Valraven kept his expression bland, but his mouth was dry as he spoke. ‘What interest did Maycarpe have in Khaster?’
‘I cannot tell you that,’ Tayven said.
‘Were you successful?’ Valraven enquired.
Tayven stared at him for a few moments. ‘Yes,’ he said at last.
‘Where is Khaster?’
‘In Cos. Like me, he has cut himself off from the past. We have no contact, in case you were wondering.’
‘So, if he didn’t die in battle as Bayard claims, what happened to him? Was he with you in Cos, with Ashalan?’
‘No. He fled to Breeland and became a hermit. What more is there to say?’
‘Quite a lot, I imagine. You found him in Breeland? Yet now he’s in Cos? No longer a hermit, then?’
‘I found him in Breeland, yes. And I imagine he went to Cos to hide himself again. He is not the man you once knew. He hates you, Lord Palindrake, with every fibre of strength he possesses.’
An idea was forming in Valraven’s mind. Khaster, his own brother-in-law, hated him. To someone who wanted to curb the Dragon Lord’s actions, an enemy of that intensity might be of use. Was this Tatrini’s game? Khaster had fled his life, but Valraven knew him too well, despite what Tayven implied Khaster had become. Khaster would still yearn only to return home to Caradore. That would be the bait Tatrini would offer, Valraven was sure of it. That, and his own destruction, along with that of his sister, Pharinet, Khaster’s wife, who’d been estranged from him long before his reported death. Valraven wondered whether he should warn Pharinet about this. ‘Do you think Tatrini could be in contact with Khaster?’
Tayven laughed loudly. ‘What? I hardly think so. Khaster detests the Malagashes more than I do.’
‘More than he hates me?’
Tayven was still grinning. ‘In about equal measure, I think. Don’t worry. He won’t ally with the empress to attack you. I told you, he’s like me. He wants no part of the game. He certainly refused to play it Maycarpe’s way. He’s no use to any of the players, believe me.’
It appeared feasible, yet Valraven detected an urgency beneath Tayven’s practised tone. It suggested Khaster was more useful to some people than Tayven was prepared to say. Tayven and Khaster had been lovers once. How much of what Valraven had heard tonight was true?
‘So, what will you give me?’ Tayven said. ‘What are your plans for the future?’
‘I have no doubt there will be unpleasant consequences to Leonid’s death,’ Valraven replied evenly. ‘I support Prince Gastern, because of all of Leonid’s sons, he is the least sly, self-serving or debauched. I cannot take you with me now, because I need to see how the land lies back in Magrast. You are safe for the moment, probably in the safest place there is. You must wait. I give you my word I will do what I can to aid you when the sword falls. But you have to realise I may find myself in conflict with the empress. You must be aware that she does not favour Gastern, but wants her beloved Bayard on the throne.’ Valraven could not speak of his private contingency plans. If all went bad, and Gastern fell, he intended to return to Caradore, taking as many of his men who were loyal as possible. He would try to hold Caradore against whichever of the princes won the crown. He had asked Tayven to trust him, but he could not bring himself to do likewise in return. ‘I will send some of my best men for you if things look tight,’ he said.
‘That’s not assurance enough,’ Tayven said. ‘You know it’s not.’
‘It’s all I can give you.’
‘Then you’ve lied to me, Lord Palindrake. I’ve gained nothing from our conversation.’ He sighed heavily through his nose, and when he spoke his words were slow, laden with hidden meaning. ‘You have no idea how much that disappoints me, no idea at all.’
Valraven guessed then that Tayven had more to say. ‘Have you been testing me in some way?’
Tayven fixed him with a wide-eyed gaze. ‘I cannot speak,’ he said. ‘Not yet. If I were close to you – always – it would be of benefit to you, as then you would be near when the time was right. But I cannot speak yet.’
‘You’re making no sense,’ Valraven said, making an effort to stem the irritation in his voice. ‘It’s not enough to sway me. It sounds as if you’re merely trying to fool me into getting you out of here.’
Tayven blinked, considering, debating with himself. ‘It is said there is a true king, a divine king, waiting to shine upon the world,’ he said. ‘And he is not of the Malagash dynasty. You know my talents, Lord Palindrake. I have the far sight, the wyrding way. I know things that others do not.’
