The Smoke Thieves Series, Book 1

“The law might not’ve changed, but some people still go hunting the demons,” Holywell said. “They can’t be that fearsome if your little girlfriend from Dornan hunts them.”

  “I’d rather not find out,” Edyon said. “Unlike you, Holywell, I’ve no desire to see one.”

  “You’re not even curious, Your Highness? It’d be a fine tale to tell your grandchildren.”

  “I’ve no desire for fine tales or grandchildren. At the moment I’d be happy with a warm fire. And if we do see a demon, I suggest we run.”

  “I’m sure you’re not such a coward as you suggest, Your Highness.”

  “Running seems sensible rather than cowardly.”

  “You said they were fast. Shouldn’t you stand your ground and fight?” Holywell asked. “That’s the point of the harpoons, isn’t it? And throwing a harpoon is difficult when you’re running away.”

  Edyon bristled at the barely concealed scorn in the older man’s voice. “I suppose you’re right, Holywell. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “We should stand together, Your Highness. If you run, you’ll be the demon’s dinner, I think. And I wouldn’t want that.”

  Edyon wasn’t convinced that Holywell was being entirely truthful.

  “You think you can throw the harpoon on target, Your Highness?” Holywell asked.

  Edyon was almost too tired to reply. “I’m sure I’m as good with a harpoon as I am with a sword, which is to say, not good at all.”

  “We should practice then. And always walk with one. You too, March.”

  With a grunt, Holywell threw his harpoon. It struck a tree, which Edyon supposed he was aiming for, and stuck there, quivering.

  March passed a harpoon to Edyon. He squirmed slightly. Fighting—any kind of physical exercise, really—had never been his strong suit. He didn’t want to look like a weakling in front of March, but both men were staring at him now, waiting.

  Gritting his teeth, Edyon pulled back his arm and threw, trying his best to look strong, but the harpoon skittered a short way along the ground, and Edyon wished that a demon would hurry up and carry him off so he could stop feeling like a fool.

  March turned away, and Edyon cursed inwardly.

  “Well, Your Highness,” said Holywell smoothly. “Shall we try that again?’

  MARCH

  NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA

  EDYON FLUNG his harpoon again. It flew a short distance and landed butt first in the snow. The prince was not improving.

  Edyon blushed and ran forward to pick it up. Holywell shook his head, aimed his own harpoon toward Edyon’s back, and made as if to throw, before adjusting the direction at the last moment and hurling it hard past him. Edyon let out a stifled cry as the weapon slammed into a tree to his left.

  March balanced his own harpoon in his hand. Back in Calidor, he had seen men throwing spears at jousts, and Holywell had a similar technique. He waited until Holywell had retrieved his harpoon before raising his own, positioning his legs, pointing with his left hand at where he was aiming, and throwing. It sailed through the air, not as far as Holywell’s but at least in the direction he’d been aiming, which was more than could be said for Edyon’s.

  “Not bad, March,” Holywell said. “All that waiting on tables and carrying platters of grapes has strengthened your arm.”

  March kept his face impassive, just as he had done back at court whenever a highborn lord or lady insulted him. He didn’t understand why Holywell wanted to provoke him, but he was determined not to rise to the bait.

  He turned to Edyon instead. Edyon threw again and nearly speared the pony, which reared up with a frightened squeal before trotting out of the way.

  “For fuck’s sake!” Holywell muttered.

  “Sorry,” Edyon said. He was bright red with shame. “Sorry. Can’t get the hang of it.”

  “Show him, March. Before he kills one of us,” Holywell said. “Or himself.”

  March crossed over to Edyon.

  “First get the harpoon balanced in your hand.”

  Edyon nodded, but the weapon was still waving like a reed in the wind. March moved behind Edyon and put his arms round him, demonstrating. “Like this. So it’s still.”

  The wave became more of a weave.

  “Better. Now, when you throw, you need to use your whole body, not just your arm. Your back and stomach muscles too. Tense your stomach. Use your other arm to aim.”

