Warrior (58 page)

Ruxton had been a good man—intelligent, reliable, trustworthy and enjoyable company. As marriages went, he was probably the best husband a woman in Marla’s position could hope for. He never interfered in her affairs and expected her never to interfere in his. They had raised their children together in remarkable harmony and lived to see all of them grow into young men and women they could be proud of. It wasn’t a bad tally, when all was said and done.

As usual, grief drove Marla into a bout of ruthless practicality. A public funeral was out of the question in these trying times, so they had to settle for a small family gathering in her townhouse, which Marla organised with her usual efficiency, and which even Lernen agreed to attend, in honour of his common-born brother-in-law. With Travin and Damin safe in Krakandar Province, Kalan missing in northern Pentamor somewhere with Rorin, Luciena and Xanda in Fardohnya, Ruxton’s daughter, Rielle, up north at Dylan Pass with her husband and children, and Adham wandering about Medalon somewhere, it was left to just Rodja and Marla to bid farewell to Ruxton.

Rodja was twenty-eight now, and had been married to a young woman named Selena Sorenn for the past four years. Selena was the daughter of Ruxton’s main rival in the spice trade—a thin, bitter, disagreeable old man, who, after years of fighting Ruxton at every turn, had finally succumbed to the inevitable and allowed his only daughter to marry the son of his worst enemy. By contrast, Selena was like a ray of sunshine everywhere she went, her cheerful demeanour barely even dented by the devastation of the plague.

It never ceased to amaze Marla that old man Sorenn had fathered such a child, although the young woman’s eternal optimism could be wearing at times. They had two children, both girls, on whom Rodja doted, and Selena was pregnant already with a third. Despite the fact Selena had effectively been traded by her father for spice route concessions from Ruxton, she and Rodja seemed happy enough together. With both their fathers now taken by the plague, however, they would inherit an effective monopoly on the spice trade, which Marla scolded herself for even thinking about at a time like this.

Ruxton deserved to be mourned as a good man and a loving father, not tallied and calculated for
his final monetary worth
. Then she smiled thinly and thought Ruxton would probably have appreciated the irony and that a monopoly on the spice trade was just the way he’d like to be remembered.

Adham Tirstone, like his brother Rodja, had followed his father into the family business, but it was proving much harder to make marital arrangements for the younger Tirstone boy. Rodja was the more business-minded of the brothers; the one with a head for figures and his father’s ability to negotiate his way into or out of anything he pleased. Adham, on the other hand, was far more reckless and not the least bit interested in settling down. Ruxton had jokingly blamed Almodavar for Adham’s restlessness, claiming that in the process of training the boys to defend themselves, the Krakandar Raider had filled his younger son’s head with wild notions of battle and glory in honour of Zegarnald, the God of War. Marla didn’t think Ruxton was that far off the mark, considering her own sons suffered the same inexplicable male need to constantly prove themselves by putting their lives in danger. Adham spent much of his time working with the caravans, arranging their protection from bandits both in Hythria and across the border into Fardohnya, and had, on more than one occasion, arrived back in Greenharbour proudly bearing the scars of a serious confrontation with them.

Marla fretted about Adham sometimes, trying to tell herself he was just young and would settle down when he got older, but he was twenty-six and showed no sign of it yet. He was a bad influence on Damin, too, she tried to convince herself, knowing full well it was, and always had been, Damin who instigated most of the trouble the boys had got into when they were children. When Adham was in town, the stepbrothers were constant companions and they seemed able to find more mischief in one week together than either of them could manage in a year alone.

Marla sighed as she thought about them, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she unpinned her white mourning veil. It seemed to be the only colour she wore these days. The funeral was done, Ruxton laid to rest in a temporary grave Marla had arranged to have dug in the small garden, until it was safe to relocate his remains to a more permanent home once the plague had run its course. There were still thousands of bodies out there in the city, she knew, not nearly as fortunate as Ruxton, and if they didn’t do something about them soon the city would never be free of this miserable disease.

