Enemy Page 10

  For her part, Aarinnaie had never looked less a Princess. She wore a long tunic over trousers and boots, her hair braided up, a few curly sprigs framing her face. Gadye trinkets were woven in the braids at her temples. She didn’t have a collar but her appearance made for a short jump to a bed slave. She perused the room before sitting across from them.

  “They’re staring, some of them. At you, Drae,” Aarinnaie said lowly.

  “Debility always draws attention.” Draken could fair feel their curiosity. What was under the mask? A horrible scar? Did he even have eyes under there?

  Truls moved between tables like a soldier hunting down a fugitive. He’d been quiet of late, but always moving, spilling anxious energy. Curious to watch the oblivious people shift or turn their heads as he passed. Draken reckoned he was falling in nicely with the gods’ will, or he was so far gone off their path the Mance ghost had given up whispering to him. But Truls followed Draken always, as if he were the Seven’s eyes.

  His sister only shook her head. “All right. We’re here. Now tell me why.”

  Draken kept his voice low. “Because here are my enemies.”

  “Some of them,” Tyrolean said. He wore his hair down, stringy around his face, and tattered clothes. He’d put away his dual swords and replaced them with a good one on his hip. There were enough Akrasian camp followers on the streets that he didn’t stand out by his mere presence. Most might assume him the master of two sundry slaves. That, they had decided, was a misconception they’d use as a disguise. Tyrolean just had to be careful about showing his face to anyone he knew. So far they hadn’t frequented the better taverns where the new masters of the city did. Not that it seemed to matter. According to Aarinnaie, the better taverns were remarkably bereft of the city’s new occupiers.

  The tavern wasn’t far from the Citadel. The last time he had been here his face hadn’t been on a coin so he hadn’t needed any disguise but to hide Elena’s pendant.

  “But the enemy I need most likes to come here,” Draken said.

  “Khisson?”

  Draken nodded.

  Aarinnaie set her mug on the table with a sharp thud. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s a bad idea.”

  Last Tradeseason she had infiltrated an islander family working against Draken’s rule. He and Tyrolean had stumbled upon them preparing to recruit Aarinnaie into their ranks by a fight, though he had the private impression that had they not arrived, such an initiation would involve something a bit more intimate than demonstrating her prowess with her knives. At any rate, he and Tyrolean had made quick work of the threat against her and blown her cover, to her consternation. But many of Khisson House still lived, most notably the bloodlord patriarch. By all accounts Khisson nursed a grudge against Draken as bitter as the ale in his mug.

  “I know what I’m doing, and I know all about him. You weren’t my only eyes and ears on the street,” Draken said. She gave him a sharp look and he amended, “Just my best.”

  Tyrolean was on the other side of the table trying to hold back a grin. Draken failed to find the humor. “A sevennight ago—” Gods, had it been so recently he was still Khel Szi, ensconced in the Citadel? “—Khisson was seen in the city.”

  “Why? What would pull him from the Dragonstars at this time of year?” Most islanders spent Frostfall pursuing quiet endeavors at home, taking shelter from the coming storms. For that matter, so did mainlanders.

  “An invasion of Akrasians and Monoeans, perhaps.” Tyrolean barely sipped from his own mug, a sure sign he was nervy. “He might well recognize you, my lord.”

  “That’s rather the point, isn’t it, Ty?”

  Tyrolean laid a neat stack of coins out on the table for the barmaid to see—some of their last, earned by selling off Draken’s leather armor in pieces at the market. After a short wait, the barmaid stopped, eyed Draken, snatched up three more coins, and hurried off without a word.

  Draken’s masked itched. He closed his fist where it rested on the table.

  Aarinnaie had argued vehemently against coming out at all. Now that she knew why they were here, she cursed softly. “Whether they’re in league or not, Khisson is bound to turn you over to Ilumat.”

  Draken had Bruche to advise him on the finer points of the culture of Brînian vendetta and he agreed with his swordhand’s assessment. “We killed his men, one of his sons. Makes it personal, if it wasn’t before. No. He’ll want to kill me himself if he can possibly manage it.”

  Tyrolean nodded his thanks to the barmaid as she deposited three fresh dented mugs on the table and scurried off.

