“Who is in charge of the empire’s forces?” Emeric asked. It would be one of the two of them, he knew.
“Sunlord Avam,” said Rikkard. “At least, that is what our latest intelligence suggests. We have no expectation that he will wish to listen to us, let alone side with us, but Moonrider Ballantris is thought to be another matter. It is our belief that many of the empire’s forces are growing disillusioned and doubtful over their alliance with the Agarathi. This is not their crusade, Emeric. And it may be that they are not even aware of the rise of the Dread. Against the titan we are all natural allies.”
True as that might be, it wouldn’t matter, not to Avar Avam and the loathsome men beneath his charge. “Some resentments go deeper than that,” Emeric said. “I lived in the south for over a decade. I saw what the hate of the Patriots can do.”
He thought of Brewilla, the second woman he had loved, and lost. He remembered the fire that tore through his estate north of Solas, thought of the burned bodies of his staff, kind old Kestan and sweet young Puli and the rest, all eighteen of them killed by the Patriots of Lumara. He had buried Brewilla alone, out near the olive trees. He remembered the prayers he had whispered for her, and for the others, each in their own tongues. He remembered the kindness of the men as they helped gather the bodies and bury them…a grim and gory charge, but never once did they utter a word of complaint. Even now, he could see Brewilla’s face, as he held her in his arms. She looked so peaceful, he thought. She was always so full of starlight. And they took that light from her…
Lady Marian Payne was watching him, reading him; every flicker of the eyes and twitch of the mouth as the memory moved through his mind. “You have suffered personally by their hand,” she said. It was not a question.
“I have.” His voice was blunt. In the days and weeks following the murder of Brewilla and the others, he and Jonik had sought vengeance. The perpetrators had been slain, but never he who gave the order, and still he did not know who that could be. It might have been one of a thousand men, Emeric knew, but in the end, the rot started at the top, and Avar Avam had long been one of their leaders. Avar Avam, Pal Palek, Iru Zon, Elio Krator… Even knowing that Avam was out there now, amid the enemy ranks, mere miles away…
A throb of vengeance beat heavy in his heart. He took a drink of wine to calm and settle his thoughts, mulling upon what they’d said. “The enemy camp,” he said, after a time. “Is it well watched?”
“Their borders are secure,” Marian Payne said. “The dragons keep a close watch over the host, though they prioritise the Agarathi camp, which is vast, and cannot watch every inch of ground. The camps are separated, as you would expect, between the Agarathi and the empire. So far as we have been able to discover, the empire’s soldiers are evenly split between Lumarans, Piseki, and Aramatians, supplemented by men from Solapia and the smaller island nations as well. Each of them has their own camp, collected within the whole, but separate from one another. The Lumaran encampment lies along the greater warcamp’s southwestern border, spread across a lightly wooded field. It is securely guarded and screened, but that does not mean an approach is impossible. The days have often been misty here, thick with fog and falling rain. Such a day would provide good cover if we decide to proceed. That is, of course, if your Sunshine Swords are willing.”
“They are not mine,” Emeric said. “Borrus is their patron. You would need to speak with him about severing their terms of service.”
“Their terms? Do they have some formal contract with Lord Kanabar?”
“A verbal one,” Emeric said. “And the Sunshine Swords are sticklers for their honour, my lady.”
“So I have heard. Honourable, graceful, brave. Brave enough to act upon this task, I wonder?”
Emeric had no doubt of that, so long as Sansullio saw the merits in it. “I will speak with them,” he said. “And we can make our plans.”
Something about the way he said that had Rikkard Amadar raising a brow. “We? You wish to play a part in this, Emeric?”
A part, he thought. No, a starring role. He would not see Sansullio and his men risked without sharing in that burden. Emeric Manfrey was fluent in the Lumaran tongue and spoke it as well as any man native to those lands. If that was Marian Payne’s biggest hurdle, then he would leap it himself. And what’s more, he knew Timor Ballantris personally. He looked at Marian and Sir Rikkard Amadar and said, “I will see this task done myself.”
28
“Is it hidden?” Amara asked.
