Warrior (54 page)

Damin did a quick mental calculation in his head and frowned. “You haven’t had time to get from Cabradell to Natalandar and then back here to Krakandar in a month.”

“I didn’t even try. Rogan had a messenger waiting for me on the Pentamor border, telling me to turn back. The plague had reached Natalandar before me and our father was already dead. Apparently, he was so ill, he was one of the first to go when the disease hit the city. So we turned back the way we came, only to learn that Grosburn in Pentamor was starting to report the first cases of plague there, too.

So I turned around again and headed north for Krakandar. I didn’t know what else to do. I have my children with me, Damin. This is the last place in Hythria that seems to be immune from this dreadful blight.”

Tejay’s tale was worrying for more than news the plague was spreading. Old Rogan Bearbow, the Warlord of Izcomdar, was dead. That alone was enough to make Damin want to weep. And for Chaine Lionsclaw, too—a good and loyal friend to the Wolfblades. He was sure there were going to be political ramifications from this unexpected turn of events that he’d not had time to figure out.

“I think we’re more lucky than immune, Tejay. Rorin claims it’s the weather that keeps us safe here in the north. Something to do with rats breeding, he says. It’s much colder here than Greenharbour and it’s still winter, which seems to keep the problem in check. And I’m so sorry about Chaine and your father. Chaine was a good man. Your father was a
great
one.”

She smiled wanly. “He was very fond of you, too.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need, of course,” he promised. “Just speak to Orleon.

He’ll arrange a message to be sent to Terin to let him know where you are. And that you and the children are safe.”

“I knew I could rely on you, Damin. Thank you.”

Damin crossed his arms, frowning thoughtfully. “You present me with another dilemma, though.”

“What’s that?”

“The plague is on your very heels, Tejay. At what point do we seal the city to keep us safe from it?”

“Now. Before the refugees and the warmer weather arrive,” Tejay advised. “They’ll bring this nightmare with them sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.”

“I think it’s a bit late to start turning refugees away,” he said with a smile and then looked up as the door opened and a slave wheeling a small cart laden with fruit and fresh pastries and a pot of lemon-scented tea entered the room, followed by Starros, who ordered the slave to park the cart next to Tejay. The young man did as Starros bid, then bowed silently and left the room, leaving Starros to pour the tea.

Tejay looked over the cart with a frown. “I appreciate the thought, young man, but haven’t you got anything stronger than tea?”

Starros glanced at Damin, who shrugged. “Get the lady a drink, Starros.”

“My lord,” Starros replied with a courtly bow. He walked to the sideboard and returned with a cut-crystal decanter of dark, fortified wine, which he poured into the teacup in lieu of the tea, and then handed it to Tejay with another bow.

She studied him for a moment as she accepted the wine. “Starros? I remember you. You were a fosterling here, when we visited Krakandar when Damin’s stepsister, Rielle, married my kinsman Darvad, weren’t you?”

“Yes, my lady. I was.”

“And you’re Krakandar’s assistant steward now?”

“Assistant
chief
steward,” he corrected with a faint smile.

Tejay nodded approvingly. “You’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you? Most fosterlings wind up in the Palace Guard. You must be very pleased to have attained such a high position in the household.”

Starros glanced at Damin for a moment. It wasn’t hard to guess what he was thinking. But he did nothing more than incline his head towards Tejay in appreciation of the compliment. “Indeed, my lady.

What more could a lowborn bastard want out of life, I often ask myself.”

Tejay didn’t miss the mockery in his tone. Damin frowned. “Starros, can you ask Kalan and Rorin to join us?”

“Of course, your highness,” he replied with a slightly insolent bow, and then left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Tejay looked at Damin in confusion. “Did I miss something there?”

“Don’t worry about it. Starros just forgets himself sometimes.”

She shook her head and drained the teacup full of wine, then held it out to Damin for a refill. He did as she asked, and watched her drink that one down in three gulps as well.

“It’s not lunchtime yet,” he reminded her.

“Good, that means I can have another one at lunch. Did you say Kalan was here?”

He nodded. “She and Rorin were in Nalinbar when the plague started to get out of hand. I met up with them on the way here and convinced them they’d be safer in Krakandar. They’d closed the city gates in Greenharbour by then anyway, so there was no point in trying to go south.”

“Who is Rorin?”

“Rorin Mariner,” he explained. “He’s Luciena’s cousin.”

