“Killing him? No. Murdering him? Yes. He tried to defend Prince Lynan.”
The grieve shook his head. “This is incredible.” He regarded Prado carefully. “Nevertheless, the charges still stand. If you are right in what you say, then you will be found innocent and can continue with your business—”
“I don’t have time for this. I am on an important—a vital!—commission for the queen. Nothing must stop me.”
“For certain,” the grieve said, his voice starting to quaver, “the law will stop you, sir.”
Prado could see more of his potential recruits moving away, and then he saw the group of riders he had noticed earlier gathering around. He did not want to lose them as well.
“Freyma. Take care of this interfering fool.”
Freyma smiled thinly. “With pleasure.” He stood up and drew his sword. The grieve backed two paces and drew his own slight weapon.
“Hardly a fair fight,” said one of the new arrivals. All eyes turned to the speaker, a tall, thin man with long, graying hair and eyes as dark as a hawk’s. He was mounted on a black stallion, and was dressed in a short coat of well-made mail dented and scraped from many blows. A long sword in a plain scabbard was strapped to his back.
“Maybe you would like to lend him your sword?” Freyma suggested sarcastically.
“No one but myself may ever touch Deadheart.”
“You give your sword a name?” Freyma sneered, and many of the mercenaries laughed. “And Deadheart at that?”
“I did not name it,” the stranger said equably. “My father’s father called it Deadheart. I saw no reason to change it.” He rested his hands across the pommel and leaned against them, looking for all the world as if he did not particularly care which way the conversation went.
“This is none of your affair,” Prado cut in. “This man is interfering in the queen’s business.”
“And he is King Tomar’s grieve, and since King Tomar is Queen Areava’s subject, he is also on the queen’s business.”
Prado placed his hands on his hips and said in his most authoritative voice: “I have the queen’s commission. My duty is urgent and cannot be interfered with.”
“I know,” the stranger said evenly.
Prado and Freyma exchanged quick glances. “Who, exactly, are you?” Prado demanded.
“My name is Barys Malayka.”
Prado’s eyes narrowed. “I know that name.”
“So you should, Jes Prado. I am King Tomar’s champion. I led the Chandran cavalry against your company at the Battle of Sparro.”
A low murmuring started among the older mercenaries.
“Yes, I remember. You caused me grief.”
“And you and your company caused Chandra great grief during the Slaver War. I tried to reach your banner. I wanted your head to give to King Tomar.”
Everyone looked at Prado, expecting him to explode in anger, but instead he smiled easily. “That was then. Now we are on the same side.”
Barys considered the statement. “Regrettably.”
“Are you here to sign on?” Freyma asked. Prado chuckled.
Barys shook his head. “I’m here on official duty.”
“What duty would that be?”
“King Tomar heard from the queen that you would be recruiting here. He sent me to make sure your methods had changed since the last time you recruited in Chandra.”
“Why didn’t the king come himself if he was so concerned?” Freyma asked chidingly, earning another chuckle from Prado.
“I did,” said a new voice, and one of the riders behind Barys moved his horse out from the group.
Prado’s eyes boggled. There was no mistaking the large, bearded man who emerged from his bodyguard. His hair was grayer than when last Prado had seen King Tomar, but his brown eyes were still the saddest he had ever seen; they seemed filled with the pain of the whole world.
The locals immediately went to one knee, including the grieve. Goodman Ethin was by now sweating profusely, feeling like a rat caught between two very hungry snakes. He wished he had stayed a clothier.
The mercenaries remained standing, but except for Prado all averted their eyes from the king’s gaze. Prado bowed his head the merest fraction. The king ignored him and addressed Goodman Ethin.
“You are carrying out your duty as grieve with commendable bravery,” Tomar said. “Unfortunately, what Jes Prado told you is true. Queen Areava has full knowledge of his actions in this valley last summer, and has given him a special commission which cannot be delayed. All charges against him are dropped.”
The grieve, not daring to look directly at his king, nodded vigorously. “I understand, your Majesty.”
“Stand up,” the king instructed, and the grieve did. Tomar drew his own sword out of its saddle scabbard and handed it hilt-first to the grieve. The grieve took it, his hands shaking like autumn leaves on a tree. “As a sign of my trust in this man, and my determination to see that such devotion is rewarded, he will now carry my sword when acting as grieve in the Arran Valley. If he is in any way harmed or interfered with, I will ensure the perpetrators are hunted down and punished.”
Tomar stared directly at Prado. “Is that understood by all?”
Prado nodded stiffly. No one else said a word.
“How long do you intend to stay in Chandra?” Tomar asked him.
“We leave the valley today. We will pass within a day’s ride of Sparro, then north into Hume.”
“It should take you no more than four weeks.”
“Four or five, depending on how the recruiting goes.”
“Four,” Tomar insisted.
Prado sighed. “Very well.”
Tomar turned to Barys. “Stay with the mercenaries until they leave Chandra.”
“Your Majesty.”
“I hope we never meet again, Jes Prado,” Tomar said to the mercenary, and turned his horse. His guard followed, except for Barys, who dismounted and stood next to Goodman Ethin.
Prado grunted once, and ordered Freyma to continue with the recruiting.
“But there are no more recruits,” Freyma said, and it was true. All the locals who had queued up to sign were gone.
“Time to leave the valley, I think, General Prado,” Barys said lightly.
Chapter 9
Olio was leaning against the wall of a house. The timber was old and frayed and he could feel a splinter digging into his back through his shirt. It made him open his eyes. He tried to swallow, then stand erect. He slumped back against the wall. In his right hand he held an empty leather bottle. He held it upside down and a few drops trickled down his hand.
“None left?” he said out loud.
He dimly remembered scrounging the bottle from one of the palace kitchens after his evening meal. If he was going to be a general, he might as well have one last drink. No one saw him take it, and no one stopped him leaving the palace after that. He had walked the streets for what seemed like hours, visiting at least two taverns on the way to resupply.
Olio looked around. It was dark, and he could not see much of the street he was standing on. Judging by the manner in which the buildings leaned in over the street, he assumed he was in the old quarter of the city. There was no one else around. Ten paces from his feet there was a dead dog, small and pale, its eyes milky, with something inside it rummaging around in what had been its stomach and making the dog’s hide ripple.
He tried to stand again, but could only manage it if he kept his free hand against the wall. He took a step, then another, and had to stop. The ground seemed to whirl under his feet and he fell down. Again he tried to swallow, but it felt as if his tongue had been glued to the top of his mouth.
He heard footsteps behind him and he turned. A young woman, her head buried in a shawl, was trying to get past without him noticing. She was dragging along a small boy with a snotty nose and bare feet.