Wolfblade (50 page)

Hablet was going to miss that coach, too. Exquisitely lacquered with the royal insignia inlaid in real gold on the doors, it had cost a small fortune and he’d only used it once.

He turned and glared at his chamberlain. “Your ‘Let’s Kidnap Marla Wolfblade and Make a Fortune’ plan turned out to be a complete waste of time and money, Lecter.”

“It didn’t turn out exactly as I envisaged,” the chamberlain conceded.

“Three and a half
million
gold rivets, Lecter! Where am I going to find that sort of money?”

“Where you find most of your money, sire,” the eunuch suggested. “In the coffers of your subjects.”

“I could impose a tax for paving the Widowmaker Pass, I suppose,” the king mused. “In fact, come to think of it, I probably
should
impose a tax. It’s the merchants using the pass who’ll get the most out of this. They should contribute at least part of the cost.”

“Not to mention how popular it will make you,” Lecter reminded him. “There’s been talk of doing something about the Widowmaker Pass for years. Now that Glenadal Ravenspear is dead and you have been able to force his successor to the negotiating table, the long overdue construction can finally begin.”

“But it wasn’t my idea, Lecter. Krakenshield forced
me
into it.”

“The general population doesn’t need to know that, sire.”

Hablet smiled. “And there’s nothing like major capital works to make the people think I care about them.”

Lecter Turon nodded. “Of course, now that Marla Wolfblade is no longer a viable option as your wife, we do have the problem of finding you another, your majesty.”

“Who did you have in mind?” Hablet asked, certain Lecter wouldn’t have raised the issue if he didn’t have at least one candidate he’d accepted a bribe to promote.

“Princess Shanita, sire.”

“Who?”

“The only daughter of Prince Orly of Lanipoor,” Lecter informed him. “The family’s royal lineage dates back before Greneth the Elder. It is a very ancient and noble line.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Very, so I’m led to believe.”

“Yes, well, Orly would say that, wouldn’t he? Is she educated?”

“Not excessively.”

“Good. There’s nothing worse than a bored wife with an educated mind. How much is he paying you?”

“Enough that I feel compelled to raise the matter with you, your majesty.”

Hablet smiled. “That much, eh? What about her dowry?”

“I believe Orly mentioned a figure in the vicinity of three hundred thousand, sire.”

“As a dowry?” Hablet asked in surprise. “Is she cursed and turns into a monster after sundown, or something? Nobody offers that sort of money for a dowry. Not for a princess, anyway.”

“The offer was first made some months ago while you were still considering Princess Marla. I believe Orly was trying to make a more attractive offer than Lernen.”

“That wouldn’t have been hard. Lernen was expecting
me
to pay
him
. Which, I might add, thanks to your bungling, I ended up doing anyway and still don’t have anything to show for it.”

“It is the nature of a gamble that one sometimes loses, sire.”

“Interesting that you’ve
now
decided it was a gamble,” Hablet remarked. “
After
I lost three and a half million gold rivets. You claimed it was a sure
thing when you first proposed the idea. And the only reason it didn’t work, I might add, was because you had the girl killed. I should take the cost of this disaster out of your hide, Lecter. If you’d left Riika Ravenspear alive we could still have got a ransom for her. Maybe even as much as for Marla. The Warlord of Krakandar actually
felt
something for his sister. Lernen Wolfblade’s sister means little more than a rather expensive
court’esa
to Laran, I imagine.” Hablet laughed suddenly, as he pictured the frivolous young girl he met in Greenharbour and the serious, dour Warlord of Krakandar trying to hold a meaningful conversation.

“Don’t despair, sire. There are other ways of making sure a son of the Wolfblade line can never take the throne of Fardohnya.”

“And how much is it going to cost me?”

“One simply has to ensure that no child of Marla Wolfblade’s ever reaches maturity. If there are no heirs, there is no problem.”

“Krakenshield threatened to turn Fardohnya into a killing field if I even
thought
about harming another member of his family, Lecter. What do you suppose he’d do if he found out I’d killed a son of his?”

