Wafri paused and studied his prisoner. Excitement— anticipation—warmed him. “My dear friend Rajnir is probably stamping around in his tower having one of his tantrums, but I cannot help that, can I? I wouldn’t want to see you wasted leading his army against your countrymen.”
The Marlovan had been hunching in a wary knot, staring at his drawn-up knees. At the word “countrymen” he flicked a glance up. Wafri smiled, pleased with the reaction.
“So . . . what? Are you going to let me go, then?” Inda spoke for the first time.
“Oh, yes,” Wafri chuckled softly. “Of course! As soon as you sweep Ymar clean of these soul-rotted Venn, and restore our land to us.”
Inda recoiled, an inadvertent gesture that klonked his head against the stone wall. He rubbed his scalp and said, “What? Who
are
you?”
“I am Lord Annold Limros, Count of Wafri.” He laughed silently again, thoroughly enjoying the opening moves in this little duel of wills. “I give you my name as well as my title because we are of similar rank. My grandmother was younger sister to the old queen, who everyone thought was going to live forever.” He gave Inda a happy, open-mouthed smile, and swept his fingers to his forehead and outward in a curious gesture.
Inda rubbed his jaw. Despite the laughter, the friendly voice and manner, Inda sensed danger. “Did you kill her?” he asked.
Wafri did not react with anger, affront, or even surprise. He shook with laughter, his eyes closed. “Such a question! Why are you the only one who ever asked right out? I assure you she died in her bed, pillowed in sleep.” More of that silent shaking.
Inda felt warning tingles in his hands, at the back of his neck.
Wafri opened his eyes wide. “She gave away the kingdom. Did you know that?
Gave
it to these Venn. Oh, some fought after she died, when the Everoneth came to our aid. But it was too late by then; it took only a year for them to run the Everoneth back over their border and tame the rest of us. If we’d combined and fought earlier, before they were already here—” He shrugged, hands gesturing with grace. “But that was nigh on ten years ago. Now it is time to take Ymar back again. I can’t do it alone. I wasn’t born to war, and my guard, though loyal, is small. The Venn permit me barely enough to keep the peace here in Beila Lana.” Again the smile as he added, “Rajnir honors me by using County Wafri for his army training.”
He paused, as if waiting.
The distant clangor of the bells filled the silence, and closer—just beyond the door—the rustle of cloth, a whisper or two, a footstep. Guards, waiting on call.
Wafri said, “But
you
were trained. So you will lead Ymar to freedom. I will take the throne, and I promise I will be very good to all my people. Everyone will be happy! Except perhaps for the Venn. But they can go off and chase your countrymen. Don’t they like fighting, too? They can fight until the last shit—doesn’t matter if it’s Venn or Marlovan, they fell out of the same wolf’s arse—is left to be wanded away.”
Inda tensed, ready to spring—
“Don’t move,” Wafri said, his smile vanishing.
He stared at his prisoner, who’d tightened in an eyeblink from the hunch to poised stillness. Danger flashed through Wafri, a kind of near-pain that—within limits—he enjoyed. But only when he was in control. “Don’t move, Prince Indevan. ”
The rustling from behind the door had abruptly ceased. Inda did not have to see the waiting guards to know that they were alert, ready to rush inside at a word.
An uneven flush of some indefinable emotion stained Wafri’s round cheeks. “Is that not correct, you are called Prince Indevan?” Wafri asked, rocking back on his heels, his brow puckered, as if he were afraid of committing an error of etiquette.
“No,” Inda said, sitting slowly back. Judging from the sounds, Wafri had an entire riding waiting right behind that door.
If I jump this blathermouth, they’ll kill me.
“My father’s the prince, my brother the heir. I’m only a second son.”
Wasn’t the brother dead? Wafri paced the length of the cell as he tried to remember what Rajnir had told him.
His new coat gleamed richly in the slanting shaft of light from the window above. He wore several fine rings; they glittered and flashed as he passed in and out of the light. They distracted him, so he put his hands behind his back and concentrated for another turn or two.
Wafri did not remember, but even if he could and the brother was truly dead, he decided not to give the Marlovan the delightful news that he was a step closer to his father’s throne unless he got some information in return. “You must listen to me. I treat you with civility, you will observe. I want us to be friends!”
