Besieged (44 page)

Imoshen didn’t respond.

‘Cheer up.’ Reoden guided her towards the door. ‘I know. Let’s give the children something to look forward to. Lyronyxe has been studying so hard, she needs a break. She loves going out on the lake. We can–’

The closing door cut them off.

Graelen exhaled slowly. A lake outing was the perfect opportunity. The all-mothers kept their barges in the boat-house next to the causeway gate. All he and Paryx had to do was watch the sisterhood-gate for the party accompanying the sacrare, then lie in wait for them in the boat-house.

But that would mean confronting the healer and the all-father-killer, both powerful T’En women. He had to come up with a way to separate them from the rest of the party.

An injury... The healer would stop to help someone in need, and if it was a messy injury, she wouldn’t want the children to see the blood.

Graelen waited until the shopkeeper retreated to the backroom of his shop before he returned to the brotherhood’s palace.

Kyredeon saw him right away.

‘...so all we have to do is wait for the day they go out on the lake to stage the abduction.’ Kyredeon nodded, almost dismissively. ‘Very good. But it won’t be you. I’m sending you to the Mieren port. It’s in chaos. They say King Charald is due back, and King Matxin is dying. I want you to observe and report.’

It was so unexpected, Graelen didn’t know what to say. He settled on practicalities. ‘We don’t have a warehouse in port. Where will I stay?’

‘I’ll negotiate with Chariode. I’ve just paid him compensation for the fire damage to his building. He’ll be receptive. You’ll leave tomorrow. Now, go find Paryx and tell him how to set up the abduction.’

Graelen nodded and continued. ‘You want me to observe the Mieren. What exactly are you looking for?’

‘Change brings opportunity. Make a note of everything that goes on.’ Kyredeon held his eyes. ‘We are still the size of a great brotherhood, but I’ve had to barter away some of our wealth to compensate the all-fathers. We need an advantage. We could all too easily slip to the stature of a lesser brotherhood.’

The great brotherhoods would be watching them for any sign of weakness, seeking an opportunity to absorb them. If that happened, all the high-ranking brothers would be executed. Graelen amongst them.

Chapter Thirty-Five

A
BITTER-SWEET SATISFACTION
filled Sorne. Here he was, returning to Chalcedonia on the flagship of a conquering army, as the personal advisor to King Charald.

Eight years ago, when they’d let him out of the tent to witness the surrender of Khitan, he’d had to hide his identity under a cloak. Now, his head was bare and he lowered his eyes for no one. How he wished Izteben had lived to see this.

Izteben had planned to elevate the half-bloods to a position of not just acceptance, but respect. Looking back, his brother had been a better man than him, thinking of all the half-bloods rather than trying to win power just for himself. It would be interesting to see what Zabier had achieved in their brother’s memory.

Sorne grinned. Little Zabier, the Father’s-voice. Not so little Zabier now. Zabier would have just turned twenty-one, and Valendia would be nearly twelve. As for Hiruna, he hoped she still lived. He needed to see the woman who had reared him as if he was her own son.

If Charald’s spies could smuggle reports to the king, Zabier could have found some way to send word to him. Surely his brother did not think he was an enemy?

Looking out over Port Mirror-on-Sea, it was clear the populace did not see King Charald as the enemy. Not only were the wharves packed with well-wishers, but every balcony and rooftop was crowded with cheering people.

They had sailed through the headlands last night and anchored across the bay, to give Matxin time to send a delegation. The Father’s-voice had sent an elderly priest with the news that after a great suffering, King Matxin had died six days previously, and his daughter was ready to talk terms with King Charald.

Matxin’s death left Sorne rudderless. It had all seemed so simple when he was growing up; serve Oskane to defeat the devious Wyrds, then serve Oskane to defeat the devious baron who had ordered his mother’s death. Do all this while winning respect for himself as a half-blood. After Oskane’s death, he’d thought his duty was to buy King Matxin time to consolidate his hold on Chalcedonia.

Now...

As they approached the docks, the crowd cheered wildly.

‘They love you, sire,’ Nitzane said. ‘There’ll be no need of a sword to conquer Chalcedonia. She’ll lift her skirts for you.’

Charald threw back his head and gave a deep belly laugh.

‘There’s Baron Matxin’s banner.’ Nitzane pointed to the wharf. ‘The white stag on the greensward. Looks like the usurper’s daughter has sent a welcoming committee.’

