The Bloodforged (24 page)

Liam glanced at his second. Dain's stiff nod was his cue to let out the breath he'd been holding. “I suppose we are.”

“Good.” Syril paused, as though considering. The clever eyes looked Liam up and down. “I expect you had better come in, Your Highness.”

The speaker led them into a well-lit room overlooking the valley. As they entered, a small face peered around a corner of the corridor. A girl of about two watched Liam with round, dark eyes, fingers jammed in her mouth. Liam winked, and she vanished.

Syril sank down on an upholstered chair. He folded his hands in his lap. He stared.

“Thanks for seeing us,” Liam said, somewhat stupidly. Syril continued to gaze at him expectantly. “An unfortunate business at the gate.”

“Indeed. Please accept my apologies.”

“Do you always keep so many guards at your home?”

Syril gave the sort of half smile that wasn't really supposed to pass for the genuine article. “No, Your Highness, I do not. I am expecting a visit from the city guard.”

“Oh, really?”

“They will be here any moment, as you well know, so if
you have something to say, I suggest you do not waste any more time.” Speaker Syril, it appeared, was rather more direct than his colleagues.

“How do you know they're coming for you?” Liam asked.

A look of distaste flitted over Syril's features. “Whispers and more whispers. It is what the Republicana feeds on, vacuous beast that it is. Whether you want them or not, they fill your ears like a foul odour fills your nose.”

“You mean to resist arrest, then?” Rona asked. “Is that why all the guards?”

“And thereby prove my guilt? I think not. The guards are there to protect my family against any . . . excess of zeal.”

Liam thought about the little girl peering around the corner, and his guts twisted uncomfortably. “You don't think anyone would . . . ?”

“I don't know, Your Highness, but I don't intend to take any chances. The accusations against me are grave and will provoke outrage all over the country.” Though the voice remained smooth, there was more than a hint of worry in his eyes.

“The note was pretty damning,” Liam said.

Syril frowned, cocked his head. “Note?”

“The evidence against you.”

“That,” Syril said, leaning forward intently, “I am very interested to hear.”

“They found it in a rubbish bin, if I remember correctly. Something about you being glad they managed to sink it, but it was going to be harder from now on. You promised someone would be well compensated for it.”

For a moment, Syril's eyes were blank. Then a spark came into them, and a breath jolted from his lips. He shook his head, murmuring something in Onnani. “By Hew, the man is clever.”

“Who, Kar?”

“I have been a thorn in his side, to be sure, but I would not have guessed he would go this far to destroy me.”

“If I may interject,” Rona said, “I didn't have the impression the first speaker was particularly happy about what he'd found.”

“Me neither,” Liam said. “If anything, he seemed shocked.”

Syril considered that. “I suppose it is possible that he genuinely does not understand the note, what it truly means.”

“So it is authentic?” Liam asked. “You wrote it?”

“Presuming it has not been tampered with, yes.”

“I'm guessing it's not about the fleet, then.” He'd suspected as much, having been treated to two weeks of sailing metaphors.

“No indeed, Your Highness. What was sunk was not a galley, but a motion before the Republicana. The Worker's Alliance seeks to introduce a new law obliging all males over the age of thirteen to submit to military service. Mass mustering, they call it. They insist it is the only way we can be effective in the war.” Syril's eyes gleamed fiercely. “Little more than slavery. A betrayal of everything the republic stands for, everything our forefathers suffered and died for. Worker's Alliance indeed.”

“Okay,” Liam said, “but what about the part where you say
they'll be on to you now
?”

“My opposition to the war has made me . . . unpopular . . . with a number of my learned colleagues. I could not afford to be the banner holder for this latest cause, lest I squander what little political capital I have left. I recruited another face for the campaign, one who is acting quietly, behind the scenes, against the will of his league. In return, I promised compromise on a number of other matters before the Republicana.”

“‘You will be well compensated,'” Rona quoted.

“Precisely.” The thin, humourless smile returned. “So you see, Your Highness, there is nothing nefarious in the note, at least not where the fleet is concerned. First Speaker Kar may simply have interpreted it too literally. That being said, I doubt he put much effort into seeking an alternative explanation, or he would easily have found it.”

“That,” Liam sighed, “is about what I thought.”

Syril's mouth twisted bitterly. “What a proud image of the republic we present. What a recommendation for democracy. How very impressed you must be.”

