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  “And even if you did, you’d never admit it.” The slaver smiled slyly. “You may prove to be worth more than I first thought, Fool. Perhaps I’ll hold an auction for the last remaining survivor of the Dell massacre. I wonder what will bring the higher price? Your testimony or your silence?”

  “I have nothing to tell, Master Venira. I saw nothing. I know nothing.”

  “So you claim,” Venira scoffed. He shifted his bulk on the cushions and waved another slave forward. “Take him to the compound. See he’s fed, bathed and clothed appropriately. Get rid of that Dell collar he’s wearing and put a plain one on him. The little man may actually be worth something this time.”

  “You got a fortune selling me to Ronan Dell the last time,” Elezaar pointed out.

  “And you’d better be worth even more now, Fool. I’m sick of all the trouble you cause me.”

  “Perhaps next time my master and his household are butchered, I could arrange to be one of the victims,” Elezaar suggested helpfully. “So you’re not put to any more trouble.”

  “You do that,” the slaver agreed and then he waved his arm and Elezaar was taken away.

  The slaves at Venira’s Emporium were not mistreated. Although left in no doubt about their status in life, Venira was too aware of the value of his merchandise to risk damage by beating or starving them. They were quite well catered for, in fact, one of the reasons Elezaar had decided to risk coming here. If this night was to be his last, at least he would spend it in relative comfort.

  After his ablutions he ate a plain but nourishing meal of meat, cheese, bread and watered wine, and then he was led into the slave cells. Dherin locked Elezaar in a bare cell separated by bars from his neighbours. In the cell on his right was a handsome boy of about twenty with smooth olive skin and dark eyes who looked him over with interest.

  “I’m Lorince,” the court’esa announced, walking to the bars to examine Elezaar more closely in the gloom. The only light in the cells was provided by a torch in the hall and its flickering light was mediocre at best.

  “Elezaar,” the dwarf replied, offering the young man his hand through the bars. “You been here long?”

  “A bit over a month. Venira says the market’s slow this time of year.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “Same old story,” Lorince shrugged. “I was the court’esa of the youngest daughter of Lord Caron’s House in Meortina. She got married. Her new husband only trusted his own slaves. Happens all the time.”

  “Mine fell in love,” the slave in the cell on Elezaar’s left remarked. The young man was lying on his bunk, his hands folded behind his head. “It’s a real bitch when that happens. Nothing you can do about it, either.”

  “You’re not from Greenharbour,” Elezaar remarked, looking at the lad’s pale skin. He was long-limbed and handsome, with dusky eyes and thick brown hair tied back in a leather thong. It was the fashion these days among the court’esa. Elezaar had never really warmed to it though. He found it much easier to keep his hair short.

  “Bramster,” the young man confirmed. “It’s up in the mountains. In Elasapine Province. My name’s Darnel. You’re the Fool, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve heard of me?” For a moment, Elezaar forgot his woes, rather flattered to think he might be famous.

  “There aren’t too many Loronged court’esa like you, little man. What are you doing here?”

  “My master was assassinated.”

  Darnel smiled sympathetically. “Bitch when that happens, too.”

  “It’s always the way, though, isn’t it?” Lorince pointed out unhappily. “Just when you think you’re settled, something happens and you’re right back where you started.”

  “You have to find a reason to make them want you,” Elezaar said, clambering up onto the bunk. The mattress was filled with straw but it was clean and dry and he was exhausted from the events of the day. For this one night, he was safe. It might well be the last safe night Elezaar ever spent. It wouldn’t take them long to work out where he was. He knew that. And even if they didn’t figure it out for themselves, Venira was just as likely to announce he had a certain dwarf for sale. Right now, Elezaar was more valuable than he had ever been in his life before. Venira—a merchant, first and foremost—understood that. But it also meant the slaver would endeavour to keep Elezaar alive, simply because there was no profit to be made from his death.

  Darnel smiled languidly. “Trust me, little man, I know how to make them want me.”

