The Bloodforged (28 page)

“I understand.”

“If anything were to happen to you . . .”

“I
understand
, Rona.” And he did, maybe for the first time. It wasn't exactly news, but Rona was right—he hadn't really thought it through, either. He was so busy worrying about the fleet, he'd forgotten to worry about himself. It was just so easy to pretend that the danger he couldn't see wasn't really there, that it didn't need to be added to his list of things to worry about. Easy, and potentially fatal. She was right about that too. He sighed. “I'll try to be more careful, all right? But you know I can't just walk away. Not until I do my job here.”

“I know, and I'm not asking you to. I'm just . . . I just want you to be safe, Commander.”

“Me too, oddly enough.” He put a hand on her shoulder, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “But in the meantime, I've got to see a man at the docks.”

*   *   *

The answer arrived
within the hour: Liam and his officers would be awaited at the quay. No escort, no weapons. Should they fail to follow these instructions, they would find themselves alone. There would be no second chances, the message said.

All of which was fine with Liam. His “friends” in the Republicana hadn't done him any good thus far, and while he might have wished for a few moments with Ash Bookman, there was no time to send for the former secretary, and he probably wouldn't have come anyway. As for the bit about the weapons, Liam interpreted that rule as he had done the night he visited the Shield: loosely. He left his knife in his boot, and though he didn't ask, he was pretty sure his officers had done the same.

The appointed place turned out to be a redbrick warehouse with its windows boarded shut. A single, rough-looking man lounged at the door, chewing something that stained his teeth an unsettling red. Wordlessly, he looked Liam and the Wolves up and down, jerked the door open, and cocked his head.

Rough hands seized them the moment they stepped inside. Liam had half expected that, so he endured the patting down in silence, as did Rona and Dain. Ide, meanwhile, cursed with such florid imagination that Liam actually blushed.

“That one swears better than a sailor.”

The voice came from the shadows. Liam addressed his reply somewhere over his left shoulder. “Doesn't she? I'm thinking of starting a contest in one of the bigger taverns in Erroman. She'll make us all rich, I think.”

An amused snort. “I'll be sure to sign up to the lists if you do. Might need a translator, though.”

“Your Erromanian sounds pretty good to me.”

“I get by. Not all of us can have posh accents like yours.”

The first salvo. Ide met it with an incredulous laugh. “His accent, posh? For a Lower Town smithy, maybe.” She glanced at Liam. “No offence, Commander.”

“Oh, none taken.”

Metal scraped, and the glow of a lantern bathed the hard angles of a rugged, square face. “That's right. How could I forget? You come from humble stock, don't you, Your Highness? Why, you're just like me.” His mouth twisted sardonically, in case Liam had missed the sarcasm.

“I wouldn't know,” Liam said. “I don't know anything about you. And you don't know anything about me.”
For all that you've decided I deserve to die.
He kept a tight rein on that thought. Now wasn't the time; he had bigger issues to deal with first.

The man continued as if he hadn't heard. “That's why they sent you, isn't it? Seeing how you're so close to the
common man
and all?”

“Is that what you are? The common man? I wonder how many dockhands speak a second language.”

The square face split into a grin. “Well now, you got me there, Your Highness. My brothers do value a bit of education in their leader, it's true.”

“You're Gir, then?”

He sketched a bow. “Chairman of the dockies, at your humble service, Your Highness.”

“Can we skip the
Your Highness
, please? I don't like it at the best of times, let alone when it's treated like a dirty word. You've made it clear what you think of me.
Monarchist bastard
, I think it was.” A glancing blow, but it was all he dared for now.

Gir stared at him blankly, as if the words meant nothing to him. “Fen,” he said, addressing the shadows, “a bit of light, if you please.” Another lantern was opened, and another after that, by a pair of unseen hands. The soft light revealed a simple table ringed with chairs; Gir invited them to sit. “So,” he said, “Syril said you wanted to talk. I'm listening.”

“I'm grateful to the speaker for setting up this meeting, considering how he feels about me.”

“You're grateful, I'm surprised.” Gir flashed a thin smile. “Considering how he feels about you.”

“He must have had his reasons for bringing us together. I expect we should take that as our starting point.” Liam paused to let that sink in, studying the square features before him. Sun-baked and salt-scoured, with a thick neck that ran abruptly into wide shoulders, Gir looked like the sort of bloke you wouldn't want to bump into in a dark alley. On the other hand, there was an undeniable shrewdness to his small, beady eyes.

