Flamecaster (11 page)

Destin Karn dressed for his meeting with King Gerard Montaigne of Arden, knowing that he might not survive it. He knew the price of failing to meet the king's expectations, and he had failed at Oden's Ford.

It wasn't for lack of effort. Destin had it on good authority that ten bodies had been found in and around Stokes Hall—but none were students. Five were Darians and five were school officials—provosts and dorm masters. They'd all been killed with conventional means—if throat-cutting could be considered conventional. None had been killed with conjury, so they hadn't been done by the witch queen's son. That fit with what Tourant had said—that the boy had been training as a healer, and so would be an easy mark.

According to the academy, two students had gone missing: Lila Barrowhill, a cadet in Wien House, and Ash Hanson, a northern student who was a proficient in Mystwerk. It appeared that a great deal of killing had happened in Hanson's room—it was awash in blood. But the two bodies in there were both Darian brothers.

Had the Darians and provosts killed each other? Had Lila intervened? Why would she? From what Tourant had said, she and sul'Han weren't particularly close at school. Nor was she the hero type. Anyway, Destin found it hard to believe that a woman could be responsible for so much bloodshed. The king had ordered him to keep Lila away from the killing field as a precaution. Montaigne had no intention of risking one of his most promising operatives in case a sudden attack of citizenship prompted her to intervene.

The irony was that Destin was the one who had recruited Lila—he'd been her handler for the past two years. But now, more and more, she interacted directly with the king. Destin didn't like losing control of that relationship.

He never should have allowed her to leave the party—he knew that now. If Lila and sul'Han were both dead, Destin had failed. If they were both alive, Destin had failed.

There had been just one verified student casualty. Renard Tourant, an Ardenine cadet, went missing that night and was found floating in the Tamron River a few days later, apparently drowned. Destin wished he'd been
able to take a little more time dispatching that blundering fool, but he'd been in a bit of a hurry to get out of town before anyone thought to question Denis Rochefort, a visitor from Arden.

It was possible that the scheme had succeeded. It was possible that there had been more than five Darians, and that the survivors had carried the bodies of Barrowhill and sul'Han away for one of their ghastly rituals. They were blood-hungry bastards, always fighting like jackals over who got to do the deed. Destin preferred a more dispassionate approach to killing. It was sometimes necessary, but Destin didn't enjoy it as a rule.

It was
possible
, but Destin didn't believe it. He'd been promised proof of the kill that he could take back with him to Ardenscourt, but had not received it. According to his sources, the two missing students had not surfaced, alive or dead, in Arden or the Fells, in the weeks since.

Destin suspected that it was only that bit of hopeful ambiguity that had kept him alive this long. That, and the fact that the deans at Oden's Ford had been unable to prove that Arden was behind it.

Oh, they suspected plenty. The Darian Guild was tied to the Church of Malthus, the state church of the Ardenine Empire. The king of Arden had long claimed the right to search the academy campus for saboteurs, spies, and contraband, though he'd never before tried to exercise that right. The administration at Oden's Ford sent stern letters
to the king and to the principia of the Church of Malthus, demanding to know what, if anything, they knew about the violation of the peace. Since it appeared that those responsible had fled into Arden, they further demanded that the culprits be apprehended and returned to the academy for trial.

Agents of the church and the empire denied any knowledge of the attack at the academy. They pointed out that Arden had no reason to attack students at Oden's Ford, assuming that the school was not harboring enemies of the state. They suggested that they look to the north for the guilty parties. After all, one of the victims was a citizen of Arden. Perhaps the two missing students were responsible for the killings. The king of Arden offered to station soldiers at Oden's Ford to protect students and faculty if the academy requested it.

The academy declined.

The king had made his displeasure known since that day. Though just eighteen, Destin had been considered a rising star and a favorite of the king's—until Oden's Ford. He hadn't had an audience with Montaigne or an assignment from him since. Destin had little to do but worry that the king might show his displeasure in a more concrete way. Some nights, as he lay awake in the stifling heat of the season they called autumn in the south, he considered fleeing the country.