“Like you are with your shit Rajnir?” Inda retorted.
“Oh, oh, quite right. It does sound false in me, does it not? I confess I like Rajnir. We share many similar tastes; I do not wish to harm him as a man. If only he were not a Venn prince! It would be different if we were truly equals, if he did not use my title as if it were a pet name, and reward me with bits of my own kingdom and expect me to be grateful. He cannot help not being as smart as I am—and he is so grateful for my ideas.” He shook with silent laughter.
Inda was not aware of his expression changing, but Wafri’s quick eyes caught something, and he raised a hand. “I assure you, he does listen. It takes very little to suggest new ideas, like his sea battle nine years ago. But he did not die with the rest! His faithful hound Durasnir prevented that. Then the brilliant notion of preserving his men by luring pirates in to do his work for him.”
“
You
did that?” Inda exclaimed.
Wafri laughed softly. “Yes. I thought it would make him hated everywhere and bring me allies. But it did not. His dag loved the idea, though. Rushed right out to make the contacts and the treaty—for reasons even I cannot discover. Surely not mine.” He sighed, lifting a hand in an airy gesture; his dark velvet cuff fell back, revealing the snow-white fine-weave linen of his shirt sleeve. “Yes, Rajnir has been generous and kind. And he can be led. Is that not rich? A prince as follower? But not easily, not easily at all. His moods are like the weather, and then there are his two fierce watchdogs.”
Wafri looked toward the high stone ceiling, his manner ruminative, though his fingers trembled.
Then he stopped by Inda’s bed, smiling down at him. “My metaphor is not precise. Durasnir is more of a mossy boulder. Dangerous only if you stand in its slow, inexorable path. If you watch out, it’s easy enough to stay out of his notice. But Dag Erkric? Ah, he’s more like lightning. I do not understand him at all, except that he’s dangerous.”
Wafri began pacing again. “After all, they are all Venn! We cannot escape that even Rajnir is a Venn. They are large, they take up too much space. They stink of the dreadful spices they use in their food, some say because their land is so cold you cannot taste anything otherwise. Imagine cooking anything with vinegar! When wine goes sour here, we throw it away.” He made a soft noise of disgust. “How can anyone take seriously a supposed aristocrat whose cook offers anything that includes vinegar as an ingredient? I feed my lowest servants better food than that.”
He stopped prowling about and regarded Inda. “Don’t tell me. Marlovans use vinegar?”
“Over grilled fish. Don’t cook with it.”
“Well. You see? You are different. More to the point, you are the enemy of the Venn, and Rajnir is afraid of you. He fears no one else except his king, and I really think that Erkric is also afraid of you.” A sudden smile again, his round head tipped in question. “Do you know why?”
Inda did not, but he had decided he’d better stay mum.
“Come. Talk with me! I will answer any of your questions. ” Wafri held his hands out, rings glinting. “Anything! Go ahead. Ask me.”
Inda said, “I want to go home.”
“You can, you can!” Wafri studied the stubborn face before him, so young a face, so free of guile. Those two long scars, one down the side of his cheek, another along his jaw. He wondered what action had caused them; he wanted to know what it had felt like. He wanted to touch them.
He put his hands behind him, wiping them on his coat. “I promised you. You can go as soon as you rid me of the Venn. Did you not come for that purpose anyway?”
“No, I came to learn about them.”
Wafri whisked around and paced back. “I will tell you anything you like.” He spoke in a different tone now, his words precise. Inda sensed that his nice diction was a measure of the emotions Wafri was trying to control.
Wafri laughed again. His laughter, so gentle, was no longer humorous, it was the laughter of expectation. Of desire. “I am the only Ymaran noble not confined to my land. And I have managed to keep this palace—the very palace my forebears gave the crown as a gift.”
Inda crossed his arms, the sense of impending danger stronger now.
Wafri tipped his head again. “You do not speak?”
Inda jerked up one shoulder. “What’s to say?”
