The Bloodstained God (Book 2) (36 page)

Whatever his concerns about events in Telas, he had his own fish to fry, and as long as Aidon did not take the main army through the pass he was not especially concerned.

“Deus?” He looked across at Sheyani. He found that he trusted her.

“It seems that Telas is about to rise against Seth Yarra, which will make the next few weeks interesting, but we must ride. Cain is expecting us, and I need to visit the Lord Hesham.”

“You will be careful, Deus,” she said. Her frown looked almost childlike on her small features. “He is not a man.”

Narak smiled back at her. “Neither am I,” he said.

It was beginning to seem likely that any great battles, victories and opportunities for glory and further elevation were avoiding Skal. He had been ordered to camp at a strategic location and await orders. That was all. It was exactly what he had done.

The camp was on an open meadow below a forested ridge along the line of the
Erinor River. The River itself was the eastern boundary of the meadow, and a substantial bridge crossed it not half a mile from his tent.

He had three thousand men, a thousand horses, and dozens of wagons, oxen, and all the other paraphernalia of an army in readiness sitting idle in what he had to confess was a pleasant spot. Every day there were a few wagons from the south laden with food and the odd necessary of a comfortable existence. He did not specify what went onto the wagons – that was done in Bas Erinor – but he felt that he had a moral obligation to seek out the man who selected the cargoes and thank him if he ever returned to the city. It was true to say that even as the son of the Marquis of Bel Arac he had never lived so well.

There was more fine wine than he and his officers could prudently drink. Food came by the ton. Apart from the pork, beef, chicken, goat, cheese, flour, oil, rice and sugar that filled the men’s bellies, all of it fresh and of good quality, there were other things for the more discerning palate, a score of quail stored in a tub of butter, strings of fine Afaeli sausage, Tubs of olives in brine, dried fruits from the Green Isles, cooked clams preserved in salt, a personal favourite of Skal’s, and on every wagon there was a brace of duck labelled for his personal attention.

After a week he had insisted that all of his men, officers included, must spend two hours out of each day training. He made them work hard. He feared they would grow fat otherwise. Indeed, it hardly seemed like a war at all. Skal could have enjoyed it if he had not constantly found himself thinking of others, of Cain marching north to build his wall, of Aidon standing with the Wolf and waiting to cross the Dragon’s back and attack the rear of the Seth Yarra army.

It was worse because no news came. The men on the wagons brought rumours, but they were wild and contradictory. One day a man said Seth Yarra had landed in the east, the next that a plague was sweeping the west and all their enemies would be dead within the week, and the day after that a man said he had heard nothing at all. It was all shadows and waiting, wine and wasting.

Their impatient idyll ended abruptly.

Skal was sitting outside his tent with two of his officers, when they heard the urgent drumming of hoof beats on the road. Nobody would ride a horse so hard unless they were on an errand of great urgency, so they stood together and watched him arrive in the camp.

The man rode his horse among the tents, asked directions, and then rode directly for Skal, scattering men and livestock before him. As he drew near Skal recognised him. It was Kaylis Faste. With recognition came an uneasy chill. He remembered Faste’s approach in the tavern, the things he had said. There had been dark hints of a plot, but he had not taken it seriously. He had told no one, done nothing about it. Kaylis Faste and the duke of Carillon were not the sort of men to give him nightmares.

The horse was reined in not twenty feet from where he stood, and Faste jumped from its back, ran to where Skal stood.

“Lord Skal, I must speak with you urgently, and in private.”

Skal paused before answering. Was it possible that Faste and his impossibly stupid friends had actually done something? “These officers have my confidence,” he said.

Faste glanced at the men who flanked him. He was not happy to speak in public, but Skal was forcing him to do so.

“It is done,” he said. “Duke Aidon is dead. You must ride to the army and take command of the Avilian troops. They will follow you.”

“Duke Aidon is dead?”

“He is.”

“And you are in some way responsible for this?”

Faste was about to agree, but some flaw in his idiocy told him which way the wind was blowing. “He was struck down by an assassin,” he said.

Skal looked at him. It was true. The idiots had somehow killed Aidon. He felt a surge of guilt. He had been sounded out about this plot and he had told nobody. If he had spoken, then perhaps Aidon would not be dead.

“There are better men that I,” he said, and even as he spoke he questioned his own words. It was a seductive thought. He could ride to the army and take control of the Avilian force. He would be General Hebberd then, and by right, not acclamation. There would be elevation in it for certain. He might even regain Bel Arac. “Riders will have been sent to Quinnial, and Cain Arbak is nearby.”

“Both dead,” Faste said, but seemed to realise as soon as the words were out that they gave away too much.

Skal turned to one of his majors. “Hold this man under close arrest,” he said. Faste looked surprised, which only confirmed Skal’s opinion of the man. He turned to another officer as Kaylis was led away at sword point. “Send riders. One north to the First Seventh Friend, one to the army. I want to know if what he said is true.”

The officer in question looked hard at Skal, and Skal knew why. Faste first words to Skal had been
it is done
. They implied that Skal had some foreknowledge of the plot, and in truth he did. That was the one thing that made it impossible for him to profit from it. If he did, then he would be forever doubted as a loyal officer.

He dismissed the other officers and went into his tent alone. There was a servant there who poured him wine. The man only served to remind him how much he missed Tilian’s quick mind. He would have liked to talk to Tilian about this, but the boy was off on some errand of the Wolf’s and he doubted that he would see him again for months, if ever.

