The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1) (22 page)

‘Perhaps. Yes. I’d like that,’ said Soren, remembering what Amero had said about displays of strength. He had no doubt that he could not only thrash Varrisher, but also show him up for the pompous popinjay that he was. For some reason he was feeling a growing rivalry with the man, but was not really sure why. ‘When will you make your first run this year?’ asked Soren.

‘Ah!’ He laughed. ‘That is a secret between me and my crew. Not even my backers get that information, but you may rest assured I will be leaving as soon as the waters are navigable!’

His bravado was greeted by encouraging shouts from several of the other men at the table, many of whom wore military uniforms of dark grey with scarlet and white sashes.

Soren had taken an instant dislike to Varrisher, and he felt from the way the man spoke to him that the feelings were entirely mutual. At first he was not sure what the issue between them was, but then it occurred to him that every time Alys spent any length of time talking to Soren, Varrisher would interrupt with some interesting fact about a foreign culture, a foreign city or some other interesting and exotic fact. One thing that Soren had quickly realised about Alys was her hunger for information about foreign places and the world outside of the Palace in general.

As the meal progressed however, Alys spent more and more time talking to Soren, asking him about the city, the weather, and every other aspect of life in the south. The conversation flowed easily. Alys was open, witty and insatiably curious. He wasn’t sure if it was to spite Varrisher or her engaging personality, but as time wore on he began to see an attractiveness in her that he had not initially.

Alys excused herself when the meal had finished, as did all the other women. The atmosphere grew rowdier and more drunken, but Soren did not find himself talking with Varrisher again.

By the time Soren’s head hit the pillow in the early hours of the morning, the room was spinning around him.

Amero sat on a plush armchair on the balcony of his apartment looking out over the Brixensea, nursing a glass of tonic salts. Emeric came out and stood with him, taking in a deep lungful of the crisp air.

‘Never tasted air so fresh; it feels like a glass of icy water,’ said Emeric.

‘Yes, it is quite refreshing, particularly after a night like last night, and I paced myself at one glass for every two our hosts had!’ said Amero.

‘Never had much of a thirst when in unfriendly lands,’ replied Emeric.

‘Well, the potential problem we discussed seems to have arisen,’ said Amero, bringing matters back to business.

‘Who?’ said Emeric.

‘The Chancellor; the portly old fellow with the red face. Marin is his name. He won’t go for it at all. The others seem keen, but the Prince listens to Marin, over all the others. As long as he has the Prince’s ear, there will be no deal,’ said Amero.

‘So, as we discussed then?’ Emeric said solemnly.

‘Yes, Ruripathia is the key to the plan, so I am not leaving here without an agreement. All of the others are biddable enough. Sweetening the deal a little will keep them all on board, but it is clear that Marin won’t budge no matter what. It can’t come back to us though, that would be the worst possible scenario. We’ll need to find a way to do it that won’t bring any suspicion to our door. I’d like to get home with my head still attached to my body,’ said Amero.

‘Understood. There won’t be any problems,’ replied Emeric.

‘Have Soren kill the old bastard,’ Amero said after a moment’s consideration. ‘I want to make certain he has the stomach for this type of work before I spend any more money on him.’

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ asked Emeric.

‘Yes. He looked tasty enough in the ruins, and I don’t believe for a second that was the first time he’s killed someone. He’s probably been knocking off rival gutter rats since he was weaned off the tit. It’s the life he’s accepted for himself and I want him to be made aware of it sooner rather than later. He doesn’t need to know the real reason why,’ said Amero. He returned to sipping his mineral salts and Emeric left, knowing his master well enough to be aware of when a conversation was over.

Soren’s head was throbbing that morning also, so he was glad that the negotiations were being held in closed session. He tried to sleep fitfully until just before lunchtime, when there was a knock on the door.

He got out of bed, wrapped himself in a gown and went to the door. Emeric walked straight in.

‘There is something we need to talk about, lad,’ he said.

This piqued Soren’s interest, momentarily making him forget that his head felt like it was about to split open at any moment.

‘Amero has a job for us. For you mainly,’ he said.

Soren nodded. He had expected something like this sooner or later.

