The Wolf's Call Page 7

  “Our brothers died,” Vaelin said, straightening and putting as much surety as he could into his voice. “Dentos and Barkus in Alpira, Caenis in Volaria. And your wife died, brother. Sella died of a tumour in her breast two years ago. Brother Kehlan and all the healers in the Reaches tried but couldn’t save her. The memories carried by those she loved are her Beyond. She is truly gone, but your children are still here and I’m not yet prepared to make them orphans.”

  Nortah’s strength seemed to seep away in an instant and he subsided back to the floor. “Dreamt about him again last night, y’know,” he said in a low mumble as Vaelin’s fist rapped on the door. “Caenis, I mean. It’s always the same, we stroll around that blood-soaked temple where we saved the queen, stepping over the bodies as if they’re not there. I don’t always remember on waking what he tells me, but this time I did. Want to hear it, brother?”

  Vaelin paused as the guard heaved the door open, glancing back at Nortah’s slumped form. He wondered how it was possible to barely recognise a man he had known since childhood, his last brother transformed into a pathetic remnant, a stranger.

  “Yes,” he said. “What did he say?”

  “Said we should listen for the wolf’s call.” Nortah’s head swivelled towards him, red eyes blinking with the exhaustion that told of an imminent faint. “Any notion of what he meant?” he asked before passing out.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Petition Day was another reason Vaelin did all he could to absent himself from the tower. As Appointed Delegate, Lord Orven would deal with most of the myriad requests and complaints, but there were always some that required the Tower Lord’s personal attention. The tedium was shot through with an underlying sadness born of a realisation that, had she survived the Liberation War, Dahrena would have been much better suited to this role. Although none had ever dared voice such opinions, he could recognise a similar sentiment in the often irked faces of the more long-standing denizens of the Reaches who came seeking his judgement. As adopted daughter to the previous Tower Lord, Dahrena had been accepted as one of them whilst he, even after so many years in the chair, was often still seen as an interloper. When presented with the more complex cases, she would have drawn on a wealth of knowledge and experience, not to mention personal attachments, that could ease the sting of a negative judgement. Vaelin, however, found himself continually striving to extend his patience in the face of convoluted disagreements that, in his experience, invariably involved three principal ingredients: money, tears and a good deal of shouting.

  “Vile seducer!” Mistress Ilneh cried out, her pointed finger stabbing at the young man on the opposite side of the Lord’s Chamber with all the energy of a spear thrust. “Dark-empowered stealer of daughters!”

  Standing beside the young man was a girl perhaps eighteen years old, her hands clasped together over a swollen belly. She flinched at the woman’s words, face flushing in embarrassed exasperation.

  “No one stole me, you daft old cow!” she yelled at Mistress Ilneh. She seemed about to yell something else but fell to silence as Lord Orven slammed the butt of his staff on the flagstones. The girl flushed and bowed to Vaelin in the Lord’s Chair. “Forgive me, my lord, but I know my own mind.”

  “I’m sure,” Vaelin said, shifting his gaze to the young man at her side. “This man does not possess the power to alter a person’s thoughts, not through use of the Dark, at least.” The young man inclined his head in response, offering a grin that disappeared as Vaelin added, “How is your wife these days, Master Lorkan?”

  The girl stiffened at this whilst Lorkan merely winced before offering an empty smile. “My wife, as I believe you know, my lord, has made her wishes quite explicit. Consequently, having not set eyes on her in several months, I have no notion of how she is.”

  Lorkan’s voice betrayed a clear resentment, however polite his phrasing. Much as Vaelin could barely recognise Nortah, he increasingly found little resemblance in this man to the fearful if ultimately resolute youth who had journeyed with him across the ice. What had once seemed like charm, albeit shot through with a fair amount of guile, now struck him as self-serving manipulation. Lorkan and Cara had appeared so devoted in the aftermath of victory, their union forged in the frozen wastes and the fires of war. Perhaps that was why it hadn’t lasted. Devotion was easy when every day brought new dangers. Then they had each other to cling to. With the security of peace there was less need to cling, and so they hadn’t.

