The Warlord's Legacy (8 page)

She didn’t fear much, the mistress of the Blacksmiths’ Guild. But she knew terror every time she thought of that black-armored bastard—not for what she knew he’d done, but for what he
might
have done.

And she feared, too, what might happen if the other Guildmasters ever came to share her suspicions.
They could take away everything I’ve worked for …

Jassion rose shakily to his feet, brushing dust from his chest—and, not incidentally, drawing his guest’s attention back to what was, rather than what might be. Then, each word strained through clenched teeth, “My sincerest apologies, Salia. That was inexcusable of me. I fear that you’ve touched on a rather sensitive topic.”

You’ve no idea
. Still, she could only raise an eyebrow at that, impressed at Jassion’s apparent penchant for understatement. She knew, as did anyone in power in Imphallion, that a young Jassion had been present at the Denathere massacre, when Corvis Rebaine, called the Terror of the East, had ended his campaign in a basement full of corpses. The young baron had watched the warlord disappear with Jassion’s older sister, Tyannon, and survived only by lying hidden amid the tangled bodies.

She knew, too, that when Rebaine had resurfaced during the Serpent’s War, Jassion had been present at his interrogation. And she knew, though only a few others did, that Rebaine had claimed that not only had he not
slain
his hostage, he had eventually
married
her. At
her
instigation. According to the guards who were present, it had not been a revelation Jassion took particularly well.

So when she said, “I understand,” she meant it. “I’ll forgive the outburst, Baron Jassion.
This
time.”

He nodded curtly. “But I
did
tell you!” he erupted, only barely holding himself in check. “From the day the Serpent died, I warned you that allowing Rebaine to depart in peace was a mistake! We should have hunted him down and killed him when we had the chance!”

“It
was
a mistake,” Salia agreed softly. “One I would very much like you to help us rectify.” She couldn’t help but smile at the stunned disbelief that fell like a veil over his face. “Would you like to reconsider working with us? Or shall I fetch you your hot poker and call for a horse?”

“You want
me
to hunt Corvis Rebaine for you?” He seemed to be having real trouble grasping it.

“I do. The
Guilds
do.”

“Why?”

She leaned forward. “Because he couldn’t have resurfaced at a more inopportune time. I don’t need to tell you that the Houses and the
Guilds are barely speaking to one another, let alone cooperating. Cephira’s invaded our borders. We
cannot
afford an internal war on top of all this, Jassion. Our attentions must remain focused on Cephira, and on trying to keep the government running.

“We cannot spare any of our own military forces to pursue Rebaine, not if we wish to check this invasion. In fact, we’ll be taking most of
your
soldiers with us when we return to Mecepheum, to join with the massed armies of the other Houses. And I think I’ll neither surprise nor offend you when I say that the other Guildmasters aren’t willing to put you in the field. You frighten them, for some reason.”

“Imagine that,” he muttered. Then, “So I’m to hunt down Corvis Rebaine on my own? No men at all?”

“Those few soldiers we
aren’t
holding in reserve to deal with Cephira will be needed elsewhere. There’s no way we can keep the rumors of Rebaine’s return from spreading; might as well try to cage the wind. We’ll need troops to keep the peace.

“Besides, any large force accompanying you would be impossible to keep secret, and I doubt a tiny handful of soldiers would be of much use against your quarry.”

Jassion couldn’t help but smile, then flinched at the pain in his bruised face. “I’m flattered you think so highly of my abilities, Salia, but—”

“I said you’d be without
soldiers
, Jassion, not without
help.
” She reached down, lifted the box she’d brought with her. Only an observer far closer than the baron would have noted how her flesh shrank from the touch of the wood. Drawing a key from within her belt, she popped open the lid so Jassion might see.

I
T WAS A DRAMATIC GESTURE
for something so unimpressive. “A dagger?” Jassion scoffed, his disdain rising like bile in the back of his throat. “I’ll need a bit more than … than …” And then he heard it. His voice failed him as he shuddered at the
whispers
in the back of his mind.

“It was recovered,” Mavere told him, her own voice soft, “near
where Audriss the Serpent fell. It’s been handled only with tools since then, never by hand. Take it.”

The Baron of Braetlyn feared little in this world, but his soul shrieked a warning, pleading with his reaching fingers not to close about that simple, innocuous hilt.

Jassion didn’t listen. And even as he lifted the weapon, felt it shift and twist and grow within his grasp, the whispers coalesced in the tiny corner of his mind where nightmares dwelt, where a young boy still felt the clammy touch of dead arms and legs pressing against him from all sides. And they spoke to him a name.

Talon
.

He blinked, and that eternal instant was over. Jassion held in his fists not a dagger but a great two-handed flamberge, its scalloped blade nearly five feet in length. For Talon was one of the Kholben Shiar, the demon-forged blades who read any wielder and assumed a form best suited to his heart and soul.

“This should even the odds a bit,” he said with a smirk.

“You’ll also,” Mavere said, “be taking him.”

Jassion frowned as the other fellow once more offered a cheery wave. “Hello again.”

“Salia, I do not—”

“Have any choice in the matter,” she interrupted. “Look, my lord, you’ve already seen some of the magics he has at his disposal. Well, they’re now at
yours
. Unless you think you can find
and
fight someone like Corvis Rebaine without such powers.”

His scowl deepened further, but he nodded. Though it actually, physically pained him, he extended a hand to the young sorcerer. “I’m sure you’ll bring something useful to the journey.”

The other looked at the hand, made no move to take it. “One of us has to,” he said with a faint sneer.

Jassion ground his teeth. “And what am I to call you, my new companion?”

