Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (33 page)

the border from Virago. Smiles of warm greeting met Nicholas Cree and his sister; a few calls of

‘welcome home’ to Lumley Tarnes, a man quite well known in port.

“The Council House be up the road there, across the way from the inn,” Tarnes informed Nick. The old

man smacked his lips. “I'll be after having a nip or two down thatta way.” He pointed to a particularly

seedy tavern near the waterfront.

“Good ale, eh, Master Tarnes?” Nick chuckled.

Lumley Tarnes blushed and the bristle of wiry white stubble on his thin face got a vigorous rubbing

before he answered. “There's a wench there....” he began, then shrugged. “You know how it be, Cap'n. I

been a widower nigh on ten year and I do get lonely at times. Can you give me an hour or two?"

“We'll meet you for supper at the inn,” Nick countered. “How's that?"

“Tolerable well, Cap'n,” Tarnes agreed, bobbing his head. His watery gray eyes beamed. “Tolerable

well."

Nick exchanged a look with his sister and found her still staring daggers at him. Although the gag had

been removed from her mouth a few miles back and the ropes binding her wrists severed, she was still in

high dudgeon—despite being made perfectly aware of the riders fast on their trail—and had said not one

word to him since Holy Dale.

“They were Duncan's men,” the Chalean warrior explained needlessly.

Gillian glared at him, her lips pursed tightly together. Her back was so straight in the saddle, she looked

as though a steel rod had been attached to it. And her emerald gaze had become a sentient being sworn

to Nicholas Cree's destruction.

“I know you're angry at me now, but...” he began, only to have her snort with an unladylike explosion of

contempt, and fling her head away from him.

Knowing he'd get nowhere with his sister at the moment, he kicked his mount in the ribs. Holding Gilly's

horse's reins as well as his own, he ignored the curious eyes of the townsfolk who must surely be

wondering why he was leading the furious woman's horse.

The Inn of the Flying Mast was the last building at the end of Sea Nymph Street. Behind it was a large

stable with rows of tall windows made of glass.

“I don't think I've ever seen a stable with windows like that before,” Nick commented.

Gillian ignored his comment. Dismounting, Nick was relieved to turn the reins of his horse over to a

stableboy. With some trepidation, he walked back to Gillian's horse and stood there, unsure whether or

not she would allow him to help her down.

Gillian deigned to lower her chin somewhat and stared down at her brother. She didn't need his

gods-be-damned help to dismount and the last thing she wanted was to have the swine touch her. Her

squint was meant to convey just that.

“All right,” Nick said, throwing his hands up to the vagaries of female logic. He stepped back and waited

for her to slide down from the mare.

“How long will you be staying, milord?” the stableboy asked. “My papa owns the inn and I'll need to be

telling him."

Nick shrugged. “I have business with the Council before all else. A day. Two at the most. We're on to

Boreas Keep."

The stableboy grinned. “That's a three day ride from here, milord. Will you be needing provisions?"

“A few,” Nick acknowledged. He smiled at the boy's eager look. “Can you recommend an honest

storekeeper?"

A grimy finger pointed to back down the street. “Saur's Emporium,” the lad announced. “You'll get

treated fair and square. ’Tis my uncle Colten's place."

Nick nodded his thanks, reached into his pocket and took out a silver coin. Thumbing it into the air, he

laughed when the lad swiped it in mid-flight.

“Much obliged, milord,” the young boy grinned. “You're most generous."

Gillian snorted again, but when the stableboy looked at her with just a touch of hurt, she winked

audaciously at him to let the boy know it wasn't him with whom she was angry.

Kinion Saur smiled at the pretty woman and bobbed his head to let her know he understood. If the lord

standing there with them had business with the Council, it hadn't been wise to drag his lady along for the

ride. Briefly the stableboy wondered if the lord didn't trust his lady. After all, he did come riding in

holding her reins as though he expected her to make a run for it.

“Are you coming, Gillian?” Nick snapped. He was cold and hungry. They hadn't been able to stop to eat

the food Lumley had brought with them because Duncan's men were on them too fast.