  Elezaar shifted himself on the bunk and looked across the gloomy cell at the dark-haired court’esa. “It’s not about sex, Darnel. Any court’esa worth his collar knows how to make a man or a woman want them. It’s what they train us for. But to be safe, really safe, you need to be indispensable. That takes more than sex.”

  “Were you indispensable?” Lorince asked.

  “He wouldn’t be here if he was,” Darnel pointed out with a cynical laugh.

  “I was working on it,” Elezaar sighed, settling back on the bunk. “I’d almost convinced my master that life without me was bound to be intolerable and then wham! Along come a whole bunch of assassins and ruin everything. Six months’ work down the drain and nothing to show for it.”

  “You’re lucky you survived,” Lorince sympathised. “I’ve heard they often kill the house slaves during an assassination.”

  “They do,” Elezaar agreed. He closed his eyes, and then opened them again abruptly when his vision filled with images of blood-splattered corpses, severed limbs and his brother Crys lying in the hall with a look of utter astonishment at his betrayal on his deathly white face.

  “Next place they send me, I’m going to become so indispensable, they’ll never let me go,” Lorince announced, leaning against the cool bars.

  Elezaar saw the faraway look of hope on the young man’s face and smiled. He’d been that naïve once. Secretly, he still was, in the depths of his soul. Somewhere deep inside Elezaar lingered the same hope—that he would be sold into a House where his talents would be recognised. Somewhere they wanted him for more than the entertainment value he offered. Only then was any court’esa truly safe from being sold over and over until they were beyond usefulness. Most wound up in the general slave markets, unwanted, worthless and just as likely to be sold as hunting bait for a jaded lord, or perhaps to a gaming house, to end up facing a rabid dog or some tormented bear for the entertainment of the patrons who wagered on how long it would take for him to die.

  On the bright side, Elezaar thought, that’s not likely to be my fate. They’ll find me. Eventually. If not tomorrow, then the day after. And then they’ll kill me for what I know. Like they killed Crys. Quickly. Mercilessly. And painlessly.

  When all was said and done, Elezaar mused, for a court’esa who had witnessed a murder, that wasn’t a bad way to die.

  chapter 6

  M

  arla walked down the great staircase on her brother’s arm, surveying the scene like a newly crowned queen. She scanned the crowd below for any sign of Nashan Hawksword but couldn’t spot him immediately.

  “There’s the High Arrion,” she said, spying Kagan’s grey head and dark formal robes amid the sea of people below.

  “Don’t point, Marla,” Lernen scolded. “I can see him.”

  Clinging to her brother’s arm, Marla pushed her way through the throng, nodding a greeting here and there to a familiar face. The greetings were returned cautiously, as if the other guests feared that by associating with her brother too closely, some of the Wolfblade family’s ill luck would rub off on them. That would change soon, she consoled herself. When I’m married to the heir of Elasapine, they’ll be tripping over each other to curry favour with us.

  As they neared the sorcerer and his apprentice, Marla discovered Lord Palenovar deep in conversation with another man dressed in an elaborately embroidered sleeveless coat. His thick arms were hairy and his ears pierced with small gold trinkets. A Fardohnyan, she thought with distaste.


  “They really shouldn’t let those thugs into civilised gatherings,” she whispered to her brother.

  Lernen looked at her in surprise, but had no chance to answer her. The Fardohnyan spied them, his bearded face breaking into a huge smile. “Lernen!”

  Although younger than her brother, the man was built like a bear and was almost as hirsute. The Fardohnyan shoved his way forward through the curious and disapproving stares of the people around them. He gathered her brother in a crushing hug, slapping him on the back so hard Marla expected to hear Lernen’s spine cracking.

  “Your majesty,” the High Prince replied.

  The Fardohnyan let him go and held him at arm’s length for a moment before laughing loud enough to be heard across the vast hall. “Enough of this ‘your majesty’ nonsense. Call me Hablet. We’ll be family soon.”

  Like that would ever happen, Marla scoffed silently. She looked around for Nashan, but there was still no sign of him. Wrayan was smiling at her encouragingly. Then Marla caught sight of her future husband over by the food tables. She fluttered her eyelids coyly in his direction and smiled ever so faintly.

