The Immortal Prince (36 page)

At first, Warlock had no real destination beyond the city in mind. His release had been too sudden and unexpected to allow him time to make plans. He had taken his pardon and his few possessions and all but run from the high, bleak walls of Lebec Prison the moment they closed the gates behind him.

Despite the persistent, misty rain, the first thing he did was shed the prison uniform they'd made him wear these past two years. Clothes were a human foible, required because their hairless skins could not protect them from the elements. The Crasii rarely wore them, unless required by their masters to denote which house they belonged to, or in some cases, merely to match the decor. But Warlock was free now. He need wear clothes for no man.

Once he'd stashed his rough linen shift behind a rock on the side of the tree-shaded road, Warlock turned toward the distant city. As he walked, he wasted little effort trying to fathom the actions of the Duke of Lebec, or his unaccountably generous wife.

It wasn't his problem.

Warlock's problem now was that he was free in a country where his kind was only truly accepted as slaves. There was perhaps some small measure of shelter for him on the rough streets of Lebec, but no real chance of a future there. Even if he didn't get into trouble directly, it wouldn't take the authorities long to discover some unsolved crime looking for a suspect and find a way to pin it on the stray canine wandering the streets of Lebec for no other reason than his very existence disturbed them.

There was really only one thing for it, he decided after several hours as the city gradually resolved out of the rain in the distance. He was going to have to either leave Glaeba entirely or try to find Hidden Valley.

All his life, Warlock had heard rumours of a valley to the west of the Great Lakes, where the Scards of Amyrantha had found a home. When he was a pup, the threat of being denied entry to it had been used to frighten him into obedience. As an adult, he'd begun to wonder if the stories of a place where the desperate and dispossessed could find succour were true. Before they'd thrown him into his solitary cell on Recidivists' Row, he'd heard other Crasii speak of it in the prison. Legend or no, Hidden Valley was the place to which they all dreamed of escaping. The belief was so pervasive, so universal, even among the other Crasii races, that Warlock had begun to believe it might—even in some small measure—be true.

He even had the name of someone they claimed could lead him to the Valley.
Shalimar,
the prison Crasii had whispered in awe.
He knows the way. Find Shalimar,
they hissed in the shadows.
Get out of this place and find Shalimar.

He will lead you home.

Trouble was, nobody knew where to find this Shalimar character. He was nothing more than a name. Rumour had it, he lived in Lebec.

Not much to go on, admittedly, but a start.

A start that never got any further than Warlock wondering about it. He was in Lebec City for a mere four hours when they caught him again.

 

“Halt!”

Warlock froze and glanced about. The slums of Lebec were a crowded and filthy place, filled with people seeking work—qualified to do nothing the city desired but the most menial jobs—or those interested in not working at all. Used to the order of Lord Ordry's household, even the severe but regulated loneliness of Recidivists' Row, Warlock was overwhelmed by the chaos, by the noise, the smells and the fugue of unrelenting poverty that permeated the stinking streets of the city's outskirts. Effluent flowed freely in the rain-filled gutters while human and Crasii children alike splashed in the puddles and dodged between the legs of their elders, ragged and thin, but strangely happy in their games.

It amazed Warlock how some people, particularly children, could find amusement, even glee, in the basest circumstances. Perhaps it came from never knowing any better.

It was almost sunset when they hailed him, the teeming streets filled with people returning home from their decent jobs while others headed out to partake in less savoury employment. People scurried by holding oiled cloaks over their heads against the downpour, others dressed in the faded finery so common among the whores and thieves of the city pushed past him as if he wasn't there, trying to ignore the brewing altercation between the huge canine and the City Watch.

Slowly, Warlock turned to face the men who had hailed him, not doubting for a moment that he was the focus of their attention.

He'd suspected his inexplicable pardon was too good to be true.

The City Watchmen looked smart and extremely out of place here in the slums in their blue-and-green tunics. There were six men in the squad, all of them conspicuously armed with daggers and swords, one of them pointing a loaded crossbow directly at Warlock. It was a stupid thing to do, Warlock noted in some corner of his mind not afraid of death. A wild shot could easily take out an innocent bystander.

“Yes?” he enquired, with a calmness he didn't feel.

“On your knees, dog!” the officer of the squad commanded, stepping up beside the man with the crossbow.

“I have done nothing,” Warlock pointed out, looking around. He wiped the rain from his face and wondered what his chances of escape were. They appeared slim. The guards were expecting him to make a break for it, the streets were crowded and nobody here, human or Crasii, owed him any favours.

“Who is your master?” the officer demanded.

Warlock carefully extracted his precious pardon from the belt pouch slung over his shoulder. He'd not let it go since Lady Desean had awarded it to him. “I am a free Crasii.”

The officer stepped forward, snatched the document from Warlock's hand and then stepped back again, so the bowman had a clear shot. He unfolded the paper, read it through and then looked up, frowning.

“Warlock,” he said, “out of Bella, by Segura. You're the one we're looking for, I'd say.”

“But I have done nothing,” he protested as a matter of principle. Warlock knew the futility of resisting, but he felt compelled to protest his innocence, nonetheless. And he wanted to reach for his pardon. The rain was falling on it, blurring the ink in large spatters. If he stood there holding it long enough, his freedom might easily be washed away.

“Sure, you've done nothing,” the officer agreed sceptically, folding the pardon and slipping it into his coat. “That's why we were sent to find you, I suppose?”

“And having found me, what do you intend to do with me?”