“Oh, I’m certain you’ll be inspired to come up with a great many things to call me.

“But for now, Kaleb will do.”

T
HE
C
EPHIRANS WORKED THEMSELVES
into a right frenzy upon discovering the two murdered guards, but after a few days of scampering, anthill-like activity, they’d discovered precisely nothing. The bodies were found nowhere near the workers’ barracks, and since none of the prisoners had escaped or apparently even freed himself from his shackles, obviously none of them could be the culprit. The soldiers fiercely questioned everyone and doubled patrols in and around the city for more than a week, and stricter curfews made things even more unpleasant for Rahariem’s citizens, but the status quo ultimately reasserted itself, as is so often its wont.

Another week or two drifted past; Cerris was starting to lose track. The pervasive but gentle warmth of early summer was steadily building toward its typical midseason inferno, the sun’s firm hands curling into pounding fists. Each evening, the forced laborers returned to their barracks weaker, coated in thicker films of a mud consisting of dust and sweat. Listlessly they swallowed cold stew and warm water, then collapsed into exhausted slumber. Cerris began to wonder if he’d have the strength to react to Irrial’s signal if and when he spotted it.

On the day he finally did, however, the sudden surge of excitement blew away the worst of his fatigue like a sparrow in a hurricane.

It was nothing remarkable, just a plume of smoke rising from one of
the many chimneys of the many houses in Rahariem’s richest quarter. Only by scampering up the hillside beside which he was digging the road could Cerris confirm that it came from the Lady Irrial’s estate. Just a typical, everyday sight for the manor, since even the reduced staff required a hefty amount of cooking in order to feed them all. Only someone as familiar with the house as Cerris could possibly have known that the chimney smoking
now
led not to any kitchen, but to the large fireplace in the parlor, a fireplace that had no business burning in the midst of the summer heat. When they first came up with this scheme, Cerris had worried that the guards billeted in the manor might ask questions, but Irrial assured him that they rarely returned before mid-evening.

So … It was time. Finally. A repetition of his illusions kept Cerris free of the manacles and chains, earning him his freedom once the line of workers had marched back to their stifling, acrid barracks. This time, however, as he’d no intention of sneaking back, Cerris took a rather more direct approach to escaping the billet itself.

Specifically, he set the roof on fire.

It took time—many minutes of intense concentration and chanting eldritch syllables under his breath—but the wood above finally rewarded him with the curling smoke and dancing flame he needed. A few shouts were more than sufficient to wake the others, and their combined uproar brought the guards running. In a frantic rush the length of chain was unlatched from its post and the prisoners shuffled hurriedly outside, there to join the guards in a makeshift bucket brigade.

Cerris, once again cloaked in an illusory uniform, was already moving toward the city, occasionally setting other makeshift structures and canvas tents alight as he went. It should be some hours before the Cephiran soldiers had the opportunity to catch their breaths, take stock, and notice a single prisoner’s absence.

It was simplicity itself, in the raging chaos, for the fugitive to find a soldier alone and distracted, and thus to again acquire for himself a tabard and hauberk that would withstand more careful scrutiny. The same two men stood post at Irrial’s gate; it was, apparently, their regularly assigned post.

“What’s going on out there?” the elder of them asked as Cerris approached, gesturing toward the faint glow beyond the city walls.

“Fire,” he said curtly as he passed, scarcely giving them time to haul open the gate. “It’s under control, though. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

Irrial and her remaining staff were waiting as he slipped through the front door. All were clad in workman’s leathers rather than their accustomed finery. The butler Rannert looked particularly put out by the whole affair, but he also hefted a short sword like a man who knew how to use it.

“I’m glad you made it,” the baroness told Cerris warmly. Then, without waiting for a reply, “Captain Liveln.”

“I … what?”

“Captain Liveln. She was wearing a large mace at her side during the last meeting, one with an impressive array of etchings across the flanges.”

Cerris smiled coldly. “Is she staying with the others?”

“So far as I know. You never did tell me how you’re planning to reach her.”

“I thought I’d get her to invite me in, actually. Might I borrow a quill, an inkpot, and some parchment?”

Irrial frowned, but gestured at Rannert. Expression unchanging save for a fluttering eyelid, he delivered the requested items. Cerris took only a moment to scribble a note, and several more to work a taper from a nearby candelabrum. The wax he dripped upon the folded parchment would never pass as any sort of formal seal, but it would suffice to reveal if anyone opened the missive. Cerris stuck the letter through his belt and, even as the baroness drew breath to speak, twisted his neck to stare briefly at every man and woman assembled in the chamber.

“I’m sure you’re all faithful to Lady Irrial,” he said, voice low, “but be certain. Once this begins, you’ll have only a few hours before the Cephirans discover what’s happened here, and they will
not
forgive. If anyone’s loyalty isn’t worth dying over—
and killing over
—tell me now. I’ll be happy to knock you out, and you can claim you were never involved. Anyone?”

Several of the staff failed to hold his gaze, but nobody raised a hand.

Cerris nodded curtly and, though he carried the dead soldier’s sword at his hip, claimed a dagger from the nearest servant. He looked once more at Irrial who, though her face had grown abnormally pale, nodded in return. “Do it,” she told him softly.

Knife clenched in a tight fist, Cerris slipped silently from the chamber, heading for the room in which the billeted soldiers slept.

‘
Ah, murdering men in their sleep
. That’s
the valiant soldier I remember.
’

When he returned to the others, his hands were crimson. Not one of his victims had awoken long enough to make a sound.

Irrial shuddered, clearly uncomfortable with this side of her friend, however necessary. She and the servants gathered by the front door, ready to cross the lawn and disperse into the streets.