The Bloodforged (23 page)

Discipline. Remember who you are.
He felt his spine straighten. He lifted his head and gazed defiantly at his captors, to show he was not afraid.

“This changes things,” Qhara said.

Fahran had approached the fire now too. He looked from one kinsman to another, frowning, seemingly the only one who did not understand what was happening. “What is it? What has changed?”

Qhara ignored him. “You should have told us the truth, Imperial Erik.” She dropped into a low, mocking bow. “Or should I say, Your Majesty.”

Y
our Majesty.

Okay, that was the easy part. Now what? He glanced down at Rudi for inspiration, but the wolfhound just yawned, showing off a mouthful of wickedly curved teeth.

My enquiries are progressing.
That wasn't really true, though, was it?

I regret to inform you of my abject failure.
Accurate, but maybe a touch melodramatic.

I have decided that I would rather be bound naked to the prow of a merchant schooner touring every harbour of the
known world than continue in this capacity.
“Yes,” Liam said, tapping his quill against his chin, “I think I'll go with that one.”

Rona Brown looked up from the scroll she was reading. “I beg your pardon, Commander?”

“Nothing. Just writing a letter to the king.”

Ide peered over his shoulder.
“Your Majesty.”

“It's a work in progress.”

Rona sighed and rolled up the scroll. “You're right, Commander, there's nothing here that we didn't already know.”

“Thanks for trying, anyway.” He'd hoped that Rona might find something in Saxon's notes, some scrap of information he'd overlooked. “I suppose we should head back to the docks. Maybe if we ask around, we'll find someone who saw something out of the ordinary.”

“Failing that,” Dain Cooper said, “we could talk to Chief Mallik again. You never know—he might have remembered something new since last week.”

“Yeah,” Liam said, “maybe.” And maybe Rudi would sprout butterfly wings and flit gaily around the sunroom.

Shef appeared in the doorway. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but First Speaker Kar is here.”

Liam's eyebrows flew up. He'd half expected his next communication from the first speaker to be in the form of a letter instructing him to kindly get his royal arse out of the country. “Show him in, please.”

“Well,” Ide said, “this should be awkward.”

Kar entered the sunroom alone. He looked like a man who'd had a falling-out with sleep. His features were as carefully arranged as ever, but it was like a mask with the varnish worn off, all drab colours and frayed edges. “I hope I am not intruding, Your Highness.”

“Not at all,” Liam said, gesturing for the first speaker to sit. “In fact, I'm glad to see you. I'm not sure if Ash Bookman mentioned it, but—”

“He mentioned it,” Kar said. “Right before he resigned.”

Liam winced. Apparently, the secretary had been serious when he'd said he wanted no part of this.

“That is why I am here, Your Highness,” Kar went on. “I want to make sure there is no misunderstanding.”

“There isn't. At least not where I'm concerned.” Liam couldn't quite manage to meet the first speaker's gaze. “I was given some information that I thought might help lead us to whoever is responsible for the delays with the fleet, but it seems I was mistaken.”

“You weren't mistaken, Your Highness. You were deliberately misled. I have a feeling I know by whom, not that it really matters now. What's important is that you saw through it.”

“Straightaway,” said Rona Brown. “It was clear to us that it was all a little too convenient.” Clear to her, anyway, but Liam saw no need to go into details.

“Defence Consul Welin is no more capable of sabotaging the fleet than I am,” Kar said.

Presumably, that was meant to be reassuring. Liam nodded obligingly.

“Moreover, he would have been caught long ago. You can imagine the scrutiny he is under. The opposition has been on the warpath for months. Frankly speaking, Your Highness, it's killing him.”

“I can imagine.” Actually, he couldn't. In Liam's experience, name-calling was rarely fatal, children's rhymes notwithstanding.
These people have no idea what real war looks like.
If they did, they wouldn't be prancing around like parade ponies while his countrymen died.

“I'm glad we understand each other. In truth, however, I have much more on my mind than Welin. Regrettable though this hateful campaign against him may be, my priority as first speaker is the well-being of the republic. And that means finding out who is sabotaging the fleet.”

“So you agree it's sabotage, then?”

“What else could it be?”

Liam knew he should just swallow that and play along, but he couldn't. “If that's what you believe, why didn't you say so from the beginning?”

