The Summoner (15 page)

“More promises,” Jared muttered. “Leave me. I’m tired of your prattle. Bring me news when your spies reach the northern roads. I want to know when my brother crosses the border.”

Arontala bowed low with exaggerated grace. “As you wish, my liege,” he murmured, but the glance with which he fixed the king gave Jared no doubt that the wizard’s show of servitude was merely one more dangerous game.

He watched the mage leave and shuddered. The sorcerer could make all the reassurances he wished, Jared thought, but he was underestimating Bava K’aa.

Despite his heavy robes, Jared shivered. As for ghosts, the palace had more than its share. Now, despite Arontala’s warding, he swore he could feel their presence, waiting, mocking, angry. He must make sure Tris could never draw on their power, never turn them against him as they had savaged the attackers of King Hotten generations ago.

Arontala says he’s banished them, but maybe they’re just beyond the gates, he thought. And they’re waiting.

He looked back outside, struggling to calm his thudding heart. The living he could master, but the dead were another matter entirely.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

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Tris and the others made camp at the edge of a small forest, just far enough within the tree line to hide themselves from the village below. There were many people on the road, returning from festival or taking goods to the last fairs before winter, and so Harrtuck made a small fire without concern.

“Now what?” Tris asked Vahanian as the mercenary sat next to the fire, a hot mug of watered ale gripped in his hands against the cold.

Vahanian glanced up at him. “Now, we find some cover for going north,” he said, draining his mug and setting it aside. He clasped his hands and looked into the fire. “A caravan’s good cover,”

he said after a pause. “Lots of people for camouflage and they still make decent time on the road.”

“Won’t that be slow?” Carroway asked, finishing his dinner. “I mean, they have to stop a lot to sell their wares and give their shows.”

“Beats four fugitives and a guide trying not to look obvious,” Vahanian said, never taking his eyes off the fire.

“So what are we going to do?” Soterius asked, setting his plate aside. “Just walk up and say,

‘Hello there, we want to be your hired swords?’”

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Harrtuck laughed and even Vahanian smiled. “A little like that,” Vahanian said. “If they’re passing anywhere near here, there’s a caravan I have in mind. An old friend of mine named Maynard Linton owns it. Maynard will take us on, no questions asked, and keep his theories to himself if our guards seem overly well‐bred,” he said, with a pointed glance toward Tris and Soterius.

“How do we find him?” Tris asked.

Vahanian shrugged. “There’s a settlement on the other side of the forest. I’ll go down to the tavern. Tavern keepers always know where the caravans are.”

He left within the hour, heading down the slope into the village while Tris and the others stayed hidden in the forest. Vahanian paused at the outskirts of the village to take stock. It looked quiet enough. Some of the banners from the holiday remained aloft from the corners of buildings, fluttering cold and forlorn on the autumn breeze.

The tavern was on the edge of the settlement, its broken sign askew and unreadable. Vahanian made his way up the sagging steps, toeing a

drunk out of the way, and pushed open the greasy door. Something skittered across his boot as he entered. The tavern was full, testimony to a lack of competing facilities, Vahanian was sure, rather than to the food and ale. He sized up the clientele—third‐rate merchants, petty cut-throats, fewer and uglier whores than usual, and one or two freelance fighters who appeared to be nothing more than common thugs.

He took a place at the bar so that his back was to a wall, and casually rested his boot on the rail of a chair as the barkeeper brought him a mug of ale. For a candlemark, he listened silently as the patrons grumbled about taxes and guardsmen, muddy roads and too much rain. He listened more closely when the talk turned to trouble in the north, but heard nothing more specific than rumors of dark magic and fierce beasts. As he listened, he watched the crowd. There were few enough inns on the way north, making it likely for those who traveled frequently to spot one 122

another. That included bounty hunters, whom Vahanian wanted to avoid more fervently than ever.

“Heard anything about caravans coming this way?” he asked, draining his mug. He slid his coin across the sticky wood.

The barkeeper shrugged, bit the coin, and threw it into his apron pocket. “I hear there’s some coming,” he replied in a voice that suggested that he sampled too many of his own goods.

“Any in particular?”

“Maybe. Heard something about Couras’s caravan passing through here going south in a few weeks,” the barkeeper added, wiping out a glass and setting it back to be used again. “Heard tell that Linton’s caravan was heading north, might be here in two or three days.”

