“That was our intention, yes.”

“And was it a success?”

It was not an easy question to answer. “The order was not what it seemed, Lady Payne. Jonik told us that it was founded by an ancient mage called Hamlyn, under the orders of Queen Thala. Their duty was to carry out the contracts that Thala had foreseen.”

“Contracts?” asked Rikkard, frowning. “You mean assassinations?”

“Yes. There was a book, Jonik told us. It listed many hundreds of killings, going back centuries. The order’s function was to prune the tree of time, so to speak, guide us to a particular destination, by the visions of the Far-Seeing Queen.”

Rikkard looked half in shock. Marian less so. She had the bearing of someone who knew a great deal more than others. “Did you see this book, Emeric Manfrey?”

“Not myself. It was only Jonik who was permitted into the refuge. Sir Torvyn is of the belief that there is more that he did not tell us, secrets he was unwilling to share. That did not go down well with the men, I was told.”

“Told? But surely you were there?”

“I left shortly after we took the fort,” he explained. “We had left some of the men in camp in the foothills, and Jonik sent me to fetch them back. We were about to make our way back up the mountain when Borrus appeared, with most of the company. We joined him, and turned south.”

Marian ran a finger along her sharp jaw. “I had heard you were loyal to him.”

The comment rankled. “I was. I am. It was not my choice to leave.”

“But you did.”

He went silent. There was a fog in his memory around that time. Emeric had felt it, even as he descended the mountains with Sir Lenard and the Silent Suncoat. He had felt the strange pull to go south, the whispering coercions in his head. Later, when Borrus appeared, he made little complaint when the Barrel Knight swept him back into the company, and only much later did it occur to him that it was the work of one of the mages, some hex like the one the Steward had whispered into Borrus’s ear, driving him to go south and leave Jonik behind. By the time he had realised all of that, it was too late to turn back. It had never been his intention to abandon Jonik. Never. He had cursed and damned himself a hundred times over for that, but there had come a time when he had to make his peace with it, and follow the whims of fate. I will see him again, he told himself. I will have my chance to explain.

He took a drink of wine and met the woman’s eyes again. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about, Lady Marian? Jonik and his mission.”

“In part. I have a strong vested interest in the Blades of Vandar, Emeric. But more pressing matters have brought me here.” She looked at Rikkard. There was something conspiratorial about all this. “We have been attempting to get in contact with Moonrider Ballantris,” she said. “Thus far, our efforts have failed. You know of my particular talents, I trust?”

“You are a spymaster,” he said. “You train young women in the arts of deception and espionage.”

“I do. And that training takes time. Regrettably, I have no spies here at Rustbridge suited to the task I have been given. I can use balms and potions to change a person’s appearance, alter their facial features and hair, the tone of their skin…but the language and the accent are much more difficult to mimic. But now you are here. And with a certain set of friends, I am told.”

Emeric did not take long to understand. “You wish to use the Sunshine Swords,” he said.

“Moonrider Ballantris is Lumaran,” she said, in answer. “These Sunshine Swords are as well. It may be that they can reach Ballantris without stirring any suspicion. We wish to do this without the knowledge of Vargo Ven. And Sunlord Avam as well, if possible.”

Timor Ballantris. Avar Avam. These were powerful figures in the south and two men Emeric had met before. The former had struck him as magnanimous, grand, a stately lord of fierce honour and a warrior of formidable prowess. The latter was a Patriot of Lumara, and that said it all. Hateful, reeking of disdain, he had looked at Emeric Manfrey like he was a stain of dirt upon his boot when they had been introduced, long years ago.

“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?”