Carly nodded. “You don’t want to know where.” The Flame Mane wore only a thin hempen shift and there was no place to hide a blade, lest she use her imagination. The knife was small, yes, a little stabbing dagger only, a few inches in length, and its edges were protected by a linen wrap, but still…
“I ask too much of you, Carly. There are other ways. You don’t need to do this…”
“I want to do this, my lady. And I’ve had worse in there, believe me. You just make sure you get to me in time. If those two Bladeborn guards of his hear the seal whimpering, I’m not going to have much to defend myself with.”
Only that little stabbing knife, Amara knew, and it wasn’t even godsteel either. “We’ll be there,” she promised. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Carly.”
The once-leader of the Flame Manes had to trust her on that. She nodded, running a hand through her wild red hair, shaking it out. Her shift was tied about her waist with hempen string, illustrating the fine shape of her figure, a pair of bare legs extending from the hem, a little above the knee, and her arms were bare as well. Poor though the garb was, the girl was a vision, wild and beautiful, flame-haired and snow-skinned, almost impossible for a red-blooded male to resist. Or a seal, Amara thought. The Blubber King had expressed a great interest in Carly, and it was an opportunity not to be missed. “You’re certain the guards will let me pass?”
“I’m certain. Just tell them you’re there to speak to the Great One, and they’ll escort you to him.”
There was nothing else to say. With a nod from Carly to acknowledge that she was ready, the pair stepped to the door and left the cabin.
The great cavern outside was beginning to darken, dusk soon to set in, the torches being lit around the island-within-the-cave. Amara looked down the shore, and saw Captain at his longship, milling about, pretending to busy himself with this and that. A few trusted oarsmen were with him, fixing nets and stitching sails. As Amara looked his way, the Seaborn glanced over, gave her a wink, and returned to his work. Good luck, that wink said.
We may need it, Amara thought.
Sir Connor Crawfield was standing outside, alongside Sir Ryger Joyce, whom Jovyn had helped recruit to their cause. Sir Ryger had the guard of Amara’s men today, along with the sellsword Brazen Ben, who had followed Sir Penrose and Jovyn as they took a walk along the beach, as per their plans.
“There’s some suspicion from a few of the others,” Sir Ryger told her, in a low growly voice. “And there’s been a late change of shift too. At the armoury.”
Terrific. “Who?”
“Colossus has been given the charge, in place of Wilcock, who’s sick. Sir Talmer is still the other.”
Wonderful. This just gets better. Wilcock was a spotty-faced sapling of a sellsword, with barely a drop of Bladeborn blood in his scrawny little veins. It was expected that he would be easy to subdue, but Colossus was another matter entirely. His name was enough to paint a picture of the man. Amara had rarely seen anyone so monstrously large. “Will Sir Talmer be able to knock him out?”
“Doubt it, at that height,” growled Ryger Joyce. Sir Talmer was several inches south of six feet, Colossus several inches north of seven. “He tries, and Colossus will squash his head like a melon. Be easier just to kill him. Stick a dagger in his back when he’s not looking. Pick the right spot and any man would go down, giant or not.”
Amara could see a dozen ways where that could go wrong. “The plan was to sneak into the armoury unseen, Sir Ryger. That sort of bloodshed may only raise the alarm if Sir Talmer gets it wrong.” She gave out a breath, doubts swirling. “Maybe we should wait. The shifts might suit us better on another day.”
“Unlikely,” said Sir Connor. “We were lucky to have Sir Ryger and Ben guarding us today, my lady, and even more so with Sir Talmer at the armoury. Most days we get perhaps one of our men at those stations. To have three out of four is rare. We might not have that chance again for weeks.”
The man was right, she knew. Damn him. It was the slimy seneschal who set the schedule, and unless they could win him to their cause, they had no control over which guards would be at which posting at any given time. Right now those postings favoured them. The seneschal would bend the knee when it was over, Amara suspected, but until then, approaching him for help was too great a risk.
“Well?” Carly was growing impatient. “All this dithering isn’t going to help us. Shall I go or not?”
“No,” Sir Connor said, with a firm shake of the head. “It’s a senseless risk, always was.”
“It’s a risk,” Amara agreed, “but not a senseless one. The last thing we want is the Lord of Lard wriggling off into some secret passage we don’t know about. If he escapes, we may never get away. With Carly there, we’ll have someone on the inside to stop him.”
Sir Connor disagreed. “We don’t need that. That whale moves slower than a dying snail. If we’re quick, we’ll get to him first.”
