Enemy Page 2

“The porters and maids have seen to it, Khel Szi. A word, though?” Thom glanced at the lingering szi nêre. Their faces bore flat expressions, pierced lips and brows fixed into expressions of alert compliance. It wasn’t that Thom didn’t trust them, so whatever he had to say must be of a very sensitive nature.

  Draken groaned inwardly and waved off Halmar. “Of course.” He walked toward the steps leading into the Great Hall. Getting on suppertime, the hall was mostly deserted, but dozens of torches kept it brightly lit. He kept to the shadowed walkway behind the pillars and strolled toward the dais. No one would follow them there.

  “I didn’t want to bring it up in front of the szi nêre, but the Akrasians refused to yield their weapons.”

  Bruche growled in Draken’s chest. Halmar was steady as stone but the other szi nêre were quicker to take offence. Konnon in particular lost no love on Akrasians. Word of any slight against Draken would spread through the Citadel to the lowliest slave. He hardly needed the staff harassing his guests. “Did they give a reason?”

  “Lord Ilumat said it was an insult to take lieges’ weapons during wartime.”

  “I hope someone told them it’s an insult to imply they aren’t well protected within the Citadel.”

  “It seemed to make no difference, Khel Szi.” Thom had the occasional leaning toward primness, which reminded Draken that despite his considerable organizational capabilities, he was still inexperienced and young.

  “It falls to me to settle, then, does it?” Damned awkward, asking for the weapons now.

  On the one hand, Draken could see the Akrasians’ point, though “liege” was an odd word to use between a regent and his people. Akrasians didn’t talk like that. Sounded more like some Landed Monoean, actually. Perhaps this was more threat than insult … if Ilumat somehow learned of Draken’s personal history. Bad enough Draken was Brînian; the people would toss out a half-blood regent who hailed from Monoea. The secret was only held because most of the people who knew his heritage were dead, and the rest had much to lose if he lost his position.

  And they’re your friends.

  Were they? He wasn’t always so sure. He had no illusions he was an easy friend to keep.

  Let it go. You have more important things to worry about than an upstart lord with a gold-chased rapier.

  He’s Elena’s cousin and the finest swordsman in Akrasia.

  Bruche snorted so hard it reached Draken’s throat. But for me.

  Thom waited, his painted eye and its live twin, also unblinking, resting on him.

  “You think I should say nothing of it,” Draken said, unease crawling through him. This was like grabbing a metal spoon from a steaming pot; no way to know if it was hot or not. Best assume it was.

  Thom’s mouth opened and closed, the edge of his cheek pressing against the mask. “Khel Szi, I wouldn’t pre—”

  “I’m asking you to presume, Thom.”

  The Gadye drew a deep breath. “It seems they might take great offense.”

  “I’ve asked Ilumat to disarm before. He didn’t have a problem with it then.”

  Thom cleared his throat. “When the Queen was in residence. I remember.”

  When the Queen … The point of this challenge dawned on him. This was a test of Draken’s authority. “I’ll think on it. Be easy, I’ll be tactful—”

  Tactful as an axe, Bruche chortled.

  “You just see they’re made comfortable.” Draken resisted patting the young Gadye’s shoulder. Since his being crowned people thought Draken wasn’t to be touched or some nonsense, and Thom was too anxious with all the new duties brought by these important guests to break even simple protocol.

  Captain Tyrolean, Draken’s closest friend and confidant since Elena had lent him permanently to Draken’s employ, met him on his way to his chambers to change. “Aye, I know about the weapons, Ty.”

  “I assumed you did.”

  “And? What would you do?”

  “Accompany you to dinner, Your Highness, with my own blades in plain view.”

  “Of course.” Tyrolean’s lined eyes made his expression look severe, so Draken had no trouble guessing how concerned he was over Ilumat’s show of bravado. That Tyrolean was tense enough to wear swords to supper with his own countrymen knotted Draken’s neck.

  By the time they entered the dim antechamber to Draken’s bedchamber, sleet lashed the shutters and cold air leaked in through the slats. He sat on the bench to remove his boots. Kai rushed forward to kneel and do it for him. Draken leaned his head back against the wall and watched Tyrolean make a circuit of the room beyond, studying it with his hand resting on his hilt. Truls took up residence in his typical corner.

