Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall (13 page)

"We ran into a group of your troopers," he said. "They appeared to need our help." He let Alma go as if presenting a gift to the enclave.

Alma stepped into Lady's ready embrace. She let out a little sob as the woman gathered her in. "He saved me," she said. "They had us staked out. . . they're were going to do—" she shuddered. "Then they rode up."

The young man stopped behind ASma. "I'm looking for Sir Thomas Blade," he said. He stabbed the war lance into the dirt between them.

He stepped around the women. "You've found him," Blade answered.

"Good," the rider said. The feathered headdress stirred, rising as hackles might rise, then higher, and Thomas saw that the plumage was part of him, rather than hair, as the plumes came up into an incredible crest framing his handsome face. The young man put his hand out. "I'm Drakkar," he said. "Denethan's son."

Chapter 8

Thomas stared wordlessly at the gloved hand. Drakkar kept it extended and said, a little too loudly, "Shankar! Didn't you inform our hosts I was on the way?''

The Mojavan ambassador moved out of the shadows, pushing his way through a crowd reluctant to let him pass. He bowed deeply and sinuously before the young man. "I most certainly did, young chieftain. But you find our hosts in disarray. The raiders have done much damage----"

The gaze of those deep blue eyes surveyed the manor and outbuildings. A finely chiseled nose widened at the scent of char and charnel that hung faintly on the ocean breeze. The corner of Drakkar's mouth pulled up in amusement. "Not as much," he said, "as they could have."

Indeed not. In Deoethan's raiding years, communities caught as unaware as they had been would have been razed to the ground. Thomas unfroze at the ironic tone. "No," he agreed. "And partly thanks to you. Our children are more important than wood and stone.'' He still did not take the young man's hand.

Drakkar said, "I forget myself." He stripped off the soft gloves and hooked them in his belt. There were several gasps as his hands and inner wrists were revealed. Talonlike spurs curled at the base of his palms. Thomas had no doubt they were strong and lethal, with poisonous pouches just beneath the skin to feed venom to the spurs. They could rake a man to death or drop him with just one touch. Drakkar seemingly ignored the gasp of revelation and reached out his hand again.

There was a spark as their hands met, unseen but not unfelt. Thomas was thinking clearly,
So you're Denethan 's boy,
and from the sudden amusement on the other's face, Blade thought he'd been heard as clearly as if he'd spoken aloud.
Talent, in this one.
Someone moved in the crowd. Drakkar looked away alertly, then back as they dropped hands. His feathered crest deflated slowly, dropping back down to carpet his head and shoulders once more.

Shankar jumped into place at the young man's elbow, starting a receiving line of sorts, introducing Drakkar. Thomas became aware of the low murmurs at his back and knew that the young man and his party were causing a stir. The Countians had become used to Shankar, but the lads who dismounted now were pure Mojavan, their faces and bodies lightly scaled, their skins of dun and gray and green, snakelike, their arms with more joints than any human had a right to-—human, yes, but altered to be not-human. Blade remembered Denethan, the man he'd hated passionately long before they'd ever met—and Denethan, to his shock, had been handsome . . . gold and dust, more like the hill cat and the coyote than like a snake, but he'd had that faint diamond pattern to his skin as well. His eyes had been the color of bronze, his thickly curled hair as blond as Thomas', and he'd looked down on Blade's height though Thomas was a tall man among his people. As Thomas examined Drakkar, he could see Denethan's bone structure and good looks underlying—but who the hell had his mother been? Where had he gotten those unnaturally blue eyes and what had caused his avian evolution?

"I see your bam is gone." Drakkar's attention returned to him.

"But not our hospitality." Governor Irlene gave a brittle smile. "Finley, Kozinsky, take their mounts and stake them out on the horse-line." The troopers she ordered moved around the fringe of the crowd to do as bid. They halted in front of the Mojavans. There was a moment of silence, then Drakkar's men gave over the reins of their mounts. Franklin came forward and gathered in the three pale-faced children standing in Alma's and Lady's wake. He herded them back to the barracks, clucking and encouraging them like a mother goose shepherding her goslings. Alma started after them, but Lady plucked at her sleeve, drawing her back, saying, "Stefan went out, too ... but they haven't come back yet.''

