Emissary Read online

  She lowered it to reveal a grim line to her mouth. Her tone flattened. “Bad rumors in the city. There’s an inland herding village on the other side of the Eros. It’s called Parne. I heard tell that the village has been massacred. Dead to the last babe.”

  He stood silent and stiff a long moment. “Where did you hear this?”

  “At enough taverns I thought it worth bringing to you.” She set her flagon down on the nearest stone-top table with a careful clink.

  “Do they think it’s Monoeans who did it?”

  “No one knows, not yet. But it’s the logical leap, aye? What with the Monoean warships still on Blood Bay.”

  He cursed, low. His hand fell to toy with the loose strapping on Seaborn.

  She added, “May I ask why are they still here after the attack this morning, apparently un-sunk and free?”

  “We’re hoping to make terms.” He watched her face. Though its militant neutrality and the stiff line of her shoulders revealed little, foul curses had to be leaving a sour taste in her mouth. She knew Draken’s past, all of it. His mixed bloodlines. His exile. The truth and lies behind his wife’s murder.

  “I’ve had enough killing for one day,” he said.

  “I haven’t.”

  “If you were here at the Citadel, you could have fought.”

  Her lips twitched. “I serve you better on the streets. Was making terms your idea?”

  “Aye. I meant for First Marshal to handle it, or maybe Tyrolean. Elena is insisting I attend it myself,” he said, and went on before she could interrupt. “Before you rant about us dying of peace, know that she wants me to kill them all. It was only by a hair I convinced her of the folly in underestimating the Monoeans’ capability for retaliation.”

  She hissed a breath. “You’ll be recognized.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I saw the prisoners this morning. None were familiar.”

  No point in worrying her, but even so, he wondered. Kupsyr had recognized him and played him with a gambler’s face …. Fools all, the man was dead. No one on Akrasian soil knew anything, yet. Draken shoved his mind to the problem at hand. A whole village, slaughtered. It didn’t seem possible. But with Monoeans wandering the countryside, he should have expected it. And he alone would know Monoean carnage if he saw it. He was fair acquainted with the chaotic savagery of wounds left from their seaxes. He needed to see it for himself to make a judgment. And truth, he wanted to know what the Monoeans were capable of. He thought he knew, but this somehow sounded outside that. What purpose would massacring a village serve?

  “How far away is the village?”

  “You can be back by dawn.” She had the uncanny ability to know what he was thinking from only the vaguest of clues. A Gadye trait.

  His gaze flicked up to her braids again, struck with sudden curiosity about her heritage. Her skin was darker than his, though they shared their father’s blue eyes. Their father certainly hadn’t made any efforts to withhold his seed from any willing, and perhaps unwilling, women, but by all accounts his Princess-bride had been fullblooded Brînian. Could Aarinnaie be part Gadye? From their father’s side? That would mean they both carried Gadye blood. Perhaps he was more mongrel than he thought, though plenty of Brinians had blue eyes.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Wait here. I must send word to Elena and collect Tyrolean and Halmar.” He rubbed her shoulder gently. “Be easy and have another drink and a meal. I imagine you could fair use one.”

  He stepped out to find Halmar guarding his door with a slave waiting attendance. Her wrapped trousers and tunic looked in good repair and she was clean. Good. His instructions were being carried out, then. He might have to keep slaves for the economy’s sake, but he would treat them like people rather than banespawn.

  “Aarinnaie Szirin is within and wishes a meal and wine,” he told her. “Halmar, walk with me.” He explained about the village Parne as they went down the corridor.

  Halmar frowned. “It is unseemly for someone of your prominence to attend the scene of an attack, and dangerous as well. Enemy might linger in the area. I suggest you send Captain Tyrolean or a contingent of the Queen’s Escorts to investigate.”

  Risk Escorts rather than Brînians, of course. “Do you recall I was just at the scene of an attack this morning? Even unseemly and dangerous, this is something I must see for myself. If we go to war against Monoea I would have all the proof of their wrongdoing.”

  At Draken’s decisive tone, Halmar pressed his pierced lips together and said no more.