Sorne spotted the banner, but the delegation seemed to consist of a dozen white-robed priests.

‘I bet the barons who swore fealty to Matxin are wishing they’d stayed loyal. I wonder who Matxin gave my family’s estates to. Do you know if–’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll restore your barony with all its lands and more besides,’ Charald assured him. ‘I reward loyalty, just as I punish treason. I’ll confiscate the traitorous barons’ estates and reward my followers.’

Sorne expected no less. Among Charald’s new war barons were common men who had risen through ruthless leadership on the battlefield, and foreign nobles who had turned against their own people when they realised Charald could not be beaten.

As the flagship made fast to the pier, Charald turned to Sorne, saying, ‘Go meet the delegation. Tell them King Charald, High King of the Secluded Sea, will be waiting in the throne room. They have my terms. Bring back their answer.’

‘What of Matxin’s daughter, Marantza?’ Sorne asked. If she was twenty-one now, she must have been thirteen when her father had seized the crown. Like him, she’d had no say in her fate.

‘She’s of royal blood,’ Nitzane warned. ‘If you don’t marry her yourself or execute her, the deposed barons will rally behind her. It won’t matter how plain she is, one of them will marry her, plant a babe in her belly and declare himself regent.’

‘So you think I should marry the plain cow?’ Charald asked.

Nitzane floundered. Sorne hid a smile.

Charald gestured to Sorne. ‘Do you think I should marry her?’

‘Marantza is loved by the people. Executing her would not be a popular move.’

‘So I must make sure she can’t be used against me.’ Charald shrugged. ‘Tell the advisors Matxin’s daughter must be handed over along with their reply.’

‘As you say, my king.’ Now Sorne knew his duty; save his cousin, Marantza. He called his holy-swords and strode down the gangplank with them at his heels. Unlike the war barons and their men-at-arms, Sorne’s holy-swords wore simple priestly vestments of black breeches and ankle-length robes.

On the docks, the crowd parted for them. They whispered and pointed to his mulberry eyes and his hair, which had gone white. He heard his title. It pleased him to discover even the common folk had heard of the Warrior’s-voice.

He made for the delegation of tightly packed priests. With their fair hair loose on their shoulders, shining in the sun, they were a stark contrast to his holy-swords.

Sorne approached and gave an abbreviated bow. ‘Who’s in charge here?’

A skinny old man stepped forward; his head barely reached the middle of Sorne’s chest. ‘I am Utzen, assistant to the Father’s-voice.’

Zabier had his own Franto? The thought amused Sorne, but he didn’t let it show. ‘I have a message for the advisors of Marantza, daughter of King Matxin, from King Charald, High King of the Secluded Sea. Take me to them. I am Sorne, the Warrior’s-voice, advisor to the High King.’

And didn’t it feel good.

Sorne followed the Father’s priests up through the labyrinth of streets to a flat-topped hill, where the Seven’s churches and the king’s palace formed the sides of an octagonal plaza.

Unlike the rest of the city, which had grown every which way, this area had been meticulously planned. Charald had boasted that he built a palace to outshine the Wyrd’s palaces. He’d chosen the highest point of the city, where the churches had always stood. The Seven’s priests had had no choice but to accommodate the king as he pulled buildings down to realise his vision of a grand, tree-lined plaza. Each of the churches tried to outdo each other with their magnificent entrances and elaborate facades, but none matched the palace.

Sorne strode up the steps and into the grand entrance.

The place was deserted. Torn wall hangings clung to the stonework; cracked plinths held the remnants of shattered statues. It was clear to Sorne that there had been a panic and servants had fled with whatever they could carry.

The old priest led him into an ante-chamber and stopped in front of a bronze door, its panels covered in bas-relief carvings. He glanced at Sorne’s sword, but did not suggest he remove it.

Sorne gestured to his men. ‘See that my holy-swords are given drink and food.’ He beckoned the captain. ‘This may take a while.’

‘Do you want a scribe?’ The captain was new to the post. Serving the Warrior’s-voice as one of his holy-swords was to be envied. For all that they were called the holy-swords and stood between Sorne and assassins, any sensible assassin avoided attacking him when they were present. Most of the time they acted as tithe-collectors. They took a census of conquered churches, collected half the wealth and distributed the tithe to set up new churches. Every time this happened, Sorne selected seven of the holy-swords to head the churches, so their numbers were always changing. Sorne was no fool, he knew some of the gold stuck to their fingers, but he tolerated it, as it made his holy-swords eager to please him.