  “But you do have a price on your head and islanders are all about coin.” Aarinnaie lifted the mug to her lips.

  Truls had come behind Tyrolean and tipped his head as if listening to the conversation. Draken looked at his ale instead. A bit of something stuck to the inside of the cup. He picked at it with his nail and realized not only should he be unable to see it, his hands were grimier than all that. He sighed and drank.

  “Draken.” Tyrolean, low.

  “Be easy, Ty. You don’t need to taste for me. The only poison in this mug is dirt.”

  “No, not that. Khisson just walked in,” Tyrolean said.

  Draken pretended to turn his head to listen to Tyrolean so he could look. Bare-chested, a cloak sweeping behind, traditional loose-legged pants bound with a sash, though the bloodlord wore boots in deference to the wet cold. Enough chains round his neck and bands around his wrists and biceps to feed a borough of Brînian aged and infirm for a Sohalia.

  He doesn’t need your bounty, Bruche said.

  No. He doesn’t. Which suited Draken’s plans just fine.

  Half a dozen men followed the bloodlord. Narrowed eyes snagged on Draken and then twitched free. Maybe they considered him a good mark since he appeared blind, despite Tyrolean’s lean, dangerous proximity. Or perhaps they wondered why an Akrasian and a blind Brînian were companions.

  “I need a reason to go fetch him for you that won’t raise brows, aye?” She was loosening the collar of her tunic. Aarinnaie hadn’t much bosom to speak of—too slight and skinny. Draken had always thought her too young to be betrothed or considered an adult, though reasonably he knew twenty-five Sohalias made her well past marrying age.

  The barmaid brought more ale. Tyrolean drained his cup and reached for the fresh one as Aarinnaie loosened her many braids from the leather strap holding them back, took up her new cup, and rose. With the Gadye trinkets woven at her brow and temples and her clothing, she’d easily be mistaken as sundry.

  As her slight form moved through the tables toward them, Draken had a flash of what it would be for Sikyra, true sundry, to make her way alone in the world. His hand trembled as he wrapped it around his cup and brought it to his lips.

  Aarinnaie laid her hand on Khisson’s arm to get his attention, though he was already turning. Khisson stared, eyes widening. He said something and she responded, dipping her chin. Khisson said something else. Laughter broke out among them. Aarinnaie didn’t smile. One of the men caught her arm and pulled her down to sit on the bench next to him.

  Khisson rose and walked toward them. Three of his men followed. Aarinnaie was still held at the table. She grimaced but made no move to escape. Draken made no indication he could see as Khisson approached. Tyrolean shoved out the vacant bench opposite them with his boot. Khisson sat, slowly. His legs stretched out under the table so that his boots crowded Draken’s. Lines creased his mouth and eyes under the yellow glow of the rusted lantern affixed to the wall over Draken’s head. Not friendly lines. No smiles unless from a particular cruelty. His locks, thick and dangling halfway down his back, were dull compared to his shiny, clean skin. He was the darkest Brînian Draken had ever seen, his features sculpted and fine. Very pureblood, he assumed.

  Ash dye hid the grey in his hair, dulling his locks. Of course. Draken resisted running a rueful hand over his own silver-threaded shorn head. He shifted his gaze under the mask to examine the others. Two of t
he guards surrounding them had muddied eyes. At first glance it might look like angry Mance eyes, but the whites were statically bruised. He knew that look. He’d seen it on Khisson’s son. Addicted to eventide, the mad-spice grown downcoast.

  “Thank you for joining me,” Draken said. He tilted his face a little toward the others, still feigning blindness. His stomach knotted, wondering how long the disguise would work.

  Having the man across from him, this man with a grudge, this man who hated him enough to keep up on his every move, made his hand desperate to draw Seaborn. A cold breath swept over the back of his bare neck. Truls, no doubt, watching Khisson curiously.

  Draken eased a breath. “I know you. Your sons and men. I want to talk to you.”

  “All this ceremony over the whore? Pretty thing. Ten rare for the night and we’ll have done with it.”

  Impatient, this one.

