The Seer And The Sword (23 page)

‘Andris and I will be gone several weeks. Bangor will captain you.’

He looked round, quick eyes seeking objections. There were none. The men called Bangor the ‘Angel-Devil’ for his face, and respected him for his qualities and shrewd imagination.

‘Good,’ their leader continued. ‘And if we don’t return, I urge you to keep together.’

The firelight seemed abruptly cold, as if the night crouched low over their circle. All the faces were sombre and intent. Landen knew they understood he wouldn’t say such a thing unless he meant it.

‘Andris, the decision of whether to ride with me is yours.’

Andris put down his tools and raised his fists. ‘These go with you,’ he blustered. ‘The rest of me must follow.’

Landen looked across the fire at the big man. ‘Thank God for that. We leave at dawn.’

He spent a few more hours talking with the band, and gave Bangor a letter for King Ardesen.

In the pink new morning, Landen and Andris rode away. Five miles out, Landen stopped in a bare glade.

‘Andris, I don’t want to do this, but it must be done.’

His huge companion smiled. ‘Eh, it’s too late you are, for killing me.’

Landen grinned. ‘That wasn’t in the plans, though it will be if you tell anyone what I’m about to say.’

Andris grew serious. ‘Is it so?’

‘Andris, no one else must know. Not even the band.’

‘I swear. Even before I hear it.’

Landen took a sharp knife from his saddlebag. He turned his back and began to scrape off his dark beard.

Andris laughed. ‘Are you admitting you’re ugly beneath the beard? Is that the great secret?’ he howled.

When Landen faced him, clean-shaven, Andris gasped. ‘Dear God, man you’re . . . lovely.’ He raised his right hand. ‘But I swear to tell no one.’ He broke into unrestrained sniggers.

Looking at his friend’s face, Landen whooped with laughter. When they stopped, they wiped tears from their cheeks.

‘Now for the real secret.’

‘Ah.’

‘I’m not who you think I am. I was raised a prince in Bellandra, captured by my father’s killer, King Kareed of Archeld, who let me learn to fight. King Kareed met a bad death. I didn’t kill him, but his murder is linked to my name. I am Landen, and there’s a bounty on my head.’

Andris stood stock-still, mouth half open. When he recovered, he put a hand on Landen’s shoulder.

‘Landen. You? Eh, Bellanes, that is, Landen—’

‘Still Bellanes to you. To everyone now.’

‘The Prince of Bellandra! But why do you tell me this, man?’

‘Because it will help us get into Vesputo’s vault.’

Beron loafed in the courtyard, scowling. Winter was coming, and he hated the short days and cold. It had been a dull week. No news of anything, except a message from King Ardesen telling Vesputo that Bellanes and his band were so taken up with important business that Bellanes would be unable to visit Archeld. This answer to his invitation had put Vesputo in an evil mood.

Beron, his back to the road, looked out at the bare landscape, chafing over the lack of excitement. His fists itched to punch someone.

Behind him, there were shouts. Beron turned in annoyance. These new guards were so green they looked like they’d just been weaned. Strutting round with their ‘Halt!’ and ‘Who goes?’ Beron forgot he’d thought himself quite the man at their age.

A giant man in Desantian clothes and leather armour stood on the steps to the courtyard, holding a rope. The rope was passed round the neck of a ragged man beside him.

‘Ho, sentries and halt yourselves!’ the big man bellowed. ‘Bring out the king!’

Beron thrust himself in front of the guards. ‘The king is too busy to mingle with the scum today,’ he growled.

The soldiers laughed.

‘Does he pay on a bounty or not?’ the stranger yelled.

‘Bounty? Ha!’ Beron sneered. ‘What bounty? The only bounty King Vesputo has posted is . . .’

The hulking Desantian yanked on the rope he held. The shabby captive shuffled forward in boots full of holes. His hands were tied. His burly warden jerked the hood off his head. Beron gawked, as Landen’s face looked back at him. Landen. Oh yes. A three-day growth of beard and filthy skin could not possibly disguise those features. His eyes glowed with the same disturbing cold fire Beron remembered from boyhood.

‘Landen.’ He glowered at the prisoner. Landen looked back at him, as if Beron were no more than a bug flying across his path.

‘Well?’ demanded the bounty hunter. ‘My bounty?’

Warm with elation, Beron slapped the fellow on the shoulder. This news would lift Vesputo’s spirits.

‘My friend, your bounty shall be paid with interest!’ He reached for Landen’s halter.

The huge man put up a fist. ‘Nay! I captured him. I deliver him.’

