Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (18 page)

“Now, go rouse your messenger and contact Commander Heron. I want to leave at first light with a full honor guard and the retainers I’ve already selected. You’d better come, too, I might need you while we’re there.”

Summarily dismissed, Sonten left the room, his thoughts frantic. If the Duke hadn’t yet discovered the shocking theft of the Staff, then the success of this venture would mean he soon would. Perhaps the length of time since its actual removal would put Sonten in the clear, a fact he hadn’t even considered. He’d already supplied his overlord with a perfectly good reason for Jaskin’s death, so why should his Grace suspect him? Providing he kept a cool head and betrayed no guilty thoughts, he should be safe.

He might not have much power but one thing he did know, having heard Jaskin say it many times. Weak Artesans, in common with the ungifted, still had strong natural shields, strong enough to protect their thoughts from casual probing. So if Sonten didn’t give himself away, he should have nothing more to fear.

Smiling nastily and feeling better than he had since his nephew’s death, Sonten strode toward the servants’ quarters. He would send someone to rouse Imris, who had been released to his rest.

Yet even as he framed the orders he would give Heron, realization slammed into Sonten’s mind. Abruptly, he stopped, all thought arrested. Disbelief flooded his heart; how could he have been so blind? Why had he let his fears override his natural cunning? Why hadn’t he seen the obvious, dangling right before his eyes?

Shaking his head at his laughable stupidity, Sonten resurrected his plans. He didn’t need Jaskin, with his youth, his contempt and his condescending comments. What he needed was an Artesan who owed him allegiance. What he needed was a man who’d already been bought.

Grinning maliciously and lighter of step than he’d been for days, Sonten roared for his Artesan messenger.

The sun rose in a pale pink haze. Low rays slanted through swirling mist, catching in the horses’ eyes. Hooves stamped and harness jingled as maned heads tossed and jaws champed the bit. Breath from many nostrils plumed into the frosty air and swords were eased in their sheaths.

Battle fervor gleamed in slit-pupiled eyes.

Both commanders watched their men. This was the last effort, the final feint before the main offensive, and they were determined to do their best. Much was at stake, not least the Duke’s favor. Rewards awaited those who did well. The threat of death loomed for those who did not.

The two leaders eyed each other, rivals on the same side. Verris smiled slyly and Heron turned away. Verris knew what the other man thought of his far-reaching ambitions; the self-righteous Heron would never let personal gain deflect him from his duty. Well, let him dance attendance on his fat general, thought Verris. As if that would get him anywhere. Verris didn’t intend to be merely a commander for long.

He saw Heron give a casual nod and move out his men. Verris snorted and did the same. The two companies took opposite directions, the horses curvetting and straining to be off. It had been a cold night and their muscles were stiff; the short ride would warm them and prepare them for the assault.

Verris cast a scornful look over his shoulder. Heron thought he was superior because his Artesan rank was one level higher than Verris,’ but Verris intended to show him that metaphysical prowess was not the only route to success. He was one of the Duke’s personal retainers and he intended to catch the great man’s eye, one way or another. Once he had sufficiently impressed the Duke, promotion into his elite guard would follow. That would be one in the eye for the haughty Heron.

Full of his plans, Verris urged his men to greater speed.

Their orders were to create panic among the Albians by catching them off guard before they were awake. There were three towns to the north and west of their starting position, with villages and hamlets between. Verris and Heron would aim for the smaller settlements first, crush them under their horses’ hooves and send the peasants running for the towns. Then they would sack the towns too, set fire to the houses and destroy what they could.

Let the Albians run, gloated Verris. Let them empty the towns and run for their lives. There would be enough booty left for him and his men, even after the lords had taken their cut. Verris intended to have his pick of what was left. At least his boys knew better than to keep gold for themselves.

Heron was far too soft with his lot. Whoever heard of letting them keep what they found? That was no way to get rich and Verris intended to be very rich one day.

His men let out a cry, telling him they had sighted a village. Yelling them on, he reined back his snorting warhorse and watched the mayhem his lads inflicted. Very soon, clouds of sooty smoke billowed up, cries of wounded and terrified Albians singing in Verris’ ears.

He took a moment to scan the horizon, scowling as he saw other signs of burning. Heron, it seemed, was busy, too. Roaring at his eager men, Verris ordered them to break off the attack and pushed them on to their next target. He left the screaming survivors huddling in their burning homes or fleeing for the nearest town.