Warlock's sharp hearing caught a hissed intake of breath at his insolence from one of the onlookers. He glanced sideways, catching sight of a female canine clutching a large woven basket to her chest, standing off to his left, watching the proceedings with intense interest. She was a well-formed creature with a reddish pelt under a simple linen shift—common attire among the city Crasii—from out of which a bushy tail hung low and unthreatening. She was hardly more than a pup, he judged, as her dark eyes filled with concern on his behalf. He barely had time to register that much before the squad moved in to surround him and the pretty canine Crasii was gone, replaced by an officer of the City Watch.

The man moved a little closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and looked up at Warlock.

“You can walk with us, or we can drag your unconscious carcass through the gutters,” the officer informed him matter-of-factly. “The choice is yours, dog boy.”

Warlock
really
hated being called “dog boy,” almost as much as he despised the name gemang. He had to force down the snarl that leapt to his lips.

“I will walk.”

“Wise decision,” the officer agreed.

“Where are you taking me?”

“The Watch-house.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not if you come quietly.”

Warlock glanced at the Watchmen surrounding him and nodded slowly, unable to avoid the feeling that he was consenting to his own death, all for the sake of not making a scene. Perhaps it was the crossbow he feared. Not so much for himself, but the fear of that dangerous quarrel ending up buried in some innocent onlooker like the young female who'd gasped at his audacity. Warlock couldn't really say.

“As you wish.”

“There's a good doggy,” one of the guards muttered behind him, giving him a shove.

Slipping on the wet, greasy cobblestones, Warlock stumbled forward, growling softly under his breath. But he let the comment pass and fell in behind the officer as they made their way through the rapidly darkening streets toward the Watch-house.

There was a time and a place to take care of men who made comments like that, and this was neither.

Besides, he had to survive this unexpected detour first.

The City Watchmen who escorted Warlock to the Watch-house proved to be gentlemen compared to the men who took over his custody when the squad resumed their patrol. As soon as Warlock stepped inside, he was bashed across the shoulders with a truncheon until he fell to his knees on the hard stone floor. It was dark by then, the Watch-house lit by guttering torches. He was beaten, cajoled and threatened into a cell not far from the main entrance, and then left with an escort of two guards to watch over him. Neither man spared him so much as a look once the door closed behind the others, provided he did not attempt to get up from the floor.

Warlock wasn't sure what was happening, but he was certain of one thing: agreeing to come quietly to the Lebec City Watch-house was possibly the dumbest thing he'd done in his entire life.

He was left to dwell on his monumental stupidity for the better part of an hour. Then the door opened finally and a man stepped into the cell. Hurriedly the guards stood to attention. Their visitor wasn't a particularly tall man—few humans were tall compared to Warlock—but he carried himself proudly, his face handsome in the way of humans, clean-shaven and olive-skinned, and he was dressed more finely than any man Warlock had met since he'd left the service of Lord Ordry's household. The man smelled of expensive soap, of hidden fears. And of power.

“Leave us!”

The guards did as the man ordered without question. Whoever he was, his scent of command was not misplaced. He had authority here. A great deal of it.

“You are the canine they call Warlock?” In contrast to his barked orders to the guards, when he spoke to Warlock, his voice was cultured, his tone nonthreatening, although it was clear he expected an answer. Fortunately, unlike the City Watchmen, he didn't seem to feel the need to beat his prisoner to get one.

Warlock nodded warily, daring to climb to his feet. The human showed no fear. He didn't even flinch when Warlock rose to his full height, forcing the man to look up at him to meet his eye.

“Who wants to know?”

The newcomer held up a piece of paper that Warlock recognised as his ticket to freedom, so recently handed to him by Arkady Desean, even more recently surrendered to the City Watch. It was spattered with raindrops, the ink blurred in places, but it was still legible. “This pardon you carry bears my signature and my seal.”

Warlock's eyes narrowed. “You are the Duke of Lebec?”

“I am.”

“Then you have my eternal gratitude, your grace,” he said with a low bow.

The duke frowned. “If only I'd actually done something to warrant it.”

“Sir?”

“The seal on this pardon is mine, Warlock,” the duke informed him, holding the paper a little higher. “The signature isn't.”

This wasn't likely to be good. “I…I don't understand.”

“Neither do I,” Stellan Desean admitted. “I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me.”

Confused, the Crasii shrugged. “I cannot explain it, your grace. The duchess—your lady wife—visited the prison a few days ago with the intention of escorting another prisoner back to the palace, so she informed us. And to award me a pardon. I cannot say why.”

The duke nodded, as if this confirmed what he already knew. “Tell me about this other prisoner.”

“Cayal?”

The Duke of Lebec nodded, clearly unhappy about something. “Arkady's Immortal Prince.”

It was obvious the man had no faith in Cayal's claim.
Foolish humans.
They had no idea of the peril the suzerain represented. The Crasii remembered. They made a point of it. But humans…their pride was too strong, their memories too short, to be even remotely aware of the danger. “Cayal was not lying, your grace. He is who he claims to be.”

“Arkady…my wife, didn't seem to think so.” There was nothing snide or condescending in his tone. To Warlock's amazement, the Duke of Lebec was almost respectful of Crasii beliefs, enough not to scoff at Warlock's insistence that Cayal was the Immortal Prince, at any rate.

“She may learn, to her peril, that she was wrong, your grace.”

The duke looked worried by that. “Do
you
think she's in danger from this man?”