“Well,” the old man continued, taking a sip of his ale, “one can hardly blame you for being worried.”
“Who says I'm worried?”
“Every line on your face proclaims it, Captain.”
“Thanks for your concern, but you needn't be worried on my behalf. We have everything under control.”
“I'm sure you do,” the old man agreed solemnly. “But nothing will ever be certain while the demon child lives.”
Tarja studied the old man suspiciously. He was not so full of his own troubles that he did not recognise a threat to R'shiel when he heard it.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“I mean nothing,” he shrugged. “It just seems to me that the Kariens would be much more amenable if they weren't facing the threat of the demon child. Isn't she supposed to destroy their God? How would you feel if you thought someone was trying to destroy everything that you held dear? One doesn't have to be on their side to understand what drives them. I just think it odd that the Defenders are going to such pains to protect the very one whose presence caused this conflict in the first place.”
“R'shiel didn't start this war.”
“Didn't she? Isn't her existence what prompted the Kariens to act? You killed their Envoy because he was trying to take R'shiel to Karien, didn't you? Why do you defend her? If Medalon means so much to you, why not simply hand her over and be done with it? She's your greatest bargaining chip, yet you refuse to play it. Is she so important to you that you are willing to risk your entire nation to protect her?”
“You don't know what you're talking about, old man,” Tarja scoffed, unwilling to admit that his logic made frightening sense. Could it really be that simple? Could they end this conflict now by trading R'shiel to the Kariens? Would their enemy withdraw for something so easily arranged? Tarja shook his head, unable to believe that he could even consider betraying her.
The old man looked at him closely, as if he could read Tarja's internal conflict. Then he smiled and shrugged and took another swallow of his ale.
“You must forgive me, Captain. I let my mouth run away with me at times. I'm just an old man who sees things a little differently from younger men. What would I know? I wish you luck in your quest.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Tarja replied, pushing away the remains of his stew. For some reason he had lost his appetite.
“I just hope the demon child appreciates the sacrifice you have made for her, Captain.”
The old man downed the rest of his ale and climbed to his feet. Tarja watched him as he threaded his way through the crowd to the door, disturbed to discover how easily the seeds of doubt and treachery planted by the old man had found fertile ground inside his troubled mind.
CHAPTER 19
Slaves lined the walls of the Main Hall of the Summer Palace, moving the languid air about with large rattan fans, although at this time of year the temperature was quite bearable. It was an impressive chamber, crowded with courtiers and supplicants awaiting the chance for an audience with their King. The potted palms provided the perfect backdrop for the clusters of schemers and sycophants who always seemed to find their way into any royal court, regardless of where it was or who was in power. Hablet held open court here each morning when he was in residence, and made a point of putting in an appearance, even if he never actually heard a petition.
Brak moved among the jewelled and pampered crowd, dressed in the garish yellow silk trousers and embroidered vest Teriahna had provided for him. She had claimed, with a perfectly straight face, that it gave him an air of “rustic nobility”. He assumed she meant he looked like the provincial lord he was pretending to be. He privately suspected he looked like an idiot.
Eventually he spied the man he was searching for and pushed his way through the courtiers to confront him. Hablet had yet to arrive and his Chamberlain, Lecter Turon, was busy openly collecting the bribes that would ensure one a place at the head of the queue. Brak had no intention of parting with a single coin to see Hablet. He had far better currency to deal with.
“My Lord Chamberlain?”
The eunuch turned to Brak and looked him over with a practised eye, taking in his air of “rustic nobility” and dismissing him as inconsequential with a single glance.
“Can I be of assistance, my Lord?” he asked rather impatiently.
“I wish to see the King.”
“As does every other man here,” the eunuch sighed.
“I was told you could arrange it.”
“Ah, now that can be difficult. The King is a very busy man.”
“I could make it worth your while.”
Lecter's eyes narrowed greedily. “Such a consideration would be expensive, my Lord.”
“Then the Raven was mistaken when she said you could help me.”
Lecter paled, his bald head shining with sweat. “The Raven?”
“Did I forget to mention that she recommended you? The Raven seems to know quite a lot about you, actually, Chamberlain Turon. I wonder why that is?”
The Chamberlain looked decidedly uncomfortable with the notion that the head of the Assassins' Guild was taking a personal interest in him. “I will do what I can, my Lord, but as you may have heard, the King is in mourning for his cousin, the High Prince of Hythria.”
“I'm sure he's devastated,” Brak agreed wryly. “But I won't need more than a moment of his time.”
“May I inquire as to the nature of your business with the King?”
“I have news for him that would be best delivered in private.”
“Please wait here, my Lord. I will see what I can do.”
It was not long before Turon returned and beckoned Brak forward. Brak followed him through the curious and envious stares to the delicately carved doors at the end of the hall. He knocked once and entered without waiting for an answer.
“Your Majesty! Allow me to introduce Lord... what was your name?”
“Brakandaran.”
“Lord Brakandaran! From...” Lecter looked at him questioningly.
“I come from Sanctuary,” Brak said.
Up until that point, the King had been sitting behind his elaborate gilt desk, reading from a parchment scroll in front of him, utterly uninterested in his guest. At the mention of Sanctuary his head jerked up and he stared at Brak with bright, birdlike eyes.
“Where did you say?”
“Sanctuary.”
“Which one?”
“There is only one, Your Majesty.”
“Lecter! Leave us!”
Hablet's tone left no room for argument. The Chamberlain hurried to do as he was bid. As the door closed, Brak stepped further into the room and looked around with interest. The doors to the balcony were open and he could hear faint childish voices from the lush gardens below. The King's private chamber had barely changed since he last stood here confronting Hablet's great-grandfather.
“You look human,” Hablet accused as soon as they were alone. His voice was anything but friendly, but at least he made no pretence of not understanding who Brak was.
“I'm only half Harshini. It's an advantage at times.”
“Brakandaran, did you say your name was? Not Brakandaran the Half-Breed, surely? I thought you'd be long dead by now.”
“As you can see, I'm not dead.”
“What do you want? If you're here to petition my court for a place for one of your damned sorcerers, you're wasting your time. I'll not have the Harshini spying on my every move for that degenerate in Hythria.”
“That degenerate in Hythria is dead,” Brak pointed out. “I was led to believe you were mourning him.”