Flamecaster (29 page)

“Do note that I don't expect you to carry the entire weight of this new effort. I have initiatives underway that should provide some relief from the demands of this war, in terms of levies of money and men. I just ask for a little . . . forbearance.”

If I killed the bastard now, Ash thought, none of these lords would lift a finger to stop me. But then they'd turn around and execute me, because, you know, precedent.

He'd have to wait a little longer. Since he'd met Jenna, it had become increasingly important to survive.

“Now,” Montaigne said. “I would ask you to remain in your city houses until the end of the month. By then, I should have some good news for all of you. You may go—all except Lord Matelon, who will remain here as our guest during our inquiry.”

By then, the thane and his men-at-arms were nearly at the door. He turned to face the king. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I decline.” He turned, a blade in each hand, and cut the throats of the blackbirds nearest to him. His men formed a circle around their lord, prickling with swords. They drove a wedge through the King's Guard and out the door.

The banquet was, for all intents and purposes, over. The king hurried from the room, insulated by a crowd of guards, while Ash accompanied the queen back to her quarters.

Ash's skin prickled with a growing unease. The fall of Delphi and a possible civil war might be good news for the Fells, but it would make Ash's job that much harder. An embattled king would be harder to get at than before. Prisoners didn't usually fare well within a kingdom in chaos. And the rebellion of the thanes would make a potential deal with the empress of Carthis more appealing than ever.

When Ash arrived at the king's Small Hall for the meeting with Strangward, the room was already crowded. Pettyman, the king's steward; Jerome, his new taster; and far too many blackbird mages were already on hand.

The hall was a smaller, more intimate version of the throne room, adjacent to the king's privy chamber. Montaigne even had a throne of sorts, an elaborate chair on a raised dais, so he could look down on those around him.

Pettyman knew how to find that sweet spot where hospitality and politics met. He'd refreshed the Solstice greenery around the mantel and doorways, and laid a modest display of food and drink out on the sideboard. Jerome was in the process of tasting it under the watchful
eyes of Fleury and Marc DeJardin.

It was a waste of time. Ash knew by now that the king wouldn't touch it anyway. Montaigne had always been paranoid, but he'd grown worse after the assassination attempts. His personal guard searched his bedchamber each night before he locked the door. No morsel passed his lips without being trialed on the taster—multiple times. He constantly complained of headaches, tremors, and rashes, but refused Ash's offers of help.

Could the king's symptoms be a signal that Ash's plan was working? He didn't know. It would help if he knew whether the king was using “white magic,” but he didn't want to draw attention to the living silver by asking about it.

Ash and Jerome were spending lots of time together these days. Ash had become the equivalent of the king's magical taster—assigned to keep a constant eye out for magical threats, scrutinize visitors, and be ready to leap into action in the event of sudden illness or another attempt on the king's life.

Ash would have been more than happy to allow any rival assassin to do the honors, but it hadn't happened yet. With the arrival of the emissary, he knew that time was running out—for Jenna, anyway. A handful of people would be coming together with the Carthian delegation to decide Jenna's fate like brokers at a slave auction.

Ash took a deep breath, forced himself to unclench his
fists, to loosen his muscles, to lean against the wall as if he had nothing to lose. He hadn't survived this long by being stupid.

Speaking of the slave trade, Lila and Destin Karn arrived together—of course. Ash fingered the collar around his neck. Since the delivery of the crates of flashcraft, Ash's last illusions about Lila had disappeared. Lila would go anywhere and do whatever it took in order to make some coin. If she thought she was going to take him back to the Fells and collect a reward, she was in for disappointment.

Now that Lila and Karn were experts on magical devices, they'd been called in to offer an opinion on the “weapon” Commander Strangward had brought.

Or maybe the king was just lonely. General Karn was in the field, deploying his forces in the path of a possible attack by Arschel Matelon and his allies. Matelon was on his way to his fortress at White Oaks, calling in his bannermen along the way, getting ready for a fight.

I wonder if my mother knows the consequences of her claiming of Delphi.

Maybe that was the plan all along.

It seemed like he was learning more about his mother at a distance than he ever had at home.

While little Karn made plans with the blackbirds, Lila drifted over to where Ash stood.

“You're not even tempted?” she asked, nodding at the
spread along the wall, a blackbird standing guard at either end.

“I just ate,” Ash said, “and I don't care for herring.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don't,” Ash said, showing his teeth in a smile. “But help yourself if you're hungry. The king's not going to touch it, not after it's been sitting out.”

