The King's Sons (The Herezoth Trilogy) (7 page)

Vane
insisted, “I’ll be fine, Gracia.” His desire to prevent her describing what
awaited him lent his new voice a false confidence.

“Rexson,”
the queen prodded, “his stone?”

Vane asked
what in the Giver’s name she was referring to, and the king told him, “The
Lifestone. Your uncle’s Lifestone. You’re to carry it on you. It’ll keep you
alive if Linstrom tries to kill you.”

Vane had
heard about the Lifestone, heard the legends as a child. Supposedly it was an
enchanted gem of some kind, which would keep its possessor alive despite all
injury and any degree of pain. His tyrant uncle had sought as well as found it,
to aid in torture. It currently hid as a ruby affixed to the base of a
sculpture in the Palace garden.

“It’ll keep
me alive, you mean, until Linstrom realizes there’s something sustaining my
life and steals the thing. The last scenario you need unfolding is that man
with that stone.”

The king’s
voice was firm. “Should Linstrom turn treacherous, the Lifestone will permit
you to feign death until you transport yourself away. To get aid.”

“Provided I
can transport with the injuries.”

“Vane
Unsten, you left four children at home this morning. You know damn well you’re
a son to me, and you’re taking the stone. We’re going to the garden so you can
retrieve it.”

Rexson
pulled Vane out his antechamber, at which point the transformed duke twisted
himself free but followed. The king was his king. An order was an order. Vane
quailed at the thought of the stone, of how his uncle had wanted to use it, but
knew that he himself would be taking it to Partsvale.

The sun had
only begun to rise. The sky was a beautiful shade of violet, the weather calm,
with not even a breeze. The gardens lay between the Palace and the stables, and
Rexson led Vane to the statue in question, one of an ancient, robed
sorcerer-lord whom a brass plate named Brenthor. Rubies lined his garment.

“It’s one of
these,” said the king, indicating the bottom and back of the statue. “Can you
determine which?”

“
Encanta
,” muttered Vane. That was a
spell to identify traces of magic on an object, and it made one of the stones
glow a vibrant yellow, then fade back to its normal scarlet. A common slicing
spell tore the ruby from the statue; Vane brought it into his hand with another
incantation.

The king
told him, “I regret you have to do this. Have to go to Linstrom.”

So did the
sorcerer. But that was neither here nor there, not what the king needed to hear
from him. “You’re not at fault. I’m doing my part to keep Linstrom’s havoc to a
minimum, the same as Gratton. The same as you. I understand that, as does
August. I’ll pass myself off as a baker, like my ally—a family trade,
since we’re to be cousins—and I’ll be back tonight to inform you of any
developments.”

“The Giver’s
fullest blessings,” spoke the king. “And all my prayers, the most heartfelt.
Now go, before I decide I can’t permit you.”

Some minutes
later, bag in hand, Vane walked the high street of Partsvale. The area had
always been one of his favorites in Herezoth. It lay a fortnight’s journey from
the capital, but his magic allowed him to frequent the village as often as he
chose, and he regularly went there for quiet, to put aside the obligations that
tied him to Podrar and to the court.

That was not
the motive for this visit, and Vane worried, among other things, that the day’s
tasks would forever taint his memories of and fondness for Partsvale. At least
the scene was as picturesque as ever; to the north, the peaks of one of the
highest sections of the Pearl Mountains reared. Behind him, at the foot of the
winding cobblestone road, stood the famous Shrine of the Giver with its
steeples and towers, its windows as wide as ten men.

The path’s
incline was steep, and Vane found breathing difficult by the time he recognized
the bakery amidst the similar-looking shops clustered near it. They were housed
in what could have been wooden cabins, most two stories tall. The smell of
fresh bread drew Vane’s attention to the building he sought as much as the sign
out front, and the pleasant, saliva-inducing scent made him unexpectedly, but
gladly, hungry. He had hardly slept and had not eaten in twelve hours.

Vane knew
the high street, but had never patronized the bakery. He had never met his
fellow spy, Ryne Howar, and he found himself wishing the man were a previous
acquaintance as he quickened his pace and entered Howar’s shop.

