Wolfblade (49 page)

“Oh, so now it’s
my
fault Laran Krakenshield has me by the balls?”

“You are, as you so frequently remind me, sire, the king.”

“This is going to cost me a fortune.”

“There will be a chance to recoup some of the costs.”

“How?”

“The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook’s position is about to become vacant. There’s a tidy sum to be made selling that honour to the next incumbent.”

Hablet looked across at the man who had, until a few minutes ago, been his first line of defence on the border. Symon’s face was distraught and there was moisture on his cheeks that Hablet suspected came from tears of terror.

Hablet smiled. All was not lost if he could still make a man sob with fear.

“Should I kill him, or let Krakenshield do it?”

“I’m sure Lord Krakenshield would like the pleasure of killing his sister’s murderer himself, your majesty, but I suggest it would be unwise to allow him to interrogate the prisoner first in case certain . . .
inconsistencies
. . . in your story come to light.”

“Then I’ll make him a gift of Symon Kuron’s head,” Hablet decided, ignoring the former Plenipotentiary of Westbrook’s terrified whimper. “And his balls, too. That should convince him I’m innocent of anything to do with his sister’s death.”

“An excellent idea,” Lecter Turon agreed.

Hablet nodded, feeling a little better. The Plenipotentiary of West-brook’s head on a platter should please Laran Krakenshield. It would certainly please Hablet.

And, in the end, that was all that mattered, really.

R
iika’s body had been laid out with care. It lay on a carved bier in the centre of the small Qorinipor temple under a shroud. Glittering dust motes hung in the cool winter sunshine from the narrow line of windows that circled the base of the domed ceiling. Laran approached the bier cautiously, hoping there had been some mistake, but knowing with sick certainty that there wasn’t. Riika was gone and the girl who had been kidnapped was dead. It couldn’t be anybody else.

The body was covered with a thin cloth embroidered in gold. Laran hesitated before touching it, knowing that when he did, he would no longer be able to keep his grief at bay. His last chance to pretend this wasn’t happening was about to be taken from him, the moment he lifted that shroud and confirmed Riika was dead.

Cursing his own cowardice, Laran snatched at the corner and jerked it from the body.

They had dressed her in a simple white gown, its high neck almost, but not quite, covering the wound on her throat which had obviously been washed clean when the body was prepared. Riika’s expression was lifeless; rigor mortis had long passed. Her face was not frozen into a terrified rictus of fear. It simply looked dead, the bloodless flesh so pale it was almost translucent.

How could this have happened?

A few days ago, Riika was playing in the snow with her nephews. Today she lay dead, her young life snuffed out before it even began. Laran had seen plenty of death in his time, but this seemed so senseless. It was the opportunity lost that made him want to scream with outrage. The life that never really got a chance to start.

And for what? Because Riika had the misfortune to share the physical description of my wife?

He could imagine the rumours.
“There’s a girl at Winternest.”

“She’s only fifteen or sixteen. Pretty. Blonde.”

“And guarded by Krakandar Raiders.”

He had sent Riika into a death trap without even realising it, thinking any danger to her would come from Hythria. It never occurred to him that somebody in Fardohnya might mistake Riika for Marla.

Although he believed that much, Laran was fairly certain the rest of Lecter Turon’s tale was an outright lie. He couldn’t prove it, though, and in the end, even if he could, what good would it do Riika? He couldn’t bring her back to life. He couldn’t undo what had been done. Hablet was obviously fearful of his reaction. Lecter Turon’s continued assurances of their innocence was enough to prove Hablet both culpable and willing to pay his way clear of his guilt.

There would never be a better time, Laran realised, to make Hablet come to the negotiating table. With so many troops massed on the Hythrun side of the border and Fardohnya so patently unprepared for war, Laran could force Hablet to sign a treaty. He could probably demand he pay for the construction of a paved road through the Widowmaker Pass, for that matter, so anxious was the Fardohnyan monarch to absolve himself of any blame in the affair.

Laran looked down on Riika’s lifeless form, another wave of guilt washing over him for thinking of politics at such a time.

“I’m so sorry, Riika,” he whispered in a choked voice. “I should have taken better care of you. I promised Glenadal I would and—”

Laran couldn’t go on. His own guilt in putting Riika in harm’s way was intolerable.
What marvellous conspirators we’ve been
. Laran, Glenadal and Jeryma; Kagan and Charel Hawksword, Nash, Mahkas, even Chaine and eventually Lernen Wolfblade.
All our noble sentiments about helping Hythria; all our great plans and schemes seem trivial now
. All of it seemed so trite now the price had proved so high.

Riika was an innocent bystander. She shouldn’t have had anything to do with this at all.

The door opened at the end of the hall and booted footsteps echoed across the tiled floor, stopping a few paces from the bier. Laran looked up to find Raek Harlen standing there holding a covered tray. The young lieutenant’s expression was set and hard as he forced himself not to look down at the body of his former mistress.

“What’s that?” Laran asked, fairly certain the young man had not brought him refreshments.

“It’s a gift from the King of Fardohnya, my lord.” Raek knelt on one knee to place the tray carefully on the floor, then rose again, lifting off the cover. “The head and the balls, believe it or not, of Symon Kuron.”

The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook’s freshly severed head stared sightlessly up at Laran, who almost gagged. The bloodied objects either side of the head didn’t bear thinking about.

“With all due respect, Hablet’s a sick bastard, my lord,” the young man remarked.

“He’s pretty good at covering his arse, too,” Laran noted.

Gently, Laran drew the cover back over Riika’s body before turning to the lieutenant. He looked down at Symon’s grimace of terror and shook his head.

