The Warlord's Legacy (36 page)

L
OCATING
C
ORPORAL
T
IVIAM
had been just as easy as the guard had suggested. Corvis and the others set themselves up in the Three Sheets, and it was only the second evening when a broad-shouldered fellow with cropped hair and his left arm in a leather sling showed up and began drinking as though to douse a fire in his gut. In fact, Corvis realized upon seeing him enter, the man had been present the other day, sitting off alone in a corner and guzzling mead. He’d been right there, had Corvis known to talk to him.

Coaxing the story from him had proved somewhat more challenging. Corvis loosened his tongue with multiple rounds, and left a small but gleaming heap of coins on the counter before him—real, this time, in case the whole escapade should take too long for an illusion to hold. And still, in the end, it was not Corvis at all, but Irrial, who got what they came for. In her huskiest voice, her auburn locks falling across her face, she fawned over the “courageous warrior.” Her breath came in sympathetic gasps over his mangled arm, and her eyes grew moist at the account of his fallen companions.

And only when she—and Corvis, sitting rapt at the next table, hanging on every word—had heard it all, did they depart, leaving Captain Tiviam to his efforts at washing the memories away. When last they saw him, his head was slumped over a drinking horn, empty save for a tiny
puddle sloshing around the bottom. Into that vessel, over and over, he repeated again the last words he’d said to Irrial.

“He could have vanished at any time. He didn’t have to kill them at all …”

Corvis and Irrial pushed through the crowded market, weaving around last-minute shoppers hoping to do a final bit of business before the vendors closed up for the night. This late into the evening, the sounds of Denathere had grown muted but otherwise remained unchanged. Corvis had to fight the urge to stick a finger in each ear and waggle them about, trying to clear an obstruction that he knew was purely imaginary.

It was, for a few minutes, preferable to actually thinking.

Mindlessly, he allowed Irrial to guide him back to their quarters. The rooms stood on the third floor of an establishment far nicer than the Three Sheets (it’d been the baroness who acquired them, and it showed), but truth be told Corvis was so distracted that, if his life had depended on it, he never could have recalled its name. Only when they were settled in one of the two bedchambers—replete with chairs upholstered in cherry red, down-stuffed mattresses lined with clean linen sheets, even a brass lamp with jasmine-scented oil—did he reluctantly crawl from his comfortable mental quilts and direct his thoughts toward the tale they’d been told.

“I think we have to assume,” he said without preamble, “that whoever’s behind this has a
much
more detailed knowledge of me and my methods than we’d suspected.” Even saying it aloud made him uncomfortable, and he could only hope his voice was steady. The last time someone had popped up with excess information about Corvis’s past, he’d thrown the entire nation into shambles and nearly obliterated Mecepheum itself.

To say nothing of Corvis’s family …

Seilloah leapt up to the tabletop, sniffed unhappily at the glittering lamp, and then nodded perfunctorily before proceeding to chew at something stuck between her claws. “Probably a safe assumption,” she agreed.

Irrial, however, sounded less convinced. “Why? What about the corporal’s
story worries you—other than the thought that someone might be even more vile than you were?”

“It’s a combination of things,” Corvis said, vaguely disturbed by the cat-witch’s behavior and, for the nonce, oblivious to Irrial’s verbal dig. “The men who died in that house by what’s been made to look like Khanda’s soul-consumption, the red glow Tiviam described …” He tapped his fingers idly on the edge of the table, stopping immediately as Seilloah glared at him. “It’s all the little details, and they’re all
right.
”

“What
about
that glow?” the baroness asked.

“Khanda. I usually wore the pendant on a chain, and it hung beneath the armor. Only someone very close when I used my magics—
his
magics—would have seen it. So, yeah,
maybe
someone who saw me fight in the past was just astoundingly observant, and remembers
every
detail, but I’d say the odds are pretty heavily against it. Plus, they wouldn’t necessarily understand the
significance
of what they saw.”

‘
But it’s nice to be noticed. An artist is never appreciated in his own time, you know
?’

Corvis felt his fingers curling into fists. “Would you stop?” He was never certain if he’d only thought it, or whispered aloud.