  Edyon threw again and the harpoon went farther than before but still landed harmlessly, tail first. He retrieved it and took up his position to throw again.

  “Stand with your leg farther forward. Use your body more. Take your time.” March moved closer, pressing his leg against Edyon’s to move it forward.

  Edyon froze, and March was suddenly aware of their closeness. He could feel Edyon’s back pressing against his chest. He wanted to move and stay at the same time. March swallowed. “Try again.”

  Edyon’s next throw was better.

  “Good!” March stepped away.

  “Thanks,” said Edyon. “You’re a good teacher. Do they use spears in your country?”

  “In Calidor the foot soldiers use spears. Prince Thelonius is an excellent swordsman.”

  “And in Abask?”

  March turned his head away. “Abask doesn’t exist now.”

  Edyon looked at him. “But in the past?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I think you do know, but you don’t like talking about it.”

  “What’s the point? It’s gone now.”

  “What about your family? Do they serve the prince too?”

  “They’re all dead, Your Highness.” That shut him up. “Shall we try aiming at that tree this time? Pretend it’s a demon.”

  “We can aim, March, but whether I shall hit it is another matter . . .”

  By the end of the day most of Edyon’s harpoons were at least landing point first, though he never did hit the tree he was aiming at.

  “Well,” said Holywell, drawing out the word appraisingly. “March and I might be able to hit a demon, if it came to it.”

  “Let’s hope they only attack in pairs.”

  “Very funny, Your Highness.” Holywell sounded unamused. “Did your books tell you if they travel in groups?”

  Edyon frowned. “Oh, hadn’t I told you that, Holywell? They always come in hordes.”

  Edyon met Holywell’s gaze and, for once, didn’t look away.

  March realized he was smiling.

  * * *

  They made camp as they had done each day so far. First getting a fire going and then eating, sleeping, and taking turns to watch for demons or bears or sheriff’s men. Whoever was on guard kept the fire going. Every morning, as it got light, they boiled water for porridge and Edyon cooked the eggs, which March thought he was good at, but Holywell scoffed his share down without comment. Then they packed the things on the pony and started out. The plateau was huge and featureless; the map was no use—all they could do was keep heading west. Holywell thought it would take a week to get to Rossarb if they kept at a decent pace. And Holywell’s idea of decent was tough. They stopped only at midday, for water and a snack of nuts and fruit. They collected dry wood as they walked, so that by evening there was enough for a fire.

  Now March lay as close to the fire as he could, but despite his exhaustion it was hard to sleep for the biting cold. Holywell had taken the first watch, and he came over and shook him.

  “Your turn.” He spoke in Abask.

  March sat up. He might be on guard, but he wasn’t going to move away from the fire. Holywell sat down close to him. “How are you getting on with our charge?”

  Edyon lay on the far side of the fire, asleep. His jacket bulged where he held the smoke bottle against his chest.

  “Fine. He’ll be useless in a fight, but you kn
ow that.”

  “I also know that he likes you.”

  March felt an uncomfortable prickling in his scalp but forced a casual shrug. “Must be my winning personality.”

  “You know what I mean. He likes men. Likes men a lot. It’s not right.”

  “He’s the son of a prince. Princes do a lot of things that aren’t right, in my experience.”

  Holywell spat. “He’s no prince. He’s a soft, spoiled bastard, and soon he’ll be a soft, spoiled prisoner. Don’t get too pally with him.”

  March didn’t need Holywell to tell him what to do. “I’m a servant. Why would I be pally with him?”

  “Servant be damned,” hissed Holywell fiercely. “You’re an Abask. Remember why we’re here and why he’s here. We don’t owe him anything. We haven’t made an oath to protect him, like Thelonius did to the Abask people. We are exacting our payment for his father’s treachery.”

  “Yes. I know. Edyon is the son of our enemy. I’ll never be his friend.”

  “Or anything else.”

  “Or anything else.”

