The RuneLords Read online

  They found the spice merchant chained in the dungeon beneath the Soldiers' Keep, the sole occupant of that dreadful place. Iron shackles and cages hung from the stone walls, and the whole dungeon carried the scent of ancient death. Huge beetles scurried about. In one far corner of the dungeon was a great hole, the oubliette, where prisoners could be kept. The sides of the hole were stained from urine and feces, for those condemned to that awful hole lived in the muck that guards threw down from above.

  Dreys' murderer was chained hand and foot to a post. He was a young man, perhaps twenty-two.

  His eyes were dark, as dark as Iome's, but his skin was more brown. He smelled strongly of anise, curry, garlic and olive oil, as did the rest his countrymen. The murderer had been stripped to nothing but a breechcloth. Both his legs were broken. A ring had been ripped from his nose. His jaw was swollen. Fresh welts covered his face and ribs. Someone had bitten a chunk out of his shoulder. He'd live.

  On his thin ribs, one could see runes of power branded into the flesh, white scars each about an inch to the side. Five runes of brawn, three of grace, one of stamina, one of wit, one of metabolism, one of hearing, two of sight.

  No merchant in Heredon wore so many runes of power. This man was a soldier, an assassin. Iome felt certain.

  But mere feelings were not proof. In the South, where blood metal was mined, merchants could purchase the precious metals used to make forcibles more easily, then purchase endowments from the poor.

  Though Iome doubted that this man was a merchant, his overabundance of endowments alone could not convict him.

  Chemoise stared deep into the prisoner's eyes, then slapped his face, just once.

  Afterward, the two young women went to the King's Keep. King Sylvarresta was in the informal audience chamber on the first story. He sat on a bench in the corner, talking softly with Iome's mother, a rather somber Chancellor Rodderman, and a terrified Guildmaster Hollicks.

  Fresh rushes had been strewn over the floorboards, mixed with balm and pennyroyal. Three hounds sat before the empty hearth. A cleaning girl was polishing the unused tongs and pokers, Iome's Days immediately crossed the room, went to stand out of the way with the King's Days, and the Queen's.

  As Iome entered the hall, her father glanced up expectantly. Sylvarresta was not a vain man. He wore no crown, and his only ring was a signet, which he kept chained to his neck. He preferred to be called "Lord" rather than King. But one could see he was a king when one looked into his gray eyes.

  Guildmaster Hollicks, though, was another matter. He wore gaudy clothes--a shirt with false sleeves, parti-colored pants, a vest and half cape with cowl, in a rainbow of complementary colors. He was Master of the Dyers' Guild; his clothes advertised his wares. Beyond this penchant for gaudy attire, Hollicks was not a bad man. He showed uncommonly good sense, and would have been likable, if not for the way his unsightly black nose hairs formed half his mustache.

  "Ah," King Sylvarresta said on seeing Iome, "I'd thought you might be someone else. Have you seen any of the foresters this morning? Were they in the bailey?"

  "No, milord," Iome answered.

  The King nodded thoughtfully at this news, then said softly to Chemoise, "My condolences. It is a sad day for us all. Your betrothed was admired--a promising soldier."

  Chemoise nodded, her face suddenly pale again. She curtsied. "Thank you, milord."

  "You won't let this assassin get away with murder, will you?" Iome asked. "You should have killed him by now!"

  "You see," Hollicks blurted in his high voice, "you're all leaping to conclusions. You have no proof that this was anything other than an unfortunate, drunken brawl!"

  King Sylvarresta strode to the door to the hall, looked into the courtyard a moment, then closed the door, shutting them all in.

  The room suddenly became dark, shadowed, for only two small windows with wooden shutters stood open.

  King Sylvarresta strode across the room, head bent in thought. "Despite Your pleas for leniency, Master Hollicks, I know this man is a spy."

  Hollicks feigned an expression of incredulity. "You have proof?" he asked, as if he held serious doubts.

  "While you were off entertaining your whining cronies," King Sylvarresta said, "I had Captain Derrow track the man's scent. One of my far-seers spotted this same man yesterday just after dawn. He'd been on a roof in town, and we feared he'd been counting guards to the Dedicates' Keep. We tried to catch him then, but lost him in the market.