His father had anticipated that he might run, and issued a preemptive warning. “There's no going back from that.
The king has a long memory, and Arden has a long reach. It won't be long before the king controls all of the Seven Realms. What are you going to do then—try your luck in Carthis?” The look in his father's eyes was a threat and a warning and a dare all in one.

And so, finally—this meeting, after weeks of silence. Why now? Destin guessed that the king had reached a decision about his future.

So—what's proper dress for one's own execution? Destin wasn't prone to elaborate attire. If he had been, his father would have beaten it out of him long ago. Still, he knew how to present himself well when the occasion demanded it. Black was always in good taste. He dressed head to toe in fine black wool with leather trim. His shirt bore lace at the collar and cuffs. His boots and swordbelt were plain, but made of the finest leather. His amulet was tucked discreetly inside his shirt, where it wouldn't be seen, but it would absorb mana'in, the demonic energy that oozed from him, day and night, like the seepage from a sulfurous spring. Best not to fling that in the king's face, on top of everything else.

Being gifted was a double-edged sword in the south. It made Destin and his father useful to the king, but it also made them vulnerable. The Church of Malthus had a habit of burning uncollared wizards, and the king had a habit of letting them do it. Montaigne viewed the gifted in his employ as a necessary evil.

Destin studied his image in the glass inside his wardrobe, and was satisfied. This will do to be buried in, he thought. Assuming there is enough left to be buried. With that, he went to find his father, who, for once, would be in his apartments.

Marin Karn might be general of the Ardenine armies, with quarters in the palace itself, and estates on Ardens-water and at Baston Bay, but when he was in the capital, he could often be found playing cards and drinking in the common room of the barracks, where Destin always felt out of place.

Destin saluted the brace of soldiers in front of his father's door. “Can you let the general know I'm here?”

That word was conveyed, and Destin was duly admitted to the first waiting room—the first circle in the maze that would eventually lead to his father.

When he was finally ushered into his father's privy chamber, he found the general half-dressed, in the process of stripping off his linen shirt. “Fetch me another,” he ordered, dropping the shirt on the floor. “I've sweated through two of these already. All of this traveling from the arse-puckering borderlands to the ovens of Bruinswallow will be the death of me.”

Promises, promises. Destin crossed to the wardrobe and chose another shirt, then played valet, helping Karn into it. Fetching a towel, he blotted sweat from his father's face and neck. Karn slapped the towel away.

“Stop that,” he said. “A man sweats. But maybe you wouldn't know that.”

Destin could tell that his father was nervous because he was being nastier than usual. Which meant he was worried about this meeting between his son and the king. Worried that his own position was precarious enough without collateral damage from the failures of his son.

At last, the general was committed, laced into his final choice of shirts. Destin handed him his uniform tunic.

“Belt first. Then the jacket,” Karn said through gritted teeth. “Are you ever going to get that straight?”

“I'm sorry, sir,” Destin said stiffly. “I don't often wear a uniform myself, so—”

“Oh, that's right,” Karn said, as if it had just occurred to him. “You don't.”

Destin clenched his teeth. They could never seem to have a conversation without a dig from his father. Instead of the army, Destin had chosen the clandestine service, which reported directly to the king. Though his rank was lieutenant, he wasn't a real soldier in his father's eyes. Plus, his father didn't like Destin being out from under his direct supervision.

Destin, on the other hand, liked it very much.

The bells of the cathedral church bonged the quarter hour.

“It's nearly time to go,” Destin said. “Do you have any advice?” That, in fact, was why he'd come. Somehow, his father had managed to survive thirty years in service to
this king. He must have developed some sort of strategy.

“Stop quaking like a girl,” Karn said, his usual disappointment plain on his face.

“You are mistaken, General,” Destin said evenly. “I am not quaking. Merely concerned.”

Karn snorted. “If the king means to kill you, you'll never see it coming. So relax.”

That wasn't exactly helpful.

