A Crown Imperiled (27 page)

Franciezka wore tight-fitting travel togs and boots designed to permit quick movement, and minimize snagging on branches or the iron spikes embedded into the wall she had just climbed.

She was desperate to break the stalemate within the palace. The King and Queen were locked up in their apartments, sumptuous surroundings for certain, but no less a prison. All communication with the household staff and the government were being conducted through Lord John Worthington’s most trusted lackeys.

Franciezka was reduced to a handful of agents she could trust, but none were placed close enough to the royal family to help. Her entire organization had been designed to look outward, at Kesh and the Isles and the Eastern Kingdoms, not inward. Kesh might have their secret police, but it was not under Kaseem Hazara-Khan’s purview. Jim used his Mockers in Krondor and his contacts with other criminal elements to gather information, but given the politics and history of the Kingdom of the Isles, a revolt by the nobility was more likely than any popular uprising, and the last one they had endured was over three hundred years ago.

Roldem’s population was far more homogenous than either rival nation. The Isles and Kesh were like conquered city-states and regions forged into a single empire or kingdom by centuries of occupation and absorption. But Yabon was different to Rillanon, and the Isalani people were nothing like the Truebloods of the Overn Deep. Roldem had always been one people.

Given Roldem’s history, a coup d’état was unthinkable. And even under Lord John’s offices, it didn’t feel like a coup, at least not yet.

But something was underway that was creating disastrous consequences for the Kingdom of Roldem. Trade was at a standstill and the only goods produced on the island were still in abundance, but they were quickly being consumed or bought up by speculators. She reckoned they were less than three months from a scarcity that would have the population demanding an end to the Keshian blockade. A month after that would come food riots in the streets of the capital.

She moved along the wall, alert to any passing patrols or guards, but found this portion of the palace unguarded. She wasn’t entirely sure why, as the rest of the complex was ringed with guards.

A loyal servant had mentioned that something was planned for Lord John’s private quarters, as instructions had been given that two hours after sunset his quarters were to be sealed off and he was not to be disturbed until he personally opened the doors. No visitors were scheduled but he had requested that food and wine be provided. Even his son and most trusted aides were being ordered out of his quarters.

His determination for privacy played to her advantage, because he had ordered the guards who might patrol outside his quarters out of this garden. They were now patrolling on the street beyond the wall she had clambered over, their usual routine disrupted and their vigilance compromised. Not that they were ever that vigilant, thought Franciezka as she moved through shadows; the palace guards not detailed to protect the royal family were soldiers of little value used mostly for ceremony. She crossed an open expanse of lawn to reach the wall of the palace, ducking into the shadow of an elm tree that would cut the afternoon’s glare through the terrace windows of Lord John Worthington’s quarters.

She was determined to discover what it was Lord John was up to. Inching her way to the balcony outside Lord John’s private quarters, she listened.

She could hear men’s voices inside, though the words were indistinct. She peered up over the edge of the balcony, between stone risers and then ducked back down. Lord John’s quarters had large glass doors opening on to a broad low balcony, and in the heat of summer he had left them open. But getting up over the railing would prove difficult without being seen.

Glancing up again, she saw that the two men in the room with Lord John had their backs to her, so she moved to the closest point to the wall where the balcony began, just out of Lord John’s line of vision, and nimbly leapt up to the rail, then down, landing silently. Her knees hurt slightly and she realized she was starting to feel her age.

She crouched down, back against the wall, knowing that on either side of the doors were matching framed floor-to-ceiling windows with sashed curtains. Pulling a small folded hood out of her belt, she quickly donned it. Black knit with two eye holes, it would not reflect the light coming through the glass. She inched her way along the wall until she was just next to the edge of the glass surrounding the doors and peered in. Her eyes widened and only the most rigorous training over the years kept her from exclaiming.

There were three John Worthingtons in the room!

