Warrior (29 page)

The recipe for the explosive powder, however, was a jealously guarded secret, for which there was a king’s ransom on offer to anybody able to discover it. In the past, Wrayan had toyed with the idea of using the considerable resources available to him through the Thieves’ Guild to discover the secret, but as the mill where the powder was made was closely guarded, and Hablet had either executed or cut out the tongue of anybody who even thought they knew the process, he’d decided the risk just wasn’t worth the reward. But he hadn’t abandoned the idea altogether, and it was on this flimsy pretext that he’d arranged to meet with a man from the Fardohnyan Thieves’ Guild to discuss the possibility of purchasing the secret of the explosives.

There was almost no chance the man would help Wrayan in his quest, but that wasn’t really the point. Wrayan needed an excuse to be in Westbrook and the meeting gave him one. The rest was up to Brak.

That there was something seriously amiss with the Halfbreed had become more and more evident the longer Wrayan was in his company. On the surface, he seemed the same old Brak. He caroused with whores every chance he got, drank more than most men could stand without it having a noticeable effect on him, and joked about everything and everybody who crossed his path. But there was a brittle edge to his humour, a dark side to his revels. He acted like a man trying to drown his pain, not a man looking for entertainment.

There were other hints, too, Wrayan noticed. Strangely, there was no sign of any demons around the Halfbreed. Wrayan knew Brak discouraged the demons from following him about in the human world, but he also knew that a few of them—Eyan and Elebran in particular—worshipped the very ground Brak walked on and spent every moment they could dogging his heels. But there had been no sign of the little demons during the four weeks it took the two travellers to reach Winternest. Brak hadn’t mentioned them, either.

At first, Wrayan didn’t think much of it. Brak was over seven hundred years old. He had secrets enough for a dozen lifetimes. But as the weeks progressed, Wrayan’s sense that Brak’s pain went far beyond simple remorse grew stronger. He wondered if his inclusion on this fool’s errand was merely a ruse to give the Halfbreed an excuse to share his burden. He would allow no mental communication between them: a sure sign there was something going on in Brak’s head that he had no wish to share.

He’d deliberately thrown himself recklessly into a brawl at a tavern in Zadenka, on the border between Krakandar and Elasapine, and then picked another fight with a wagon driver on their way through the city of Byamor. On both occasions, Brak had provoked his opponents and picked men bigger and more belligerent than he was, as if he sought a beating. And he fought like a man seeking oblivion.

But Brak remained silent about whatever tormented him, and Wrayan was wary about asking, certain that if Brak wanted to talk about it, he would do it in his own good time. As they approached the border fortress, however, he felt compelled to say something. Brak may have some dark load weighing on his soul, but Wrayan couldn’t afford to have him unburden his pain in a place like Winternest.

“Let me do the talking when we get inside,” Wrayan suggested, as they urged their horses up the cobbled road. The air was much thinner up here and although there was little trace of snow by the roadside, there were still sheltered pockets of white scattered across the mountain in the shadows of the thickly forested slopes, and their breath frosted as they spoke.

“Why? Don’t you think I know how to talk to a customs official?” It was the first thing Brak had said for hours, another reason for Wrayan’s concern. Brak was not normally so taciturn.

“I think, in light of your present mood, it might be better if you left it to me.”

Brak glanced at Wrayan. “In my present
mood
?”

“You have been a bit irritable lately.”

“You’ve got more balls than a pawnbroker’s sign, Wrayan,” the Halfbreed told him with a shake of his head. “I’m not in any damn mood.”

“I see,” Wrayan mused. “That fistfight in Byamor was just you letting off steam then, was it? And the one in Zadenka? And then there was that poor woman in the markets in that village we passed through this morning, who you turned into a quivering mass of tears because you didn’t like the look of her apples . . .”

Brak turned his attention back to the road. “That doesn’t mean I’m in a
mood
, Wrayan.”

“Even so, I still think you should let me do the talking,” Wrayan insisted. “Whether you’re in a mood or not.”

