Flamecaster

  He and Clermont were seated at a table in a corner of a crowded tavern, but there was a cushion of space about them, an invisible boundary no one cared to cross. The tavern was called the Mug and Mutton, and it drew a mixed crowd: miners and soldiers intent on heavy drinking, furnacemen and ironworkers having a night out. Plus, a sprinkling of travelers who, against all reason, had actually chosen to come to Delphi.

  Destin’s father had been posted here a few years ago to put down yet another revolt. Destin had come along, unwilling then as now, to serve as the general’s squire and punching bag. It wasn’t long after he and his mother had been dragged back from their refuge in Carthis.

  “It’s time we got to know each other, boy,” his father had growled. “Your mother’s done her best to ruin you, but I’ll make a man of you yet.”

  His memories of Delphi were nightmarish. Aside from the absence of his father, it was even worse now than he remembered. Much of it had to do with the commander of the King’s Guard.

  Clermont never reined in his blackbirds, who roamed the city like predators, picking off the vulnerable. They used the search for the rune-marked girl as an excuse to drag women into back alleys in order to “examine” them.

  When Destin argued that this was counterproductive, Clermont just laughed. “It’s cold up here, Lieutenant. The men need to stay warm somehow.”

  It would do no good to report it to the king. King Gerard was unlikely to buy Destin’s theory—that the city seethed with rebellion because Clermont was too cruel as opposed to not cruel enough. Meanwhile, Ardenine assets blew up and burned on a regular basis. Miners had ready access to explosives and they seemed to know how to use them.

  Montaigne didn’t care about process—he valued results, and so far Destin had nothing to show. If he was ever to get out of Delphi, he had to work smarter. He knew he’d been going about his mission in a haphazard manner, but he couldn’t think of a way to put a method in it. He’d called in a whole series of Delphians: miners and shopkeepers, smelters and serving girls and government officials. He’d questioned them all.

  Destin was a gifted interrogator, a valuable resource at Montaigne’s disposal. That made torture unnecessary for the most part, unless he was dealing with other mages, who could resist his mind magic. People talked to Destin, and they told the truth. And then he wiped their minds, and they didn’t remember what he had asked, or what they had revealed. That singular talent had been the key to his rapid rise in the clandestine service.

  Yet, so far, his talent for interrogation had turned up nothing of value in Delphi save the odd black marketeer or other small-time schemer. If the rune-marked girl was known, it was only to a few. No one could recall a family named Bandelow, and no one seemed to know anything about a girl with a birthmark on her neck.

  It didn’t help that it was the custom in Delphi for women to wear their hair long, and most wore heavy black scarves to keep the coal dust out while they worked in the mines or walked the streets. That made any casual survey impossible. Why couldn’t this girl have a magemark on her nose?

  Sleet rattled against the tin roof of the building. Destin had just finished his fourth ale, and soon he would have to go out into the storm again.

  “It could be worse,” Clermont said, scratching his crotch. “You could be in the Fells, fighting monsters and demons. They say a man might as well fall on his sword as march into those cursed mountains.” He snorted. “The stripers are just as terrified as the recruits. ’Course stripers couldn’t find their manhood with both hands in their breeches and a map. Those black-robed crows of Malthus can prattle on about martyrdom and Paradise all they want. I’m not signing on.”

  Destin shrugged, the safest response. He couldn’t decide which was worse: listening to Clermont or going out to the freezing privy. Difficult choice.

  “The devil of it is, the Fells is ruled by a woman! They say she wears armor and plays soldier. The northerners spend their days picking wildflowers and dreaming and their nights fornicating under the stars. They’re just a bunch of pretenders and mystics.”

  “So why aren’t we in Fellsmarch by now?” Destin said bluntly, thinking dreaming and fornicating sounded a hell of a lot more appealing than where he was now. “We’ve got to stop believing our own propaganda and take the witch queen seriously.”

  “Cheer up,” Clermont said. “This girl you’re looking for probably died years ago. If she was ever here.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Destin hissed, looking around to make sure no one had overheard. The more Clermont drank, the louder he talked.

