Warrior (47 page)

“The Medalonians think it is.”

“Yes, but they’re all atheists, so their opinion doesn’t count.”

“Fair enough. But I still don’t understand what you mean about thievery not being illegal.”

Wrayan shook his head in wonder. “What do they teach you up at that palace, boy? Check the statutes. The Harshini wrote most of our laws, remember, so the overriding premise is the principle of

‘do no harm.’ Our laws prohibit harming our fellow citizens, but the crimes themselves are not actually specified. Theft is honouring Dacendaran. Even murder is honouring Zegarnald if it’s managed in such a way that only your foreign enemies suffer for it.”

Starros considered that for a moment and then nodded in understanding. “So we can steal all the Medalonian cattle we want to honour Dacendaran, because it’s not harming anybody in Hythria, but if I was to steal your life savings, I’d be doing a Hythrun harm, therefore it’s against the law.”

Wrayan smiled. “Actually, if you were to steal my life savings, I’d probably have you kneecapped, old son, but you’ve got the idea.”

“And that’s what you do all day, I suppose? Find ways to honour Dacendaran by doing no harm?”

“It’s more like keeping the harm to a minimum,” Wrayan corrected. “And mostly it’s at night, but basically, yes, because of a foolish oath I made in my youth, I am really nothing more than the high priest of a cult dedicated to the God of Thieves.”

“What foolish oath?”

“It’s a long story,” Wrayan shrugged. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime. Just believe me when I say you should never make a pact with any god unless you’ve read the fine print.”

Starros smiled disbelievingly. “You mean you’ve actually spoken to the God of Thieves?”

“More times than I care to recall.”

“You don’t act like someone who’s had a religious encounter with a god.”

“Which just goes to show how little you know about the gods.”

Starros wasn’t sure if he should believe Wrayan or not. And he didn’t have time to find out if Wrayan was telling the truth, in any case. It was almost noon. Damin and Kalan would be here soon and Starros was expected to be at the palace to meet them when they arrived.

He rose to his feet as the sound of a horn blew out over the city, a call picked up by more horns further inside the walls. A moment or two after that, another working
court’esa
slammed through the doors of the tavern and hurried to the bar to speak with Fyora, who was daydreaming behind the counter as she idly dried a tray of tankards.

“Thanks for the drink, but I really need to be getting back.”

“You’re welcome. Tell the others I said hello. And that I’ll definitely be there for lunch tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“He’s here!” Fee suddenly squealed excitedly. “He’s back!”

They both looked over at the bar where Fyora was untying her apron, her chores abandoned.

She hurried over to the table with her friend in her wake. The other
court’esa
seemed as excited as Fee.

“He’s here!”

“
Who’s
here?” Wrayan asked.

“Damin Wolfblade,” Starros sighed, guessing that was what the horns were all about. Who else would engender such high emotions in the citizens of Krakandar? He glanced out of the dusty window and noticed that the crowd pushing through the side streets to Krakandar’s main thoroughfare had grown considerably, even in the short time he’d been talking to Wrayan.

Wrayan shook his head. “You know it can’t be good for the boy, all this adulation.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Starros assured him. “I don’t think Damin takes it too seriously.”

“Starros,” Fee ventured cautiously, slipping her arm through his with a coy little smile. “Are you going out to meet him?”

“Actually, I’m supposed to meet him at the palace.”

“But you could do it here in the Beggars’ Quarter, couldn’t you?” she suggested hopefully. “I mean, it’s on the
way
to the palace, after all . . .”

“Just ask him straight out, Fee,” Wrayan advised. “He doesn’t bite.”

Starros smiled at the
court’esa
. He hadn’t forgotten the favour they owed her. Fyora had kept their confidence all these years and never betrayed the fact that he, Damin and Kalan had made it all the way to the Pickpocket’s Retreat that day they slipped away from their guards in the marketplace. She still wore the cheap little copper and amethyst trinket Kalan had given her for passing their message on to Wrayan. It was probably her most prized possession. “You want to come with me and say hello to Damin?”

“Would that be too big a favour to ask, my lord?”

“Not if you promise to stop calling me that.”

She clapped her hands in glee. “Can my friend, Meris, come, too?”

Starros shrugged. “Why not?”

