Wolfblade (42 page)

“Of course not, Captain! I would never think of insulting you so! I was merely speculating on the opportunity for some young fellow with limited prospects to make a moderate fortune. Enough, perhaps, to set himself up free of his . . . family’s . . .
charity?”

“You’ll find no such man here,” Mahkas claimed. The trader was dreaming.
Who in Hythria would do such a thing?

“Of course not,” Symon Kuron replied, clearly sceptical. “It was just an idle thought in any case.”

Annoyed by the trader’s smug assumption that a traitor might be so easily found in the ranks of his men, Mahkas glanced down the hall to where the on-duty guards stood near the customs table. He snapped his fingers in their direction then turned to the slaver with a contented smile. “Well, you’ll have plenty of time for idle thinking behind bars. I’m arresting you, Master Kuron, for plotting to kidnap the High Prince’s sister.”

“You can’t arrest me for what I was thinking!” the slaver complained as the guards surrounded him.

“No, but I can arrest you for saying it aloud,” Mahkas replied. “Get him out of here,” he ordered the soldiers, and walked back to the bar for another ale as they dragged the loudly protesting slaver from the hall.

By the time Mahkas returned to the hall much later that evening, Laran and Riika were both gone. Darilyn was there, however, collecting her embroidery basket. She looked up when she heard the doors open.

“They’ve gone to bed,” Darilyn announced, tucking the basket under
her arm as she straightened. “Which is where I’m headed, too. I have to start packing in the morning. And I have to arrange for my harp to travel with me. I’ll not make the mistake again of entrusting it to somebody I don’t know.”

“You’re going back to Greenharbour then?” he asked.

“It’s bad enough that I have to live on Laran’s charity, Mahkas. Unlike you, however, I don’t feel the need to stay around and have my nose rubbed in the fact.”

“Laran’s never rubbed our noses in the fact that we live on his charity,” Mahkas pointed out, even now feeling the need to defend his older brother.

“He doesn’t need to, Mahkas. His mere presence is all it takes. I can’t touch a rivet of my sons’ inheritance and he knows it. He doles out a living to me a piece at a time, making me beg for every morsel.”

“He doesn’t make you beg, Darilyn.”

“Oh, yes, he does. Not openly, perhaps, but he’s got me dancing at the end of his strings, just like you.” When Mahkas didn’t answer, Darilyn knew she’d hit the mark. She smiled knowingly. “He’s really got to you, hasn’t he? Leaving you here in the middle of nowhere while he takes Riika back to Cabradell to learn how to rule the province that could have been yours if only you’d thought to suck up to Glenadal a bit more when he was alive. Gods, how
that
must hurt.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mahkas scoffed, surprised at how close to the truth she was.

“Riika’s always been everyone’s favourite, you know,” Darilyn continued mercilessly. “Mother loves her best. Glenadal thought the sun rose and set in her. And Laran was prepared to send thousands of our own troops into the mountains to protect her. He wouldn’t have done the same for you or me.”

“They all think it’s for Marla,” Mahkas remarked.

“Who thinks that?”

“The Fardohnyan merchants who pass through here,” he explained. “Most of them don’t even realise Laran has a younger sister. They all think the blonde girl in the southern keep is Marla Wolfblade. I just arrested a slaver who suggested I could make a fortune handing her over to the Fardohnyans so that Hablet can ransom her back to Laran.”

Darilyn stared at her brother thoughtfully. “How much?”

“How much would the ransom be?” he asked. “Gods! How would I know?”

“No, I mean how much is a fortune? How much did he offer you for the girl he believes to be Marla Wolfblade?”

Mahkas stared at her in shock. “You can’t be serious!”

“Think about it, Mahkas. You’re stuck here guarding the Widowmaker Pass while Laran ignores your years of loyal support for the sake of a spoiled sixteen-year-old girl. You’ve backed him without question since we were small children and he’s repaid you by kicking you in the teeth. I don’t know
about you, but I’m sick of it. I’m fed up with living on his mercy. With enough money, we could both be free of him.”

Her words were an eerie and disturbing echo of the slaver’s suggestion.

“Dead isn’t exactly the type of freedom I had in mind, Darilyn. And that’s what would happen to us. Laran would kill us both.”

“Only if he knew we were involved.”

“I can’t believe you’re standing there suggesting we hand our own sister over to the Fardohnyans!”

“Where’s the harm in it? They won’t hurt her. All they want is gold. They’ll take her over the border, keep her locked up for a bit and wait for Laran to cough up the ransom. Even if they find out she’s not Marla, what’s the worst they could do? They’ll probably just ask for a smaller ransom.”

“You’re mad, Darilyn.”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect you to do anything that might upset dear brother Laran, anyway,” she said scathingly. “And the gods know, we mustn’t ever do anything to harm poor little Riika.”

He shook his head, as if he was shaking away the temptation. “It would never work. Laran would find out we were involved. He’d know.”

“Not if we were careful.”

“But what if you’re wrong? What if something happened to Riika?”

“It would break my heart,” Darilyn replied unsympathetically.

“I won’t do it.”

“Fine.”

“I mean it, Darilyn. I refuse to be a party to anything so treacherous.”

“You said that already.”

“She’s our own flesh and blood, for the gods’ sake!”

“Fat lot of good that did either of us when Glenadal died.”

That hurt. Darilyn knew it, too.

“I won’t do it,” Mahkas repeated, as much to himself as his sister.

“As you wish.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

Darilyn smiled coldly. She could tell he was weakening; trying to convince himself, not her.

“You’re probably right,” she agreed, shifting her embroidery basket to the other side. “It’s not something either of us would seriously contemplate.”

Mahkas breathed a sigh of relief.

