A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1) (24 page)

Montgomery, his chief bookkeeper, had placed this mass of reports, articles, and forms here for him to look over, and Tallarand knew better than to let his impatience simply skim through the papers. Montgomery had proven his worth on too many occasions, demonstrating just how critical good information could be, so Tallarand took another long sip of wine and began reading carefully.

From the top of the pile, he lifted a group of three small newspaper articles pinned together with a small note from Montgomery on top, a note supplying a few extra details not included in the articles. Tallarand glanced over the clippings, a small smile on his face. A young woman’s body found in the back room of a tavern, a headless corpse floating in the Delmar River, another discovered on the high road to Monarch, perhaps the victim of bandits. Three apparently unrelated deaths except for one fact noted by Montgomery but not the papers: all three bodies bore the secret dagger tattoo of the Slayer’s Guild. A trio of assassins dispatched without so much as a clue as to their intended target.

Tallarand chuckled lightly to himself. The Guild-Master in Alston’s Fey was Dralbax, a born fool with the morals and viciousness of a starving wolf, but the man had chosen the wrong victim this time. Better men than Dralbax had tried and failed to collect a cut of Adella’s takings, and the man should have simply accepted the realities of the situation. Of course, there may well have been other forces at work here, for a whisper had reached Tallarand’s ears that the commission for the Slayers had come from a much more powerful source than the Guild-Master of Alston’s Fey. Those were rumors to be held and treasured.

He let out another sigh and turned back to the endless pile of papers, checking the movement of goods in Azare, the latest edicts from Brillis, Lord High Mayor of the Drift, new security arrangements for the cargo boats plying the Delmar River. The truth was that often a simple decision based on the information supplied and organized by Montgomery brought him in more money than a week of more interesting (and dangerous) activities. But that was poor compensation for this ordeal. The glass of wine was empty, his patience already dwindling, and the pile was no more than half-gone.

The tiniest half-sound came to Tallarand’s sharp ears, and he froze, careful to make no sign. An intruder, here, in his inner sanctuary, having apparently slipped past all his defenses. A host of thoughts raced through his mind, a series of calculations, trying to gauge who would have the ability and the need to take such a risk, and he suddenly realized the answer lay right before him in one of the articles on the desk.

Calmly, he turned in the direction of the sound and said, “Good evening, Adella. And of what service might I be to you this night?”

An instant of silence, and then as if by magic, a young woman stepped from the shadows around the bookcase, coming forward a few steps, just enough for the light to glint off fair skin and sky-blue eyes.

“Good evening, Tallarand,” she answered. “I had a matter of business to discuss with you, and I’m afraid I found it difficult to get a formal appointment.”

The woman was dressed in leather armor, and there was some kind of fine black fabric hanging around her shoulders, a hood, no doubt, to keep her skin from glinting in the darkness. There was no sign of a weapon, but Tallarand was absolutely certain that Bloodseeker would appear in her hands the moment any threat was made.

“I also thought you might appreciate a real check of your defenses,” she added softly.

The woman’s sheer audacity made him smile. Hidden only inches from his hands were the triggers which could immediately unleash half a dozen forms of death upon any intruder as well as summoning his guards a few seconds later, and his fingers rubbed lightly on the desk, itching to make that final test. For the cost of, at most, a few underlings, he stood a chance to gain Bloodseeker and anything else the woman might be carrying on her person. I may well have to face her some day, he told himself as his fingers slipped a fraction closer to the triggers. Why not now, here, on my terms?

A moment longer he held the blue eyes, a series of silent messages passing between them, the woman clearly aware of his internal debate. No, he thought, letting his hands relax. I’d hazard a lot more than a few guards. If she were to escape rather than simply being allowed to leave, she would spread the tale far and wide, the reputation of my lair would suffer grievously, and others would undoubtedly try to repeat her feat. And more, Adella as an active enemy would be… well, inconvenient.

“I’m always eager to do business with an agent of your quality,” he said politely. “What is it that you’re offering?”