  Draken sent a footman after Tyrolean and another to ready the horses and four Szi Nere. To steady his nerves, he saddled Sky himself. He wished he had time to speak to Elena but it would be better to have facts in hand, after they knew what they were dealing with. Instead he sent a message that there had been a “suspect incident” and he felt he must examine the scene himself. It would alert Elena to stay in the Citadel and perhaps keep any spies busy pondering in his absence.

  #

  As they rode inland to Parne, out of the reach of the damp trade fog common to Blood Bay, the great moons Ma’Vanni and Khellian and also little Zozia rose, lighting the night. Pickbirds circled the town in eerie silence, a swarm of jagged shadows against the dark sky. It was a plain place; three rows of serviceable, wooden two-storey structures in town and some cottages spread out on farms beyond. There was a market square that wouldn’t hold more than fifteen stalls, which was enough for this village and its surrounding farmers.

  The small party’s seasoned chargers shied at the metallic scent of blood before they even breached the gates. Inside, bodies slumped in aimless piles, some in groups, some alone. Vermin scattered at their approach. Blood beetles swarmed over the dead in droning clouds.

  Draken pulled his sword out so that it reflected the risen moons, shedding a pure, white godslight on the scene. He blinked and realized he could see rather better than usual for night. An effect of the Seven Eyes? He might ask a priest later. Now his stomach soured at the dark stains spread around each body. He swallowed and schooled his expression, unwilling to show weakness even to his closest guard and advisors.

  No one saw him hesitate. They were too busy staring at the death arrayed before them.

  “Korde had a busy day here.” Draken’s voice sounded weak to his own ears and he sketched a gesture of respect over his hollow chest to honor the dead’s escort to Ma’Vanni’s watery realm. No one answered as he walked amid the carnage. They trailed loosely behind him.

  Every body had a stab wound to the jugular. Blood splayed like crimson Sohalia fans. They all lay where they had died, including the children, some gripping toys in soft hands. It looked to have happened in the middle of an ordinary morning. Packages and foodstuffs scattered the roads.

  “Something about this isn’t right,” Aarinnaie said.

  “Besides that they’re all dead?” Tyrolean said.

  Aarinnaie made an impatient noise. “No. It’s just … odd. Wrong. There’s something off. I don’t know. I don’t like it.”

  Nearby, the typical Brînian array of jewelry glittered under the light of Draken’s blade. Most of the bodies were younger than he was, and strong. This had been a vibrant village. These were his people. Fury surged, obliterating reason and thought. No. Time for that later.

  Aarinnaie was right. Something was off about the whole scene. He’d never seen this village before but he had the sense it was all wrong somehow … wrong even beyond the butchery.

  He knelt by the body of a mother, his arm resting on his upraised knee, his armor tight over his chest and stomach. No sign of rape or abuse beyond the vicious stab wound in her throat. Her skirts still wrapped around her legs as if she’d simply dropped dead where she stood. Her two children lay a few paces away. The boys shared their mother’s ginger hair. It shone bright against her dark skin.

  “Sundry,” he said. Maybe that was why they’d been killed.

  “No,” Aarinnaie said, her tone sha
rp. “It’s dye. A local practice to honor Zozia’s Bright Eye.”

  Draken nodded and glanced up. Zozia burned particularly bright during Trade, even appearing at the edges of daylight sometimes. He had a funny tingly feeling on the back of his neck, spreading down his spine. The gods were watching.

  “They are still stiff, Khel Szi,” Halmar said, walking toward him from another slumped body. “We are not so long behind the killers.”

  Aarinnaie added quietly, “There must have been many Monoeans to attack so quickly and ferociously. They don’t appear to have had time to fight.”

  “They don’t appear to have had time to scream,” Tyrolean said, his tone arid.

  Still holding his sword up, Draken reached out with his other hand and fingered the beaded chain belted around the woman’s middle. An unused dagger hung from it. He closed his eyes against the sun-dried blanket of blood staining the front of her gown, the ethereal chill rising from her lifeless body. Fury made his blood rise again. “Fools all. What a cruel, pointless waste. They didn’t even loot the bodies, just killed them …”

  His voice faltered as he realized the significance of that. A pack of Monoeans wandering enemy countryside, Brînian countryside no less, and they weren’t looting? Impossible. Brînians had murdered and pillaged their way across lower Monoea during the Decade War. Vengeful Monoeans wouldn’t let an opportunity like this sit.

