The Demon Lord (28 page)

“Two thousand then,” said Geruath. “Or five—or ten if you are prepared to wait!”

Mercies of Heaven… The unvoiced oath trickled past dark pictures inside Aldric’s brain, half astonishment and half disbelief. “You want this weapon badly, my lord,” he murmured. “In the worst possible way. And either you have all this money—or you’re the most extravagant liar I have ever met.” There now, it’s said. So respond to it, you ancient maniac.

Geruath considered the Alban’s words impassively. Then he tried to seize Aldric’s arm and missed as the younger man snapped one step backwards, his right hand crossing, gripping, drawing… ‘
Hair

And not all the swords of all the retainers who now sprang forward could have saved him. As a clean-sliced shred of cloth-of-gold fluttered to the floor, Geruath of Seghar knew he should be dead.

So did Aldric. “Be advised, my lord.” His voice had shed its softness, had become instead as harsh as the grating of stones. “Never try to touch me. Call off your vassals.” The longsword glittered as he shifted his position. “
Now
!”

Lord Geruath glared down from his full gaunt height at the Alban’s masked, dispassionate face, reading nothing from it and seeing only his own death reflected by the
taiken
. With one hand he gestured to his guards and they fell back. “There is no danger,” he told them, though both voice and hand were trembling with fear and rage. “Merely a… display of technique. Nothing more.”

Aldric relaxed, Widowmaker’s point lowering to the sand with a tiny crisp sound he heard quite clearly in the heavy silence. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, and bowed.

Breathing heavily, Geruath said nothing for many moments and as he straightened Aldric waited for the inevitable parting shot. It came only after the Overlord had walked away a little—out of reach, but not yet out of earshot. “Kourgath-eijo,” the Jouvaine hissed, “you may yet give me your blade—freely and of your own will.”

There was no expression on the Alban’s face as he inclined his head in courteous acknowledgement of the veiled threat, but when he raised it a bleak smile had thinned his lips. “My lord,” said Aldric as sardonically as his command of Jouvaine would allow, “I almost did.”

The gardens of Seghar were no more than a memory; only the scent of flowers remained and that too had changed—was uncared for, over-rich, nauseously sweet. But it was the memory of the gardens ten years past that Gueynor saw as she walked slowly through the confusion of weeds and dying plants, and they were enough. “I am Gueynor Evenou,” she said, “and I am the daughter of Lord Erwan Evenou, and I am the true-born ruler of this… desolation.”

There was a belvedere built on top of a small hill, overlooking what had once been a view. This had been her realm, her secret place, when she was six years old, and at first sight it was untouched by the ruin which surrounded it. Then Gueynor walked closer and saw the doors hanging from their hinges, the shattered filigree of the windows, the damp white moulds and fungi that exist on rottenness crawling slimily across its wooden walls. Gueynor looked at it, remembering how it had been. The stink of decay prickled at her nostrils, but despite that she went inside and, being free for the present from Aldric Talvalin’s well-meant cynicism, allowed herself to weep.

“Aye, my lady. It was fair—once.”

The shock of hearing another voice where none should have been made her start.
Kortagor
Jervan stood outlined in the doorway, no longer armoured but dressed with simple elegance in boots and breeches and a belted tunic. Something of the surprise she felt must have shown on her face, for he gestured at the garments and made a deprecating smile. “Every soldier comes off duty sometimes, lady Aline—even garrison commanders. My lieutenant has the trey watch this afternoon.”

“But why did you come here?”

“Because I like to, sometimes. Because I knew these gardens when they were gardens and not wasteland. I like to remember them as they were.” Jervan paused, looked at her. “And because I saw you walking here.”

“How would that interest you?”

“Because I have eyes, lady, and the wit to use them properly. And because
you
interest me.”

Gueynor stared at him and wished that she had a dagger. “In what way do I interest you, garrison commander Jervan?”

