Clad in burnished mail and a black tabard emblazoned with the winged Reaver, his long white hair held back by a leather thong, Treon took up a position between Rathe and Lord Sanouk. The lord stood with his back turned, fingering a fan of parchments on his desk. Off to one side, logs heaped in the stone fireplace burned and crackled, driving back a chill that, as far as Rathe considered, had little to do with the weather.
Rathe saluted. “Your will is mine to do, milord.”
Treon scowled, perhaps having expected Rathe to attack the man, rather than show respect. Sanouk faced Rathe, and time slipped by a grain at a time under his impassive scrutiny.
Tall and lean in a green robe of fine wool, his idle fingers traced the curve of a jeweled amulet hanging from a thick silver chain about his neck. Rathe guessed women would find him handsome enough, would probably desire to run their fingers through his wavy, gray-shot locks. Of course, those affections might be reconsidered when they looked into the cold emptiness of his dark eyes.
“I was led to believe you would not be so amenable to anyone’s will, save your own,” Sanouk said at last.
Rathe bowed his head. “I must beg the forgiveness of Captain Treon,” he said, pleased that he had not faltered on words that would have choked him mere days before.
“Indeed?” Sanouk said, arching an intrigued eyebrow. Treon made a strange barking, retching sound in the back of his throat.
“As the former captain of the Ghosts of Ahnok and, for a far briefer time, the legion commander of the king’s guard, I found it difficult to adapt to the lowly station earned by my unpardonable actions against Lord Osaant.”
“A pity you have lost your ambition,” Sanouk said. “I have need of strong leaders in my ranks.”
“Milord?” Rathe stammered, even as Treon’s face reddened with angry disbelief. His eyes bulged, he made that terrible gagging sound again, but no words or protest were forthcoming.
Sanouk turned his cold stare on the captain. “Are you well, Treon?”
In answer, Captain Treon fell into a coughing fit.
Rathe shook his head and put on a dejected face. “I am unworthy to lead men any longer.”
“Nonsense,” Sanouk exclaimed. “All men under my authority stand guilty of one crime or another, and most are responsible for much worse than pleasuring the concubine of a puffed up lord who has far outlived his worth to the realm. As to killing a bastard … well, there are a great many bastards in the realm that need killing. For myself, I was accused of treason against the throne-by mine own blood. That betrayal was never proven, yet here I stand … a fallen prince.”
“My condolences for your father’s passing,” Rathe said, at a loss to say more in the face of Sanouk’s proclamation of innocence.
Sanouk shrugged. “All men must die. My father lived a worthy life … as counted by fools who make such judgments. But enough of that. We are discussing the future of the man who earned the name Scorpion.”
Trying desperately to maintain his ploy of a man beaten into submission, Rathe said, “I am that man no more.”
“Oh, I think you are,” Sanouk chuckled softly.
“My future is in your hands. You may call me as you will, and use me to whatever purpose you see fit. Again, your will is-”
“Is yours to do. Yes, of course,” Sanouk said, waving an indifferent hand. “As we both agree on that score, then it’s my will that you should gain the rank of lieutenant, and perform as first officer to my esteemed Captain Treon.”
Rathe could not believe what he was hearing. Where he had intended on the first steps of his plan taking months or longer to reach fruition, here Lord Sanouk had set him well on his path to destroying Treon in the only manner fit for such a cruel, arrogant fool.
“I must protest!” Treon blurted, the stubborn wad of phlegm lodged in his throat at last flying free. Sanouk glanced irritably at the mess glistening on the stone floor near his feet. Another inch, and it would have lit upon his boot. Treon did not notice his lord’s ire. “This wretched cur deserves death, not promotion! I cannot abide-”
Sanouk raised a finger, severing Treon’s tirade. “You can and will abide my wishes, unless you wish to apprentice with the master of hounds. It’s said Zarik enjoys the company of his hounds to men-or women, for that matter-but I am sure you two will get along splendidly.”
Treon fumed a moment more, then slammed his fist against his thin chest, making the winged Reaver on his tabard flutter. “As you command. Lieutenant Rathe is now my first officer. I will take him under my wing, train him to your standards.”
“How generous of you,” Sanouk smirked. “With that out of the way, attend me.”
Following Lord Sanouk to a large vellum map hung on one wall, Treon hissed in Rathe’s ear, “This is not over.”
Rathe put on an exaggerated expression of innocence, resisting the urge to tell Treon that he fully agreed, and that by no measure conceived in the minds of men or gods was their score settled.
“In light of the plainsmen attack,” Lord Sanouk said tersely, eyeing the two officers, “it occurs to me that blood should follow blood.”
“I do not understand?” Treon said. “We routed those beasts-”
“You merely pricked the fingers of a lone band, Treon. For their assault on the realm’s law-abiding citizenry, they must lose a hand or two. To do that, we will root out their collaborators.”
“Collaborators?” Rathe echoed. “Surely no man is fool enough to treat with the plainsmen.”
“As a man of the hospitable and civilized southlands, you would believe so. But along the feet of the Gyntors, all men are made beasts, and behave as such. Here-” Sanouk stabbed a finger on the map “-in the village of Valdar, a certain cohort of malcontents have made a pact with the plainsmen. In exchange for peace, these mongrels supply information on the comings and goings of merchant caravans and my patrols. Reeve Mitros has been good enough to apprehend these traitors, and I require a patrol to fetch them.”
“I will put them to the question,” Treon promised.
Sanouk shook his head. “I want them brought to me, and treated well. Honey, I have found, often works better to loosen a tongue than the lash. In my own manner, I will extract the information I need.”
Something about the way Lord Sanouk said that last troubled Rathe. In truth, the entire situation made no sense. Unless things had drastically changed, plainsmen did not commonly have dealings with those not of the clans.
“Treat them well … of course,” Treon agreed, his thin lips turned down in disappointment.
Lord Sanouk smiled broadly. “You leave on the morrow, and I expect you back within a fortnight.” His smile faded, and a ghost of unease showed in his eyes. A moment more, and it was gone.
“A fortnight, no more,” Treon agreed again.
Rathe thought about that shadow of disquiet he had seen in Lord Sanouk’s gaze, but counted it as a lord’s burden of responsibility. Though Sanouk was an outcast, he ruled in the north of Cerrikoth. If he failed in his duties to protect northern trade routes, the king would send a legion to quell the violence and instill order, perhaps even take away what little power Lord Sanouk held.
“You may take your leave, lieutenant,” Lord Sanouk said abruptly. “Treon and I have a few matters to discuss about the forthcoming mission. He will give you the details he deems necessary.”
“Of course,” Rathe said, saluting. He turned on his heel. Behind him, neither man said a word as he left Sanouk’s solar, but without question, they watched his every movement.
Chapter 16
“You are disappointed?” Lord Sanouk asked lightly.
Treon paced, boots slapping against the stone floor. “It’s not my place to say,” he answered, anger making his voice more of a rasping hiss than ever.
Sanouk glided behind his desk and sat, fingers steepled before his eyes. “You seem to have a startling dislike for Lieutenant Rathe.”