Beron shrugged. ‘Whatever suits you. You there, soldier! Tell the king.’

Vesputo strode to the bounty hunter, face alight with dark charm.

‘You are the hero who captured this murderer?’

‘I am, sir.’

‘Welcome! Tell me your name, good fellow.’

‘Corbin. Of Desante.’

‘Desante. I suspected as much, but he eluded us all this time.’ Vesputo looked Landen over with satisfaction.
‘While I celebrate, Landen, you will have a very hard bed.’

Landen said nothing.

‘We will feast this evening, Corbin. Join us?’

Corbin seemed delighted. ‘Eh,’ he asked, in his outlandish way. ‘Will there be wine?’

Vesputo smiled hospitably. ‘A man in your line of work should never go thirsty. All the bottles you wish, and we’ll discuss other bounties that perhaps, with your talents, you can bring in.’ Vesputo’s nod to Beron was friendly. ‘Take him to the lower west cell,’ he ordered.

Beron reached again for the prisoner’s rope, but Corbin wrapped it more securely round his wrist, speaking to Vesputo. ‘Sir, I always watch my bounties safely locked away.’

The king chuckled. ‘As you wish, Corbin. Captain, show him to the cell.’

Corbin dragged on the halter, and Landen moved to follow.

In the elite banquet room of Archeld’s castle, Andris sat across from King Vesputo. To his left was Captain Beron, who seemed to scowl even when happy with wine. There were several other men, all getting drunk. Two maids scurried in and out, cleaning the remains of a feast and pouring wine. Andris held up a large goblet to be filled. Wine sloshed as he brought it to his lips.

King Vesputo had already put away four goblets. Beron and his companions were roaring, but the king hardly turned a hair.

Andris remembered Bellanes’ instructions. His leader had been sure the ‘bounty hunter’ would take part in a feast once he delivered the bounty.

‘
Andris, you must drink as little as possible, without calling attention to yourself. Spit in your napkin, spill like an oaf. But don’t let Vesputo outdrink you. Everything depends on it.
’

‘
Bellanes, I could drink any man under the table.
’

‘
Not Vesputo. Andris, swear to me you’ll keep sharp. I need your wits. You must seem to be drunk, but stay sober.
’

‘
But you know I love wine!
’

‘
Yes. And I know you love me enough to give up a few glasses to stay keen for this battle.
’

‘
Battle? You say no one will die. What battle? I’d do better with a battle.
’

‘
This will be your greatest battle, Andris. Promise!
’

Andris had promised.

During the banquet, when the king looked up, Andris lifted his glass to drink; as Vesputo’s eyes bent to his plate, Andris squirted the wine into his napkin. Soon the cloth was soaking. He kicked the drenched square under the table and stole another from his neighbour to the left, who never noticed. Even so, there were times when he had to swallow, for Vesputo was sharp-eyed. The Archeldan maids never stinted on portions, and the goblets were as big as bowls. Andris was beginning to feel more than tipsy. The other men at the table toasted each other in loud voices.

Now that the food was cleared away, Andris found Vesputo’s eyes fixed on him. He suppressed a shiver.

‘Tell me, my friend,’ the king asked. ‘How did you catch this murderer?’

Andris took a healthy swallow of wine. How delicious it was! And how he hated to hear Bellanes talked of that way. Murderer? Bellanes had never killed anyone. Went out of his way to avoid it. Some of the band had goaded him about it; one, Eban, going so far as to taunt Bellanes with ‘weakness’.

‘
Was it my weakness that allowed you to live, Eban? Let me tell you about weakness! Killing the strong to prove your strength is foolish weakness. Killing fools is easy weakness. Killing the weak is evil weakness. Accomplishing your ends without killing, mastering your mind when you want to kill – that is strength!
’

The entire band had been reminded that Bellanes had spared their lives. Eban apologized.

The prince of Bellandra. No wonder he’s never killed
.

Andris came back to the present, and Vesputo’s cold face.

‘Eh, sir, it was part luck. I chanced to be near when he let it slip to someone he thought he could trust.’ Andris deliberately slurred his words, finding it easy, too easy.
Eh, Bellanes. I feel the wine. This man seems made of stone
.

‘Were you looking for him?’ Vesputo asked.

‘Yessh, sir. Fifty rashoes ain’t nothing to laugh at. I was hunting him.’

The king poured a long gulp down his throat. As he set down the empty goblet, his eyes were glassy.
He is flesh after all
.

‘I had to knock the bastard out cold,’ Andris said.

