Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (17 page)

Robin stared after him, his dark eyes hooded.

“Forget him, Robin,” said Bull, “remember what she’s told you. Don’t let him rile you, he’s just itching to provoke a response. I thought you’d learned not to react like a cadet?”

Robin dragged his attention back to his friend. “I have,” he said. “Mark my words, Bull. One day I’m going to make him pay for his spite.”

Bull sighed theatrically, slapping a hand over his heart. “Oh, to be young!”

He received a companionable punch on the arm and their attention was diverted from the unpleasant incident by the arrival of young lads carrying steaming plates of food.

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant haze of jovial conversation and good food. The crowd in the commons slowly dwindled to just a few latecomers lingering over their meals. Taran was feeling drowsy and contemplating retiring for the night when he saw the commons door open.

An imposing man strode into the room. Tall and muscular, his angular face bore a stern expression. He wore casually smart clothing with an impressive array of rank insignia gleaming over his breast. He halted inside the doorway and every man in the room rose, saluting.

Casually returning the homage, the man glanced around the room until his eyes found Robin. He strode over, casting his gaze around the Captain’s companions, noting the unfamiliar faces. Dismissing them, he addressed Robin.

“Where is she? I hear she’s left the infirmary.”

Robin saluted again before replying. “In her rooms, sir, still very weak. She needs more rest.”

His tone was neutral but the older man’s eyes narrowed. “Are you implying some criticism, Captain?”

Robin stood his ground. “Not at all, sir. I believe she intends to see you first thing in the morning.”

“You’d better be right,” the tall man retorted. “First thing, understood?”

He turned on his heel and strode from the room. As the door swung shut behind him, Robin hissed out his breath and sank to his chair.

Bull rolled his eyes and Taran broke the silence.

“I take it that was General Blaine?” he asked.

Bull nodded.

“Our illustrious leader,” spat Robin, echoing his earlier statement. “Gods, why can’t he leave her alone?”

“Robin,” warned Bull, shooting a glance at the others. “Come on,” he said suddenly. “It’s late and we’re all tired. I think a good night’s sleep is what we need. We can start fresh tomorrow.”

He led the way out of the commons and back to his apartment. Outside the door, he laid a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Get some sleep, lad,” he advised kindly. “She won’t need you before morning.”

Robin’s glance was weary. “I expect you’re right. Good night to you all, I hope Bull’s snoring doesn’t keep you awake.”

He crossed the corridor and disappeared into his room. Taran saw Bull smile and shake his head as he ushered his guests through the door.

The corridor’s deep carpeting muffled Sonten’s footsteps as the strode toward his chamber. It was late and he was tired, having spent many hours communing via his messenger with the commanders of the Duke’s raiding forces.

It galled Sonten that his weak Artesan powers forced him to use an intermediary to communicate his orders. His messenger, however, a youth named Imris who had joined the Duke’s household earlier that year, was far too timid to question Sonten’s lack of power.

Unlike some, he thought sourly.

Heron, the commander of Sonten’s personal bodyguard, never voiced personal opinions. Sonten was under no illusions about Verris, though. He often caught a gleam of contempt in the man’s eyes and was well aware that Verris maligned him behind his back. If not for the fact that Verris was the Duke’s man, Sonten would have been rid of him long ago.

Unfortunately, his Grace paid far too close attention to what occurred among his forces for Sonten to fabricate a serious misdemeanor. No, for the moment Verris was safe and the ambitious commander knew it.

“My Lord?”

Lost in thought, Sonten jumped and swore, feeling sweat prickle him before he’d identified the speaker. He cursed his lack of control and for maybe the hundredth time since returning to the palace deplored his damnable misfortune. If only his Artesan gift was stronger, he could have concealed his terror. But of course, if it was, he wouldn’t be in this dreadful position, forced to constantly fear for his life.

For seven nightmarish days, since watching his precious dreams burn on his nephew’s pyre, Sonten had dreaded this summons. Seven days of jumping at shadows, of sudden cold sweats, of erratic heartbeats whenever he heard the Duke’s voice rise above its normal, silken tones.

But no summons came. Incredible as it seemed, his Grace hadn’t discovered the theft of the Staff. Sonten had fully expected to return to a palace in uproar, turned upside down in the hunt for the thief. He’d fully expected to be accused of the crime, to be seized, chained and thrown into the cells, there to await his Grace’s brutal pleasure.

Instead, the Duke had received the news of Jaskin’s death with gratifying sympathy. He’d even offered to help Sonten punish his murderers.

The rebelling peasants—Sonten’s excuse for the two-day trip to Durkos and on whom he’d conveniently blamed Jaskin’s death—would have been slaughtered by his Grace if not for the Albian raids and the unalterable timing of his schedule. Sonten would have found the whole situation amusing if not for his precarious circumstances.

The reminder of those circumstances made Sonten speak viciously to the hapless servant who’d hailed him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? How dare you creep up on me like that? You imbecile! You might have given me heart failure.”

