The Warlord's Legacy (22 page)

“Rebaine, I’d be surprised if you had any that
didn’t.
”

“Funny.”

“I wasn’t joking,” she insisted.

“I know.” Corvis yawned once, loudly. “Wake me when it’s my watch. Irrial?”

“What?”

“It’s
very
simple to set up a spell to wake me if anyone comes too close. I really do trust you, but I’m not an idiot.”

He was snoring softly before she could come up with a viable answer to that one.

T
HEIR FIRST DAYS ON THE ROAD
had been more than a little harrowing. Travel was a nervous affair, as they remained alert for approaching soldiers, ready to scurry into whatever cover might make itself available. Once they’d ambushed a small patrol—obtaining mounts, supplies, and a replacement weapon for Irrial—they moved a bit faster, but it was only after they’d passed beyond Cephiran-held territory, and the highways began to boast Imphallian travelers, that they
breathed easy. Corvis felt his shoulders and back relaxing, and the next morning was the first in a week that he’d awakened without a headache crawling up the back of his neck.

Not that they’d escaped the invasion’s shadow; far from it. Long stretches of road were packed with refugees, making their slow and sad way westward. Some rode mounts with saddlebags stuffed to bursting, others drove wagons laden with the pitiful remnants of homes and lives, and many carried only what they could hoist on their backs. Uncounted plodding feet kicked up the dirt of the highways, tromped flat the grasses alongside, all accompanied by muffled sobs, whispered reassurances, and tear-streaked prayers. Sweat perfumed the air—sweat and, somehow, the stink of despair. It turned the stomach, this stench of slowly rotting hope.

Corvis, though it shamed him, found himself grateful for their presence. They offered plenty of cover for Irrial and him to hide, should any Cephiran scouts range this far; and they held the baroness’s attentions, so conversation—and acrimony, and accusation—remained scarce.

‘
Well, we always knew the masses had to be good for
something,
right
?’

After some days, however, the bulk of the refugees turned aside. The road passed by the city of Emdimir, the informal line of demarcation between central and eastern Imphallion. Already the city was so crowded the stone walls threatened to bulge, like the distended belly of a starving man, and every moment more people arrived. The air above the city wavered with the heat, and Corvis was sure he could actually
see
pestilence lurking within the clouds above. But the people had, for the most part, no strength to travel farther, and Emdimir’s government hadn’t yet hardened their hearts enough to begin turning them away.

Once past that city, Corvis and Irrial made excellent time, thanks to the horses and the highways—and a good thing it was, for the journey remained remarkably unpleasant, even without the sorrowful throng. The sun seemed utterly determined to cook them into some sort of stew, its heat letting up only for the occasional summer squall—which, in turn, summoned up mosquitoes by the bushel. After the second such shower, Corvis had scratched himself bloody and was fairly convinced that he’d prefer a dagger in a vital organ over one more bite.

Irrial promptly offered hers, and Corvis decided to keep his future complaints to himself.

Nor were these the only bites he had to endure. The Cephiran warhorse he’d acquired was a nasty, ill-tempered brute who still wasn’t entirely sold on his new master. The beast was more than cooperative while Corvis was riding—its training saw to that—but it constantly tugged at the reins when they walked, balked while he was trying to lead. It had bitten him thrice already, once drawing blood as he tethered it up for the night, and had even once kicked at him, a blow that would assuredly have broken bone had it landed.

Corvis, sick to the death of the whole thing, had cuffed the horse hard across the nose. Apparently he’d gotten some of the message across, because the kicking had ceased, though the biting continued unabated. Also, he had to endure an extra-intensive glare from Irrial for a day and a half after he struck “that helpless creature.”

For the first time in years, Corvis found himself desperately missing Rascal. He’d been such a good horse; the poor thing just, after trying so hard for so long, hadn’t proved up to being
Corvis Rebaine’s
horse.

And then there was Irrial herself, who spoke with him as infrequently as feasible. The prior discussion on whether or not to murder Corvis in his sleep was perhaps the longest exchange they’d shared since Rahariem.

