A Dance of Cloaks (21 page)

“Who do you want?” he asked.

Pelarak might have smiled or gloated, but that was not the man he was.

“Two of the faceless sisters came to me last night to inform me of their actions. I did not reprimand them, not yet. They have your daughter, Alyssa. She must join our order.”

Maynard felt his world tear and twist in chaotic ways inside his mind. Alyssa, a priestess of Karak? She would be safe from the Kulls, perhaps, and certainly no threat to his estate. But would he ever see her again? Who would she become cloistered within the walls, battered daily with Karak’s rhetoric of order and darkness?

Then he saw the hidden threat. If the faceless women had Alyssa, then they could do to her whatever they wished. If he refused…

“I must accept,” he said.

“Good,” Pelarak said, a smile spreading across his face. “I am glad we could reach an agreement. We aid one another, as friends, not master and servant.”

“Of course. You speak most wisely,” Maynard said, the lie bitter on his lips.

When he turned to leave, Pelarak stopped him with a word.

“Oh, Maynard,” the high priest said. “Make sure she is still heir to your estate. If you render her worthless, we will do the same.”

A shard of ice grew inside his heart.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” he said.

“Good,” said Pelarak. “Go with Karak’s blessing.”

He did, though if he could, he’d toss any blessing of Karak’s into the foulest open sewer and leave it to rot. If he could, he’d have Pelarak suffer the same fate.

“Forgive me, Alyssa,” he said as he left the temple, giving one last look to the priests and priestess bowed before the giant statue of Karak, their heartfelt wails reaching to the sky. He thought of Alyssa on her knees beside them, and the image twisted the ice in his heart all the harder.

A
lyssa was already dressed and sitting beside the fire when Yoren awoke. It blazed healthily as the young woman tossed a few extra branches so she could watch them burn.

“Good morning, love,” Yoren said.

“Morning,” Alyssa replied, her voice dull. She might have been talking to a rock.

Feeling the call of nature, Yoren hopped up, stepped behind a tree, and began urinating. When he finished, he stepped back around and was looked surprised to see Alyssa staring at him intently.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, turning her gaze back to the fire. “Only nothing.”

He grunted but let her cryptic comments pass.

“Stay here, and keep that fire roaring,” he told her. He retrieved his small bow and bundle of arrows from his tent and slung them across his back. “I’ll see if I can nab us a rabbit or squirrel for breakfast. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

He trudged deeper into the forest, but before he left, he turned back toward her.

“And if the faceless return, tell them to wait for me as well,” he said. Then he was gone.

She played the obedient girl, keeping the fire lively and even gathering up extra wood. When she was bored, she constructed a shoddy rendition of a spit over the flame. From her time back at the Pensley’s estate, she knew that Yoren could hunt as well as he boasted.

He returned in only twenty minutes, carrying a dead gray rabbit by its back legs. He dropped it on the dirt beside the fire. Alyssa took it without question, and he seemed surprised by that.

“I’ll need a knife to skin it,” she said.

Yoren paused, as if sensing for a trap, then shrugged and tossed her a slender dagger from his belt. She caught its hilt in the air, doing her best not to show irritation at the idiot for tossing it so carelessly toward her.

Any other time she might have felt squeamish about the blood and guts. She played the tomboy well enough when with her foster families, but it had been mostly an act. As much as they hated to admit it, the young men often treated her better when thinking she could wield a knife and not squeal at the sight of something dead. But pretending to handle blood and actually handling it were two different matters.

She pretended the rabbit was Yoren’s head. It did wonders for her stomach.

When the rabbit finished cooking, Yoren gave her the bulk of the meat. He was once more playing the dashing suitor, as if her time spent pressed against the tree had only been an illusion. She flashed her prettiest smile at his jokes. The lies came easier to her than she’d prefer.

“Come,” he said when their meal was done. “It looks like we’ll have to trust the faceless bitches to find us. Clean yourself up a little; you’ve got grease on your face.”

“Where are we going?” she asked as she wiped her chin and lips with the inside edge of her dress.

“To meet with my father.”

He looked her up and down, scowling. She was wearing the simple clothing she’d been given when thrown into her father’s underground cells. Although she’d brushed her hair as best she could with her fingers, it had done little to remove the dirt and damage. She looked much more like a haggard maid than an heiress to a mining empire.

“This will never do,” Yoren said. “You must look my queen, not my servant. Where are those blasted women? Surely they know a thing or two about primping.”

“Yes, because their beauty is seen so often,” Alyssa said. Her sarcasm was stronger than she expected, the cut of her comment deep enough to narrow Yoren’s eyes and make him doubt her docility.

“No doubt Maynard has every cutthroat he owns in the city searching for you,” he said. “Otherwise I’d take you to a bathhouse and make you look respectable. But it looks like I’ll have to bring you as you are to my father.”

He scattered the fire and then took her hand.

“Oh, and dear,” he said, smiling a cruel smile. “Hold your tongue, or instead of being my queen, I’ll drag you to my father as if you were my whore.”

Her mouth twitched but her eyes remained dead.

“Yes, milord,” she said.

He completely forgot about the dagger that should have been safely tucked inside his belt, the one that had disemboweled a rabbit.

The one Alyssa hid underneath her skirt.

T
he king was waiting for him when Gerand arrived.