  "Now he shows up again today. It is no coincidence. Derrow said the man had not been within a hostel all night. Instead, he followed Dreys from outside the gates by climbing the Outer Wall. He killed Dreys because he was searching for this..." Sylvarresta pulled out a slim tome bound in tan-colored lambskin. "It's a book, a very strange book."

  Hollicks frowned at that news. It was bad enough to have the trader accused of spying. He didn't wish to see any damning evidence mount against the man.

  "So," Hollicks said, "is that your proof? A drunken man is wont to do strange things, you know. Why, my stablemaster, Wallis, climbs our apple trees every time the liquor has him. The fact that Dreys had a book means nothing."

  Lord Sylvarresta shook his head woefully. "No, the book has a note in it, addressed to me, from the Emir of Tuulistan. He is blind, you know. His castle was taken by Raj Ahten, and the Wolf Lord forced the Emir to give an endowment of sight. Yet the Emir wrote the story of his life, and sent it to me."

  "He wrote his own chronicles?" Iome asked, wondering why anyone, much less a blind man, would bother when the Days watched their every move, and wrote the chronicles after their deaths.

  "Is there news of battles in it?" Hollicks asked. "Does it describe anything of import?"

  "Many battles," the King said. "The Emir tells how Raj Ahten broke his defenses and took neighboring castles. I've only had time to glance at the book, but it may prove important. Important enough that Raj Ahten's spy felt he needed to kill Dreys to retrieve the book."

  "But--the Southerner's papers are in order!" Hollicks objected. "He has a dozen letters of commends from various merchants in his pouch. He has loans to repay! He is a merchant, I tell you! You still have no proof against him!"

  And he has more endowments than any merchant you've ever seen,"

  Sylvarresta said, "and they are a warrior's mix in proportion." ;Hollicks seemed deflated by this.

  Iome s father mused, "You know, twenty years ago, when I went south to court Lady Sylvarresta in Jomateel, I once played chess with Raj Ahten himself." Sylvarresta glanced at his wife, put a comforting hand on Hollicks' shoulder.

  Iome's mother stirred uncomfortably. She did not like being reminded that she was the Wolf Lord's cousin.

  "Do you know how he opened?" King Sylvarresta asked.

  "King's pawn to king four?" Hollicks guessed, choosing the most common opening.

  "No. King's knight to king's wizard three. An unusual opening."

  "Is this significant?" Hollicks asked.

  "It is how he played the game. He left his pawns at home, and attacked with his knights, wizards, castles, queen--even brought out his king. Rather than seeking to control the center of the board, he attacked with pieces he felt could seize control even at the far corners."

  King Sylvarresta waited for the merchant to grasp the import of what he was saying, but Hollicks seemed oblivious. The King put it more simply: "That spice merchant in the dungeon--he is one of Raj Ahten's knights. The calluses inside his thumb come from years of sword practice."

  Hollicks considered this. "Surely you don't believe Raj Ahten will come here?"

  "Oh, he's coming," Sylvarresta said. "That's why we've sent a thousand knights, plus squires and archers, to fortify Castle Dreis." Iome's father failed to mention that seventeen kings of Rofehavan planned to meet in two months, to discuss strategies should Raj Ahten invade. Apparently her father felt it was not the merchant's business.

  Iome's mother, Queen Venetta Sylvarresta, could have to
ld some tales to frighten Master Hollicks.

  Iome's mother once told Iome how her cousin "Young Ahten," at the age of eight, had visited her father's keep. Venetta's father had thrown the boy a feast, inviting all the captains of the King's Guard, various counselors, and important merchants to the extravaganza. When the tables were laid out, piled with roast peacocks and puddings and wine, Venetta's father invited young Raj Ahten to speak. The boy then stood, turned and addressed Venetta's father, asking, "Is this feast not in my honor, a gift to me?"

  Venetta's father had answered, "Indeed, it is all in your honor."

  The boy then indicated the hundred guests with a sweep of his hand, and said, "If this is my feast, then send these people away. I will not have them eating my dinner."

  Appalled, the guests departed in outrage, leaving the boy with more food than he could consume in a year.