Wafri’s hand rose, palm flat, fingers toward the sky. “There is so very much to say. ‘Yes, Lord Wafri, I will help you recover your kingdom. I will be your friend.’ And I did say you shall leave, did I not? Once we are rid of our mutual enemy.” His color heightened. “You will not disappoint me by uttering fatuous moral platitudes—not when I have your written confession of your willingness to hire yourself as a mercenary.”
“That was defense.”
“And so is this plan of mine! So is this plan, don’t you see it? We are a conquered kingdom! My being here, now, is a sign of my goodwill, you
must
see it.”
“I might have if your men had set me free and didn’t murder some poor sailor and leave him there with one of those medals. Then write lies about what I said under questioning by your mage. Goodwill would mean you and I talk on neutral ground, each free to walk away.”
Wafri waved a finger back and forth. “No, no, that might work in the ballads, but in real life?” He extended his hands toward the south wall. “In real life we woke up one day and the Venn were there on the horizon, eighty-one capital war ships full of warriors, and all their attendant craft full of mages and spies.” He flushed again. “I want you as my friend. You will remember that. I want an ally— your resolve joined with my resolve. I shall settle if I must for the abject submission that results from the motivation of pain.” He clapped his hands together, twisted, flexed them, then forced them apart. “My invention that way is whimsical. Do not put me to that exertion.” His voice roughened.
Then he started. Slapped his pocket and pulled out a long golden tube, which he clicked open.
Inda sat up straighter, curiosity briefly subsuming his profound unease.
Wafri took out a small scroll of paper, read it, and then laughed again. “How rich! Rajnir expects me in his tower right now, to celebrate your death! Is that not rich with irony? How I love intrigue.”
“That thing sends messages?” Inda asked.
Wafri’s eyes widened in surprise. “Do you not have scroll-cases? They are most useful for messages, but one must answer at once if the enemy calls. You and I will discuss our plans further when I am free again. Sleep well. Is there any food you especially like? Do you need more blankets? I want you comfortable—I so wish to show you my palace, my
royal
palace. Rajnir does not know it, but I will rule from here as king. The Venn desecrated our royal city. I will never set foot in it again. All my treasures are here—and my weapons.” He indicated the cell with another of those open-mouthed smiles. “Contemplate, in your leisure, what I said about friendship and will. I have a princely room waiting for you. All I need is your word you will serve as my commander and free Ymar.”
When Inda did not answer, Wafri sighed and walked to the door, which was ajar. “I am summoned to Prince Rajnir, ” he said to those waiting outside as he took from his pocket a transfer token—Inda recognized that from his experience with Ramis.
He vanished. The door slammed shut. The bolt shot home.
Inda buried his face in his hands.
Then pulled them away.
Sulking wasn’t going to free him. Being ready was—and he’d been sitting for days.
He got up and once more examined the door. It was solid. There appeared to be no peepholes.
Well, if there were, so be it.
He moved to the middle of the cell and began to work through his Odni drills for the first time in far too many days; his muscles protested, but that was good.
What was better was that the familiar movements brought Hadand’s voice to mind, and his mother’s, and Tdor’s—for a short time, he could close his eyes and pretend he was back home in Tenthan Castle, surrounded by those he loved.
“Is anything wrong?” Whipstick Noth asked Tdor as soon as they were alone at the end of a long day of harvest duties outside Tenthen Castle.
Tdor had been standing at the foot of the stairs leading up to the family’s rooms. She looked down at the candle in her hands, then glanced his way. “I received a letter from Fareas-Iofre in the royal city.”
Whipstick knew that—he’d seen Chelis, the Iofre’s personal Runner, arrive.
Tdor busied herself with transferring the candle to one hand and reaching the other into her robe to extract the letter from her pocket. She and Whipstick were good friends, but she never could bear to tell anyone how she counted Inda’s birthdays off.
Nineteen,
she thought.
Somewhere in the world, he’s turning nineteen. I hope he’s not alone
.
The thought made her eyes sting. Furious with herself, she drew in a sharp breath, then said, “She doesn’t have much to say. She’s very busy with the Queen’s Guard and the training. Everything as Ndara-Harandviar had it, or as close as she could come, she says. She sees Evred seldom, but when she does—mostly very late at night, when they are free of duty—he always asks her to help him translate more of the Old Sartoran taerans. They study together.” She waved the letter. “Do you want to take it to read?”