Valraven held his breath for a moment. Here it was. He must play the moment right. He’d suspected this, of course. The instability that was sure to follow Leonid’s death meant that factions other than the royal sons might fancy their chances at seizing control. Was Maycarpe part of a coup conspiracy? Could the Mewtish governor possibly view Tayven as a potential king, a beautiful figurehead for a clandestine movement of mages? He did not believe for one moment that Tayven had received some kind of divine message about the future. This was all a game, and its board was very much in the here and now.
Tayven obviously mistook Valraven’s silence for disapproval. ‘I’ve shocked you,’ he said. ‘But can you honestly say you hadn’t considered the matter yourself? Empires have risen and fallen throughout history. The Malagashes are weak now, because they are divided. They are corrupt. Gastern isn’t a fine upright young prince, he’s a neurotic ascetic, who’d be as bad an emperor as rakehellion Bayard. It is time for a change, don’t you think? There – how is that for shocking?’
Valraven wasn’t shocked at all. ‘I think only of my family’s safety,’ he answered, somewhat stiffly, ‘and do what is best for them. I support Prince Gastern as the rightful heir.’
‘Rightful heir to what, though?’ Tayven’s voice took on a sly note. ‘The empire that wrested your family’s power from them? Remember what Caradore once was.’
Valraven smiled. ‘Ah, Tayven, we are not in bed together and I am not swooning in your embrace, ready to spill all. I see through your wiles.’ He stood up and bowed his head in mock respect. ‘I appreciate your candid words, and will do as I promised.’
‘Now you will run away from me, because I have touched a nerve,’ Tayven said. ‘You asked me to trust you. Why should I do that if you won’t trust me in return?’
‘Tell me who you believe the true king to be, then, and also who else shares your politics.’
‘I told you – I can’t speak yet,’ Tayven replied. ‘And I certainly cannot confide in you until you trust me.’
‘We live in a cruel world,’ Valraven said, ‘and trust is a commodity that comes dear, because it is so rare.’
‘You know enough now to have me hanged,’ Tayven said. ‘I’ve trusted you more than a little.’
‘I am quite sure you could have been hanged five times over for other reasons,’ Valraven said. ‘You’ve told me nothing I hadn’t guessed.’
‘Even about Khaster? You haven’t asked me much about him. I thought it would interest you more. He is your brother-in-law, after all, and was once your closest friend. Will the Lady Pharinet be pleased to discover he still lives, do you suppose?’
Valraven realised these provocative words were because Tayven wanted to keep him there, but he’d heard enough for now. It wouldn’t do any harm to leave Tayven hungry and curious. Cawmonel was only a few hours’ ride from Magrast. Valraven could return there any time. He would stay for the night, because the weather was so bad, but decided not to let Tayven know that. ‘I have urgent business in the city,’ he said. ‘I must leave now.’
‘You’re easily offended,’ Tayven said.
‘Not at all. Good night to you.’ He could feel Tayven’s eyes on his back all the way to the door.
Chapter Two: A Fear of Wolves
In the morning, Valraven rode back to Magrast in weather equally as dismal as that of the night before. As he a
pproached the north gate of the city, the battlements of the high walls were almost invisible in the downpour. Dark, bloated clouds hung low in the sky and the wide paved Emperor’s Road was slick with mud. The rain had seeped through the Dragon Lord’s thick coat. He felt chilled to the bone.
Even before his horse trod the cobbles beneath the arch, the sergeant of the guard ran out of the gatehouse and grabbed hold of the horse’s reins. He jerked hard upon the bit, for the animal squealed and jumped to the side. The sergeant’s face was pale, the eyes wild. ‘My lord!’ he cried, before Valraven could remonstrate at his somewhat importunate behaviour. ‘The emperor is dead!’
Valraven didn’t wait to hear more, but ripped the reins from the sergeant’s hold and urged his horse into a gallop. He hadn’t expected this so soon. He should have been there.