  Draken nodded thanks to Kai. “Bloody inconvenient, their turning up now. I wanted another sevennight or two to study the war and devise strategy.”

  “Ilumat was raised up a soldier-son,” Tyrolean said. “He’s surely competent to help. And he might have new information from the front.”

  “He’d fair well better,” Draken said. “Be a refreshing change if he made himself of actual use.”

  “Perhaps strategy talks can be a distraction from this bad start.” Tyrolean paused near the latched shutters leading to the long balcony that ran the length of the wing, then moved on. Draken snorted softly. Neither of them really believed Ilumat intended anything other than building mountains between Draken and his power as Regent.

  Kai had warmed a bowl of water for washing and unclasped Draken’s cloak, keeping his eyes downcast, and pulled it from his shoulders. Draken stripped off his sword belt and laid the battered scabbard on a nearby table. The candle sconce on the wall stung his eyes, and Tyrolean’s pacing irritated like a scratchy wool tunic. He turned his head, examining the room. Nothing out of order. Everything as it should be. He growled softly, irritated that Ilumat’s arrival had him so rattled, and strode over to snuff a few candles in the sconce. Tyrolean kept walking, his brow furrowed.

  “Did you take insult because I don’t speak kindly of one of your lords, Ty?”

  “No, Your Highness. I just believe Ilumat can be of use. Better a friend than a rival.” His mouth twitched. “No matter how he annoys you.”

  Draken grunted as he unlaced and stripped his shirt. Too late for friendship. “Ilumat turned Elena over to the Moonlings. I ought to try him for treason.”

  “We don’t know that for certain—” Tyrolean began, but a rattling interrupted him. Both of them turned toward the balcony shutters. They rattled again, harder. Not the wind. Draken stepped toward his sword. Halmar appeared from the antechamber as Tyrolean strode forward to yank the shutters open, drawing his sword at the same time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tyrolean moved, sword first. Its point pressed into the narrow throat of a dark, short figure.

  Bruche chuckled. Draken sighed.

  The throat cleared, an ironic, feminine sound. “Good evening, Captain.”

  Tyrolean seemed frozen for half a breath, then lowered his sword and dipped his chin. “Princess.”

  He stepped back to admit Aarinnaie, Szirin of Brîn and half-sister to Draken. Leggings, worn boots, and layers of tunics thickened her narrow body. All were soaked through and dirty. Dead leaves and twigs stuck in her many tight braids. She scattered droplets of melting sleet as she shook her head and more sleet whipped in through the shutters before Tyrolean shoved them closed and latched them.

  “There are doors, you know,” Draken said. “Great, elaborate carved doors just for us royals, with servants to open them and everything.”

  She shrugged and peeled off her outer tunic. The one beneath clung to her narrow curves. “I’d make a mess on the Great Hall floor.”

  “Instead you’re dripping all over mine.”

  “Kai, will you please bring a towel.” She held her hand out.

  Kai wrung his hands and stepped back to fetch one, seeming to not know where to look. He was Draken’s body slave, not Aarinnaie’s. Custom dictated the free members of the household igno
re body slaves so they couldn’t share Draken’s secrets. Draken considered the notion nonsense, just as he thought Brînian holding slaves nonsense, but he’d learned there were some things he couldn’t yet change, even as Khel Szi. Kai pulled a towel off the stack and brought it back to her, offering it gingerly.

  “Go ask Lina to prepare the Szirin a hot bath,” Draken said to him. Kai shot him a grateful look and escaped. Draken turned back to Aarinnaie. “And no thrust and parry about not staying. You’ve been away far too long.”

  “I’m staying. It’s too nasty out for taverns and taletellers. Besides, you need me. I hear Ilumat has come.”

  “Lord Ilumat, and you never were much for Citadel dinners. Why now?”

  “Ilumat is quite handsome. Some say he’s the most handsome man in all Akrasia.” Too quick for Draken to decide if that was a joke, she made her way across the bright tile of his quarters, leaving a damp, muddy trail. Tyrolean watched her go, brows twisted. She dropped a curtsy at the door. “Present company excepted,” and she left them.

  Aye, definitely a joke.

  Draken strode to wash his face and hands in the steaming, frothy bowl. “All I need is Aarin causing a diplomatic incident.”

