Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (25 page)

Seventeen

T
he
Avenger
arrived in
Tar Vangr’s high dock as the sun set the next day, shuddering beneath her feet. Through the rail under her hands, Ovelia could feel the mechanical claws engage like the grip of an executioner. Behind them, the horizon lit with pink and purple clouds, the legacy of ancient mage-wars.

“Such beauty out of Ruin,” Regel murmured at her side. “Eh, Tall-Sister?”

“Hmm.” Ovelia had been watching the distant glow, her mind far away. “Oh. Yes.”

She had other, darker matters to consider. What she had seen beneath that mask, for one.

If Regel read anything into her distraction, he did not show it. He’d taken up his carving again, gouging tiny grooves in the fragment of dawnstone. Ovelia wondered what form the carving would take but knew that, regardless, he would make it beautiful. He always did.

Such
beauty
, she thought,
out of Ruin.

“We should move,” Regel said.

Ovelia nodded.

As they entered the cabin, Ovelia averted her eyes from where Mask lay inside the open packing trunk. The sorcerer watched mutely as Regel shut the lid. Ovelia traced the battered leather surface lightly, her fingers spread apart and caressing ever so gently. She almost thought it would break at her touch, like withered paper.

Softly, Regel reached across and touched her wrist with two fingers. Instantly, her hand twisted over and caught his. Her eyes like polished topaz darted up to meet his gaze.

“Are you with me?” Regel asked in a whisper.

“Of course,” Ovelia said. In truth, however, she wasn’t certain.

There came a knock at the door. “Enter,” Ovelia called. She moved away from her “servant” for the sake of appearances, but not quickly enough the staff would not catch them. Deception was about telling a story, and it had to be told in every moment: in every little glance or gesture. Ovelia took refuge in the guise of the noblewoman and her lover, because it let her not think about Mask, or what the sorcerer had asked of her: a request she was powerless to resist. Ah, the game of lies.

Two men in the white uniforms of the
Avenger
crew entered. “The chest, lady?”

Ovelia waved dismissively. “Yes, take it, Syrs.”

They took Mask’s transport away, and Ovelia heard Regel exhale softly in relief. Not so with her, however. Indeed, seeing Mask depart filled her with more anxiety, rather than let it dissipate. She finished the tea Regel had brewed for her, which settled her stomach. Her innards had grown temperamental during the flight, and she hoped solid land would help.

“Ready?” she asked finally. “Regel?”

He looked up, but she had caught him glancing warily at her stomach, as though he could feel her unease. Did he hold the same suspicions she did? Most men were clueless about such things, but he had always had sharp senses. And she and Regel
had
shared a bed often of late. Could it be possible?

“Let’s make an end of this,” Regel said, and gestured her out into the hall.

Her insides ached.

* * *

Davargorn watched from atop the aft deck as great steel talons ground into place through gaps in the
Avenger
’s hull. The clamps locked, holding the ship aloft by aged steel girders. The mage-engine groaned as it powered down, and the great gold rings slowed and came to a rest, aligned with one another beneath the skyship.

The passengers of the
Avenger
debarked with alacrity, including first Regel with a heavy trunk, then—after a few moments—the black-wigged Ovelia escorted by two attendants. He suspected they’d purposefully made their exits separately, not only to maintain their fiction on the ship as illicit lovers, but also to discourage any Ravalis agents who might be watching for a man and a woman. Clever.

Davargorn, however, had been cleverer still, taking the place of a skyship attendant who wouldn’t be missed for a few days. It had let him spy upon them with impunity, as the brainless nobles of the pleasure barge hardly looked twice at the liveried waitstaff. Even if they had, the uniform included a full helm, which disguised his telltale features. So long as he kept his crippled left hand hidden in his sleeve, he became another anonymous servant until the moment came to strike.

Crewmen put the trunk on a magewrought disk of steel, which floated obediently a dagger’s length off the ground. Regel thanked the white-breeches with gruff nod and a silver coin. Davargorn waited while he steered the trunk across the gangplank and through the dock. Without her protector, Ovelia would be vulnerable, and Davargorn suspected his moment drew nigh.