Liam decided to scrap caution. “There's probably a hundred more elegant ways of saying this, but I'm tired and frustrated and running out of time, so here it is: I know that someone is sabotaging the construction of the fleet, and I've a solid notion that someone is you.” He left the rest of the accusation unsaid.

Not even a blink. He'd make a good gambler, this one.

Liam forged ahead. “I think you're doing everything you can to delay Onnan entering the war. And I even understand it, in a way. But it has to stop. For the good of my country and your own, it has to stop.”

A brief silence ensued, cool and empty as the shadows surrounding them. Gir's expression betrayed nothing save an ironic twitch of the mouth. “That it?”

“That's it.”

Gir laced his fingers on the table and leaned forward.
“Supposing the dockies were involved in the delays with the fleet—and I'm not saying we are—well, that would be an act of treason, wouldn't it? Against our government, freely elected by the people. Though not”—his lip curled—“by any dockie, nor any man with pride or sense.”

“I suppose it would,” Liam said warily.

“So tell me, if the dockies were prepared to defy our own freely elected government, what in the Nine Domains makes you think we'd take orders from the
Prince of Alden
? The days of empire are over, Your Highness, or hadn't you noticed?”

Liam couldn't help it; he laughed ruefully, casting his gaze up to the ceiling in a silent appeal to the gods.

“Something funny, Your Highness?”

“Oh, just appreciating the irony. I've spent the last six months pretending to be a prince. Walking around the palace, dressed in silk and velvet, letting people call me
Your Highness
. I even got a dog so people would think of my grandfather, so they might forget for half a heartbeat that I'm a bastard. Didn't fool anyone. Not for a single moment. At court, I'm a half-breed and always will be.” He could feel Rona Brown's eyes on him now, and those of the others too. “And now here I am, in a country still nursing a bitter hatred for the monarchy from the days of the old empire, and suddenly the prince is all anyone sees.”

“My sympathies,” Gir said. “Would you like a handkerchief?”

“The point is, what I said a moment ago—it wasn't an order. It was a plea. My country is under siege.”

“I'm sorry for it. But that doesn't give you the right to enlist slaves to your cause.”

Liam's hands twitched into fists under the table. “Not slaves. Allies.”

“Slaves,” Gir repeated implacably. “This isn't our war. The Oridians have never threatened us. They wouldn't have threatened you if your king hadn't declared war on them. But he did, and now, instead of facing up to what he's brought upon himself, he strong-arms my country into helping him. Once again, Erroman forces Onnan to do its dirty work.”

“No one forced the Republicana to do anything,” Dain interjected. “They voted freely to join the war.”

Gir sneered at him. “Don't be naïve. Erroman's coercion comes in different forms these days—in tariffs and embargoes instead of prisons and torture machines—but it's coercion all the same.”

“You must not think highly of your leaders,” Rona said. “Could it be that they acted not out of cowardice, but out of wisdom? Or do you honestly believe the Oridians will stop at our border and leave your port untouched?” She tilted her head, as though considering an exasperating child. “The legendary port of Onnan, the finest natural harbour in all of Gedona. Now who's being naïve?”

A brief silence fell. Liam thought Gir might have flushed a little, though with his dark complexion and the orange glow of the lantern, it was hard to be sure. “None of that even matters anymore,” Liam said. “The choice was made. Your country is at war with the Trionate. All you're doing is crippling your own forces, putting your own men at risk.” He took a chance then, gambling on something he thought he'd seen in the other man's eyes a moment ago. “I think you know that, or you wouldn't be meeting with us now.”

Gir's gaze met his, and Liam saw it again—resignation, however bitter. Mingled, he saw now, with fear. “Mass mobilisation, they're calling it,” the leader of the dockies said, forcing the words past clenched teeth. “I'm no coward. Me, they can have. My brothers, and even my father if they want his old bones. But my sons . . . my nephews . . .”

Another silence, heavier this time. “How old are they?” Liam asked. “Your sons?”

“Thirteen and fifteen.
Boys.
” He spat the last word like an accusation. “Syril is doing what he can, but now that he's in prison . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“I see.” There was a sort of grudging understanding in Rona Brown's voice. “You started off hoping to prevent Onnan from entering the war, but you failed. Now, it's a new fight. You hope to use the fleet as a bargaining chip, is that it?”

“Boys.” It wasn't an admission—not quite—but it was close enough.

Too young
, Liam thought.
He's right about that.
Even in Alden, with the war in full, poisonous flower, military service was only obliged from the age of sixteen.

