The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (8 page)

"Majesty...I
so wish it was so."

The queen waited
as if balanced on a knife-edge. "Explain."

The princess
looked stricken. "From what little I know, this magic is tied to the royal
bloodline of Navarre. It will serve none but the freshly anointed monarchs of
the seaside kingdom."

"Has it
ever been tried with another bloodline?"

"Not that I
know of, but..."

"Then it's
time to try."

The princess
shook her head. "Majesty, it is not for me to say..."

"But you
could write the king and persuade him."

"I could,
but..."

"Please."
Liandra's voice brooked no argument. "Do this as a favor to the queen who
has shared so much with you, to a queen who would support your choice of
husband."

The princess caught
her breath. A look that was both pensive and eager filled her lovely face.
"I can try, I can ask, but..."

"Write. Ask.
And we shall pray that this boon can be shared."

"As you
wish." The princess bowed low and then withdrew.

The queen turned
away. Leaning against the parapet, she stared out over her city, yet she saw
nothing.
So the Prince of Ur was right, magic to quicken a child.
Such
magic would be a godsend to her throne. How she longed for another babe, a
chance to secure her royal bloodline, a chance for a cherished daughter, a
chance to have a love child with Robert.
But would Navarre share?
Truly,
the fecund had a huge advantage in the game of kings...in this too, the Prince
of Ur was right. And the Tandroth line had never been fecund. The queen hid her
hands beneath the folds of her shawl.
Magic to quicken a child.
Liandra
wanted it so badly her ringed hands shook.

13

The Mordant

Wars could be
overt, the sting of arrows and the rending of swords, or they could be subtle.
Wars of the sword wreaked death and bloodshed on a massive scale, but like
daisies growing on gravesites, they were soon overshadowed by life, their
horror forgotten within a single generation. Unlike wars of the sword, subtle
wars could be everlasting. Wielding words to corrupt hearts and twist souls,
subtle wars carved deep scars that lasted for centuries, even eons, indelibly
etched in the collective memory. By attacking beliefs, values, and morals,
subtle wars collapsed cultures and undermined kingdoms. Wielding lies and
deceit, the Mordant waged a subtle war against the queen. The oldest harlequin
had come to Lanverness to deepen the Great Dark Divide.

Every morning
the Mordant sent his minions scurrying through the queen's city, the duegars
sniffing for signs of magic, while his assassins searched for knights in
Octagon tabards or monks clad in midnight blue robes. In truth, he did not expect
his enemies to be so blatant or so bold...but one should never underestimate
the stupidity of others. And while his minions searched for his oldest foes,
they also took the pulse of the queen's city, aiding in the subtle war of
deceit. Collecting gossip and hearsay from taverns, inns and markets, they
listened for lies believed.

There was
nothing quite so powerful as a lie believed.

The Mordant
savored the game of lies. He'd seeded some of them himself. Wielding his cameo
focus of many faces, the Mordant spent many a night venturing into the queen's
city. Visiting popular taverns, he planted his crop of lies. Cunning deceits
laced with just a hint of truth, he disparaged the queen, mocking her right to
rule. Reveling in the game, he rose each morning, keen to learn which of his
lies had fallen fallow and which had taken root. The true test lay in the
frequency with which a lie was repeated. 

Every day at
noontime, the Mordant climbed the dais in the audience chamber of his mansion
and took a seat upon the throne-carved chair. Bishop Borgan sat three steps
below, a scribe's writing tablet perched across his ample lap. At the Mordant's
signal, Major Tarq unrolled the map of Pellanor across the chamber's floor. As
large as a carpet, the patchwork vellum displayed every street, alley,
marketplace and tavern within the queen's city. Bright with colors and glorious
detail, the map proved that Pellanor's craftsmen could produce almost anything
for a hefty weight in gold. The Mordant considered the coin well spent. His
gaze roved the map, surveying the battleground of truth versus lies.