  Bruche was right. But his guards sensed more, if Khisson did not. The others encircled the table, backs to the table and blocking Aarinnaie from view.

  She can take care of herself. Kill them all in five breaths. Bruche’s chill flooded Draken’s trembling hands, resting on his knees. If it was meant to be soothing, it didn’t work. It only made him long to draw his sword.

  Truth, but I’d rather her not make her skills obvious just yet. Besides, he needed Khisson. Bruche brought Draken’s hand up and he drank. His other arm came up to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. “It’s not about the girl. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I’m never one to turn down a mug,” Khisson said, tone ungracious. But he stayed. He was curious. Draken filed that away.

  Tyrolean pushed back and rose. Went to fetch one. Khisson watched him, eyes narrowed. “Strange, a sundry merc with a fullblood Akrasian.” He’d admirably resisted using a slur. Maybe trying to sort who answered to who, though Draken thought it was clear enough.

  “The whole world has gone strange.”

  Khisson shrugged. “Wars happen and time runs on.”

  Draken acquiesced with a nod.

  Tyrolean returned with the drink. There was a slight hesitation to Khisson’s reach. A wince that didn’t reach his face. Draken noticed it even with his gauzy vision because he had the same catch sometimes. Khisson was older than him, though. More battered. Scars crossed his chest. No matter how he greased his skin, the lines around his eyes and mouth were deepening. Crevices ever tougher to fill and hide, like the ones between peoples and ghosts and gods.

  “I wanted your opinion on what happens now,” Draken said. “Rumors say Monoea will take Brîn.”

  “Hm. We’re naught but chattel to Akrasia since the old Khel Szi’s time. This proves it gone, eh?”

  Which Khel Szi? His ruddy father, or his grandfather who he’d never known, who Bruche had died protecting? A respected king, by all accounts. “Still. It makes a man wonder whether there is work to be had here or if I should move on. The Ashen won’t hold with our ways, I reckon.”

  A humorless grunt. “Enslave the lot of us, more like. Akrasia did sell us for a song.”

  A bit more than a song. Khisson misjudged the effort to drag troops and weapons and the ram across Akrasia, of Ilumat’s effort at organizing it. Was it a purposeful devaluation? “You don’t sound too worried.”

  Khisson took a drink. “Let me see your eyes.”

  His lashes rubbed the mask as he blinked in surprise. So. Not fooled. Everything this man did was on purpose. Khisson was more clever than he’d given him credit for. Draken just hoped he wasn’t going to make a habit of it.His jaw tight, he reached up and pulled the mask off. Lowered his gaze under the light. Blinked. Struggled to look up. To show them. He could barely keep them open. His pupils strained in the light.

  Khisson hissed a breath. Reached out and grasped Draken’s chin like he was an unruly child and lifted his face. “You’re … What’s wrong with you?”

  “Aye. It’s him.” Tyrolean, his voice low. “And lack of respect will cost you dear.”

  Draken twisted free of Khisson’s grip. “Magicked blind.”

  “By a Mance?” Khisson leaned back, too quick. His calm shattered. One of those who didn’t hold with Mance or magic. One who saw his own ugliness reflected back by the necromancers.

  “It doesn’t rub off,” Draken growled. “And no Mance did this.”

  “Who then?”

  His breath was harsh in his chest. Anger twisted through him. “The gods.”

  “You’re cursed?”

  “As good as.”

  Khisson held very still. Stared. Draken lifted his head, squinting, to stare back at him with hot, watering eyes. He couldn’t keep it up for long. He pulled the mask up into place. Immediately the heat faded from his eyes. A few tears dampened the fabric.

  Khisson’s voice strengthened. He was regaining his composure. “I should have known from the start. That whore must be your sister-Szirin. I’d heard about her. Unfit to marry any man.”

  There was no point in answering such a petty insult, so Draken didn’t bother. He just hoped Aarin was ready to slice her way out of this if it came to it. Also, he wasn’t certain how to phrase what he wanted from the bloodlord. A little panic edged into his reserve. Truls chose this moment to speak, not helping much.

  the gods they come they come for you this man is one he comes

  Bruche rumbled his unease. What in bloody Korde is he talking about?