  Holywell patted March on the shoulder. “Good, I’ll sleep now. Make sure His Royal Highness takes his share of the watch.”

  March got up and stamped his feet as he paced around the fire. He remembered the fires he used to make with his brother, and the time they had streaked their faces with soot and hunted each other through the mountains outside their village, and how they had fallen asleep together that night in their father’s arms, in the fire glow of their simple home.

  He looked at Edyon, his features golden in the light of the fire. Another face, another fire, another world.

  All March’s family were dead because of this man’s father. No, he would never be Edyon’s friend.

  AMBROSE

  TORNIA, PITORIA

  IN THE darkness of his cell, Ambrose was thinking about his sister. Anne would have been held in a similar cell before they executed her. She would have been cold and alone, as he was. Perhaps she had rats for companions too. And perhaps her fate would now be his. Would Prince Tzsayn see him as a man of honor who had brought news that might save his kingdom—or a rival to be gotten rid of? Had Princess Catherine even managed to share the news he’d risked so much to bring her? Would she be able to get away before the invasion?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the rattle of the cell door. A soldier came in—one of Tzsayn’s men with the blue hair—and bowed.

  “Would you kindly follow me, Sir Ambrose?”

  Ambrose blinked, in surprise as much as at the sudden brightness of the soldier’s lantern. This wasn’t the sort of invitation he’d been expecting. But he certainly wasn’t going to let it pass.

  “With pleasure.”

  They climbed the winding stair from the cold, stone dungeons to a warmer place: a room that was finely furnished with a bed, table, and chair. There were windows, but they were barred and, after the soldier left, the door locked from the outside.

  Still, Ambrose was pleased he didn’t have to share this room with his friends, the rats, and as he lay down on the bed he allowed the faint spark of hope within his heart to spread. This was a good sign, surely? Was it Catherine’s doing, somehow? Whoever was behind it, you didn’t move a prisoner from the dungeon to whatever this place was if you were just planning on cutting their head off.

  And yet . . . the situation remained perilous. Aloysius’s invasion would be starting within a few hours. And who knew what would happen to anyone when the war began! His thoughts were again interrupted by the blue-haired soldier, who opened the door to let in a visitor.

  “Prince Tzsayn.” Ambrose stood and bowed.

  Tzsayn sat on the chair and motioned the guard to leave. There was a long pause.

  “Sir Ambrose, I must thank you for the information you have brought us.” In his scarred hand Tzsayn held the orders that Ambrose had stolen from Lord Thornlee. “You have risked much.”

  “And yet I appear to be your prisoner. Though this is a much more pleasant cell than the one I was in earlier.”

  Tzsayn smiled. “I’m sure you understand that I needed to appear firm in front of Prince Boris. And afterward I needed to speak to Princess Catherine and find out more about you. Now I think I have your measure. So I should ask you what you wish to do. If I were to open that door, where would you go?”

  Ambrose hesitated. He wanted to go to Catherine, of course, but he could hardly say that to the man to whom she was betrothed. So he said, “I’m not sure.”

  “Well,” said Tzsayn, “you have some time to consider. I’m not going to open the door just yet.”

  “So I’m still your prisoner.”

  “You’re my guest,” Tzsayn demurred, “and in my home. You’ll have the best food and wine. There will, however, be rather limited freedom, at least while Boris is also in my home.”

  “And may I ask what you are going to do with the information I gave to the princess?”

  “I’m riding north tonight with a few hundred men. More will follow.”

  “Aloysius has thousands.”

  “Yes, but thanks to you, we know he’s coming. Messenger birds have been sent to all the northern forts, warning them of the attack. If they can’t check Aloysius at the border, they’ll fall back to Rossarb. The castle there can be held by a hundred men against a thousand. The important thing is for me to get there quickly. I can’t do that with a large army.”

  “And what about Boris? Have you found out more about his involvement?”