“This,” Adella answered, holding forth a dagger with a piece of jewelry dangling from the tip. She made no attempt to come closer, but even at that distance, Tallarand could see a series of black stones set in an exquisite silver or platinum setting. Adella twirled the dagger slightly, making the stones sparkle even in the faint light, and he caught the glint of dark green as they moved. Black emeralds. Beautifully matched in a platinum setting. His mind immediately began making estimates, the cost of finding a buyer, the delicate alterations to make the piece unrecognizable, the price he might be able to demand and could reasonably expect to get, all of them contributing to what his opening offer might be to Adella.

“How much are you hoping for?” he asked, beginning the bargaining.

“I’ll settle for 12,000,” she answered.

His expression didn’t change, but he knew his silence told her much. There was no preliminary fencing, no verbal building of the value of the item, only a flat amount stated clearly. And a remarkably low amount at that; his opening offer would have been twice that sum.

“Very reasonable,” he said calmly. “I think I can…”

“And a small favor,” she interjected softly.

“Ah, yes,” he said with a tiny smile. “Perhaps a word to Dralbax about his use of Slayers?”

“No,” she replied, and one of his eyebrows flickered just a fraction. “I’ve already spoken to Dralbax, and I think he now sees the advantages of restraint.”

He paused for a long moment, the expression on the woman’s face helping his imagination supply a clear picture of that encounter. If Dralbax were still breathing, Tallarand was quite certain the man would never again dream of sending assassins after Adella.

“Well, then…?” he asked, spreading his hands in an eloquent gesture.

“I understand you have the ear of this Paladin. This Darius,” she said, and this time, both of his eyebrows flickered. “I fear I left him after our meeting with meager goods for his generosity. I was hoping you might help me make amends.”

“In what way?”

“I believe he has need of information,” she continued innocently. “Simply recommend that he visit Llan Praetor and the Arch-Wizard Malcolm.”

“Malcolm is a hermit and Llan Praetor inaccessible,” Tallarand retorted. “What good could such a trip be to him? Or to you?”

“A wizard of Malcolm’s ability would be of great value against Regnar,” she said casually. “And a Paladin should be able to sway him to lend his aid.”

A glimmer of understanding came to Tallarand, and he said, “I’ll be happy to make the recommendation.”

With a flick of the dagger, Adella sent the necklace sailing across the desk where he deftly caught it. A glance and a touch assured him of the item’s quality, though he hadn’t doubted it. As he had said before, Adella sold no false goods. He did look hard, however, at the jeweler’s mark on the underside of the setting, and he realized the necklace could only have come from the collection of the wife of the mayor of Alston’s Fey, who paid a hefty sum of protection money to Dralbax. That made him smile. Dralbax must be bitterly cursing his decision to confront Adella.

His smile widened slightly as he added, “And I’ll be sure to mention in my letter to Lord Darius that the suggestion comes courtesy of yourself.”

“Oh, you needn’t bother,” she answered, confirming his suspicions. “I’d prefer it to be anonymous.”

Tallarand nodded. “As you wish. And where should I deposit the 12,000 dinars?”

“Open an account for me at the Guild in Alston’s Fey,” came the answer. “I think I’ll have no more trouble doing business there.”

Tallarand’s smile became an open grin. “It will be my pleasure.” He paused for a moment longer, considering, his eyes slowly appraising the necklace in his hand. Generous, he thought. Perhaps too generous.

Casually, he said, “I’m not sure if you are aware, but Dralbax was not the only person initiating your recent trouble.”

The woman’s face betrayed nothing, but the blue eyes became watchful. “And who might his silent partners be?”

He shrugged. “I’m not certain. But I suspect that someone who was buying your information may have wanted to be sure that no one else obtained it.”

She nodded slowly, studying him, trying to fathom his purpose. Finally, she said simply, “Thank you for the small bonus.”

“Call it professional courtesy.”

The woman bowed in answer, the cloak slipping over her head, and she was gone, vanishing back into the shadows as swiftly and as silently as she had come. The smile on Tallarand’s lips quickly faded. If she can come and go with such skill, he thought uneasily, perhaps I should have killed her.