Gir's eyes still held his, and there was a message in them now. Somewhere along the way, Liam had become the sort of man who could read these things. “It's extortion,” he growled.

“It is,” Gir agreed, without a hint of shame.

“Even if I let myself be used like this, I'm not sure it'll work. I'm a foreigner. I don't carry much clout.”

“Didn't you just tell me that all anyone here sees is the prince?” Gir smiled, hard and mirthless. “It's time to spend some of that political capital, Your Highness.”

Liam hesitated. There was danger here, more than a little. For Alden to interfere so blatantly in the politics of its former slaves . . . He would be spending political capital, all right, a whole lot of it, maybe more than Erik could afford. And he'd be doing it for a man who had tried to have him killed.
But what choice do you have, really? You can't prove anything, and even if you could, he's got a whole union of followers to pick up where he left off.
“If I do this,” Liam said slowly, “and I can't promise it will work, but if I try, I need you to do more than just leave the fleet alone. I need you to help Mallik. All of you. I need that fleet finished as soon as possible. Can you do that?”

Nodding gravely, Gir held out his arm.

A
soft, almost reluctant knock roused Alix from sleep. She sat up, rubbing the kink in her neck and peeling her dry tongue from the roof of her mouth.
I wonder what time it is?
With no windows in her tiny servants' cell, it was impossible to tell. She hoped she hadn't overslept; the gods knew she'd been exhausted enough when she fell asleep.

She opened the door of her cell to find Paiman, the steward, wringing his hands in a manner highly reminiscent of his
counterpart in Erroman. “Your Highness,” he said, sweeping into an absurdly low bow, “I am so sorry. So very, very sorry! This is simply mortifying! I most humbly beg your pardon. I cannot apologise enough. Had I but known . . . but they didn't inform me, you see, and I . . .”

He went on like that for some time, the words blurring together in Alix's sleep-sodden brain until she raised a hand in a reflexive gesture that was half warding, half commanding. The steward swallowed audibly and fell silent.

“Sorry, but . . .” Alix rubbed her gummy eyes.
“What?”

“They told me you were merely the king's bodyguard,” he said, almost pleadingly. “How was I to know?”

Ah.
They'd apparently realised who Alix was: daughter of a Banner House. Not just any Banner House, either; one in high favour with the king, second only to the Greens in prestige. She couldn't quite prevent the smug twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“Highborn, obviously,” Paiman continued, seemingly eager to explain his reasoning, “or a position so close to His Majesty would not be possible, but ultimately a servant.”

Alix's eyes narrowed sharply. “Highborn indeed. A
Black
, in point of fact.”

The name skipped over him without so much as a ripple. “How could I have guessed that you had recently married His Highness? The chancellor should have told me! It is
his
business to keep abreast of such matters, not mine! Please, Your Highness, I humbly beg your forgiveness.” The absurdly low bow again, endangering the tenuous hold of his comb-over.

Alix regarded the top of his head coldly. “Just to be sure I understand, you are apologising to me not because you assigned the daughter of a Banner House to a servants' cell, but because you failed to realise that I was
Liam's wife
?”

The steward's eyebrows rose in assent.

He would never know how close he came to losing teeth in that moment.

“I see,” Alix said, the words bristling with frost. “In that case, your apology is accepted.”

The bitter sarcasm flew right past his comb-over. “Thank you, Your Highness. Oh, thank you! We are preparing more appropriate quarters for you even now. A hot bath will be
drawn, and breakfast laid out . . . Oh no, Your Highness, please, leave all of that! Someone will be along to fetch it for you . . .”

And so on down the hallway, Alix fuming with every step. None of this sudden solicitude was for her. Not for the captain of the royal guardsman, not even for Lady Alix Black. For
Liam
. Apparently, as far as Omaïd's court was concerned, she was no more than an adjunct to her husband.

She'd worked herself into such a froth of temper that when Paiman opened the doors to her new chambers—expansive, opulent, sumptuously beautiful—she had an almost overwhelming urge to break the most expensive thing she could get her hands on. They'd forgive her for it. After all, she was
Liam's wife
.

She managed to hold on to her outrage all through breakfast. Even through the soothing, scented waters of her bath. Then Erik arrived, and he took one look at her petulant scowl and burst out laughing. “Oh, my poor Alix.” He didn't even need to be told why she was angry—he knew her too well. “Suffering in silence for a whole night. Why in the Domains didn't you just
tell
them?”

