The Red Knight (19 page)

He was pleased to find that the Steelskins were as complacent as Jerim said they would be. It would make this little task that much easier to accomplish. He didn’t like the country, the food, or the people. The sooner he was home, the happier he’d be. A sharp pain stabbed his right knee. It was an old wound gained in a reckless youth—a reminder of wilder days. He scratched the thick scar where the Narwhal had speared him. Its magical horn might have been worth five times its weight in gold, but the cost of taking it had long outlasted the coin.

Thorgulsen’s recollection of his youthful foolishness made him smile, even as he cursed the pain that had brought it to mind. He had more fire in his belly back then, and not a whit of caution.
Void bound
they’d called him; he’d dared all, risked everything to earn enough gold to raise a warband and pay the enormous dowry Beth’s family had demanded.

For all her strange ways, she was worth every scar and pain he’d gained gathering the mountain of gold they had asked for her hand. In return, the Raven Daughter had taught him many things, the most important of which had been patience. It had taken him a long time and a lot of killing to become a Thane and Warleader, but he had done so where many others had failed and been swept aside.

He was now closer to the Dragon Throne than he could have dreamed possible in his youth. The youngest of seven, he’d left home with only an axe and the skill to wield it. Now he was a wealthy and powerful Thane—only a sword’s length behind his cousin Ulyan on the path to the throne. If this campaign went as planned, he would be in the perfect position to take the throne from Redbear when he became too fat and lazy to defend it. He smiled. To the Void with spirits, he didn’t need auguries to tell him that this was going to be a good year; he could feel it in his bones.

The long black wig had been frighteningly expensive, each strand of hair knotted individually. Luca Telvier sat at his dressing table, carefully burning curls into the lustrous black hair with a hot iron. Like the silver backed mirror that captured his powder pale reflection, it was the finest money could buy. He smiled at himself in the glass. Nothing could curb his vanity, not age or excess—not even the touch of lover’s rot that had marred his once good looks.

The hair hissed in the iron, heat fixing another ringlet into the flowing locks. Satisfied with his endeavours, he put the iron back in the fire and carefully pulled the wig over his shaven pate. Studying his reflection in the mirror, he teased and twisted errant curls until he was satisfied that everything was perfect.

“Such a waste.” It had been a while since he had spoken Antian. He needed to let his tongue get used to the feel of the dreary language—not the worst thing he’d ever had in his mouth, but distasteful all the same.

“Luca my boy, there’s not a body within a thousand miles who can appreciate your artistry.” Antians, like their language, were a dull and uninspiring people, but his current employers were even worse. “Uncultured dung eater,” he muttered as he plucked a rogue hair from his nostril. “Not a shred of style or an ounce of manners. Good thing their coin is plentiful.”

“Talking to yourself, Telvier? said Thorgulsen, who had entered unannounced. “They say it’s a sign of madness,” The mercenary spun round. Out of habit his hand flitted to the knife up his sleeve. When he saw his employer filling the entrance to the tent, he fluffed the lace at his cuff, and painted a broad smile on his face. Without waiting to be offered, Thorgulsen came in and helped himself to a glass of wine. The pig downed it in one.

“You wanted to see me.” Thorgulsen grunted in barely understandable Antian, despite the hours of patient tutoring Telvier had given him when they were in Cathlan.

“Yes, Thane, I wanted to know if you had decided to attend the feast this eve. It will afford us a prime opportunity to get the measure of the Royal Guards. You might want to savour the wine—it is rather delightful, if one takes the time to taste it.” The mercenary smiled tightly.

“It tastes like goat’s piss. As to meeting the Antians, I’d rather stay here and pleasure myself. I didn’t come to Antia to play—I came to make the crows fat.”

“Of course, but it will appear strange if someone as important as you came to take part in the tourney, but didn’t go to the feast. It would be perceived as a slight, and we do not want to put our hosts on their guard.” He wanted to add, ‘you great flaming dolt’ but kept that to himself. “It will also give you the opportunity to see your patron’s nephew.”

