The Warlord's Domain Read online

  The image of a crossbow, leveled at his chest.

  There was a cacophony of barking in his ears, and Kyrin's stifled cry of shock far out on the edges of the uproar. Then everything went quiet. Except for the sound of someone laughing…

  Rynert's statement came out so flat, so unembellished by any intonation, that there were several at first who thought their ears had deceived them. Even when reaction manifested, it was muted by the shock of what they had just heard. If only by default, Lord Dacurre found himself the spokesman once again.

  "Mathern-an …" Rynert favored him with the courtesy of a swift glance. "Lord King… why?"

  "I am the King: I could say, because I command it." Rynert did not smile as he spoke, and it became starkly plain that there was no subtle joke in what he said. He leaned back a little, steepling his fingers together in the old gesture and studying his silent lords over their entwined tips. "But say rather: because his recent… activities… have brought us closer to war with the Drusalans than I care to contemplate; because he has made more free with the Art Magic than any honorable Alban lord has ever dared to do in all our history. And because he has caused the death of my own Captain-of-Guards."

  That last stirred them more than anything else had done, for those whose business kept them close to Cerdor had noticed Dewan ar Korentin's absence this past month and more; but had not—given the man's rank and position—cared to make more inquiries than the listening to rumor would allow. Those rumors current had told of a mission for the king; of secrecy; of importance both personal and political. They had told of enough to discourage the asking of incautious questions. But they had never told of anything like this.

  "How… how did this happen?" No one councillor seemed to have asked the question aloud, yet it was so much to the forefront of every mind that it might well have taken shape out of the air.

  Rynert told them: of the simple task of carrying friendship-messages which Aldric Talvalin had perverted to suit his own designs; of his interference in Imperial policy for as-yet-undisclosed purposes; of the killing of two Drusalan Overlords at Seghar and the setting up another; of the constant thread of sorcery running through every report about him; and now the apparent destruction of part of the Imperial city of Egisburg. It was this which had cost ar Korentin his life: no accurate information had so far filtered through, but the rumors—oh, there were always rumors—were concerned with the kidnap of an important personage under the guise of a rescue, the murder of a highly-placed political figure, and it seemed now almost certain that in trying to restrain further such excesses Dewan ar Korentin had met his death.

  Rynert deplored his own lack of foresight in allowing that particular young lord to be his emissary to the Drusalans, for all Aldric's persuasiveness. He was, to blame for everything, since he should have realized at once that it would have been tantamount to letting a wolf negotiate with sheep…

  … And it proved the power of his impassioned rhetoric that not a single one of his Council saw a trace of the ridiculous in the sprawling and traditionally inimical Drusalan Empire being described as helpless against one young man. Too many of them had memories of Aldric's single-minded pursuit of vengeance, and the blood retaking of his usurped ancestral fortress. Many of their relatives and friends had died in that short, savage campaign, and just for the present they forgot that more had been at stake—for themselves and for all Alba—than one man's personal satisfaction. The only thing they chose to remember, and of which Rynert chose to remind them, was who seemed to gain most profit at the end of it all. The same man who had then apparently washed his hands of his comrades' blood and gone about his own affairs.

  Aldric opened his eyes a fraction and at the same time raised both his hands, open and palms outward, to the level of his ears. The laughter continued, breaking off only when a dog—how many dogs, for the love of Heaven?—growled again and was silenced with a sharp word of command.

  He was beginning to see them now, through the dance of glowing streaks inside his eyes, and seeing them was not a comfort. Two leggy Drusalan guard hounds sat back on their tailless haunches and regarded him with fanged, tongue-lolling grins which had nothing humorous about them.

  Aldric had met Drusalan hounds before; and the memory was not a pleasant one.

  "All right," said a voice that was still thrumming with mirth, "I recognize you. Haranil-arluth's youngest. Don't worry; this thing isn't even loaded."

