The Saints of the Sword (17 page)

For those who opposed the governor, life was less
comfortable. For those who spoke out against his rule, there was hardship and payback and prison. And for nobles, there was house arrest.

Del Lotts knew firsthand the awful drudgery of being imprisoned in his own home. Since speaking out against the governor, he had the gilded cage of his family castle to occupy him. Forbidden to step off his property, Del had contact with few people, and even his father didn’t have the influence to lift his sentence. Someday, when his father died, Del would be the head of the House of Lotts, but that didn’t mean much anymore. Aramoorian nobles had title but no privileges. They were merely figureheads, used by Talistan to afford a semblance of stability.

But Del Lotts wasn’t born to be a puppet. He was hotheaded, like his late brother Dinadin, and the path he had chosen had gotten him in trouble.

With the curtains wide open, Del hunched over his desk in his bedchamber furiously penning a note. Next to him stood Alain, his twelve-year-old brother, waiting for him to finish. Del kept one eye on the window as he wrote, scribbling down his message as quickly as he could. He didn’t know how much time he had left, or even if Leth’s men were coming. He knew only what his friend Roice had told him—that his refusal to retract his statements about slavery had earned him an arrest warrant. Even now Leth’s soldiers might be riding out of Aramoor castle ready to drag him from his home in chains. If Roice were to be believed, and Roice was never wrong about such things, then his time was short. He had to get the message to Jahl Rob swiftly. And there was only one person he trusted with it.

“Hurry up,” urged Alain. The boy went to the window, peering out with wild eyes. “Before they get here.”

“I’m hurrying,” said Del, trying to ignore his brother’s pleas. “Interrupting won’t help me, Alain. Just be quiet and keep a lookout.”

Del dipped his pen in the well and went on writing. There was so much to say and no time to say it, so he made the note as succinct as possible and hoped that Alain would fill in the rest.

If he made it.

Del pushed the ugly image out of his mind. With Leth’s men swarming all around, Alain was the only one who could make it to Jahl Rob. He was only twelve, after all, and no one suspected him of treason, not even Elrad Leth. They all thought Alain was like his father, too weak to oppose Talistan. But Leth and his Talistanian puppet-masters were wrong about the House of Lotts. Del’s family weren’t lap dogs, and they weren’t marching obediently to Elrad Leth’s tune. They were rebels and proud of it, just like Jahl Rob.

Del took the time to look his letter over, hoping it contained enough information. Then he sighed, realizing that he really didn’t know all that much.

“Are you done?” asked Alain nervously.

“Yes.”

“Finally.” Alain came away from the window, holding out his hand. “Give it here.”

The brothers looked at each other, and Del could tell Alain was being strong the only way he knew, that behind the eager mask were a thousand fears. Alain had grown up fast since Richius’ disappearance. The occupation had made him hard, and he had lost a precious part of his youth. Or more precisely, his youth had been murdered. Now, as Del Lotts regarded his brother, he saw a young man, hardly a boy at all, and the realization saddened him.

He folded the letter and handed it to Alain. “Take it quickly,” he said. “Don’t look back. Don’t set foot in Aramoor unless Roice tells you it’s safe. He’ll be watching out for Mother and Father. If everything is all right, he’ll send for you.”

“All right.”

Del put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. Jahl Rob will look after you. Just ride for the mountains and he’ll find you.”

Alain nodded. “Right.” Then, hesitantly, he added, “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Del. “I’ll be fine.”

“No.” Alain’s voice cracked with emotion. “They’ll kill you, Del.”

Del couldn’t find the words to speak. Alain had indeed grown older. It wouldn’t do to lie to him, not when the truth was so obvious. So he pulled his brother closer and put his arms around him, kissing his head.

“Be well, little brother,” he whispered. “You go to Rob and stay safe for me.”

“Come with me.”

“I can’t. Dinsmore will come for Father if I do. That would only prove our connection to Jahl Rob.”

