Warrior (43 page)

Twelve long years since Luciena—now formally adopted by Marla—had taken over her father’s shipping empire and married Marla’s nephew, Xanda Taranger, giving him three children along the way; all without a hint of suspicion that Alija had ever been inside her mind or that Luciena posed any sort of threat to Damin. It was twelve long years since Damin Wolfblade was sent to Rogan Bearbow to begin his fosterage, too. In that time, Alija’s eldest son had married and already produced a daughter, while Marla had continued to prop up her brother’s precarious position by acting as his aide.

Besides his frustrating insistence on refusing to die whenever she tried to arrange it, Damin Wolfblade was an irritation to Alija for a number of other reasons. His natural charm was one of them—

and probably more danger to her plans than any inherent streak of political ruthlessness or leadership ability the young man might possess. People automatically liked the High Prince’s heir, just because he was young and fair and always seemed to be laughing.

Fortunately, not everyone was taken in by a winning smile. It was clear to all who’d met him that Damin Wolfblade took nothing seriously, a fact that even Marla had complained about on occasion.

Privately delighted by this obvious flaw in the young man’s character, the High Arrion had advised the princess to put aside her concerns and let nature take its course. “He’ll grow out of it,” she assured Marla frequently, hoping he never did. Of one thing Alija was certain: when it came to a showdown—

and it would, because Cyrus Eaglespike, not Damin Wolfblade, was destined to rule Hythria—her eldest son’s serious and thoughtful nature would make him a far more attractive candidate for High Prince.

That had been her mistake with Barnardo, she willingly acknowledged now. There was no point offering to remove one fool just to replace him with another.

The people want someone they can look up to, not the frivolous charm of an inexperienced,
albeit handsome, young man with no sense of responsibility whatsoever
.

Alija watched Damin chatting with his uncle and his stepbrother, wondering what the young prince and his sick old uncle had in common. Damin was here in Greenharbour to learn, supposedly, but if he was learning statecraft, he certainly wasn’t learning it from his uncle and he certainly wasn’t doing it at the palace. According to Alija’s spies, when Damin wasn’t training with the Palace Guard, or at the horse races, or partying with his close-knit circle of friends, he was holed up in Marla’s townhouse learning the gods-alone-knew-what under the tutelage of that damned dwarf.

Damin had inherited much of his mother’s blonde good looks along with his father’s breadth of shoulder, which made him a popular figure with the young women of Greenharbour, although he’d been careful to avoid scandal with any woman of his own class. He paid frequent visits to Zegarnald’s temple, made a point of training regularly, and could hold his own with the best of them; a fact which did not surprise Alija in the slightest, given the training Damin had received as a boy. He undertook minor royal duties with good-natured forbearance, had kept his nose out of anything controversial—

once again, that was probably Marla’s doing—and was generally considered quite harmless when it came to anything political. Although he obviously enjoyed a cordial relationship with the High Prince, he rarely ventured near the palace and had never—as far as Alija knew—taken part in one of Lernen’s orgies in the roof garden on the west wing. The only good thing that said about Damin Wolfblade was that he didn’t share his uncle’s perversions. He probably had a whole new set of his own.

“More wine, my lady?”

Alija glanced up at the slave and nodded, holding out her cup for a refill as Damin Wolfblade rose to his feet below her to greet some new arrivals to the royal box. Lernen remained seated, but turned on his couch to greet the newcomers. Luciena and her husband, Xanda Taranger. Alija could feel her ire rising. Aware that in such a public place, people were probably watching her with the same amount of interest that she was watching the royal box, she let no emotion show as the couple took their seats behind the High Prince.

Alija’s attempt to use Luciena Mariner as an assassin when Damin was still a child had proved a complete failure. Either the coercion had worn off before Luciena reached Krakandar, or nobody had ever uttered the trigger phrase in her presence.
Unlikely
, Alija thought, watching the ease with which the once penniless
court’esa
’s daughter seemed to mingle with her betters. A respected businesswoman, married to a Taranger and adopted sister to the next High Prince, Luciena had led a charmed life these past twelve years. She’d given birth to three healthy children, ran a trading empire most men would have given a limb to command, and was treated as a member of the High Prince’s inner circle.

