The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Read online

  "Tonight." Steffan took his leave of the bishop and then strolled to the back corner, pretending to be lured by the sound of dice. Like the bishop, the three men seated at the table had forsaken the colors of the Flame for mismatched leathers, but unlike the fat prelate they had the sharp, prickly look of soldiers turned hardened mercenaries. Steffan slid a small stack of silver coins onto the table. "I'm looking for a dice game. Mind if I join you?"

  A man with a craggy face answered with a shrug. "Silver says you're welcome."

  Steffan took a seat at the table, holding the man's gaze. "Donklin of the fourth?"

  The craggy man nodded, one hand slipping to a dagger at his belt. "Aye."

  "Then you remember the raven." It was a statement, not a question.

  Donklin gave a slow nod. "Aye." His gaze narrowed. "There was glory beneath that banner...and loss."

  "I seek glory of another sort, but I need swords that serve."

  "The army is gone, but your gold got us out of the muddy backwaters. We're here to serve, Lord Darkmoor."

  A sharp sword with a sharp mind, just what he needed. "Good, I need..."

  The serving wench brought his tankard of ale, silencing the talk. Dark curly hair and a fading figure, she cast her gaze across Steffan's handsome face and the dashing cut of his cloak. Smiling, she leaned towards him, offering a flirtatious wink. "We serve more than ale here, sweetie."

  He smothered a scowl, like tasting gutter water after the ambrosia of the Priestess. "Not today."

  She brushed against him as she sauntered past, like a cat leaving its mark. "Ask for Marla when you change your mind."

  Steffan waited till the wench was beyond hearing. His gaze fixed on Donklin. "I need you to come with me. I've a task for your men but it needs an officer's eye."

  One of the others said, "Three swords are better than one."

  "Just one for now, I don't want to draw too much attention."

  "As you wish." Donklin stood, a tall rangy man, his belt studded with three daggers and a sword. "My blade is yours."

  Steffan liked the look of him, a captain of the Flame turned mercenary, the weapons at his belt announcing a hardened man who clearly knew his trade. Pulling up his hood to shadow his face, Steffan rose to leave.

  The soldier with the crooked teeth said, "Your silvers, lord."

  Steffan could not resist. "Let's bet on it." He reached for the dice, shaking them with the skill of a veteran gambler. "Double or nothing if I roll snake eyes?"

  The three men grinned, certain the odds were in their favor.

  Steffan rolled the dice. Invoking the Dark power came as easy as breathing. The others stared, intent on certain victory. The dice rattled across the table...landing on double ones.

  "Snake eyes!" the soldier hissed the words like a startled curse.

  Donklin gave him a thoughtful look. "You're lucky, lord."

  "Luckier than you know." Coin flowed like water to him, given his skill with dice. "Keep my winnings, an advance on your next payment."

  The men grinned at his generosity, raising their tankards in salute.

  "Come." Steffan led the captain out of the tavern's musty gloom and into the sunlight. The streets bustled with the noontime crowd. Commerce never slept in the queen's city, legal or otherwise. Donklin stayed within Steffan's shadow, a hand on his dagger, his alert gaze sweeping the crowd.

  "Remember this route. You'll need to return this way with your men."

  "Aye."

  "Tell me of the bishop." Steffan's gaze slid towards Donklin.

  His lip curled in disgust. "He's fallen into his cups."

  Steffan gave a slow nod. "Ale has addled his wits...and I can't afford mistakes." He saw no protest on the captain's face. "Someone needs to slit his throat and ensure his silence."

  Donklin grunted assent.

  "He's to meet me at the Brass Rose for dinner tonight, an hour past sunset. It'd be best if you did it before then. Perhaps on his way to the tavern."

  Donklin's gaze sharpened. "You set him up."

  "A careless drunk is of no use to anyone. You'll find a fat purse of my golds in his belt pouch. Split it among the men, but first take a hefty bonus for your knife work."

  "As you say."