“What plans for today, Crold?” Edwin Vaelor asked as he made his fifth attempt at tying his elaborate sash correctly. Gerand frowned at his fumbling attempts, and when it was clear the king would do no better on his sixth, the advisor reached out and set it correctly.

“A few squabbles among farmers and some petty lords from the northern plains,” said Gerand. “The troubles from Angelport will be a bit more difficult.”

“Angelport? What’s bothering Lord Murband now? He has no rivals in the entire Ramere, not a single bloody count or noble to bicker over his territory.”

“But he has the elves,” Gerand said. “And you know how much he likes to talk up their threat.”

The king sighed as he slipped a gaudy necklace of gold and rubies over his neck. The Ramere was isolated in the far southeast of Dezrel, tucked in between the Erze Forest, the Quellan Forest, and the Crestwall Mountains. Lord Ingram Murband there owned everything from the Thulon Ocean to the Kingstrip, yet he complained more than any of the other Lords. And it was always about the blasted elves.

“Don’t they insist they’re our allies? Granted, I have no trust in their claims. No one lies like an elf, right?”

“Too true,” Gerand said dryly. “However, Ingram claims that the Quellan elves have begun shooting arrows at his loggers.”

“He go too far into the forest again?” the king asked with a chuckle. Gerand was not amused.

“He’s asking for permission to declare war.”

King Vaelor scoffed.

“You’re telling me he’s to be the rough part of my day? Bring in the old goat. I’ll laugh in his face and tell him if he wants to cut down the whole Quellan Forest he’s more than welcome to, but he’ll use his
own
soldiers as arrow bait, not mine.”

“Any provocation in the south may cause the Dezren elves to retaliate in kind,” Gerand warned. “We have many farming villages stretching north from the Erze Forest. Thousands of acres of crops might burn.”

Edwin pulled on his thick crimson robe hemmed with white dove feathers.

“It won’t happen,” he said. “If Ingram sends in any troops, they’ll be dead in hours, and then all
his
precious farmland will be vulnerable. He won’t dare risk conflict if he knows I won’t protect his idiotic ass.”

“Your wisdom is unquestionable,” Gerand said. He clucked his tongue, immediately angry at himself afterward for doing something that announced his nervousness. So far the conversation had gone as expected. This next part, however, was what mattered. Murband and his elves could go dive into the Bone Ditch for all he cared.

“One last matter,” Gerand said. “I’ve received word that Thren Felhorn is expected to kill the Trifect at their Kensgold.”

“Which member, exactly?” Edwin asked as he stared at himself in a mirror, turning this way and that to see if anything seemed out of place.

“All of them, your majesty,” the advisor said. “The heads of all three families, to die within minutes of one another.”

The king whistled appreciatively.

“Good to know the old boy hasn’t lost his balls. How’s he expect to do that?”

Gerand explained the plan. The king’s eyes never left the mirror.

“Interesting,” said the king. “Clearly we can’t let him go through with it. Send word to one of them, Connington maybe, about their plan. Let them find some devious way to scheme it to their benefit.”

“I’m not sure that is the best course of action,” Gerand said, broaching the subject carefully. He was well aware of the king’s paranoia, and he planned to use that to his full advantage. “But you remember what their last Kensgold was like, don’t you?”

“You’re assuming I even know what a bloody Kensgold is.”

Gerand mentally swore. The last time the Trifect had held a Kensgold was two years ago. The king had only been fourteen at the time.

“A Kensgold is a meeting of all three houses of the Trifect,” the advisor explained. “They meet at one of their estates. They brag about their riches, compare trade agreements, discuss the downfall of any competitors, and overall spend a frightening amount of gold. It’s a show of wealth, power, and solidarity.”

“I care about this why?” Edwin asked. He grabbed his gold sword from a chair beside him. Gerand turned and coughed, using the excuse to roll his eyes. The king had commissioned the sword as one of his first orders of rule when he ascended the throne at age twelve. The longsword wasn’t tinted gold or covered with gold at the hilt. The whole bloody thing was made of solid gold: heavy, cumbersome, and thoroughly impractical. It shone beautifully in the light, though, and that was all Edwin cared about.

“Mercenaries from all over Dezrel will come pouring in for a taste of the coin the Trifect will be spending during the Kensgold. Hundreds upon hundreds, some from as far west as Ker and Mordan. At their last Kensgold, our best estimates put them at having over five thousand men on their retainer, not counting their house soldiers.”

King Vaelor looked at Gerand as if he were insane.

“That’s nearly seven thousand men sworn to one banner inside my walls.”

“Within a short walk from your castle doors, yes,” Gerand added, unable to resist.

“Fuck. How long does this blasted Kensgold last?”

“Just a single night,” said Gerand.

He could already see the fear spreading in Edwin’s eyes. One night was enough to assassinate a king. One night was enough to supplant the hierarchy with the rule of coin and trade.

“We must stop them,” Edwin said. He clutched his gold sword tight, as if he were to draw it and strike some unseen enemy.

“There’s no way we can,” Gerand said, feigning defeat.

“There is. Ban the mercenaries from our city. Get rid of them. They can’t pass through our walls if we don’t let them.”

Gerand nearly choked. He had been hoping Edwin would call for a sharp curtailing of the Trifect’s power. A massive increase in taxes, plus a crackdown on some of their more illegal activities, would have done wonders to subdue the Trifect’s smug flaunting of power. Banning all mercenaries, however, was about as far from what he wanted as the Abyss was to the Golden Eternity.