The Rebel Prince (23 page)

Once free from the accusing eyes of the Merron, Wynter paused. Standing in the dusty sunshine, she breathed deep and clenched her teeth and her hands as she tried to get herself under some control.

Razi was striding towards the foot of the slope, his eyes on Alberon’s tent. He passed the knot of older Haun, who were staring up the hill, murmuring anxiously among themselves. He passed the Wolves’ beautiful horses and the slaves who tended them. He didn’t so much as falter at the base of the hill, just strode purposefully upwards as if he had always expected this meeting; as if he had planned for it all his life.

Wynter lowered her chin and dashed after him, dodging the Haun and the horses and the patient slaves. Running to Razi’s side, she fell into step with him, her eyes fixed ahead, her hand on her sword. He came to a halt and she strode on, not looking back.

‘Wyn,’ he said flatly, ‘go back to him. I do not want you here.’

‘Don’t bother, Razi,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not about to waste my time arguing with you.’ She kept walking, but Razi did not follow, and she was forced to stop and look back at him.

His face was utterly hard. ‘You will not meet these men.’

‘Yes, I shall,’ she said. ‘I shall most
certainly
meet these men. I want very much to meet the men who stole his hands and enslaved his family. I want very
much
to look into the faces of the ones who hurt those poor girls at the inn. I want to know why it is they still wander about Algiers day after day without you baying for their blood, Razi. I want to know why it is that our brother has called them to his table. I will
not
sit on my arse like a good woman and let this go on without me. If Christopher is to be once again denied his vengeance, I shall be there to find out why.’

‘This is not the time for childish displays of defiance,’ he cried. ‘I have had the weight of these creatures hung around my neck since I was fourteen years old, Wynter. Christopher’s life has been blighted by them for as long as he can recall. Do not step in now and act as though you understand a whit of what we feel.’

Wynter didn’t bother to reply. She simply stood with her hand on her sword, waiting for Razi to start up the slope again. Razi snarled and looked away. His eyes slipped to the tents behind which the hounds still voiced their frustration and rage.

‘Do not expect me to go in there with my sword drawn,’ he warned quietly. ‘I doubt Alberon’s plans will afford me the luxury. This world is not simple, Wynter. One cannot always have the blood one wants.’

The dogs howled again, and Razi’s furious mask slipped a little. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

‘Oh, do not fret, brother,’ said Wynter coldly. ‘It is only the warhounds. Christopher is a good man, and strong. I have no doubt that he has already regained his self-control. I wager he has grown uncommonly good at suppressing his feelings. He has, after all, been associating with the likes of us for long enough.’

Razi snapped his eyes to her, and Wynter stared flatly back at him.

‘Fine,’ he said at last. ‘Fine! If you’re coming, let us go.’ And he strode towards the waiting tent, Wynter by his side.

LE GAROU

T
HE GUARDS
around Alberon’s tent eyed Razi and Wynter as they approached. Oliver was standing in the shadow of the awning, and he came quickly forward, striding down the slope to head Razi off before he got anywhere near the wary soldiers.

Wynter expected Razi to shove his way past, but instead he halted, regarding the knight from under his brows.

‘Do not do this, my Lord,’ warned Oliver quietly, ‘please.’

Razi spoke just as quietly, his voice inaudible to the watching men. ‘Either let me past, or kill me, Oliver. Which will it be?’

Oliver regarded him closely, and Razi held his gaze. ‘I shall get access, or die trying, Sir Knight. I ask you again, which will it be?’

Oliver’s eyes fell to Wynter.

‘I shall accompany the Lord Razi.’

Oliver briefly squeezed his eyes shut; then he gestured the soldiers to give the lord and lady access. Wynter and Razi strode into the shade of the awning and straight through the door. Oliver stood for a moment in the sunshine, as if too weary to move, then he followed them in.

The map-table and its four chairs had been brought inside. Alberon sat on one side of it, David Le Garou on the other. David’s Seconds lined the wall behind him, loose-limbed and ready, watching their leader’s back. At Razi’s entrance, they straightened as one, their slanting eyes filled with amused delight.