They looked identical: could they be triplets? One was clearly Lord John, unmistakable in the forest-green jacket he preferred to wear most days. The other Lord John was dressed like a Keshian noble of the Trueblood, bare-chested and shaven headed, with a circlet of gold ending with Keshian royal falcons upon his brow, arm bands of gold, and cross-gartered sandals. He wore a heavy linen skirt, girdled with a wide crocodile hide belt fastened with a gold clasp.

The third Lord John was dressed like a noble of the Kingdom of the Isles, and it was he who was speaking.

‘This is unwise. We should not be gathered together in one place.’

‘Brothers,’ answered the Lord John she knew. ‘There is no risk. Roldem is at peace, albeit a fragile one, so this is the safest place to meet. Kesh is crawling with guards, legionaries, nobles armed to the teeth ready to kill one another, and that palace has few places to be unobserved. The Kingdom is still infected with those damned agents of Lord James’s grandson.’

The Isles version of Lord John said, ‘I’ve had most of them out, those that I couldn’t turn. His skill in picking agents with strong minds . . . our magic was not as effective as we thought it might be. Good resources were wasted when we had to start cutting throats.’

The one Franciezka thought of as the ‘real’ Lord John said, ‘I had the same experience here, but the Lady Franciezka’s agents were not as numerous. Roldem has grown complacent over the centuries.’

Franciezka bristled, but kept listening.

‘Still, the two elder princes are out to sea somewhere, Grandprey is in the mountains with a large part of the army still loyal to the Crown, and the Princess is missing, almost certainly off the island by now. So, our plans for Roldem must be placed in abeyance for the time being. How fare things in Kesh?’

The Keshian answered. ‘Their intelligence is crushed and Hazara-Khan hides in the northern desert among his kin. The desert people have always been loyal but they are far from the capital. There is nothing to keep us from moving forward with our plans in the City of Kesh.’

‘Good,’ said the real Lord John. ‘Let us inaugurate the second stage of our plan when you return. What of the Isles?’

‘It is most well suited for our next phase. There is no announced heir, but many potential claimants. We have displaced their armies, so the King’s Armies of the West cannot respond to any calls for aid from our valley.’

Franciezka frowned. Our valley? she wondered.

‘Good, then see King Gregory on his way as soon as you return.’

Franciezka’s heart pounded. These three men, brothers, whatever they were, planned on murdering the King of the Isles!

The Keshian asked, ‘What of the elves? I can order our forces outside of Ylith to E’bar if needs be.’

‘Those damned elves are impossible,’ said the ‘real’ Lord John.

The Isles John said, ‘Every agent we’ve dispatched, from either Isles or Kesh has failed to report back. We assume them dead at the hands of those Star Elves.’

The real John said, ‘All we can do is what we’ve done before; throw what’s left of the demon legion at them and keep them busy until it’s too late for them to take a hand.’

‘We’d best depart,’ said the Keshian. ‘I hold no belief we shall be able to dispatch the Emperor: too many attempts over the years makes it problematic; but we can certainly keep Kesh so occupied with this war that they will be ineffective in challenging us.’

‘Then to you, brother,’ said the real John, ‘comes the task of beginning our great work.’

‘I lack certain advantages,’ said the Isles John. ‘If I had killed Duke James, there would be too much scrutiny. I’ve isolated his grandson and rendered him impotent, but he’s still out there somewhere and not to be underestimated. I lack the convenience of a son to marry to a princess so my motives are somewhat questioned. Still, they are Kingdom simpletons and think merely of personal gain; they see me positioning myself as the next Duke of Rillanon, and that answers all their questions as to my actions.’

‘Raw ambition is so easy for these humans to understand,’ said the real John. ‘The boy I charmed into thinking I was his father fits the role admirably. And those I control will rally to support his marriage to the Princess, if we can find her. I almost regret the need to kill him when the time comes.’

‘Regret?’ asked the Keshian.

‘I said almost,’ replied Lord John. ‘Now, let us be about our tasks. Our master grows impatient and his wrath is not to be courted. Let us serve and serve quickly.’