The failure of Alija’s plan to use Luciena as an assassin still grated, mostly because she had no idea how it could have failed. She would have understood if Luciena had been caught and subsequently executed for attempting to kill Damin—that had always been a risk of the plan. But the whole damned Wolfblade clan carried on as if nothing had happened at all. And maybe
that
was the explanation. There was no way Marla would have allowed the girl to live if she perceived her as a danger. That Luciena remained alive was proof she had never presented any sort of threat to the family.

Alija just couldn’t understand how the coercion had failed. To compound the problem, it was almost two years after she’d first met the girl and placed the notion in her head to assassinate Damin before Alija was able to get close enough to Luciena again to touch her (and therefore, her mind) to find out what had gone wrong. Not surprisingly, by then no trace of Alija’s handiwork remained. Luciena’s mind was filled only with shallow thoughts, mostly focused on her husband and the impending birth of her first child. The contact had been quick—a mere brush as they passed in the hall—which meant Alija had little time for an in-depth analysis, so to this day she had never discovered a satisfactory answer to the puzzle.

If she’d thought it was hard getting to Damin while he was in the custody of Mahkas Damaran in Krakandar, it was damn near impossible in Rogan Bearbow’s stronghold at Natalandar. Even though Rogan was her cousin, he took his responsibility for Damin’s safety so seriously, Alija was certain he would have put one of his own children to death if he thought they were a threat to the young prince.

So Damin had done his fosterage in Izcomdar and at the age of eighteen had come to Greenharbour, presumably to begin learning what was expected of him when he eventually assumed the role of High Prince. He was careful who he slept with, restricting his pleasures of the flesh to those
court’esa
owned by Marla’s household. Alija attributed that to Marla’s common sense rather than her son’s. (The Lady of Eaglespike was just as adamant that her own sons, Cyrus and Serrin, not expose themselves either to assassination or some unspeakable disease by consorting with brothel-owned
court’esa
.) The young prince never ventured out of doors alone and certainly not without a phalanx of dedicated bodyguards all apparently willing to throw their lives away in defence of Hythria’s heir.

There were days when, confronted by the difficulties of disposing of someone so well protected, Alija wondered if she should even bother killing him. The more she saw of Damin Wolfblade, the more she was convinced that Cyrus would eventually take the throne, even if Damin were still alive. Alija knew the Warlords were sick of being ruled by wastrels and, in his six years in the city, Damin Wolfblade had proved to be little else.

That was how she consoled herself, at least. The truth was, Alija had not had another opportunity in twelve years—until today—to rid the world of Lernen’s heir.

“Tarkyn Lye is here, my lady,” Tressa announced behind her.

Alija waved him forward, not taking her eyes off the royal box below.

“Well?” she asked.

“Everything is set, my lady.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And there is no way this can be traced back to me?”

“I made certain nobody saw my face.”

She turned and smiled at him briefly, even though he couldn’t see it. Tarkyn would sense her approval. He always did. “If this works, Tarkyn, I’ll see you are handsomely rewarded.”

“I ask for nothing more than the chance to remain in your service, my lady.”

“And the odd pocket full of gold, too, as I recall.”

He shrugged and smiled ingenuously. “One of the many perks of remaining in your service, my lady.”

“And you’re absolutely certain this can’t be traced back to anybody connected to me or Dregian Province?”

“The man is Denikan, my lady. He barely speaks enough Hythrun to understand what was required of him. Even if he knew who hired him, he couldn’t tell anyone. And let’s face it, it’s a good chance he’ll be dead long before anyone gets around to questioning him, either from the bodyguards or his . . . condition.”

“You didn’t allow him to touch you, I hope?”

“Of course not, my lady.”

Alija nodded and turned back to watching the track. The horses were lining up for the next race, a three-mile marathon that would test the mettle of every horse and rider taking part. With a satisfied smile, Alija snapped her fingers. Tressa hurried forward to do her bidding.

“My lady?”

“Go down to the royal box for me, Tressa. Tell the High Prince I’ll wager a hundred gold rivets on Lance of the Wind coming in ahead of that useless nag of his, King’s Ransom.”