The door opened again and Kalan entered the room with Rorin on her heels. Tejay rose to her feet wearily, but Kalan waved her back into her seat. “Please, don’t get up on my account, my lady.”

The Lady of Sunrise smiled gratefully and resumed her seat. “Gracious, I thought Damin had grown, but you were just a little girl the last time we met, Kalan. And now look at you! A full member of the Sorcerers’ Collective, no less!”

“It’s all right, my mother has trouble coping with the notion, too,” Kalan laughed. “This is Rorin Mariner, my lady.”

The young sorcerer bowed politely. Tejay looked him up and down and then glanced at Damin.

“You’ve got it made, haven’t you?”

“What do you mean?” he asked innocently.

“A couple of sorcerers in your pocket already. Your younger brother set to inherit Elasapine when old Charel Hawksword finally passes on. One of the Taranger brothers is married to your stepsister, isn’t he? The one who owns half the shipping in Hythria? The gods help us by the time you become High Prince, Damin.”

“Actually, I think Luciena only owns about a third of the shipping,” Damin corrected with a grin.

Kalan wasn’t nearly so amused. Her smile faded as she stared at the Warlord’s wife suspiciously.

“Do you have some sort of problem with my brother becoming High Prince, my lady?”

Tejay shook her head, a little taken aback by Kalan’s ferocity. “You have a feisty advocate there, Damin.”

“Pay no attention to her, Tejay,” Damin advised. “She doesn’t bite if you don’t tease her.”

Before his sister could object he turned to her and added, “Tejay is suggesting we seal the city.”

“Is that necessary?” Kalan asked.

“The plague is already showing up in Izcomdar and Pentamor,” Tejay warned. “It won’t be long before it gets here. And if the Medalonians close their border . . .”

“Easier said than done,” Damin remarked, rubbing his bruised chin without thinking. The pain shot through his jaw and he hastily pulled his hand away. “The border with Medalon is a couple of hundred miles long. There’s no way to seal it effectively.”

“Why the urgency?” Rorin asked.

“My father is already dead,” Tejay told him. “And my father-in-law. This is the only major city in Hythria free of the plague. If you can’t stop it reaching Krakandar, there’s no telling how many people it will kill before it’s done with us.”

As she spoke, Rorin walked around the desk thoughtfully, until he was standing before the map of Hythria that hung on the wall behind them. It was a beautiful piece of work, six feet high and twice that in length; it had been hand-sewn by Damin’s great-great-grandmother as a wedding present to her husband almost a hundred years ago. Each province was sewn in a different coloured silk, the borders worked in real gold thread. Damin watched the young sorcerer curiously, the voices of Kalan and Tejay fading into the background as they discussed the implications of the plague.

Rorin studied the map in silence for a time and then turned to Damin. “You’ve got more than the plague to worry about, Damin.”

“What do you mean?”

Rorin pointed at the map. “Barnardo Eaglespike is dead. His son—or more importantly,
Alija’s
son—Cyrus, is now Warlord. Effectively the High Arrion has control of Dregian Province.” He pointed at the next province, lying to the south of Dregian. “Greenharbour Province. Currently under the administration of the Sorcerers’ Collective, and has been ever since Graim Falconlance and his two sons were killed in that idiotic border skirmish with Pentamor a couple of years back. Remember? They were fighting over some worthless piece of land they both claimed was theirs because some fool announced he’d found gold in a stream that ran through it. After the dust settled and they realised both the Warlord of Greenharbour and his heir were dead, there was quite a bit of trouble over who should inherit. Finally, they settled on a distant cousin, I believe.”

“I remember,” Damin said with a nod. “The gold they were fighting over turned out to be pyrite, didn’t it?”

“Fool’s gold, indeed.”

Damin studied the map for a moment and then looked at Rorin. “The cousin . . . that’s Conin Falconlance. I know him. He’s only a year or two older than me.”

“So he can’t rule in his own right for years yet.” Rorin then pointed to Izcomdar and turned to look at Tejay. “And now you tell us Lord Bearbow is dead. How old is your brother, my lady?”

Tejay looked up from her conversation with Kalan, obviously puzzled by the question. “Rogan is twenty-seven.”

“And you have no other male relatives who might act as his regent until he comes of age?”

Tejay shook her head, a little worried about what Rorin was driving at.