“Are you afraid of Laran Krakenshield, sire?”

“Of course I am!” he declared. “The man has the two most dangerous qualities possible: the innate belief in the righteousness of his opinions and unlimited power to back them up. I’d be a fool not to fear him.”

“Then my way is infinitely better, sire. Children die all the time. Provided it’s the result of childhood illness, or can be disguised as an unfortunate accident, you need never be connected to the tragic loss of such an important child.”

“Childhood illness?” Hablet scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous! Who ever heard of anything as idiotic as trying to use diseases to kill people deliberately? How would you control it? How would you stop your own people getting caught in an epidemic?” He put his hand on the eunuch’s shoulder. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Lecter. If you’re looking for a new innovation in assassinations and warfare, you should talk to my engineers when we get back to Talabar. They tell me there might be a way to turn the powder used in fireworks into something more . . . dangerous.”

“But, sire, Fardohnya’s last successful incursion into Hythria during the time of your great-grandfather was only fruitful after he lobbed plague-infected body parts into Winternest Castle, forcing them to open the gates.”

“Yes,” the king agreed. “But what did it get him?”

“Control over the border?” Lecter ventured cautiously.

“It got him a visit from a very irate Brakandaran the Halfbreed, Lecter. That was back in the days before the Harshini disappeared completely. I remember my father telling me about it.”

“Surely you don’t believe such fairytales, your highness? Stories of dangerous
halfbreeds and the Harshini demon child are simply something we tell children to frighten them into behaving themselves.”

“I’m pretty sure the whole demon child thing is a crock,” Hablet conceded. “But I’m not so sure about Brakandaran. Even the nice stories about him claimed the Halfbreed was a dangerous bastard. And by all accounts, Brakandaran was not amused about what went on at Winternest. Damned Harshini.”

“They claimed to be incapable of violence,” Lecter pointed out.

Hablet snorted. “Didn’t stop them letting the Halfbreed off the leash every now and then when they got their noses out of joint.”

“What did he do?”

“The Halfbreed? I’ve no idea. Even my father never found out exactly what Brakandaran threatened my great-grandfather with to make him toe the line, but we ended up having to withdraw from Winternest
and
pay compensation to Hythria.”

“Even so, the Harshini are long gone, your highness,” the eunuch assured him. “And even if he ever actually existed, Brakandaran the Halfbreed is long dead, too. I don’t think you need worry on that score.”

Hablet shrugged. “Maybe. But I think—for the time being, at least—I’ll restrain myself. There’ll be a chance later to deal with any Wolfblade heirs. They have to be born first. And, after all, this only becomes a problem if I don’t have a son, eh?”

“Exactly, your majesty.”

“Has she got good hips, this daughter of Orly’s?”

“Broad and true, your majesty.”

“And she’s
court’esa
trained?”

“Naturally.”

“Speak to Orly then. I need to start taking some wives and getting a son of my own. Then it won’t matter how many brats Marla Wolfblade pops out. Tell Orly I’ll take the wench off his hands.”

Lecter smiled. “I will, your majesty. Although, perhaps not quite in those words.”

The eunuch bowed and turned to head back down to the gardens.

“One other thing, Lecter,” Hablet told him as he walked away.

“Sire?”

“I want my coach back.”

“Pardon?”

“Give it a few days—we don’t want to appear disrespectful—but send a message to Lord Krakenshield and tell him that after he’s done with it, I want my coach back.”

“Is that really necessary, your majesty? It’s only a coach.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Lecter.”

Lecter bowed deferentially. “As you wish, your majesty.”

Hablet turned back to watching the column wend its way up the road toward the foothills and the border, thinking he was right to stick to his principles.

The King of Fardohnya was—in his own mind, at least—a very principled man.