“In many ways. Except…” deliberately he moved out of the doorway, stepping aside to leave her escape route clear, “... the one you fear. I am a married man, lady. Oh, I know that does not render me immune to lust, especially since I am a beast in armour. Or are we called something else nowadays? I ceased listening to the insults long ago. But I have two daughters, and when I look at you I think of them. You are not so old and worldly as your painted face suggests, my lady Aline… I see them, and my wife, once a year. Never more. Once a year for the past two years, and then I come back to this… dung-heap. A morally and physically reeking pile where”—his eyes searched her face and were evidently satisfied by what they found there—”two mad cockerels compete for the heights to crow from. For all his faults, and his impetuous religious foolishness, your father was quite sane.”

To her eternal credit Gueynor did not overreact; she merely raised her brows with curiosity and said, “How could a soldier of the Empire be familiar with a peasant huntsman?”

Jervan grinned hugely at that and clapped his hands. “Very well done, my lady! Masterfully controlled!” Then the ironic humour left his voice and the wolfish amusement drained out of his bearded face. Again the girl wished she was armed… “You knew me, that evening at the gate. Did you not?” There was no point in denying it, not now, and Gueynor nodded. “Had it not been for your reaction, I would have given the encounter little thought. You cannot guess how many half-familiar faces trickle in and out during a day, a week, a month; and you recognise your brother’s face, your wife’s way of wearing her hair, your father’s way of walking with a cane he doesn’t need… And yet not one of them has seen you before, or likely will again. But
you
... You knew me and I felt sure that I knew you, but I could not for my life remember where or when. I sat awake most of last night, did you know—of course you didn’t, how could you?

“Because you have changed considerably since I let you and your uncle through the Westgate and away, that day ten years ago…”

“Who else knows… ?” Gueynor’s voice was very small.

“Nobody.” The
kortagor
laughed shortly, as if length of laughter was laid down in regulations. “The kind of puzzling to which it led me is best done alone—or even the politest of your fellow officers begin to talk.” He touched his head significantly. “There is a saying current in Seghar garrison—although not among the lord’s-men for obvious reasons—that such-and-such grows lordly. It’s an insult. They don’t say
crazy
any more; nor
insane;
not even plain and simple
mad
. Just
lordly
... They’re just ordinary troopers in my garrison, not remarkably intelligent—yet not stupid either, mind you—but what I mean is, they’re not witty, not clever with words. But whichever of them coined that description knew exactly what he was trying to say.”

“I… We saw the Overlord this morning.”

“Then you will understand, I think.”

“I do.” Gueynor took a deep breath and discovered a strange thing: she was no longer afraid. Whatever Jer-van was going to do, he would do whether or not she was frightened. And she greatly desired to know what that might be. The best way to find out, as Aldric had taught her, was to ask… “Commander Jervan, come to the point. Please…”

He saluted and did not grin to dilute it. “You too are growing lordly—and not in the fashion meant by my soldiers. Very well, lady… Gainore… ?”

“Gueynor.”

“Gueynor… The records were in some dialect—it’s not spelt as it’s spoken. I am… How much do you know of what has been happening here, lady?”

“Crisen’s consort was a witch. There was a mistake in a spell. She was killed. Those are the bare bones of what I’ve heard; people in Seghar don’t talk much to strangers.”

“Close enough. Lady Gueynor, what I—” Jervan broke off abruptly and left the summerhouse very fast, without any explanation. She saw for the first time that there was a short sword or long dagger sheathed hilt-downwards in the small of his back, where it had been hidden while he faced her. Even that discovery did not bring back her fear; the weapon was too big, its fittings and furniture too ornate for it to be a concealed blade in the way that Aldric’s tiny dirk had been concealed. Dictates of fashion, the girl hazarded.

And then
Kortagor
Jervan was back inside, looking unconcerned. “The advantage of a place like this,” he observed, “is that it was built to allow one to see landscapes, flower-beds—or anyone sneaking through them. Although I doubt that last was an original intention.”

“You command this place—why should you worry?”

“Hear me out and then ask again, my lady.” He pointed to a seat running round three of the small building’s five walls. “That’s not so dirty as it looks. Sit down—what I have to say may take time.”

“What—briefly—have you to say,
Kortagor
?”