  “I understand,” Vaelin went on, “the Council at Nehrin’s Point have banned you from returning there, though they failed to enlighten me as to why. Perhaps you could explain?”

  “Families tend to take sides during . . . marital disputes, my lord. Cara always enjoyed closer friendships than I.”

  “True,” Vaelin conceded. “But then I never recall her being accused of thievery or fraud.”

  Lorkan straightened, forcing an aggrieved sniff. “All blatant lies, fuelled by prejudice against the Gifted.”

  “As I understand it, these allegations were made by the Gifted.”

  “Hah!” Mistress Ilneh barked, letting out a triumphant laugh as her finger stabbed anew, this time at her daughter. “See, Olna, even his own kind don’t want him.” She moved towards the Lord’s Chair, bowing low. “Please, my lord. I beseech you. Command my daughter to return to the embrace of her family—”

  “Embrace?” Olna shouted in return. “When did you ever embrace me, you loveless old hag!”

  Another slam from Lord Orven’s staff, louder than before, brought both the girl and her mother to silence. “If I understand the particulars of your petition, Mistress Ilneh,” Vaelin said, glancing through the clumsily inscribed scroll the woman had presented at the start of the audience, “you seek compensation for the grave insult done to your family’s reputation by Master Lorkan Densah and the immediate return to your household of your daughter Olna.”

  “I do, my lord.” The woman bowed lower, hands raised in supplication. “By taking up with an adulterer she has shamed us. Bad enough we’ll have to care for his bastard but, as he is still bound by lawful marriage, he will not even pay a customary dowry.”

  Tears, shouting and money, Vaelin thought. Always the same. “I see,” he said, keeping the weary note from his voice as he shifted in his seat, turning to his right where Ellese sat. The future Lady Governess of Cumbrael had propped her elbow on the arm of her chair, chin rested on her upraised palm, face and eyes dulled by boredom. She stirred only a little as Vaelin spoke.

  “Do you have any counsel to offer here, my lady?”

  “Certainly, my lord,” she replied, stifling a yawn as she gave Olna a vapid smile. “In future, keep your legs closed or find a wise woman with the right mix of herbs. You,” she added, smile disappearing as she turned to Lorkan, “be prepared to cough up for the consequences if you’re going to tumble on the other side of the blankets.”

  Like her mother in some respects, after all, Vaelin thought, fixing Ellese’s uncontrite visage with a hard glare. He recalled that Reva didn’t like Petition Day any more than he did, but she had at least developed the capacity to pretend otherwise.

  “My niece’s point is valid if crudely made,” he said, turning back to Lorkan. “Does Cara wish to remain married to you? And know well that I will take a very dim view of a dishonest reply.”

  Lorkan seemed about to offer another smile, but the lingering weight of Vaelin’s gaze evidently made him think better of it. “No, my lord,” he said with a sigh. “She has told me as much in terms that left little room for doubt.”

  “Then it appears at least one part of this complaint can be settled forthwith. Under the powers delegated to me by Queen Lyrna Al Nieren, I hereby annul your marriage.” He turned to the scribe seated off to his left. “Draft a formal order for my signature and register it with the Fourth Order by the end of the day.”

  The
scribe nodded and refreshed the ink on his pen. “I will, my lord.”

  “Mistress Olna,” Vaelin said, turning to the pregnant girl. “How many years have you?”

  “Seventeen and ten months, my lord,” she replied promptly, clamping her jaws against another outburst as her mother let out a somewhat unconvincing whimper.

  “Oh, my despoiled child,” the woman moaned, face in her hands.

  “Have you a trade?” Vaelin went on, choosing to ignore the woman. “Skills?”

  “I am a seamstress, my lord.” Olna shot her mother a sour look. “Just about the only useful thing she taught me.”

  “You expect to raise a child alone on only the income of a seamstress?”

  “I am not alone.” Her jaw took on a defiant angle as she turned and clasped Lorkan’s hand. “My child’s father will provide for us.”

  “Through thievery and fraud?” Vaelin asked, fixing his gaze on Lorkan.

