Warrior (25 page)

“His name is Rory,” Brak admitted. “He’s in a Fardohnyan dungeon just over the border in Westbrook. He was trying to get to Hythria when they caught him.”

“That’s very tragic, Brak, but I’m not going anywhere.”

“He’s only twelve.”

Wrayan sighed. “What have you done, Brak?”

The Halfbreed looked at him with a puzzled expression. “What do you mean?”

“Is this one of those ‘balance’ things you’re so fond of?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Wrayan lowered his voice a notch, certain Brak was lying to him. “Don’t you remember? After we killed those Kariens in the mountains outside Sanctuary? You took time out to save some little girl lost in the woods three days later because it restored the balance.”

“So?”

“So, I’m just wondering what you’ve done that requires you to break some twelve-year-old you’ve never met out of a Fardohnyan dungeon and find him a home in the Sorcerers’ Collective?”

Brak shrugged. “Let’s just say this one’s on credit.”

“Which means you’ll probably have to do something really bad to make up for it,” Wrayan joked, wondering if he was simply imagining the dark veil of despair that shrouded Brak’s aura. He hadn’t seen the Halfbreed for years. Maybe Brak was always like this and he just didn’t remember it.

Wrayan glanced around the room again. It was filling slowly as people finished work for the day, but the taproom was large and they were still quite safe from eavesdroppers. “Look, I’m not trying to be difficult about this, Brak. But really, even if I wanted to go with you, how would I explain a trip to Fardohnya?”

“I thought thieves and assassins knew no borders.”

Wrayan nodded in understanding as he realised what Brak wanted of him. “I see. You want me to arrange a meeting with someone in one of the Thieves’ Guilds in Fardohnya so you and I have an excuse to be in Westbrook. Why didn’t you just come straight out and ask me that in the first place?”

“More fun this way. Will you do it?”

He sighed, wondering if he should go through the motions of objecting or just give in now to save time. In the end, he settled on the latter. “It’ll take some time to arrange. Will your boy last that long?”

“Elarnymire is keeping an eye on him for me.”

“You could just have the demons meld into a dragon, land you on the roof of Westbrook castle and break the lad out yourself in a spectacular blaze of magic, Brak.”

Brak patted Wrayan’s hand patronisingly. “Not real clear on the meaning of the phrase ‘staying hidden so everyone thinks the Harshini are extinct,’ are you, son?”

Wrayan smiled. “I know. It’d be nice to think you could do something like that, though. And not have to worry about it.”

“The irony being that if the Harshini didn’t need to stay hidden, I probably wouldn’t need to break some poor child out of a dungeon for the crime of being able to wield magic. They’re accusing him of murder, by the way. And being a Hythrun spy. King Hablet is firmly of the opinion that anybody with the slightest hint of magical ability is a Hythrun spy.”

“I’ll have to write a few letters.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Wrayan rose from the table, wondering how much trouble this was going to cause. What Brak wanted of him was no small favour. “Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble while you’re here.”

“I’ve had a lot more practice at keeping a low profile than you have, Wrayan. I can take care of myself.”

“I’ll talk to you later then. I do have a job, you know. I have a few things to take care of first.”

“Excellent!” Brak declared, leaning back in his seat. “In that case, would you mind sending the lovely Fyora back to me? Both my tankard and my lap are empty.”

Wrayan sighed. Some things about Brak never seemed to change. “I’ll send her back.”

Brak raised a questioning eyebrow. “And you don’t mind if she and I . . . ?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“You’re a good lad, Wrayan.”

“I’m an idiot for letting you talk me into this,” he corrected.

“You don’t really think that. Not deep down.”

“You’re reading my mind now?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Brak was more than capable of reading Wrayan’s mind, although he was determinedly blocking any hint of his own thoughts from betraying him at the moment.

“I don’t have to read your mind. I know you.”