  “She’s a healthy-looking heifer.”

  With a start, Marla realised the Fardohnyan king was referring to her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Feisty, too, by the look in her eye,” the beast laughed. “I like that in a woman. I’ll need a wench capable of keeping those other catty little bitches on their toes.”

  “I’m sure the Princess Marla will prove adequate to the task,” her brother remarked uncomfortably.

  “Lecter! Lecter, come meet my bride!”

  Shaking her head in confusion, Marla glanced at her brother, then the Fardohnyan king and finally her gaze swung around to Wrayan. The awful truth dawned on Marla at the same time as Kagan stepped forward and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. Marla opened her mouth, but whether to object or scream even she couldn’t say for certain.

  The world suddenly swayed beneath her and Marla felt herself falling. Before she could utter a sound, Kagan slipped his arm through hers, holding her upright. “Just walk forward, Marla,” the High Arrion hissed. “As if there’s nothing wrong.”

  The panic filling her mind left her beyond the ability to protest. The noise of the crowd around her became a blur of white noise. She could hear someone making excuses. She felt herself propelled forward through the vast hall. Her body was following the commands Kagan gave it, but her mind was screaming. A Fardohnyan! I’m to marry a stinking, smelly, disgusting Fardohnyan.

  “I want to die!”

  “Don’t be absurd, of course you don’t want to die.”

  “Let me go,” she begged, as Kagan propelled her through the crowd. “Let me die!”

  “Are you always this melodramatic?” Kagan sounded calm and faintly annoyed. They pushed through the press of people, her brother close behind them. She had no idea what had happened to Hablet. Or Nashan.

  When they reached a small anteroom off the main hall, Kagan pushed her through the door before letting her go. Lernen hurried in close behind, confused and concerned as she staggered on the exquisitely patterned rug.

  “My lord, what is the meaning of this?” he gasped as he closed the door on the crowd. The silence was startling after the noise of the ball.

  “You didn’t tell her,” Kagan accused, turning on Lernen. Marla had never seen her brother cower before, but the sorcerer’s tone would have made a whole battalion turn tail and run. “You didn’t even warn her!”

  “But she knew!” her brother protested. “She said you told her. She told me she was thrilled!”

  Kagan turned to look at Marla. He shook his head ruefully. “On the balcony earlier this evening,” he concluded after a moment. “You thought I meant you were to marry Nash Hawksword.”

  Marla nodded dumbly, not trusting herself to speak.

  Kagan cursed softly and walked to the table by the window. He picked up the nearest decanter, pulled out the stopper and took a long swig directly from the cut-crystal bottle. Then he walked across to Marla and thrust the decanter at her.

  “Here, you look like you could use a drink.”

  “Kagan, if you would just explain why you bundled Marla out of the hall so abruptly. If we have offended Hablet—”

  “Your precious sister was about to offend the King of Fardohnya a damn sight more than our departure,” Kagan informed him.

  “But she said she was pleased. She said she was—”

  “She assumed you had arranged a marriage with Charel Hawksword’s son, Lernen. Your little princess here isn’t nearly so accommodating when it comes to the Fardohnyan king.”

  “I want to die,” Marla muttered miserably. “I would rather die than marry a Fardohnyan.”

  “Oh, enough with that,” Kagan snapped. “Get a grip on yourself, girl.”

  “I won’t do this,” she wailed, tears welling up in her eyes. “Please Lernen, don’t make me do this.”

  “Marla—”

  “Lernen, get out.”

  “But . . . my lord—”

  “Out! Marla and I need to have a little chat, and you don’t need to listen in. Go out there and tell Hablet your sister was so overcome by the sight of her handsome future husband she felt the need to recover herself before meeting him. He’ll like the sound of that. And tell Wrayan I need him.”

  Lernen did as the sorcerer commanded without so much as a flicker of protest. Kagan turned his attention to Marla. He glared at her for a moment, then pointed to the small chaise in front of the window.