  He saw an angry retort die on Lorkan’s lips, though the long-standing resentment still shone in his eyes. Although he had entered into the Liberation War willingly enough, it had been his love for his now-estranged wife that compelled him to suffer the great travail on the ice as they journeyed to Volaria and the battles that followed. Vaelin’s refusal to release Cara from her obligation and spare him an epic of suffering, albeit one he had ultimately survived to great acclaim, had clearly birthed a grudge. “As you know, my lord,” he said. “It was through your good graces that the queen herself granted me a pension in recognition of my service in the Liberation War.”

  “She did,” Vaelin conceded. “I also know it is currently paid to various merchants, gambling houses and lenders the moment you receive it. Only last week Lord Orven was obliged to deal with a petition for your immediate arrest for non-payment of a long-standing and substantial debt, one he settled out of his own pocket.”

  “For which I am grateful, my lord,” Lorkan told Orven with a bow.

  “Lord Orven was driven by sentiment for an old comrade,” Vaelin said. “I am not. I am, however, minded to settle all your remaining debts and, once the annulment of your marriage is formalised, stand witness to your marriage to Mistress Olna. In return,” he added, seeing the burgeoning smile on Lorkan’s lips falter somewhat, “you will be enrolled in the North Guard for a period of five years, where your particular ability will be fully utilised.”

  Lorkan’s smile had disappeared now and he stood regarding Vaelin with a naked animosity. “I’ve had my fill of war, my lord,” he said.

  “Very well,” Vaelin told him, gesturing to the chamber entrance. “You are free to go. Be aware, however, that I will today issue an order forbidding any ship from carrying you away from the Reaches. You, sir, will stay here and provide for your child and its mother, even if I have to flog you into the mines to do it.” He held Lorkan’s gaze. “Honest service in the North Guard is preferable, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Lorkan’s jaw bunched as his face reddened in anticipation of a no doubt highly unwise outburst. Whatever words had boiled up from within died when Olna clasped his hand tighter, moving close to whisper in his ear. Lorkan closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as the girl’s whisper grew fierce.

  “My lord,” he said finally as Olna drew back, offering Vaelin only a fractional bow, “I duly accept your most kind offer.”

  “Report to the barracks at first light tomorrow,” Vaelin told him. “Lord Orven will begin your training. Also, two-thirds of your pay will be allotted to Mistress Olna for the duration of your service, regardless of whether you marry or not. Mistress Ilneh,” he said, turning away before Lorkan could say anything else, “you will receive a discretionary payment of . . .” He paused for a moment’s consideration. “Three golds for the distress and embarrassment caused to your family.” He forestalled the woman’s objections by inclining his head at Orven. “Next case, my lord.”

  Mistress Ilneh had to be bustled out by two North Guard, despite her voluble protestations, whilst Lorkan and Olna left quietly. The young Gifted’s shoulders possessed a slump of defeat, though the guarded look of pure enmity he shot at Vaelin before leaving the chamber made him wonder if it wasn’t another example of his capacity for deception.

  “He’ll most likely run,” he told Orven. “Best put a triple guard on the docks tonight. Make sure at least one is Gifted.”

  “I will, my lord.” The North Guard commander moved back, slamming his staff onto the flagstones once and raising his voice. “The embassy of the Merchant King Lian Sha will come forward!”

  The embassy consisted of two principal ambassadors and a retinue of a dozen, all men. Vaelin felt the ambassadors to be a mismatched pair, one dressed in richly embroidered silks and somewhere close to his sixtieth year with an elegantly coiffured steel-grey moustache and a narrow beard. The man at his side was shorter but considerably broader, dressed in a much more simple quilted jerkin emblazoned on the breast with a circular wheel-like design. He was also younger by several years, but his blunt, weathered features told of a much harder life than his companion. Even if the man hadn’t worn a sword on his belt, Vaelin would still have known him instantly as a warrior.

  “Great lord of wide renown,” the bearded man said in near-perfect Realm Tongue, he and the warrior both bowing. “On behalf of Lian Sha, Ruler by the Grace of Heaven of the many lands of the Venerable Kingdom, I, Kohn Shen, offer greetings and gifts.”