  Still, he had a point. Children died in droves in Delphi.

  “I don’t know why it’s such a secret,” Clermont said. “All you do is, you post up notices all over town, demanding her surrender. Then execute the vermin, one a day, until she turns up. Or we run out of vermin. Either way, we win.”

  Destin became aware that someone was standing silently before him. One of the servers had finally dared approach, but could not bring herself to interrupt.

  “Yes, what is it?” he snapped. And then, when he really looked at her, he realized she was young, with silken blond hair and frightened blue eyes. He’d never seen her before, so she must be new.

  “I wondered if you all would be wanting more ale,” she said nervously, in the soft cadence of the borderlands. “Or perhaps some supper, now or later on?” She set their empty tankards on the tray she carried.

  Destin smiled at her, trying to reassure her. “I’ve had enough ale,” he said. He turned toward Clermont in time to see him push to his feet, grasp a handful of the server’s hair, and force her to her knees. The tankards slid off the tray and onto the wooden floor as the tray went vertical.

  “Here’s an idea, Lieutenant,” Clermont said. Still holding on to her scalp, he drew his knife with his other hand. The girl saw the blade and let out a little cry of fright. She closed her eyes, her lips moving in a silent prayer.

  Destin half-rose from his chair. “Clermont! Have you lost your bloody mind?”

  Clermont wrapped the hair around his hand, the knife swept across, and then he opened his fist and allowed the golden hair to slide to the floor. Two more quick cuts, and she was left with a ragged helmet of hair, like some knight’s unkempt page. He shoved her head forward, almost to the floor, so he could examine her neck. Nothing there. “Guess she an’t the one,” he said, shrugging. “Oh well.” He sat down again, resheathing his blade.

  The server remained on her knees, tears streaking through the paint on her face, her shoulders shaking with sobs, not making a sound. The tavern had gone remarkably silent around them.

  Destin looked from the terrified girl to Clermont, and back again, speechless with mingled relief and disgust. It was just as well he was speechless, since Clermont technically outranked him. After a moment, he leaned forward and put two fingers under the server’s chin so that she opened her eyes. “You’re all right,” he muttered. “It’s just hair.” He jerked his head, giving her permission to go.

  The girl picked up the tray and the tankards. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, her lip quivering. She didn’t look grateful, though. And she moved away quickly. Her hair remained, like pale gold threads scattered on the battered plank floor.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that,” Clermont mused. “We’ll be lucky if we get another drink all night.”

  “You’re right,” Destin said. “You shouldn’t have done that. And I shouldn’t have to remind you that the marked girl is not to be harmed in any way.”

  Still, the episode of the hair had given him an idea. Not foolproof, but better than the strategy so far, which was none. And less dangerous than turning the blackbirds loose on the populace.

  “Clermont, could you set up a meeting with the mayor—tomorrow, if possible?”

  “Why?” Clermont’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want me to tell him?”

  “Let’s surprise him, shall we?”

  15

  A
DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

  Lila dressed carefully in her cellar room. It was small, but at least she had it to herself.

  Suitable attire was always a challenge at Ardenscourt. Because other women at court were either fine ladies or maidservants, Lila had no template to follow. She’d finally hit on a kind of uniform—an overdress in the same sober blue that court scribes wore. She laced it over a long-sleeved linen shirt and black underskirt. The result was a prim, schoolteacher look, like a dedicate in one of the more lenient churches. Having hit on that, she had several made.

  Her dark skin helped her blend into a servant class that was mostly made up of races from the conquered lands to the south. With any luck, her Ardenine colleagues would forget she was a woman at all.

  To the nobility, she was a trader and smuggler. They had come to rely on her as a person who could, despite the war, procure most anything desired by people in the south who were used to getting what they wanted: clan-made jewelry, remedies, perfumes, tack and leather goods, the scrying balls that allowed bored Ardenine ladies to look ahead and see their boring futures.