“Fine,” Brak shrugged. “You do the talking.” The Halfbreed fell silent after that and didn’t say another word until they were riding through the gates of Winternest.

As it turned out, they had little trouble with the customs men. Wrayan was Hythrun, after all, and carrying no goods for trade, and although Brak’s father had been a Medalonian, he spoke Hythrun like a native and knew how to blend in, so nobody paid him much attention. The customs man waved them through with barely a second glance, although he did advise them to join one of the caravans travelling to Fardohnya for safety.

Widening the pass had made travel between the two countries easier, but it had also opened up the route to bandits, who found the numerous abandoned campsites and the web of tracks that linked them to the pass and to each other, left by the workers employed to build the pass, the perfect environment for highway robbery. The bandits attacked swiftly, savagely and without warning, disappearing back into the mountains as quickly as they came. It was rumoured, the customs man added in a conspiratorial tone, that they weren’t really bandits at all. The popular belief around Winternest was that the bandits were Fardohnyan soldiers in disguise, robbing and pillaging every Hythrun caravan they could lay their hands on for the enrichment of their king. Wrayan didn’t discount the rumour. It sounded like something Hablet would do.

“There’s a particularly savage gang known as Chyler’s Children working the Fardohnyan end of the pass at the moment,” the customs man added, when Wrayan seemed unimpressed by his warnings.

“They’re very dangerous at this time of year.”

“We’ll watch out for them,” Wrayan promised.

“Two men riding alone is an almost irresistible temptation.”

“Truly, we can take care of ourselves,” Wrayan insisted, thinking no band of thieves and robbers stood much of a chance against two sorcerers with no inhibitions about using their powers to defend themselves.

“You could ride with one of the caravans,” the customs man suggested. “They never knock back an extra blade to watch over their cargo.”

Wrayan politely declined the offer of an introduction to one of the Hythrun caravan drivers, wondering if the man got some sort of kickback for arranging extra security. Instead, he and Brak mounted up again and, just before midday, rode under the bridge connecting the two castles of Winternest and headed into the Widowmaker Pass.

One thing Marla had recently learned about loyalty was that it had a downside. It was all well and good to be able to trust your life to someone, but when it came to interrogating six children who were all prepared to take the fall for their comrades, it was the most frustrating quality she had ever encountered. By the time she was finished questioning them, Marla had six completely different versions of what had happened in the markets and the culprit was Starros, Damin, Rodja, Adham, Narvell or Kalan, depending on which one of them she was speaking to at the time.

Hours of interrogation and she was no nearer the truth than when she started, although her heart had slowed to a more normal rate and she could breathe again—something she’d been incapable of when the first message arrived at the palace informing her that Damin and the other children were missing.

“Any luck finding out what really happened today?” Rogan Bearbow enquired, entering Mahkas’s office a few moments after Marla had banished Damin from her presence in disgust with the warning that she didn’t want to speak to him again until he was prepared to tell her the truth. The Warlord was dressed for the ball, in a severe black outfit that drew attention to his powerful body.

Along with all the other reasons Marla wanted to strangle her children at the moment, she was furious at her sons for pulling this prank while Rogan Bearbow was here to witness it.

“I don’t know where I’ve gone wrong with Damin,” she said, forcing a laugh she didn’t feel. “He’s not normally so . . . reckless.”

In reality, Marla had sent Damin to his room to avoid the temptation of strangling him with her bare hands herself.
Doesn’t he know the danger?
she asked herself, over and over.
Haven’t I impressed
upon him yet how easy it would be for an assassin to slip a blade between his ribs in a crowded market?

Why does he delight in tormenting me like this?

The Warlord nodded sympathetically. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it? All that hard work, the tutors, the training . . . and all you’ve got for your trouble is a very resourceful boy, smart enough to give Krakandar’s finest warriors the slip. A boy who’s so loyal to his friends that he’d rather be punished himself than let the others take the blame for something he was involved in. I can see why you’re so upset with your miserable failure.”

Relieved beyond words that Rogan viewed things so favourably, Marla allowed the briefest of smiles to flicker across her face. “You’re very kind, my lord. Unfortunately, I’m not ready to look upon this little escapade quite so generously, just yet.”