  A member of the retinue, plainly attired in garb of black cotton, moved forward in a low crouch. He kept his eyes averted as he approached the dais to set a small chest down on the first step. “Please,” Kohn Shen went on, “accept this most unworthy offering as but the first of what we hope will be many tokens of esteem between our kingdoms.”

  “This is not a kingdom,” Vaelin said, getting up from the Lord’s Chair to retrieve the box. “Merely a province, and all gifts presented here are the property of my queen.” He opened the box to find four jewels set into a velvet cushion, each one different in colour.

  “Ruby, sapphire, emerald and diamond,” Ellese said, coming to his side, her face suddenly alive with curiosity. “Each one at least twice the average weight, I’d say.” Vaelin had noted before how her interest became piqued by only three things: the prospect of combat, handsome young men and anything related to money. He supposed she had Reva to thank for the first, Lady Veliss to thank for the second and no one for the third.

  Lyrna always likes jewels, he thought, returning his gaze to the chest as he thought of the various trinkets with which the queen adorned herself. Though she’d probably consider the size vulgar.

  “A fine gift, Ambassador Kohn,” he told the bearded man, closing the chest and beckoning a guard forward to take it. “I’m sure she will be pleased.”

  He saw a slight hesitation in the ambassador’s response. Vaelin knew the notion of a woman holding authority over men was largely alien in the Far West, even sacrilegious in some places. The ambassador, however, was willing to suffer the ignominy today. “As will our king, I’m sure,” he said bowing again before extending a long-nailed hand to the warrior at his side. “May I present General Gian Nuishin, commander of the Seventh Cohort of the Venerable Host.”

  Vaelin gave the man a courteous nod. “General.”

  “I regret the general has only a partial understanding of your language,” Kohn Shen said. “Therefore, I shall be our king’s voice at this meeting.”

  Vaelin pursed his lips and smiled at General Gian before addressing him in Chu-Shin, the Far Western dialect most commonly spoken by merchants and officials. “If you can’t talk to us, why did your king send you?” he asked, giving a pointed glance at the man’s sword. “Was it to fight us?”

  He saw a flicker of amusement in the general’s face before he grunted a response. “If I was here to fight you, I wouldn’t have bowed first. An enemy deserving of war requires neither respect nor mercy.”

&
nbsp; It was, Vaelin knew, an old saying drawn from the works of one of the innumerable philosophers to feature in Far Western history, but not one he could name. His education in such things was far from complete.

  “You speak Chu-Shin well, my lord,” Ambassador Kohn said. “We were not aware your accomplishments extended so far.”

  Vaelin gave a small shrug. “My tutor tells me my accent is somewhat variable and my vocabulary still lacking. I do continue to learn, however. Every year more and more people arrive here from the lands of the Merchant Kings, seeking to discuss all manner of business. It seemed churlish not to converse in their own language.”

  The man began to voice another compliment but Vaelin waved him to silence. “You, however, are too high in rank to be here on business of a purely mercantile nature, and you bring a soldier. This I find very curious.”

  This kind of indirect allusion, he had learned from prior dealings with Far Western officials, was the expected when conversing with emissaries from the Merchant Realms. Simply asking, “What do you want?” would have been a considerable affront to the ambassadors’ dignity.

  “My lord is as insightful as he is valiant,” Kohn said. “Although, there is in fact a commercial aspect to our mission. We are here to negotiate a purchase, but it does not concern the many riches found in these lands.”

  He waved forward another member of his retinue, this one bearing an intricately engraved tubular bronze case. The man’s pose was identical to his colleague’s, crouched and eyes averted to display a level of servility even the Volarians might have balked at. He attempted to place the tube on the first step of the dais but stopped when Vaelin reached down and took it from him with a soft murmur of thanks.

  The man started, eyes wide as he raised them briefly, Vaelin noting the thin scar that traced from the man’s brow to his severely combed and lacquered hair. Another warrior? he wondered as the servant quickly lowered his gaze, head bobbing as he retreated back into the ranks of the retinue. It seemed unlikely such an embassy would travel without some kind of bodyguard.