“Tell them what? That I should be in quarters more appropriate for the royal consort?”

The blue eyes grew mock serious. “Oh, dear.”

“Oh, yes. They
knew
, Erik. They knew I was highborn, and they didn't care! I'm only here because of Liam!”

He regarded her with a curious smile. “I must say, I'm surprised. I had no idea you were such a proud creature, at least not where rank is concerned.”

“I'm not!” To her horror, she felt herself flushing. “Not usually, anyway. But after the way they treated me, like something they gouged out from under your horse's hooves—”

He was laughing again.

“—and now the only reason they repent it is because I'm
Liam's wife
. They couldn't care less who I am, or what I've accomplished. All that matters is who I'm married to, and
will you stop laughing
!”

“You're the one who insisted we use your military rank.”

“I know.”

“Per your instructions, Lord Sommersdale told them nothing of your station, only that you were captain of the royal
guardsmen. If we had at least informed them that you were a Black, you would have been quartered with Kerta.”

“I
know
, Erik, but . . .”

He put his arms around her. “It's perfectly right that you're proud of your achievements, Alix, but that doesn't mean you can't also be proud of your bloodline. You very clearly are, or you wouldn't be so offended. Why fight it?”

He was right, of course. If she hadn't been ready to be treated like a commoner, she should have owned up to her name. If she had, the Harrami would never have dared to put her in that tiny cell. On the other hand, they wouldn't have put her in these grand chambers, either. Only Liam's name earned her that privilege.
And there's the nub of it
, Alix realised grudgingly.
Liam outranks you.
Liam, who'd always followed her lead, who was barely visible in her shadow. Now it was she who was barely visible in his.

Erik's arms were still around her. “You're in high good humour,” she said, a little sulkily.

“I suppose I am, though the gods know I have little reason to be.” He pulled back, still smiling. His hand lingered on her arm, and for a moment—with that crooked grin, those mischievous eyes—he looked very like Liam. “You bring it out in me, it seems.” She might have imagined it, but she thought she felt the faintest pressure on her arm.

Just like that, the world swerved under her. It was as though someone had yanked the reins of a fast-moving carriage, veering abruptly, dangerously, in a new direction. Alix swallowed a sudden tightness in her throat. The way he was looking at her . . . It had been a long time since he'd looked at her like that. Though not long enough, it seemed, to completely change what it did to her. Warmth flooded her insides. He saw it; she could tell by his own rising colour. She had no armour against him now. He knew her too well.

They both turned away in the same horrified instant. A brief, tense silence ensued. “I'm for the Grand Library,” he said, his voice edged with something Alix couldn't place. He approached the sideboard, fidgeted with the stopper of the crystal decanter in a decidedly un-Erik fashion. For the second time in as many moments, Alix was reminded forcefully of Liam. “I've always wanted to see it, and I don't know when I'll
get another chance. If things don't go well tonight, this might be a very short visit indeed.”

“You mustn't keep talking like that,” she said, trying to find somewhere safe to rest her gaze, somewhere that wasn't Erik and didn't remind her of the man she loved. “I take it you didn't get down to business last night?” She hadn't been able to hear anything from her post on the other side of the door.

“At our first dinner? Gods, no. That would have been uncouth even in Alden. I expect it will come up tonight, though. You will be there, I trust, now that they know who you are?”

“I suppose so. No one has yet informed me of my proper place.” A hint of the bitterness crept back in.

“I'll see to it.” He paused, then lowering his voice, added, “I need you there, Alix.”

That, too, had been a long time absent, and Alix found it affected her nearly as much. She nodded mutely, suddenly overcome.

“Until then.”

“Wait . . .” She turned to fetch her armour.

He held up a hand. “The palace guards can accompany me. You should rest.” Without waiting for a reply, he fled the room.

*   *   *

“Tired?”

His head snaps up, cheek peeling away from the page of an open book. He rubs eyes bleary with sleep. Embarrassed, he throws a sheepish glance at the door of the library. “I hope you're the only one who saw that.”

“Don't worry.” She glides under an ornately carved archway, her footfalls curiously silent on the marble tiles. “We're alone.” She's standing over him now. Firelight blazes molten copper in her hair, gleams against the smooth white skin of her cheekbones. He fights an almost overwhelming urge to touch her.

She looks away briefly. Bites her lip. A rare nervous gesture, one he secretly loves.

Or perhaps, not so secretly. “About what happened before . . .” she says.