His minions made
their way back to the mansion, trickling into the audience chamber. One by one,
they bowed before his throne and gave their reports. Major Tarq used a spear to
move chess pieces across the map, marking the taverns and marketplaces where
the gossip was gathered. The Mordant listened closely. Sifting through the
snippets of hearsay and gossip, he searched for echoes of his own lies. Some of
his lies died a quiet death, having fallen on stony ground, but others were
repeated verbatim, while a rare few gained a life of their own, growing and
morphing with embellishments to become glorious tales bursting with colorful
untruths. The Mordant relished each success and learned from his failures. He
made note of the places where his lies were most readily repeated, fertile
ground for future endeavors, and which taverns he should shun. It mattered not
if those who first repeated his lies were weak of mind and will, often besotted
with drink. Success was measured in how often a lie was repeated, for the more
times it was retold, the more conviction it gained. If people heard something
often enough, they remembered the words while forgetting the source. It was
almost as if the masses believed repetition was a sure sign of truth. The
Mordant grinned at the thought. The stupidity of mere mortals never ceased to
amaze him. How easily he enlisted the people of Pellanor in their own
damnation.

The Mordant
listened to each report, formulating his next round of lies.

Finished, he
gestured for Major Tarq to take up the map. "Now, bring me the boy."

The major rolled
the map into a scroll case and then bowed low before departing the chamber. He
returned with two guards who carried a boy between them. Gagged and trussed,
the urchin-child struggled to no avail. Carrot-bright hair, with freckles
splashed across his face, the boy looked to be eight or nine years old. Dressed
in a hodge-podge of soot-stained clothes, he looked poor and underfed, the
refuse of the back alleys.

His guards
forced the boy to his knees.

The Mordant
considered the lad. "My guards think you are a thief, but I wonder if you
might be something else." He studied the boy. "Why did you break into
my house?" He gestured and the guards released the boy's gag.

The urchin
glared at the Mordant. "I was hungry."

"Yet my
guards found you sneaking into the wine cellar."

The boy
shrugged, but his face betrayed the lie. "Some people hide jewels in their
wine cellar."

"So you sought
to steal?"

The boy remained
sullen.

"Bring him
to me."

His guards
lifted the boy between them. Carrying him up the dais, they forced him to kneel
just below the Mordant.

"Look in my
eyes, boy."

Compelled, the
lad lifted his gaze.

Unleashing his
inner Darkness, the Mordant trapped the boy's stare. Breathing deep, he caught
the scent of petty Darkness clinging to the lad's soul.
A lowly pickpocket,
yet minor sins were all he needed to gain access. The Mordant followed the
thread of Darkness, burrowing into the lad's mind, delving into his very soul.
A
thief, a sneak, a snitch...a spy,
the Mordant delved deeper till he found
the image of a dapper, red-haired lord. The boy was bound to the lord, sworn to
serve for food and coin. The Mordant plucked a name from the lad's mind.
"Who is the Lord Sheriff?"

The boy
stiffened.

Released from
the Mordant's stare, the boy cringed backwards but the guards held him firm.

"He ain't
no one."

The Mordant
smiled. "Too late for lies." He gestured to the guards. "Take
him to the dungeon and show him what he came to see. He'll make a tasty
offering to the Dark God."

"
No!
I'll..."

The guards
shoved the gag back into the lad's mouth, stifling his screams. Lifting the boy
between them, they carried him away to the wine cellar.

"Bring Dolf
to me."

One of his
servants rushed to obey.

So the queen
seeks to defeat the oldest harlequin with a mere pawn.
Such a clumsy move,
the woman knew not whom she played against.

Clad in black
clothing, his master assassin glided into the chamber like a liquid shadow.
"You summoned me, my lord?"

"I've
discovered a fresh enemy, a dapper, red-haired lord who goes by the name of
'the lord sheriff'. He's enlisting street urchins to spy on us. We suspect he
serves the queen. Such a resourceful lord deserves to be eliminated. Find this
red-haired lord and make him disappear. Kidnap him and then chain him to the
pentacle in the sanctum. I wish to peel the motives from his mind."

"Yes, my
lord."

"And, Dolf,
I want this done quietly, as if the man disappeared into smoke. I want his
sudden absence to add another layer of unease to the queen."

The assassin
flashed a feral smile. "It will be as you command."

Plots within
plots, he'd bring the queen to a slow boil. And then he'd see what choice her
soul would take.

