The Warrior King (Book 4) (2 page)

“Thank you,” Markal said, wearing a familiar smug look of self-righteousness. “You’ve saved us the trouble of hunting you down.”

The orb pulsed with white and green light. Chantmer could sense tremendous stores of untapped power within the glass sphere, and even though Markal’s own weaknesses would bleed energy as he called it forth, there was more than enough to destroy Chantmer. Nevertheless, Markal kept the power simmering at the top of the orb, like a kettle just below boiling. The spell he’d been conjuring died on his lips.

“I told you,” Chantmer said, forcing himself to be patient. “Put that away, or one of us will die.”

“One of us will die, Betrayer. That much is true.”

“If you cast a spell, you’ll alert the Mages of Ink. They’ll find you here and destroy you.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Meanwhile, Markal’s apprentice fought off the spell Chantmer had cast in his direction. That spell hadn’t changed the nature of the sword, only Darik’s perception of it, making it feel simultaneously heavy and slippery. The young man whispered some spell of his own, which dissolved Chantmer’s illusion. A few months ago he wouldn’t have given the former slave any more attention than he’d pay a biting fly, but Darik had given him trouble during their skirmish on the Tothian Way. He kept a wary eye on the boy.

Chantmer was still weak, but he’d certainly regained enough of his strength over the past several days to crush Darik if he wished. One of the tattoos inked into his skin would break every bone in the boy’s body, and he was tempted to call it forth to get the troublesome meddler out of the way. But if he did that, he’d never stand a chance of turning Markal to his purpose.

“Are you so proud that you won’t listen to me?” Chantmer asked.

“I’m listening,” Markal said.

Chantmer cast an irritated look at the orb. “Then put that away.”

“Send away the bird first.”

Chantmer had almost forgotten about the bird perched on his shoulder. It was one of the whistler birds kept in cages as pets throughout the palace, so called because they mimicked the men who led donkeys through the streets of Marrabat, whistling a tune that brought the thirsty out of their homes to buy refreshing pomegranate or citrus juice. Because they were egg thieves and carrion eaters, the whistlers had a keen sense of smell. Chantmer had simply trained the bird to recognize Markal’s scent and then taught it a particular call to make.

Other than that, there was nothing particularly magical about the bird, and it pleased him that Markal didn’t know that.

He brushed the bird from his shoulder. It flew away, whistling that it had pomegranate juice for sale. Somewhere in the palace a small child would be perking up hopefully.

“The bird is gone, now put away the orb. Good. Now tell your apprentice to put down his sword before he injures himself.”

They obeyed, but both of them kept a wary eye on Chantmer. He enjoyed their unease, and it reminded him that he was still powerful and dangerous, even though so often these days he felt like a weak, crippled version of the wizard he had once been, a man capable of raising a gurgolet, a flying beast of bone and mud strong enough to do battle with a dragon.

“How goes the war?” Chantmer asked. “Has your warrior king met his death yet? And your khalifa given birth to the monster she carries in her womb?”

Darik growled at this and Markal narrowed his eyes. “Speak your mind, Betrayer. We have no time for this.”

Chantmer gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “You have all the time in the world. I’m the one who is short of time. Tell me, do you know of the sultan’s betrothal?”

“We know about the princess,” Markal said.

“And the king? The former king, I mean—Daniel.”

“Yes.”

Markal was evidently not going to give up any information. Chantmer decided to try the younger man. “What about the girl? Are you protective of her?”

Darik stiffened. “What girl do you mean?”

“Is there more than one? The daughter of King Daniel, of course. Or is she the whelp of King Whelan? It’s a rather convoluted situation, after all.”

Markal masked his expression, but Darik relaxed. He’d been thinking of some other girl, some giggling young thing that had caught his fancy, no doubt. Beyond that, his confusion told Chantmer everything he needed to know. He allowed himself a smile.

“Oh, so you didn’t know that Sofiana was in Marrabat. That means you didn’t know that Sultan Mufashe was going to marry the child.”

“Oh, you’re talking about Ninny,” Darik said. “That’s ridiculous. She’s only twelve years old.”

“Thirteen as of a few weeks ago. But yes, it is an unseemly and disgusting intention. I would warn Daniel, but the situation is delicate. The sultan holds power in the south. Whether his armies are friendly or hostile will have a great impact on the outcome of the war. If Daniel learns the truth, he is likely to behave badly, and we simply must have an alliance between Marrabat and Balsalom.”

“You seem suspiciously concerned with the war,” Markal said, “given that you almost single-handedly lost it for us.”

Chantmer felt a cool sort of anger at this outrageous suggestion. “I did not. I have always been and will forever remain an enemy of the dark wizard. As soon as I return to my rightful place at the head of the order we will surely defeat Toth once and for all.”

Markal and Darik made scoffing noises at this.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Chantmer said. “Those issues can resolve themselves later. We only need to work together for the moment.”

“How do you mean?” Markal asked.

“There are a few things we can agree on. First, the sultan must not touch Sofiana. And for practical reasons, having her out of Marrabat will facilitate Mufashe’s marriage to Princess Marialla instead. That would be advantageous for Balsalom and the war.”

“I will agree to that,” Markal said, warily.

“Why are we talking to him?” Darik burst out. “You know we can’t trust him. He killed his own wizards.”

“Be quiet when your betters are speaking,” Chantmer said.

“Don’t tell me what to say, Betrayer.”

Again, he could barely refrain from casting one of his spells to silence the insolent fool. Fighting the temptation, he turned back to Markal. “And would you agree that removing the girl from Marrabat is more important than our personal conflict?”

“So send her away,” Markal said. “Tell Daniel if you have to, but get her out.”

“Ah, if only it were that easy.”