  Donklin seemed a reasonable sort, not too greedy, not too bloodthirsty, willing to take orders, willing to get his hands dirty, a perfect captain for his band of soldiers turned sellswords. Satisfied with his choice, Steffan led him from the city's shady side to the wealthy quarter. The cobbled streets widened and the houses grew to the size of mansions. Marble facades and glass-paned windows added a glistening sparkle to the streets. The patina of wealth was everywhere, from the grand carriages polished to a shine, to the liveried footmen clad in bright colors, to the elaborate topiaries decorating the walled gardens. Even the smell improved, the reek of piss pots banished to the back alleyways, the front streets perfumed with the sweet scents of flowering honeysuckle and jasmine twining the wrought iron gates.

  Beside him, Donklin murmured, "You've picked a wealthy mark."

  "Wealthy...and dangerous."

  "Never met a wealthy mark that wasn't." Donklin grinned, "Wealth that isn't dangerous don't stay wealthy."

  So the man knows his trade. "Yes, but this one's particularly dangerous, like a viper compared to a common woodland snake."

  "So I should take care not to get bit."

  "If he bites, you die."

  Donklin gave him a thoughtful nod, but he showed no signs of balking. "Good to know."

  With uncanny ease, Steffan led the captain through the wealthy district. He belonged among the rich. Skilled at dice and lovemaking, he'd spent many a night winning golds from the local lords, or tupping wealthy widows in plush bedchambers, but now he played for higher stakes. An eager grin rode his face. Higher stakes and higher risks, both appealed to the gambler in him.

  From Braxus, Steffan knew the Mordant had purchased the late Lord Nealy's mansion. Luck favored the Raven, for Steffan knew the mansion well, having attended many late-night parties with the snobbish lords. Remembering the way, his footsteps threaded a steady path through the wealth-lined streets. "This is the one." They strolled past a magnificent manse with the diamond-paned windows. Walking no faster or slower than anyone else, they sauntered by and then doubled back, lurking behind a waiting carriage while they took a closer look. Crouched by Donklin, Steffan whispered, "There's an alleyway in the back. The rear door opens onto the kitchen. The bedrooms are on the second floor with a wine cellar in the basement."

  Guards posing as footmen stood on either side of the main doorway. Clad in purple livery, the great golden wyrm boldly embroidered across their chests, they both wore short swords belted to their sides.

  Donklin hissed. "I know that sigil, so your enemy is the prince of Ur!"

  Steffan ground his teeth. "He stole something of mine."

  "What? Wealth, power, and too many swords?"

  "No, a woman."

  Donklin's eyes widened. "This is about a woman?"

  "Not just any woman, the queen of Rhune."

  "The seductress!" the words hissed from the captain.

  Steffan gave him a warning glare. "A woman beyond compare. And I will have her back."

  "How?"

  "For now, keep watch and wait. Have your men encircle the mansion. Keep track of those who enter and leave. Learn how many swords guard the manse. Learn the prince's habits. But most of all, keep watch for the woman. Once we know she's safe, once we know the prince's ways, then we'll craft a plan."

  "Fair enough, but we may need more swords."

  "Swords can always be bought."

  "If you have the golds."

  "I'll worry about the golds, you watch for the woman. And take care, lest you attract notice."

  The carriage began to move. Donklin drifted away to the shadows while Steffan sauntered down the street. It felt good to give orders again, to have sharp swords at his beck and call. Buoyed with confidence, he length
ened his stride. He'd get the Priestess back and then he'd make his mark, putting his own twist on the Great Dark Dance.

  47

  Liandra

  The queen paced her solar, anxious to speak to the monk. Twilight came and went and still Lady Sarah did not return. Liandra began to fear she’d sent her friend into danger. Ladies-in-waiting were not shadowmen, yet this was Pellanor, what ill could befall her? The queen’s imagination ran wild. Finally a gentle knock on the door assuaged her anxiety.

  “Come.”

  Lady Sarah slipped inside…but she came alone, her hooded cloak beaded in raindrops, as if stained by tears. Curtsying, she stepped towards the fire, a hint of rebuke in her voice. “Majesty, you’ve let the fire burn down.”

  One look at her friend’s pale face and the queen knew something had gone awry. Liandra watched as Lady Sarah added logs to the hearth, stoking the fire to a bright blaze. The queen longed for answers, yet she knew the simple domestic chore served to calm her friend’s unease. With the fire blazing, the lady set a tea kettle to brew.

