Winter Warriors (15 page)

“This is a fine place,” said Kebra. “Good farming land. If I was twenty years younger, I’d build here.”

As dusk deepened, jackrabbits began to appear. Kebra shot two and skinned and cleaned them, adding the fresh meat to the broth.

Nogusta wrapped himself in his cloak and sat with his back to a tree. It was peaceful here, and the view was majestic. Snow-crested mountains broke the line of the horizon, and folds of hills and valleys lay before them. Away to the east he could see a deep forest partly bathed in mist. To the west a lake glimmered blood-red in the dying sunlight. Kebra was right. It was a place to build on, and he imagined a wide, low house with windows that looked out on the mountains. Horses and cattle would prosper here. He gazed lovingly upon the mountains. What were the works of man when set against these giants of nature? he wondered. Man’s evil seemed small here, tiny and insubstantial. The mountains cared nothing for the whims of kings and princes. They were there before man, and they would outlast him, surviving perhaps even when the sun failed and eternal darkness fell upon the planet.

Kebra brought him a plate of food, and the two men sat in companionable silence, eating their meal. Bison finished his swiftly, then took a flat pan and headed off upstream to search for gold.

“He’ll find nothing,” said Kebra. “There is no gold here.”

“It will keep him occupied,” said Nogusta, sadness in his voice.

“You still expect us to be followed?”

Nogusta nodded. “Malikada is not a forgiving man. He will send men, and I will kill them. And for what? One man’s arrogance.”

“We might be able to avoid them,” offered Kebra.

Nogusta took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet. “Maybe. I have had no fresh visions to tell me otherwise. But death is coming, Kebra. I can smell it.” Kebra did not reply. Nogusta was rarely wrong about these things.

Starfire moved closer to the two men. His breathing was still ragged. Nogusta moved smoothly to his feet and stroked the gelding’s long neck. “Bison could be right,” said Kebra. “Trying to escape pursuit on a sick horse does not seem to make a great deal of sense.”

“He has been poorly stabled,” said Nogusta. “My father knew about these things. He always soaked the straw and ensured that the stables were clean. And Starfire has not been exercised.”

“That’s not my point,” Kebra said softly.

“I know, my friend. It is not sensible.” He grinned. “But I would do it again.”

Ulmenetha watched from the roof gardens as the army marched from the city: four thousand Drenai foot soldiers in ranks of threes, and three thousand Ventrian cavalry in columns of twos. Behind them were the wagons, bearing supplies or dismantled siege engines and ballistae. Word had reached Usa that the Cadian army was on the march, and Skanda was eager to meet them.

The king had not bothered to visit Axiana but had sent a farewell message via Kalizkan. Ulmenetha had avoided the wizard, keeping to her rooms until he had gone. Now she stood high above the cheering crowds as Skanda rode from the city. The people were scattering rose petals before his horse, and he was waving and smiling.

Amazing, thought Ulmenetha. A few years ago he had been an invading foreigner, feared by all. Now, despite the endless battles and the destruction of empire, he was a hero to them. He was a god.

She wondered idly whether it would have been different if he had been ugly. Could a man with an ugly face command such devotion? Probably not. But then, Skanda was not ugly. He was handsome and tall, golden-haired, with a winning smile and enormous charm. We are so stupid sometimes, she decided. Last year Skanda had donated ten thousand Raq to the city orphanage, one-hundredth of the amount he had spent on his wars. Yet the people loved him for it. It was the
talk of the city. In the same month a respected holy man had been accused of trying to seduce a young priestess. He had been savagely condemned and banished from Usa. This also was the talk of the city. Such extremes, thought Ulmenetha. All the holy man’s life work was dust following one misguided action. People scorned him. Yet the greatest killer in the empire could win love by giving away a tiny portion of the money he had plundered from the city treasury.

Ulmenetha sighed. Who could understand it?

As the last of the soldiers left the city, she wandered back through the upper levels of the palace and down to the long kitchens. Servants were sitting around with little to do, and Ulmenetha helped herself to a second breakfast of cheese and eggs, followed by bread and a rich red strawberry preserve.