And that was the problem, Wrayan knew, as he headed back through the taproom towards the stairs. Brak knew him well enough to know that if the Harshini had asked him to dance naked on a bed of burning coals, he would have done it. Not because he felt he belonged to the Harshini. Not because he believed in them, or even because there was something odd about Brak, some secret he was obviously hiding, although that fact alone intrigued Wrayan enough that he was almost willing to go along with the Halfbreed just to find out what it was.

Mostly, Wrayan admitted to himself as he climbed the stairs to his room, he would do this because helping Brakandaran the Halfbreed might mean a chance to see the Harshini princess, Shananara té Ortyn, one more time.

The problem of what to do with her future continued to plague Kalan Hawksword as summer wore on, exacerbated no end by the preparations for Rielle Tirstone’s wedding, speculation about which husband Luciena would settle on (
that was easy
, Kalan thought,
she’s been making moon eyes at Xanda
from the day she arrived
) and Uncle Mahkas’s unsubtle hints about Leila one day becoming Damin’s bride. As the weather grew hotter and emotions in the palace grew more fraught over such earth-shattering things as wedding dresses and flower arrangements and attendants’ hairdos, the only thing that seemed to lie in the future for the women of her family, Kalan decided miserably, was getting married.

Kalan didn’t want to get married. It wasn’t that she had any particular objection to the institution of marriage. It was just when you got married, you had to marry a boy, and kiss him and all that stuff. She wasn’t so clear on what the other “stuff” involved, but she knew that was what
court’esa
were for, and if you had a decent
court’esa
then why burden yourself with a husband? At ten, Kalan knew people were already starting to speculate about her future. Although she wouldn’t marry until she was sixteen at least, there were plenty of likely contenders. And all of them were old.
Really
old. Some as old as twenty.

Her only escape, Kalan finally concluded, was to find something useful to do.

Kalan knew the way her mother thought. To escape marriage, she would have to think of something she could do that would convince her mother that she was more useful to Damin when he became High Prince if she remained unmarried. She spent a great deal of time thinking about the problem and finally decided that she needed help.

The help Kalan settled on was Elezaar.

Since Elezaar had assumed his new duties as their tutor, the palace children had settled into their daily lessons with a degree of fatalistic acceptance. There was nothing to be gained by tormenting the dwarf. He belonged to Princess Marla, so they couldn’t threaten to have him sold off or dismissed, the way they had with other tutors. He had known most of the children since they were born and could tell in an instant if they were lying. He knew the palace almost as well as the children, so they couldn’t even hide from him in the slaveways. And worst of all, he wasn’t the least bit shy about reporting their progress (or lack of it) back to Princess Marla.

Despite this, the palace children were genuinely fond of the dwarf, so generally the lessons proceeded with little disruption. Even Damin managed to sit still for longer than his normal attention span, particularly if Elezaar was explaining his Rules of Gaining and Wielding Power.

It was after their lessons one hot afternoon, some six weeks after Princess Marla had returned to Krakandar, that Kalan decided to approach the dwarf and enlist his help. Elezaar had dismissed the children early today, partly because Darvad Vintner, Rielle’s fiancé, had arrived for the wedding, along with Rogan Bearbow, the Warlord of lzcomdar, his daughter and son, Tejay and Rogan, and numerous other invited guests, and the whole palace was in an uproar getting ready for the ball scheduled the following evening to welcome them all to Krakandar.

The other reason they’d been dismissed early, Kalan secretly suspected, was because after Damin replied “on the bottom” in answer to Elezaar’s question about where the historic Treaty of Westbrook had been signed, they were all laughing so hard that even the dwarf realised he had no chance of getting any more sense out of them that day.

Elezaar was packing up the warboard when he realised that Kalan hadn’t left with the others.

The warboard was actually a large table into which had been built a miniature relief map of Krakandar Province and the surrounding terrain. This was where the boys learned tactics and strategy. Tiny armies of figurines painted in the colours of each of the Warlords, as well as the bordering nations of Fardohnya and Medalon, could be manoeuvred around the board, attacking or defending Krakandar, depending on which army the players commanded. Today, Damin, with Adham as his lieutenant, had been in command of a troop of Medalonian Defenders and had conquered Krakandar against Starros and Rodja’s defending Raiders after a long and drawn-out struggle. The older girls had been excused because of the party and, by rights, Kalan should have been with them, but the dwarf knew Leila and Rielle were in their rooms trying on every dress they owned while they decided what to wear for tomorrow night’s ball. Taking pity on her, Elezaar had let Kalan stay and help with moving the figurines around, rather than spend the morning with her stepsisters, choking with boredom.