Strain and exhaustion showed in her soot-stained face. She could only nod weakly. Lady slipped an arm about her waist and kept it there.

Beyond them, Shankar brought Drakkar forward, continuing introductions and receiving only polite murmurs in exchange.

Valdees stepped forward courageously. Shankar gave a little hiss and said, "This is Armand Valdees, Governor of Orange County."

The stocky man pumped Drakkar's hand. "There is enough of a building left standing to house our ceremonies. You've caught us preparing to swear in a new generation of Protectors."

"Ah," said Drakkar. "Baptism of fire, eh?" His mouth twisted again as weak laughter followed his words. "It looks as though you could use a few more."

The sun had begun to dip low over the ocean. Its slanting rays shone across the older man's balding pate as he took Drakkar by the arm and drew him across the courtyard. Drakkar gave a signal. His men dropped into formation, flanking them. Blade watched as Shankar also fell into position as Valdees continued his animated conversation. Guests they were, but wary ones, and that was well for as Drakkar drew out of earshot, the comments Thomas heard were not all welcoming ones. Old enemies appearing on the heels of new enemies . . . even Blade felt suspicion. The appearance of Drakkar's troops across the trail of raiders seemed a trifle convenient.

Only Lady and Alma hung back, seemingly disinclined to return indoors. Thomas halted.

"Dinner?"

"We'll take it privately, I think." Lady smoothed Alma's tangled hair from her still pale face.

"I want to wait for Stefan," the girl said.

"Oh, he'll be back as soon as the nesters stop running rings around them. With you and the others returned, the clans will be heading back to their territories right about now." Thomas would have believed her more, but her dark gaze had gone after Drakkar, keeping him in sight as long as she could until he disappeared through the manor's oaken doors.

"You're sure. ..." Thomas hesitated. "You're sure they were nesters."

She looked over at him. Lady's arm about her waist kept her braced and on her feet. She wrinkled her nose, then nodded emphatically. "Nothing," she added, "smells like a nester."

He'd his own opinions but wanted them confirmed.

"What are you thinking, Thomas?" asked Lady sharply.

"Nothing that the majority of us aren't thinking already. Drakkar's heroism is much appreciated but a little suspect." He pulled the nester lance out of the dirt. An aura of pain and death came with it. The scalps were still fresh. Drops of gore had puddled on the ground.

"I'll take that," Lady said, reaching for it. "You'll want to look at it later.''

He let her take it, though Alma shrank away from it. She gave him that two-color look as plain as any message. They had woman things to talk over and wanted their privacy. Thomas smiled ruefully and left.

The room had polarized into factions by the time he entered the manor. The festive atmosphere of the morning was gone, replaced by weary fire fighters and Countians who were hungry and tired. Drakkar appeared not to notice the division as he worked the room, shaking hands formally. He had an eye for the young ladies shuffling forward to meet him, Thomas noted. Trouble, and more trouble.

He saw Shankar and hooked the ambassador. "Why, Sir Thomas," the man said, his voice too soft and oily. "What can I do for you?"

"You can tell your young chieftain to get back on his horse and go back to the Mojave or our alliance won't be worth a damn. I'm not going to let him splinter my people."

The ambassador sighed sharply. "It wouldn't work," he said, dropping all pretense. Thomas was surprised to see overt unhappiness written all over Shankar. "Drakkar passed me this."

He handed a tidy scroll to Thomas. It was addressed to him in the finely written hand of Micah, Denethan's elderly scribe. Micah had recovered from his illness enough, apparently, to resume some of his duties for De-nethan. The seal had been broken and it was obvious Shankar had read it first.

Thomas let his eyebrows go up and looked at Shankar. The ambassador merely shrugged. "Read it," he said.