‘
See? That’s exactly what I mean. You never appreciated me, Corvis. I bet you don’t remember my birthday, either.
’

He allowed his eyes to squeeze as tightly shut as his fists, hoping the others would attribute it to his exhaustion.

“No,” he continued finally, “I think we’d better prepare ourselves for the notion that we’re dealing with someone who knew me personally, or who’s spoken in depth with someone who did.”

“At least it’s a short list,” Seilloah remarked around a mouthful of fur. Then, “I hate to bring this up, but Jassion
did
go to see Tyannon …”

“No. No chance.”

“Corvis—”

“No. I’m not saying it’s impossible that she’d have helped him to find me, under the right circumstances, but even if she remembered details, why would she tell him? They wouldn’t do him any good in hunting me down. We’re looking for someone else.”

Seilloah and Irrial exchanged skeptical glances, but neither pressed the issue.

“So yes,” he said, “it’s a small list. And the first step is to find them.”

Corvis looked deeply into the lamp’s burning light, focusing past his fatigue.
And gods, the last few days shouldn’t have been so exhausting! I should never have agreed to getting old …

“Davro first.” Corvis felt the faint tug of his spell, gazed off in its direction even though there was little to see but a dull beige wall. Wading through sluggish thoughts, he translated the strength of the pull into a sense of distance, and that distance into a line on his mental map of Imphallion …

“Still in that bucolic valley of his, I think.” Corvis couldn’t help grinning, remembering his response upon first learning what had become of the fearsome ogre.

“I’m not sure that means anything,” Seilloah warned. “He was
really
unhappy with you.”

“True. But he also doesn’t want anyone knowing where he lives. I doubt he’d risk drawing attention to himself. Still, we’ll follow up if we need to.”

Again he concentrated, using the flickering flame as a focus. But this time, there was …

“Nothing.” He rocked back in his chair, blinking rapidly. “Losalis is gone, Seilloah.”

“Are you sure? Maybe someone just broke the spell.”

“Maybe.” But he didn’t sound at all convinced, and for long moments he refused to speak any further.

“Losalis was a good man,” he said finally, answering the question embedded in their silence. “Or at least he was a loyal one. I just hope, if he
is
dead, that it was nothing I did that got him killed.”

“Right,” Irrial spat with surprising rancor. “Because that’s
so much
worse than the thousands of good men that you killed
deliberately.
”

“Let it go,” Seilloah commanded, even as Corvis, his face growing hot, opened his mouth to retort. He glared, nodded, and turned again toward the lamp.

‘
What, she doesn’t even get a
“
Shut up
”?
If
I’d
said that, I’d have gotten a
“
Shut up.
” ’

“Shut up,” Corvis whispered.

One last time, one more soul who had served at his side during the Serpent’s War, one more to whom he’d attached his invisible tethers of magic. Again the tug, again the mental struggle to translate that amorphous sensation into real distance.

A peculiar gurgle bubbled from his throat, the result of hysterical laughter and a frustrated sob slamming into each other deep in his chest. And he wondered, even as he delivered the news, just how often he would have to retrace his own steps before this was finished.

“
Emdimir
?” He’d never heard Irrial’s voice reach quite such a pitch as he did in that disbelieving squawk. “After all this, why would you want us to go back
east
?”

He shrugged. “Near as I can tell, that’s where she is.”

“Well …” Irrial frowned. “At least it’s not all the way back to Rahariem. I’m not sure I could face … What?” she demanded at the sudden chagrin, almost schoolboy-like, on Corvis’s face.

“I, uh … I wasn’t sure how to tell you, or, well, even
if
, but …”

“Yes?” It was, perhaps, the most venomous
yes
Corvis had ever heard.

“Emdimir’s fallen, Irrial.”

Her freckles appeared rich as ink, so pale did the baroness’s face become. “What?”

“A couple of weeks ago, according to the mercenary talk I overheard at the Three Sheets.”

“And nobody’s done anything?
Still
nobody’s done anything?” Her voice was rising so fast, it threatened to take wing. “What’s
wrong
with everyone? What’s wrong with the damn Guilds?”