Fyora squealed with delight and wrapped Starros in a crushing bear hug before turning to her equally delighted friend and hugging her, too.

“You really shouldn’t encourage them,” Wrayan warned. “Or Damin, either, for that matter.”

“It won’t hurt him to say hello to a few of the ordinary folk.”

“It might if they start treating him like a god.”

Starros knew what Wrayan was getting at and resented the implication. He shook his head in denial. “Damin is nothing like his uncle, Wrayan.”

“I know that,” the thief replied. “But it’s not me Damin’s going to have to convince of that if he expects to be High Prince some day. It’s the other Warlords.”

Wrayan was right, even if Starros didn’t like to be reminded of it. But there was no chance of any further discussion on the matter. Fyora and her friend had their promise of an introduction to the Prince of Krakandar and Starros wasn’t going to be allowed to think of anything else until that happened. He raised his hand in farewell to Wrayan as the women dragged him towards the door. As they stepped through onto the street, he shrugged and gave in to the inevitable.

“Well, ladies,” he said, taking each of the
court’esa
by the arm and heading in the direction of the rest of the mob rushing out to catch a glimpse of their beloved prince. “Let’s go welcome the mighty Damin Wolfblade home.”

Despite the fact that Damin Wolfblade had grown up with the knowledge that he would some day be High Prince of Hythria—knowing that he was different because of a simple accident of birth—he could never quite understand the fascination his very existence seemed to hold for others.

That people were interested in the most minute and intimate details of his life seemed quite bizarre. That they frequently expected him to be nothing more than a younger, more malleable version of his uncle irritated the hell out of him.

It hadn’t always been like this. Surrounded by his siblings and his cousins as a child in Krakandar Palace, he’d been treated no differently than any other member of the family, kept firmly grounded by Almodavar’s contempt for anything even remotely smelling of arrogance. Damin didn’t really appreciate his position until he left Krakandar and arrived in Rogan Bear-bow’s stronghold at Natalandar to begin his fosterage. People seemed to assume one of two things about him outside the close circle of his family—that he was somehow endowed with some sort of divine aura because of his princely status and required special treatment, or that he was a spoiled, useless wastrel in the making.

Damin rather resented his uncle for that legacy. He’d spent enough time in Greenharbour to have no illusions about the type of man his uncle was, and knew the hardest job ahead of him, if he lived long enough to become High Prince—Damin had no illusions about the likelihood of assassination, either—would be to persuade the Warlords of Hythria that he was capable of more than organising an orgy in the roof garden on the west wing of the Greenharbour Palace.

“Gods, Damin, I thought you’d be happy to be home,” Kalan remarked, riding up beside him.

“You look like you’re on your way to your own funeral.”

She was wearing a riding habit rather than her formal sorcerer’s robes, for which he was grateful. Damin could never quite get his head around the notion that his little sister was a full member of the Sorcerers’ Collective now. It just didn’t seem possible that the bossy little tomboy he’d left behind when he went to Izcomdar was now so mature, so grown up . . . so wise.

He smiled then, and realised he’d been letting his thoughts reflect on his face. Elezaar was always telling him off for that.

“Sorry, Kal. Just daydreaming. What do you suppose the chances are of us sneaking into the city?”

Kalan glanced around at the two hundred soldiers Almodavar had had waiting for them at the Walsark crossroads this morning and smiled. Between Almodavar’s Guard of Honour, the thirty or so Greenharbour Palace Guards Damin had brought from the capital, the ten Collective guards that had travelled with Kalan and Rorin before they met up with Damin in Grosburn, their various servants, slaves, spare horses and luggage wagons, it was a considerable entourage gathered behind them.

She laughed. “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

Although still winter, it was unseasonably warm and Damin rode in only a linen shirt and trousers, having shed his jacket some miles back. He sighed and turned in the saddle to speak to Almodavar, who rode next to Rorin, just behind them. “Whose idea was this damn honour guard anyway, Almodavar? Yours or my uncle’s?”

“What do you think, lad?” Almodavar asked.

“My uncle’s idea then,” Damin concluded, turning back to face the road ahead. “I might have known.”

“I’d be more likely to give you forty laps of the training yard,” Almodavar called after him. “You look like you’ve been enjoying too much of the high life in Greenharbour.”