“Second thing, whatever the king asks you to do, say yes. If he asks you to dig up your mother and hang her body from the ramparts, say yes. If he wants you to make him a coat from the carcasses of kittens, your answer is yes. If he wants you to kiss his royal ass, say yes. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” Destin said. Then couldn't help adding, “And if he asks me to kill you? Should I say yes to that as well?”

Their eyes met. Held. Then Karn barked out a bitter laugh. “By all means, boy, do the deed if you think you can pull it off. If you say no, the king will find someone else to kill us both. One of us may as well come out of it alive.”

Destin and the king were to meet in the royal gardens. King Gerard liked the garden for discussing what he called “delicate matters,” like assassinations, kidnappings, betrayals, and the like. When it came to keeping secrets, there were fewer eyes and ears in the garden than in the palace.

It was also a good place for
acting
on delicate matters. There was always a risk that if you went into the garden, you wouldn't come out again.

Destin awaited the king in the private courtyard that led out to the royal gardens. A raw wind from the north brought the promise of the season they called winter in the south. He shivered, regretting that he hadn't dressed more warmly.

Finally, a half hour past their meeting time, Montaigne descended the steps from the terrace, wearing a nondescript woolen cloak, a hood covering his damp-sand hair. He was accompanied by a tall, rangy girl in prim scribe blue.

It was Lila Barrowhill.

For a long moment all Destin could do was gape. Until he remembered himself, closed his mouth, and went down on one knee.

Well. That answered one question, at least—she was still alive.

“Lieutenant Karn,” Montaigne said, waving him to his feet. His cold gaze flicked over Destin, stinging his skin like tiny needles. “Lila and I were just talking about you.”

“Karn!” Lila said heartily. “I've wondered where you've been. How are you?”

Destin swallowed hard. “Never better,” he lied. He met Lila's gaze. “It's good to see you looking so well.” No lie there.

She raised an eyebrow. “As opposed to dead?”

“As opposed to dead, yes,” Destin said. “When you disappeared after that unfortunate incident in your dormitory, I feared the worst.”

“As I told His Majesty, I feared the worst as well,” Lila said.

“As you know, the son of one of our military officers died that night,” Montaigne said. “Colonel Tourant has been pressing for an inquiry. Lila agreed to answer some of his questions about what happened.”

Destin stared into Lila's face, trying to read it. So there had been a meeting—one he had not been invited to. That was never a good sign.

“Wonderful,” Destin said. “I stand ready to be enlightened.” He fought the temptation to locate the dagger hidden under the black wool of his tunic or bolt like a deer through the garden.

What had she told the king? Was he dead or alive?

Lila leaned against the courtyard pillar. “I think you already know part of the story,” she said, “so I'll make it short. When I returned to the dormitory, there were dead bodies all over, and Hanson was missing. I worried that he might be out hunting for me.”

“For you?” Destin stared at her.

“I blame myself. I knew he was high-strung and entitled, but I thought he understood that there would never be anything between us.” She sighed. “It's not like we had anything in common—no chemistry at all. He was all, study study study, talk talk talk, and, as you know, I like to have a good time.”

“Yes,” Destin said, like a dolt.

“He fancied himself a theologian.” Lila rolled her eyes. “Always ranting about the evil Church of Malthus and how somebody ought to keep the crows—the Malthusian priests, I mean—away from the Ford. He kept nagging me to join his little band of fanatics and blow up churches and such.”

She slid an apologetic look at the king. “I know you are a man of faith, Your Majesty,” she said, without a hint of irony, “but I'm just not interested in religious debates. Besides, I can't afford to get into any more trouble at school.”

“Of course,” King Gerard said, his face all sympathetic understanding.

Destin cleared his throat. “Young Hanson sounds . . . tiresome.”

Lila nodded. “That's what I thought—he was tiresome, but all talk and no action. Lately, he'd been chewing a lot of razorleaf so he could stay awake to study, and he got to acting crazy again. So I finally told him off—the night of Tourant's party. I knew he was pissed. But I never expected this.” She shook her head sadly.