“Then, for the next three years at least, Izcomdar is going to fall under the governance of the Sorcerers’ Collective, too.” Rorin then pointed to Sunrise Province. “Terin Lionsclaw is now the Warlord of Sunrise. His eldest child is . . . how old, my lady?”

“Four,” Tejay told him.

Rorin nodded and pointed to Elasapine. “Then we have Charel Hawksword’s province. He’s an old man and he’s been failing for years, so much so that he keeps Narvell with him all the time now, for fear he won’t have taught his young heir everything he needs to know before he dies. But Narvell is only twenty-two. The twins have an uncle, by marriage at least, but if anything were to happen to Lord Hawksword, I can promise you they won’t let the Regent of Krakandar govern Elasapine as well.”

“And if anything should happen to Mahkas,” Damin said with a frown, beginning to understand what Rorin was getting at, “Krakandar would also fall into the hands of the Sorcerers’ Collective until I come of age.”

Rorin nodded and studied the map again for a moment before turning to look at the others.

“Get Mahkas back here and seal the city,” the young sorcerer advised. “And send a message to Narvell in Elasapine to keep Charel safe. You should warn your husband, too, my lady.”

“Warn him of what?” Tejay asked, still a little confused.

“To take care of himself,” Damin told her, staring at the map with deep concern. “Because this plague means that, right now, we’re one Warlord’s death away from Alija Eaglespike having majority control of the Convocation of Warlords.”

Your majesty,” Lecter Turon announced, closing the sandalwood doors of King Hablet’s office behind him. “I’ve been having some thoughts on the issue of your heir.”

Hablet looked up from the report he was reading and scowled. “Really? I think of little else.”

The eunuch smiled, wiping his damp forehead with a silk kerchief as he crossed the floor to stand before the king’s gilded worktable. Even though the humidity was relatively low at this time of year, it seemed to have little effect on how much the man sweated.
Perhaps that’s how he’s always able
to wheedle out of things so well
, Hablet thought with a private little chuckle.
The constant perspiration
must make him slippery as an eel
.

“Invading Hythria is rather a convoluted way of going about solving the problem, your majesty.”

“What other choice do I have?”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking about.”

“And?”

“I have a plan.”

“A plan?” the king scoffed, turning his attention back to the report. He cared little for the state of the flax crops in southern Fardohnya, but it wouldn’t do to give the eunuch the idea his king was ready to drop everything to listen to the opinion of a mere slave. “The last time I listened to one of your
plans
, Lecter, it cost me four million gold rivets.”

“Actually, it was only three and a half million,” the eunuch corrected. “And you’ve collected easily twice that in tolls in the twenty-odd years since the Widowmaker was paved.”

Hablet couldn’t argue with that. He pushed aside the blindingly dull report he’d been reading and leaned back in his gilded chair. “What’s your plan, then?”

“Correct me if I’m mistaken,” the eunuch began with the assurance of a man quite certain he wasn’t, “but you are currently massing our troops at Westbrook and Tambay’s Seat, because with the plague ravaging Hythria, you have a legitimate reason to close the borders, and with the borders closed, the Hythrun have no idea about the armies gathering on the other side of the mountains.”

Hablet nodded, wondering what Lecter’s point was. It was a perfectly wonderful plan as far as he was concerned. The problem with invading Hythria had always been those damned mountain passes.

That, and the fact it was obvious to anybody with one eye and half a brain what troop movements in the
foothills of the Sunrise Mountains meant
.

In the normal course of events, it would have been a futile waste of time, money and manpower trying to attack Hythria over the mountains. There were only two navigable passes. A handful of determined adolescent girls could probably hold off the entire Fardohnyan army, if they set their minds to it. A naval invasion would have been just as futile. Although the Fardohnyans were better shipbuilders than the Hythrun, their neighbour’s ports were too well defended to make it worth the trouble.

Hythria’s only vulnerable point, really, was her border with Medalon.
If the Medalonians had
had the will to move south
, Hablet thought,
with their tightly disciplined Defenders, Hythria would have
been overrun a century ago
. In fact, if Hablet could have found a way to keep the Defenders occupied elsewhere, sailing up the Glass River and crossing into Hythria at Bordertown would have been his first preference. Privately, he doubted if the Medalonians cared if Fardohnya invaded Hythria or not. They would care a
great
deal, however, if he tried to disembark his vast army in Medalon on his way to the conquest. The Sisters of the Blade would probably interpret his uninvited punitive force crossing their southern plains as an act of war.