Apparently, Lila wasn't hungry, either, because she didn't chance it.

The king arrived soon after that, with Botetort. The king was well turned out in black and silver, but he looked a bit under the weather. The skin on his cheeks appeared chapped and he repeatedly rubbed his forearms, as if they itched. His hands tremored a bit until he clasped them together on his lap.

Ash bent his knee to the king, then rose, studying his face. “Are you well, Your Majesty?”

“Never better,” the king snapped. “Did you scan the room?”

“I did, and found nothing suspicious,” Ash said.

Greenberry, the chamberlain, appeared at the door. “The principia, Father Fosnaught, is here with the delegation from the Northern Islands, Your Majesty,” he said. “Shall I show them in?”

“By all means,” Montaigne said. “Let's get this done.”

The first man through the door was massive, broad-shouldered, a mountain of a man. His hair was the color
of burnt honey, braided and twisted into locks. He wore a loose linen shirt, tucked into trousers, a baldric and belt over top. He wore his wealth on his wrists and around his neck—a random assortment of gold cuffs and chains and pendants. A light cape was thrown over all, and it seemed to change colors in the light from the torches. No weapons were in evidence—the delegation had been relieved of them outside.

I wonder if the empress is as impressive as her emissary, Ash thought, eyeing him.

There were six of them in all, none of them wearing any kind of uniform. They were dressed in clothing in various colors, of a comfortable style similar to that worn by the emissary. Men and women dressed the same, resembling sailors more than anything else. Their one consistency was that all of them displayed wavelets of tattoos covering their arms. Ash guessed that must be the signia of the empress. Most were fair-skinned, but colored by long hours in the sun, their hair ranging from a shade like bleached linen to corn silk to light brown.

All of the men were clean shaven. Some had longer hair drawn into thick side braids, while others were more closely shorn. Both the men and women wore more jewelry than was fashionable in Arden. Most wore earrings, others bangles or elaborate belt buckles.

What kind of people were they? Ash studied them closely, looking for clues. Fosnaught's description of them
as horse savages or pirates seemed to fit. Not encouraging. Carthian pirates had a ruthless reputation, and they would sail off with Jenna unless Ash could find a way to prevent it.

When the group stood in front of the king, Fosnaught cleared his throat to introduce them, but the Carthian emissary seemed oblivious to protocol. He stepped forward and said, in Common, “I am Teza Von bin Miralla, Sworn Sword of Tarvos. May I present Lord Evan Strangward, Emissary of the Empress Celestine, ruler of the Northern Islands, the Desert Coast, Carthis, Endru, and Anamaya, and True Source of Tarvos.” Standing aside, he gestured toward a young man who had been lost in the pack until then.

“That's the emissary?” Lila murmured, as if unimpressed.

“Don't underestimate him,” Ash said, eyes narrowed. “They're all wizards of some sort, but I'm guessing that he's by far the most powerful of the lot.”

Though clearly the Carthians were gifted, their auras seemed different from what Ash was used to. Western wizards glowed a cool bluish-white. Strangward's aura came closest to that. He lit up the entire room with a brilliant white glow. Each time he gripped his amulet, which was often, it was as if the lights dimmed. The other delegates glowed a faint red, like dying coals.

Are they different kinds? Ash wondered. Or is it just that Strangward is more powerful than the others?

The emissary wasn't as tall as Ash, but looked to be about the same age. He was wiry more than muscular, and of a more slender build. He wore a loose linen shirt under a close-fitting leather jerkin that buckled up the front. His roomy breeches were tucked into soft knee-high boots. His swordbelt was cinched around his waist, the scabbard empty. He was less decorated than the others, save a gold earring in one ear and his amulet, boldly displayed on the outside of his clothing. The fact that his nose had been broken at least once saved him from being too pretty, with his glittering fair hair, feral green eyes, and finely planed face.

“I'll bet he's someone the girls like to look at,” Lila murmured.

I'll bet they do more than look, Ash thought.

Ash had never been to the Northern Islands, and yet there was something familiar about the emissary's voice and features. Perhaps he'd met some wizard who was a throwback to an earlier time.

Montaigne was studying the emissary with a faintly bemused expression, but whether it had to do with Strangward's youth or his manner of dress, Ash didn't know.

Fosnaught continued with the introductions. “May I introduce His Majesty, Gerard Montaigne, by the grace of the Maker King of Arden and Tamron, and ruler of the New Empire of the Seven Realms.”

