Alone, Enkian hacked at the capons on the trencher before him. They were underdone, flesh pink with blood. The sight sickened him, and he pushed the plate away. He drained his wine cup for the fifth time. Since his guest had left his own portion untouched, he drained Tol’s cup, too.
The door creaked open behind him. “About time,” he growled. “I hope you brought a cask!”
A hand clamped over his mouth, and a powerful arm encircled his neck. Startled, the warden tried to rise, but a dagger suddenly plunged into his side. The comfortable velvet tunic was no barrier to the keen point. Enkian’s scream was muffled against the clutching hand.
Twice more the dagger struck, and with the last thrust, something gave way. Enkian went limp. His attacker released him. The door rasped open, then quietly shut again.
The warden was slumped on the table, eyes staring at the undercooked birds. A faint hiss of breath escaped his lips one last time.
The captain of the guard returned moments later with the farmer who owned the hut. The farmer bore a small cask of berry wine in his arms.
“My lord,” the captain called, rapping his knuckles on the door. “Your wine is here.”
There was no sound from inside. The captain called again, with the same result. He opened the door.
Tol found Kiya as well as the missing Daltigoth couriers. They were in a tent together, sitting cross-legged on the floor enjoying their simple rations. When he told them they were to be released, the couriers raised a cheer.
“You see?” he said, pulling Kiya to her feet. “We didn’t get killed!”
She nearly smiled, but smothered it with her characteristic tribal stoicism.
He related Enkian’s tale of having been duped into bringing his army to Daltigoth on the pretext of protecting the emperor. Although the warden hadn’t said who he suspected as the author of the deception, Tol had an idea.
Before he could share it, however, shouts sounded outside. A band of soldiers burst into the tent, wild eyed and waving swords and knives. They swarmed over Tol with cries of “Murderer!” and “Hold him!”
The six couriers and Kiya grappled with the warriors, trying to protect Tol. Before anyone was seriously hurt, Tol roared for order in his best battlefield voice. The combatants drew apart reluctantly, each side glaring at the other.
“Our lord is killed!” one Seascaper cried.
“Lord Enkian, slain? When?” Tol asked, dumbfounded by the news.
“You should know, murderer! We found his body after you left him!”
“Don’t be stupid! Lord Enkian was alive when I left. Ask the captain of his guard!”
“We will!”
They seized him roughly, propelling him outside. Kiya and the couriers again tried to intervene, but they were held off by a hedge of sword points.
The whole camp was boiling. Swarms of angry soldiers stormed this way and that, blindly seeking the murderer of their commander. Unlucky peasants were pummeled and questioned. When Tol appeared, the Seascapers converged on him, howling for his head.
He was taken to the hut where he’d last seen the warden. Enkian was laid out on the ground and covered with a cloth. Tol recognized the captain of the guard, kneeling beside his fallen leader, as well as the gray-robed priest, Jarabee. The cleric looked deeply shocked and, to Tol’s eye, quite ill.
“We have the killer!” cried one of the men who held Tol’s arms.
The grieving captain paled visibly. “Release Lord Tolandruth!” he snapped. “I saw the warden after Lord Tolandruth left him. Lord Enkian ordered more wine. Someone stabbed him before I returned.”
The captain shouted for Corporal Thanehill, who’d guided Tol to Kiya. Thanehill, near the rear of the angry mob, came forward. When asked whether the general had ever left his sight, Thanehill admitted he had not.
The hands gripping Tol slowly let go. The mob of soldiers dispersed reluctantly, their thirst for revenge unslaked, their anger unresolved. Kiya shoved her way through to Tol’s side. Soon only Tol, Kiya, the six couriers, the captain of the guard, and Jarabee remained standing over the slain warden.
“Who is second-in-command?” Tol asked.
“I am,” said the captain. “Havoc is my name. Havoc Tumult, nephew to Lord Enkian.”
Tol clasped the captain’s arm. “I regret your uncle’s death. He was a loyal sword of the emperor.”
He explained that the supposed Pakin plot, which had caused Enkian to bring his forces, was all a fabrication.
“But why?” Havoc asked. “And what shall we do now, my lord?”
With no answer for the first question, Tol replied to the second. “You must lead the Army of the Seascapes home, Captain. I will see to it justice is done for your uncle.”
The word of the famous Lord Tolandruth was good enough for young Havoc. He saluted then departed to instruct the officers. Jarabee followed him. The young priest had been silent throughout the confrontation, his gaze fixed on his murdered lord.
Standing in the center of the agitated camp, Tol sighed. “I’m wrestling with enemies made of smoke!” he muttered to Kiya. “There’s nothing to grasp!”
She shrugged. “We survived, Husband. That’s victory enough for now.”
Tol sent the couriers to find horses. He wanted to be back in Daltigoth before dawn. This camp, where Enkian Tumult had died, was in no wise a safe place to remain.
By methods of his own, the assassin appeared before his master.
“It is done, Your Highness. Lord Enkian is dead,” he reported, bowing his head low.
“Good. Was the farmer blamed, as I wished?”
The assassin’s downy cheek twitched. “Not-ah, no, great prince.”
Nazramin leaned forward into the firelight. At his feet, his great wolfhounds sensed his anger and growled low in their throats.
“And why not?”
“It was Enkian’s own doing, Highness. He called for wine after Lord Tolandruth left, and so was seen alive. Still, I thought it best to slay him at once, for the good of Your Highness’s cause.”
For a heart-stopping moment, Nazramin regarded the assassin with a narrow-eyed gaze. Finally, he sank back into his deep chair and said dismissively, “It’s as well. Enkian would have revealed my part in the plot soon enough.”
Jarabee bowed, legs shaking slightly. He asked, “Shall I return to the Seascapes, Highness? Or may I remain in the city as your loyal servant?”
Though he tried to conceal it, his desire to take the disgraced Mandes’s position was apparent.
“Neither,” Nazramin told him, and yawned. The prince raised a finger. Both hounds leaped to their feet, fangs bared.
Jarabee’s heart skipped a beat. “No, great prince! Please!” he cried, voice shrill.
An expectant smile lifted Nazramin’s thin lips. His upraised finger twitched slightly.
Jarabee turned and ran, sandals flapping. Iron-limbed wolfhounds sprang. The terrified priest threw the one spell he had at the ready. The nearer dog dropped to the floor, paralyzed, but there was no time to cast again. The second dog tore out Jarabee’s throat before he could scream.
Chapter 16
Lord Enkian’s murder was never solved. The common assumption was that the young priest Jarabee had something to do with it, because Jarabee disappeared the same night Enkian died and was never seen again. No motive was ever discovered as to why he would want to harm his lord, but Enkian was notoriously close-fisted, and many assumed the two men had quarreled over Jarabee’s pay.
With the problem of Enkian’s army resolved, peace seemed to have returned at last. Mandes was gone, the succession was settled, and the first tribute from Tarsis did much to bolster the imperial coffers.
For the household at Villa Rumbold, life went on, even as great changes stirred the companions living there. First, Egrin and his retinue returned to Juramona. It was harvest time back home, and that meant taxes had to be collected. Ten days after Enkian’s death, Tol gave the Juramona men a farewell banquet the night before they were scheduled to depart. It turned out to be a rather muted affair, but it ended with an eye-opening revelation for Tol.