Wolfblade (2 page)

The young man glanced down at Elezaar, smiling apologetically as he saw the dawning light of comprehension on the dwarf’s face. Elezaar stifled a gasp.
No wonder Crys looks so unafraid. He wasn’t in any danger from the assassins. He’s one of them
.

“You betrayed my master.” It wasn’t a question, or even an accusation. It was a statement. A simple fact.

“Not at all,” Crys said. “I’ve been faithful to our master all along.”

Elezaar suddenly remembered the breastplates of the soldiers who burst into Ronan Dell’s bedroom. The eagle crest of Dregian Province. He’d not had time in all the excitement to think about it before.

“We belonged to Ronan Dell, Crys.”

“
You
belonged to the House of Dell, Elezaar. I have always belonged to the House of Eaglespike.”

“And how does the old saying go? Beware an Eaglespike bearing gifts?” Elezaar stopped abruptly as the sound of footsteps grew louder. “We must find a better place to hide!”

“There’s really no need—” Crys began, but before he could finish, a troop of soldiers rounded the corner. Elezaar began to panic, wondering if there was any point trying to make a run for it. There wasn’t, he realised quickly. Crys might escape but with his short, stumpy legs, the soldiers would run him down in a few steps. The dwarf glanced up at Crys again, but the young man seemed unafraid. He simply shoved Elezaar back into the room, out of sight, then turned to the captain of the troop as the invaders approached. His heart pounding, Elezaar leaned against the wall, wondering how long it would be before he was caught. Crys might betray him in some misguided attempt to prove his loyalty to Lady Alija. Crys might betray him to save his own neck.

Or he might not. He was, after all, Elezaar’s brother.

“Did you find them all?” Crys asked as the soldiers stopped in front of him.

Elezaar’s heart was hammering so hard, he was sure they must be able to hear it in the hall. Through the slit in the doorway, he watched the officer in the lead sheathing his sword as he neared Crys.

“Thirty-seven slaves,” the man confirmed. “All dead. There should be thirty-eight, counting the dwarf. We didn’t find him.”

“And you won’t,” Crys told them. “He’s long gone.”

“My lady wanted nobody left alive,” the captain reminded him.

“No credible witnesses,” Crys corrected. “The Fool could stand on a table at the ball tonight in the High Prince’s palace, shouting out what he’d seen here, and nobody would believe him. You needn’t worry about the dwarf.”

The soldier looked doubtful, but Elezaar guessed they were running out of time. And it was easy to believe some strange-looking, half-witted dwarf was too stupid to bear witness to their crimes. Assuming he even survived long on the streets of the city.

“I suppose,” the captain agreed doubtfully. “What about you?”

Crys shrugged. “My fate has been arranged for days. I’ve been sold. With the Feast of Kaelarn Ball going on at the palace tonight, by the time your handiwork has been discovered, I will have been safely under lock and key at Venira’s Emporium for hours.”

“Then we’re done here,” the captain agreed, his hand moving from the hilt of his sword to the dagger at his belt. Elezaar saw the movement—he was eye-level with the captain’s waist—and opened his mouth to cry out a warning . . .

Then he clamped it shut again. To utter a sound would cost him his life. If Crys was in danger; if he couldn’t see that Lady Alija would never allow a
court’esa
to live when he could testify to her direct involvement in the assassination of Ronan Dell—well, brother or not, Elezaar had no intention of sharing that danger with him. Besides, the man may simply have been moving his hand to a more comfortable position . . .

The captain’s blade took Crys without warning. Elezaar’s brother didn’t even have time to cry out. The soldier drove the dagger up under the slave’s rib cage and into his heart with businesslike efficiency. Elezaar bit down on his lip so hard it bled and turned his face to the wall, unable to watch something he had known was coming and had been powerless to prevent. He heard, rather than saw, Crys fall. Heard the creak of leather as the captain bent over to check that Crys was dead; heard the fading stamp of booted feet and the scrape of sandals against the polished floors as the soldiers retreated, dragging Crysander’s body behind them.