The stoves
were in the back, out of sight behind a pair of swinging doors, but loaves of
various shapes and sizes were on display in a glass-fronted case against the
wall. Two men in flour-stained aprons were attending a small crowd of
customers, mostly women in work frocks. Wooden chairs lined a wall, but none
was occupied. As Vane watched the bakers move from person to person, he guessed
which must be Ryne Howar: the other was no older than twenty, with acne on his
nose and chin.

Howar was a
well-built man of forty, perhaps. He was bald, as Gratton had described, with a
baritone voice and an impish gleam in his eye to negate the characteristics
that would otherwise have made him quite the imposing figure. As he maneuvered
through his clientele in Vane’s direction, Howar asked, “What’ll you have
today? Got some larger loaves to make a mouth water.”

Vane feigned
annoyance, an annoyance deliberately exaggerated. “Well, that’s just grand. You
don’t know me? You send all the way to Podrar for me, and don’t recognize your
cousin?” He raised his bag to face level. “This didn’t clue you in?”

Howar’s mind
was sharp. He looked confused for a fraction of a second, and then
understanding lit his face. Vane said, “I’m Rickard, you oaf.” Common name.
Wouldn’t draw attention or be remembered. “You forget you wrote for me, or
what?”

Howar hugged
the stranger before him as though the man were family. As he did so, he
transferred flour from his apron to Vane’s shirt and whispered, “Ingleton?”

“Yes,” Vane
whispered back. “Play along.”

Howar let
out a natural-sounding chuckle as he slapped Vane on the spine. “What do you
expect? It’s been twelve years.”

“Thirteen,”
Vane pretended to correct him. “If you want to be precise. I met up with a man on
the road who lives near here, and he put me up for the night. Didn’t want to
trouble him for longer.”

“As you can
see, this isn’t the time of day to catch up. I don’t imagine you’ve eaten this
morning?” Vane said he hadn’t, and Howar fetched one of the smaller loaves from
the case for him. Handing it to the duke, he said, “Busy at the moment….
Business is booming, as they say.”

Vane glanced
at the crowd surrounding him. “Glad to see it. Very glad.”

Howar slapped
him on the back again. “Come back around two. Things slow down then. We’ll be
able to chat. Thirteen years…. There’s much to talk about.”

“Much,” Vane
agreed. He felt surer of himself, with that introduction going as well as it
had. He even hoped that one or two of the people in the bustle all around
belonged to Evant Linstrom. If so, they might prove viable witnesses of
Rickard’s familial relationship with Ryne Howar.

Vane left
his bag at the bakery, and though his mind was distracted, his stomach felt
normal enough that he ate most of his loaf mechanically as he sat on a bench
off the high road, anticipating his next move. Now that Howar could verify
Vane’s cover story if pressed upon, Vane needed to see Evant Linstrom. Best to
speak with the man as soon as possible.

When Vane
realized he had eaten enough bread to constitute a decent breakfast, he tossed
the remainder of the loaf to some pigeons that had gathered near the stoop of a
general store. Then he continued up the cobblestone street in the direction of
the cobbler’s workshop. The sun was low yet, the morning mild for summer. Had
Vane come to Partsvale on other business, he would have taken the time to
appreciate the quaint yet bustling scene and the scent of roasting bacon that
enticed passersby through an open tavern window. As things were, Vane hurried
as he climbed the twisting road, anxious to get the meeting behind him, running
prayers for wisdom through his head as he went.

The
cobbler’s shop wasn’t difficult to find, a five minutes’ walk away. Vane hoped
Linstrom would be at work, and was relieved when he peered through an
uncurtained pane in the wooden wall to see two men seated on stools, deep in
conversation as they fixed new soles to boots from a stack piled between them.
The first looked close to Vane’s age, around thirty. His height was average and
his eyes a piercing gray. He tied his thick black hair at the base of his neck
in a style the duke associated with nobility; this sorcerer—this Evant
Linstrom—had an ego, then. His most striking feature, to Vane’s eye, was
the crooked nose Gratton had mentioned. Someone had broken it in time past.