“Del—”

“Stop,” insisted Del. He pushed Alain away and looked at him fiercely. “There’s no choice, not for me. But there is for you. You go to Rob. You stay alive. Roice will send for you if it’s safe to return.”

“I’ll be an old man by then.”

Maybe
, thought Del. He gestured to the door.

“Go,” he said sternly. “And be careful.”

His brother didn’t say another word. They merely looked at each other for another second, then Alain turned and hurried from the room. He would race down to the stables and find himself a pony, and he would point the beast in the direction of the mountains until Jahl Rob or one of his Saints found him. He would be safe, Del knew. He would live. Elrad Leth’s men never dared venture into the Iron Mountains.

They still thought lions lived there.

T
he
Rising Sun
shuddered in the grip of a wave. From his dingy porthole, Alazrian could see the sky darkening as clouds greyed the horizon. A squall was growing, beating at the hull and making the vessel groan. The nervous patter on the decks above bled through the ceiling. Alazrian glanced upward and watched the boards flex with activity. The crew was making ready for the rain he supposed, and he wondered if they were in danger. Then he shook his head, returning to his journal.

A storm is coming
, he wrote, dipping the quill periodically into its well.
But I don’t think we are threatened. The
Rising Sun
still clings to the shore. Leth tells me it is because the captain is afraid of Lissens, and I cannot blame him for his fear. Better that we should face a hurricane than run up against the devils of Liss
.

We are four days out of the city now, and I miss it. The weather has been poor, and I’ve already told you about this deplorable cabin. Leth and Shinn have taken the only decent bunks for themselves. Last night I found a spider in my mattress. I think I should sleep on the floor from here on, or above deck with the crew. It would be better than listening to Leth snore. He is an atrocious man to live with, and being so close to him lately has convinced me of his ugliness. I pity my mother more than ever now. How did she ever share a bed with him for so long?

Alazrian paused in his writing, considering his words. Since being confined so closely with Leth, he had come to hate him more than ever—a feat he didn’t think possible. Perhaps it was all the things that Biagio had told him.

I can’t wait to return to Aramoor
, he wrote.
To have my own room again will be some sort of paradise. These walls are like a prison cell, and the trip is unendurable. Leth gets drunk to pass the time, and when he is not playing cards with Shinn he entertains himself by insulting me. Sometimes I wish a wave would come and wash him overboard. If I am lucky, the coming storm will supply one
.

Alazrian knew he was taking a chance writing such things in his journal. Leth might easily discover his words, especially in such tight quarters. But Alazrian needed the catharsis. Since meeting with Biagio, his mind had been racing. If his treachery were discovered, Leth would take pleasure in skinning him alive. So he never wrote anything about his secret mission. All those details were locked away in his mind.

His eyes flicked involuntarily to his bunk. Under it were his bags of clothing. In one of those bags, hidden in the pocket of a shirt he never wore, was the folded envelope from Biagio.

A powerful wind howled, suddenly breaking Alazrian’s daydream. He rose from his chair and stared out the porthole. Barely the size of his head, the window afforded him a view of the southern horizon. To the north, on the other side of the vessel, the shores of the Empire could be seen, but the southern exposure showcased only the endless expanse of pitching ocean. Water misted the glass of his porthole. A light drizzle tapped against the panes. The men of the
Rising Sun
pulled up their hoods and sought what shelter the deck afforded. It was a small vessel compared to the ones Alazrian had seen in Nar’s harbor, and there were limited quarters for the crew. Some slept above, even in the rain. Small wonder the crew had skin like tree bark. They were grizzled northerners from Gorkney, and they manned their merchant ship with callused hands and bodies muscled like ropes from a lifetime of toil at sea. They were real men, these sailors, the kind of men Leth was
always comparing him to. Alazrian looked down at his hands and saw his soft skin. They reminded him of Biagio’s hands.