  “Khel Szi. Will you come?”

  Draken turned to Halmar, who led him through the market. It smelled of decay and blood with the sickening tinge of sugary fruit. He longed to sail into Ma’Vanni’s cleansing sea winds. Instead he followed his szi nêre.

  A young girl’s curls shifted over her still face. The light from his sword gleamed on the delicate bloodied necklaces around her throat. He shifted his gaze and put his sword away, not wishing to see more. Ahead, reassuringly bulky muscle strapped Halmar’s body, shifting under his dark skin like snakes under sand. He led Draken through more pools of blood and past random bodies to a long low house. There was more wrong here yet. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. But it didn’t have the feel of Monoean battlefields, and he’d seen enough of them to judge.

  “The commonhouse, Khel Szi. A gaol with a prisoner.”

  There were no dead inside the low-slung structure. He flashed his sword around the corners. All were empty but one. Wooden slats blocked out a cage. Inside a man stood, his fingers clutching the bars of his prison. His gaze widened at Draken’s approach, and he lowered himself stiffly to a knee, his head bowed low between thin shoulders.

  “Khel Szi,” he said, his voice rough with disuse or disease.

  “Rise,” Draken said.

  The man got to his feet, moving as if in pain. He kept his gaze down.

  “Are you slave or free?” Draken asked. He had no brand or collar, but neither did Draken’s house slaves.

  “Free, Khel Szi.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Carock, Khel Szi.”

  “Carock. Why are you in the cage? Did the attackers lock you in?”

  “Attackers? No … Khel … Szi.” Still with the rough voice. It broke over each word.

  “Bring the torch.” Halmar lifted it closer and he examined the man’s eyes. Broken veins bruised the whites.

  Draken glanced at Aarinnaie for advice or explanation, but she offered none, keeping to the shadows with her hood up, well behind Tyrolean, Halmar, and the other three szi nêre. Ever the Ghost. No one but Tyrolean paid her much mind, as was Brînian way with females, even those of skill and rank.

  “What is your crime?” Draken asked.

  “Blasphemy. I was …” His voice failed him and he coughed.

  Draken gestured and Halmar fetched him a ladle of water.

  Carock drank, nodded his thanks. “I was outside, chained in the square, awaiting my muting. I blinked, it seemed, and I was here.”

  A witness who was insane, or not clever enough to know what he’d seen. Or perhaps he yet suffered the shock of the attack. Draken strode forward, reached through the bars, and grasped Carock’s hand to look at it. Calluses lined the palm under each finger. Nothing between the thumb and the forefinger or heel of the hand, as on a swordsman. No deep creases in the fingers marking a bowman. Next he examined the man’s face. No bruises. Not a mark on him but his eyes.

  His szi nêre edged closer, hands on hilts. The man trembled in his grasp. Draken released him with a low snort of derision. He’d forgotten himself. As Khel Szi, chosen by the gods through the sword on his back, he was untouchable by all but those closest to him and his body slaves. Draken usually ignored that; he had enough trouble keeping his crown on straight without worrying over every cultural nuance. He strode off, speaking to Thom. “This is his lucky day. Free him and send him away.”

  Aarinnaie hurried to follow. She spoke in a low tone, meant only for his ears. “You’re letting him go? His crime must be serious indeed if they meant to cut his tongue out. Must have spoken against you, Khel Szi, or the gods, or Elena.”

  “What’s wrong with his eyes?”

  Her lip curled. “Eventide. A potion that makes people not care. They say once you’ve had it a few times, you can’t go without it. He’s surely that far gone. It’s the tongue that’ll blacken next, the nose, the co—” She gave a delicate shrug. “Other places.”

  All of which made Carock useless as a witness.

  Tyrolean approached him, thumb hooked in his sword belt. “My lord Prince, what shall we do with the dead?”