Two male slaves came trudging into the square. They were thin, with lean, rope-like muscles, and faces, hands, and robes streaked with black. The stench of camel dung radiated from them. These men worked in the cellars beneath the kitchens, shoveling dried dung into furnaces to heat the ovens. Those ovens cooked the bread and meals for over two thousand ministers, servants, harem girls, eunuchs, slaves, palace guards, and other residents of the vast palace complex, and they had an almost insatiable appetite for fuel. With wood so scarce in the southern deserts, most of that fuel consisted of animal dung.

The words of a spell came to Chantmer’s lips, but Markal beat him to it. The slaves, who had lifted their tired faces to stare, frowning at the three unexpected people in the overgrown gardens, now found other things more interesting to look at. In a moment they had opened the door to one of the humble chambers lining the square and disappeared.

Chantmer turned his back on Markal and Darik and paced toward the dry fountain. He didn’t like any of this business, from how he was forced to work with Markal and his young, callow apprentice to the scheme that was coming together in his mind for using a child to achieve his objectives in the palace. Those objectives were of critical importance, or he would have chosen something more dignified. And no doubt Markal would behave in his typical sanctimonious way if he knew the truth.

“The problem is one of the sultan’s eunuchs,” he said when he returned to where the other two waited. “He is a cunning, wicked man.”

“And you know all about those things,” Darik muttered.

Chantmer ignored him. “He does the sultan’s bidding and has gathered most of the harem himself. The eunuch has no carnal desires himself, but seems to recognize Mufashe’s strange tastes, and buys or coerces women and girls from all across the sultanates. This eunuch has been shadowing Sofiana, and when I’ve tried to get the girl alone, it has only made him more wary.”

This was all true, if perhaps disingenuous. It had been a relief when Faalam turned his attentions to the girl, as it gave Chantmer the freedom to travel through the palace with minimal scrutiny. But it had also thwarted Chantmer’s attempts to eliminate Faalam from the palace entirely. He seemed to have some sort of magical ability himself and eluded any snares that Chantmer set.

“I won’t be able to remove the eunuch,” Chantmer continued, “but I believe I have the means to distract him long enough for others to slip the girl out of the city. Those others can’t be anyone from Princess Marialla’s retinue. They are known and would fall under immediate suspicion. But the two of you could do it and take her back to Balsalom where she’ll be safe.”

“I see,” Markal said.

“Surely, we’re not going to be so gullible as that,” Darik told Markal.

“You need proof that Mufashe intends to add the girl to his harem?” Chantmer asked. “Would you like a personal confession from the sultan himself?”

“I don’t know if he does or doesn’t,” the boy said, “but this is an obvious ploy to remove us from Marrabat.”

“If I wanted to remove you from Marrabat, I would simply alert the palace to your presence. Maybe I told my bird to do that already, did you think of that? Maybe even now, thirty guards with spears and scimitars are rushing up here.”

The boy started, but Markal still looked thoughtful. “So we take the girl away. What then?”

“When you return from Balsalom, we’ll talk,” Chantmer said. “We both want to defeat the dark wizard, and you’re a fool if you think King Whelan will overthrow him with force of arms alone. At best, his army will bottle up Toth in Veyre until spring, and then those of us with true power in this land will be called upon to finish matters.”

“Wizards, you mean?” Darik asked.

“So we travel the entire length of the Spice Road and back again,” Markal said. “That will take weeks. Meanwhile, you remain in Marrabat, gaining strength.”

Chantmer hardened his voice. “That will happen whether you want it to or not. I am stronger than you, Markal, and always will be.” He rolled up his sleeves to show the other wizard the tattoos of snakes and fire salamanders, words in the old tongue and ancient runes, that entwined his arms. “I already carry more strength than you can imagine.”

“And what about the Order of the Wounded Hand?” Markal asked. “Have you forsaken that path?”

“You drove me out!” Chantmer turned away. He stared at the vines that crawled up the far wall, working their roots into the mortar to crumble it away, and waited until he’d regained control before he turned back around. “Anyway, I can call on the strength of the wounded hand as I like, and I can draw up the power of these mages, as well.”

“A man who serves two masters gives his devotion to neither,” Markal said.

“Maybe so, but my faith has always been stronger than yours. If you don’t believe me, take out that orb you stole and test me.”

Some of this was bluster, but it had the desired effect. Markal stared at him for a long moment, seemingly undecided. Darik, for his part, stood with the sheath in one hand and his other hand on his sword hilt, as if itching to draw the weapon and take a swing at Chantmer’s head. The instant he did so, Chantmer swore that the boy would die.

He’s no longer a boy. Don’t underestimate him.

Markal was nothing if not practical, and at last he sighed and held up a hand to urge his young companion to calm down.

“Very well, Chantmer the Betrayer, we’ll help you remove Sofiana from Marrabat. And then we will have our reckoning, you and I.”

“Chantmer the
Tall
. That is what they call me. I don’t much care for your other title, and if you insist on using it, we will have trouble.”

“You are a proud and arrogant man.”

“And you have no dignity. You are a petty, simple-minded fool.”

Markal glanced at Darik, and the two of them shared a look of disgust. Then Markal turned back to the other wizard. “Very well, Chantmer the
Tall.
What is your plan?” 

“It must happen tonight. If we wait until tomorrow, the sultan will have taken the girl to his bed.”

Chapter Three

Roderick woke to a nasty shout and a lash across his back. Dogs barked and snarled, and their odor was everywhere, together with other smells that overwhelmed his senses: horses, steel, sour sweat, blood.

He stumbled to his feet, blinking in confusion. The sun stood overhead, but it looked as though a gray curtain lay in front of his eyes. Roderick felt his head, remembering nothing for the moment but the arc of a war hammer toward his skull and a blinding flash of light. A groove ran along his skull beneath the hair, but otherwise his head was whole.