14

Master Numar

Springtime
brought a bounty of green to Pellanor's markets. Master Numar rose at first
light, donning the modest robes of an apothecary. The brown robes were only
half a disguise, for in truth he was a skilled herbalist. Nestling his focus
deep in his pocket, he took up his quarterstaff and made his way to the nearest
market. Business at his apothecary shop was brisk. He needed to replenish his
ingredients, but, more importantly, he sought a harvest of rumors, a way to
measure the health of the queen's city.

The heady scent
of fresh-grown greens greeted him well before he reached the market. Turning
the corner, he was not surprised to find the cobblestone square already
crowded, everyone keen to make their purchases before the sun's heat ravaged
the leafy produce. Brightly colored stalls turned the square into a maze, the
farmers selling everything from honey and eggs, to herbs and vegetables and
fresh-churned butter. Sniffing deeply, he caught the fragrant scent of thyme
and followed it to a farmer's stall. Thyme was such a delightful herb with so
many medicinal uses. Indulging in the sport of the market, he dickered fiercely
for two bundles. For him, the dickering was not so much about the coins spent
as it was about the respect earned. Friendship and respect bought him more
secrets than parsimony, so he played the dickering game, always letting the
farmers feel as if their extra coins were hard won. Handing over six coppers
with a wink and a gracious smile, he snapped off a fresh sprig and wound it
around his cloak pin, a ward against the city's fouler smells. Breathing deep,
he enjoyed the sprig's luscious springtime scent. Storing the two bundles in
his satchel, he wandered among the stalls looking for hyssop and fennel and
other ingredients. While his gaze roved the green bounty, he kept an ear open
for gossip. Of late he'd heard foul rumors whispered against the queen, but
he'd yet to discover their source. Someone spread slander against the Rose Queen,
seeking to turn the people against their monarch. Lies were ever the hallmark
of Darkness. He'd come to uncover the trail. A snatch of gossip caught his
attention. He began to meander that way but then he noticed an odd snuffing
sound at his left side. His hand reflexively delved into his left pocket
gripping his focus. Glancing down, he expected to see a dog questing with its
nose, seeking interesting scents.

A dwarf with
pointy teeth sneered up at him.

Master Numar
recoiled from the ugly little man. "What do you want?"

The dwarf
hissed, staring at him as if he were something good to eat.

The master
brandished his quarterstaff. "Be gone!"

Casting a baleful
glare, the dwarf slunk away, disappearing into the crowd.

Master Numar
shuddered. Something about the little man was deeply unsettling. Shrugging off
the encounter, he pressed deeper into the market. He found a farmer selling
flowering fennel and bought a bundle of the feathery leaves, but as he paid for
his purchase the master felt a hard stare drilling into his back. Whirling, he
spied the dwarf crouched by a table, watching him.

He knows!
A
cold certainty settled into the master's stomach. The dwarf did not look like a
killer, yet secrecy was the master's best defense. He felt the need to run yet
he knew it would be unwise to draw more attention. Moving away from the dwarf,
he slipped into the thickest part of the crowd. Like a minnow moving among
many, he followed the crowd, using them for cover. Keeping his fist locked on
his focus, he scanned for the dwarf. Jostling through the market, he waited for
his chance. The crowd's movement seemed aimless, a random torture of
meandering. Sweat beaded his brow, striving for patience, but then the crowd
pulsed near an alley. He fled the market, slipping into the city's shadowy back
ways. Racing down the alley, he turned left and then right, taking the path
that seemed most evasive. Ducking beneath a shaded doorway, he waited,
straining to hear over his racing heart. He expected the clatter of footsteps
running behind, but he heard nothing. His back pressed to the door, he kept
listening, waiting till his heart slowed to a regular beat.

Still nothing.

Needing to be
sure, he crept back to the last corner. Pressed to the wall, he carefully
peered around. At first he saw nothing...but then he noticed a furtive movement
at the far end of the alley.
The dwarf!
But instead of running, he was
crouched down, moving slowly, methodically, his head slewing back and forth...
as
if he followed a trail.