The other
man was taller and a bit less stocky. He seemed a few years older than his
fellow, and fairly bristled with pent-up energy. He had auburn hair, much like
Vane’s when Vane was not enchanted, and a bushy beard he clearly took pride in
keeping groomed. Though his clothing was patched and not of the quality of
Linstrom’s, Vane’s first impression was that of an individual he would be
foolish to antagonize.

Before Vane
could reconsider or doubt his plan, he barged through the door. The cobblers
fell silent, and Linstrom turned his head to the newcomer, exasperated. “You a
pilgrim? We’re finishing old jobs. Don’t open to take new ones for two hours.”

Vane said,
“I’m here on other business. My cousin sent me to an Evant Linstrom. He’s an
associate of yours, he said. You know Ryne Howar?”

That piqued
Linstrom’s interest; his air of bother waned. “I see,” he said. He threw the
boot he held to the floor and rose to shake Vane’s hand. “Let’s talk in the
storeroom, shall we? Terrance, bolt the front door and join us.”

So Vane had
been right to judge the second cobbler Linstrom’s accomplice; Gratton had
warned one worked with him.

The poorly
clad Terrance took little time to follow Linstrom and Vane into a large closet.
Shelves held scraps of leather, while awls and other tools hung from hooks on
the walls. The room lacked furniture or any place to sit, so the men stood.

Linstrom lit
a wall lamp with an incantation before he swung the door shut with
another—
Mudar
, one of the first
Vane had learned—and cast a sound barrier that made the closet glow
yellow. Vane’s heart was beating faster than usual, and sweat broke out on the
back of his neck. The leather’s odor was sickening.

Linstrom
demanded, “You’re Howar’s cousin? What has he told you?”

“Only that I
should speak with you. Thinks I’d be interested in some offer you might have.
He said you’d find my visit a pleasant surprise.”

Linstrom
observed, “It’s not your average man who doesn’t blink at the sight of three
incantations cast in a row.”

Vane
responded, “
Mudar
,” and a box of
nails that had fallen to the floor flew up into Linstrom’s hand. “I’m not your
average man.”

Linstrom
nodded in approval. “No wonder that cousin of yours thought we should meet.
Again, how much did he tell you?”

“Mentioned
our meeting up wouldn’t be something the king would like, and left it there.”
That was the only safe answer to give. Anything more would paint Howar as
having a loose tongue.

The man
called Terrance sneered. “And that brought you here from—Podrar, is it?”

Vane’s new
accent. Rexson’s spy explained, “Ryne was cryptic enough to inspire the
journey, seeing as anything the king wouldn’t like is generally all right by
me.”

Linstrom
asked, “And why would that be?”

“Because His
Majesty’s a bloody fool, that’s why.”

“In what
sense?” Linstrom demanded. “What’s your grudge? Most deem the man rules fairly
enough. He created the Magic Council. Supports the sorcerer-duke….”

Vane sprang
at Linstrom. He pushed him back against the shelves, where folds of leather
tumbled down around them. “Don’t mention the Duke of Ingleton in front of me!
Do you know who I am? I’m the Duke of Yangerton’s bastard. Carson Amison’s, the
man Ingleton damn well butchered ten years back.”

Linstrom
hazarded, “Yangerton was no sorcerer.”

“I got my
magic from my mother. As for my father: Yangerton had his flaws, but he sent
her money through the years. When she fell ill, he started sending more. I
never met him, but I sure as hell respected him. Followed his work on the
Foreign Affairs Council.

“My mother’s
health was going when that maniac slew Amison, and in cold blood. The money
stopped. I didn’t know magic then and I couldn’t afford a doctor, so she died.
Ingleton killed my mother when he killed Yangerton, that’s simple fact. As for
His Majesty tucked away in the Crystal Palace, well, he sees fit to accept
Ingleton as his personal lap dog of a sorcerer, doesn’t he?”

Vane’s blood
went cold. He had indeed killed the Duke of Yangerton a decade back, after
casting a spell to trade places with August, a pregnant August, whom Yangerton
had been about to stab in the abdomen. Vane took the dagger instead, before
slicing open the monster’s chest with an incantation. He avoided referencing
the event whenever possible, and sensed that Terrance, if not Linstrom, would
gut him a second time at the slightest suspicion his story was cock and bull.