David Le Garou rose smoothly to his feet, all his teeth showing in a grin. His eyes dropped to Wynter, then back to Razi. ‘Al-Sayyid,’ he murmured. ‘What a pleasant surprise. I had heard that you were dead.’

‘Why are you here?’ asked Razi.

David lifted his eyebrows and he turned to Alberon in feigned shock, as if expecting the Prince to reprimand his brother for his rudeness. There was a moment of heavy silence. Alberon drummed his fingers on the table. Once. A gesture of contained anger.

‘I take it that you know each other,’ he said tightly.

Le Garou shrugged and spread his hands. ‘We have met, in passing. Now and again.’

‘You have done your best these past five years to destabilise my relations within the Moroccan court,’ said Razi. ‘You have done everything you can to use me to drive a wedge between the Sultan and my father. I ask again, why are you here?’

‘The dealings at court were not my idea,’ tutted David. ‘That was my father, the great André Le Garou. It is he who tries to distance the Sultan from his old allies. I have no personal opinion on who rules the Moroccos. But we all must support our fathers, must we not? In word and in deed. One must do one’s father’s bidding . . . Still,’ the Wolf smiled slyly, ‘if my father has been a trouble to you you have never seemed too discomfited, al-Sayyid. If he has offended you in speech or act, you have yet to let it show.’

‘Your father thought I would cry havoc, did he not?’ said Razi. ‘He thought that my pride would drive me to act rashly. He hoped I would run riot with some bloody-handed vendetta and so damage my standing as a diplomat. No doubt he thought a half-breed boy-prince would never have had the self-control to let such an act go.’

Le Garou shrugged. ‘If so, you proved him wrong. How proud that must make you feel.’

Alberon looked warily from Le Garou to Razi, not understanding. ‘What did you do?’ he asked the Wolf.

Le Garou smiled again. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘al-Sayyid thinks we damaged his property . . . some trifling act of vandalism for which he blames us. It is not unusual. The Loups-Garous tend to get blamed for such things. It’s just the way the world is.’

Wynter realised with a sudden jolt of horror that he was speaking of Christopher and of what had been done to him. It was abruptly, shockingly clear that Christopher’s terrible mutilation, the theft of all that he was, had been done for no other reason than to get at Razi. It had been nothing more than a vicious jab at al-Sayyid. Christopher had been taken and broken like a stolen toy, all as a petty attempt to goad Razi into vengeance and ruin his reputation in the Sultan’s court.

She stared at David Le Garou’s slyly smiling face and understood at last the depths of Razi’s restraint and of Christopher’s patience. For nearly four years, her friends had suppressed their rage and their grief, all for the sake of this kingdom. Wynter wondered how often in those years Razi had told Christopher
soon
,
soon
, and how often he had needed to go back on his word.

The hounds outside the tent raised their voices once more, and Wynter struggled to quell the hatred that rose within her and the rage that threatened to cloud her vision.

‘
Jesu
, Razi,’ sighed Alberon wearily. ‘Whatever these men did, I shall be certain they make reparation for it, but now is not the time to settle old scores. Horse theft and broken trinkets will need to be put aside for the time being. We have bigger things to hand.’

‘Yes, al-Sayyid,’ said Le Garou, smirking at Razi. ‘Please do not fret. Though the Wolves have naught to do with your loss, I am certain we should have no trouble replacing your damaged goods. After all, though rare here, such things are ten a penny where we come from. I believe I may even have some with me, if I look in my baggage.’

The Wolf called Jean snickered, and Alberon and Oliver looked sharply at him. Wynter saw a cold resolve harden in Alberon’s face, and it served to settle her nauseating rage. She knew that Alberon could not possibly have grasped the context of the Wolves’ vile needling, but the look on the Prince’s face told her that he would not tolerate their sly amusement at his brother’s expense. Whatever Alberon’s original thoughts towards Razi’s inclusion in these talks, Wynter was certain the Wolves had just won their rival a place at the Prince’s table.

