The Champion (2 page)

J
acob chased the sun on a spirited white mare, his body held taut with the rhythm of her gait, his cloak billowing against her pale haunches. The desert burned around him, rolling with molten hills and valleys turned copper in the glare of sunset, their long planes littered with rocks that seemed to have rained down from a cloudless sky. He kept an unforgiving pace, traversing the windblown flats to reach the canyon pass at the edge of night, denying the mare rest until they reached the shores of the Great River.

Sliding from the saddle, he set her loose to drink from the water’s edge and climbed the crumbling rock of the bank. The land here was lush, the air heavy and warm, and cracking with insects. Palm trees stood in silhouette against a dark plum sky, the smell of citrus trees and irrigated cornfields flavoring the breeze.

In the distance, the Sultan’s Palace appeared under a violet moon, its massive stone turrets capped with blazing fires along the parapets, a cluster of fanciful towers and minarets climbing the small hill behind it.

Reaching along his belt, he slid a pair of finely crafted binoculars from their case, raising the cool brass rims to his eyes to capture the world in a set of shining iridescent lenses. He slid the pad of his thumb over the adjustment sprocket, increasing the magnification twentyfold.

A sweep of movement in the murk, the outline of a horse, then another…He counted three royal guards under the gate’s spiked portcullis, each inspecting the crowd at the entrance from the backs of their huge stallions. They stood in orderly formation, draped in dark robes with red trim, armed with jeweled scimitars and single-shot pistols.

He grimaced, scanning the wall-walks above them, catching sight of additional men with long rifles, some with spyglasses. They were well positioned and alert, reporting to each other in the manner of professional soldiers, which he took to mean that they were also trained and paid as such.

The Sultan, it seemed, was well guarded.

This was the point at which he should have felt fortunate to have the guise of Letoures to work with.

A drunken, thieving, gambling womanizer.

He hissed through his teeth, lowering the binoculars.

If there was ever an antithesis to the careful way he lived his life, the philosophy of honor handed down—not just from superiors, but from generations of Kessler soldiers now entombed with their medals and honors in the family crypt—it was Robert Letoures.

Sliding his gaze back to the river, he focused on the small eddies at its edge, a sliver of driftwood circling and bobbing in the current. He found peace in its gentle tipping, as he always did, watching natural things abide their course. It played to the deep quiet he sought in the world, drawing his mind away from what would come, the interrogation and execution of a frail ruler—a task he’d accepted knowing what it would cost him.

Descending to the shallows, he called to the mare, gently catching her tasseled bridle and leading her back to the shore. Pulling himself into the saddle, he slipped the reins between his fingers and spurred her to an easy canter along the road, heading for the massive gates in the distance.

As dusk turned to night, he drew the hood of his cloak over his face, preparing to be captured with the huge diamond he knew the guards would find, and the lethal set of poisoned blades sewn into his belt, which he knew they wouldn’t.

The Grand Vizier swept into the audience hall on a perfumed breeze, his thick hands clasped in front of an enormous peacock vest, folds of plump skin forming little wrinkles at his wrists where they poked out of his sleeves.

His gaze darted in quick glances around the room as he approached the Sultan’s seat, taking note of all witnesses. He bowed low before her, the black whorls of his hair forming an errant cloud under a turban twinkling with emeralds and white sapphires. “Letoures has arrived, Majesty. We found the diamond hidden under his belt.”

Nadira felt her heart skip under Osman’s heavy robes. “He is well?”

“The stone is exactly what we requested.” He held the gem up in his fleshy fingers. It glittered against his palm, its solid weight a deep, ocean blue, its precise cuts catching a thousand lights.

She stared at it for a moment, a brief sliver of hope taking hold. “You must send word to the scholar Isban.”

“It has been done. And I am organizing your retinue. We will venture to Abu Quardan tomorrow morning to deliver the stone in person. Perhaps we will even be able to observe the fist test.”

“And Letoures?”

“Unharmed, chained where he will be safe for the night.”

“
Chained
?”

The Grand Vizier shrugged. “He is a foreign criminal, Majesty, a heathen defiler. I shouldn’t have to remind you that we have no less than thirty requests that he be arrested and executed, some put forth by members of your own high council. He can hardly be trusted within the palace.”

“Is that how you would fulfill my promises?”

“I was not aware that you—”

“He fulfilled his promise to us.”

“And he will be richly paid and escorted out of the kingdom.”

“Perhaps I don’t want him out of the kingdom.”

The Grand Vizier flushed pink, pressing his chubby fingers to his throat in theatric surprise. “But—”

“I will talk to him.”

“Letoures?”

“I will see him personally.”

“You cannot. He is extremely dangerous. My spies have much to say about him and the information is, well…tawdry. In Your Majesty’s best interest, I have dealt with him accordingly. You know that my protections have kept you safe during your recovery, and kept the kingdom on the proper path, under your divine vision, of course.”

“He may be useful.”

“He is an
exile
.”