Kar spread his hands. “Consider my position, Your Highness. Such an act qualifies as high treason, a capital offence. I did not dare make accusations until I was absolutely sure.”

Absolutely sure the blame wouldn't fall on your handpicked successor, you mean.
Aloud, Liam said, “And you're sure now? What's changed?”

“This.” Kar produced a folded piece of parchment and placed it on the table between them.

Opening it, Liam found a series of incomprehensible lines. Did Kar realise he didn't speak Onnani? He felt himself flush.

Dain rescued him before the pause became awkward. “May I, Commander?” He took up the note, translating as he read. “‘Gratified that you managed to . . .'” He trailed off, cursing quietly.

“Go on.” Kar grimaced as he said it, like a man bracing himself for something painful.

Dain cleared his throat and continued. “‘Gratified that you managed to sink it, but do not congratulate yourself too much. That is only the first of many, and they will be on to you now. It will be harder with each one. I am sure you understand why I cannot be involved personally, but I will make sure you are well compensated.'” He paused, jaw twitching in anger. “It's signed . . .”

Liam sprang out of his chair and snatched the note from Dain's hands.

Syril.

The priest of Eldora. The speaker who had humiliated Liam in front of the entire Republicana. “Why am I not surprised?” Liam growled.

“I am.” Kar sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. “Very much so. I knew Syril opposed the war, but to go this far . . .”

“Forgive me for asking, First Speaker,” said Rona, “but are you certain it's really from him? Couldn't it be a forgery?”

“Quite right that you ask.” Kar drew a second note from his robes and handed it to her.

Unfolding it, she held it up alongside Liam's note. The handwriting was identical.

“There is no shortage of examples to compare. Speakers produce dozens of pieces of correspondence a day. It is his hand, I'm afraid. I checked it myself. I could not believe it, you see, even though it was found in his own rubbish bin.”

“Found,” Ide said. “In a rubbish bin. Pretty lucky, that.”

“An individual in my employ came across it.”

Ide smirked. “A spy in your employ went rooting through his trash, you mean.” Kar didn't deny it; he just shrugged, wearily.

“All right,” Liam said, “so what are you going to do about it?”

Kar grimaced again. He really did look awful. “Speaker Syril will be arrested. He will be tried, and if found guilty, he will be hanged. Unless he gives up his co-conspirators, in which case he may simply be confined to prison for the rest of his days.”

Liam had seen the inside of a prison once. Given the choice, he'd take the hanging. “When will you take him in?”

“A magistrate is drawing up the papers even now.” The first speaker shook his head. “This is a foul business.”

“Agreed,” Liam said, “and none of it gets the fleet constructed any faster.”

Kar collected the note and stood. “There is no apology I can offer that is equal to the task, Your Highness. And now, if you will excuse me, I have an unpleasant duty ahead. I bid you and your officers good day.”

After he'd gone, Rona said, “May I see your notes again, Commander? The ones from Lady Alix's spy?” He handed them over, and Rona trailed a finger down the page. “Here.
Speaker Syril, newly minted leader of the People's Congress. A populist of rising fortunes in the Republicana. Priest of Eldora. No known secret society affiliation.
”

“Rising fortunes.” Ide grunted sceptically. “You buying this, Commander?”

“Why shouldn't I? Just because it's yet another politician pointing the finger at a rival?”

“So . . . you're not buying it,” Dain said.

“I'm not sure. Kar seemed genuinely uncomfortable.”

“Could be faking it,” Ide said.

“If so,” said Rona, “he was very convincing.”

Liam was inclined to agree. “On the other hand, if he really believes Syril is behind this, why come to me? He could have informed me after they'd already rounded him up.”

“What're you thinking, Commander?” Dain asked.

“I'm thinking whoever found that note was probably hired to dig up something embarrassing on Syril and ended up with way more than he'd bargained for. Kar had no idea he'd find something so damning, and now he's not quite sure what to do with it.”

“So what are
we
going to do with it?” Ide asked.

Liam was already heading for the door. “We're going to pay a visit to our favourite priest of Eldora.”

*   *   *

They didn't have
far to go. Like most of his fellow speakers, Syril lived in the Ambassador District, in a stately home with peaked roofs and large bay windows. Roses climbed the edifice, their petals splashing bloodred on the sparkling white gravel of the courtyard. Populism had its limits, apparently.