‘The negotiations have hit a stumbling block. One of the Prince’s more elderly advisors, Chancellor Marin, is a firebrand. He wants Baelin back as part of Ruripathia, and won’t agree to any deal that gives them anything less. The Prince places a lot of faith on what he says. As long as he is around, the Count feels that a peace treaty is impossible,’ said Emeric.

‘He wants me to kill him?’ Soren asked uncertainly.

‘Not kill, assassinate. This is a political assassination and a necessary one at that. No less necessary a killing than the man you skewered in the ruins,’ replied Emeric. ‘This man is agitating for a war. Thousands would die. This is what you took upon yourself when you agreed to go to the Academy. You didn’t think it would be all fancy uniforms and swooning ladies and banquets now did you? This is how men of our type earn our keep. This isn’t some penny paid back alley killing, although more than one swordsman has ended up in that line. That’s the bottom of the barrel for men like us, and I assure you that you are destined for greater things if you play your cards right. This is statesmanship. Our actions can help secure the future of Ostia. Us. Two nobodies from nowhere who’ve got somewhere. That is responsibility indeed, and as noble a purpose as you could look for. We won’t be doing it for a night or two yet, so prepare yourself for it.’

Soren spent the rest of the day lazing around in his room thinking of the task ahead. He had killed before and it had not bothered him. That was in his own defence. Now he was being asked to kill on behalf of the city. It was the duty of a swordsman to kill, or indeed be killed for the defence of the city. Whether that was on the open battlefield or hidden by intrigue made little difference. Whatever the method or reason, it was better than living from moment to moment on the street. If that was what was required for him to be a swordsman, that was what he would do.

There was another knock at the door that pulled him from his thoughts.

‘Like most of the other men, you seem to have kept to your bed chamber for an uncommonly long time today!’ said Alys.

She had two of her ladies in waiting standing awkwardly behind her as she stood staring at Soren’s bedraggled appearance.

‘May we come in?’ she inquired.

Soren stepped back and gestured for them to enter. She sat at one of the chairs by the small table at the window, while her ladies in waiting sat on a chaise longue near the door.

‘My father has said that he will take a break in the negotiations for a few days to think on what has been said. By a few days he means a week or so, and I thought it might be the ideal opportunity to show you some snow!’ she said.

Soren was taken aback. ‘Where?’ he asked.

‘The Summer Palace. It’s in the foothills of the mountains to the northeast, a little more than a day’s journey away. The belek hunting season will have just started by then. It will be fantastic fun,’ she said enthusiastically.

‘I’ll have to ask the Count of Moreno. I’m not sure what he will intend for me,’ Soren replied.

‘It’s all been arranged; he is staying here but has said you may come. We will leave the day after tomorrow and spend four days there. A belek hunt is a right of passage for young Ruripathian noblemen. You may have noticed most of the nobles wearing grey fur cloaks?’ she asked.

Soren had. They were the shimmering blued-steel and silver coloured cloaks of incredibly rich looking fur that were worn by many, but not all of the noblemen at the court.

‘I have, they look very nice,’ he said. ‘Very warm!’

‘Those cloaks are worn by noblemen who killed a belek before they turned twenty one years old. They are the only ones that are allowed. If you are lucky you might have one by the time you return south!’ she said.

‘Forgive my ignorance, my Lady, but what is a belek?’

‘Do you not have them in Ostia?’ she asked, somewhat puzzled.

‘We might, but I have never seen, or heard of one before,’ Soren said.

‘Oh, well, they look a little like a cat I suppose, but are as big as a bear, sometimes bigger! I assume you have cats and bears in Ostia?’

‘Yes, we do,’ said Soren in amusement.

‘Good, well, belek are incredibly intelligent and cunning, and very, very dangerous. Many young noblemen are killed or maimed hunting them every year,’ she said.

It did not seem like a particularly attractive pursuit to Soren, but he would never claim to fully understand the ways of bored aristocrats.

‘Anyway, I have much to prepare, so remember, the day after tomorrow. We leave early, so be ready!’ she said.

It was clear that she would not accept any refusal to go on his part, so he acquiesced to her command. In any event, it would not be the done thing to refuse such an invitation from royalty. With that she and her two ladies breezed out of his room.

Amero was not altogether pleased at the prospect of the planned hunting trip, but he acknowledged that there was little that could be done about it. It would not look good for Soren to refuse the invitation when it was clear the young Princess considered his going a foregone conclusion, and had begun preparations.