  The woman's hair had been steel-gray. It was silver-white now, gilded by the lamplight, and she was wearing a staid and all-enveloping sleeping gown rather than traveling furs and fine woolen broadcloth; but for all that Ivern Valeir looked very little different from the last time Aldric had seen her, in the courtyard of Dunrath when she and her husband had come to sell their fine horses to his father, six years and a lifetime ago.

  Except perhaps for the guard hounds… and the crossbow.

  He swallowed once or twice, trying to clear the constriction in his gullet which felt like his heart halfway between his mouth and its proper place, then endeavored without much success to fit a wan smile onto a face turned white as paper as he gave her the most courteous bow he could summon in the circumstances.

  "You invited me, lady," he said, and for a wonder there was neither tremor, nor anger, nor accusation in his voice. "I sent a letter to your husband, asking that I might at last accept the hospitality you both offered, that time in Dunrath when my father paid you for the horses. Unless, of course, I've made a mistake?" That crossbow was still cradled in her arms and Aldric, ever prudent, did not for an instant believe what she had said about it.

  "No mistake." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "You were invited, yes. Expected… well, call that one yes as well. But earlier." Ivern looked up at the sky and rather pointedly—thought Aldric and Kyrin both—at the post-midnight configurations of the stars that glittered there. "Much, much earlier."

  "He—we—got lost." Kyrin's explanation did not please Aldric much, but he kept his mouth shut and let her talk. "We woke up most of the province trying to find you. And even then the finding was by accident…"

  Ivern shifted the lamp and looked out into the darkness of her own courtyard. That smile was back on her face as she flicked an amused glance between Aldric and his lady. "Ah. So,"she said, plainly trying not to laugh. "I see …" She probably did, at that; those eyes were like Kyrin's in their ability to look far and deep. "That sort of 'earlier' wasn't what I meant, my dear, although it's true enough. I meant years, not hours—before Ansel, my husband, died." She saw a muscle twitch in Aldric's face, and shrugged to dismiss the matter. "Oh, but that was years ago as well. Now, there are stables and a guest annex behind the house. Once you've settled your animals, come in. You'll have to chop some firewood for the stove, young man, but you look as if you'd be good at that. And then something warm to drink, and a talk, would do us all good. Although I think a good night's sleep right afterward would do you two most good of all."

  * * * *

  "There you have it, gentlemen," Rynert said when the tangled, bloody tale was done. The outrage vanished from his voice like frost from glass, so that once again his words came out without inflection, expressing his preferences neither one way or the other. He sat still now, frighteningly so, as immobile as a corpse freshly dug to sit at the head of the table, and with eyes as blank, seeming neither to blink nor to breathe, as patient as a cat waiting at a mouse-hole. But waiting for what? Which of them was the mouse?

  Except for the few who had met Aldric Talvalin face to face and refused to believe that the man they knew was capable of what they had been told, there was not one among the councillors who found his behavior other than appalling. High-clan-lords were accustomed to the wielding of power, and to utter ruthlessness if such was required; but—to those who were convinced—this was excessive. To the others it was simply stupid and that, rather than the shocking violence, made it unbelievable. A capability for ferocity, and for the foolishness of impulsive action—tha
t was one thing. This was another. And they all found Rynert's reluctance to give them a lead… uncomfortable. Unnatural, and unlike him. Usually he would hint, if only by unconscious shifts of posture and expression, in which direction he hoped his council's vote would take. Not that such hints would have swayed their decision; this was Alba, not the Drusalan Empire, and clan-lords were followers of their own persuasions rather than another man's implicit—or indeed explicit—views. Yet Rynert's blank, uncaring face was so unlike the subtly mobile features which they thought they knew—especially after his first blunt declaration—that private speculation made them feel more uneasy than deliberate, diametric opposition to the king's openly stated, carefully reasoned command. And such a lack of interest as this, in so grave a matter as they had been told of, was most unsettling of all.