He slumped into a comfortable chair. If Aidon was dead it would do his prospects no harm. The young Duke hadn’t liked him. It was another reason that suspicion might fall on him. Everyone knew that they were distant. Quinnial was different. Lord Quinnial had allowed him a second chance, and Cain had spoken up for him when others might not. He owed his rapid recovery from ignominy to the two of them, and would not have seen them dead for all the rank in the world. He had learned what it meant to have friends.

It seemed to him that everything, all his gains, now teetered on the brink of a precipice. If Aidon, Quinnial and Cain were dead then his career would sink in the mud of disrepute. He would cling on to his rank and title for lack of proof, but his star would no longer ascend. He would not be trusted.

He dismissed the servant and poured more wine. He would eat alone tonight. He did not feel like company, and he was certain that he would be drinking more than could possibly be deemed prudent. He wanted to get falling down drunk. He was frozen here, quite unable to act. If he rode to join the army he would look like he was following Faste’s direction. There was no other course open to him that made sense. He must wait for word from the army, and from the north. Bas Erinor was too far away.

It was simple enough. If Aidon was dead, Quinnial would take his place. If Quinnial was also dead, then Cain would take his place at the head of the army. He knew that Carillon was a plotter and would not let the man gain by it. If Cain, too, was dead, then Skal would hand over command of the reserve to his senior major and ride north to take Cain’s place. That would not be seen as ambitious, and he knew Cain’s plan well enough to carry it through. They had discussed it on many nights back at Cain’s tavern.

He shook the bottle and found it empty. There was another on the table, and he opened it. Fine wine should not be drunk like this. That was something he’d learned growing up in Bas Erinor. Fine wine should be drunk with respect, even reverence. If you wanted to get drunk it should be on spirits or the rough peasant wines that were so cheap and readily available throughout the kingdom. He shrugged and poured another cup, spilling a little over his hand. He was beginning to feel it. Soon the world would start to spin, then there would be forgetting and he would wake up feeling like he’d been poisoned and beaten about the head.

He’d intended to eat, but time was passing and it was probably too late. He felt a cool breeze on his face.

“You’re drunk, colonel.”

He looked up, struggling to focus on the figure that stood before him. Red hair. Small. It was Passerina, the sparrow god. What was she doing here?

“You can find out,” he said. “You can go there and find out.”

She ignored him for a moment, taking the bottle from his hand and pouring a cup for herself. She sat in a chair close by.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Damn Faste,” Skal said. “He says they’re dead.”

“Colonel. You are drunk. You’re not making sense.”

Skal struggled against it. His thoughts moved like pressed recruits, sullen and reluctant to obey. He’d wanted to be drunk because there was nothing he could do, and now here was Passerina. With her here he could know.

“Kaylis Faste,” he said, speaking slowly. “Kaylis Faste came here today. He said that Aidon was dead. He said that Quinnial was dead. He said that Cain was dead. I sent riders, but they take too long. You can find out.”

“Who is Kaylis Faste?” She was leaning forwards now, her tone sharper.

“Nobody. Not important. It was Carillon.”

“Carillon? The Duke of Carillon? Are you saying that he killed Aidon, Quinnial and Cain Arbak?”

“Don’t know. That’s why you…”

Passerina slapped him. The blow spun him out of his chair and onto the floor, his head ringing. He couldn’t think of any time he’d been hit so hard. He struggled to sit up and put a hand to his face. There was going to be a bruise. What would he say to his men?

“Concentrate, colonel. Speak clearly.” She was looming over him now, and he didn’t want to get hit again, not like that. He concentrated. The rush in his blood from the blow helped.

“Faste, this man, he said that Aidon was dead. He said Quinnial and Cain too. All dead. Faste was plotting with Carillon, I think.” He shook his head to clear it, but things didn’t get much better. At least he was wide awake now. “I sent riders to see if it was true. You can find out quicker. Go to Bas Erinor. Go to the army. Find Cain. It might not be true.”

There was a long pause. Skal didn’t dare look up again in case she slapped him once more. He wished he was sober now.

“I will go,” she said. “I’ll send someone in with food. You need to sober up. I’ll be back before morning.”

She stepped out of the tent and Skal was alone again. He pulled himself off the floor and staggered over to the bench where he kept water for washing. He splashed his face, then buried it in the bowl, feeling the cold liquid begin to numb his skin. He pulled his head out again. Damn, he should have taken his shirt off before doing that. He was soaked.

A man came in. He was Skal’s servant, Tilian’s replacement. He was carrying a tray of food which he put down carefully on a table. Skal saw Passerina’s cup of wine standing untouched next to the plate.

“Tea,” he said to the man. “Bring me hot tea. Blackroot if someone has it.” Blackroot was supposed to cure hangovers and promote sobriety. He’d always thought that a myth before now, but now he hoped it was true. He sat down and cut a piece of cheese, tore off a hunk of bread and forced the two into his mouth together. He began to chew.

Damn, he thought, this could take hours.

*              *              *              *

He was asleep when she returned.

He woke up to a head much better that he’d expected; just a dull throbbing and a mild aversion to light. Perhaps the blackroot had helped after all, but he preferred to think it was the water and food he had forced down. When he opened his eyes the man shopped shaking his shoulder.

“My lord, Passerina has returned. She awaits you.”

He rolled out of bed and ran his hands across his face. He was unshaven and his breath stank. He tore off the shirt he’d slept in and pulled on a clean one. There was no time to shave, but the servant had brought in a tray with hot tea and a sprig of mint. He drank a mouthful of tea and put the mint in his mouth, chewing it while he laced his boots. He ran his hands through his hair and spat the mint out. It would have to do.