  She evaluated herself in the looking glass by the door, careful to tuck her serpent’s tooth talisman into the neckline of her shirt. Crafted of rowan, ebony, and ivory, it had been given to her by her clan friend and sometime partner, Shadow Dancer. It had proven itself once again when Destin cornered her and questioned her with persuasion soon after the meeting in the garden.

  Then he’d disappeared. Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to learn anything about his whereabouts. She hoped he still lived. She’d stuck out her neck to save him, after all. Though, truth be told, she had enjoyed his flustered reaction to her story about the princeling’s fit of crazy.

  Hearing the temple bell mark the quarter hour, Lila knew it was time to go. Slinging her carry bag over her shoulder, she bolted out the door.

  She’d been called to a meeting with the king and Marin Karn, the general of the southern armies and the architect of the war against the Fells. She’d not met the general before, since Lila usually came to Ardenscourt during the marching season, when General Karn was in the field. She tried to tell herself that this was what she’d wanted all along—to be allowed the kind of access that would enable her to play the big game. But she missed having the insulation of Destin Karn between her and the king.

  She moved through the corridors at a trot, afraid she’d taken too much time primping, worried she’d be late. She climbed the stairs from the cellar and passed swiftly through the labyrinth of echoing, marble-faced hallways, intentionally confusing to the untutored, until she reached the unmarked entrance to the king’s apartments.

  The blackbirds at the door were familiar. Fleury and DeJardin. Though Lila was taller than many, Fleury could have made three of her. He wore a wicked-looking sword strapped to his waist and the black of the King’s Guard. DeJardin was a collared mage, pinch-faced and wary. A slave. Lila tucked her carry bag more securely under her arm.

  “What’s in the bag, girl?” Fleury demanded. He knew her name, but never used it.

  Lila thrust her carry bag toward him, knowing there was no getting out of it. “Have a look,” she said, avoiding DeJardin’s eyes.

  Fleury poked through the bag, smirked at DeJardin, and handed it back. “Search her,” he said to DeJardin.

  The wizard patted her down thoroughly. He found nothing, of course. Lila had brought no weapons, knowing they’d only be taken away from her.

  Gripping Lila’s wrists, he sent a tendril of power in. “Tell the truth,” he said softly. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to meet with the king,” Lila said. “We have business.”

  “Do you intend harm to His Majesty or any close to him?”

  “No,” Lila said, “I do not.” Not today, anyway.

  “Are you carrying any weapons or poisons that I did not discover?”

  “No,” Lila said, her fingers going numb from the pressure of the mage’s hands. The talisman at her neck sizzled against her skin. Protection against magic.

  DeJardin turned to Fleury. “Is there anything else?” he asked.

  Fleury shook his head, and DeJardin released her. Fleury gestured to Greenberry, the chamberlain, who disappeared inside. A moment later, he returned, saying, “The king will see you now.” He shoved open the door, and Lila proceeded into the king’s apartments.

  A map of the kingdom and surrounding territories covered one wall. Large, arched windows at either end of the room were designed to catch any breeze during the stifling heat of the southern summer. It had been a warm day for the time of year, and the shutters stood open, admitting the failing light.

  The room was furnished sparingly. A small conference table was set up next to the fireplace, with three men ranged around it, bottles and glasses in front of them, though it was just mid-morning. There were no servants in evidence, only the usual flock of blackbirds by the door. It was to be a very small meeting, then.

  One of the men at the table was Michel Botetort, a thane Lila had worked with in the past. A thane whose unflinching loyalty to the king had won him lands and titles at the expense of less pliant nobles. The other, a stocky, middle-aged man, must be Marin Karn—the Butcher, as he was affectionately known. The third man was Gerard Montaigne, King of Arden.

  Lila crossed to within twenty feet, then assumed the position. The king waved her to her feet. “Please,” he said. “Let’s keep it informal. Be at ease.”

  As if that were possible in the presence of this king.