“Briefly… Conspiracy, usurpation, treason. Although the words do alter, depending on who hears them. The Overlord would use those I selected; you, or your Alban traveling companion, might have a kinder vocabulary. We shall see…”

Widowmaker had been stripped bare, right down to the naked blade; she had been cleaned, polished, oiled and even stroked a needless time or two with a whetstone. Now, refurbished and glinting, she lay on her pine wood rack and waited with dreadful patience for the time of killing to come again. The time for which she had been made two thousand years before…

Immersed to the neck in fragrant water that was so hot it made the slightest movement painful—but trans-

formed immobility to a blissful languor—Aldric gazed through whorls of steam towards the sword and through it, seeing neither steel nor lacquer as he considered what he had done. Not merely outfaced a provincial Overlord in his own home and before his own men, although— Light of Heaven witness!—that was rash enough. No… He had also thrown away whatever chance he might have had through Geruath of introduction to either Goth or Bruda. Whatever his and Gueynor’s plans might be for the Overlord, his favour was needed—no, indispensable—for this one enterprise.

Insignificant though he probably was, the half-demented lord of Seghar still carried a thousand times more weight within the Empire than any Alban ever could, be he
eijo, kailin-eir
or
ilauem-arluth
, and without him Aldric’s duty to his king had suddenly become more fraught with difficulties and with risks. Lacking the formal modes of ingress that Geruath could have provided, he was as likely to meet an Imperial Prokrator or a Lord General as he was to fly rings around the moon.

The intense heat of the water faded slowly; Aldric had been pleasantly surprised to find such civilised amenities as an Alban bath-house and deep tub in the pest-hole that was Seghar. Most likely it had been installed by Gueynor’s father Erwan. Erwan… Evthan… His mind toyed briefly with the similarities of name, wondering whether there was something more than just coincidence about them… Then wondered what had become of Gueynor herself. Despite her refusal of his indelicate hint, she should have joined him by now. Not necessarily in the bath itself, although the notion had momentary attraction; despite the fact that they shared a bed, that they slept together, neither were euphemisms but simply statements. Other than the contacts born of companionship and comfort, Aldric had not touched the Jouvaine girl—much less made love to her—since the night when she had paid him for her uncle’s… release. Nor had he really wanted to. It would always now, remind him of blood on his hands. Love, lust, idle amusement: none of these would have disturbed him. But the thought that her embraces held the price of a life… no matter how noble the sentiment, it was repellent. And there was always another face over Gueynor’s, as if she wore a mask.

Kyrin . . ; Strange how he always seemed to want, to need, the unattainable. She would be married by now, maybe already carrying the seed of Seorth’s child within her. Whatever… she was lost to him.

“... I
know that I am lost
...” whispered the distant, uninvited voice in Aldric’s brain. And the scalding water grew abruptly colder.

“Marek… ?” he said, addressing no one but uttering a thought aloud. What was taking Gueynor so long to walk through a ruined garden… ? A feeling that was not quite fear but far stronger than mere apprehension crept over him. Whether it was a sixth-sense stab of warning or his own mind overheated by the water which surrounded him, he did not know for certain. But he did know that the matter had to be resolved if he was to have peace.

The tub was cooling rapidly now. He surged from the water and reached for a towel.

There was an interval of silence. A breeze began to blow, chilling the air, and it grew a little darker. Jervan looked outside, towards the sky, and nodded grimly. “It will rain soon,” he said. Then to Gueynor: “Have you noticed that? Even the weather here is strange. Unnatural…”

“Commander… This is your conspiracy, your treason—but whose usurpation? And why tell me?” Gueynor, despite her question, was wary of being told too much; often the ways of ensuring secrecy were swift and brutal.

“Have you not already guessed? There was a look about you, lady. I have been a soldier twenty years—I know the look of violence held in check as well as any man. Not delivered by your own hand, maybe, but… The young Alban is a killer.”

“He is
not
... !” Gueynor’s outraged denial cut off short, for when she considered the little that she knew of Aldric Talvalin, Jervan’s estimation of him was correct. It was strange that she had never thought of him as such.

“Tell me, lady,” said Jervan curiously, “can you be quite sure that he will kill at your command—or, more importantly, that he will not kill when you do not desire it?”