“I’m sorry to hear that. I am just passing through; I didn’t mean to disturb your review of maneuvers,” Achmed said uneasily.
The young duke’s smile faded. “It’s a pleasant diversion; the news seems to get worse each day. Much as battle is a terrifying experience, I think I am beginning to prefer it to the direction and coordination responsibilities that I have inherited from Ashe. It’s a mammoth undertaking; I don’t know how he kept all these details, all these fronts straight.”
Achmed’s dark face took on a small smile again.
“Dragon,” he said. “A word which in the Bolgish tongue translates directly as ‘pain in the arse.’ A synonym for ‘Cymrian.’”
“Ah, I see. So, can you stay the night at least?”
The Bolg king considered, then assented.
“Wonderful!” Gwydion said, his enthusiasm of a moment ago restored. Then a thought occurred to him. “Actually, I have a favor to request of you.”
Achmed dropped unceremoniously into a leather chair with the file. “Oh?”
“Yes, Ashe told me before he left that if you or any Dhracian were to pass through, to request that you look in on a prisoner who is incarcerated under heavy guard in the internal stockade. He said that person is suspected of being a demonic thrall, and hoped that you would be willing to make an assessment of whether that is true or not. My understanding, though it may be incorrect, is that through some sort of unscrupulous behavior, the prisoner was exposed to a F’dor’s host, but no one is certain if actual possession took place, and thus all efforts are being made to restrict movement and exposure until a reliable assessment can be made. If you can clear the prisoner of suspicion, we can relocate him to a lesser security setting until Ashe returns, or, if he doesn’t—” Gwydion’s throat went suddenly dry.
Achmed’s mismatched gaze settled on him; there was no real sympathy in it, but the look felt easy on the young duke nonetheless.
“At any rate, I don’t know who it is, I’m not even certain if it’s a man or woman,” Gwydion continued. “I think Gerald knew, but he didn’t say.”
“Rhapsody made the same request of me after she spoke to Ashe a while back,” Achmed said. “I don’t know what makes her think I have that ability; I don’t remember ever telling her that I did.”
“I think she trusts you as the ultimate authority on all things demonic, given your race. I know I certainly agree with her.” He smiled wryly. “But if you try and you are not certain, we can always wait until another Dhracian comes along. Or at least leave it for Ashe to deal with when he comes back.”
The Bolg king sighed and rose to a stand. “All right, let’s take care of it now. I need to be able to concentrate, undisturbed, once I begin reading the documents.”
“Very good. I’ll get the keys to the stockade cell, and on the way there I will get Manus started on your accommodations and your supper.”
* * *
The lights in the stockade stairway and under the cell door were still burning dimly as Achmed and Gwydion Navarne made their way down the stairs. The full contingent of guards had been moved to other posts within the stockade, leaving only the two heavy crossbowmen at either side of the cell door.
Gwydion slid the first complex key into the smallest of the seven keyholes, springing each mechanism until he finally inserted the largest of the blades into the massive lock at the bottom. The bolt snapped back, and the door opened slightly. He stepped hurriedly back and out of the way, leaving the Bolg king clear in the middle of the doorway.
Achmed swung the door open.
Within the cell, the lanternlight fell on the auburn hair of the prisoner, making it gleam red-brown for a moment. Then the man, who was sitting in a chair facing the wall at the back of the cell, stood and turned around.
It was Tristan Steward.
The Lord Roland’s mouth dropped open, then relief flooded his face.
“Achmed,” he said weakly. “Thank the All-God. You’ve come for me!”
The Bolg king stared at him for a moment.
He exhaled and rolled his eyes.
Then he turned like lightning to the guard standing to the right of the door. He seized the man’s crossbow, swung it around until it pointed toward the back of the cell.
And fired a bolt into the prince’s forehead.
Tristan Steward’s eyes sprang open wide just as the missile bisected his brow.
Without another sound he fell back against the wall with a sickening crack, then forward onto his face, the impact of the fall driving the bolt further into his brain.
A ragged gasp tore forth from the throats of all three of the other men in the hallway.
“I guess I have at that,” Achmed said. “Convenient timing.”
It took the span of seventy heartbeats for Gwydion Navarne to recover his voice as the Lord Roland and prince of Bethany quietly bled his life out onto the floor of the stockade cell. The young duke’s face was pale as moonlight, and he struggled to keep his hands steady.
“He—Tristan was a thrall? You’re certain? Sweet All-God.”
Achmed handed the crossbow back to the shaking guard.
“I’m certain,” he said. Certain that it was well past time, whether or not he was a thrall, he thought in disgust. Cymrian. “Lock the door and leave the body there for a few days, just to be sure there is no lingering demonic spirit that might be a problem for anyone else.”
The guards and the young duke exchanged a wide-eyed glance.
“Let’s get back to the main building,” the Bolg king said, turning and walking up the stairs. “Perhaps we can bring the file to the dining table so that I can begin reading while I’m eating; I’ve wasted enough time as it is.”
Gwydion Navarne quickly closed and locked the door, then followed him up the stairs, wishing even harder than he usually did for his godfather’s speedy return.
The Symphony of Ages Books by Elizabeth Haydon
Rhapsody: Child of Blood
Prophecy: Child of Earth
Destiny: Child of the Sky
Requiem for the Sun
Elegy for a Lost Star
The Assassin King
The Merchant Emperor
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An accomplished herbalist, harpist, and madrigal singer, ELIZABETH HAYDON also enjoys anthropology and folklore. She lives on the East Coast.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE MERCHANT EMPEROR
Copyright © 2014 by Elizabeth Haydon
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Stephen Youll
Maps and ornaments by Ed Gazsi
A Tor Book
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-0566-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-4397-0 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781429943970
First Edition: June 2014
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Elizabeth Haydon, The Merchant Emperor (The Symphony of Ages)
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