A thread of fear
ran through the monk. He studied the hard-packed dirt of the alleyway and saw
no tracks, nothing to betray his path, and then he remembered the strange
sniffing sound in the marketplace.
My scent! Perhaps the dwarf tracks me by
my scent!
The thought evoked a primal fear, the sound of wolves howling in
the night.
Perhaps it's just the pungent scent of my herbs.
He soothed
his fear with strained logic. Shrugging the satchel from his back, he left it
lying in the shadows. Plucking the sprig of thyme from his cloak pin, he tossed
it aside and scurried back down the alleyway. Moving quickly but quietly, he
sought to leave no trail. He ran blind through the back ways, twisting and
turning, seeking to escape.

Five times he
tried doors and five times they remained locked, bolted, closed. Trust was
scarce in the back alleys...and then he spied a red lantern, the age-old symbol
for a house of ill-repute. He hurried towards the lantern. Dispelling any
doubts, the iron door knocker was shaped like two lovers entwined. He rapped on
the door, wanting to be heard without making too much noise. No one answered.
Twice more he knocked.

A bolt slid back
and the door eased open. A sleepy-eyed woman in a drab velvet robe peered out.
Her brow furrowed. She took one look at him and began to slam the door.
"We're closed."

He thrust his
foot into the opening. "I just need a room to rest for an hour."

"Get an
inn, grandfather."

He flashed a
fist full of gold coins. "I'm not paying inn prices."

Her eyes
widened. She reconsidered, slowly opening the door.

He slipped
inside. "Close and bolt it."

"Are you
bringing trouble to this house?"

"I'm
bringing gold to this house."

Her avarice won
out. She closed and bolted the door.

The master
sagged in relief. The small parlor smelled seedy, a mixture of sour ale and
cheap perfume overlaying other smells he did not care to name.

The woman gave
him an appraising stare. "Yer a bit old for an early morning romp."

"I'm not
seeking a romp. I just need a room on the second floor with a window
overlooking this alleyway." He held three golds towards her. "Show me
to the room, and when I leave, I'll put two more golds in your hand."

She gave him a
petulant pout. "Three."

"Done."

Snatching the
coins from his hand, the madam scowled, realizing she could have bargained for
more. "This way." She led him to a stairway. "You can use
Lucinda's room. But if you so much as touch the girl, you'll pay double the
golds."

"Agreed."
He followed her to a front room. She opened the door without knocking, ushering
him into a small bedroom. A girl with hair dyed scarlet red peered from tussled
sheets. Instead of looking startled, she looked mildly annoyed.

"Relax,
Lucinda, he's just here to look." The woman's voice held a hint of wry
amusement. "If you can get the old man to touch you, there's two golds in
it for ya."

The master
crossed to the window. "I'm just here for the view."

"So you
say." The madam lingered by the door, a shrewd look on her face.
"I'll leave the door open." Her look turned hard. "Don't leave
without paying."

"I
won't." The windows were heavily curtained, shielding the daylight.
Instead of opening the heavy damask, the master stood pressed to the wall,
peering behind the faded curtains. Dirt encrusted the window, tinting the pane
brown, but it gave a decent view of the alleyway below. From his angled perch,
the master kept watch, his anxious gaze scanning for the dwarf.

"Wouldn't
you rather come to bed?"

Striking a
suggestive pose, the girl had dropped her sheets, displaying her naked wares.
From the stretch marks, he judged she'd already had a babe or two. Such a hard
and heartless life, he pitied the girls who thought a brothel was their only
choice. "Thank you, child, but there's no need. I'm really just here for
the view."

"But Minara
said..."

Hearing the pout
in her voice, he extended his hand toward her, offering two gold coins.
"For you. Keep them for yourself, I won't tell the madam. Now, please just
let me keep watch."

She took the
coins, planting a tender kiss on his hand.

The delicacy of
her kiss surprised him, but he refused to be distracted. "Cover
yourself." His words were harsher than he intended. Turning back to the
window, he resumed his vigil. Leaning against the wall, he pondered the riddle
of the dwarf. In his dash through the back alleyways, he'd recalled a vague
rumor in the monastery, something about a creature who sniffed magic. He
shuddered at the thought, making the hand sign against evil. Such an ability
would make any disguise impossible, destroying the Order's hidden ways. Enemies
came in many guises, even dwarves. He wanted to believe the dwarf's nearness to
his focus was only a coincidence, but wishful thinking could be dangerous, even
deadly. Either way, he needed to know.