  Unable to wait any longer, the queen said, “Tell us.”

  Lady Sarah sank to the nearest chair, her face pale. “Majesty, I could not deliver your letter.” She removed the sealed parchment, setting it on a side table. “I went to apothecary row and found the white unicorn over the doorway, just as you said…but the shop was blackened and burned to a hollow shell.”

  “Burned?” Fire was a risk in any city, yet Liandra had heard nothing of a major blaze.

  “Burned from inside, just that one shop."

  Just the one, it stank of treachery. "How?"

  "I talked to one of the other shop owners, purchasing a pouch of chamomile tea as an excuse to gather gossip."

  The queen waited. "And?"

  “Most of the shopkeepers gave me fearful looks, but one talked." Lady Sarah’s voice sank to a whisper. “Majesty, they said it was sorcery." She cast a fearful look towards the queen. "Fireballs in the dead of night, glowing bright as the sun, but the blaze did not spread, as if it sought a single target and then expired. The next morning, the shop was naught but a blackened shell, everything destroyed.” Her voice cracked with strain. “And at the blackened heart, they found four bodies, burnt to char. Whispers say it was dark magic.”

  Dark magic…in our city, a shiver raced down the queen’s spine. “When did this happen?"

  "Two nights ago."

  As if someone knew she would reach out to the monks. "But who caused the fire?”

  “No one knows.” Lady Sarah stared at the queen. “They fled…or took their secrets to a fiery grave.”

  So the monks are dead…or gone into hiding. The queen began to pace, she'd counted on the monks' knowledge...on their aid. Dark magic in her city, but it would not be the first time. Memories of Lord Turner’s gruesome death plagued her. An animated corpse capering in the boiling cauldron, who could forget those glowing red eyes, a nightmare sprung straight from hell. A shudder passed through her. Perhaps another one of those things lurked in her city. Magic was the domain of the monks. If only she knew how to contact them. She recalled their web of spies, the way their scrolled messages appeared as if by magic. Perhaps they would approach her; she clung to the hope, for surely Darkness stalked her throne.

  The queen rang a hand bell, summoning a page. When the tow-headed lad appeared, she snapped an order. "Summon Master Raddock to our solar."

  Liandra continued to pace, a storm of threats in her mind. If only Robert were here, she'd sent him a dispatch, summoning him home, but he'd yet to return...or reply, another ominous sign. Liandra felt as if a noose tightened around her.

  Finally, her deputy shadowmaster appeared, a rumpled crow in dark robes. "You summoned me, majesty?"

  Lady Sarah rose to leave, but the queen gestured for her to remain seated. "Tell our deputy shadowmaster all you learned at the apothecary shop."

  Lady Sarah complied. The queen listened to the recounting, sifting through the details, but her conclusion did not change. She rounded on her shadowmaster. "Why have we not heard of this?"

  He made a placating gesture. "Your shadowmen are stretched thin. We cannot chase every ill rumor in the city."

  Steel laced the queen's voice. "This is one rumor you will chase. We need to know every detail of this fire. We need to know who started it. But most of all, we need to know if anyone survived and where they went. And we need to know it now!"

  Annoyance flashed across his sallow face, but it was quickly swallowed. "Yes, majesty."

  Her anger boiled over. "Now go. Return to us with answers."

  He gave her a perfunctory bow and then retreated from her solar. The door clicked shut and the queen continued to pace.

  Lady Sarah dared to interrupt, a quaver in her voice. "Majesty, do you truly think it was dark magic?"

  Liandra stopped pacing, her ringed hands balling to fists. "We are not sure. We only know that we reached out to the monks for their aid, and now they are dead or fled." Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "As a queen, we dare not believe in coincidences. Someone plays a deep game against us. We feel darkness crowding close. Our enemy is several moves ahead, as if he anticipates our every move."

  "But who is this enemy, majesty?"

  "That is the secret we must discover...ere he turns the game against us."

  48

  The Mordant

  The red-haired lord hung by his wrists, suspended from chains. His once-handsome face was swollen with bruises, his naked torso crisscrossed with cuts. His blood dripped onto the pentacle, a fitting tribute for the Dark God.