‘Ah. He will be very cold indeed by the end of tomorrow,’ the king answered, tripping on his tongue just a little.

Andris’ heart quivered with anxiety. So, the prisoner was to be killed, tomorrow. He raised his goblet in a toast.

‘To bounties!’

He drained the goblet, and slammed it down. Vesputo called for more wine. A maid ran to fill for them.

‘To you, Corbin. In the morning, I will have more bounties to tell you of. How are you at hunting women?’

The king tipped his head back, guzzling the wine like water. Beron staggered to his feet, then fell heavily to the floor.

Andris laughed boisterously. ‘None better! To women!’ he cried, and took a swig of wine, tasting it all the way down.

Vesputo emptied his goblet again. A maid was instantly beside him, pouring.

‘To captive women!’ the king toasted.

Andris drank, and Vesputo watched him.

‘To wine!’ the big man roared. He clinked goblets with Vesputo, spilling on the table.

The king gulped more. Andris looked round. The rest of the men were settling into stupors. Finally, Vesputo slid down in his chair and slumped to the floor. Andris let his head sag to the tabletop, pretending to snore.

He heard maids laughing to each other as they blew out the candles. Then they slipped away, talking of having a feast themselves before they came back.

* * *

In the pitch darkness of his cell, Landen pushed against a wall to steady himself. This was no common jail. It was an underground vault, silent as a grave. He could neither hear nor see anything.

‘I must be marked for death,’ he whispered, wondering if fate would conspire to see his life end in Archeld after all.

The blackness and absolute quiet pressed on him. The past was so close he felt he could touch it with the hands that braced him against the prison wall. Walking into the familiar courtyard had unstrung his nerves. He remembered the way Vesputo had thrown him in front of the princess, the day he first arrived. He recalled her radiant sympathy, as she helped him to his feet. Her childish voice. ‘
I can do whatever I want with him? I set him free.
’

Torina. He kept loving her. Loved her even though she was gone. Dead. It had taken terrible effort not to attack Vesputo in the courtyard. He knew Andris would have helped him if he changed plans. Landen still trembled with the need to choke Vesputo, shake the truth from him.

Come back to the present moment
, he ordered himself, taking his palms from the stone, slapping his shoulders and face.

Even in darkness and sorrow, the moment is vast
. The old teachings came echoing back.

Why was he here? For Dahmis, High King. Why take such risks for him? Because he was a man of peace.

What is there left of my life, but the legacy of Bellandra? My father lived peace and died by the sword. Did he live and die for nothing? Where is justice?

‘No, no,’ he told himself. ‘That way leads to madness. Do not ask where justice is. Ask where Andris is. Where is Andris? How long have I been in this tomb?’

He felt along the wall to the locked bars and clung to them, believing he heard stumbling footsteps. Yes. Someone was coming.

Landen hovered, as a man groped his way down the passage. Heavy breathing came nearer.

‘Is that you at last, you drunken sot?’ He hissed.

‘Shh. Bellanes. Yes, it’s me,’ said Andris’ voice, slightly slurred. ‘Sorry. It took a long time to drink him down.’

‘The guard?’

‘Will have a headache tomorrow.’

‘Candle?’

‘Here.’ Andris grunted. A match was struck. The candle was thrust through the bars. ‘Hold the light so I can find which of these blasted keys fits.’

Andris held up a wide band of keys. Landen smiled with relief.

‘The king’s keys! Did you get this ring too?’

‘Easy enough, once he passed out.’

The bars creaked as they opened. Landen embraced his deliverer.

‘You deserve death by hanging. Did you have to drag so hard on that rope? You nearly separated my neck from my shoulders!’

‘I was trying to save you worse, Bellanes. That Captain Beron hates you. You told me—’

‘I know what I told you.’ Landen grinned. ‘Thank you. Now, the box we are to steal is almost beside us, if the map in my head is right.’

Emid had taken to walking at night after the barracks were shadowed and still. He drew strength from the silvered sky and earth that way, as he had once drawn strength from his devotion to duty. He no longer knew why he trained young men to be soldiers; the thought of King Vesputo filled him with revulsion. Emid didn’t forget the strange, red-haired figure in the chapel, the woman who could not be Torina. He’d pondered and pondered over where the true princess might be. He haunted the edges of Vesputo’s councils, looking for clues, finding none. When he could, he told stories of Princess Torina to the boys in his charge, keeping her legend alive. Not the poor, demented weakling Vesputo had crafted. The vibrant, imperious firebrand he knew.