  “Ilumat can handle a clever tongue,” Tyrolean said.

  Most of it will go over his head anyway.

  Draken gave Tyrolean a look. “You surely don’t believe my sister’s only weapon is her tongue.”

  Tyrolean’s brows raised. “She is yet untouched, Your Highness.”

  That was not what Draken had meant. “How could you know such?”

  “I asked her.”

  Draken stared, his hands soapy. “That is not your concern.”

  “I made it my concern. My lord, Aarinnaie is an asset in many ways, but she could quickly become a liability. It is my duty to see that such liabilities are countered.” Tyrolean spoke gently. “But I don’t believe she’s dangerous in that way.”

  Draken was aware the Captain entertained some romantic affection for his sister, but even if Aarinnaie could be corralled into marriage it would have to gain some political leverage. Tyrolean, being a former Akrasian First Captain with little power in Brîn or Akrasia, not to mention Draken’s closest friend, was useless in that regard. Aarinnaie couldn’t be wasted on him.

  “She’s as likely to sneak into Ilumat’s quarters to kill him as ride him.” Draken’s discomfort made him irritably crass. “There’s a potential diplomatic incident for you.”

  “Ilumat already has already caused one—insulting you by not giving over his sword. A sword you own along with the Queen’s seal, Night Lord.”

  The pendant with Elena’s seal clinked inside the bowl as he bent over it. Draken caught it in his hand and wiped the dripping water off Elena’s image. Her chin was uplifted in the profile engraved into the moonwrought, jaw set, a hint of smile creasing her cheeks. He drew a steadying breath and let it fall back to his chest over the scar his own sword had left there when the priest-lord who led the Monoaen army had stuck him with it at the Battle of Auwaer ten moonturns before.

  Tyrolean is right, Bruche said. Ilumat has turned fully against you.

  He came here as a guest.

  It doesn’t feel right. You must take hold of this one quickly, Draken. Do not sup nor sleep without your guards or weapons. Better yet, lock him away for the insult.

  Draken looked at Tyrolean. “Bruche says I should ask for their weapons and if they refuse to surrender them, I should put Ilumat in the dungeon.”

  “And then?” Tyrolean asked evenly.

  “That would be the question.” He glanced at Truls but the ghost seemed to have no suggestions.

  Kai slipped back into the room and fetched a shirt from the wardrobe, but Draken shook his head. “Fresh trousers and the ’wrought armbands.” He ignored Tyrolean’s look. Akrasians eschewed the Brînian habit of going bare-chested. But in his own house, he would meet Ilumat on his own terms, which were Brînian. “Tyrolean, find Thom and tell him I want our guests’ rooms searched while they dine.”

  “For weapons?”

  “And anything else of interest. Then you may escort Aarinnaie to supper.”

  Brînians weren’t given to large state dinners but more intimate affairs of ten or twelve people of rank. The formal dining room was set for Draken, a low table inlaid with swirling mosaics of shell. The low light gave him a chance to study his guests.

  Ilumat wore his casual Escort Horse Captain uniform, the rank he’d held before his father had died suddenly, leaving him a young lord with some of the most important blood and lands in the kingdom. His tunic, cut with two diagonal stripes of rank, draped his muscled chest and his boots were brushed. Properly, he should take a knee, but instead he inclined his head graciously to Draken, who was willing to let it go since this was a more casual gathering. A light beard covered Ilumat’s cheeks, the edges untidy. Had his journey been too harried to pause for the occasional trim? It would have taken at least two sevennight to make it here from his lands, likely longer with River Eros no use for travel. The river ran low this Frost, and much of it was ice.

  “Khel Szi,” Ilumat said.

  Odd that, using his Brînian title.

  Burns the spoiled brat to call you Night Lord. Or worse, Prince. Bruche made a good point. Khel Szi was the least-respected of his titles among Akrasians. An insult in some quarters.

  If Draken didn’t quite smile, he did his best to pin an agreeable expression on his face. “Lord Ilumat. Welcome.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality on such short notice.”

  “The Citadel is quiet during Frost. We’ve plenty of room.” Though a message ahead would have been courteous.

  This one couldn’t taste courtesy if it were served well-salted by the Queen, Bruche intoned.