The servant cringed. “Forgive me, my Lord,” he whispered, “I meant no harm. The Duke sent me to find you. He wants to see you urgently.”

Sonten turned cold. The moment he’d been dreading had come. His Grace had discovered the Staff was missing and now Sonten’s life was forfeit. He swayed with shock, steadying himself against the wall.

“My Lord? Are you well?”

He fixed the terrified man with a bloodshot eye. “Of course I’m not bloody well,” he spat. “But you’ll keep it to yourself or suffer a beating. Now be off with you, I can find his Grace without your help.”

The servant bowed and scuttled away. Sonten knew they all feared him. It wasn’t unusual for him to have a servant flogged in order to relieve the tension of a difficult day.

However, it would take more than a pleasurable flogging to help him now. He must face his fate, meet death as bravely as he could. He drew a breath and pushed away from the wall. Wiping sweat from his face, he made his way to the ducal chambers.

“Ah, Sonten, there you are. Come in and close the door, we have arrangements to discuss.”

Taken aback, Sonten stared at the darkly regal figure seated by the fire. Pale yellow eyes glared impatiently while he hesitated. “A … arrangements, your Grace?”

“Yes, Sonten, arrangements. What’s the matter with you, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. For the Void’s sake, shut the damned door.”

Stung by the Duke’s irritation, Sonten obeyed and approached his overlord, feeling confused by his lack of rage and air of tense anticipation. He didn’t dare believe his luck had held once more.

“I’ve just had a message from Verris,” the Duke said. “I take it you’ve heard how successful the raids have been?”

Sonten had to swallow his anger. Verris had deliberately flouted his commands in reporting directly to the Duke. “Yes, your Grace, I spoke to Commander Heron not an hour ago. It seems the men are doing everything you asked.”

“They know damn well what will happen if they don’t.” The Duke’s deep voice was full of menace. “In the light of this, Sonten, I think it’s time to leave for Cardon. I want everything ready tomorrow. Contact Heron, tell him to intensify the action. I want them hit at dawn and hit hard. Tell them to concentrate on destroying the buildings, causing as much damage as possible. They’re not to get sidetracked into hand-to-hand fighting, their original orders stand. I’ll need every available man when the real offensive begins, despite those extra levies. Verris knows my intentions, make damned sure Heron does, too.”

Indignantly, Sonten said, “Heron is a good man, your Grace, and an able commander. He knows his orders just as well as Commander Verris. I’d even say he’s less likely to allow his men to stray. Verris has his eye on plunder, unless I miss my guess.”

The Duke tilted his aristocratic face up to Sonten’s and there was a sardonic gleam in his eye. “You don’t like Verris, do you, Sonten?”

The General bridled. “My personal feelings don’t come into it, your Grace. I’m only concerned for how well the man carries out his duties.”

The Duke’s predatory smile widened. “Of course you are, Sonten. Rest assured Verris will carry out his duties to the letter. He knows what will happen if he doesn’t. I trust you’ve already given orders to ready the carriages?”

“I have,” replied Sonten, offended by the implied slur. His irritation, added to his relief at not facing imminent death, made him bold. “Your Grace, are you sure this is wise? You’re courting unnecessary danger by making this trip to Cardon. Can’t you rely on the Count to follow your instructions? Surely this whole plan of the Baron’s carries more risk than the rewards can possibly justify?”

The Duke’s saturnine face darkened. Fluidly, he rose from his chair, deliberately towering over the shorter man. The anger in his eyes shot straight to Sonten’s heart and the General cursed his own brazen criticism.

“Are you questioning my judgment, Sonten?” The Duke’s deep voice dripped menace. “I didn’t summon you here to voice your opinions. I haven’t supported your ailing province all these years so you could parade your craven reservations. What do you know of the rewards I shall reap, what do you know of the risks involved? You have no idea.

“You’re impotent, Sonten, a metaphysical eunuch. Concentrate on my battle plans, prick those Albians ’til they bleed. Leave the power and the politics to those who know what they’re doing.”

Sonten tried not to cower but the Duke’s anger was flaring. The man was charismatic and powerful, capricious and brutal; it was hard not to be intimidated when he could take your life without a thought. He had seen the Duke’s killing rages before.

“My apologies, your Grace, I meant no criticism. I am merely concerned for your safety, as is my duty.”

The Duke stared balefully, as if weighing Sonten’s sincerity. Or maybe his usefulness. Whichever it was, he obviously decided it was worth more than the brief gratification he would get from killing Sonten. He turned away, missing Sonten’s slump of relief.

Casually, he said, “My alliance with the Baron is none of your concern, Sonten. If he perceives my actions as being beneficial to his plans, then well and good. By the time he realizes his mistake, he’ll be powerless to influence my hand. I will have won my desire. And those who help me win it, Sonten, by loyal and unstinting service, will not be forgotten. Bear that in mind next time you think to question me.