Elezaar stayed facing the wall for a long, long time.

It was dusk before Elezaar found the courage to move. In that time, the room full of death where he waited had filled with the buzz of hungry flies, attracted to the feast laid out for them.

Immobilised by fear though he was, Elezaar had not wasted his time. His body was still but his mind had been racing, formulating and then discarding one plan after another.

The first thing he had to do was find somewhere safe, and for a
court’esa
bonded to a house that had just been wiped out, that was not going to be easy. The slave collar he wore would betray him if he tried to flee into the city. Even if Elezaar could find refuge among the homeless and the unwanted on Greenharbour’s streets, they were too hungry and too desperate to shelter him for long. Particularly if there was a profit to be made by turning him in.

No. If he wanted to survive this, he needed protection. And Elezaar intended to survive this. He had a score to settle. His brother may have been a misguided fool, thinking he could betray one master for another, but his life had been worth more than a swift knife to the belly, just to keep him quiet.

Protection. That was what Elezaar needed. But who would protect a slave? More to the point, who would protect a Loronged
court’esa
? A dwarf
court’esa
at that?

Someone who will profit from it
, Elezaar realised. What had Crys told the captain?
My fate has been arranged for days. I’ve been sold. With the Feast of Kaelarn Ball going on at the palace tonight, by the time your handiwork has been discovered, I will have been safely under lock and key at Venira’s Emporium for hours
.

Elezaar finally found the courage to move.

Venira. The slave trader
, he thought, as he opened the door. He stopped and looked down at Crys’s blood pooled on the floor. Tears misted his vision for a moment. Elezaar wiped them away impatiently. He was too hardened to grieve for his brother. There was too much pain down that road. The dwarf looked away and forced himself to keep moving. It was almost dark. If he was caught on the streets alone after the slave curfew, he’d be in serious trouble. Or someone might come looking for Ronan Dell. He was expected at the ball tonight. The High Prince might send someone to fetch him if he didn’t show.

And Venira’s slave emporium closed at sunset. If Elezaar couldn’t get to the slave quarter before the slaver left for the night, he ran the risk of a night in the streets, one he was quite certain he wouldn’t survive.

Safety lay, Elezaar knew, with the slave trader. He’d already bought and paid for a Loronged
court’esa
from Ronan Dell. Elezaar would see that Venira got his merchandise. As arranged.

Just not the
court’esa
he was expecting, that’s all.

F
rom the balcony overlooking the great staircase of the Greenharbour Palace, you could see tomorrow. At least that was what Marla remembered thinking when she was a small child. That was back in the time she thought of as Before. Before, when everything was certain. Before, when she was safe. Before she was sent away. Before her father died.

Before her brother became High Prince.

But I’m back now
, Marla thought with satisfaction, although her memories proved something of an exaggeration. You couldn’t see as far as tomorrow, but you
could
see right across the hall, and get a very nice view of the handsome and smartly dressed young men who had come for the ball this evening.

The hall was massive. Sixteen glorious cut-crystal candelabra showered warm yellow light over the numerous guests as they arrived. The musicians in the corner were tuning their instruments. Bare-footed slaves hurried back and forth from the kitchens, piling the long tables with exotically displayed foods and countless flagons of fine imported Medalonian wines. Thirty-two fluted marble columns that looked as if they could support the weight of the entire world reached up towards the gilded ceiling that even here on the first-floor balcony was far above her.

Marla pushed her hair off her face, wishing she had thought to tie it back before escaping from Lirena’s eagle-eyed care. Somewhere down there, amid the sea of faces, polished boots and slicked-down hair, was her future husband. She had no idea who he was just yet, but he was sure to present himself at some stage this evening. He was bound to be handsome, undoubtedly wealthy and, of course, the son of one of the many noble houses her brother would approve of. She sighed contentedly. Tonight was the start of something wonderful.
This is the night destiny will step forward and offer me his hand
. . .

