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  “Don’t worry,” she assured him with a faint smile. “I’ll see to it the High Prince gives the matter his full consideration.”

  “I’m sure you will, your highness,” the seneschal agreed with a courtly bow.

  He’d been a court’esa once. And a very good one, if Elezaar’s opinion was anything to go on. Even now, although he was well past sixty, Marla thought she could detect some hint of that smug self-confidence the very best court’esa somehow managed to convey.

  “Will you be much longer this evening?”

  Marla glanced toward the windows, a little surprised to find it was completely dark outside. When Corian had lit the candles earlier, it was barely dusk. “I hadn’t meant to stay this late, to be honest.”

  “Can I have a tray brought for you?” the slave offered, walking toward her and stopping in front of the long gilded table that filled the centre of the room. “You’ve been here since dawn and barely had a bite to eat all day.”

  “Are you keeping tabs on me, Corian?”

  “Always, your highness,” the seneschal replied without embarrassment. “It is my job to ensure the ruler of Hythria maintains good health.”

  “My brother rules Hythria, Corian Burl,” she reminded him. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Of course, your highness.”

  Marla leaned back in her chair to ease the stiffness in her shoulders. “Where is the High Prince, anyway?”

  “He’s retired for the evening, your highness. He wearies easily, these days, and is having some … issues, with who his friends and foes might be.”

  Marla frowned. Her brother’s tiredness and his paranoia were simply more symptoms of his failing health. This crisis with the plague had been more fraught for Marla than anybody knew. Hythria certainly couldn’t afford the death of her High Prince now. Not with six long years until Lernen’s heir came of age at thirty. For months now, she’d lived in fear for her brother and it only got worse after her husband died. If the disease could take down someone as hale and hearty as Ruxton Tirstone, Lernen had no chance. That he had survived the disaster unscathed was something of a miracle in Marla’s opinion. Or perhaps a sign the gods were watching over her.

  Muttering a silent prayer to Cheltaran, the God of Healing, to watch over her brother for another few years at least, she returned her attention to the seneschal. There was no point fretting about her brother anyway. She knew what was wrong with Lernen and it was likely to drive him mad, long before it killed him. One didn’t lead the life he led and not be asked to pay the price eventually. Syphilis had no respect for rank or privilege.

  “I should think about getting home too, I suppose.” Not that there’s much point, she added silently to herself. With both Ruxton and Elezaar gone there was nobody waiting for her at home these days. Nobody who cared how her day had been.

  Sentimental fool.

  “Shall I order your litter brought round, your highness?”

  Marla put aside the report on the Greenharbour docks and the need to rebuild the ruined wharf district that had been decimated by fire several years ago. There was always something in the city that needed fixing. It would keep.

  “Thank you, Corian,” she agreed.

  The seneschal bowed and withdrew, leaving Marla alone in the candlelit study with its gaudy, erotic murals, wondering if this was what life would always be like from now on …

  And then she cursed her own weakness for wallowing in self-pity and rose to her feet. Alone she might be, but Hythria needed her and she’d been carrying that burden without help for more than two decades.

  Marla Wolfblade was made of sterner stuff than this.

  The house didn’t look deserted when she got home. She had an efficient staff. The main rooms were lit brightly and the moment her litter pulled up in the small courtyard at the front of the house with its tinkling fountain dedicated to Patanan, the God of Good Fortune, they swung into action to ensure her slightest whim was catered to. Marla gave their actions little thought. She was too accustomed to their ministrations to even notice them.

  “You have a visitor, your highness,” one of the slaves—her housekeeper, Cadella—advised, as Marla stepped into the marbled entrance hall.

  Marla frowned, wondering who would be so crass as to breach protocol by visiting a widow while she was still in mourning. Then she realised it was more than a month since Ruxton had passed away. Closer to two months, actually, she remembered with a start. It was probably the plague that had kept visitors from her door, not protocol. But now, with the plague waning, things were obviously returning to normal.

  “I’m in no mood for visitors,” she replied. “Tell whoever it is I’m indisposed. Have them make an appointment to see me at the palace tomorrow.”

  “He was very insistent, your highness,” Cadella told her, as she took Marla’s shawl and folded it over her arm. “He’s been waiting nearly two hours.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He wouldn’t give his name, your highness.”

  She looked at the slave curiously. Cadella was a large middle-aged woman who ruled Marla’s household with such military precision that at times she reminded Marla of Geri Almodavar. She’d inherited the slave from Ruxton, whom the woman had served faithfully for close to thirty years. “Are you telling me you allowed a man to wait in my house for two hours without bothering to establish if he was friend or foe, Cadella?”

  “He wears the ring of the Assassins’ Guild, your highness,” the housekeeper explained. “I didn’t think it would be polite to ask.”

  “Very well,” she said, a little impatiently. “Have some refreshments sent in to him and tell our guest that I’ll be with him shortly.”

  “As you wish, your highness.”

  Cadella curtseyed and hurried off to carry out her orders, leaving Marla to wearily climb the stairs to the first floor wondering why the Assassins’ Guild was waiting for her in the parlour.