  The Mordant circled the prisoner, studying the body like a work of art. In the hands of a skilled torturer, pain was a scalpel, exposing the raw soul. His voice was velvety soft, a keen contrast to the sharp blade. "Tell me of the queen. Tell me what she fears. Tell me what she suspects. Save yourself the pain."

  He stroked the prisoner with his voice, but the red-haired lord only glowered, remaining stubbornly silent.

  "My men caught your boy, the one you sent to spy on me. But the urchin proved of little use. He knew your name but nothing more."

  Silence was the only answer.

  The Mordant whirled. Wielding the knife like an artist's paintbrush, he slashed the rune-carved blade across the Sheriff's chest in an exquisite arc. Blood spurted in a line, crimson across pale skin, adding to the mosaic of cuts.

  The Sheriff jerked like a hooked fish, his teeth clamped shut against a scream.

  "Scream all you want, for no one will hear you."

  The Sheriff slung from the chain, slick with sweat and blood.

  The Mordant smiled. "Pain but nothing permanent. Not yet. I hope you appreciate my restraint."

  "You're a monster." The Sheriff spat the words. "And the queen will have your head."

  "Will she now?" The Mordant's voice was a soft purr. "Who does she think I am?"

  The Sherriff did not answer.

  The Mordant considered his prey. So many of the queen's lords had succumbed to bribes, while others fell to sexual favors, but a few remained stalwart like rocks standing against breaking waves. Even their souls proved impervious to his probes, hence the need for more mundane methods like torture. Never before had so many resisted his probing gaze. Their iron defense puzzled him...troubled him...angered him. He hadn't expected the queen to have gathered so many honest lords. "Tell me this, why do you serve her?"

  The Sheriff glared, his naked chest glistening with sweat and blood.

  "Answer this one question and we are done for the day."

  "You would not understand."

  "Try me."

  "Because she serves!"

  The answer made no sense.

  The Sheriff barked a rude laugh tinged with madness.

  "Explain." The Mordant's voice strained with danger.

  "She serves her people. The queen brings prosperity and peace, a type of bounty a fiend like you knows not."

  His hand snaked out, scor
ing two more cuts. A flap of skin hung down, exposing raw muscle.

  The prisoner grimaced...but he did not scream.

  "You'll scream before I'm done with you. You'll scream and beg for death." The Mordant longed to slash the Sheriff's insolent throat, but he fought the impulse. "I will teach you what it means to serve." He flicked a glance to Gron. "Let him hang for another two turns of the hourglass to ripen and then put him in a cell. I need him whole and unbroken or he cannot serve."

  The torturer bowed low. "Yes, lord."

  "And patch him up. I want him healed to hurt again."

  "Yes, dread lord."

  Tossing the bloody knife upon a tray, the Mordant strode across the chamber and climbed the stairs. An assassin rushed to open the door. The Mordant passed from the Dark sanctuary into the dungeon, the holding cells for the damned. Haggard faces pressed against the bars, their desperate stares suddenly averted as they caught sight of him. The Mordant breathed deep their scent of fear, a potent aphrodisiac mollifying his anger, but he did not tarry.

  Stepping through the wine barrel, he returned to the manse proper. An assassin closed and locked the hidden door, stoppering the scents and sounds of the dungeon. The Mordant climbed the stairs, leaving the wine cellar behind.

  Sunlight lanced through the diamond-paned windows, causing him to squint at the sudden brightness. The day was still young, proving the time spent in the dungeons moved at its own intense pace. He stopped to wash the blood from his hands and then made his way to Bishop Borgan's room.

  The fat prelate sat behind a desk cluttered with parchments, ink bottles, feathered quills, and sticks of brightly colored sealing wax, the tools of an expert forger.

  "Is it done?" The Mordant sat in a chair opposite the bishop.

  "Just finished." The bishop handed him a parchment. "Take care lest you smear the ink."

  The Mordant studied the parchment. The penmanship was slanted and quickly scratched, conveying a hurried, harried look. An ink stain in the corner added a nice touch, compounding the impression of frantic urgency. The bishop truly was an artist when it came to forgery. The Mordant read the dispatch, carefully considering each word. A smile slithered across his face. "Yes, this will do. I grow bored with the waiting. Send it."