The cabin door burst open with a drunken laugh. Alazrian fumbled to close his journal. Elrad Leth paused in the threshold, spying his son. He smirked as he noticed the journal.

“More writing nonsense?” he said. He hoisted the bottle in his hand, gesturing at the journal. “You waste more time with poetry. Like your bloody mother.” He turned to Shinn. “That’s where he gets it from. Always wasting goddamn time.”

Leth wobbled closer. It was just past noon and he was already drunk; Alazrian could tell from his slurring that this wasn’t his first bottle. Shinn followed him into the cabin and closed the door. The bodyguard said nothing. He was always quiet, laughing only when Leth laughed, talking only when asked a question. His sharp eyes and nose gave him the look of a raptor.

“It’s raining,” said Leth, pushing past Alazrian. “We need the table for our game. Clear your trash away.”

“Wait,” said Alazrian, reaching for the journal and inkwell before they tumbled to the floor. The instant he’d retrieved them, Leth pulled the table out into the center of the cabin, scraping it loudly against the floor. There was only one chair, which had been Alazrian’s, and Leth commandeered that too, pushing the table up against a bunk so Shinn could sit down. The Dorian pulled a pack of playing cards from his pocket and started shuffling. He plied the deck like a professional gambler.

“Let’s go,” Leth said. “Give me a chance to win some of my money back.” He dug into his own pocket and slapped down a collection of coins. Shinn’s eyes gleamed hungrily.

Alazrian glanced out the window hoping the rain had stopped. Instead, it had deepened, meaning that he was stuck inside with the two drunks. Sighing loudly, he sat down on his bunk and slipped his journal beneath the mattress. Elrad Leth heard his sigh and shot an angry glare over his shoulder.

“Shut up. I’m trying to play.”

Trying to lose, more likely
, thought Alazrian bitterly. He dangled his feet over the bunk and watched as Shinn dealt the cards, shooting them from his long fingers. Alazrian liked watching Shinn. As much as he feared the bodyguard, he was fascinated by his mannerisms. Everything he did had a certain smoothness, a catlike grace that sometimes looked inhuman. His reputation with weapons had earned him a place close to Leth who had hired Shinn as his exclusive bodyguard for a monthly sum that many claimed was exorbitant. He was the best archer anywhere in Talistan, the recipient of numerous tournament awards. Leth liked to say that Shinn could shoot the eyes out of a striking cobra, and Alazrian, who had seen Shinn work a bow, didn’t doubt it. Even on board the
Rising Sun
, where there were only merchant seamen to threaten them, Shinn carried a rapier. It dangled from his belt in a plain brown scabbard and rested beside his bunk at night.

Leth cursed as he lost another hand. The whole voyage to Nar City had been the same, and Alazrian was surprised that his father had any money left to wager. Shinn smiled thinly as he raked the coins toward him. Like his bow and rapier, cards were weapons to him.

Then, as happened so often these days, Alazrian thought about Biagio, and about the emperor’s plans. Lately, the sight of his father made him wonder. He had touched Biagio and learned the depths of his heart. He knew that Biagio truly believed what he was saying, but that still didn’t make it true.

Do I betray my people because of his suspicions?
Alazrian wondered. He looked at the back of Leth’s head, at the oily hair matted with rain, perfectly cut and militant. Believing the worst of his so-called father was easy. But he didn’t hate Tassis Gayle. His grandfather had been good to him, and to his mother. Maybe Biagio was wrong about the king after all.

Maybe …

Alazrian rose from his bunk quietly and began hovering over the card table. Leth cocked an eyebrow at him,
surprised by his interest. It was partly a warning, but Alazrian ignored it.

“Who’s winning?” he asked, as if he didn’t know.

“Who do you think?” snorted Leth. He slapped down his hand and pulled another face card. Then, disgusted with his choice, he took up his bottle and swigged from it. Shinn remained as placid as a mirror; guessing at his sobriety was always difficult. He was the perfect card player, his face a mask.