In his guise, Davargorn dutifully escorted the half-drunken, exhausted passengers off the
Avenger
. When Ovelia reached the deck, Davargorn palmed a knife in his left sleeve and offered his right hand to guide her. He said nothing, as his voice might give him away. He gave Ovelia no reason to avoid his hand—indeed, her guise as a noblewoman demanded she accept his help. And then he would...

“Pardon.” A red-haired man stepped past Davargorn and took Ovelia’s hand. “If I may, Lady?”

Davargorn turned away before either of them could see his face.

“Certainly,” Ovelia said in a voice so far from her own that Davargorn could have applauded. She blushed on command. “Your assistance is welcome, Syr.”

The man bowed and escorted her down the final steps. She stumbled, though Davargorn saw it was feigned. Her guise worked well on this red-haired dandy. A pretty man following the noble—his valet, perhaps, or lover—gave Davargorn a stern look and dismissed him with a wave.

Davargorn murmured a curse under his breath. He’d have liked to stick his blade a few times in both the Bloodbreaker and the interloper, but now he felt vulnerable with so many eyes watching. This was not the place to move. His vengeance could wait, and perhaps that was for the best. A new plan stirred in his mind, one that he’d set in motion as contingency, and one that could catch all three in the same trap: Ovelia, Regel, and especially Mask.

When the passengers were clear of the skyship, he vanished into the streets of Tar Vangr’s high-city, shedding his borrowed uniform in a muddy alley.

He knew exactly where to go.

* * *

“My thanks, Syr,” said Ovelia as the man led her down the plank from the
Avenger
.

“Of course,” he said, his voice rich and his manner gallant.

He wore the plain but well-appointed clothes of a traveling merchant, lacking any blood insignia or colors other than simple black. He had deeply tanned skin and bright red hair, and his features were those of Luether—bold, lively, and noble. Also she knew him: Garin Ravalis, who had come to their rescue in the streets of the City of Pyres. The timely question, however, was whether he knew
her
.

“I am surprised to find such a beautiful woman unescorted.” He pointed back to where she had purposefully stumbled. “Who would have guided you over yon treacherous step?”

“That one seemed eager enough.” Ovelia nodded to a crewman who was limping away.

“And why would he not?” Garin gave her a grin that nearly touched his emerald-green eyes. The man had dangerous dimples. “But it appears the good fortune is mine, no? I am Garin.”

He had not given her his Blood name. Interesting. “Aniset of Dolvrath. Quite charmed.”

“A lady of a potent Blood.” Garin bowed. “The charm is yours, the pleasure mine.”

He did not recognize her then, or if he did, he hid it well. Despite what he had said, the Blood of Dolvrath was thin, and that told Ovelia that Garin meant to flatter her. To Garin, she was just a lovely Tar Vangryur returned from business in the southern city. His smile was infectious, and his eyes bright and sharp as they roved her face. Ovelia resolved to be careful of his obvious charm, as to compromise her true identity now would be as good as death.

“Alcarin,” he said to the man following them. “Mind the lady’s luggage, if you would?”

The youth returned a long-suffering scowl and looked about for Ovelia’s non-existent suitcases.

“No need,” Ovelia said. “I have a manservant of my own, who has gone on ahead.”

“Ah, of course, of course.” Garin gave the youth an intimate look of acknowledgment that told Ovelia the man was no mere manservant, nor a bodyguard. She understood, then, the looks that had passed between Garin and Alcarin on the streets of Luether, and knew how deep a secret it must be. How scandalous it would be for one of the scions of the brusque Ravalis to have a kept boy to warm his bed.

She remembered Alcarin from Luether, though she had glanced at him only for a brief moment. She had worn a disguise that day and he did not seem to recognize her any more than Garin had, but she hid her visage just the same. She brushed air over her face with the sort of black-and-white paper fan often carried by merchant ladies such as she appeared to be. It served a second purpose in hiding her face.

They descended to the main dock, amongst the men sweating and shouting orders over the crates that came down the ropes. Men operated pulleys and levers, and Ovelia saw several sorcerers lingering about. Skyship workers or waiting mage-slayers? She could not say.

“Something troubles, Lady?” Garin eyed her keenly. “You are plying that fan like a swordsman.”

“No, no trouble,” she said. “It is unseasonably hot for a Vangr winter, don’t you think? I had expected relief after the heat of the southlands, but the winds blow as they will.”