  Draken turned and looked back at the massacre, fixing the image in his mind, trying to remain keen to important details. Dread churned in his gut and weariness dragged at his shoulders. This meant war for certain. How could he stop it when there was no evidence the Monoeans did not do this? “The Citadel will pay the bodymongers to carry them to the sea.”

  The dead had told them all they would.

  He rose and stared out, back the way they’d come, toward the sea. Beyond, further than fifty horses could run in relay, the sea met the sky and formed the cloud-bridge Ma’Vanni used to ascend the heavens every night. Beyond the white city of Felspirn on the Lahplon Continent and beyond even their Island Seas.

  Divine Mother, what happened here? His fingers gripped his sword hilt tighter. The blade held its ghostly white gleam steady. No answers from above. But this he knew for certain: the massacre at Parne was no Monoean cutwork.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Word came from Blood Bay of the intention to meet, if not to make terms, at least to speak. Ghotze, Akhanar of the Bane, came himself to inform Draken, hauling the Monoean messenger along with him. The unfamiliar, pale lad, skinny under his minimal armor, stared at him closely. A black ash spot on his forehead the size of a thumbprint showed beneath a helm that looked too big for him.

  “You spoke with them, Akhanar.”

  “Alone, as you bid me, Khel Szi.” Ghotze hadn’t questioned that order. “But they sent this lad back to confirm their intent.”

  The way the messenger lad looked at Draken, he felt as if a bane breathed down the back of his neck. “How eager to parley are your superiors?”

  “With you? Eager, Prince.”

  A trickle of sweat ran down his back under his light cloak. Draken looked to Ghotze. “And what is your opinion of their eagerness, Akhanar?”

  Ghotze snorted and wrinkled his brow. He had spent his life and career on the sea, first as a trader and a merchant, and then taking his place in the Akrasian Navy, though no self-respecting Brînian called it anything but the Brînian Navy out of earshot of the Queen. Elena’s father’s Sword War should have been called the Navy War. Akrasia hadn’t attacked Brîn only to get Seaborn but to attain Brîn’s fleet and control Blood Bay, for security and trade. That same Navy had been sent to attack the Monoeans and it had taken many Sohalias to recover even a shadow of its former glory.

  Ghotze had been in the Decade War. He hated Akrasians, but he hated Monoeans better. Draken expected to endure a ser
ies of insults. Instead, Ghotze said, “I couldn’t hope to judge, Khel Szi.”

  Draken waved a hand. “Come. You must have some idea. Speak freely.”

  “They are difficult to read, Khel Szi.”

  Draken resisted rolling his eyes. Ghotze apparently had a stubborn streak. He could respect caution in the presence of the enemy though. He gave up, told the Monoean messenger he’d come on the morrow, and waved him back to his skiff.

  “I understood you are ordered to meet them as Night Lord,” Tyrolean said when Draken appeared at the docks the next morning in traditional Brînian attire of loose black trousers tightened with his sword belt, his upper body bare but for Elena’s pendant, the Szi moonwrought band on his brow, and white war sigils swirling over the brown skin of his shoulders, throat, and face.

  “Khel Szi outranks the Night Lord and we are on Brînian seas,” Draken said. “They might as well know how closely Elena and I are aligned. Two countries are better than one, eh?”

  Tyrolean returned a bland nod.

  Draken grunted and wondered what Tyrolean really thought of him in his native attire. What was the Akrasian too courteous to say? Fair much, he suspected. But the ink was the only disguise he could think of to augment his thick locks, earrings, and tattoos.

  The Bane was the smaller of his two new ships, a sleek three-masted schooner designed to lead a nimble squadron. She had three harpaxes to use for boarding enemy ships, ballistae, and her small crew doubled as skilled longbow archers. Dressed in dark sails and indigo paint, in the right light she blended with sea and sky until she was within bow range. This morning she wasn’t sailing in secret, though. Two of her topsails were the banners of Akrasia: the royal Seven Moons on a field of green and Brîn’s crimson sea-snake on black. She was technically Draken’s ship, the official Brînian Royal ship, and therefore should be named after him. But he’d insisted on calling her the Bane. After all, a bane attack had led him to Elena and his new life in Brîn. It was a reminder of all that could go wrong in life, and how it could go right, as well.