“Your Majesty.” Strangward inclined his head enough
to be polite, though probably not as much as protocol demanded in a meeting between an emissary and a king. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last. We have looked forward to engaging with Arden, and with the rest of the Seven Realms. This is such a pretty, green place.” There was something hungry about the way he said it that raised the hair on the back of Ash's neck.

The emissary spoke Common well, though with an unfamiliar accent. Which made sense, since as far as he knew, Ash had never met anyone from the Northern Islands.

“Welcome to Arden, Lord Strangward,” Montaigne said. “I trust you had a fair weather crossing.”

“Yes,” Strangward said, lips twitching, as if at some private joke. “I nearly always do.”

Fosnaught gestured toward the others. “This is Lord Botetort, speaker of the Thane Council, and Lieutenant Destin Karn, who is with the King's Guard.”

Strangward's gaze flicked over each person as they were named. Then he turned to look at Lila and Ash, who stood off to one side. “You left out these two,” he said, pointing.

“Those two are . . . ah . . .” It was clear that Fosnaught had no idea how to describe their role in this meeting.

Destin Karn came to the rescue. “This is Lila Barrowhill, an expert in weaponry and logistics. Adam Freeman is a member of our Royal Guild of Healers.”

“Do you anticipate that there will be a need for a
healer?” the emissary asked, looking around, as if to spot the afflicted. “Or do you always keep one standing by?”

“Freeman is here to answer any questions that might come up about the health of the girl,” Karn said.

The emissary cocked his head, studying Karn. “You are a mage,” he said. “Aren't you?”

Karn seemed unusually skittish for some reason. He looked to the king for guidance, received none, then said, “Yes, Lord Strangward, I am.”

“And so are you,” Strangward said to Ash. “How curious.” He turned back to Montaigne. “I had not expected to see mages made so welcome at court. You see, I had heard that you burn the gifted in Arden. I am so relieved to learn that I was misled.”

For a long moment, nobody had anything to say. Ash bit his lip to prevent amusement from crawling onto his face.

Finally, Father Fosnaught cleared his throat. “We are people of faith, Lord Strangward, and well aware of the dangers of demonic influence. In certain situations, in which certain mages violate the tenets of the church, they are examined by the Hand. If found to be corrupted, they are cleansed by the flame.”

“Cleansed?” Strangward raised an eyebrow.

“Cleansed,” Fosnaught repeated. When Strangward kept looking at him, as if puzzled, he snapped, “We burn them.”

“And so then they are dead?”

“But cleansed. And, therefore, saved.”

“Fascinating,” Strangward said, rubbing his chin.

Fosnaught fondled the keys to the kingdom that hung at his belt. “What religion do you practice in the Northern Islands, if I may ask?”

“In the east, the empress is the religion,” Strangward said. “She is not one to share power, not even with the gods.” He turned back to Ash. “Why is it that you—and these guardsmen—wear metal collars? Is it a mark of rank, or personal fashion, or do you belong to a particular tribe that—?”

“That's enough!” Montaigne roared, having reached the end of his patience. “If you would like, Emissary, we can assign one of our clerics to explain to you some of our customs,” he said testily. “My time is limited, however, and I would like to proceed to the main topic of this meeting, that is, an agreement between the empress and ourselves.” He gestured to a grouping of chairs. “You may sit.”

The emissary sat, thrusting his legs out in front of him, but his companions remained standing. “Forgive me,” he said. “Where I come from, it often takes several days of tay drinking and storytelling to get down to business. I can see that your habits are different, and clearly much more . . . efficient.”

The emissary had an oddly formal and self-deprecating manner of speaking, and yet hidden in every line was a rather sharp point.

Fosnaught, Botetort, and Karn sat as well. Lila and Ash remained standing, while Montaigne stayed where he was, on the dais, with his guard of blackbirds around him.

“I appreciate your seeing me at what must be a busy time, given the events in the north,” Strangward said.

Montaigne's eyes narrowed. “What events?”

“The loss of Delphi must have been a blow, given its importance as a source of iron and steel.”

“News travels fast, it seems,” Montaigne said, pretending to straighten his cuffs.

“Bad news, especially. That's the way of the world, I'm afraid.”

He's laying the groundwork for a better deal, Ash thought, with grudging admiration. You need us, is what he's saying.

“Delphi is a miserable place to campaign in the winter,” Botetort said. “We'll clear out the rebels when the weather warms.”

“Of course,” Strangward nodded politely. “Unfortunately, the northerners do not seem to mind the cold.” He sighed. “So much trouble with the Fells.” The words were delivered carelessly, but the smile had bite.