  The first thing that surprised Marla about her visitor was his appearance. She’d been expecting some seedy, furtive little man, but the man who rose to greet her was well over six feet tall, his sleeveless, expensively embroidered shirt revealing a physique any man half his age would be proud of. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties and carried himself with the unconscious sureness of a nobleman.

  “Your highness,” he said with a bow, taking the hand she offered and kissing her palm in the traditional manner. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Who are you?” she asked coolly, thinking this man made a living from being attractive to women. Perhaps he’d been court’esa trained. Perhaps he was a court’esa, promoted through the ranks of the Assassins’ Guild following his outstanding success as a professional killer. No doubt his specialty was seducing women and then slitting their throats. Or maybe not, she mused. He seems a little too refined for anything so … messy. Maybe he smothers his undoubtedly grateful and gloriously sated victims with a pillow once he’s had his way with them.

  “I am Galon Miar,” the man informed her, still holding her hand.

  Marla withdrew her hand, making no effort to hide her disdain. “Alija’s latest plaything?”

  Galon’s perfectly groomed demeanour faltered for an instant. “If you know who I am, your highness, then you must also be aware of the rank I hold in the Assassins’ Guild.”

  “I’m aware of a great deal about you, Master Miar.”

  He smiled languidly. “Really? Do I interest you?”

  “Only in so far as I make a habit of knowing intimate details about those who try to ingratiate themselves into the lives of my friends.”

  “Alija?”

  “You have another mistress?” Marla shrugged, moving around the table to take a seat on the low cushions opposite her visitor. “I take it your business here tonight is for your guild? I doubt Alija trusts you with anything other than her physical needs, so I think I can safely assume you’re not here delivering a message from her.”

  Galon Mi
ar hesitated, which gave Marla a great deal of satisfaction. She hadn’t lost her edge.

  “That’s correct,” Galon replied. He remained standing, acutely conscious of the fact that Marla had not given him permission to sit in her presence. “The Raven asked me to call on you.”

  “How considerate of him.”

  “He wishes to remind your highness of her agreement with our guild.”

  “My agreement?” she asked, leaning forward to select a grape from the platter on the low table. She wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, but she needed the distraction. The gesture made Galon look at her hand, rather than her face.

  “You promised us a son, your highness.”

  Marla leaned back against the cushions. “Certainly, Master Miar. Did he say which one he wanted? My eldest son, Damin Wolfblade? The High Prince’s heir? Or my younger son, Narvell Hawksword? The heir to Elasapine? My stepson, Rodja Tirstone, perhaps, who’s now responsible for one of the largest commercial empires in Hythria? Or would you prefer his younger brother, Adham? He’s off in Medalon somewhere, I believe. When you find him and inform him of his new career, you will give Adham my regards, won’t you?”

  Galon seemed amused by her deliberate misunderstanding. “You’re a widow once more, your highness. And you’re a very beautiful woman. The Raven has no doubt you’ll marry again, and when you do it will be another fortuitous arrangement for you and the High Prince, both politically and financially. From the next union, you will provide us with the apprentice you promised when you entered into this agreement with the Raven two decades ago, even if you have to give birth to the child yourself.”

  “And if I don’t?” she asked, privately gloating. Alija’s lover thinks I’m very beautiful. He’ll want to hope his mistress doesn’t find that out any time soon.

  “If you renege on your agreement with the guild, the first thing that will happen is the assassination you arranged all those years ago will become public knowledge. I’m sure that’s an embarrassment both you and the High Prince would rather avoid.”

  Marla studied the man for a moment, and then came to a conclusion that left her almost faint with relief. “But you don’t know who it was that I had assassinated, do you?”

  “The Raven promised that information would remain secret, your highness. He hasn’t broken his trust.”

  She popped another grape in her mouth, hoping she looked unconcerned. “So if the Raven died tomorrow, the secret would die with him and it wouldn’t matter what you threatened me with, would it?”

  That seemed to amuse Galon, too. “You’d try to have the Raven assassinated, your highness?”

  Marla smiled. “Why do you ask? Looking for a bit of extra cash?”

  The silence between them was laden with unspoken treachery.

  “Thank you,” the assassin said eventually, “but I rather like the idea of being the next Raven. Killing the present one would be a very bad career move. My guild takes a dim view of people who assassinate their superiors to expedite their own promotion.”

  “Not an unwise precaution in light of your profession.”

  “May I give the Raven your answer?”

  “My answer, Master Miar, is what it has always been. I will give your guild an apprentice. As soon as I’m in a position to do so.”

  Galon bowed to her. “I shall convey your assurances to the Raven. He’ll be most relieved.”

  “Do you have children, Master Miar?”

  “If you know as much about me as you claim, your highness, you shouldn’t need to ask.”

  He’s quick, this lover of Alija’s, which made Marla wonder what someone as obviously intelligent and astute as Galon Miar saw in that aging old whore.

  “You have two daughters and a son, if my informants are correct.”

  “You’re remarkably well informed.”

  “Remarkably,” she agreed coolly. “Tell me, would you apprentice your son to the Assassins’ Guild?”