O
ne of the advantages of relentlessly prowling the bridge spanning the road between the northern and southern keeps of Winternest—other than the tragic figure he portrayed—was that it gave Mahkas an excellent view of the road leading into the Widowmaker Pass. When Laran appeared in the pass, Mahkas was confident he would know of it first. When his brother returned, he would get to Laran before anyone else could, which meant he would find out what Laran had learned about Riika in Fardohnya and be in a position to allay any suspicions he might have, be suitably outraged at the ransom they were demanding for her return, and be there to offer his aid in whatever capacity Laran needed him. All of which, he knew, would simply strengthen his position in his older brother’s eyes.

In light of this, Mahkas was furious to learn that on one of his rare absences from the bridge to answer the call of nature, Raek Harlen and a small advance party had returned from Fardohnya bearing dispatches from Laran. By the time he emerged onto the chilly walkway, Raek had already left the bailey and entered the southern keep to deliver the messages he carried.

Mahkas hurried across the bridge to the southern keep, desperate to intercept the letter from Laran before Darilyn got her hands on it. She wouldn’t care who it was addressed to. Darilyn was itching to get her share of the ransom and a letter from Laran was likely to contain the details of any payment he had negotiated for Riika’s release.

When he threw open the door to the main hall, he was surprised to find only Veruca by the fire, her knitting needles clacking rhythmically as she warmed her toes in front of the fire.

“Where is Lady Darilyn?”

“In her room,” the old slave replied. “Those strings she’s been waiting on for her harp arrived this morning. She’s been there all day, cussing and
swearing like a trader trying to fix it. Won’t do those boys any good to hear that sort of language—”

“One of Laran’s Raiders just arrived from Fardohnya with a letter from Lord Krakenshield,” Mahkas cut in. “Where is he?”

“I sent him to Lady Darilyn.”

Mahkas cursed and all but ran the length of the hall.

“Won’t do those boys any good to hear that sort of language . . .” Veruca called after him grumpily.

Mahkas knocked and opened the door of Darilyn’s room without waiting for permission to enter. His nephews looked up from their game.

“Hello, Uncle Mahkas,” Travin said cheerily. They were sitting on the floor near their mother, playing with the porcelain mounted knights that Jeryma had sent them. “Did you want to come play with us?”

“I can’t at the moment, Travin, I’m busy.”

Darilyn was sitting on the stool by her harp, still as a rock, holding Laran’s unopened letter on her lap.

“Darilyn? I believe that’s addressed to me.”

His sister looked up at him blankly for a moment. Then she reached into her lap and tossed the folded parchment at him. It landed at his feet. Mahkas stepped forward cautiously to pick it up.

“Travin, Xanda,” Mahkas said, deliberately keeping his voice level, “why don’t you go find Veruca? She’s in the main hall. Tell her I said you could have a treat.”

“What sort of treat, Uncle Mahkas?” Xanda demanded.

“Anything you want.”

“Is something wrong with mama?” Travin asked.

“Just leave, Travin.”

The boys didn’t need to be told again. They dumped their porcelain horses on the table beside their mother’s tools and the wires, bits, levers and pegs she’d taken off the harp and ran from the room, already arguing about what constituted a treat. Mahkas closed and locked the door behind them and turned to face his sister.

“This is it, Mahkas,” she said, her voice barely containing her excitement. “They say fortune favours those who take risks.”

“Shut up!” he ordered impatiently, unfolding the letter. He read it aloud, mostly to stop Darilyn talking. “My dear Mahkas, it is with a heavy heart that I must report that our beloved sister Riika is dead—” He looked at Darilyn in shock. “
Dead?
How can she be
dead
?”

Darilyn shook her head wordlessly, clearly not believing what she was hearing.

“It appears she was kidnapped,” Mahkas read, “in the mistaken belief
she was Marla Wolfblade, a tragic error that cost Riika her life. When it was established that she wasn’t the sister of the High Prince, the Fardohnyans executed her out of hand, without waiting to establish her true identity.” Mahkas stopped reading, feeling physically ill. “By Zegarnald, Darilyn, what have we done?”