When he came across their steeds milling about at the edge of the forest, he knew he’d nearly caught them. And he knew why they came this way. He had needed boats in the past, too; it was the only reason to come to Sheldive.
He crept aboard the sloop while they busied themselves leering at the whore as she fucked them a boat, forgetting to watch the prize for which they’d come. He hid under the tarp, lying in wait, not troubling a moment over why this odd group should be headed to Lakesh. Experience had taught him people’s reasons can be unfathomable. He’d also learned to attack when he had the best chance for survival and escape. In Vendaria, a fight may have called attention-the militia would be on high alert with a war to the north-and he wouldn’t be able to navigate the boat by himself if he killed them on the open water, so he waited. Once he killed them, he’d head up the coast and hire a boat to take him back. Or maybe he’d go to Kanos to see what price might be paid there for whatever he was retrieving. Maybe they’d pay more than Therrador.
A sliver of sunlight stole under the tarp from a spot where the rope had loosened. Suath kept his gaze on it, watching for movement. A shadow blocked the mute illumination and he tensed, ready to attack if the need occurred.
“We should send the others back,” a man’s voice said in hushed tones Suath almost couldn’t hear. “Two of us would move more swiftly. And the journey will be perilous. You wouldn’t want their deaths on your head, would you?”
A pause before a second man’s voice answered.
“No,” he said. Suath heard hesitancy in his voice. “It would be as dangerous for them in Vendaria, though.”
“They could go north, to the sea wall,” the first voice urged.
“Not with the war. They’d destroy the boat before it came within shouting distance. It’s best this way. We’ll need every sword, every bit of cunning. And everything Athryn has to offer.”
Another slight pause. “Watch the magician, Khirro, he has his own agenda for seeking the Necromancer, and it has nothing to do with the blood of the king you carry in that vial.”
Suath smiled.
Braymon’s blood.
No wonder Therrador wanted the vial so badly. The Kanosee would likely pay a great deal for this. He’d have to be careful with a magic user amongst them, but magicians bled like any man, the key was to keep them from speaking.
Suath knew how to do that.
The woman called to them from the bow of the boat but the lapping of the waves swallowed her words.
“We’re almost there,” the second man’s voice said with a note of resignation. No warrior, this one. “Everyone comes with us unless they choose otherwise. We’ll need them all.”
Footsteps sounded on the wooden deck, vibrating against Suath’s chest, as someone else approached.
“We should rest when we arrive, get our bearings,” the new voice said in deep, melodic tones, undoubtedly the voice of a magic user. “None will follow us to the haunted land, but the journey will be difficult. We should regain our energy before we continue.”
The other voices agreed, then two sets of boots clomped away. Shadow still blocked the sun. Suath blinked sweat from his eye, straining his gaze, but saw only a bit of brown leather boot-the first man still stood nearby. It would not be enough to identify the man when the time came, but he would recognize his voice. If any amongst them might be tempted to turn to his side, this would be the one.
Or he could be dangerous.
Again, footsteps clopped on the deck and sun found its way through the opening. Sweat covered every inch of Suath’s exposed skin, drenched his clothes. He’d survived the sweat boxes of Estycia and the deserts of the south, as well as more wounds and tortures than most men knew existed. Discomfort meant nothing to him, he’d be paid with more than enough gold to compensate.
Half an hour passed before the ship’s bow crunched against the rocky beach of the Lakesh shore. A few more hours of heat and discomfort and they’d be asleep, then he’d make his move.
It pleased Suath they made his task so easy.
Chapter Twenty Five
Therrador leaned back in his seat, steepled fingers resting against his lips as he regarded the other men sitting around the marble table. For the better part of an hour, they’d argued on the same subject and he found it hard to hide his annoyance, but he controlled himself. How he acted now would insure things came out the way he planned.
“But we don’t know for certain the king has perished.”
A tall wisp of a man, Lord Emon Turesti’s gray hair lay limp against his narrow shoulders; his impossibly long fingers fidgeted constantly. The High Chancellor never stopped moving and all these characteristics combined to give him the nickname Smoke, though few dared say it to his face.
“In the name of the four Gods, do you suppose he unarmored himself to take up a mallet and play a quick game of roque?” Sir Alton Sienhin’s droopy jowls shook as he blustered, his face a startling red behind his huge black mustache. The head of the king’s army had made the trip from the Isthmus Fortress to Achtindel in order to sit with the high council. “You haven’t seen the king fight, Smoke. A warrior like King Braymon would not be relieved of his armor whilst life still coursed through his veins.”
How appropriate, Therrador thought, that they speak of what runs through his veins.
The other men at the table-Hu Dondon, the Lord Chamberlain, and Hanh Perdaro, Voice of the People-nodded at Sir Alton’s words.
Turesti’s lips tightened to a pale line at the use of the nickname. “Sir Alton, with no body, we cannot presume-”
“What of the Shaman?” Hu Dondon interrupted.
The oldest man sitting on the King’s High Council, Dondon didn’t look any more aged than his fellows. His full head of black hair showed no gray, his posture remained straight; only the droop at the corners of his eyes gave any inkling of the years he’d seen pass.
“The Shaman is dead. He-” Sir Alton began.
“Yes, we know,” Dondon interrupted again, a habit those who knew him had to live with. “Found him dead outside the walls. Makes him look a traitor. What of his sworn mission?”
Sir Alton’s face grew more red. “Bale died valiantly at the foot of the fortress wall,” he sputtered barely controlling his rage at Dondon’s inference. “Rudric and Gendred fell by his side, the bodies of eight Kanosee pigs rotting around them. Do not speak ill of brave men.”
Dondon waved a dismissive hand at the general. “Yes, died for his country. And his mission?”
“There was no sign of it.” Sir Alton leaned back, arms crossed against his barrel chest. “We have no reason to think they had it.”
“Then why were they outside the fortress?” Hanh Perdaro asked.
Though youthful, little hair grew on the head of the man known as the Voice of the People. Thoughtful and sparse of words, Therrador treasured these traits and liked the man best of the King’s High Council. There would be a position for Perdaro in the future if he wanted it.
“We cannot know,” Lord Turesti said. “Perhaps the king was captured and they gave pursuit.”
“And suppose I shat a donkey,” Sir Alton blurted. “If they were in pursuit of the king’s captors, there would have been a damn sight more than three of them.”
“In either case,” Turesti continued, his mouth a taut line of disgust at Sir Alton’s words. “We should keep things quiet. It will do no good for the army to think they fight without a king and for the people to mourn their regent in the middle of a war.”
“I fear it’s already too late,” Hanh Perdaro said stroking the thin line of beard cupping his chin. “Whispers of Braymon’s death already cross the land. The people grow nervous.”