“Don't.” He can't deal with this. Not now. Later, perhaps, when the tides of his strangely reckless blood have ebbed, but
not now. There is something important he must do first—though for the life of him, he can't remember what it is.

A warm touch on his arm. She's tugging at him, bidding him to rise. Reluctantly, he complies. He tries to avoid her gaze, but she won't let him—her hands frame his face, forcing him to look at her. In the torchlight, her eyes are liquid fire.

“What are you doing?” He thinks he says it aloud, but he's not sure.

“I can't pretend this isn't here,” she says. “Not anymore.” Her lips brush against his, as though sealing a promise. She lingers there, her breath ghosting along his mouth in a quickening rhythm.

Panic and desire collide in a shower of sparks, a hammer blow against red-hot steel. He tries to pull away, but he can't; his body refuses to move. He is paralysed, yet every nerve thrums, vibrating to the whisper of breath on his skin, the soft glide of fingertips up the back of his neck. He makes a sound somewhere between anguish and longing.

“Erik,” she whispers.

It's as if the word is a spell. He moves—painfully, unwillingly—his arms going around her even as he strains to prevent it, powerless as a thrall. He tries to speak, but she stops his mouth with her own, dives in, her tongue soft and perfect. He's drowning now, no more in control than a man flailing in the waves, drawing her in in great gasps, like precious air. A wound opens up somewhere in his chest, bleeding hurt. His throat tightens, his eyes sting, but he's kissing her and it's glorious, it's fire, it's
need
. She's backing onto the table, sweeping the books to the floor, her mouth never leaving his. His lips fall to the sweet white curve of her throat, back up along her jaw, her cheek, the soft space behind her ear. Her body arches beneath him in reply.

He sinks into her, into oblivion, tasting the salt of her tears.

*   *   *

Erik started awake,
rustling the page pressed under his cheek. He shot a furtive look at the doorway, but the palace guards were nowhere to be seen. He was alone.

We're alone . . .

Dropping his head into his hands, Erik blew out a long,
shaking breath.
What is happening to me? Blessed Rahl, give me strength . . .

He had dreamed of her before, but never like this, and not since her marriage.
To his brother.

A wave of guilt crashed over him, cold and poisonous, threatening to drag him off in its dark undertow. It had only been a dream, but the wound inside him was real, and it bled freely. The betrayal—that was real too, as real as it had been on the day his bloodblade cleaved through Tom's neck, ending the life of one brother even as he hoped to begin anew with the other. The other whose wife he had just dreamed of.

Blessed Olan, lend me courage. Blessed Ardin, take your hand from my heart.

He rose unsteadily. The gilded water clock above the hearth showed late afternoon. He needed to wash up. He needed to be ready. The fate of his kingdom could well rest on this night, on a handful of words spoken over braised baby goat and saffron potatoes and fine southern wine. Omaïd was proud, and famously touchy. Erik knew he would have to be perfect tonight. Better than perfect.

He reached inside himself for the discipline he knew he would need, that had always been there to answer his call, even in the worst times. What he found instead . . . a growing cancer, dark and seething, a writhing snarl of flame and whispers . . .

Blessed Farika, have mercy on me.

*   *   *

“Are you sure?”
Kerta whispered, as though afraid the walls of King Omaïd's palace were too thin to contain the dangerous words. There was little chance of anyone actually hearing; they were deep in the sitting room of Alix's chambers, surrounded by sound-smothering tapestries and carpets and carved wood panels. Including, outrageously enough, a frieze depicting the sacking of Erroman in grim detail. Under the circumstances, Alix found it wildly inappropriate.

Not that she could afford to dwell on that now. “Yes. I mean, no.” She waved a frustrated hand. “Obviously, I can't be sure. I'm not a mind-reader.” She couldn't quite meet the other woman's gaze. She would find no censure there, not from Kerta, but even so, her own guilt shamed her. “He didn't say
anything improper. It was more . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head.

“The hug?”

“No, not even that.” How could she explain it? That it hadn't been anything Erik had said or done, but rather a
feeling
, an unmistakable current running between them. If she admitted that, she'd have to admit that she'd felt it too, in however mingled and complex a form, and that she was
not
ready for. She doubted she ever would be. The only reason she was talking about this at all—even with Kerta, in whom she'd confided so much—was that she worried it hinted at something deeper, something more significant than the lingering pain of a half-healed wound. “Look, whatever it was, it caught him by surprise. And that's what worries me. It's not like him. He's always so poised, so . . .”