  Draken had no idea. Khisson grunted again. “Hm. You’re not like your old da in talking. He didn’t shut it for gods nor slaves, truth. But you’ve the stones to sit here with me, so speak.”

  Khisson tilted a look at Draken. He wanted Draken to ask, wanted him to say it: You knew my father? An intriguing question. If Khisson had known him, were they allies or enemies? Maybe his grudge against Draken went further back than he’d thought. Or maybe it only went as far back as Draken killing this man’s son. But really, the why was an aside. A distraction.

  Khisson shifted on the bench. One of his men turned his head, not hiding his attention to the conversation. Draken let his hand fall to Seaborn. Bruche’s chill filled his fingers and arm. He was ready for Draken to speak, at least, even if Draken was not.

  Draken filled his lungs with air. Released it before speaking so the words were calm, offhand. “I just wanted to know if you’re still interested in killing me.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Khisson raised his brows, thin with age.

  “It would be convenient for me to be thought dead,” Draken added, fingers uncurling on the table between them.

  A rich laugh. “It’d be a deal more convenient for me if you actually were dead.”

  “I’ll remind you, you no longer have me on the throne ignoring certain of your activities. But you will again. I can be a valuable friend to you, Khisson, if you are one to me.”

  Khisson lifted his chin. It jutted, sharp, contrasting with his flat cheeks and forehead. “Or I can make fast friends with Ilumat with the gift of your body.”

  “Ilumat. Interesting he decided to move when he did. He’s always been eager to prove himself, that one. What better way to prove yourself in Brîn than on a Dragonstar pirate?”

  The lip curled further. Draken would lay his last rare that it was meant to hide Khisson’s curiosity about Ilumat.

  Draken added, “A sevennight of your time, my lord. It’s all I’m asking.”

  “Khel Szi is a difficult man to kill,” Tyrolean said very quietly.

  “The heads of your szi nêre are on the walls. You’re here with your Escort pawn and your sister. I think you seem not so difficult to kill.”

  “Have your men try me. I could do with some entertainment.”

  Khisson leaned forward, hands moved to fold together but didn’t quite touch. The gnarled fingers flexed and curled. No imperfection of pain marred his dark face. Discipline or tonics. Draken thought he’d like to know which, since his shoulder and knee gave him little but trouble these days.

  “I could kill you now, save myself
the sevennight, and collect your bounty.”

  Draken schooled his face to show none of his alarm. It all made a bad sort of sense. “I will sit the throne at the Citadel again and you, my lord, will very much want me as a friend when I do.”

  “No. I am not convinced.”

  Bruche snorted. It reached Draken’s throat. He coughed to cover it. “Why not? It’ll be the simplest thing you do all Frostfall. Help make Ilumat fear me. Help him worry. And then you present evidence of my death to him. You earn coin and my undying gratitude. It’s a win for you in all ways.”

  “Except you won’t really be dead, nor in power. How will I provide evidence of your death without your head?”

  Draken had no idea, of course. He traced a gouge along the tabletop, back and forth, back and forth. It curved and broke as if someone meant to graffiti glyphs into the wood but had gotten distracted. “That’s for after you help me put the fear of the gods into him.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “The Seven Eyes hold me to my word. I’ll make certain Ilumat believes me dead.”

  “Short of your head, Akhen Khel would best convince him.”

  “No.”

  Khisson smiled slightly. He knew he’d touched a nerve. “You know I speak truth.”

  He did. He’d find another way to convince Ilumat. “No.”

  Khisson pushed back from the table. “I think we’re finished. Good fortune to you, Khel Szi. You’re going to need it.”

  Draken spoke a little faster. “Ilumat has no intention of letting go of the city. He doesn’t understand us. And what Akrasian lords don’t understand, they destroy.”

  Khisson’s heavy brows dropped and he frowned deeply. It might have been his most honest expression all evening. “Why would you threaten him, then, if you’ve no plan to take the throne back right away? If you want to make him think you’re dead.”

  “We will threaten him and let him think he has won, that I am dead. He’ll put it to the other high lords—most are as young as he—that it was his conquest, no matter how it falls out. He must believe I am dead, though. They all must believe me dead.”