Gillian was still looking at the stableboy, wondering how she could speak to him in private. Her mind

was filled with anger, and the need to get back across the border and to her husband's aid. The hell with

Duncan Hesar or Rolf de Viennes. If it took going back to Tempest Keep with them to ensure Kaelan's

safety, she'd gladly do it.

“Gillian!” Nick growled.

With a further narrowing of her eyes, Gillian swept past her brother and headed for the back entrance of

the inn, her shoulders square and her head up.

Nick watched her for a moment, then turned to give the stableboy a stern look. “Under no

circumstances are you to aid my sister in leaving this town,” he said with a fierce expression. “Do you

understand what I am telling you, boy?"

Kinion's attention flicked to the pretty woman walking so stiffly toward the inn. He pulled his lower lip

between his teeth. “I believe so, milord."

“There are men after us, lad,” Nick admitted and watched as the stableboy's gaze widened and returned

to him with something akin to excitement. “King Duncan Hesar's men."

The young boy's mouth dropped open. “Lawd,” he breathed. “What did you do?"

Nick leaned down and put a conspiratorial arm around the boy's thin shoulders and spoke to him man to

man. “Have you heard of the Demon Duke over Wixenstead way?"

Kinion's eyes nearly popped from his head. “Aye!” His voice was a mere whisper. “Who ain't heard of

him?"

“Well,” Nick said, jerking a finger toward his sister, “The Demon Duke wants my sister as his wife.” He

lowered his voice, trying to keep from laughing at the horrified expression that was forming on the lad's

face.

“Now, Gillian thinks it all a romantic thing. You know how women are.” He squeezed the lad to him,

man to man, conspirator to conspirator. “I'm sure you've had your share of wenches, eh?"

Kinion bobbed his head eagerly: A man of the world. “Aye, milord. Had my share, I have.” A lie if ever

the lad had uttered one. The boy shuddered and lowered his voice. “He's a warlock, they say!"

Nick nodded sagely. “That's what I've heard.” He fused his gaze with the lad's. “And I don't want that

happening to my sister."

“Nay, milord,” Kinion agreed, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “No one would!"

“We understand one another, then?” Nick asked, straightening up and removing his arm from the lad's

shoulder.

“Aye, we do!” Kinion concurred. “I'm to watch her for you real close and if'n the lady wants to leave,

I'm to try and stop her."

Nick's lips twitched. “Well, at least come and get me, eh?” He fished in his pocket again and drew out a

gold coin this time. Holding it on the palm of his hand, he let the lad see it. “And I'll give you this for your

trouble."

Hesitantly—for he'd never put fingers to so much money in all his born days—Kinion reached out to

take the shiny coin, resisting the urge to bite into it to make sure it was real. The weight of it made him

breathless.

“Now, there's another of these for you if you'll do one more thing for me,” Nick said, knowing the boy

was his for as long as he wanted him.

“Anything!” Kinion exclaimed. “Whatever you want, milord!"

“I've no doubt the Duke will send his bully boys across the border. Speak it around town for me. Let the

folk know who those men are and what they're here for. Make sure everyone in town knows that the

king is trying to thrust that murdering bastard on my sister.” Only a fleeting winch of guilt nudged Nick's

gut at the lie, but he figured Kaelan would understand.

“Now they'll try to say it's another man the king is after Joining her to, but you let the townsfolk know

that's just a subterfuge, understand?"

Kinion blinked. “A subter..."

“A gods-be-damned lie,” Nick stressed. “Knowing how good upstanding folk feel about Kaelan Hesar,

do you think they're apt to admit it's the Demon Duke they mean to hand my poor innocent sister over

to?"

“I'll reckon they wouldn't!” Kinion guffawed.

Gillian was standing impatiently at the inn's door, tapping her booted foot furiously. What the hell was

taking Nicholas so long and what was he talking to the boy about? Why, he was even putting his hand on

the young one's shoulder and....

Her scrutiny of her brother and the boy became a thin slit of rage. “Oh, you're the clever one aren't you,

Nicky?” she seethed. Warning the lad—paying him, she thought as she saw money change hands—not

to help me! No doubt asking him to watch her while they were in town.