But that was a problem for later. She was tired and still had to host a dinner for the family this evening and she certainly didn’t feel like eating. But she owed it to Rodja and Selena. And to Ruxton’s memory.

She was still sitting at her dressing table when Elezaar tapped her on the shoulder some time later, making her jump with fright.

“I’m sorry, your highness,” the dwarf said. “But I did knock.”

“I was just daydreaming,” she shrugged, wondering how long she had been sitting there, staring into space. It was almost dark outside, she noted, the last traces of sunset fading into the velvet darkness of night.

“You look tired,” Elezaar told her with concern, bringing the flickering silver candlestick he was holding closer to the dressing table. “You should rest.”

“We’re all tired, Elezaar. It never seems to end.”

“I saw you speaking to Corian Burl after the funeral. Were you able to solve your other little problem?”

She nodded. Marla’s “other little problem” was much more potentially dangerous than the mere death of her fourth husband. She’d managed, with great difficulty and over a period of years, to finally convince the Denikans to send an envoy to meet with Hythria’s High Prince in order to secure a treaty with the vast southern nation. The majority of Hythria’s population considered the distant southerners across the Dregian Ocean as nothing but ignorant barbarians, aided by the ridiculous stories spread about by visitors to their country—her third husband included. But if Jarvan Mariner had taught Marla anything in the two short years they’d been married, it was not to underestimate the Denikans. Marla was determined to see such a treaty in place before Damin took the throne.

Unfortunately, the arrival of the Denikan envoy (their crown prince, no less) had coincided with the outbreak of the plague and the unfortunate belief it was the Denikans who had brought the disease to Hythria. Unable to get the young man on a ship out of the plague-cursed port, Marla had sent him to Sunrise Province masquerading as a
court’esa
, in the guise of a gift to Tejay Lionsclaw, Rogan Bearbow’s daughter and Chaine Lionsclaw’s daughter-in-law. Fully aware of who the young man really was, Chaine had promised to arrange to get the Denikan prince over the border and onto a ship for home out of Fardohnya. The relief Marla felt, now that Prince Lunar Shadow Kraig of the House of the Rising Moon was out of the city and out of danger of being stoned for the crime of being Denikan, she was able to breathe much easier. She glanced at the dwarf, and noticed he was holding a small scroll in his other hand. The type favoured by Ruxton’s spies.

“What do you have there?”

“It’s from Damin in Krakandar.”

Marla snatched the scroll from him and broke the seal anxiously, all thoughts of Denika and her prince forgotten. She had made Damin promise to write to her every day. Naturally, he’d done nothing of the kind. This was the first communication she’d had from him since he’d left the city. She held it closer to the light Elezaar was holding, squinting a little in the gloom.

Elezaar used his own candle to light the lamp on the dresser for her, so she turned towards it and examined the letter in the brighter light. It was dated a little over ten days ago, which meant it must have been delivered by a speeded courier—a rider with the ability to change horses at almost every stop, who would then pass on the scroll to another courier as soon as he crossed the border into the next province. Using speeded couriers, it was possible to get a letter from Greenharbour in the south to Krakandar, eight hundred miles to the north, in a little over six days. But they were expensive and Marla was surprised they were still running, with the plague spreading the way it was.

Mother
, the letter began, written in Damin’s own hand.
I trust this finds you and the rest of the
family well—an optimistic hope, under the circumstances, but one I wish for nonetheless
.

“We arrived in Krakandar without mishap,”
Marla read aloud, realising that Elezaar was also bursting from curiosity to know what was in the letter.
“I stumbled across Kalan and Rorin on my way
through Nalinbar and brought them back with me, so you’ll be relieved to know we are safe and sound
and being coddled to death by Mahkas and Bylinda as if we were all still ten years old. The plague has
not reached here yet, although it’s spread as far as Pentamor and Izcomdar. Rogan Bearbow has fallen
victim to it, and Tejay Lionsclaw and her children have taken refuge here with us until it’s safe for her to
return home.”

The relief Marla felt was indescribable. All her efforts to locate Kalan since the plague took hold had proved fruitless. “Thank the gods, Kalan and Rorin are safe.”