Sure enough, Alberon patted the chair on his left. ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘come now, and take your place by me. As ever, I should benefit from your contribution to my affairs. Your insights are always so acute.’

Le Garou lost his smile, and Razi rounded the table to sit at the Prince’s left hand. He was darkly contained, his movements smooth and unhurried. When he had taken his seat, he folded his hands on the table and gazed blandly at Le Garou as if waiting for him to read from a menu, or serve up some tea. His calmness astounded Wynter; it reminded her exactly what Razi was capable of.

Oliver moved to stand at Alberon’s back, his hands resting on the handle of his sword, consciously mirroring Le Garou’s three watchful guards.

‘Protector Lady,’ said Alberon, ‘you will attend?’

Wynter nodded stiffly, grateful that he had chosen to recognise her and not, as would have been his right, ignored her and shamed her into leaving of her own accord. She did not commit the horrible presumption of sitting at the treaty table, nor did she set herself up as Oliver’s equal in guarding the Prince, but she crossed instead to take a seat on the relative obscurity of Alberon’s cot.

The row of Seconds followed her movement with bemused interest. Even before crossing the tent, she had succeeded in forcing down her rage. By the time she took her seat, she felt almost nothing – so deeply had she buried her feelings. Her face cold, her hands steady, she settled herself on Alberon’s cot, then stared at the leering Wolves until they looked away. Their expressions gave no doubt that they presumed her to be Razi’s woman, and the idea of it entertained them no end.

‘Pretty,’ murmured Gérard.

‘But small,’ added Pierre, ‘scarcely more than a mouthful.’

Wynter glanced at Razi and Alberon, expecting them to rage, but either they had not heard or they refused to be needled by it. Pierre smirked to himself and licked his lips.

Were you at the tavern?
thought Wynter suddenly.
Was it
you?
She knew it was not. These higher-ranking Wolves had not been involved in those terrible deeds at the Wherry Tavern. Still, looking at their faces, Wynter could not help but recall the feel of teeth and fur against her cheek, the clench of iron-strong arms around her body, the hot blast of a chuckle in her ear. Christopher had sacrificed himself to save her from them, but the landlord’s daughters had not been so lucky. The face of the eldest girl was a clear memory, bruised and swollen and white with shock the next day, her little sister’s broken body laid out before them on the kitchen table. Wynter closed her hand on the hilt of her sword. Her face betrayed nothing, but there was a sudden acid pain in her belly, and she wondered if it was all her hidden anger and fear, finally burning itself into the pit of her stomach.

There was a small movement beside her and she slid her eyes left. Coriolanus cowered in his little nest, his beautiful eyes huge. Wynter thought she had never seen a cat so close to tears. Forcing her fingers to release her weapon, Wynter reached and discreetly stroked his trembling back. It seemed to comfort Cori a little, but it also centred Wynter and let her think.

David Le Garou pushed back the embroidered tails of his moss-green coat and resumed his seat. ‘Your Highness—’ he began.

‘You have brought slaves to this camp,’ interrupted Razi.

‘Oh, are we to speak of slaves?’ asked Le Garou, raising his eyebrows in fascination and folding his gloved hands on the tabletop.

‘They are forbid here.’

Le Garou sighed patiently. ‘I remind you, slaves are only forbid to those residing in your father’s kingdom, al-Sayyid. Travellers are allowed their property.’

‘Only if travelling the port road, and only after paying the appropriate taxes. We are far from the port road here, David, and I have yet to hear of Wolves paying taxes.’

‘I have dispensation.’ Le Garou looked pointedly to Alberon.

‘I did not sanction the conveyance of human chattels,’ corrected Alberon.

Le Garou sat back, spreading his hands in mock defeat. ‘Then I shall set them loose,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they’ll be fortunate enough to find work somewhere – or perhaps they can throw themselves on your charity, al-Sayyid? Your generosity being what it is.’

Razi lowered his chin, his lip curled back to reply, but Alberon silenced them both with a raised hand.