For the turn of
an hourglass, he kept watch. Just when he thought it was safe, he saw the dwarf
slink into the alleyway, his head slewing back and forth, his nostrils flared.

So it's true!

The dwarf crept
to the very door of the brothel, sniffing the handle like a dog on a scent. For
a handful of heartbeats, he crouched by the door, and then he looked upward,
toward the master's window.

The master
jerked backwards without disturbing the curtains.
Did he see me?
Counting
to a hundred, he stayed pressed to the wall, and then he cautiously peered back
through the window.

The little man
was gone, no longer by the door.

Puzzled, the
master scanned the alleyway. He found the dwarf sitting cross-legged in the
shadows, his gaze fixed on the brothel's door like a hound awaiting its quarry.

The master
fingered his focus, considering his choices, but magic of his sort should never
be wielded lightly. His gaze snapped to the girl. "Does the brothel have a
back door?"

She nodded.

"Good."
He explained the favor he needed. "Now get dressed and take me to the
madam so I can pay her fee. Then show me to the back door." He looked away
while she pulled on a faded red robe.

"Come."
Her gaze was downcast, her brazen gestures fled.

Clothing
transformed her, instead of a wanton whore, she appeared demure, almost shy.
Perhaps clothing brought out her true nature, a pity she'd been ensnared by a
brothel. The master followed her down the stairs and found the madam waiting
for him, her hand extended. He paid the promised three golds. "Thank you
for the use of your window. The girl will show me to the rear door."

The madam gave
him a lewd look. "Come again, your gold is always welcome."

Anxious to be
gone, he said, "I won't take any more of your time."

The girl showed
him to the rear door, opening the heavy bolt.

He peered out,
blinking at the bright sunshine. Instead of an alley, the door opened onto a
narrow bolt-hole, a backdoor escape path threading between buildings.
"This will serve." He handed the girl two more gold coins. "Pay
the madam your fee and then find another life. You don't belong here."

The girl looked
startled as a deer, as if she'd forgotten kindness. Taking the coins, she
secreted them in her robe and then dropped a curtsy towards him. "Thank
you, m'lord."

"I'm not a
lord, child. Now close and bolt the door after me."

He waited till
he heard the bolt slide shut and then he hurried down the narrow walkway.
Barely more than a shoulder-width wide, the back way stank of refuse and stale
piss. He reached the end, the cleft between buildings opening onto a wider
alley. Turning left, the master made his way back to the lane that fronted the
brothel. Crossing to the shady side, he cautiously peered down the alley. The
dwarf was there, crouched in the shadows, keeping watch on the brothel door.

Shifting his own
gaze to the door, the master tightened his grip on his quarterstaff, waiting.

Nothing
happened.

Perhaps he'd
taken too long, but then the brothel door eased open.

The dwarf rose
from a crouch, his gaze locked on the door.

"Come
again, m'lord."

Hearing the
girl's voice, the master took three quick strides towards the dwarf, wielding
his quarterstaff in a lightning strike. The dwarf turned, but not fast enough.
The quarterstaff struck him a numbing blow on the right shoulder.

The dwarf
yelped, falling backwards on his butt, his right arm dangling useless.

The brothel door
slammed shut.

The dwarf drew a
dagger with his left hand.

The quarterstaff
whirled in a blur, striking the dagger from the dwarf's hand. "Whom do you
serve?" The master held the quarterstaff in a threatening pose. "Name
your master."

The dwarf
snarled, flinching away.

"Whom do
you serve?"

The little man's
eyes blazed with hate. "Not tell you, never tell you."

Impatient for
answers, Master Numar twirled the quarterstaff, striking two solid blows on the
dwarf's ribs. "Speak the name and you shall live."

"You fight
with sticks...the master fights with...pain." Sneering, the dwarf flicked
his wrist, hurling a dagger towards the master's face.