Damin turned in the saddle again and grinned at the captain. “Are you saying I’m not up to a good fight any more, Almodavar?”

“You’re more past it than I am, lad, and I’m twice your age,” the older man accused, riding up beside him.

Damin turned to face him now that they were riding side by side. “I could take you down by the time I was twelve, you old renegade,” he boasted.

“Aye, but I had you in the training yards every day back then. When was the last time you wielded a blade in anger?”

“Last night at dinner,” Kalan answered for her brother with a grin.

Damin gave his sister a wounded look, thinking that she, of all people, might come to his defence. He turned to Almodavar, determined to defend his honour. “I can see we’re going to have to settle this one way or the other, Captain. I’ll meet you in the training yards at dawn tomorrow, shall I?

Then we’ll see who’s past it.”

“Dawn, eh?” Almodavar remarked thoughtfully. “Sure you remember how to get up that early, your highness?”

“Do you think anyone will notice if I have Krakandar’s most senior captain put to death for disrespect?” Damin asked his sister curiously.

“Somebody might,” she chuckled. “Besides, it would be rather a pity to execute him today.

Almodavar looks very dashing in his full ceremonial armour.”

Damin turned to study the captain for a moment and then nodded in agreement. “Well, that settles it. Can’t execute someone who looks dashing in their full ceremonial armour now, can we?”

Almodavar shook his head and sighed heavily. “You’d think after all the effort they expended on you, Damin, you’d have learned how to behave like a prince by now.”

Damin’s good humour waned a little at the reminder. “Oh, never fear about that, old friend. I’m very good at behaving like a prince. Ask any of those fools in Greenharbour I have to deal with on a regular basis. The problem lies in the definition of princely virtues, I fear. Or, in the case of our esteemed High Prince, the complete lack of them.”

“Well, it’s good to have you home again, in any case,” Almodavar said with a genuine smile. “For a while, at least.”

“It’s nice to think that wretched plague is good for something,” Kalan agreed, and then she frowned. “Do you think Mother and the others will be safe?”

“I’m sure the princess would have left Greenharbour by now if she feared for herself, Kalan,”

Almodavar said. “Or the rest of your family.”

“She feared enough for Damin to send him away. And she won’t let me or Rorin return to the city.”

“They’re not letting anybody into the city, I hear. And Damin is a special case,” the captain reminded her. “Nobody in their right mind allows both the High Prince and his heir to remain in the same city when there’s plague about.”

Damin nodded his agreement. He understood the reasons behind the decision to send him to Krakandar. What surprised him more was how long Marla had been willing to wait before she sent him home.

With the high red walls of Krakandar looming taller as they neared them, Damin felt a sudden warm rush of affection for his home that shocked him with its intensity. Although he’d not lived here since he was thirteen, there was no other place that made Damin feel the same way. He’d been welcomed like a member of the family at Rogan’s stronghold at Natalandar. He had enormous respect for Lord Bearbow and thought of the Warlord’s daughter, Tejay, and his son, Rogan, with the same affection he did his own siblings. But it wasn’t the same, and now that he spent most of his time in Greenharbour, he felt even less at home. What he had really wanted to do when he finished his fosterage—and what he knew his mother and the High Prince would never permit—was to spend a few years with the Raiders in Krakandar, stealing cattle from the Medalonians over the border.
Now
that
would really have been fun
.

Krakandar sprawled across the surrounding slopes, radiating out from the central ring with the geometric precision of a planned city. Its population numbered more than twenty-five thousand, according to Mahkas’s latest census. Krakandar had a solid strength about it that had always made Damin feel secure. He was surprised at how much he had missed that feeling. As they neared the city, it was as if the muscles in his back, living in constant anticipation of a blade or an arrow, suddenly unclenched and, for the first time in six years, Damin felt as if he could afford to relax.

As they rode under the massive portcullis, Damin glanced up and waved to the Raiders standing high above the gate on the wall-walk. He was greeted with a whoop of delight and suddenly a horn blew, announcing his arrival to the guards on the inner walls. A few moments later, another horn picked up the call and then a third sounded from the innermost wall of the city, blowing in long, clear notes on the still air.