  "Lord King." Hanar Santon rose and bowed. He was youngest of all the clan-lords present and most recent to his title, his father not half a year dead by formal suicide in the tsepanak'ulleth ritual. But he spoke no more than the brief formal salutation, for when he straightened from his bow it was to stare at eyes with no more life in them than wet pebbles, and the other, unsaid words congealed in his throat so that he fell silent.

  Rynert gazed at him with a sere, level stare like that of a painted ikon. Lord Santon could have borne a shriveling glare of anger, outrage or condemnation, for that at least would have indicated some emotion. But this… was as if he did not even exist.

  None of the others tried to speak after that. They were also feeling that their existence had been called into question. Had there been some sort of feeling up and down the Council table, one or other of the lords might have felt roused to put some question of his own— the question which had formed in every mind by now: Why were we summoned here at all… But without that feeling, that passion, that emotion—without something—it seemed better to them all that the oppressive silence remained unbroken.

  "So." Soft-spoken though it was, Rynert's single syllable had all the impact of a stone dropped into a still pond. Though the king had not moved one iota from his straight-backed posture, there was as much power apparent to all as if he had sprung to his feet and struck the table with a clenched fist. His face, however, was calm.

  And if that was calm, thought more than one of his lords, then calm is what we call a house with all its doors and windows boarded shut.

  "If it is your desire, my lords," he continued in that placid voice so unlike his own, "then I give you an hour in which to consider. In private."

  There was no mistaking his words and the small movement of his hands for other than a dismissal—and one which was welcomed by many. What seemed to be happening in King Rynert's mind was rapidly becoming both something his lords wanted no part of, and something they wished to discuss among themselves. They rose almost in unison, made their obeisance—and followed the King's Bodyguard out of the hall as quickly as their dignity allowed.

  Rynert watched them go, sipping red wine from the cup before him, then drained the cup at a single draught; and only when the door clicked shut behind the last did he release his held-in breath in a long, slow hiss through teeth that had involuntarily clenched shut. So tightly shut that as he became aware of the reaction and released the pressure, he knew that tomorrow his jaw muscles would ache.

  "All alone at last."

  The voice came from behind him and though Rynert had expected to hear it at some stage of the night, to have it come without warning from the shadows at his unguarded back was still enough to make him jump. He regained control of the reaction almost at once, and when he turned to face the darkness it was an unhurried, seemingly unworried movement. Even though his hand was on the hilt of his sword…

  "Where is the other this time?" the voice continued. "Your bodyguard?"

  Rynert slid a chilly smile across his face and even as his facial muscles moved, could not have said how much of the coldness was for effect and how much was genuine. "I no longer need him."

  "How nice for you." The taulath emerged—seemed almost to condense—from the shadows where he stood, dressed in a gray so dark that it was almost black and yet not so dark as to lend his shape a definite outline. Only his eyes were visible; his head was covered by a hood, his hands by gloves and his feet by soft boots that made them noiseless as the paws of a cat.

  The Shadowthief held no weapon, and there were none sheathed or holstered anywhere in plain sight— but Rynert knew that this didn't mean the assassin was unarmed. Far from it… The sinister presence was making his heart pound in his ears again, and though it shamed him there was sweat on his brow; he didn't betray its presence by wiping it off, and hoped that with the light at his back the telltale beads would, be invisible.

  "You came here at my bidding," the king snapped. "So be about your business."

  "I came here at my choice," the taulath corrected, "and it is your business too, King of Alba." His tone was gently reproving, a deliberate reminder of what Rynert had chosen to forget. "So tell me, what is your business this time? Theft? Espionage? Another killing… ?"

  There was a silence as the king stared at the mercenary assassin, angry—and yet in the circumstances unable to be properly outraged—that an honorless person would presume to guess his employer's intentions.