‘No. I don’t want a scribe.’ Not when he planned to act in Marantza’s best interests and not King Charald’s. He pushed open the doors and let himself in before the old priest could announce him.

He’d expected a grand greeting chamber with opulent hangings to impress the visitors. This chamber had the look of a private sitting room. There were low couches by the empty grate, and a table covered in half-eaten delicacies. But his gaze went straight to the woman who had her back to the balcony doors.

Sorne turned to the priest. ‘I asked to speak with the king’s advisors.’

‘They’ve fled.’ Her voice was low and slightly husky. ‘Everyone has, including the servants, so you will just have to speak with me.’

She opened the shutters and light flooded the chamber, momentarily blinding him. After so many assassination attempts, he stepped back into the shadows instinctively.

‘You can go, Utzen,’ she told the old priest.

As she turned to face him, Sorne assessed her. She was not plain, so much as no-nonsense and determined. She was tall for a Mieren woman, and didn’t defer to men. He had expected panic and trembling – she had enough reason to fear for her future – but instead, she met his eyes, waiting.

‘Marantza?’

‘Yes. And you are...’

‘Sorne.’ He was a little surprised that his uncle had not told her who he was eight years ago. It seemed, other than Charald and Zabier, no one knew he was the king’s half-blood son. ‘Sorne, the Warrior’s-voice, advisor to High King Charald.’

‘So it is true, he keeps a white-haired half-blood by his side. Has the king spent so much time with foreigners he has forgotten Chalcedonian ways?’

Sorne ignored this. ‘Have you read the terms of surrender?’

‘Hand over the palace, city and kingdom, and the barons who supported my father.’ She shrugged. ‘It is within my power to hand over the palace and city, but as for the kingdom and the barons... Charald will have to claim the kingdom piece by piece. Most of the barons have packed up their families and their wealth and fled to Ivernia. A few have retired to their estates, in the belief Charald will not bother with them. The more martial have ridden over the pass into Navarone. They hope to turn Charald’s puppet-king against him.’

It was a masterly assessment of the situation, and franker than Sorne had expected. ‘What do you plan to do?’

She gave him a sharp look, as if she hadn’t expected this question. ‘I’m going to retire to the Mother’s abbey. Since my father let Charald’s queen do this, I...’ She ran down, seeing his expression.

‘She was Baron Nitzel’s daughter. You are the granddaughter of King Charald’s aunt. Until he has a child, you are his heir. You’d never reach the abbey.’

She digested this in silence, then lifted her head. ‘I see. Does he plan to marry me?’

‘That, or have you killed.’ Sorne watched her reaction. She did not seem surprised; she had been testing him, then. ‘You could retire to the Father’s church and claim sanctuary. Our spies tell us you are well-liked, the dutiful daughter who nursed her dying father. King Charald could drag you out of the Father’s church and kill you in the plaza, but it would turn the people against him.’

Her gaze flicked to the screen in the corner, then back to him. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because you haven’t run off to join the rebel barons,’ Sorne said, strolling around the room as if he was inspecting the paintings. ‘Because you were just a child when your father seized the throne. Because you didn’t ask to be born of royal blood, any more than I asked to be born a half-blood.’ He stopped, struck by a thought. ‘Do you want to hold onto the throne? After all, your father spent seventeen years plotting to seize it and eight years trying to hold it.’

She laughed. ‘Will you think poorly of me if I say no? I don’t want the throne or revenge. I saw what revenge did to my father. It ate him up inside and killed him long before his body died. After King Charald ordered Aunt Sorna’s death, my father vowed–’

‘Charald ordered her death?’ This was not the story Oskane had told him. ‘I thought Baron Nitzel murdered her.’

‘Nitzel offered his daughter to Charald because she had already produced two True-men sons. The king had Sorna killed so he could marry again.’ She studied him. ‘After Aunt Sorna died and our family was shamed, my father could never be happy. Chalcedonia wasn’t enough, especially when Charald went on to conquer all the other mainland kingdoms. It didn’t matter how many offerings the Father’s-voice made, my father–’