Liam shook his head. “I don't know what to think, except that I've chased another imaginary rabbit down another imaginary hole. I was sent here because my people are in desperate need. They've been dying by the thousands for going on two years now. Without help, we will fall. And I haven't found any help. Not from First Speaker Kar, or Defence Consul Welin, or Chairman Irtok. Not from the Shield or the Sons or the
Worker's Alliance . . .” He paused, looked Syril right in the eye. “And not from you.”

The speaker returned his gaze evenly. “That is so. Instead you have been manipulated, just another game piece in a vast political contest that has nothing to do with you. I am disgusted and ashamed, Your Highness.”

For all the bloody good that does me.
Liam rose.

“Wait.” Syril looked up. “There is one thing I can do for you.”

“What's that?”

“I can arrange a meeting with the leader of the dockhands union. The dockies, as they are known.”

Liam remembered the dockies from his first visit to the shipyard, the hostile looks he'd received. “Why would I want to meet with them?”

Syril hesitated, as though choosing his words carefully. “I'm not sure, Your Highness. But if I were you, I would consider it.”

A commotion sounded in the courtyard outside. Liam turned to see a figure flitting past the door, heading for the back of the house.

“It would appear my escort has arrived.” Syril stood, smoothed his priestly robes. “Thank you for coming, Your Highness.”

Liam regarded him grimly. Whatever else he might be, Syril seemed to be the most genuine person Liam had met in Onnan City. He didn't deserve to be executed over a misunderstanding. Liam could only hope Onnani justice would do itself more credit than Onnani politics. “Good luck to you, Speaker.”

“And to you, Your Highness. I daresay we will both need it.”

“W
hat put them on to you?” Alix whispered, bending over Erik on the pretence of gathering up her blanket.

The tribesmen stood clustered on the far side of the camp, conversing in low voices. They'd been at it since the night before. Alix had fallen asleep to their murmurs, woken to the same. She should be grateful for it, she knew; it meant they were debating what to do, rather than simply executing Erik on the spot. But the constant buzzing gnawed at her already frayed nerves. She'd tried to put what had happened in the woods yesterday out of her mind, but she was reminded every time her gaze fell on Fahran. It left her raw and exhausted. Still, her king needed her now.

“They could have worked it out in any number of ways,” Erik said, eyeing the tribesmen warily. “My name. My demeanour. I was careless, and now we all pay the price.”

“You weren't careless. You've been the picture of discipline, as usual.”

“What I've been is naïve. Qhara was right—we've always assumed these people were savages, isolated and ignorant. Obviously, we were wrong. If I'd paid closer attention, I would have seen that. Instead, I allowed my assumptions to cloud my judgement.”

“You're too hard on yourself.”

He laughed, quiet and bitter. “I don't think so, Alix. Not this time. I'm afraid that lately I . . .” He trailed off, shook his head. “It doesn't matter.”

Sakhr made his way over. “Time to go,” he told them.

“Where?” Erik spoke crisply, with authority, his head held
high. The royal mask was on full display now. He had little choice but to wear it like armour.

“You will be brought to the
pasha
. We are only two hours from the village. To judge you ourselves, when we are so near to their wisdom, would not be right.”

Two hours to the village. At last, they would be judged. Perversely, Alix felt almost relieved. One way or another, this would all be over. Another day of counting the lost hours, of clawing at the walls of her mind, would surely drive her mad.

Erik must have been thinking along similar lines, for he merely nodded, getting to his feet and dusting himself off as well as he could with bound wrists. In spite of everything, he looked only slightly rumpled, as though he'd merely fallen asleep in his clothes. He hadn't shaved in well over a week, but the red-gold beard was still tidy enough to look distinguished. It helped that his shirt had been washed, but even so, Alix couldn't help but marvel at his almost preternatural poise. Even Kerta, with her impeccable curls and perfect skin, couldn't compete with that.

They started out, their path still hugging the edge of the lake. Qhara stayed close to Erik, which meant Alix stayed closer, positioning herself between them. Kerta closed with his other flank.

It didn't go unnoticed. “You are his bodyguard,” Qhara said, out of thin air.

Alix glanced at Erik, but he just shrugged, as if to say,
the damage is done
. “I did not think it obvious,” Alix said.

“Everyone has heard the tale of the red-haired woman who saved the king's life. The woman from the lost hills so near to our lands.”

“You knew because of my hair?” Alix asked in dismay.

“There were many clues. It only took me so long to see it because he is not what I expected.” Her gaze shifted to Erik. “You are not what I expected.”