  Iome's mother used to say that if her father had been wiser, he'd have slit the rapacious child's throat then.

  For years, Venetta had tried to convince King Sylvarresta of the necessity of striking the first blow, of crushing Raj Ahten when he was young. Somehow, Iome's father never believed the boy would conquer all twenty-two kingdoms in Indhopal.

  Iome urged her father now, "So you will put this spy to death? You must insist on justice."

  Lord Sylvarresta answered, "I will have justice. Raj Ahten will pay dearly. But I won't kill the knight."

  At this news, Hollicks sighed in relief.

  Iome must have appeared crestfallen, for her father quickly added. "Your idealistic solution to this matter is laudable, but hardly practical. We can't execute the spy."

  "So, I'll hold him ransom."

  "Ransom?" Hollicks asked. "Raj Ahten will never admit that this spy is his man!"

  Iome smiled to hear Hollicks finally admit that the man was a spy.

  "Of course not," King Sylvarresta said. "But the Indhopal merchants claim him as their own. They'll pay the ransom to save the fair. It's a common practice in Indhopal. They say a farmer can hardly go to market without coming home to find the neighbors holding his pigs hostage."

  "And how can you be sure they'll pay?" Iome asked.

  "Because the merchants want to save the fair. And because, I believe, Raj Ahten has soldiers hiding in the Dunnwood, waiting for the information this man will give. At least some of these merchants must know this--which is why they are so hasty to demand the fellow's release. So they will be eager to ransom the spy lest we manage to torture a confession from him."

  "And why do you suspect that warriors are hiding in the Dunnwood?" Hollicks asked.

  "Because days ago I sent five foresters into the woods to find out where the largest boars are laying up before next week's hunt. They were to report to me yesterday morning. None have returned. Five men. Had it been one, I'd suspect an accident. But these were trustworthy men. Nothing would keep them from obeying my command. They've either been captured, or killed. I've sent scouts to confirm my fears, but I think we already know what they'll find."

  Hollicks' face paled at this news.

  "So, Raj Ahten's soldiers hide in the Dunnwood, and they need to attack within the next three days--before the hunts begin, lest they be discovered." King Sylvarresta folded his hands behind his back, paced over to the hearth.

  "Will it be a large battle, milord?" Hollicks asked.

  Sylvarresta shook his head. "I doubt it. Only some prewar maneuvering is likely, so late of the year. I think we have a band of assassins out there. They'll either strike the Dedicates' Keep, seeking to weaken me, or they'll strike at the royal family itself."

  "But, what of us merchants?" Hollicks said. "Couldn't they as easily strike our manors? Why, why, no one is safe!"

  The idea that Raj Ahten would strike at the bourgeois seemed ludicrous.

  Sylvarresta laughed. "Come, old friend, bolt your doors tonight, and you'll have nothing to fear. But now, I need your counsel. We must set a price for this 'merchant's' ransom. How much damage shall we say he caused the King?"

  "I would say a thousand silver hawks," Hollicks answered cautiously.

  Iome had listened to her father, followed his reasoning and found it both flawless and infuriating. "I don't like the idea of ransoming this spy. It's...a form of surrender. Certainly, you aren't considering Chemoise's feelings! Her betrothed was murdered!"

  King Sylvarresta looked up at Chemoise, a certain sadness, a certain pleading in the troubled creases around his eyes. Chemoise's tears had dried, yet Iome's father looked as if he could see the sadness still burning there. "I am sorry, Chemoise. You trust me, don't you? You trust I am doing the right thing? If I am right, you'll have that murderer's head on a stick by the end of the week--plus a thousand silver hawks of the ransom money."

  "Of course, as you please, milord," Chemoise said. She could hardly debate the matter.

  "Good," Sylvarresta said, taking Chemoise's words at face value. "Now, Master Hollicks, let's consider that ransom. A thousand pieces of silver, you say? Then it's good you're not king. We'll start by demanding twenty times that--along with fifty pounds of mace, fifty of pepper, and two thousand of salt. And I'll want blood metal. How much have the traders weighed in this year?"

  "Why, I don't know for certain!" Hollicks said, all a bluster at the King's outrageous demands.