Vahanian nodded and sipped his drink. He froze as he recognized a squat man with oily blond hair, rising from a table in the back. He had an inkling the man had been looking for him, back in Ghorbal. When it came to tracking prey, bounty hunters seemed to have all the time in the world. If the hunter made a calculated guess about Vahanian’s direction, he would check out the inns first. Bad enough if Vahanian were about his usual business, but with the fugitives in tow, it made the risk unacceptably high. He would have to do something about it. As Vahanian watched, the bounty hunter made his way among the crowded tables toward the door.

Vahanian turned slightly so that his face was hidden as the man passed, then set his drink aside when the door closed behind the man and followed him into the night.

In the darkness of the alley behind the inn, Vahanian tackled the squat bounty hunter from behind, locking his arm around the man’s throat.

“So, Chessis, you’re still in business,” Vahanian said, tightening his grip.

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“Let me go, Vahanian. I’m not looking for you.”

“Right,” Vahanian replied, maintaining his pressure on Chessis’s throat. “And I’m not worth a lot of money to you dead.”

“That was a long time ago,” Chessis croaked. “They’ve probably retired the purse by now.”

“Somehow, I doubt it. What are you doing here?”

The bounty hunter twisted slightly, enough to bring his boot around, and Vahanian realized almost too late that there was a blade set in its toe. The knife sliced his pantleg as he released his hold and jumped back, pulling his own blade. Chessis dropped into a defensive squat, circling and looking for an opening. In the narrow alleyway with its tangle of overhead laundry lines, drawing a sword would be impossible. Instead, Vahanian crouched, knife in hand, ready to spring.

Chessis lunged. Vahanian parried. Chessis feinted, then lunged again, his knife scoring against Vahanian’s arm. With an oath, Vahanian pivoted, his left foot snapping out towards the surprised bounty hunter, letting his boot connect hard against the man’s knife hand and sending the weapon skittering down the alleyway. Before Chessis could recover, Vahanian spun, slipping within the bounty hunter’s guard and burying his knife deep in the man’s chest. With a groan, the oily‐haired man clutched at the spreading stain on his shirt and sagged to the ground, just as Vahanian felt the point of a sword in his back.

“It may be too close to fight with this,” a gravelly voice said, “but I have plenty of room to run you through, Jonmarc.”

Vahanian dropped his knife and raised his hands. “Hello, Vakkis.”

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“Some day, before I kill you, you’re going to have to teach me that footwork,” Vakkis remarked coolly. “You’re really a marvel, Jonmarc. I may miss you when you’re dead. Escaping from the Nargi is feat enough. Learning their ancient fighting skills is another.” Vakkis made a tsk tsk in the back of his throat. “It’s going to be much quieter for me after you’re gone, Jonmarc.”

“I never knew you cared, Vakkis,” Vahanian replied. “I’ll be glad to give you your first lesson now, if you want.”

The jab of the sword’s point between his shoulder blades was his reply.

“You know, Chessis was telling the truth,” the bounty hunter went on. “We aren’t looking for you, at least, right now. I’ve got another client.”

“Slime spreads,” Vahanian remarked, and this time, the sword jab drew blood.

“Where is Martris Drayke?”

“How in the hell would I know?”

“Turn around, slowly, and keep your hands up,” Vakkis replied, keeping the point of his sword against Vahanian’s flesh as the fighter turned, and bringing the sword to bear above his heart.

“Now, I’ll ask again. Where is Martris Drayke?”

“You’re getting old, Vakkis,” Vahanian replied. “Hearing’s going. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

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A slow smile crept over Vakkis face. “You actually don’t, do you?” the bounty hunter chuckled.

“This is more satisfying than I’d dreamed. Jonmarc Vahanian, played for a fool.”

“I’m glad one of us is having fun. Mind letting me in on the joke?”

A cold smile made Vakkis’s pointed features even harsher in the moonlight. “They managed to elude me in Ghorbal, but I heard they’d teamed up with you. Our little kingslayer, Martris Drayke of Margolan and his friends, seem to have bought themselves a guide,” Vakkis said, watching Vahanian with amusement. “You really didn’t know, did you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” To Vahanian’s astonishment, Vakkis reached into his cloak and withdrew a small purse filled with coins, which he dropped at Vahanian’s feet. “Even by your standards, there’s fair compensation in there for information,” Vakkis said, stepping back a pace and lowering his sword. “Now, where is Martris Drayke?”