“Marla Wolfblade! What are you doing out here in your underclothes gawking like a fresh-bought slave?”

With a last wistful look at the sparkling spectacle unfolding below, Marla turned to face her nurse. “I am
not
in my underclothes!” she corrected. “This is a
dressing
gown. For goodness sake, stop fussing, Lirena! I just came down for a quick look. It won’t take me long to get dressed.”

“Bah!” the old woman scoffed. “Since when did you master the art of getting dressed in under an hour?”

Marla looked up and down the wide balcony with a frown, hoping nobody had overheard the old nurse scolding her. It was so unfair that her aunt hadn’t given her a proper lady’s maid and quite embarrassing that she had come to the Convocation of the Warlords accompanied by her nanny. Marla understood things had been difficult lately. She knew the wealth of the Wolfblades had been devoured by her late father’s many (and ultimately futile) wars and their ongoing legacy. But surely there was enough left for her to be properly attended? Appearances, she knew well, frequently meant more than the facts.

“You come away from there, my girl, before somebody sees you!”

“Lirena, you
must
address me as ‘highness’ while we’re here in Green-harbour!” she hissed, although she did as she was ordered and moved back from the marble balustrade.

“Then you come away from there,
highness
, before somebody sees you!”

“Don’t take that tone with me!”

“Don’t
you
take that uppity tone with
me
, missy!” the old woman retorted with a disturbing lack of respect for her mistress’s rank. “You get back to your room right now, or you’ll be making your first official public appearance with a tanned backside. You’re not so old you can’t be taken over my knee to teach you some manners, you know.”

Marla opened her mouth to object, and then clamped it shut as a door opened along the hall and three figures emerged, deep in conversation. She turned to Lirena in a panic, pulling her pale green gown tighter around her slight figure. The men walked toward them, engrossed in their discussion. The oldest of the three had closely cropped grey hair and wore the black robes of a sorcerer. The younger men were dressed in unremarkable dark trousers, boots and plain linen shirts which meant they were probably servants, she decided, dismissing them immediately as beneath her notice.

The older man looked up and nodded to them politely, barely diverting his attention from what his young attendant was saying. Lirena curtsied as low as her old bones would permit as they passed. Marla followed suit, hoping her graceful (and much practised) curtsey, was sufficient. The sorcerer and his companions walked on for a few steps and then stopped suddenly. The grey-haired sorcerer turned back to study Marla with a quizzical eye.

“You’re Lernen’s sister, aren’t you?”

“I am the
High
Prince’s sister,” she replied with another curtsey, and just the slightest emphasis on the “high”.

“You look younger than I thought you would.”

Marla swallowed down a moment of panic, wondering why this man would be thinking about her age—or anything to do with her for that matter. She smiled, hoping her expression was as sophisticated as she imagined it to be.

“I am almost sixteen, my lord. I would hardly call that
young.”

The sorcerer studied her for a moment with dark, inscrutable eyes.

“
Almost
sixteen? I do beg your pardon, your highness,” he said with a faintly mocking smile she didn’t much care for. “Are you enjoying your return to Greenharbour?”

In truth. Marla was quite overwhelmed by her sudden and unexpected removal from the quiet mountain retreat where she’d been hidden away for the past ten years, but she wasn’t going to admit it out loud to anybody. “It is a pleasant change of pace, my lord.”

The sorcerer smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find it even more so, once the party begins.”

“Will I see you there, my lord?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps for a short while. Several thousand people crammed into a confined space isn’t my idea of a good time. But I’m sure Wrayan and Nash will find it entertaining.”

Marla glanced at the young men. They were both staring at her, rather rudely in fact. The tall one was quite handsome, with thick brown hair and nice hazel eyes. In contrast to his companion, the other young man had laughing eyes and thick dark hair that Marla thought might be very nice to run her fingers through. The unexpected thought made her blush. But his smile seemed infectious and she couldn’t help but respond to it.