  King Sylvarresta raised a brow in question. Hollicks knew how much blood metal was available to the ounce. Ten years before, in recognition of Hollicks' service to the King, Sylvarresta had granted the merchant a Petition to take out an endowment of wit. Though an endowment of wit did not make the merchant any wiser or more creative or let him think more clearly, that endowment did let Hollicks remember trivial details almost faultlessly.

  Taking an endowment of wit was like opening a door into another man's mind. A man who got an endowment of wit suddenly had the capacity to enter a mind and store whatever he liked, while the man who gave the wit had the doors of memory barred and was forbidden to even peek at the contents hidden within his own skull. Now Hollicks stored his tallies in the mind of his Dedicate.

  Indeed, it was said that the guildmaster could quote every contract he'd ever written, word for word; Hollicks always knew to the moment when his loans came due.

  Certainly, he knew how much blood metal the Southern traders had weighed out in the past week. As Master of the Fair, he was in charge of assuring that all goods were properly weighed, that products sold were of highest quality.

  "I...uh, so far, the Southern merchants have weighed in only thirteen pounds of blood metal. They...say the mines in Kartish have not produced well this year..."

  Enough to make less than a hundred forcibles. Hollicks cringed, as if Sylvarresta might fly into rage at the news.

  Iome's father nodded thoughtfully. "I doubt Raj Ahten knows that so much made it across his borders. We won't see any more, next year. Then to our tally of damages, add a ransom of thirty pounds of blood metal."

  "They don't have that much!" Master Hollicks complained.

  "They'll find it," Sylvarresta said. "If they're smuggling it in, they'll have some secreted away.

  "Now, go, send word to our foreign friends. Tell them that the King is beside himself with rage. Urge them to act quickly, for Sylvarresta can hardly be restrained from taking vengeance. Tell them that even now, I'm in my buttery, getting blind drunk on brandy, vacillating about whether I should torture secrets from the man first, or if I should just slit his belly and strangle him with his own guts."

  "Aye, milord," Hollicks said, flustered. The parti-colored merchant bowed and took his leave, sweating profusely at the thought of the negotiations about to begin.

  During this whole discussion, the somber Chancellor Rodderman had kept silent, sitting on a bench by the Queen, narrowly studying the exchange between the King and the Master of the Fair. Sometimes he stroked his long white sideburns. When Hollicks left, the chancellor said, "Your Grace, do you think you'll get that much ransom?"

  Lord Sy
lvarresta said simply, "Let us hope."

  Iome knew her father needed money. The costs of armor and endowments and supplies associated with waging the upcoming war would be onerous.

  Sylvarresta glanced about. "Now, Chancellor, fetch me Captain Derrow. If I am not mistaken, we shall be visited by assassins tonight. We must arrange a proper greeting."

  The chancellor got up stiffly, rubbed the small of his back and then left.

  Iome's father looked deep in thought. As she prepared to leave, a nagging question took her. "Father, when you played chess with Raj Ahten, who came off victor?"

  King Sylvarresta smiled appreciatively. "He did."

  Iome began to leave, but another perplexing question came to mind. "Father, now that we've seen Raj Ahten's knight, should we prepare for him to bring out his wizards?"

  Her father's frown was answer enough.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  ADDLEBERRY WINE

  Borenson studied Gaborn's eyes. "Do I feel anything, milord? What do you mean? Like hunger, excitement? I feel many things."

  Gaborn couldn't quite express the odd sensation that assailed him in the market at Bannisferre. "No, nothing so ordinary. It's like...the earth...trembling in anticipation? Or..." He suddenly caught an image in his mind. "It's like that moment when you put your hand to the plow, and you thrill to see dark soil fold over, knowing that the seeds will soon be in the ground, and fruit will come of it. Endless trees and fields spreading across the horizon."

  It was odd, but the image came to mind with such force that Gaborn could not think to say anything else. Words did not suffice for what he felt, for he could literally feel his hand wrapping around the worn wooden handles of the plow, feel the strain of the lines from the ox cutting into his back, feel the keen edge of the plow biting into the soil, turning over dark dirt, discovering worms. He could taste the metallic tang of soil in his mouth, see fields and forests streaming out before him. His pockets were heavy with seeds, ready to plant.