“Fardohnyan justice is quick, I’ll grant Hablet that much.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“Give it back to Hablet. I’m not interested in keeping any man’s head as a souvenir.”

Raek nodded and bent to pick up the tray that was awash with blood draining from the severed skull. He paused for a moment, studying the head curiously.

“I recognise him from somewhere, you know. I thought that the first time we met him in Westbrook. I’m sure I’ve seen him in the customs hall a few times. I thought he was a slaver.”

“Do you know if he spoke to anyone?” Laran would find out who betrayed Riika if it was the only thing of import he ever did in this life.

“I can’t recall. But it’ll come to me. Eventually.”

“I want to know as soon as it does, Lieutenant. In the meantime, get your men organised to depart. We’re leaving at first light tomorrow.”

The young man rose, holding the tray, and looked down at the covered bier. “We’re taking Lady Riika home, sir?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

Laran nodded, feeling his heart was made of lead. “Yes, Raek. We’re taking Riika home.”

“Would you object if I posted a vigil here tonight, sir?”

Laran looked at him in surprise.

“She shouldn’t be left alone. Not in this place.”

“Thank you, Raek. I think Riika would like that.”

“I don’t suppose we’re going to be allowed to murder every one of these Fardohnyan bastards for doing this before we leave, are we, sir?”

Laran smiled humourlessly. “I appreciate the offer, Raek, truly I do. And you have no idea how much I’d like to take you up on it. But we have the head of the man who kidnapped Riika, a plausible excuse for how it happened and the sworn promise of a king that he had nothing to do with it.”

“Even though you know he’s lying?”

“Yes.”

“That isn’t justice, my lord.”

“I know,” Laran agreed heavily. “But without a war that’s going to kill
thousands of other innocents for no good reason—both Hythrun and Fardohnyan—we’re going to have to settle for it, I fear.”

They left Qorinipor at first light the following morning. Along with Riika’s body laid out in a beautifully lacquered carriage Hablet had donated for their journey home, Laran was taking back a guarantee from the Fardohnyan king that there would be no further recriminations regarding Lernen’s broken promise about Marla. He had also extracted a guarantee that there would be no unauthorised incursions into Sunrise Province for at least the next ten years. And a promise of three million Fardohnyan gold rivets towards paving the Widowmaker Pass.

Laran had no idea of the cost of the venture, but three million had sounded a nice round number and he would never again have Hablet in such a cooperative mood. He had also secured a separate payment for Jeryma to compensate her for the loss of her daughter of another five hundred thousand gold rivets. As Hablet agreed to each of his increasingly absurd demands with barely a murmur of protest, Laran became more and more convinced of the Fardohnyan king’s guilt in Riika’s death.

He learned one other thing that disturbed him; something that, even now, he wasn’t sure he should believe. As they were preparing to depart the Winter Palace, Lecter Turon had sought Laran out and drawn him away from his men. They stopped under an archway between two of the palace outbuildings near the bridge linking the palace to the mainland, where they were out of earshot of the rest of his troop and the Fardohnyan guard of honour Hablet had laid on for their return to the border.

Both suspicious and curious about what the eunuch wanted of him, Laran waited for Lecter Turon to speak.

“There is one other thing I wish to give you, Lord Krakenshield,” the chamberlain told him, looking around furtively.

“You don’t give
anything
away, Chamberlain Turon.”

“That’s true,” he conceded with a thin smile, fixing his gaze on the Warlord. “Think of this as a favour then; a favour you might be able to repay someday.”

Laran wasn’t sure if owing Lecter Turon a favour was a good idea, but he was really curious now. “What have you got for me, then?”

“Some intelligence, my lord.”

“About?”

“About the spy in your household who told Kuron’s men where and when they would find your sister in the mountains.”

Laran snorted sceptically. “You’d expose your own spy?”

“The spy was never mine, Lord Krakenshield. He or she—and I honestly don’t know which it is—was the Plenipotentiary’s creature.”

“If you don’t even know the gender of this spy, Chamberlain, how do you know their identity?”

“I know only what the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook confessed before he died, Lord Krakenshield. The spy who betrayed your sister—according to Symon Kuron—was a member of your own family.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Well, that’s a judgment I’ll leave to you, my lord. I just thought you might like to know what he said.” The chamberlain bowed and walked away, leaving Laran to ponder his words.

And ponder them he did. He had thought of little else since leaving Qorinipor.

The chances were good that the eunuch was lying and had simply suggested such a dreadful thing hoping to eat away at Laran’s confidence in those closest to him. Or it might be true. And if it was, who in his family hated Riika enough to wish her harm?

No closer to an answer when Westbrook came into sight than he had been when they rode out of Qorinipor days ago, Laran sent Raek and two other Raiders on ahead with a letter to Mahkas—the one person Laran trusted implicitly—to warn him they were coming home and of the terrible burden they brought with them.

Laran made only one promise to himself. Once he had arrived at Winternest, he would find out who had betrayed Riika and, when he did, the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook’s fate would seem merciful in comparison.

W
ell,” Hablet sighed heavily as he stood on the wall-walk of the Winter Palace of Qorinipor watching Laran Krakenshield and his escort as they crossed the delicately wrought stone bridge connecting the palace to the mainland. The lake glittered in the early morning sun, almost too brightly to look upon in places, and the air was crisp this high up, the wind snatching at his cloak with greedy, grasping fingers.

The carriage carrying Riika Ravenspear’s body was at the centre of the column, surrounded by the twenty-man guard Laran had brought with him, who were, in turn, escorted by another hundred men Hablet had assigned to accompany the Hythrun Warlord back to the border. He wasn’t just being polite. Hablet wanted to make
sure
Laran Krakenshield went home. The hundred-man guard was there to persuade him it would be dangerous to think of doing anything else.