The Thane shrugged. “I’ll meet Prince Talin soon enough, this mock fighting and feasting is a waste of time. Raven Matia should make that skragling Jerim put his metal up now, or by the time he’s finished fucking about, we’ll all be as soft bellied as the Ants cowering in their steel skins.”

Thorgulsen poured more wine and threw it back as quickly as the first glass. Telvier had killed men for less, and as big as the Guthlander was, a knife in the throat would bleed him out just like any other bloated pig. Alas, now wasn’t the time to indulge in such a luscious fantasy. He’d save that one for later. Right now, he had to convince the great fool to go to the feast. Lack of attendance would be noticed.

Thorgulsen waved the glass at him; the crystal looked out of place in his big, ugly paw. “D’you have any ale?”

“Alas, I only have the thirty-gold-crowns-a-bottle Suvian Ruby you’re knocking back. Very remiss of me not to have ale, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

It amused Thorgulsen to see the muscle at the corner of Telvier’s eye twitch every time he took a swig of the expensive and rather pleasant wine. Thorgulsen knew full well that it was the good stuff, but it didn’t hurt to let the mercenary underestimate his intelligence.

“I’m bored. Let’s go kill the princeling; it’ll save us a job later.” Thorgulsen sucked wine from his braided moustaches and chuckled. Telvier scampered over to the tent flap and peered out nervously.

“I pray you, Thane, please guard your words. There are many strangers wandering through the camps and a tent wall isn’t proof against eavesdroppers. Prince Jerim is sensibly biding his time to make sure victory will be certain when we make our move. Didn’t your own kinsman suggest you come here to get the measure of the Antians and have a
legitimate
reason to be in Antia?”

The Suvian didn’t miss much, he’d give him that. “To the Void with Redbear, Guthani go where they please. Nor do I need to get the measure of any man, woman or beast so long as their blood is red, and I’ll wager my weight in gold the Steelskins bleed as red as anyone.”

Telvier plucked a lace-trimmed kerchief from his sleeve and coughed.

“Oh, I understand your frustration, my Lord. I too cannot wait until we’re wading, knee-deep through the entrails of our enemies, but if Jerim’s plan works, the booty will be plentiful and the fighting
easy.
Do not mistake me; I like a good, bloody fight, but I much prefer it when the odds are stacked in my favour. Jerim’s plan is sound and will work, so long as our allies play their part.”

Thorgulsen thought Jerim’s plan was a sack of shit. It didn’t say much for Telvier’s skill as a strategist if he couldn’t see that.

“This subterfuge is pointless, it will end the way these things always end; in blood, shit, and death. We have the advantage of numbers and surprise; we should get on with it before the Ants get wind of our plans.”

“Fun though that would be, a bloody civil war, will not achieve the result Prince Jerim is after. He doesn’t want to rule people who hate him, it makes them terribly intractable. If he can force his brother to abdicate in his favour with a minimum of bloodshed, so much the better for Prince Jerim and Princess Matia. When the royal couple are happily ensconced in Weyhithe and Redbear strips Cathlan to fund his attempt to take the Dragon Throne, you’ll be carried along with him I should think. This way everyone benefits.” Telvier grinned.

“You’re a bright fellow. You want to watch that.”

The Suvian dabbed at his neatly trimmed moustache. “Oh, I do, my Lord, and don’t worry about my loyalty or circumspection; you’ve paid handsomely for both.”

Thorgulsen smiled. They both knew that if a better offer came along, Telvier would rip up their contract and stab him with the quill they’d signed it with. It was the only thing he liked about the Suvian; his honest dishonesty—refreshing in a world full of insincere sincerity.

“Asha’s paps!” exclaimed Bear.

Talin had been dozing and almost leapt from the tub when his friend burst into the bathhouse.

“I was going to wait for you outside, but life’s too short. Surely even a prince has only the same amount of skin to scrub as an ordinary man? Or are you doing more than bathing in there?” She grinned and slammed the door behind her. “Sest’s teeth, I could feel myself aging waiting for you to finish sudding yourself. No need to reach for a towel—the water’s murky enough to hide the crown jewels, not that I haven’t seen your gems before. D’you remember that night near Pridmore when we had to run for our lives?”