  This morning the king wore an elegant pearl-gray doublet over a shirt and charcoal trousers. His hands were manicured, the nails buffed to a soft shine. The heavy gold chain around his neck bore his device of office.

  It would be a mistake to think of the king as an easy mark. An ornate blade leaned against the wall behind him, and even at a distance, Lila could tell that it had seen heavy use. She’d heard from reliable sources that the king was a deadly swordsman and he rarely went unarmed. Which, considering his history, was no doubt a good idea.

  Next to the elegant king, Marin Karn was a stocky plug of a man with snuff-colored eyes. His uniform was a poor fit, straining across his back and shoulders. Perhaps he was getting fleshy in his middle age, but Lila guessed it was mostly muscle. He’d still be deadly in a fight, especially since he wore the glow that said he was gifted.

  She couldn’t help comparing him with Destin. The only resemblance Lila could see between father and son was that they shared the same tawny brown hair color. At least she guessed they did: the general’s was clipped so short that it might have been a stain on the top of his head.

  Destin had the lithe strength of an acrobat or dancer. He reminded Lila of the clan runners who could cover miles without stopping. Put him in students’ robes, and he would look bookish. Dress him in finery, and he would break hearts at court. In peasant garb, he would blend into any crowd.

  You have no idea who he is, Lila thought. He’s a role-player, just like you. Never forget that. With some effort, Lila forced herself to focus on the Karn in front of her, Marin.

  That Karn had been taking his own long look at Lila, and it seemed he was not impressed. “This is your smuggler, Botetort?” Lila noticed that he directed his skepticism to the thane rather than to his king.

  “I’ve been working with Lila for three years,” Botetort said, “and she’s never disappointed me.”

  “Really?” Karn said, snorting. “Women disappoint me all the time.”

  “Perhaps the fault isn’t in the women, but in you, General,” Lila thought. But somehow it came out of her mouth.

  They all froze, staring at her. Several of the blackbirds put their hands on the hilts of their swords, their eyes sliding to Karn to see what he would do.

  Karn moved fast, for a large man. Erupting from his chair, he gripped the front of Lila’s blues and yanked her close, so they were nose to nose. “What did you say?”

  Well, that’s a good start,
Lila thought. The only thing more frightening than Marin Karn at a distance was Karn up close.

  Don’t show fear don’t show fear don’t show fear. She looked into Karn’s tobacco eyes and said, “Forgive me, General, if I’ve offended. I only meant that it would be a rare woman who could hope to be a suitable match for you.” She snapped her mouth shut, unsure whether she’d made things better or worse. Stop spilling scummer, Lila, or you’re the one will be knee-deep in it.

  After what seemed like a lifetime of silence, the king of Arden began to laugh. Once started, he laughed so hard that tears leaked from his eyes. Just like that, the cord of tension snapped.

  “You have to admit, Karn, she has a point,” he said, swiping his eyes with his sleeves.

  But Karn wasn’t admitting anything. “The bitch has a mouth on her that’s going to cost her if she isn’t careful.” He’d gotten the message, though. Releasing his grip on Lila, he stalked back to the table and dropped into his chair.

  “Botetort.” Montaigne nodded toward the door. “Leave us. We’ll talk later.”

  Botetort wanted to stay, Lila could tell. But he seemed to know better than to object. He bowed out of the room.

  They must have decided that Lila posed no threat, because Karn sent the blackbirds out, too.

  There was an empty chair now, but nobody invited Lila to sit. She was tempted to sit down, anyway, but wasn’t sure how far she could push these two. So she stood behind it, resting her hands on the back. Anyway, she thought better on her feet.

  With no further ceremony, the king nodded to Karn to proceed.

  “Where are you from, girl?” Karn studied her through heavy-lidded eyes.

  “I grew up in the Southern Islands, General.”

  “And yet, I believe you’re of mixed blood.”

  “Aye. My father was a soldier. He wasn’t around much.”

  “Ah,” Karn said, nodding as if he understood, which he didn’t. “A sell-sword, then. Who did he fight for?”