“Irrial, we should really be more qui—”

“What’s wrong with me?” She reached a final, undignified screech, and then slumped in her chair, her tone following suit. “Gods, they keep coming, farther and farther, and I haven’t done
anything
 … We’ll never free Rahariem now, we—”

“Irrial!” It was Seilloah, not Corvis, who barked that name—a peculiar sound indeed, coming from a feline mouth. “You
are
working for Rahariem. It’s what you’ve
been
doing. Don’t forget it.”

“Right. Sure I have.”

“And besides,” Corvis added, “you’ve seen the soldiers.
Some
of the noble Houses are mobilizing. Yeah, I know, it’s not enough, but if the others start to follow their example …”

“Horseshit. They’re bloody useless, the whole lot of them are going to die, and you know it.” Her hair fell around her face and hung limp for a moment, until she’d finally regained her composure. “All right,” she said, looking up once more. “Emdimir, then. For, what was her name? Ellowaine?”

“Ellowaine,” he confirmed.

“What,” Seilloah asked slowly, “makes you think she’s the one?”

Corvis smiled grimly. “Because Ellowaine’s a mercenary, Seilloah. And since Emdimir’s occupied just now, her being there almost certainly means she’s either a prisoner, or …”

He let it dangle, and Seilloah understood.

“Or she’s working for Cephira.”

S
HELTERED FROM THE WORST
of last season’s malice by the gentle shade of surrounding slopes, the valleys of the Cadriest Mountains had long since shed their verdant summer garb, wrapping themselves in coats of scarlet and gold for the autumn to come. The air, though still, was refreshingly cool and smelled of tomorrow’s gentle fog. After the distant swamp’s oppressive breath—and the strenuous journey over many a hillside trail, down forest paths, and on the King’s Highway—the vales were a paradise unto themselves.

But if so, it was a paradise only the horses bothered to notice.

Jassion, as always, saw nothing but the distance stretching before them, separating him from the man he hated more than anything in this world. It seemed, at times, as though the baron’s obsession was a tangible barrier he carried around him, one that hemmed him off from the rest of the world.

But for the ignoble nobleman, Kaleb cared little. No, he would reserve his concern, and devote attentions that might otherwise have noted the surrounding beauty, to Mellorin.

The young woman had drawn inward since their encounter with the ogre. Her cloak had become a cocoon, a rampart, a security blanket; her horse an island amid an otherwise empty sea. She spoke to her companions only when she must, and even then, despite her obvious
anger at him, directed her queries and comments to her uncle. She’d barely met Kaleb’s eyes during those many days, though she often snuck quick glimpses when she thought his focus lay elsewhere.

And Kaleb, after many nights of considered deliberation, finally had to admit that he hadn’t any idea of how to deal with her. He was a man of many talents, of substantial knowledge—more than either of his companions suspected—but the eccentricities of young women lay beyond his ken.

He dropped back, ostensibly permitting his mount to crop a few mouthfuls of the deep green grass that sprouted in the shade of far more colorful trees, and allowed Jassion to move some distance ahead. Then, startling the horse with an abrupt yank on the reins, he fell into step beside Mellorin’s palfrey.

Still, she would not look at him.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” he asked, gesturing as though she’d somehow missed the hills that rolled like playful toddlers around the feet of their mountain parents. “A man could certainly understand why even an ogre would make a home here.”

Silence, save for the call of circling birds, the bleating of some distant beast.

“Mellorin,” he said, far more softly, “are you ever going to speak to me?”

She offered only a soft sniff, and Kaleb had already tensed to tug at the reins and move away, a scowl forming on his lips, before he recognized it as a sound, not of disdain, but muffled grief.

“Would you truly weep for an ogre?” Only the tenderness in his tone prevented the question from becoming accusation.

Finally, finally, she turned her face his way from within the folds of her hood.

“I don’t understand,” he told her. “I watched you fight, when Losalis’s men attacked us.”

She nodded. “And it’s the fact you and my uncle see no difference that bothers me. Oh, gods …” He watched her clasp hands to her stomach, as though she would physically restrain the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “Gods, Kaleb, is
everyone
in this world like
him
? Is my father just more honest about who he is?”