  Rynert let it go no further than a glare, for if this taulath was the same one as he had dealt with before, any observation concerning honor or the lack of it would be returned with interest, and the discussion would degenerate into a nasty scene. As for the taulath himself, his eyes blinked mildly and his whole body posture radiated unconcern over what Rynert did or did not say and do.

  "Yes." The king took his hand from his sword and sat down again, arrogantly, with his back to the hooded man. "Yes, indeed. Another killing. And no mistakes."

  "Rynert, Rynert…" The taulath padded around so that they were once again face to face, sat down on the corner of the table and nonchalantly swung one leg to and fro, seeming to admire the fit of boot and smoke-dark leggings. His voice and phrase of language were both excessively familiar. "Now really: were there any mistakes last time? Or the time before that?"

  Another silence and a glare were Rynert's only replies.

  "There. You see. So—who will it be?"

  Rynert told him and gave—sketchily—the same reasons he had elaborated to the Council. The taulath whistled thinly, whether in feigned or genuine surprise, and didn't speak for several seconds.

  "A friend, once," he said eventually.

  "How so?" Rynert's question came back with an unmistakable snap to it.

  "Simple." Behind the mask there had to be a chilly smile. "You're trying so hard to convince yourself that you're doing the right thing. Too hard."

  "When I want your opinions…" Rynert began in a soft, dangerous voice, half out of his chair with one hand back on his sword-hilt. The sentence died there, for the taulath hadn't moved a muscle, was still sitting there, watching with a calm deliberation that was somehow more ominous than any matching move towards a weapon. As if he didn't care because he didn't need to care; as if he felt certain that he, alone and empty-handed, could take Rynert to pieces any time he chose.

  "I offered none. Reasons concern neither me nor mine, except through idle curiosity. Very idle. What does concern me is the fee."

  "As agreed."

  "Listen to the man. That was agreed before I knew who—and how much—you need… ah… want him dead."

  "What do you mean… ?"

  "All your understated and yet so passionate concern for the honor of Alba, put in jeopardy by this one man; your fears for the political repercussions of his actions; and your outrage over his use of sorcery and the death of your Captain-of-Guards. Magnificent, Rynert—and meaningless. You forget, I think, our last discussion… and the last mission performed for you."

  "That has nothing to do with what brings you here," snarled Rynert, slamming his fist against one arm of the chair.

  Once again the taulath's voice seeme
d to smile, although the eyes glittering through the slits in his mask were as cold and humorless as flint. "Let me refresh your failing memory. There was the matter of stealing certain things from the wizard, Talvalin's foster-father— things like that portrait. A simple enough matter, and reasonably inoffensive even if not quite the way to treat a guest in your house. But to give all that information to the Drusalan Secret Police…"

  "What of it?"

  The taulath shrugged. "Tell the truth, Rynert, if only to yourself. After what you did, no matter what high-sounding reasons you produce, once he learns of all this Aldric Talvalin will be… annoyed. And you're afraid that you know what form that annoyance might take. So you want him killed, before he considers doing it to you. And what's one over-mighty nobleman more or less?"

  "And when do mercenaries take it upon themselves to advise a king?" asked Rynert, his voice dangerously devoid of tone.

  "Consider it a part of the service. Now, about the fee. Twenty thousand marks, in the usual division: half now and half on proof of completion."

  "You're joking!" Even as he uttered the protest, Rynert knew well enough that the taulath meant what he had said. Just as Rynert knew that he would pay it. It angered him that a mere hired killer should have given so precise a summation of the truth, and caused him to wonder if any of the councillors had made a similar judgment. If they had… He crushed that line of thought into the back of his mind. Alban Crown Councillors were advisers to the king; but they were also noblemen in their own right and anything which impugned their dignity or honor was likely to be something they would regard as a personal insult. Deliberately or otherwise, Rynert had already offered enough veiled insults tonight for one more to be too many. His chest hurt, a grinding insistent ache that seemed always with him now, no matter what his personal physicians did.