“In your place, nor would I,” Rogan replied. “But I do think this episode displays more of Damin’s character than you realise, your highness. And it’s not all bad.”

“I appreciate your advice, my lord. I’ll see you at the ball?”

“I was just on my way there now,” he informed her. “And don’t think you’re the only one worried about what their children are up to. I live in mortal terror of what that daughter of mine has decided to wear to the ball this evening.”

Marla smiled sympathetically. “I think you fear unnecessarily. Tejay spent much of the day with Rielle and Luciena discussing ball gowns, I believe. If she sought their advice, you can safely assume she won’t be wearing chain mail.”

“One can only hope,” Rogan agreed with a smile. “Don’t let the distractions of a childish prank deprive us of your company for too long, your highness.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she promised.

After Rogan left, Marla paced the room for a time, trying to think of a way to deal with her errant children. She was still pacing when Elezaar came looking for her a little while later, and no closer to solving her dilemma.

“They’re asking after you in the ballroom,” he informed his mistress as he closed the door to Mahkas’s study behind him. “Mahkas is trying to cover for you, but your absence is very noticeable.”

“I’ll be along soon.”

“You could put off dealing with the children until morning, couldn’t you?”

“And give them even more time to corroborate each other’s stories?”

“So which of them is lying?”

“If only I knew. According to Damin, it was his idea they give their guards the slip and see how far into the Beggars’ Quarter they got before they were caught.”

“And Kalan and Starros just tagged along for the adventure, eh?”

Marla walked to the window, crossing her arms as if suddenly chilled. “A very plausible tale if I believed for one moment that Starros would ‘just tag along’ with Damin on such a flimsy pretext, or that any of the boys would endanger Kalan to do something so monumentally stupid.” She turned to Elezaar thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should speak to her again. I suspect Kalan is the weakest link in this chain of deception. Maybe she’ll crumble where the boys won’t.”

“I’d not be too sure of that, your highness,” the dwarf mused, climbing into the chair opposite her desk.

“Do you know something about this escapade that I don’t?”

“Perhaps.”

“
Well
. . . ?” she prompted impatiently.

“Kalan was asking me about joining the Sorcerers’ Collective the other day.”

Marla stared at him. “She
what
?”

“Kalan is trying to decide what she wants to be when she grows up. She came to me for advice and the conversation got around to the Sorcerers’ Collective, and one thing led to another . . .”

“You actually
encouraged
my daughter to think I’d let her join the Sorcerers’ Collective?” Marla gasped.

“No! Not at all!” Elezaar assured her hastily. “Quite the opposite. I pointed out that there was almost no chance you would agree to such a thing.”

“
Almost
no chance?” Marla repeated.

“I didn’t want to disappoint the child, your highness.”

Marla sighed. “What did you tell her, Elezaar?”

“I . . . well, I sort of implied that you
might
let her join the Sorcerers’ Collective if she had someone with magical ability to watch over her.”

“Someone with magical ability?” she echoed incredulously. Then understanding dawned on her and she threw her hands up. “Of course! Wrayan Lightfinger. She was trying to get to the Beggars’

Quarter to see Wrayan.”

“Possibly.”

“You think she was trying to do something else?”

“The children were missing for over three hours, your highness. You might want to consider the possibility that they were successful in their mission to meet with Wrayan and that’s what they’re hiding from you.”

I’ll kill them myself
, Marla decided.
I’ll poison them at dinner tomorrow. Or maybe while they’re
bathing tonight. I’ll just go in and drown the lot of them. End of problem
.

“What did I ever do to deserve this?” she asked aloud.

Elezaar smiled. “Perhaps a word to Master Lightfinger will clear the whole thing up?”

Marla nodded. “Have a message sent to him. Tell him I require his presence at the palace at his earliest convenience.” Wrayan would know she meant
now
.

“And what are you going to do to the children?”

She shrugged. “I’m sure Almodavar can come up with something suitably punitive for the boys.