Laughing loudly, he galloped after his men.

Taran, Cal and Rienne woke after a comfortable night, undisturbed by any snoring from Bull’s room. They breakfasted simply in the apartment and the big man excused himself shortly after, saying he had duties to attend to. He told them they were free to wander the Manor grounds and left them instructions on how to reach the commons again.

“You won’t see the Major until at least this afternoon,” he said. “And then only if what she hears from Robin interests her. Her time is heavily committed and she’ll let Robin deal with anything that doesn’t warrant her personal attention. If I were you, I’d spend the morning reviewing what you told us yesterday. See if there’s anything more you can add.”

He stared meaningfully at Taran and the Journeyman knew he had guessed some things had been left unsaid.

“Either Robin or I will meet you in the commons at noon. Feel free to use my rooms until then.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” said Taran. “We’ll do as you suggest.”

Bull nodded and left.

Despite the big man’s advice and his fear of the Staff, all Taran could think about was the possibility of training. He knew there wasn’t the slightest chance of learning from Sullyan, but Robin’s casual mention had suggested to Taran that he might be willing to give some guidance. Taran’s estimation of the Captain had increased immeasurably on learning his Artesan rank and he was eager to learn anything he could, even from someone three years younger.

At midday, he led Cal and Rienne to the commons, getting lost only once. An amused cadet put him right when he strayed into a lecture room by mistake. Guided by the smell of food, he finally opened the right door. He was a little dismayed to find no familiar faces in the half-packed commons, but no one seemed to mind when he took a free table.

The light meal was over and the room beginning to empty when Robin finally appeared. Dressed in combat leathers, he looked much more poised than he had the previous night. He greeted them gravely and smiled when Rienne inquired after the Major.

“She’s much improved today,” he said, “although a morning spent with General Blaine might change that.” He turned to Taran. “She wants to speak to you later but she’s given me some instructions to carry out before then. Will you come with me?”

Puzzled, Taran stood, the others following as Robin left the room. Hurrying to keep up with the long-striding Captain, Taran said, “Am I permitted to ask what the instructions are?”

“You’ll soon find out,” said Robin obliquely.

He led them outside, leaving behind the buildings as they walked down a wooded track in the autumn sunshine. Eventually, it opened into a wide circular arena of short-cropped grass, bordered by wooden benches. It was deserted, silent except for bird song.

Taran gazed around, sensing an air of combat about the place.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

The Captain waved Rienne and Cal to the benches. He guided Taran to the center of the arena and faced him squarely.

“In the light of what you told us yesterday, and especially in view of your training, the Major has asked me to assess your level of competence.”

Offended, Taran bridled. “My father trained me well. I can assure you I earned my rank.”

Robin smiled. “I don’t doubt it. Nevertheless, that’s what I’ve been asked to do. Do you agree to the test? If your abilities are what you say, you have nothing to fear. I intend you no harm, I only want to familiarize myself with your psyche and techniques.”

Taran hesitated, but in reality he had little choice. He also realized he might learn something new. He made up his mind to embrace the chance to surprise Robin into a measure of respect.

“Very well,” he said.

Robin smiled again and Taran realized the Captain had sensed his resolve. “Observation number one,” said Robin. “Conceal your emotions from your opponent.”

He held out his hand for Taran to clasp. The Journeyman took it, physical contact being essential for the two men to learn each other’s unique pattern of psyche. It took Taran a few minutes to commit Robin’s incredibly complex pattern to memory and he was impressed anew when Robin took less than seconds to memorize his own.

They stepped apart and the Captain led Taran through the various disciplines of the Journeyman rank, from communication to control; from wielding power to portway-building. They meshed psyches in order to communicate and this highlighted the differences in their rank. Taran was overwhelmed by the depth of the Captain’s pattern compared to his own. Despite feeling overawed and awkward, he did his best to impress.

He heard Cal give the occasional grunt of admiration as they worked and knew even he could tell that Robin had by far the superior power. As Adept-elite, two levels higher than Journeyman, Robin not only had mastery over the elements of Earth and Water, but could also influence the tertiary element, Fire. Yet despite these obvious differences, Taran thought he’d acquitted himself well.

Bull appeared halfway through the session and sat by Cal. Taran saw his Apprentice put an arm around Rienne’s shoulders, drawing her away from the big man. He didn’t think Cal noticed Bull’s smile.