Traitor Blood - Chapter One (SPOILER IF READING THE TRAITOR BLADE SERIES)
Ronaldo filled a flask with his best wine and
reached to gather two beakers. He fumbled and one beaker slipped from his grasp.
It hit the tiled floor with a hollow clang. Ronaldo cursed softly and looked to
the cause of his distraction, a table at the far end of the narrow tavern where
his newest customer was waiting to be served.
The man
held a dagger, twirling it between his fingers and stabbing the blade into the
table. The thud of blade into wood was unnerving, perhaps raising a memory of
the softer sound of blade into flesh, especially when the thrust was repeated
over and over. It was not the damage to his property that upset Ronaldo, though
at this rate the table would be holed through, but years spent in a small dark
bar set on the edge of a minor seaport town in the tumultuous kingdom of
Cyrenne had given Ronaldo an exceptional instinct for danger.
The trouble
was that, in the end, such an instinct provided little protection. The men, and
sometimes women, who scared him were the ones he was least likely to offend.
There was no question of asking them to leave his establishment. This man, with
a stubble of dark hair and an ugly scar running from his chin to disappear
beneath his shirt, alerted all Ronaldo's natural caution. The glitter of the
blade in the man's hand aroused more primal instincts.
The chatter
in the bar had lessened considerably, and some customers, prone to the same
instincts as Ronaldo, had already slipped away, leaving the room near deserted.
The loss of trade was not the innkeep's greatest concern.
As he
approached the table, Ronaldo found it hard to keep his eyes from the blade. He
set down the wine and beakers carefully. Normally he would make some effort to
wipe the table but he refrained, fearing it might seem a reproach for the
splintered woodwork.
"Will
there be anything else, my lord?" Here was another thing. Despite the
man's dress and appearance, which marked him as the roughest mercenary, Ronaldo
was sure that his unsettling customer was well bred, perhaps dangerously so. The
nobility of Cyrenne often had need to leave the realm in secret and the minor
port of Farock with its mix of trading and fishing vessels was a good place to
slip away anonymously, or to enter Cyrenne unnoticed.
"Food
when my friend arrives." It was a cultured voice but the accent defied
Ronaldo's ear. Up close he saw the man was younger than he had thought.
"You
are meeting a friend, my lord, how pleasant." Ronaldo took a breath and
tried not to babble. He had no cook or serving girl at this time of day, and
nothing suitable to serve. "What refreshment will you require?" He
shuffled back half a step as the man turned a cold blue gaze upon him. A
killer's eyes, Ronaldo thought.
"Bring
us what you have, he's not fussy," said the man, smiling at some private
joke.
The smile
was nearly as disconcerting as the blade. Ronaldo was spared the need to answer
as the door, swollen from the winter rain, opened reluctantly.
A golden
haired man entered. He was dressed in leggings and a jacket of the softest grey
leather. Ronaldo could not imagine what animal had given its hide to make such
magnificent garments.
The
newcomer did not look impressed by his surroundings. He had the pale coloring
of Cyrenne or of the lands across the narrow sea, but his skin was darkened by
a dessert sun. He wore rings and a long blade with an extravagantly worked hilt
studded with jewels. In contrast to his appearance he scanned the room with a soldier's
caution and moved with a warrior's grace. Despite the contrast between the two
men, Ronaldo did not doubt that this was the expected friend.
The man
rose to greet the newcomer who approached, silent, unsmiling. The men touched
fists and embraced briefly. Watching, Ronaldo was moved by the intensity of
this greeting; he could not decide if it made him more or less anxious about
these unlikely customers.
The dark
haired man turned back to him. "Bring us the best you have," he said
softly.
Ronaldo
bowed; embarrassed by this action he glanced towards his other remaining
customers then hurried away to send out for food he might dare to serve.
###
Angelo de
Loristen sprawled in a chair and took a moment to settle his sword more
comfortably. "This is the best you can do?" he asked, looking around.
He laid a scroll and a packet of papers on the table. "You look like shit."
Edouard
ignored the comment and the scroll with the royal seal of Allesarion alongside
the dark seal of the chief magister. "You have news from home?" he
asked. The dagger was still in his hand.
With a
glance to check they would not be overheard, Angelo spoke softly, "The
army of Ettivar is gathering. By spring King William will have thirty thousand
men or more ready to cross the border."
Edouard
said nothing, but the blade flashed and stabbed deep into the wood. The table shuddered
softly with the impact. "How many men can Ferdinand raise?"
