sensing something strange in the newcomer. “Go find somebody else to wait on.”

Looking mortified that she may have ruined her chances (with either Wrayan or the newcomer—he wasn’t really sure), she fled the table in the direction of the kitchens.

“That was a bit harsh. We were just getting close, too.”

Wrayan shook his head, wondering if his idle promise to introduce Fyora to a real Harshini had been some sort of unconscious premonition. He took the stool opposite and studied the Halfbreed. He hadn’t changed, nor had he aged a single day since Wrayan had seen him last, but there was something odd about him. An air of darkness, even despair, which seemed completely out of character.

“You’re back.”

Brak took a swig from the tankard, then slammed it onto the table. “You haven’t lost your talent for stating the glaringly bloody obvious, I see.”

Wrayan stared at him curiously, wondering at the Halfbreed’s sudden appearance. “What are you doing here, Brak?”

“Can’t I just drop by and visit an old friend?” Brak finished off his tankard and picked up the one Fyora had abandoned. “I hear you’re the head of the Thieves’ Guild now. Congratulations. Dace must be beside himself with happiness.”

“Haven’t spoken to him for a while. What about you?”

“The God of Thieves only talks to me when he wants something. Is Fee really your girlfriend?”

“She likes to think she is. Stop changing the subject. Why are you here?”

“What?” Brak asked, looking quite wounded. “No pleasantries first? No ‘how are you, Brak?’ No

‘what have you been up to all these years, Brak?’ No, ‘how are the folks back home, Brak?’ ”

Wrayan smiled as he thought of Sanctuary. “How
are
the folks back home, Brak?”

Brak’s expression darkened and he hesitated before he answered. “Same as always. Shanan misses you.”

“I miss her,” Wrayan replied, thinking it was Shananara té Ortyn’s fault that he would never be satisfied with a human woman. “What brings you to Krakandar?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“Someone like you.”

Wrayan glanced over his shoulder to see who was within earshot before he answered. “Like
me
?”

“Yeah, you know what I mean: big, pretty, dumb . . .”

“Very funny.”

Brak also looked around to see who might overhear them before he added, quite seriously,

“With ancestors that weren’t all human.”

Wrayan leaned back on his stool and studied the Halfbreed warily. “There’s someone else with .

. . my ancestry? How do you know?”

“The ‘folks back home’ felt him touching the source. We thought it was you, at first, and then I realised it couldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because what we felt was coming from Fardohnya.”

“Then why are you here?” Wrayan asked. “If this person is in Fardohnya, wouldn’t you be better off
looking
for him in Fardohnya?”

“I thought you might like to come with me.”

Wrayan laughed aloud at the very idea. “To Fardohnya? Are you mad? I can’t leave Krakandar.

I’m the head of the Thieves’ Guild.”

“It’ll get along without you for a few weeks, won’t it?”

“That’s not the point, Brak. I have responsibilities.”

The Halfbreed took a swallow from Fyora’s tankard and then looked at him closely. “I need you on this, Wrayan.”

“You don’t need anyone, Brak.”

“No, this time, I really do need you.”

“Why?”

“Because the only safe place for this . . .
person
is in the Sorcerers’ Collective in Greenharbour.

Once I find him, I need you to arrange that for me.”

“You can arrange it yourself.”

He shook his head. “You expect me to walk up to the front door of the Sorcerers’ Collective, announce that I’m the fabled Brakandaran the Halfbreed, that I’ve found a Fardohnyan with magical ability who I’ve kidnapped and brought illegally across the border?” He put his hand to his ear as if he was listening for something. “I can already hear the Sisterhood gathering for the next purge up in Medalon.”

“Don’t you think I’ll get the same reaction if
I
walk up to the front door of the Sorcerers’

Collective and announce that I’m the long-lost Wrayan Lightfinger and that I’ve found a Fardohnyan with magical ability that
I’ve
kidnapped and brought illegally across the border?”

“Ah, but you have connections in high places, Wrayan. I hear you and the High Prince’s sister are very cosy.”

“What I have, Brak, is a burning desire to stay well clear of Alija Eaglespike and anything to do with the Sorcerers’ Collective. I certainly don’t want to hand her another magician so she can fry
his
brains when she decides he’s too big a threat to her.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Then why ask me to help you?”

“Because at this point, the lad is probably going to die anyway. They’ve already worked out what he is.”

Wrayan shook his head suspiciously. “You don’t need my help to find him at all, do you? You know exactly where he is, and if you didn’t you’d just send the demons to look for him.”