“You will leave him completely to me, is that clear?”

The Grand Vizier flashed a tight smile and inclined his head, his eyes dark and glittering. “Of course, Majesty.”

She stepped down from the throne, brushing past him with a hiss of anger. Her guards broke from the walls and formed two protective lines around her, striving to gracefully match her pace as she charged through the old colonnade, heading for the tower steps.

Jacob waited in the shadows, his wrists chained with rusted iron cuffs, the glow of a solitary oil lamp gilding the stone walls around him. They’d taken his cloak, stripped him of his shirt to be sure he carried no weapons, and left him in his trousers and boots, confident they’d searched him well enough, which—of course—they hadn’t.

Slipping his hands along the inside of his left sole, he pushed at the small gap in the tread, widening it to extract a thin metal pin from between the hard layers. He turned it, end to end, with his fingers, his gaze still fixed on the cell door.

Curving his hand at an awkward angle, he slipped the pin into the keyhole of the left wrist cuff, feeling it slide between the lock’s tiny teeth. He maneuvered it patiently, probing the metal slips, hearing the small clicks and scrapes as he pressed the pin deeper into the mechanism. He felt a tick of protest just before the pin caught, sliding home.

The lock released. The cuff broke apart.

Jacob swore under his breath, hearing footsteps echoing down the corridor. Chairs rattled against the floor as the guards shot to attention, catching sight of an unexpected visitor.

Too soon.
He needed more time, just a moment more…

He heard dismissive commands, heavy fabrics hissing over the rock, keys jingling. Snapping the metal cuff back on his wrist, he took the pin into his mouth, glaring as the cell door swung open on squealing hinges.

Two men in dark robes strode toward him, armed with pistols and daggers. They checked him briefly before stepping aside, clearing the way for a feline creature in white and gold.

Jacob watched the Sultan approach, finding him as physically diminished as Letoures had promised. The ruler was young and overly thin, his outline lost in voluminous robes, belts and sashes, his movements too graceful, perhaps even too demure, for someone raised to be a king. His eyes were large and honey colored in the glow of torches, his black hair swept under a jeweled turban.

He looked directly at Jacob and seemed to catch his breath. He didn’t look like a man who’d started a war. In point of fact, the Sultan of Ruman didn’t look much like a man at all.

Nadira stood speechless before him, watching him flex his fingers under the iron cuffs. He was chained and bared to the waist, but showed no fear, no self-consciousness, only contempt. If he hadn’t been on his knees already, she doubted he would have assumed the position out of respect.

One of her guards stepped forward, announcing the presence of the ruler in the common language of old crusaders and New Europa foreigners. “The Great Sultan of Ruman, King of the noble territories of Ruman, Astar, Kutem, the Island of Somtuk, the Port of Cyric, and the deserts of Ka—”

“Enough,” she said. “Leave us.”

The guard hesitated then offered a deep bow of submission. “Great Majesty, he is a criminal, a New Europa exile. Not even his own people consider him safe. It is very dangerous. I beg you to—”

“I would speak to the prisoner alone. Leave us.”

The guard acquiesced with a reluctant nod, leaving the room and taking the royal complement with him.

Nadira turned her attention to the exile. He held her gaze in defiance, as if he could see right through the thick layers powder and kohl, the carefully applied mask of the Sultan of Ruman, to the woman hiding underneath it. She felt a hot blush of color rising in her cheeks.

The way he looked at her, the way he…Of course, she had known from the petitions for his arrest that people found him menacing, but the physical descriptions varied so much from witness to witness that they were entirely useless. The blue eyes remained constant, but little else. Some said he was very tall, others said he was average height, most said his hair was black, cut short or left long, depending on the time of year. So perhaps it had been logical to imagine him as a kind of shadow, a pirate figure that remained in permanent silhouette.

The man kneeling at her feet, however, was no soft outline, and decidedly more menacing than his descriptions had implied. It wasn’t, however, a matter of physical size. Her guards were bigger and bulkier by far, but the thief managed to look more dangerous, his body agile and lean, corded with facile strength.

His hair truly was cut short, more ginger brown than black, and he was indeed blue-eyed, but not the ice blue she’d heard about, rather a violet shade so deep it merely hinted at color when the light was right.

Altogether, the effect was unsettling.

“I bid you to rise,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

Leaning forward, he rose gracefully to his feet, much taller than average height, surely. Nadira retreated a few steps, placing herself closer to the door and the guards waiting outside. The thief took note of the gesture, his eyes flicking from her to the entrance, then back, unimpressed.

“You amaze me, Mr. Letoures,” she said.

He watched her without reply, his jaw tightening.

“There are not many men I can trust,” she continued. “And not many who approve of my consulting with a known criminal. But I knew that you would not fail. I knew you would find the right diamond, and that you would bring it here, within the time I allowed. Someone less resourceful, less accustomed to ignoring laws of all kinds, would have failed. You are to be commended, and paid your reward, of course.”