“Ah, but I am a child of the south—the Blood of Summer beats in my veins.” He caught a strand of her fake black hair between his fingers. “Unlike the winter’s daughter you seem to be.”

“Oh?” Ovelia suppressed the urge to pick at her wig. “Finally escaped the barbarians?”

“Perhaps.” His eyes flashed. “Though I fear my stay in the city will be brief. I’ve come to pass Ruin’s Night with my Blood and entertain a business offer.”

“A business offer?” Ovelia asked, though she should not have. Curiosity often aroused the like in others, and it would not do to have Garin Ravalis seeking to find out more about her. She played off the question. “You must be an important man if you flew all the way to Tar Vangr.”

“Would it surprise you if the
Avenger
flew all the way to Luether, just for me?”

He was teasing her, she knew, but she knew that hadn’t been a lie. It explained the
Avenger
’s presence in Luether, but why would they go to so much trouble to bring one of their own back into the fold? And moreover, Garin was the Ravalis scion who never played the political games of the rest of the Blood. After all, he’d stayed in Luether despite its fall to Ruin, swearing vendetta against King Pervast and seeking at every turn to overthrow the barbarians that ruled the city. And now he returned to Tar Vangr, but he did not claim the Ravalis Blood or name. Was his visit a secret one? To what end?

“Perhaps this offer is significant to a woman of business,” Ovelia said. “Perhaps you might offer me a hint?”

“Over a fine meal and finer libations, Daughter of Dolvrath?”

“I doubt I am the sort you wish to woo, Syr.” Ovelia cast a meaningful glance back over her shoulder. Hinting at his secret was a gamble, and she stood to win little, but information was power. “Do you not know that Dolvrath is the Blood of Chastity?”

“Pure body, pure mind, indeed.” Garin smiled, deflecting her hint as neatly as a swordmaster’s parry. “It matters little, fair one, for I shall inevitably decline, and then I’ll away to the southland once more. I suspect on the morrow, in fact.” He tossed up his hands. “Oh that it should be even so long! I cannot abide the chill of you northerners—though I make exception for beauteous queens of ice.” He gave her a meaningful smile.

It was a fine game, this flirtation. But even had she not seen how he looked at Alcarin, she would have guessed he was trying just a bit too hard. He bore a heavy burden, trapped in a body that wanted what his Blood frowned upon. She knew more than a little of such a thing.

“I am sorry Tar Vangr is too cold for you, and that your city was too hot for me,” Ovelia said.

“We are a poor pair, are we not?” He squeezed her hand. “Unless there is some way we might reach a happy middle. Your blood might cool mine and mine warm yours.”

“How shocking!” Ovelia held the fan closer over her face, as though to hide a blush. “You southern men are all one—do you think of nothing but rutting?”

“I pray every day that I never shall,” he said, and bent to kiss her fingers.

Strange thing to hear him invoke faith, Ovelia thought. The folk of summer notoriously paid little heed to the Old Gods, and yet Garin spoke of prayer a certain honest ardor that almost convinced her. His hand lingered in hers, clutching her fingers tightly, and some part of Ovelia murmured a warning. He’d so adeptly deflected her question about his purpose. Luethaar were notorious flirts, and Garin could easily be their king—if she had not recognized the way he looked at Alcarin, she might have been taken in. He used flattery like armor, keeping anyone and everyone at bay so none could learn his true intentions.

“Pray, good Lady Aniset.” Garin had lingered by her side and was smiling. “If I find my stay in your homeland a lonely one, might I call upon you for company? I may know little of your city, but I have stories for pleasing you and coin for drinks.”

Ovelia smiled despite herself. She thought she should get away from this man as soon as possible, but rudeness would foil her disguise. Besides, she liked him.

“Perhaps, good Syr. Though how might you be so certain your stories would please me?”

“I should love to make the attempt. My tongue is quite deft.” He kissed her hand again. “Would you not let me call upon you, Lady Aniset? I would hear your stories as well.”

The flattery was in earnest, but beneath it ran an undercurrent of genuine curiosity. She felt scrutinized like a puzzle only partly assembled. Ruin’s Night drew close, though, and she had little time to explore this particular riddle. “I think not, my Lord of Summer,” she said. “No doubt my husband would not approve.”