“And that they had the wit to head for Krakandar and not attempt to return here,” Elezaar added, almost as relieved as his mistress. “It’s not good news about the Warlord of Izcomdar, though.”

“I assume you’ve heard by now,”
Marla continued reading,
“that Chaine is dead (another victim
of the Widowmaker) and that Terin Lionsclaw is now Warlord of Sunrise? I wish I could say the idea
makes me happy, but I fear something is amiss in the west and if not for this damn plague, I would return
to Sunrise with Tejay to find out what it is. I have no proof of this, mind you, it’s a gut feeling with no
basis in fact, and Tejay insists all is well, but how much of that is truth and how much is simple loyalty to
her husband, I cannot guess
.

“It is moot at present, in any case. I’m not in a position to go anywhere. We have sealed the city
against refugees bringing the plague in from the southern provinces and have set about purging the city
of any likely carriers of the disease.”

“Damin sounds as if he’s learned a thing or two from me, after all, your highness,” Elezaar remarked, with a hint of paternal pride. Marla thought the dwarf’s attitude quite amusing, given he had been appalled by the notion of becoming Damin’s tutor at one time, and now he was obviously patting himself on the back for it. “Do you think he’s right to be concerned about Sunrise?”

Marla shrugged, wondering much the same. “I don’t know, Elezaar. Unfortunately, even if he is, I’m in no better position to investigate the matter at present than he is. I hope Chaine was able to get the Denikans across the border before he died, though.” She returned her attention to the letter and read on.

“On a slightly more hopeful note, Rorin says to have someone check the library. According to
him, the Harshini believed the disease to be transmitted by fleas, and that clearing the city of all possible
breeding grounds before they start to breed again in the warmer weather is the only way to control it.

He’s certain there are records of prior outbreaks still in the archives somewhere, which may be of some
help to you. Perhaps Bruno Sanval will know where to look. Doesn’t he know the contents of the
Sorcerers’ Collective library down to the last dead cockroach? Anyway, with Wrayan’s help, we’ve
enlisted the cooperation of every person here in the city, noble and commoner alike, even in the Beggars’

Quarter. There’s not a rat safe from capture and death in Krakandar. I wish I could claim this sterling
effort is being driven by loyalty to their city, but I suspect fear of a painful death and the rat bounty,
rather than civic pride, is their motivation. Still, as Elezaar would say, ask help only from those in whose
best interest it lies to aid you. I think that’s Rule Number Twenty-five, isn’t it? Or is it Twenty-four,
perhaps? Don’t tell him I can’t remember. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Marla glanced at the dwarf and smiled. “Perhaps your teaching wasn’t as thorough as you think, Elezaar. He’s quoting Rule Number Twenty-three, as I recall.”

“He’s applying the rules, madam. I think, given your son’s somewhat mercurial nature, in the long run that may prove more useful than him remembering the order in which they’re written.”

“Do you think Rorin is right about the rats?”

“He’d know, my lady, if anybody would.”

“I’ll speak to Bruno then,” she said. “If we could get this damned thing under control before the really hot weather hits us . . .”

“It’s probably worth looking into.”

She nodded, deciding to pursue the matter tomorrow, and then returned to the letter, frowning as she read the next paragraph.

“Lastly, Mother,”
the letter continued,
“I have a favour to ask—no
, demand—
of you. Will you
please
write to Mahkas and make it clear, in no uncertain terms, that you will never permit me to marry
Leila? I know you’ve had your reasons for not putting an end to his speculation in the past, but the
situation here is beyond awkward. It is untenable. Mahkas is throwing her at me like a cheap
court’esa
and it’s tearing Leila to pieces, because, unlike her father, she can see his
hopeless ambition for what it
is. She doesn’t love me and doesn’t want me, nor I her, but I am fond enough of my cousin to wish her
every chance at happiness. I know you care about Leila, too, so if you won’t do it for me, do it for her,
otherwise I will be forced to tell Mahkas myself, and we both know I won’t do it nearly as tactfully as you
will
.