‘
Have you considered cuffing
her
across the nose
?’

“Shut up.” Corvis actually found himself hoping, for an instant, that the voice in his head was genuine; he didn’t like the idea that such a thought came from him, crazy or not.

But as summer entered its downward slope—not that one could tell by the stifling heat—and they drew ever nearer their destination, passing by larger towns and ever more numerous travelers, Irrial’s curiosity apparently overcame her hostility. As they made camp that evening, she moved to sit across the fire from him, rather than taking her meal to the far side of the campsite as had been her wont. He tilted his head, his expression puzzled, and maybe just a little pleased.

“Where, exactly, are we going?” she asked him, one hand clutching a sharp stick from which hung a greasy haunch of rabbit.

“We’re heading to Mecepheum. I told you that.”

“Yes, but you never explained why.”

“That,” Corvis told her, “is because you didn’t want to know. Told me to ‘do whatever needed to be done,’ and then stomped away in a huff.”

“Corvis …”

“It was a very
nice
huff, if that matters at all. Skillful. Easily one of the best I’ve seen.”

Irrial scowled, but she looked as embarrassed as she did angry. “All right, maybe so. But now I want to know.”

“It’s all pretty simple,” he said, pulling his own skewered rabbit from the flames and blowing on it before taking a healthy bite. “Lessh looka whawno.”

“What?”

Corvis swallowed and tried again. “Let’s look at what we know. We’re facing a full-on Cephiran invasion. Even if they don’t advance any farther than the eastern territories, they’ve come farther than any prior skirmish. Imphallion can’t just let that pass.”

“Except that so far, we have,” she reminded him.

“Exactly. Now, the Guilds and the nobility are really good at letting their differences stop them from accomplishing anything. I’ve seen it myself—decades ago, and again during the Serpent’s War—and things have just gotten worse in the past few years. So it’s
possible
—even after the lesson they should’ve learned from Audriss—that they’d rather argue with one another while Cephira pulls the walls down around their ears.

“What’s
not
possible—or what I’d have
thought
to be impossible, anyway—is for them to completely ignore the situation like they have been. Even if they can’t agree on a unified response, many dukes, barons, and Guildmasters would’ve responded on their own. We should’ve seen at least a few armies by now—mobilizing near the border, if not attacking outright.”

Irrial nodded thoughtfully. “But the only soldiers we’ve seen have been guarding the cities and estates we’ve passed along the road. So something’s keeping them not only from unifying, but from mobilizing entirely.” She frowned. “Part of it, of course, is those murders.”

“Which we both know I didn’t commit.” Then, at her expression,
“Oh, come on, Irrial! No matter how much you might distrust me now, you were
there.
”

“I don’t actually know how much magic you have, Rebaine.”

“If I could just whisk myself from city to city, do you think I’d be pounding my rear end raw on that saddle? Besides,” he added, “you pretty much knew where I was every
minute
, didn’t you?”

Irrial actually wrapped her arms around herself. “Don’t remind me.”

‘
Me, either.
’

“The point,” Corvis continued, pretending not to be stung by the revulsion in her tone, “is that my supposed reappearance is awfully convenient. Either whoever’s impersonating me is in league with Cephira, or they’re using the Cephiran invasion as a distraction from something else. In either case, while I can see the return of Corvis Rebaine causing quite a stir, I don’t know if it’s enough to keep
every
noble and Guild in check. So we have to find out not only who’s pretending to be me, but what
else
is going on in the halls of power. And that means going to, well, the halls of power.”

“And how, pray tell, do you plan to get anyone to
tell
you what’s going on? Or convince them you’re not responsible for the attacks?”

“As to the latter, I’m working on that. And as to the former …” Corvis grinned. “Let’s just say that I still have a certain amount of influence.”

“What sort of influence?” she asked suspiciously.

“Why, my lady, the same sort that inspires a Cephiran siege team to attack their own people.”

Irrial had further questions—he could see it in her face—but her rising from the campfire and walking away was sufficient indication that, for tonight, she’d heard enough.