Then he shrugged again, set down the necklace and reached for parchment and a new quill. Gracefully, he began to write:

“My Lord Darius,

“Please forgive my presumption in writing to you, but I thought I might avail myself of your courtesy when last we met to put forward a suggestion…”

CHAPTER 15

Dark Plans

Duke Argus sat fuming at the table in the council hall of the palace, his impatience growing with every passing second. Ursulan had requested an emergency audience which was certainly within the rights of the Grand Chancellor, but the man had foolishly allowed his master to arrive at the council hall first. Argus gripped the table in front of him, the nails of his hands digging into the hard wood. My Grand Chancellor is becoming a little too full of himself, he thought darkly, slowly considering the various pains and indignities he could inflict on Ursulan to remind him of the need to be prompt.

Bare moments later, however, the doors opened hurriedly and admitted Ursulan and the Minister of State, a tiny door-mouse of a man with thick spectacles and a perpetual stoop that made him look like a hunch-back. Argus’ eyes narrowed at the sight of the man, whose name he could not even remember, for he had made his distaste for the creature clear in the past. Ursulan, however, had insisted the man was superb in his job of coordinating and instructing the various ambassadors, and he had tactfully kept him out of his master’s presence. Argus straightened slightly in his chair, realizing something momentous must have occurred if Ursulan felt required to bring the despised Minister of State with him to make the report.

Both men hastened to the table and bowed low, waiting to be acknowledged.

“Take you a seat, Gentlemen,” said Argus, and both men quickly seated themselves at the table, setting their documents down before them.

“First, allow me to apologize for both of us, Your Grace, for both our tardiness and this unseemly haste,” Ursulan began. “We would…”

“Get on with it,” snapped Argus impatiently.

The Chancellor nodded obediently.

“Duke Boltran has formally summoned the Council of Lords,” he announced, indicating a piece of parchment with elaborate writing on it which Argus made no attempt to examine. “It is to convene in Duke’s Hall in exactly five days’ time.”

“Five days?” rumbled Argus. “The dukes will have to scramble like truant schoolboys to gather their entourage and get there in that time. They’ll not take lightly to such a heavy hand from an untried pup. Half of them will be deliberately late.”

“I fear not,” Ursulan said reluctantly. “For along with the message, Boltran sent this.”

He took from the sleeve of his robes a long red feather which he held up, letting the light dance off it: the feather from the wing of the scarlet eagle.

“The war feather!” breathed Argus, understanding Ursulan’s formality at last. “Boltran has had charge of the Council for hardly a year, and already he sends forth the token of invasion that hasn’t been seen since out grandsires’ time!”

“A rash move,” agreed Ursulan. “And worse, an effective one. Even the most stubborn of the lords such as Duke Georg-Mahl will honor the red feather and make sure they reach Duke’s Hall by the fifth day.” He paused before adding casually, “Of course, should the Lords decide that no state of emergency exists, there could be a powerful backlash of feeling against young Boltran. There might even be a movement to suspend him as Head of the Council.”

Argus rubbed reflectively at his jaw, intrigued by the idea. Ursulan’s expression continued impassive, perhaps for the benefit of his subordinate, but Argus could read his thought clearly: Feldon of Palmany would be Boltran’s replacement, and he would be easy to control. Or induced to step aside.

“How seriously are the Dukes taking the reports of the invasion?” Argus asked cautiously.

Ursulan could only shrug his shoulders. “There is certainly a growing sense of danger, especially among the northern realms, but Jalan’s Drift is still seen as the wall that will break any wave. The dukes all have problems enough without sending their combined armies northward to fight barbarians.”

He glanced at a sheet of paper in front of him before continuing, “Duke Feldon of Palmany and Duke Georg-Mahl of Hathage will likely side with you. And of course Duke Thrandar of Norealm will certainly vote with Boltran after the little scare at the High Pass. That makes three votes against two, leaving Clarissa of Gemsbrook and Mandrik of Warhaven undeclared. Sway only one of them and the Council is yours.”

Argus nodded thoughtfully. Both Gemsbrook and Warhaven were the farthest from any danger out of the north, and they, like old Feldon, might well choose to let others do their fighting for them. But Mandrik was a wily warrior who kept his own counsel, and Clarissa was a sharp and vicious woman who had taken and held the coronet of Gemsbrook over the claims of an uncle and an older male cousin. The problem was, he had no leverage over either of them.