“Go to hell.”

“Loyalty from you, Jonmarc? I’m surprised,” Vakkis clucked. “I thought you unburdened yourself of that along with your commission.”

“Go screw the goddess.”

“In time,” Vakkis said with a cold smile. “Think about my offer. I’m easy to find. That purse is only a down‐payment. Jared of Margolan has promised to make a rich man of anyone who delivers his brother alive. And you’ve never let king, honor or country stand in the way when money’s involved.”

The bounty hunter took another step backward, into the shadows of the alley, so that his face 126

and form were barely visible.

“Think about it, Jonmarc,” Vakkis said, his voice carrying in the chill night air. “More money than you can imagine. Pay me a cut and I’ll stop hunting you. Wealth and freedom, just for delivering the goods. What businessman could resist?” Vakkis said as he faded into the darkness.

Vahanian did not move for several minutes, until he was sure that Vakkis was actually gone. Only then did he realize just how hard his heart was thudding. Wealth and freedom. He looked down at the purse at his feet. There’s only one thing worse than a bounty hunter, a voice said in the back of his mind. And that’s the snitch he pays for the kill. The cold night air seared his lungs. He paused and then, surprising himself, stepped over the purse and walked toward the end of the alley, stopping only to snatch up his fallen blade.

Vahanian found Tris at the edge of the camp when he returned, skinning the rabbits Harrtuck brought down for their dinner. “I killed a man for you tonight, Prince Drayke,” Vahanian grated.

Tris stiffened and rose to his feet as Vahanian continued. “You didn’t think it was important enough to tell me the truth, even though it’s my neck you’re risking to get you to Dhasson.”

“Jonmarc, I—”

“Let’s get something straight right now,” Vahanian continued. “I am not expendable. We don’t move from here until I know what’s going on. The whole story. If I like what I hear, and believe it, I’ll take you to Dhasson. If not, I leave right now, and you can find another fool. And, Your Highness, I’m nobody’s liegeman. If I take you to Dhasson, and that’s a very big ‘if right now, it’s on my terms, my way. Do you understand?”

Tris took a deep breath and nodded.

“Good,” Vahanian said. “That means you’re smarter than most royals. Now, let’s hear your story—all of it. ”

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“Vahanian, you’re back,” bustled Harrtuck. Harrtuck ambled toward them from the fires of the camp, coming up behind Vahanian. With one fluid movement, Vahanian wheeled, bringing his fist to connect soundly with Harrtuck’s jaw.

“What the hell was that for?” Harrtuck shouted.

“I found out from a bounty hunter who your ‘cargo’ really was,” Vahanian snapped. “He could have slit my throat and I’d have never seen it coming.”

“Jonmarc, you don’t understand—”

“I understand that my life is as important as your three nobles,” Vahanian grated, still standing over the stout armsmaster. “And that I can’t decide what risks are worth taking if I don’t know the game.” Glaring, Vahanian turned away and Harrtuck scrambled to his feet.

“In fact, I can’t think of one reason right now—even your money—why I should take you to Dhasson.”

“Arontala’s back. And he’s got a king this time, not just a general at his command,” Harrtuck said quietly from behind Vahanian, who stiffened at the name.

“How do you know?”

Harrtuck gave a short, harsh laugh. “Know? How we know is the reason we’re in the forest freezing our rumps off instead of toasting by a nice palace fire,” he said, and together, he and Tris told their tale. This time, the only thing Tris omitted was what happened with Kait in the bedchamber and his subsequent dreams of his sister and his sorceress grandmother.

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Vahanian sat in silence for several minutes after they finished, staring at his hands, his face unreadable. “I take you to Dhasson, and then what?”

“Then you collect your money from King Harrol and leave,” Harrtuck snapped. “At that point, your jewels are out of the fire.”

“And the rest of you?”

“I’m going back,” Tris said evenly. “Someone has to stop Jared. I’m the only one who can.”

“You’re going to stop Foor Arontala? Look, prince, even with King Harrol’s entire army, it just ain’t enough,” Vahanian said, shaking his head.