  Tzsayn shook his head. “I could confront him, but he’d deny everything. And it would alert him to the fact that we know their plan. He may have means of getting word to his father, and that would destroy any small advantage we may have. I assume his plan is to slip out of Tornia unnoticed during the wedding celebrations to join his forces in the north.”

  “And what is your plan for him?”

  “We have a watch on him and his men at all times. For the moment, that is all we can do. Until Brigantine troops cross the border, we are not at war, and he is still my guest and future brother-in-law.” Tzsayn stood to leave. “Which reminds me—you haven’t asked about the wedding.”

  Ambrose couldn’t help but smile. “You’re riding north to do battle with Princess Catherine’s father. I assume the wedding is off.”

  “Not at all. Delayed, that’s all. When this war is over—if war it is to be—we will be married. Catherine has proved her loyalty to me and to Pitoria. Once I have dealt with her father, I will return, and then the wedding can take place.”

  “So the only thing standing between you and Princess Catherine is a war with her father.” Ambrose smiled again. “Good luck with that.”

  CATHERINE

  TORNIA, PITORIA

  The marriage of Princess Catherine to Prince Tzsayn is to benefit both Brigant and Pitoria.

  Betrothal agreement between King Aloysius of Brigant and King Arell of Pitoria

  CATHERINE HAD been pacing her rooms since she had told Tzsayn about the invasion. He had gone to talk to King Arell and Ambrose, and now he returned, looking pale and tired.

  “What news?”

  “I’ve spoken with my father. He thinks delaying the wedding is appropriate. It can’t go ahead tomorrow.”

  Catherine was less surprised by the news than by the flicker of disappointment it caused. Marriage had been her goal for so long. Now, in an instant, it was gone. She said, “I understand.”

  “Obviously it’s impossible for us to marry until we know beyond doubt the truth about this invasion. Besides, there’s a practical consideration—I won’t be here to be married. I’m going to ride north with my troops tonight. We’ll hide the fact that I have left—an announcement will be made that I am ill. My health is known to be precarious, so most people will believe it. I miss numerous engagements, though missing my own wedding
is extreme, even for me.” Tzsayn gave a rueful laugh.

  “Catherine, what you have done today may have saved thousands of lives. It may have saved my kingdom. My father and I are grateful beyond words. You have proved beyond any doubt that you would make a great queen of Pitoria. But you have also earned the right to make your own decision about that. Once I have dealt with your father, I will return and offer you a choice. If you wish to marry me, I will gladly honor our betrothal. If not, I will release you to do as you will. If there is another man with a greater claim on your heart, I will not stand between you.”

  Catherine’s mind whirled, and for an instant she thought she might faint. She felt free, freer than she had ever known, and yet at the same time strangely bereft. Tzsayn’s offer was extraordinary. To allow her to make her own choice—of husband, of country, of future—was beyond all her expectations. And yet, even as her heart sang out Ambrose, her head was full of Tzsayn and the pure and simple kindness of his words. She hadn’t ever considered wanting to marry him, but now, for the first time, she could see what sort of husband he might be—considerate, respectful, and wise—and how they might rule Pitoria together.

  Faced suddenly with the prospect of a life that was entirely her own to decide, words failed Catherine. She could only nod and say, “I understand. Thank you.”

  Tzsayn nodded too, a small furrow lining the uninjured half of his brow, as if he had been hoping for more. If so, he recovered quickly.

  “Before I go, I wanted to ask if you can tell me anything further about what your father is planning. Why would he invade? Why in the north? Any information you have could be crucial.”

  Catherine shook her head. “I have no other information, Your Highness. I wish I had. None of it makes sense to me. For so many reasons it makes no sense. My mother has always said my father’s only real ambition is to retake Calidor. That everything he does—everything—should be seen in that light. But I cannot see how this invasion might help that aim. If he wants Calidor, why waste men, money, and time on a war with Pitoria? Could he just want plunder? Brigant is . . . not as wealthy as it once was. Is there anything in northern Pitoria that is of value?”