Talin groaned. “How could I possibly forget when you never miss an opportunity to remind me?”

“I’ll never forget your lily white arse glowing in the moonlight as we ran through the woods.”

“Hello, Iris. Yes, nice to see you too. Yes I’m very well thank you, and yourself? No, please don’t stand on ceremony, come in, and make yourself at home.”

Bear flopped onto a bench, black curls tumbling around her face. She was laughing, but she looked tired, dark circles ringed her eyes. “Do forgive my shocking manners. I’m weak with hunger, having ridden for days to get here,
at your bidding
.”

“Hunger? The day you ever go hungry, Iris Berwick, is the day I sprout wings and fly. You want to be careful; you’re getting awfully broad in the beam. Think of your poor horses.”

She laughed. “I don’t want to worry you, Highness, but I think there’s a dead maggot in the bath. Oh, no, wait a minute, it’s your cock.”

“Where are the guards when I need them?” Talin demanded, looking around the empty bathhouse.

Bear unfastened her puce coloured cloak, and tossed it on the bench. “They died of old age waiting for you to finish polishing your sceptre.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of royalty, you didn’t exactly rush when I summoned you. I’m sure that’s treason.”

“Aye, well, I would have come sooner, but Mama and Papa wanted me to spend some time managing my estates. All rather dull really, but they’re far more likely to behead me for being disobedient than you are, which is why I’m late. But enough of my hardships, I’m here now and it is time to make merry! I met a lovely brother and sister on the road. They’re simply dying to meet you in about…an hour from now. So if you wouldn’t mind hurrying up, Highness. If we’re quick we can enjoy a bite to eat, a bit of a fumble, and still be fashionably on time for the feast, although, gods know where my trunks have got to.” She tossed him a towel.

He’d sent for Bear because she was his best friend, and he could always rely on her support and, upon occasion, her advice. Only, now she was here he wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. She’d never had a serious relationship in her life and going on current form, probably never would. She could either lend a sympathetic ear or laugh in his face. He got out of the tub and started to dry himself.

“As much as I appreciate you setting me up, I’m not interested.”

“What’s this? Prince Talin passing up the chance for a bit of fun with a lusty country lass? Are you ill? I assure you, she and her brother are very easy on the eye. Here—have a bit of this, it’ll loosen you up.” Bear pulled a small silver box from her doublet and tossed it to Talin.

He caught it and flicked open the lid. The familiar smell of Pel tickled his nostrils. Inside were four gold-dusted pellets of the drug. It smelled rich and earthy, and woke old lusts in him. There had been a time when he would have taken two pellets and no one would have been able to guess he’d taken any at all. Now just the smell of the stuff was making him feel light-headed. That’s why Bear looked tired—too much Pel. He snapped the lid closed and threw the box back.

“Not for me, thanks. I’m limiting my vices to alcohol and chasing unobtainable women.”

Bear shook her head, took out a golden ball of Pel and popped it in her mouth. “As you wish, although I don’t approve of either. I take it you’re mooning over Captain Stenna?”

“You do too much of that.” He hadn’t wanted to say it, but she’d pricked him. His affection for Alyda wasn’t trivial. Bear’s smile faltered.

“Now, now, Mother, you know a little bit of Pel keeps me calm, or would you prefer it if I lost my temper? That always goes well, doesn’t it?”

“You could just do with taking less—you look worn out.”

She snorted. “I can handle it, I have a strong constitution. Anyway, enough of me; tell me about your unobtainable woman.”

He let her change the subject. Perhaps she was right, perhaps Pel didn’t affect her like it did other people, or perhaps it was an argument that would have to wait for another time.

“She likes me, I can tell, but she won’t let me get near. I’m at a loss.”

“She’s a Royal Guard; perhaps she isn’t impressed by the title? Maybe you should go for a lower rank, if you’ve got a taste for warrior women all of a sudden.”