“Looks like the speaker is expecting company,” Ide said, inclining her chin at the guards clustered around the wrought-iron gate.

“His Highness Prince Liam White to see Speaker Syril,” Rona declared in her crisp, highborn accent.

One of the guards stepped forward, a stocky fellow with humourless features. “Speaker Syril is not accepting callers,” he said.

A delicate line of disapproval appeared between Rona's brows. “Perhaps you did not hear me. The Prince of Alden—”

“I heard you,” the humourless guard interrupted. “No disrespect, but my orders were clear. I must ask you to leave.”

“So long as there's no disrespect,” Liam said dryly. “Look, I doubt very much Speaker Syril anticipated my coming here, so you might want to check with him before you turn us away.”

Another of the guards snorted and muttered something under his breath that set his comrades laughing.

Dain flushed a few shades darker.
“What did you say?”

The guard looked him up and down, sneered, and replied in Onnani. Whatever he said, it didn't sound very nice, and Dain took it badly. His whole body went rigid.

“Er . . . Dain?” Liam wasn't sure he wanted to know.

His second spoke through gritted teeth. “Commander, this cur has insulted my king, my prince, and my person. I cannot let it go unanswered.”

“Got to agree, Commander,” Ide said, shifting in her saddle in a manner that not-so-casually positioned her hand above the hilt of her sword.

Liam glared at her incredulously. “You don't even know what he said!”

“Know enough. Dain's not the type to get stoked up over nothing.”

Wonderful.
As though he hadn't cocked up enough already, it seemed the White Wolves were about to start a brawl with the household guard of a high-ranking speaker of the Republicana. “That doesn't seem like a good idea,” Liam said.

“Just him.” Dain pointed a gloved finger at the offending guard. “One on one.”

Rona tried to reason with him. “Dain, I don't think—”

“If you knew what he said, Rona, you'd have killed him already.” He gave her a long, meaningful look that Liam didn't fully understand.

Liam cursed inwardly. The situation was slipping away from him, fast. He couldn't let his second-in-command fight a speaker's guard. But he couldn't forbid Dain either, not in the face of a brazen challenge to his honour. Dain was a knight, a rare distinction for someone of Onnani descent. If Liam allowed such a slight to go unanswered, it could be taken as a sign that he didn't respect Dain as much as an ordinary knight, as if he were somehow less than. That would be a diplomatic disaster too, and not just in Onnan—the ripples would be felt all the way to the front.

When did the world become so complicated?
Everywhere he looked, he saw political tripwires, actions tied to consequences tied to other consequences in a tense, vibrating web. Had the war changed everything? Or had it always been this way, and he'd just learned to see it?

Being prince of the realm, Liam decided, was rubbish.

He addressed the leader of the guards. “I really need you to fetch your master now, since things have got just a bit out of hand.” If he was going to allow this, he was bloody well going to make Syril understand that he'd had no choice.

Reluctantly, the guard heeded him and headed up the drive.

The Wolves waited. Dain sat stiff-backed in his saddle, his eyes never leaving the guard who'd insulted him. (And Liam. And Erik. And quite possibly the entire Kingdom of Alden.) The guard returned his gaze warily, looking more sulky than belligerent now. He seemed to have realised, too late, what he'd wrought.

Speaker Syril appeared at the door. He paused briefly on
the stairs, taking in the scene before making his way over. “Your Highness.” The smooth voice contained no trace of surprise.

“Speaker. I'm sorry to drag you out of your home, but it seems we have a bit of a situation here.”

“So I have been informed.” Turning to his men, he asked, “Which of you was it?” The offending guard replied in Onnani, but Syril continued in Erromanian. “What did you say?”

The guard looked at his boots and did not reply.

Dain answered for him—in Onnani, presumably to spare the other Wolves having to hear it. Now all the guards were looking at their boots. As for Syril, his expression remained impassive, and for a moment, Liam thought he was going to brush it off. Instead, he turned to the leader of his guards and said, “This man is a disgrace. He will be ejected from the property immediately. Any pay he is owed will be withheld as a fine.” He looked back at Dain. “Are you satisfied with this penalty, Commander? Your Highness?”