While eating she listened to the chatter among the servants. They were talking about a young Drenai officer who had gone insane and stabbed to death a Ventrian official and an officer from the staff of Antikas Karios. Soldiers were scouring the city for him. Others had ridden south to see if he had tried to join the men marching home with the White Wolf. Returning to the upper levels, she sought out Axiana. The queen was sitting on her balcony, a wide-brimmed hat shielding her face from the spring sunlight. “How are you feeling today?” asked Ulmenetha.

“I am well,” answered Axiana. “Kalizkan wants me to move into his home. He wishes to be close when the boy is born.”

Ulmenetha felt a sudden chill in her heart. “What answer did you give him?” she asked.

“I said I would think on it. Did you hear about Dagorian?”

“Dagorian?”

“The handsome young officer who always stares at me. I told you about him.”

“I remember. What has he done?”

“They say he went mad and killed some people. I find it hard to believe. He has such gentle eyes.”

“Looks can be deceptive,” said Ulmenetha.

“I suppose so. I have been to Kalizkan’s house. It is very
comfortable. He has wonderful gardens. And he is so amusing. You like him, too, don’t you?”

“I have always enjoyed his company,” admitted Ulmenetha. “But I think you should stay here.”

“Why?” asked Axiana, looking up.

Ulmenetha was at a loss to explain her remark. She was not even tempted to tell the queen of what she had seen on the roof garden. “His house is overrun by shrieking children,” she said finally, “and most of his servants are male. I think you would be more at your ease here.” She saw Axiana’s expression harden. “But it is your decision, my lady. Whatever you think best.”

Axiana relaxed and smiled. “You are probably right. I shall consider your advice. Will you do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“Find out what happened with Dagorian.”

“It may be too gruesome,” argued Ulmenetha.

“Even so.”

“I shall do it immediately,” said Ulmenetha.

With Antikas Karios and his staff gone from the city, Ulmenetha walked the two miles to the offices of the militia, who were seeking the renegade officer. There a thin cleric with deep-set eyes told her of the murder of Zani. She asked what investigation the two men were working on and was told it involved a series of murders. She pressed for further details.

“What is your interest here, lady?” the cleric asked suspiciously.

“I am the queen’s midwife, and she herself asked me to ascertain the facts. The young officer is known to her.”

“I see.” The man’s expression changed instantly, and he gave an oily smile. “Can I fetch you a chair?”

“No, I am fine. You were about to tell me the details of their investigation.”

He leaned forward across the broad counter that separated them. “The papers relating to their case are no longer here, lady,” he said, lowering his voice. “They were transferred to the offices of Antikas Karios. But I can tell you that the investigation
involved the killing of mystics. I spoke to Zani about it myself. He was convinced there was more to the murders than was immediately apparent.”

“I see. And where was Zani killed?”

He gave her the address of the tavern, and once more Ulmenetha trekked across the city. It was noon before she reached the tavern, which was already full. Easing her way through the throng, she sought out the innkeeper but was told that he was visiting his family to the west of the city. Further inquiries were useless in the noise and the hustle. She found a seat at the back of the tavern and ordered a lunch of roast chicken, followed by several pieces of freshly baked fruit pie and cream. Then she sat quietly, waiting for the midday rush to ease. She stayed in the tavern for almost two hours, and when the crowd dissipated, she summoned a serving maid.

“Were you here when the murders took place?” she asked.

The girl shook her head. “Did you want more food?” she inquired.

“Yes. Another slice of pie. Were any of the serving maids here that night?”

“Yes. Dilian.”

“Is she here today?”

“No. She went away with Pavik.”

“Pavik?”

“The tavern keeper,” answered the girl, moving away.

Moments later a thickset woman in her early fifties strode to where Ulmenetha sat. “Why are you pestering my staff?” she asked belligerently, her large arms folded across her ample bosom. “And why should you be interested in the whereabouts of my husband?”

“I am investigating the murders,” said Ulmenetha.

The woman gave a scornful laugh. “Oh, I see. Now that the army has gone, the city police have turned power over to you, eh? Is that right, you fat cow?”

Ulmenetha gave a sweet smile. “Perhaps you would prefer to answer my questions in the city dungeon, you raddled slut. One more foul word from you and I shall send the watch to arrest you.” Ulmenetha spoke the threat softly and with quiet
confidence, and the power of the words lanced through the woman’s bluster.