The dwarf glanced at Kalan and then at the retreating figures of her brothers as the door to the nursery slammed shut behind them. “Forget something?”

“Did you want a hand packing up, Elezaar?”

The dwarf smiled as he picked up the little figures and placed them, one by one, on the velvet-lined trays into which a slot was cut for each. “What do you want, Kalan?”

“What makes you think I want something?”

“Children of royal blood never offer to help slaves tidy up unless there’s something in it for them. It’s one of those immutable laws of the universe I was telling you about the other day.”

Kalan frowned. If she was going to be an important person some day, she would have to learn to be much less transparent. Still, this way she didn’t have to muck about finding a way to broach the subject delicately. “What should I be when I grow up, Elezaar?”

The dwarf stopped what he was doing and looked at her curiously. He was standing on a stool so that he could reach the figurines in the centre of the table. “A princess?” he suggested tentatively.

“I know
that
,” she snapped impatiently. “But what am I going to
do
?”

“You’ll have a household to run, I imagine. And it won’t be a small one. You’ll be sister to the High Prince when Damin inherits your uncle’s throne. Whoever you marry will be a very important person.”

“But I don’t want to
marry
a very important person,” she complained. “I want to
be
a very important person.”

“What do you think you can do to alter your fate, Kalan?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you. Isn’t your Second Rule of Gaining and Wielding Power to accept what you can’t do anything about, and do something about the stuff you can?”

“Accept what you cannot change,” the dwarf corrected. “And change that which is unacceptable.” He smiled and added, “And be smart enough to know the difference.”

“Which is why I’m asking you, Elezaar. I want to find something useful to do when I grow up.

Getting married and being somebody’s glorified housekeeper is unacceptable.”

Elezaar put the figurine he was holding into the tray and stepped down from the warboard.

“Come here, Kalan,” he beckoned, walking to the worktable by the window where she normally sat with the others during her lessons. The dwarf hoisted himself up onto one of the chairs and indicated she should join him. Kalan took the chair beside him, turning it to face him. Sitting down, they were almost the same height. Kalan’s legs touched the floor, however, while Elezaar’s didn’t even reach halfway. “Tell me what the problem is.”

“I don’t want to be like Rielle. I want to do something important. Like Mama does.” She brightened as something suddenly occurred to her. “Do you think I could
do
what Mama does?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know? I could rule Hythria while Damin has orgies and stuff.”

The dwarf looked as if he was about to choke on something. “Kalan, do you know what an orgy is?”

She thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. “It’s some sort of party Uncle Lernen has a lot, isn’t it?”

“Something like that,” Elezaar agreed with a strangled cough. “But I doubt you’ll be able to count on your brother ruling Hythria the same way your uncle does. Your mother has gone to rather a lot of trouble to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

Kalan was getting exasperated with her limited options. “Then what can I
do
? They don’t let girls do anything useful. They won’t let me be a Warlord, and that’s not fair ’cause I was born first, so I should be the heir to Elasapine, not Narvell.”

“Not under the laws of primogeniture,” the dwarf explained.

“What does that mean?”

“It means succession through the male line. The only country I’ve ever heard of that doesn’t practise it is Medalon. There, the succession is through the distaff line.”

“Well, that’s not very fair. If people in Medalon can do it, why can’t we?”

“Probably because along with their progressive notions about female succession in Medalon come a whole lot of other, rather less attractive ideas—like the Sisters of the Blade, and purges against anyone who believes in the Primal Gods. The Sisterhood was responsible for eradicating the Harshini, you know.”

“But they didn’t really eradicate them. Wrayan says they’re still around, just in hiding. He says he’s met them.”