  Draken let his gaze slide down to Ilumat’s sword, his manicured fingers resting on the hilt chased with moonwrought. “It is Citadel imperative to relinquish weapons at the Great Hall and enjoy Brînian protection.”

  “The Gadye lad mentioned something.”

  Draken didn’t much appreciate the coy smile playing on Ilumat’s lips. “Thom is the Citadel Chamberlain.”

  “Aye. I explained our unease with that … imperative. The war—” Ilumat gave a delicate shrug. His fingers also tightened on his hilt. “Discomfiting times.”

  A war with a front a sevennight away. “Aye. Bad time to rattle me. Since I outrank you, Captain.”

  Ilumat held his gaze a breath too long, but short of a full-on challenge. He dipped his chin and undid his belt with a flourish, swinging the hilt round to present the sword to Draken on both palms. Well-callused palms. From sparring or fighting? Ilumat had been at the front at the start of the war. But Draken understood he’d spent at least half his time since on his lands, leaving his cohorts to his horsemarshals. Draken didn’t much like it but horsemarshals being what they were—trained, disciplined leaders with inarguable success rates—he’d let Ilumat’s indifference go. Perhaps this mild rebellion on Ilumat’s part was his testing Citadel ice to see where it might crack. Perhaps he should have met Ilumat in the throne room with all pomp and circumstance. Tension built in his spine as he stared at the young lord.

  Perhaps it is too late and the damage is already done.

  Draken didn’t have time to have a conversation with Bruche about what that might mean, but there was enough truth in the words to made his gut clench. The Akrasians moved to offer him their weapons and slaves soon carried all the weapons off. None looked happy as they sat back down when Draken gave them leave, the Akrasians nor the slaves.

  The doors swung open, breaking the awkward silence, and Thom entered to announce Aarinnaie and Tyrolean. The men … Draken’s four guests were curiously all men, including the two ranked Escorts and the Horse Captain accompanying Ilumat to dinner … all rose again. Draken suppressed a smile as he offered his sister his arm. Tyrolean dipped his chin to him and moved to his place at the table, greeting Ilumat as he did so.r />
  “Sorry. Am I late?” Dressed in a flowing gown, Aarinnaie sounded girlishly breathless. Draken hardly recognized her.

  “No, we’ve not started. You’ve met Lord Ilumat before, aye?”

  “When I visited Court last.” When she’d been under the manipulation of Truls and tried her damnedest to kill Queen Elena. Draken gave a surreptitious glance around despite the lack of death scent. No ghost-Mance. His shoulders eased slightly.

  Ilumat bowed over her hand and touched it to his forehead. “Princess. I last saw you at the battle for Auwaer. Impressive showing.”

  “It was a very near thing.” Her smile warmed, but Draken thought it a warning. Ilumat wasn’t buying her girlish princess act.

  “Aye, but we’ve our city back.”

  For now, Draken thought. He had his doubts about Auwaer surviving Newseason when the fighting started again in earnest. “Sit, please. They’re ready to serve us.” When everyone was settled and slaves were pouring wine, he asked, “Did you visit the front on your journey here, Ilumat?”

  He nodded, sipping his wine. “Our side is dug in for Frost. The Ashen make half-hearted attempts at raiding. Nothing to signify. I think the snow has thrown them all.”

  That made Draken curious. The Monoeans should be familiar enough with snow. “I can’t imagine Moonling Woods snowed in.”

  “Thigh high in drifts,” Ilumat said, “and so fogged in you can’t see the lowest branches of the Oscher trees. The air is so cold and damp it seeps into your bones and won’t let loose its hold. Fighting has been at a standstill for five sevennight now.”

  The coldest Draken had ever been was patrolling the Monoean coast. There, the cold got into your marrow and houses were shuttered so tightly most people had a constant cough all Frost from hearth smoke. Snow fell often and iced over in the damp ocean air. In Brîn the air was cold and damp, especially this night, but with the Citadel woods and walls to cut the ferocity of the cold sea winds, shutters still allowed a slight breeze to dance with the fires in the twin hearths.

  A basic thing, the weather, but Ilumat not knowing the enemy when he spoke as if he did irked Draken. “The Monoeans are more adapted to the cold than you might think. Best not to fall off guard.”