magic.
“I have,” she had responded. Her thorn was blackened by fire, sterilized in the flames of ambition and evil, but it was there.
Ariakas was most pleased with her. He had arranged a place for her in his new Dragon Empire, at his side, once his mistress stepped through the portal and into the world.
So much for that, she thought. Ariakas’s death almost put out those fires in her soul. Upon reflection, so much of it might just have been his charismatic personality, the same one he used to attract hundreds of other female conquests. She vowed not to let another man step so far within her boundaries again. He had shown her the Left Hand Path, away from that hungry black moon she was still capable of seeing, staring down upon her. There was nothing for it but to keep walking it … alone.
Cear flew a lazy arc over Lord Gilbert Glayward’s estate, settling finally in the large open forecourt where perhaps a half dozen dragonarmy soldiers stood about, smoking and sharing a jug of ale. At the sight of Rivven’s enormous dragon and the highmaster herself, they quickly stashed away the alcohol and dropped their still- smoldering cheroots to the gravel, grinding them out with their heels.
Rivven dismounted and strode over to the soldiers, furious. “What in the name of the Queen of Darkness are you idiots doing? Where is your captain? Wasn’t there a full detachment sent here?”
One of the soldiers, a man with the rank of sergeant, going by his poorly kept uniform, stepped forward. “Your Excellency, please accept our apologies, we-”
She slapped the man so hard, he almost fell over.
“Don’t apologize! Just tell me where he is!”
Clutching his jaw, the sergeant continued. “We were told to stay here, Your Excellency. Captain Annaud took the rest of the unit south, to Pentar.”
Rivven looked from the sergeant to the others, who were standing rigid with fear and shock. She knew it wasn’t the dragon behind her that was responsible-it wasn’t just the dragonfear. She’d made every effort to make her reputation as a fearsome governor as widespread as she could in the Red Wing. The soldiers were terrified of her.
“For what possible reason would Annaud have left you here to go to Pentar?”
“If it please, Your Excellency, he was pursuing the sellsword, who was here at the manor and killed two draconians on his way out.”
Two more? The Ergothian was costing her a fortune in draconians, she thought. The ones she’d had Annaud take with him were bozaks. The man clearly had no problem dealing with spellcasters. Interesting.
“Is Cazuvel here? Or did he leave with Captain Annaud?” she asked, hoping to speak with the Black Robe before she sat down with the baron.
“The wizard would not say where he was going, Your Excellency,” the sergeant said, flinching. She didn’t strike him again, however. She just strode past him.
“Get your things together,” she commanded, heading for the front doors. “I want all of you back at the outpost by morning. Anybody still here when I come back out gets fed to my dragon.”
Cear showed an impressive set of teeth the size of daggers. The soldiers scattered, running to pack their things and leave; Rivven left them to it and entered the manor. It was time to have another conversation with the baron.
CHAPTER FIVE
Vanderjack sat across the square from the Monkey’s Ear Tavern, watching the front door and sipping a cup of tarbean tea.
The early-morning crowd was noisy, smelly, and constantly blocking his view, but he fixed his eyes on the doorway. Gredchen negotiated with a fish vendor somewhere in the throng, and the sellsword could hear her trying to take a forceful approach. She might be there all day if she didn’t back off.
The Monkey’s Ear was infamous for being a place to pick up paid help. He’d been there before, some years earlier, when the fires of war were still hot. He’d earned a purse full of steel from only a handful of jobs. With the sheer number of mercenaries in business nowadays, a man could barely squeeze in for a meeting with a patron. One had to get there first thing in the morning, as he and the baron’s aide had.
That was more than an hour previous. Vanderjack tapped his fingers on the edge of his mug and watched as a trio of disgruntled axemen, probably Nerakans, left the Monkey’s Ear and jostled their way out of the square toward the harbor. A gaunt face appeared in the doorway, called out “Thirteen!” and was gone again.
Vanderjack looked at the small wooden counter in his hand, the one with
“That’s us?” Gredchen asked, stowing the fish in her satchel.
“Yeah,” he said. “The three guys who had number twelve didn’t leave happy. Could be a tough sell this morning.”
“We’re only looking to hire, correct?” she asked. “You’re not signing on, so you don’t have to be all that convincing.”
Vanderjack shrugged, finishing off his tarbean tea and dropping the mug into a trough outside the Monkey’s Ear. “You never know. Sometimes the patron’s the one that needs to make the best impression.”
The sellsword rapped on the front door. When a narrow window beside the door slid open and a pair of rheumy eyes looked out, Vanderjack waved the little wooden counter in front of them. Moments later the deadbolt slid back, and the door opened wide. The gaunt-faced man let Vanderjack and Gredchen in, impassive. Vanderjack wondered if the doorman was actually among the living. Maybe the Monkey’s Ear was hiring on undead too.
Vanderjack had keen senses, and his eyes usually adjusted to bad light quickly, but in a place such as that he didn’t want to take too many chances. As he passed under the eaves and inside the Monkey’s Ear, he laid his hand on the hilt of Lifecleaver, summoning the Sword Chorus.
“Another bar!” exclaimed the Aristocrat.
“Here we are again,” agreed the Apothecary.
“They all look the same to me,” said the Conjurer.
The Hunter said nothing as he stepped through a wall and out of sight. Truth be told, the Hunter was the main reason Vanderjack put up with the ghosts recently. Too many ambushes, which meant the laconic ghost was supernatural insurance.
Gredchen noticed his hand, following him inside. “If they see you getting ready to use that …”
“Relax!” he said. “It’s just a comfort tactic.”
“The woman is right,” said the Philosopher.
“As ugly as she is,” added the Balladeer.
“We should be prepared for an ambush,” said the Cavalier.
Vanderjack pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. He didn’t want to actually respond to the ghosts, not there in the middle of a tavern, not with Gredchen. The patrons wouldn’t notice his hand; they were probably all drunk or asleep. With any luck, the Hunter would come back and report on what was happening in the rooms he couldn’t see.
The common room itself was cramped and crowded with mercenaries, all of them recent hires. There was the usual mix of roughnecks and greenhorns, of fresh-faced youths just come into Pentar from some village along the coast and old-timers bearing the scars of former battles. Few of them even acknowledged Vanderjack and Gredchen’s arrival.
Directly across from the entrance was a long table blocked from view by four men, all dressed in the uniforms of the Seaguard. Vanderjack knew they’d turned private, so it didn’t surprise him. Who he saw when the marines stepped aside, on the other hand, sent his mind spinning.
“Theo?” he said incredulously, his body tensing.
The gnome, standing on his chair in order to get some height, pointed a finger at the sellsword and