Suddenly the two visiting versions of Lord John vanished from sight leaving only a faint grey smoke hanging in the air. Franciezka pulled her head away from the window and without hesitation leapt from the balcony and sprinted for the outside wall. She had no idea how she was going to find Jim and get word to him, but someone was about to try to kill his king and he might be the only man in the Isles who could save him.

With almost effortless ease, as the stress of the moment made her heart pound and her limbs feel light, she leapt onto a trellis and from there to the branch of a tree near the wall, then on top of the wall, avoiding the iron spikes, and over the wall to the cobbles on the other side.

Within seconds the Lady Franciezka Sorboz was lost in the darkness.

•  CHAPTER TWELVE  •

Onslaught

M
ARTIN SHOUTED.

‘Damn!’ He slammed his fist against the table.

Brendan shook his head at his brother’s frustration as they sat alone in the kitchen of the mayor’s house.

Martin’s vexation was self-directed, but he managed to get the attention of everyone in the room. Brendan signalled to the two cooks and their three helpers that he needed time alone with his brother. They exchanged glances; then the head cook nodded and they left through the back door.

‘What is it?’ asked Brendan.

After the water demon assault, Martin had been reorganizing the city’s meagre defences, while Miranda and Nakor had been interrogating the rogue magician, Akesh. Brendan had spent that time inventorying the city’s remaining resources and had given Martin the list to read a half-hour ago.

Martin appeared lost in thought and didn’t answer his brother’s question.

In the three days since that assault, the Keshian commander had been obviously content to take his time and return to a more mundane approach to siegecraft. He was constructing massive trebuchets on the crest of the western road, and it was obvious he would soon begin pounding at the gates of the city.

Bolton had made a thorough investigation of the old keep above the city and the escape tunnel that led to a short distance behind the Keshians’ position. Martin was desperately trying to concoct a plan to send men through that tunnel and assault the trebuchets, set them ablaze and then escape, but he was convinced there was no way to do that without losing every man on the raid, as well as having no guarantee that the siege engines would be destroyed.

‘What’d I’d give for one company of heavy horse right now,’ he said. In his mind he could see them cutting through the Keshian defences, enabling the raid against the trebuchets to work. Then the absurdity of his position struck him and he said, ‘If I’m wasting wishes, I should wish for the bulk of the King’s Armies of the West to be marching up from the south.’

Brendan pushed away a now-empty lunch plate. Stores were beginning to be a problem, so Martin had ordered rationing. Bethany had successfully argued for full rations for those fighting and half-rations for the rest. When Miranda and Nakor told him about the wagon caravan parked outside the city, he had sent out a detail to bring them in only to discover they had turned back toward Zün when the last attack had begun. He now was questioning his own ability to protect this city.

He had nearly had a stroke from anger when he learned how easily the Keshian demon-summoners had infiltrated the city, and had put Bolton in charge of interrogating every traveller still incarcerated in the inn at the city gate and a nearby store converted to housing. He wasn’t certain how effective the young captain might be in ferreting out more Keshian agents, but it was better than just waiting for one to reveal himself to the detriment of the city.

Martin felt overwhelmed, and was doing his best to hide that, but both Brendan and Bethany knew he was approaching his limit. It was one thing to study tactics, strategy, siegecraft, and the other military subjects, and to command a garrison for a short time as field experience, but it was quite another to bear responsibility for a city at war. Granted, most of the inhabitants had fled, but there were still women and children within these walls and while everything he had studied said the same thing – focus on the military aspects and let the civilians fend for themselves – still he could not bring himself to pretend they were not here, not a responsibility, not
his
responsibility.

Brendan waited for his brother to relax slightly before he said, ‘We have what we have.’

Martin nodded, pushing aside the list. Food was not critical yet, but it would be. Water was not a problem due to the numerous wells inside the walls. Arrows were becoming important, mostly because the finely fashioned ones had all been spent and now they were relying on those fashioned by boys pressed into acting as fletchers, using whatever feathers could be found for each flight. Weapons were not yet critical, either, but uninjured men to wield them was his most pressing need.