He acted as though he hadn't heard; he just kept walking, gaze straight ahead.

“I expected the king of the imperials to be soft and lazy,” Qhara went on.

“And why would you expect that?” Kerta asked coldly.

“Because that is what men become when they have everything done for them.”

Kerta scoffed. “You are quite an authority on kings.”

“You had your expectations about us; we had ours about you. We were both wrong, it seems.”

“Yet you are still sure we are enemies,” Alix said.

Qhara ignored that; she was too busy staring at Erik. “Why come yourself, Imperial Erik? You could have sent someone else.”

He answered this time, though he still didn't look at her. “Because I am neither soft nor lazy, and because being king means taking responsibility for the things that truly matter.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence. Alix strained her eyes looking at the edge of the lake, but she saw no sign of a village—until, suddenly, she did. It seemed to sprout up out of nowhere, huts of brown and green and gold that blended into their surroundings until you were right on top of them. Bisected by a narrow river fed from a plunging waterfall, the village melted back into the trees, so that it was impossible to tell how large it was, or how many people it held. Terraced fields were just beginning to sprout on the slopes above the treeline, and above that, sheep and goats grazed, the distant tinkle of bells drifting like mist from the falls over the tops of the pines.

Fahran had arrived well ahead of the others, so that a small crowd had already gathered. Alix and Kerta exchanged a nervous glance. As for Erik, he looked much as he had the day he returned to Erroman after months at the front: outwardly composed, taut as the skin of a war drum underneath.

Tribesmen surrounded them in a tight circle, weapons at the ready. “Ready your words,” Qhara said. “You will not have much time. The
pasha
come.”

So saying, she stepped through the circle of tribesmen and disappeared.

*   *   *

“Sit.”

The order came from a striking woman with a deep, authoritative voice. She had just finished addressing the crowd, marking her as someone important. An elder, maybe, though it was
hard to tell; the lines around her mouth and eyes suggested she could easily be a grandmother, yet her hair remained raven-black but for a single streak of silver running from her temple. Whoever she was, Alix and the others didn't even consider disobeying her; they lowered themselves dutifully onto the goatskin chairs that had been arranged for them in the centre of the circle.

Alix did her best to imitate Erik's posture: back straight, head high, expression respectfully composed, as though he were attending a religious service, instead of standing trial for his life. He kept his eyes on the woman, ignoring the crowd gathered around them—the entire village, as far as Alix could tell.

“You do not speak our tongue,” the woman said in High Harrami, “so I will translate for you what I have said.” Raising her voice as she'd done a moment ago, when she'd addressed the gathering in their own dialect, she said, “We are called here this morning to listen to testimony in the matter of these imperials in our lands. From the people, I have asked for silence. From the
pasha
, I have asked for wisdom. From you, the prisoners, I have asked for respect.”

“You shall have it,” Erik said, inclining his head at the six men and women seated in a semicircle across from him.

Alix studied the
pasha
closely. They were a fierce-looking lot, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, expressions uniformly severe. Yet they were younger than she would have guessed. Two of them seemed to be over sixty, but most were about the age her parents would have been had they lived, and one looked not much older than Erik. How they had been chosen, she couldn't guess.

The eldest among them was the first to speak. “Where are the warriors who found these trespassers?”

“Here,
pashanai
.” Sakhr stepped out of the crowd. “My sister and I led the expedition to monitor the pass.” He gestured behind him at the ring of onlookers; Qhara, Fahran, and Dabir all bowed their heads.

“How did you come upon them?” The old man's voice was gusty and crackling, as though his lungs weren't quite right, but the eyes upon Erik were bright and alert.

“Uthal was hunting,
pashanai
, when he was taken by a
panther. We were tracking the animal, and we found these three. There was a fourth who was killed when he attacked Fahran, and one other, a scout, whom we tracked but did not find. I doubt she could survive long on her own.”

Another of the
pasha
, the eldest of the women, addressed Sakhr. “The one who was killed—he was trying to escape?”

“Yes,
pashanai
.”

“And what did the others do?”

“The red-haired woman attacked Dabir. Qhara subdued the other two before they could do anything.”

“I shot the king,” Qhara said, to a ripple of laughter.

The old woman eyed Erik with a solemn, golden gaze. “So he tried to escape as well.”

Qhara considered that. “I would not say so,
pashanai
. I would say rather that he tried to protect his woman.”

Erik sighed and cast his gaze skyward. Alix felt her skin warm. The old woman just grunted, pensively.