The slave bowed and hurried away to deliver the message. “You’re bound to lose,” Tarkyn warned. “King’s Ransom hasn’t lost a race all season.”

“I can’t lose, Tarkyn,” she replied. Down in the royal box, Lernen got the message and turned to wave to Alija to acknowledge the wager. She smiled at him with satisfaction. “Not today.”

“I hope you’re right, my lady.”

Alija nodded. “You’ll know I’m right, Tarkyn, when you hear the bells tolling throughout the city a few days from now, announcing that the High Prince’s heir is dead.”

It was well past midnight by the time Damin Wolfblade and his friends left the Lurching Sailor and made their way drunkenly out into the street. It was a clear night and all of them had done well at the races so they had much to celebrate.

As they emerged from the tavern, Xanda Taranger had his arm around Adham Tirstone.

Watching them stagger through the door ahead of him, Damin couldn’t say for certain who was holding up whom. They were, however, singing a loud and rather crude ditty about a crabby old whore called Davyna, forced to resort to some rather extreme measures to find customers. As the song progressed, the poor old whore’s efforts grew more and more obscene until even Damin winced to hear about it.

Admittedly, it might have had something to do with the fact that, between them, Xanda and Adham couldn’t carry a tune in a water bucket, but he was sure someone would eventually complain. No sooner had the thought occurred to Damin than a screeching voice yelled at them to shut up; it came from the upper storey of the house across the street from the Lurching Sailor. Across the way, another couple of revellers, a
court’esa
on each arm, wove their way un-steadily down the street. Leaning against one of the pillars holding up the tavern’s awning was a Denikan sailor who looked rather the worse for wear.

Other than that, the street was deserted.

“Nobody in this city appreciates fine music,” Adham complained loudly, stopping unsteadily in the middle of the street to make an obscene gesture with his finger in the general direction of the owner of the screeching voice.

“Actually, I think you’ll find they appreciate it very well,” Damin laughed as he stepped down onto the street. “Which is why they’re yelling at you to stop.”

“Well, that’s a fine state of affairs!” Adham snorted indignantly. “What do we do now?”

“We could go back to my house,” Xanda offered with a crooked smile, clinging to Adham to maintain his balance. “Luciena likes music.”

“I’m not
that
drunk,” Adham announced, pushing Xanda away so he could attempt to stand on his own two feet. “She’s gonna kill you for staying out so late as it is . . . not my job to add to the body count.”

Xanda shook his head, struggling to maintain his balance. “She won’t kill me. She loves me.”

“When you’re sober.” Damin was drunk, too, but not quite as far gone as his cousin. He turned to the other two men who had accompanied them out of the tavern. Big men who were conspicuously armed, both were sober and neither was smiling. They weren’t friends. These men were hand-picked bodyguards. “Goren, go find a litter to see Lord Taranger home, would you?”

The man on the left nodded and turned back into the tavern. If the Lurching Sailor didn’t have a litter of its own, the owner would know where to get one at this time of night.

Xanda looked at Damin, quite forlorn. “You’re sending me
home
?”

“I’m keeping my promise to Luciena.”

“What did you promise her?” Adham asked. Not having a wife to concern him, he obviously thought Xanda’s predicament quite amusing.

“That Xanda’d be home before dawn.”

“What possessed you to promise her that, you fool?” Xanda gasped in horror.

“She did promise not to disembowel me in return for this one small favour.”

“See!” Adham declared smugly. “This is what you get for having a wife, Xanda. Damin and I don’t have to be home before dawn.”

Xanda shook his head. “Damin, Damin, Damin. You’re going to have to stop listening to Luciena when she says things like that. You know she doesn’t mean it.”

“She tried to kill me once before,” he pointed out reasonably.

“A mere youthful indiscretion and, anyway, she failed miserably, as I recall. Or have six years in Greenharbour made you lose your edge so badly that a girl could take you down these days?”

Damin grinned at the idea. “Wanna find out?”

Before Xanda could respond to Damin’s challenge, Goren emerged from the tavern. “The owner’s litter is out on a job, my lord, but he says we’ll find one easily enough over on Moss Street.” It wasn’t an oversight on Goren’s part that he addressed Damin as “my lord” and not “your highness.”