Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“Rarely, Aspect. The pickings are hardly rich, and in any case thereʼs little of it left to pick through.”

“Pity. There was an inn there, the Black Boar I believe it was called. If youʼre in need of decent wine, I believe the owner kept a fine selection of Cumbraelin vintages in a secret place beneath the floorboards, so as not to trouble the Kingʼs excise men, you understand.”

Decent wine. How long had it been since heʼd tasted anything but the most acid vinegar? The Volarians may have had little interest in the cityʼs books but had scraped every shelf clean of wine in the first week of occupation, forcing him into an unwelcome period of sobriety.

“Very kind, Aspect,” he said. “Though I confess my surprise at your knowledge of such matters.”

“You hear all manner of things as a healer. People will spill their deepest secrets to those they hope can take their pain away.” She met his gaze and there was a new weight to her voice when she added, “I really wouldnʼt linger too long in seeking out the wine, good sir.”

“I… shanʼt, Aspect.”

The Free Sword rapped his keys against the door, voicing an impatient grunt. “I must go,” he told her, taking the empty sack.

“A pleasure, as always, Alucius.” She held out a hand and he knelt to kiss it, a courtly ritual they had adopted over the weeks. “Do you know,” she said as he rose and went to the door. “I believe if Lord Darnel were truly a courageous man, he would have killed us by now.”

“Raising his own fief against him in the process,” Alucius replied. “Even he is not so foolish.”

She nodded, smiling once again as the Free Sword closed the door, her final words faint but still audible, and insistent. “Be sure to enjoy the wine!”

Lord Darnel sent for him in the afternoon, forestalling an exploration of the southern quarter. The Fief Lord had taken over the only surviving wing of the palace, a gleaming collection of marble walls and towers rising from the shattered ruin that surrounded it. The walls were partly covered in scaffolding as masons strove to remould the remnants into a convincingly self-contained building, as if it had always been this way. Darnel was keen to wipe away as much of the inconvenient past as possible. A small army of slaves laboured continually in pursuit of the new ownerʼs vision, the ruined wings cleared to make room for an ornamental garden complete with looted statuary and as yet unblossomed flowerbeds.

Alucius was always surprised at his own lack of fear whenever he had the misfortune to find himself in the Fief Lordʼs presence; the manʼs temper was legendary and his fondness for the death warrant made old King Janus seem the model of indulgent rule. However, for all his evident scorn and contempt, Darnel needed him alive. At least until Father wins his war for him.

He was admitted to the new throne room by two of Darnelʼs burlier knights, fully armoured and smelling quite dreadful despite all the lavender oil with which they slathered themselves. As yet it seemed no blacksmith had solved the perennial problem of the foul odours arising from prolonged wearing of armour. Darnel sat on his new throne, a finely carved symphony of oak and velvet, featuring an ornately decorated back that reached fully seven feet high. Though yet to formally name himself king, Darnel had been quick to attire himself with as many royal trappings as possible, King Malciusʼs crown being chief among them, though Alucius fancied it sat a bit too loose on his head. It shifted on his brow now as the Fief Lord leaned forward to address the man standing before him, a wiry and somewhat bedraggled fellow in the garb of a Volarian sailor, a black cloak about his shoulders. Aluciusʼs fear reasserted itself at the sight of man standing behind the sailor. Division Commander Mirvek stood tall and straight in his black enamel breastplate, heavy, scarred features impassive as always when in the Fief Lordʼs presence. Darnel might need him alive, but the Volarian certainly didnʼt. He took some heart from the sight of his father, standing with his arms crossed at Darnelʼs side.

“A shark?” Lord Darnel said to the sailor, his voice heavy with scorn. “You lost your fleet to a shark?”

The sailor stiffened, his face betraying a man suffering insult from one he considered little more than a favoured slave. “A red shark,” the sailor replied in good but accented Realm Tongue. “Commanded by an elverah .”

“Elverah?” Darnel asked. “I thought this fabled elverah was engaged in delaying General Tokrev at Alltor?”

“It is not a name, at least not these days,” Mirvek explained. “It means witch or sorceress, born of an old legend…”

“I could give a whoreʼs cunt hair for your legend!” Darnel snapped. “Why do you bring me this defeated dog with his wild tales of witches and sharks?”

“I am no liar!” the sailor retorted, face reddening. “I am witness to a thousand deaths or more at the hands of that bitch and her creature.”

“Control your dog,” Darnel told the Division Commander quietly. “Or heʼll get a whipping as a lesson.”

The sailor bridled again but said no more when Mirvek placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, murmuring something in his own language. Aluciusʼs Volarian was poor but he was sure he detected the word “patience” in the commanderʼs soothing tone.

“Ah, little poet,” Darnel said, noticing Alucius. “Hereʼs one worthy of a verse or two. The great Volarian fleet sunk by a Dark-blessed shark answering the whim of a witch.”

“Elverah,” the sailor said again before adding something in his own language.

“What did he say?” Darnel asked the Division Commander in a weary tone.

“Born of fire,” the commander translated. “The sailors say the witch was born of fire, because of her burns.”

“Burns?”

“Her face.” The sailor played a hand over his own features. “Burned, vile to look upon. A creature not a woman.”

“And I thought you people were absent all superstition,” Darnel said before turning back to Alucius. “What do you imagine this means for our great enterprise, little poet?”

“It would seem the Meldenean Islands did not fall so easily after all, my lord,” Alucius replied in a flat tone. He saw his father shift at Darnelʼs side, catching his eye with a warning glare, however Darnel seemed untroubled by the observation.

“Quite so. Despite the many promises made by our allies, they fail to secure me the Isles and instead bring dogs into my home barking nonsense.” He pointed a steady finger at the sailor. “Get him out of here,” he told Mirvek.

“Come forward, little poet.” Darnel beckoned him with a languid wave when the Volarians had made their exit. “Iʼd have your views on another tall tale.”

Alucius strode forward and went to one knee before the throne. He was continually tempted to abandon all pretence of respect but knew the Lordʼs tolerance had its limits, regardless of his usefulness.

“Here.” Darnel picked up a spherical object lying at the foot of his throne and tossed it to Alucius. “Familiar, is it not?”

Alucius caught the item and turned it over in his hands. A Renfaelin knightʼs helmet, enamelled in blue with several dents and a broken visor. “Lord Wenders,” he said, recalling that Darnel had made his chief lapdog a gift of an unwanted suit of armour.

“Indeed,” Darnel said. “Found four days ago with a crossbow bolt through his eye. I assume you have little trouble guessing the origin of his demise.”

“The Red Brother.” Alucius concealed his grin. Burned the Urlish to nothing and still you couldnʼt get him.

“Yes,” Darnel said. “Curious thing, they tended his wounds before they killed him. Whatʼs even more curious is the tale told by the only survivor of his company. He didnʼt last very long, Iʼm afraid, victim of a crushed and festered arm. But he swore to the Departed that the entire company had been buried in a rock-slide called forth by the Red Brotherʼs fat master.”