  “I already have.”

  She raised an eyebrow curiously. “Like father, like son?”

  “Only if he grows up to be a legendary lover, a sparkling conversationalist and a brilliant assassin,” Galon replied with a grin.

  Marla found herself intrigued, despite herself. “You’re pretty damn sure of yourself, aren’t you, Galon Miar?”

  “Comes with the job, your highness.” He shrugged. “A lack of confidence in one’s own abilities is fatal in my profession.”

  “I imagine it would be,” she agreed, wondering what it would take to rattle that supreme self-confidence. “Is that what Alija sees in you, Master Miar? Or is it just your welltoned body she lusts after?”

  He smiled. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Maybe I will,” she replied. “Of course, I’m actually more interested in what you see in her. Is it the power a High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective represents that has you so enchanted with her?”

  “Don’t you find power arousing?” he challenged, shifting slightly from one foot to the other, the only sign Marla had that he might not be as at ease as he seemed.

  “Not when it’s Alija Eaglespike wielding it.”

  “You should try it sometime, your highness,” Galon suggested persuasively. “You might find it even more stimulating than money, which—according to popular belief—is what you find attractive.”

  Marla’s expression darkened. “Don’t even presume to think you know anything about me, Galon Miar. Go back to your guild. Give your superior my answer. This audience is over.”

  Unapologeticalfy, Galon bowed low, with all the courtly elegance of a nobleman. “As you wish, your highness.”

  Marla didn’t answer. Instead, she ignored him, leaning forward to pick up a plum from the tray, examining it closely as if it was the most important thing in the room before biting into it, giving the blood-red fruit her undivided attention.

  Taking the hint, the assassin turned and walked from the room, leaving Marla alone with the platter full of fruit and her racing pulse. She couldn’t say for certain, however, if it was the looming threat of exposure by the Assassins’ Guild that left her so unsettled or the unexpectedly disturbing presence of Galon Miar.

  CHAPTER 5

  Damin Wolfblade reined in his horse and turned off the road, allowing the column of Raiders to ride by, the dust of their passage whipped away by the crisp breeze. It was a beautiful day. Too beautiful to be marching to war, even with the knowledge the God of War favoured his endeavour.

  As he watched his Raiders riding along the road, their pennons snapping in the breeze, and tried not to dwell on the meaning of being visited by a god, Tejay Lionsclaw spied him and pulled away from the column, trotting over to where Damin was waiting. Dressed like a man in a tooled red leather breastplate bearing the rampant lion escutcheon of Sunrise Province, she didn’t look like the mother of four small children. She looked more like the girl Damin had known when he was fostered at her father’s stronghold as a child—fierce, determined and as tough as any Raider in her father’s army.

  Tejay circled her skittish mare and came to a halt beside him. “Something wrong?”

  Damin debated telling her about Zegarnald’s visit, but decided against it, for no reason he could readily identify. Instead, he shook his head. “I was just wondering what Charel Hawksword is going to make of me riding into Elasapine with my army.”

  “I’m sure, once you’ve had a chance to explain …”

  He frowned. “I wrote him before we left, but if you were the Warlord of Sunrise Province and I was riding across your border with a couple of thousand troops, would you believe my explanation, or would you ride out to meet me with every sword you could muster at your back?”

  “The latter, probably,” she conceded. “Still, Narvell’s effectively commanding Elasapine’s troops these days, even if he isn’t old enough to have the job officially. One assumes your half-brother will give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “I hope so.”

  She lo
oked at him askance. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  Damin grinned. “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s good to see you joking around again. That’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen since you got back to Krakandar from that cattle raid.”

  Damin’s smile faded. “There hasn’t been a lot to smile or joke about lately, Tejay.”

  “That never actually stopped you in the past.”

  He stared at her with a hurt look. “Are you accusing me of being shallow?”

  “Wasn’t that what you were trying so hard to make everyone believe?” she asked.

  “I know, but … well, I thought my real friends would see the truth.”

  Tejay leaned across and patted his arm comfortingly. “Your real friends do see the truth about you, Damin. And we love you anyway. In spite of that.”

  “Tell me again why I let you come along?”

  “You want to stop an invasion,” she reminded him. “Which is going to come through my province.”

  “And is your husband likely to be waiting on your border with his army when we try to cross into Sunrise Province?”

  “I doubt it.”

  He glanced at her, puzzled by her tone. “I gather that won’t be because he welcomes our presence.”

  “More likely he won’t be aware of it. Terin can be …” she hesitated as she searched for the right word.

  “What?”

  “Easily distracted,” she finished eventually.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “He has other things on his mind.” She shrugged.

  Damin was getting a little tired of Tejay and her cryptic comments about her husband. “You promised me you’d tell me what’s going on,” he reminded her.

  “And I will, Damin, it’s just—”

  “It’s just nothing,” he cut in. “Time’s up, Tejay. Tell me now, or I’ll have Adham escort you back to Krakandar and you can wait out this war doing needlework with my Aunt Bylinda and Luciena, and the rest of the women and children.”