David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

But what if they wanted war after all? Ingram pulled at the collar of his shirt as he walked back to his mansion, suddenly filled with unease. Close to two hundred elves were already within his city walls, and how many more might sneak in at the dead of night in disguise? Would his walls and ships be rendered all for naught by traitors and spies from within?

Suddenly Alyssa’s comment didn’t seem quite so easy to shrug off. War with the elves would be disastrous. He’d not lied about that to the other Lords of the Ramere. They could only bluster, posture, and pretend.

“Where are Yor and Egar?” he asked his captain of the guard, who followed alongside him.

“At their homes, I believe.”

“Fetch them.”

Ingram looked over a few maps of the Ramere while he waited in his study. Everywhere he looked, he saw unguarded farmland the elves might burn. There were a few castles near the reaches of the Dezren and Quellan Forests, but they would protect the people, not the crops. Their storehouses could last only a little while under such a vicious siege. King Edwin would come down from Veldaren, but would he arrive in time?

Or would the elves starve and burn his beloved Angelport to the ground, with Edwin rescuing only ruins?

As he was pondering, the door opened, and Lord Egar stepped inside.

“Is there no one else?” he asked, glancing about the study with a hint of nervousness.

“Yor should be coming soon,” Ingram said. “Tell me, have you discovered who reserved rooms for the elves?”

The man crossed his muscular arms, and he leaned against a bookshelf.

“Whoever it was, they’re incredibly careful. Each one had a mercenary come with a bag of gold, either buying or renting the homes so they’d be available for the month. Once the places were cleared and empty, they hired a single person, one per building, to keep it clean.”

“Do they know anything? A name, at least?”

Egar shook his head.

“The mercenary guild’s refusing to cooperate. They don’t like anyone looking into who hires them.”

Ingram rolled his eyes.

“Grab their guildmaster and throw him in the dungeon. We’ll hear a name from him by tomorrow.”

“You sure that’s wise?”

Ingram glared, and he felt his temper flare.

“If I didn’t think it wise, I wouldn’t order it done.”

Egar bowed to show he meant no offense. Ingram walked over to his desk, sat down, and poured himself a drink. As he did, Egar wandered closer, eyeing the open maps.

“What do you expect from the Merchant Lords?” he asked. “The elves’ desires are quite clear, as are ours. But what of them? Do you know of their role in all this?”

Ingram leaned back in his chair, enjoying the feel of the alcohol burning down his throat.

“The merchants?” he asked, letting out a sigh. “They’ve been insistent that the elves make concessions of land, but have little reason for it. Sure, they claim without our lumber they can’t build their boats…”

Egar put his hands behind his back, and he glanced away. Ingram caught the motion and frowned.

“Do you have something to say?” he asked. Egar finally looked him in the eye, and then nodded.

“One of your lords is a traitor,” he said. “That is why the merchants pressure you so firmly. They’re hoping to use this conflict as a means to remove you from power. They’ve always desired to rule Angelport, and Angelport’s nobility knows this. All it takes is one puppet ruler to replace you, and they’ll have succeeded. Someone’s finally accepted the role.”

Ingram’s jaw clenched tight, the only thing holding in a rage-fueled scream.

“Who?” he asked.

“Lord Yor Warren. The Merchant Lords have bought him off, and they’ll use him to manipulate you in every way they can.”

“How could you possibly know this?”

Egar stood up straight, and he looked almost insulted.

“Because I was asked to aid them. They were subtle about it, of course, but they seemed confident as to my cooperation.”

Ingram stood. Every trace of his good mood fled out the window. He kicked his desk once, twice, until his glass tumbled off and shattered upon the floor.

“And what did you tell them?” he asked.

“Why, that I would, of course.”

“What?”

Ingram flung himself at Egar, grabbing him by the shirt and slamming him into a wall. Instead of fighting back, Egar continued to speak in a calm, quick manner.

“I said this so they would not target my life,” he said. “If I refused, they would execute me and my family so no one else learned of the offer. I only told them I would stay out of their way, and assist Yor whenever it seemed prudent. You are right to be angry, milord, but I am not the one you should bring your anger down upon.”

Ingram let him go, then let out a stream of curses.

“So what do we do?” he asked when he was done, and felt moderately better.

“We play their game. Treat Yor’s words as the true desire of the merchants. We wait, we listen, and we strike when the time is right. When this crisis with the elves is settled, you’ll be the man who brought peace and prosperity to Angelport. They will not dare touch you then.”

It made sense, but Ingram still hated the idea. If Yor was a traitor, he wanted him in a dungeon, hot pokers against his flesh to make him sing. He’d been hoping for years to have a solid reason to hang one of those smug merchant bastards from his gallows. But Egar was right. At this time he had little proof, and he couldn’t afford to have the merchants turn on him during negotiations. If their bluff were to work, the humans had to have a unified front.

As he thought, the door opened, and in stepped Lord Yor.

“Greetings,” Egar said, taking a step back from the door and bowing. “Glad for you to join us.”

“Yes,” Ingram said, forcing a smile. “So glad. We were just discussing our meeting with the elves…”

The air stank of piss, shit, and stagnant water. Despite holding a handkerchief to her nose, the smell made it through with ease. On either side of her, men reached through the bars, jeering and crying out lewd comments and accusations.

“Just ignore them,” the head jailor said.

Hard to do, given how vile the cries became. One called Alyssa a cunt who had sucked him off as a child. In return, the jailor spat in his direction.

“Take him out and beat him,” he told one of his guards.

At the far end of the dungeon, in a dimly lit cell wrapped in chains like a cocoon, waited Haern.

“I wish to talk to him alone,” Alyssa said.

“Not sure I should leave you,” said the jailor. He nodded toward Haern. “That guy’s killed a lot of people. I know you know that. He can hurt you with more than just his hands.”

“I’ve made my desires clear, jailor. Would you interfere with my business?”

The burly man shook his head.

“It’s your life, milady. Just don’t expect me to take any blame if he breaks something.”

He unlocked the cell and gestured for her to enter. After she stepped inside, the door shut behind her, the lock clicking loud enough to send her heart jumping to her throat.

“For safety,” the jailor said with an ugly smile. Alyssa didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “When you want out, just holler. I’ll be near.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice cold. She put her back to him, and took a step closer to Haern. The man looked exhausted, with heavy circles beneath his eyes. A purple bruise swelled across his forehead, and blood seeped from a dirty bandage on his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. His eyes were unfocused, and they didn’t look at her.

“I came for you. What happened last night? How did you end up here? All I heard were rumors you’d been captured, and since you hadn’t returned in the morning…”