It was clear that the news had already flooded the city. The hour was early, but people were already out on the streets. They looked up as Valraven’s horse clattered past them. He saw their white anxious faces as blurs. What would happen now? Fear and anxiety hung in the very air. As Valraven careered through Northgate Market, he saw a man in ragged clothes standing on a crate, shouting at the crowds that had gathered around him. Once past them, he heard the roar of voices raised in unison. It had begun.
The atmosphere in the imperial palace shivered with tension. Still wearing his sodden coat, Valraven marched straight to the emperor’s apartments. All the corridors were full of nobles, councillors, mages and servants, seemingly at one, regardless of differences in status, in the wake of the news. Did they mourn for Leonid, the mild and intelligent emperor, who was perhaps untypical of the Malagash line? Probably not. What they mourned was the last stable influence in their lives. Now the wolves would prowl.
Valraven presented himself at the great double doors that led to Leonid’s private rooms. He was familiar with the two guards on duty; they had been in Leonid’s service for many years. The emperor had liked and trusted the men, granted them privileges. Gorlaste, the elder of the two, looked stricken. He would grieve for Leonid more than the emperor’s own family would. ‘Lord Senefex has been looking for you all night,’ he said, as he opened the door.
Valraven nodded abruptly. ‘I am sorry I was not here. I had pressing business to attend to. When did it happen?’
Gorlaste accompanied Valraven into the reception hall, where senior servants sat around in high-backed chairs against the walls, murmuring softly together. ‘After his mightiness took his dinner last night, he began to go into decline,’ Gorlaste whispered. ‘By midnight, the physicians were called. He died at three o’clock.’
‘He has been ill for some time,’ Valraven said. ‘His passing was not totally unexpected.’
‘Aye.’ Gorlaste sighed heavily. ‘But it still comes as a shock.’
They had reached the door to the room Leonid had used as an office. It was a vast chamber, lined with floor to ceiling book-cases, but its atmosphere was not that of a library. In this room, some of the most crucial decisions of government had been made.
Lord Senefex of Sark, Leonid’s vizier and chairman of the Fire Chamber, sat behind an ocean of polished desk. Around it stood other members of the Chamber, as well as Mordryn, Archimage of the Church of Madragore, and Prince Gastern, who looked as if he was about to be sent to the gallows. Three mages stood in a protective group behind the prince, grim and pale. One of them was Alguin, a pinch-faced man, who had fought his way up through the church to become Mordryn’s Grand Mage, his second in command. Alguin had a gloating expression on his face. The scene looked frozen, each figure as motionless as those in a picture. A fire burned in the great hearth, but it could not dispel an atmosphere of chill that was conjured by the cold light coming in through the long arched windows.
‘Palindrake!’ Senefex said, getting to his feet. ‘Where were you? We’ve been looking for you all night.’
Valraven took off his coat and peeled his soaked gloves from his hands. A servant came forward silently to take them from him. Valraven didn’t give the man a glance. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘I was out of the city.’ He could not see Senefex’s face clearly because the light was behind him. ‘If I’d had any idea Leonid’s condition had become so grave, I would have made sure I was here.’
Senefex nodded and came out from behind the desk. He was a tall thin man, and young for the position. His dark hair was plaited severely down his back and he was dressed in a dark indigo velvet suit of mourning. Senefex always looked starved, but today the ashen hollows in his cheeks looked particularly deep and his large dark eyes were ringed in purple, the flesh puffy beneath them. He had clearly been up all night. Poor Senefex. He would need all of his wily wits to keep his head on his shoulders now. ‘Gastern must be crowned as soon as the funeral has taken place,’ he said.
Archimage Mordryn made a soft sound of assent. He was a massive man, broad of shoulder, built more like a warrior than a priest. His face was kind and avuncular, his voice always gentle. Valraven considered him to be one of the most dangerous men in the empire. ‘The church is already attending to the arrangements,’ he said. No one wanted Gastern on the throne more than Mordryn.