“Well,” she said under her breath, “that is not the only stable in town nor the only place a person can get

a horse!” With a flounce of fury, she entered the inn, slamming the door behind her.

Nick's head jerked around at the sound of the slamming door.

“Reckon she be spitting mad, eh, milord,” Kinion chuckled. He put a finger to his right eye and drew

down the lower lid. “Fit to be tied, I'd say!"

“In more ways than one,” Nick muttered. He decided he'd better let the lad know who he was before

Duncan's men did. “You tell the townsfolk I am the son of the Chalean ambassador."

“You be Chalean?” Kinion inhaled on an awed breath. His attention went to the man's saddle but he saw

no lethal blade and was disappointed. Everyone knew how expert at swordplay the Chalean's were.

“I am Count Nicholas Cree,” Nick answered, waving away the title. “Tell them I would take it as a

personal kindness if they would help me keep my poor, bewitched sister out of the Demon Duke's hands.

For her own safety, you see?"

Kinion drew himself up, puffed out his scrawny chest, and jabbed a dirty thumb into his chest. “You can

count on me, milord! I'll see to it everyone in town knows them snakes for what they are and that nobody

helps your sister leave Ciona!"

Relief shoved away the weight from Nick's tired shoulders. “Perhaps the constable might see fit to escort

them back across the border, do you think?"

“I'll go straight to him soon's I tend your horses; Milord!” He started to walk the horse toward the

stable, but Nick called him back.

“They weren't far behind us, lad. Perhaps you should go see the constable first?” He eased the reins

from the boy's grubby fist.

Kinion voiced his agreement and took off running to do the lord's bidding. He wouldn't let the Chalean

sword master down! He'd make sure everyone in town knew the danger involved!

* * * *

The constable and his men stood at the border of Serenia and Virago, under the infamous archway

known as the Carbonham Gate, with their arms folded across their chests. There was murderous intent in

their stony glowers as King Duncan's men came thundering toward them down the border road.

Behind the constable was a contingent of volunteers—thirty in all—each holding a weapon of some sort

in their gloved hands: axes and picks; shovels and hoes; gleaming swords and sharp wooden pikes, pins

and grappling hooks. They, too, had stubborn looks upon their faces and the gleam of battle in their eyes:

There had never been any love to lose between the men of Ciona and their Viragonian neighbors.

Sergeant Hans Richter of the Royal Guard Elite of the Court of Storms, Tempest Keep, saw the

welcoming committee fanned out along the border between his country and Serenia and ground his teeth

with fury. He held up his hand, signaling his men to a slow trot.

“You ain't coming across,” the constable warned the Viragonians as the horses drew within shouting

distance. “Just go on back about your business."

“Our business,” Sergeant Richter barked in a tight voice, “is in Ciona!"

“No, it ain't,” the constable replied. “You ain't got permission from the McGregor to come into Serenia."

Clenching his jaw, Richter swung down from his mount and strode arrogantly to the very limit of his side

of the border crossing. His steel-gray eyes cut into the chubby constable. “There are no guard posts here

to restrict travel from my country into yours,” Richter snapped. “I know of no law preventing me and my

men from coming over."

The constable arced an arm behind him, indicating his fellow townsmen. “There's the guard post. See

you there the law, as well, sergeant?"

Hans Richter's jaw tightened. “We are after a runaway bride whose...."

“We know all about that!” the constable cut him off. “And if'n you Viragonians don't mind forcing a

woman to Join up with the likes of that jackanapes your king intends for her to be shackled with, us

Serenians do!"

“We don't force our women!” someone from the crowd yelled.

“We don't have to force our women!” said another.

“And the lady ain't even one of you Viragonians, anyway!” the constable put in. “She's Chalean and the

Chaleans are our friends."

“Unlike the Viragonians!” came the insult.

Richter glared at the obstacles in his way, then turned his head and spat on the ground in insult. “This

isn't the end of it!” the sergeant promised and he spun around and jammed his spurred boot into the