  “Sit.”

  Marla did as he ordered, still clutching the unstoppered decanter.

  “Have a drink.”

  “Ladies don’t drink strong liquor.”

  “What rubbish! The only person who ever drank me under the table was a lady of the finest breeding. Drink up.”

  A little reluctantly, Marla lifted the decanter to her lips and took a swig of the dark brown liquor. It burned all the way down and left her spluttering.

  “Feel better?”

  “No!”

  “Good. Then you’ve learned your first lesson. Drinking doesn’t solve anything.”

  “I never suggested it did,” she retorted.

  Kagan smiled and took the decanter from her, placing it on the table beside the chaise. He dragged another beautifully carved and polished chair across the rug and placed it in front of her, kicked his robes apart and straddled the seat, folding his arms across the back. The High Arrion studied her for a long moment in silence, but if he was reading her thoughts, Marla couldn’t tell.

  “You nearly got yourself killed out there tonight.”

  “I never said a word!”

  “No, but that’s only because I intervened. And it wasn’t any magical mind-trick that tipped me off to your impending gaffe. It was written all over your face.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Lord Palenovar. I wouldn’t have said anything to embarrass my brother.”

  “I beg to differ, your highness. You looked like somebody had just thrust a week-old dead fish under your nose. And one word, one hint to Hablet that you fancied another man and it’s likely he’d want both your heads.”

  “I don’t care! Who does he think he is, anyway? I can’t believe some greasy, uncouth foreigner can demand such consideration of my brother. Or the High Arrion.”

  “That greasy, uncouth foreigner is the most powerful man in Fardohnya, my girl, and the only man with an army sufficient to aid your brother in making the Warlords of Hythria toe the line.”

  “Then why can’t my brother just buy his cooperation?”

  “Because the only coin Lernen has left to trade is you, Marla,” Kagan pointed out gently.

  Marla sniffed back the tears that threatened to undo her. “It’s not fair.”

  “No, it’s not. Actually, it’s barbaric.”

  “Then why are you helping to arrange for me to marry him? Married to Nashan Hawksword, I could—”

  “Don’
t be stupid, girl! You met Nash for less than five minutes and wove an entire fantasy around a misunderstanding. You don’t know him; you don’t know anything about him. Trust me, Marla, where you’re going, a look, even a wistful sigh in the wrong direction and you’ll be putting your life in grave danger. Forget about him. He has no more say over who he’ll eventually marry than you do, so he’s not free to indulge your little romantic whimsy, even if you were.”

  “Did you see him? He’s a brute!”

  “How can you tell? You saw Hablet for half a heartbeat, and even then you weren’t really looking at him. You were too busy swooning over Nash.”

  “I was not swooning. And I happen to be an excellent judge of character.”

  “Ah, yes. The lady who decided she was in love based on a conversation consisting of two whole sentences.”

  “You mock me, my lord. You have no concept of my pain.” She looked away, refusing to meet his eye. “And I never said anything about being in love.”

  “You’re the one with no concept of pain, Marla. You have been coddled and protected all your life. The fact is you’re a spoiled, wilful child who needs to grow up a whole lot more before you step out that door. The deal is almost done and your future is very close to being decided. Whether you suffer it or enjoy it is entirely up to you.”

  “Enjoy it? How can I enjoy it? I’ll be living in a harem with a bunch of strange women who don’t even speak the same language.”

  Kagan shook his head at her. “You can’t fight this, Marla. Learn to accept it.”

  “He’s really old!”

  “He’s twenty-six. The same age as Nash Hawksword, actually. I notice Nash’s age didn’t seem to bother you.”

  “But he’s a barbarian!”

  “By whose definition?”

  “You’re not being fair!”

  “I’m being more than fair. I am trying to save your foolish neck. More to the point, I’m trying to save your brother’s throne.”

  “Why do I care about that?”

  “Because if the Patriot Faction wins their current push for the throne and your brother is removed, they’ll take out anybody else in his line, to prevent any problems in the future.”