Valraven glanced at Gastern, whose face was curiously impassive. He was like a caricature of his father, possessing similar features of face and body, but somehow the components were askew. How could the same nose, mouth and eyes appear handsome in one man, merely plain in another? Where Leonid’s hair had been a luxurious leonine mane, Gastern’s was hacked short. The emperor had moved with grace, while Gastern always appeared slightly awkward. Leonid’s expressions had been wry and mobile; Gastern’s were stiff and repressed. He did not have an ounce of his father’s presence. Looking upon him, Valraven’s heart sank. He doubted Gastern was strong enough to hold off his hungry brothers. ‘My condolences, your highness,’ he said. ‘This is a difficult time for you.’
Gastern uttered a sound of derision. ‘There is blood in the water,’ he said, ‘and soon the feeding frenzy will begin. Madragore help us all.’ He made a sacred sign across his brow. Gastern was very religious, held in the grip of the fire priests, Alguin in particular. Perhaps he had turned to religion, seeking something solid in his life, but it had ruined him, made of him a stern, ascetic and intolerant man. Almorante or Bayard would not bow their necks so willingly to the church. Mordryn knew this. He would put the full might of Madragore behind the Crown Prince.
‘Order must not be allowed to descend into chaos,’ Mordryn said mildly. ‘The funeral must take place as soon as is feasible.’
‘I have already sent messengers to all the provinces,’ Senefex said. ‘Leonid must have a full state funeral, for to conduct a smaller one in haste would impart an undesirable message to Gastern’s brothers. We do not want them to misinterpret any of our actions. They must not perceive weakness.’
‘How long will it take to arrange?’ Valraven asked.
‘At the least, three weeks,’ Senefex replied. ‘If any foreign dignitaries find that too short a time to prepare themselves and make the journey, we can do nothing about it. In essence, we predict that rulers from our most influential provinces Mewt, Elatine and Cos will be represented. The King of Jessapur could attend, if he leaves Madramurta as soon as he receives the news. I have, of course, sent word to Princess Varencienne in Caradore.’
‘Thank you,’ Valraven said. He glanced at Mordryn. ‘I would like to view the body.’
The Archimage inclined his head. ‘Of course. I will accompany you.’
The imperial bed-chamber lay at the end of a long corridor, with many doors leading off to either side. The firedrake crest of the Malagashes hung over the entrance, an imposing carving in marble. As they approached it, Mordryn sighed deeply. ‘This day was inevitable, but now I fear we must steel ourselves for the consequences.’
‘Perhaps they will not be as bad as we think,’ Valraven said. ‘For years, Almorante and Bayard have speculated about the outcome of their fat
her’s death. Now it has happened, they might not be as inclined to act as rashly as they’d anticipated. Gastern has your support, which is not to be taken lightly.’
‘And yours, of course,’ Mordryn said. ‘The mages are mine, but the military is yours. Senefex has a firm control of the Chamber.’
‘So between us, it appears we have things to our liking.’
Mordryn smiled wryly, said nothing. Valraven knew the man was not afraid for the future. His comment had been a test. All it would take was one weak leak in the trinity of state, church and military for one of the younger princes to take advantage.
A servant got up from a chair beside the bedroom door and opened it for the visitors. Valraven crossed the threshold first. The curtains were drawn across the day and the air full of the sweet scent of incense. Two oil lamps burned dimly on tables either side of the bed. And there lay Leonid. Valraven stood over him. The royal embalmers had already been at work. The emperor appeared as if he was merely asleep. He looked restful, a slight smile on his lips. Perhaps he was glad to leave this world. Valraven shivered, unable to dispel the image of his ancestor, Valraven I, whose life had been changed forever by Leonid’s forebears. In his mind, he saw that boy kneeling at the water’s edge at Old Caradore, forced to speak an oath in the name of Madragore, binding his domain to the Malagashes for eternity. Now, a son of Caradore stood over the dead emperor, and the empire was in flux. Tayven’s words seeped into his head. Was this the time to reclaim his ancestral power? No, don’t even think it. He could not put his family at risk. Valraven did not have Mordryn’s certainty. The world was far bigger than Magrast, and Almorante and Bayard had cultivated strategic friendships in all the provinces.
Mordryn glided up behind him. ‘He is at peace.’
Valraven nodded curtly. ‘It would appear so.’ He turned to face the Archimage. ‘What have the physicians said?’
Mordryn recoiled a little. ‘What do you mean, Palindrake?’