“Who are you?” she asked, licking her lips.

“Sit down,” ordered Ulmenetha. The woman sank to the seat opposite.

“I have been sent here by someone in a very high place, someone who could cause you great harm. Now tell me all you know of the killings.”

“I wasn’t here. My husband saw it all.”

“What did he tell you?”

“This is not fair,” whined the woman. “We’ve been told what to say. And we’ve said it. We’ve done our duty, Pavik and me. We don’t want to be involved in … in politics.”

“Who told you what to say?”

“Someone in a very high place who could do me considerable harm,” spit the woman, regaining some of her courage.

Ulmenetha nodded. “I understand your fear,” she said. “And you are quite right in your desire to avoid becoming enmeshed in the intrigues of the nobility. But you have already told me much.”

“I’ve told you nothing.”

Ulmenetha looked into the woman’s frightened eyes. “You have told me that your husband lied about the murders. Therefore, I must assume that the officer Dagorian did not commit them. This means that you have accused an innocent man of a crime. Whatever the intrigue, you are now facing the death penalty.”

“No! Pavik told the truth to the first man. Absolutely the truth. Then this other man came and made him change his story. Then he told Pavik to leave the city for a few days.”

“This other man has a name?”

“Who are you?”

“I dwell at the palace,” Ulmenetha said softly. “Now, give me the name.”

“Antikas Karios,” whispered the woman.

“What really happened that night?”

“The policeman, Zani, was murdered as he left the tavern. Then three men tried to kill the Drenai. He slew one and
wounded another, and they fled. That’s all I know. But please, for pity’s sake, tell no one I told you. Say you heard it from someone in the tavern that night. Will you do that?”

“Indeed I will. You say your husband and the serving maid have left the city. Do you know where they went?”

“No. Antikas Karios sent a carriage for them.”

“I see. Thank you for your help.” Ulmenetha rose.

The woman pushed herself to her feet and grabbed the priestess by the arm. “You won’t say. You promised!”

“I promise.”

Ulmenetha left the tavern. She glanced back once to see the woman’s fearful face at the window.

She will never see her husband again, thought Ulmenetha.

When Dagorian left the tavern that night, he ran back to his rooms at the new barracks, changed his clothing, leaving his armor, breastplate, and greaves behind, gathered what money he had saved, and walked away into the city night.

The death of Zani had been shocking enough, but to discover that the assassins had been sent by Antikas Karios was a bitter blow. Dagorian knew that his life was in far greater peril than he had feared. Antikas Karios had no reason to order him killed, and that meant that the order must have come from Malikada himself. And as Banelion had pointed out, Dagorian did not have the power to withstand such an enemy.

Worse, the whole poisonous business was undoubtedly linked to the deaths of the mystics and the demons over Usa. It was therefore likely that he would be hunted on two fronts, on one side by swords, on the other by sorcery.

Dagorian had never been more frightened. He had no plan except to make his way to the oldest quarter of the city. There he could hide among the multitudes of the poor and the dispossessed, the beggars and the thieves, the whores and the urchins. It was the most densely populated quarter, with narrow streets and twisting lanes, dark alleyways and shadowed arches.

It was close to midnight as Dagorian lay down in the
doorway of an old warehouse. He was desperately tired and close to despair.

A figure emerged from the moon shadows. Dagorian pushed himself to his feet, his hand on his knife hilt.

In the moonlight he could see the man was not an assassin but a beggar dressed in rags. The man approached him cautiously. He was painfully thin, and his skeletal face was pitted with old sores. “Spare a copper coin, sir, for an unfortunate victim of the war?”

Dagorian relaxed and was about to reach into his money pouch, when the man sprang forward, a rusty knife in his hand. Dagorian swayed aside, blocking the knife arm and sending a right cross to the beggar’s chin. The man fell heavily against the warehouse door, striking his head on the wooden frame. Dagorian wrestled the knife from his grasp and flung it to one side. The man sank to his haunches.

“Give me your clothes,” said the officer, removing his own cloak and shirt. The man blinked in the moonlight and stared up at the Drenai with a look of incomprehension. “Your clothes, man. I need them. In return you get this fine cloak.”