“Have we any inkling of which way they might vote?” he asked, and Ursulan turned to look at the door-mouse.

The little man seemed to shrink down even further in his robes, but he managed to meet Argus’ eyes as he said, “The most recent reports from the ambassadors indicate that the threat from the north is not taken very seriously at either court. Clarissa is preoccupied with the river pirates, while Mandrik of Warhaven pays little heed to any news beyond his borders.” The little man hesitated, glancing nervously at Ursulan.

“Well, what else?” demanded Argus.

Reluctantly, Ursulan explained, “It seems there is a…well, a growing distrust of Corland in both courts, Your Grace. Rumors have been flying about, increasing as they travel, until they’ve reached alarming proportions. Our ambassador suspects that Clarissa may oppose you at the Council, purely out of fear of those rumors. Mandrik has given no hint of his intentions, but there is no doubt that he has heard the same reports.”

Argus frowned, understanding all too well. The bandit raids, the growth of the Black Watch, and the wild libels of Father Rathman were bound to take a toll on his reputation, even if no rumor of his darker dealings had leaked out. Well, he told himself, that is the price of power.

“If Clarissa and Mandrik are not to be swayed by me, then we’ll let others sway them,” Argus announced. “I want witnesses that I can call before the Council, people who were present at the High Pass, perhaps even people from the plains. They will testify that…”

He stopped abruptly, aware of a major change in the room. He looked sharply about, trying to identify the difference, and both of the men before him were doing the same, all three tensing, sensing the approach of something powerful.

There was a growing tingling all over his flesh as if thousands of tiny insects had suddenly materialized on his skin, and his ears began to throb from a sound still too low to hear. He blinked, his vision turning wavy, but he quickly realized that the air in the room had begun to shimmer like heat from a great oven. He stood and took a step back, the sound in his ears swelling to a dull roar, and suddenly the entire upper portion of the room seemed to burst into green fire, the flames burning in mid-air.

Ursulan and the little minister threw themselves under the table, but Argus leaped to the side, seizing his battle-axe with his right hand while his left slipped inside his chain mail to grasp a small, magical amulet which he always wore around his neck. He swung around, the axe raised one-handed, ready for any attack. But as he stared up at the green fireball, the center began to shift and change, slowly resolving itself into a huge image, the image of a cruel face with long black hair. And blood-red eyes.

“Hear me, Argus!” the image said in an echoing voice. “Hear my power and my rage!”

Argus steadied himself, realizing that the force before him was a very powerful sending and the man within the fire was none other than Alacon Regnar, the Tyrant of the Northlands.

“My ears and eyes are open,” he said to the green flames.

“A trusted and valued minion was sent as ambassador at your request, only to be foully murdered by a street mob,” the face snarled, the anger radiating like heat to burn him. “What vile treachery is this?”

“It was not done by my orders,” Argus answered stoutly, slowly easing his grip on the axe but not the amulet. “A contingent of town marshals was assigned as escort, and arrangements were made to remove or divert all other forces from the path of the embassy. It appears that a single warrior turned aside the marshals, slew the guards, seized your ambassador, and displayed him to the crowd. I can hardly fault the mob for its reaction once they found a rock-goblin in their midst.”

“You say a single warrior slew four mountain ogres and overcame a goblin-mage? Impossible!”

The image was still wavy within the surging flames, making only the red eyes clear and distinct, but Argus had a vague feeling that these words had not come from Regnar. As he studied the image, he began to make out some sort of greenish structure just off to the side, something long like a staff or rod.

“This is the very warrior who is said to have rallied the Highlanders against your forces,” Argus said. “A Paladin of Mirna.”

“The Paladin again,” said the voice, and Argus fancied he saw a spark of red in the head of the staff. “This little fly becomes annoying.”

Argus’ ears perked at that, and he hastened to add, “He has left Alston’s Fey and headed eastward, into Maganhall. He may be making for Duke’s Hall or the Drift.”

“There is time enough to swat this insect,” replied Regnar. “But now I must know what answer you gave my ambassador. Are you prepared to keep the armies of the Southlands from gathering against me?”

“I am,” Argus responded instantly.

“Yet this Duke of Maganhall still summons the Council of Lords.”