“It is true, then?” The old man again, addressing Erik this time. “You are the King of Alden?”

“I am Erik White.” A rustle in the crowd, like wind through the trees. Alix tried to read the faces surrounding her, but beyond keen interest, she couldn't gauge the mood.

“You must know that the penalty for trespassing on tribal lands is death. Why have you breached our laws, Erik White?”

“I thank you for asking,
pashanai
, for you are the first.” Erik's gaze slid reproachfully to Sakhr and Qhara. “I meant no disrespect. If there had been a way of obtaining permission beforehand, I would certainly have sought it. Just as I would have gladly taken another route, had it been possible. I am sure you are aware that the lands to the south have been overrun by the Trionate of Oridia, with whom we are at war.”

“We are aware of this. It is no concern of ours.”

Erik nodded slowly. “You are not the first I have heard say this,
pashanai
, but I must respectfully disagree. The Trionate of Oridia is the concern of all free peoples of Gedona.”

Alix did not miss the amused expressions exchanged in the crowd. “As far as I am aware, we are the only free people of Gedona,” the old man said, “save perhaps for our Onnani brothers. Why should we fear the Trions?”

“Because they are conquerors, and conquerors do not stop. When the rest of Gedona has been swallowed, they will come for you.”

The old man smiled, his features vanishing behind a rumple of loose skin. “I shall tell you something about me, Erik White. I am called Ghous, and I have known seventy-two years in this land. In that time, there have been four kings in Ost, and three in Alden. There have been two kings in Andithyri. I would tell you how many times our brothers in Onnan have chosen their king, but”—he made a showy, dismissive gesture—“I do not understand their ways.” The crowd laughed with him. “The armies of the
mustevi
have come again and again, and we have repelled them, just as your armies have repelled the tribes who sought to reclaim their ancestral lands in the foothills. None of these things have changed my days. The moon waxes and wanes. The harvest comes and goes. Babies are born and old men die. It is the way of things, and it shall ever be.”

Murmurs of agreement among the
pasha
.

“You will be content to have the Trionate rule you?” Erik asked.

Ghous shrugged. “They will not rule us any more than Omaïd does. Why should we care whose pampered buttocks grace the throne of Ost?” More laughter. “But you have not answered my question, Erik White. Why have you come here?”

“We were on our way to Ost,” Erik said, “to seek King Omaïd's help in this fight.”

The youngest of the
pasha
spoke then, sounding genuinely puzzled. “What help can the
mustevi
be to you? They are not warriors.”

“Strength is not measured in the sword alone,” Erik said.

“However it is measured, you will not find it in Ost,” said the old woman.

“I have little choice but to seek it where I may. I am king,
pashanai
. I am responsible for the lives of my people. I must do whatever it takes to protect them.”

“An honourable notion,” Ghous said, “if a self-important one. Does it really matter to your people, any more than to mine, who rules in a distant capital? Are their lives not the same whether it is Erik White or another who claims to be king?”

Erik's gaze fell; for a moment, he seemed to withdraw into himself. The
pasha
watched him closely. So, Alix noticed, did Qhara.
She's fascinated by him
, Alix thought.

Erik shook his head, as if to clear it. “There is truth in what you say.” He spoke slowly, as though choosing each word judiciously. “Perhaps, if the conquerors at our door were other than they are, I could surrender my crown and spare my people further suffering. But I have seen what the Trions are capable of. I have seen them . . .” He paused, frowning. He seemed to be struggling a little—with the language, Alix supposed. “I have seen them use dark magic to enslave men's minds as well as their bodies. We destroyed the Priest, but I cannot be certain his magic died with him. If I stand aside, who will protect my people from this terrible power?”

Things grew very quiet then. The crowd exchanged unsettled glances, but otherwise kept still. The
pasha
went into a huddle, murmuring in their own tongue.

“So it is true,” Ghous said as they drew apart, “what our warriors saw in the pass last winter. The Oridians curse their soldiers.”

“Some of them,” Erik said. “Mostly, they curse their enemies.”

The old woman drew a warding sign in the air. A few of the onlookers did the same.

Sensing an opening, Erik raised his voice a little. “Please, honourable
pasha
. All I ask is free passage through the mountains. I bring no harm upon you. We have lost so much time, yet there is still a chance, and if I succeed, I may even do you a great deal of good.”

His words elicited a burst of nervous laughter from the crowd. Ghous fired a disapproving look over his shoulder. “That is”—he cleared his crackling throat—“not an option.”