Angelo
shrugged. He indicated the packet of papers lying close to the sealed scroll,
glancing around again before he spoke. "Shamet has sent you the latest
reports, all the details."
"How
many?" Edouard asked tersely.
"Perhaps
ten thousand." Angelo plucked the dagger from the wood and laid it on the
table. "Etrives is still weak and the plague ravaged the south last
year." He gave helpless shrug.
Edouard eyed
the packet of papers but left it where it lay. He had heard enough.
There had
been no battles between the old enemies, Valderon and Ettivar, last year; the
plague had cut deep through both realms. Of the two Valderon was more greatly
weakened, her armies already depleted by losses in recent wars. It was a
devastating reversal. A few years ago Valderon had threatened to overrun Ettivar,
raiding into William's lands each summer, laying siege to important cities and
ports. All that had changed after the defeat at Ralmadre.
Edouard
knew this history too well.
He picked
up the dagger and turned it idly between his hands. "You will go home and to
join army," he said, more command than question.
Angelo
nodded. He looked around the bar, near empty now. "Your father has been
made Marechal, supreme commander alongside the Duke de Etrives. It is rumored
that Ferdinand will join them in the field."
"Old men," said Edouard.
Angelo grinned without mirth. "And you would tell them that?"
"I should think they know it well enough."
Angelo started to speak, thought better of whatever he had been going to say, and eventually said mildly, "They have experience."
"Old men," said Edouard.
Angelo grinned without mirth. "And you would tell them that?"
"I should think they know it well enough."
Angelo started to speak, thought better of whatever he had been going to say, and eventually said mildly, "They have experience."
Edouard shrugged. "And
my brothers will join them." Again it was not a question. Edouard knew that Charles, for all his distaste for martial matters, would join
the army, no knight would stand aside at such a time, and Louis and Henri, his
youngest brothers, were of an age now. The blade thudded into the wood.
After a few
moments silence, Angelo said, "You cannot return while Ferdinand
lives," He spoke harshly, hearing what had not been spoken. "And perhaps
not openly when he is dead."
"I
know. I'm not a fool."
Angelo's
lips quirked in the slightest of smiles, but he made no jibe, and all trace of
humor disappeared as he studied the other man. A tense silence fell between
them. Angelo reached for the flask and poured wine.
"When
will you leave for home?" Edouard asked.
"When
this hunt is done." Angelo indicated the scroll with its royal seal.
"I
have no need of you." Edouard paused in his stabbing and spoke more softly.
"I hunt best alone."
Angelo's
grin was sharp as broken glass. He raised his beaker. "To the hunt."
They each
emptied a beaker. Angelo poured again, carelessly, until each beaker
overflowed.
Edouard let
the beaker stand. "You'll return to Valderon now." This was spoken
with command, he continued with less certainty. "To whom will you go?"
After a
moment's hesitation Angelo said, "I have written to your father."
Edouard
nodded. It was the answer he had expected, however hard to hear. He lifted the
beaker and drank. They sat in more companionable silence for a while. The
innkeeper brought platters of cold meat and freshly baked bread. When they were
alone, Angelo indicated the papers and scroll.
"When
this is done you are to return to Allesarion," he said.
"No,
it is too dangerous," Edouard snarled.
"It is
the Queen's command."
"What
is she thinking? I cannot return." Edouard shifted, holding the dagger as
if it was hard to restrain some violent urge.
"Enough
time has passed. You will not be recognized in Allesarion."
"I
will not take that risk."
"It is
a royal command, I do not think you can refuse," said Angelo. He grinned.
"There is no chance you will be recognized. Your own father would not…"
The grin faded. "You look like a destitute warrior monk." He
hesitated. "Edouard de Chamfort is five years dead."
"Then
why should I not return to Valderon and fight against Ettivar?"
"You
know the answer as well as I," Angelo said softly.
"You
set more value on my name than skill?" Edouard gave a growl of laughter.
"There are many these past five years who would disagree."
"If
discovered you risk the accord between your father and King Ferdinand. And you
cannot kill the whole army of Ettivar," he took a breath, carefully calm.
"Your value to Valderon is to be known and to lead men. That cannot
happen." He fell silent watching Edouard, knowing he could not deny the
truth of this, and all it meant.
After a moment's
silence Edouard said, "I could kill William of Ettivar." The words fell
softly between them. "He has no son of age."
END
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