My dear Thomas. Into your capable hands I send my son Drakkar as a visible token of the alliance between ourselves. I ask that you look as deeply for the humanity within him as you have looked in all of us. My reign here is being challenged and it is not safe for Drakkar to remain with me. The nesters have acquired leadership. I have my suspicions as to who or what provides it and will inform you as soon as I've confirmed it. In the meantime, know that our treaty has opened a rift among my people and that my rule is an uneasy one. I have sent Shankar an antidote for the poison in Drakkar's spurs. He has been named for drago or draco, in Latin, the dragon. Watch your back. D.

A chill went down his back. Thomas let the scroll snap shut in his hands. "Antidote?" he said.

"The boy has been known to duel. The, ah, antidote is fairly effective."

"Shit."

The Mojavan ambassador looked visibly startled. "Pardon?"

"You heard me. All I need is to be up to my ass in politicking and intrigue." The scars on his wrist and on his brow itched. He looked across the vast room of the manor as the French doors were thrown open and the scent of dinner flooded in. Diners began drifting outside where tables had been set up on the lawn scarred by the fighting of the afternoon. The smell of roast pork wafted their way. It reminded him that it had been a long day, and he was achingly hungry. "Let's eat, Shankar."

The ambassador bowed. "A worthy idea. A hot meal changes the perspective of many problems."

Thomas had already tucked away a plateful when Lady brought Alma and seated her at the end of his table. The girl had bathed and changed clothes. Now she was wearing a light blue shirt and brown and blue skirt that had undoubtedly been borrowed from the healer, for it was cinched up tightly at the waist. The Protector also had a habit of wearing colors that echoed her eyes.

Thomas caught her gaze and raised an inquiring eyebrow. Lady merely returned an enigmatic look that meant nothing and everything. She filled her plate and he noticed that she watched Drakkar closely without seeming to.

Alma was quiet as she passed her plate for steaming chunks of pit-roasted meat. Drakkar, seated three chairs down on Thomas' left, did not miss the appearance of the young lady he'd rescued.

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "Feeling better?"

She snatched her plate back and eyed it intently. "Yes," she said quietly. "Much. And thank you."

"It was chance, but a fortunate one." Drakkar took his bite. He had good teeth.

A commotion rose on the patio, the stomping and shuffling of booted feet. Thomas turned, one hand going to his collar, fingertips brushing his throwing star. By torchlight, he could see a dusty, ragged band of troopers and riders. Sunset had just bled out of the sky, a purple haze settling over the house and lawns, but he knew Countians when he saw them. A tall man with white-blond hair led them, and his tiredness and worry was etched deeply in his face.

"It's Stefan," Alma said, pushing away from the table and getting to her feet.

Thomas dropped his hand from his weapons. He noted that two or three of the mappers had accompanied Stefan and the militia. They all looked as if they'd been beaten with a stick. The mappers, a generation of surveyors and cartographers hand-trained and inspired by Charles Warden, were all boys fast approaching adulthood. Theirs was a profession that, twenty years ago, no one could have been spared to follow.

The Russian-born Countian approached the table. "Sir Thomas," he said, and his throat sounded as if caked with dust. He cleared it and tried again. "You found lhem." His eyes avoided Alma, but he clearly knew she stood waiting for him.

"No," Blade answered, "but they've been brought back. Were you decoyed?"

"Yes and very successfully, too, I'm afraid. We lost three raiders to booby traps. They took us all the way down to the Fire Ring. We never saw them, but they led us by the nose . . . until we caught up with them." He left unsaid what had happened then, but Blade rejoiced at the silent implication. Stefan took off his hat and turned it in his hands, examining the brim closely. He looked up, pale blue eyes avoiding Alma. "They came to kill as many of us as they could."

"I know. You did well."

Governor Irlene spoke up. "That they did. Clean up and get some dinner before it gets cold."

Alma said, "I've saved you a plate, Stefan."

He looked at her then. "That won't be necessary," he said, turned on his heels, and followed the other boys down to the bathhouse.

Alma dropped back into her chair. She stared down at her plate.