Argus’ eyebrows rose slightly at the extent of Regnar’s information, but he said, “Summoning the Council and moving them to act are two different things. I am taking steps now to insure that the Council votes against our fiery young Duke.”

“That is well,” rumbled Regnar, “for my patience grows short. I shall endure no further treachery.”

“I shall honor all the terms offered by your ambassador,” Argus assured him. “But I must act at my own pace and in my own time. My enemies are already suspicious.”

“More words of failure,” snarled the image. “I will have proof of your commitment and a soul tribute for the death of my ambassador. You will sign our pact in blood as proof against your broken oath.”

Argus swallowed, and said nothing. It was not the request for killing that concerned him, but rather the commitment. Up till now, he had always been careful to keep a line of retreat open should events turn against him, a plausible explanation for his contacts with Regnar that would avert formal charges if not suspicions. But he could not explain away a killing should that become known.

Then he threw away the caution. If I wish the omelet, he thought, I must first crush the eggs.

“What gesture would you have of me, then?” he demanded.

“The head of a Bishop of the Church of Mirna,” came the reply. “The head to be severed by your own hand. Be assured, I shall have ways to know if you subvert my purpose.”

Argus actually stepped backwards at that. Regnar wished him to slay a Bishop of the Church? His mouth opened just a fraction, but before any words could emerge, the lips twisted into an ugly grin as other thoughts slipped into his mind. Had he not dallied with this very thought on more than one occasion, actually fancied delivering one of these meddlesome clerics into the hands of the Red Priests?

The grin turned into a snarl as he answered, “I shall offer this bloody tribute within three days time. From that point forth, our destinies shall be intertwined.”

“Move boldly, Argus,” warned Regnar, his voice growing more distant, the flames beginning to dissipate. “For the time of reckoning is close at hand.”

“But do you stand by your terms?” demanded Argus as the image started to fade. “All lands on this side of the Delmar River for my aid, as well as all of Maganhall west of Duke’s Hall. Do you hold to those terms?”

“Move boldly,” the Tyrant repeated, his voice trailing off into the distance. Then the flames were extinguished and the image was gone, leaving them all blinking up at the high ceiling of the council hall.

“Such power!” cried Argus. “Did you see?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ursulan answered, clearly shaken, as he and the minister got slowly to their feet. “It was indeed a fearsome display.”

“Unlimited magic, tied to a goblin army and all the tribes of the Northlands,” he breathed. “And led by a darkness that walks through castle walls! What can possibly withstand such a force?”

Ursulan was brushing himself off, but he looked warily at Argus. Finally, he asked, “Why send an ambassador all the way to Alston’s Fey if he possessed a power such as this?”

Argus stopped, the question raising his eyebrows.

“The sending seemed to be of only short duration,” he said slowly. “And perhaps he possesses only a limited number.”

“Or perhaps the alliance with you has suddenly become all the more important,” suggested Ursulan. “They have failed to take the High Pass, and their main force moves only slowly over the long length of the Free Lands. More, we’ve heard rumors of bands of soldiers still active behind them, desperate men who refused to surrender with their lords and fight on, calling themselves the Dead of the Plains. And now, the Red Feather has been sent forth to all the Dukes of the Southlands.”

Argus nodded slowly. “A good point, Chancellor. A great display of power sometimes hides a serious weakness.”

He paused, thinking back to all he had seen and heard, and the image of the green staff kept returning to his mind’s eye, puzzling, intriguing. Ursulan might be correct that circumstances now made the alliance with Corland all the more crucial to the Northings, but Argus felt certain that rather than a mask for weakness, the sending was proof that Regnar’s personal power was still growing. Not that is truly mattered. If he honored the pact with the killing of a Bishop of the Church, he would be committed to this alliance. Or would he?

He noticed the wide eyes of the little Minister of State who seemed as staggered by the conversation as he had been by the sending.

Argus turned casually, carrying his axe by the head as if to put it back in its place against the wall. But without warning, he spun suddenly, lifting and swinging the axe with all his might down upon the be-speckled minister. The little door-mouse had hardly time to blink in surprise before the great blade crashed into him, splitting him almost in two.