“But hypothetically speaking,” Darilyn added thoughtfully, “how much do you think we could get for someone the Fardohnyans believe is Marla Wolfblade?”

T
he departure of Marla’s husband for the fortress at Winternest gave Elezaar the opportunity to relax. He didn’t like Laran Krakenshield, not because of anything he’d done to Elezaar in particular; the Warlord was quite civilised in his dealings with his wife’s
court’esa
. It was the influence he could see Laran gaining over his mistress that concerned the dwarf.

Laran was the sort of man others instinctively turned to. People sought his good opinion without even realising they were doing it and Marla was no more immune to his personality than any other courtier. With Laran Krakenshield as her husband, with him guiding and aiding Marla as she matured, Elezaar could already foresee a time when he would become superfluous.

Having gone to all this trouble to ingratiate himself into Marla’s confidence—the effort he’d expended getting rid of Corin, all the work it had taken to convince Marla she couldn’t decide
anything
without first seeking his counsel—well, the last thing he needed was for her to start getting attached to her husband. The strength of Elezaar’s relationship with Marla lay in her belief that she had no more true and loyal friend in the world than her
court’esa
.

Unfortunately for Elezaar, Laran had proved to be much less daunting than he’d hoped. He didn’t mistreat his young wife or force himself on her. Marla had been treated like the royalty she was since arriving in Cabradell. Her every whim was catered to. Her every request treated like a royal decree. Foods she liked had been brought in especially from the coast, her dislikes banished from the palace menus. Her sorcerer-bred mount had been brought from Highcastle and stabled in his own private accommodation. Her nurse had been given the status of a senior slave in the household. Marla had more clothes than she’d ever dreamed of owning and a steady stream of visitors who came to kneel before her and swear their fealty to her and to her
husband. Even her mother-in-law, Jeryma Ravenspear—reputedly one of the most fearsome and powerful women in all of Hythria—had bent over backwards to make Marla feel welcome, and now Laran was promising to return from Winternest with his sister, Riika, a young woman the same age as Marla (who, if you believed the gossips around the palace, was the sweetest and most likeable creature the gods had ever breathed life into) so that Marla would have a friend her own age to keep her company.

Elezaar’s job would have been much easier, he decided peevishly, if they’d been sent to Fardohnya, after all. At least there, surrounded by enemies, Marla would have needed a friend.

Still, things were not all roses and cream. Laran treated Marla with due deference, but they had little in common other than their mutual desire to produce an heir for Hythria. Laran didn’t take the time to find out if Marla was interested in anything else, leaving her to her own devices each day, with nothing but her mother-in-law and the women of Jeryma’s court to entertain her.

Marla very quickly grew bored and frustrated by the assumption that she was good for nothing but lounging around the palace. And it was clear that Laran’s belief that she was neither interested nor capable of taking an active part in the governance of his realm did not stem from the misogyny so common among the ruling men of Hythria. Jeryma had an enormous say in the running of Sunrise and Laran frequently spoke of the plans he had for Riika when he brought her back from Winternest, leaving his wife with no choice but to conclude that Laran’s assumption that her purpose was purely decorative was because he thought her incompetent.

She sought Elezaar’s advice, and he told her to do nothing, assuring her that things would get better once people got to know her better. In truth, he was afraid that if Marla mentioned her concern to Laran, he would immediately see the error of his ways and offer to involve his young wife more closely in his affairs. Elezaar couldn’t risk that happening. He had no doubt that Marla was more than capable of taking on such a role, but he simply couldn’t risk her finding her feet so soon. His safety lay in her uncertainty. The last thing he needed was Marla discovering that her opinion carried weight. Or worse, spending so much time with her husband that respect turned to admiration, or like turned into love.

Women in love had a bad habit of sending their
court’esa
away.

Jeryma didn’t like him, Elezaar knew, but for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, she left him alone and didn’t try to discourage Marla from keeping his company. He was often called upon to entertain the ladies of her court with poems or comedic recitals which always left them in peals of laughter and reinforced the idea that he was a Fool. Marla didn’t approve of him playing the Fool for the entertainment of Jeryma’s court, thinking it demeaning
for him. Elezaar almost cried when she told him that. No master he had ever known had cared that he was being humiliated. Some of them had
owned
him for that purpose. His affection for his young mistress solidified into a deep and abiding love that day and he was determined never to be separated from her, no matter what it took.

“Elezaar!”

The dwarf climbed down from the window seat in the sitting room and hurried into the courtyard in answer to his young mistress’s summons. Like Lady Jeryma’s quarters, Marla had a small private courtyard with a high wall surrounding it just outside her suite of rooms. It was sheltered from the wind, with a small fountain in the corner, so Marla frequently ate breakfast in the open air, a novelty she was unused to after a lifetime in the mountains.

“Your highness?”

Marla looked up from her breakfast and pushed the plate away unenthusiastically. She was wearing a light robe against the chill, a priceless purple silk dressing gown threaded with something that looked suspiciously like real gold filament. The wealth of these people—and their casual acceptance of it—left Elezaar gasping at times.

“Is the food not to your liking, your highness?”

Marla frowned. “I always worry about how fresh the fish is here. We’re a long way from the coast.”

“Perhaps the fish comes from one of the nearby rivers?”

“It’s blue-finned arlen,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s a saltwater creature. I don’t know how they get it here before it turns rancid.”

“Snow,” Elezaar explained.

“Snow?”

“They bring the catch into Greenharbour from the far southern waters of the Dregian Ocean, move it north as fast as they can, and then pack it into snow-filled wagons for the rest of the trip here. Most of it melts by the time they reach Cabradell, but what’s left of the snow gets tipped into the cisterns in the palace to help cool the water.”

“How do you know all these things, Elezaar?” she asked with a puzzled look. “I swear, you have an answer for everything.”