patches, exposing red bricks underneath. Snow padded the spikes atop the wall.
Few people dared approach the crumbling mansion. It was inhabited by a gang of disreputable nobles, former members of the city Horse Guards, drunkards, wastrels, and thugs. They were called-though not to their faces- Nazramin’s Wolves, in honor of the prince who was their patron.
The gate was shut, so the fur-clad man tugged on the chain hanging nearby. A bronze bell tolled dully. The wicket opened.
“Who is it?” demanded a deep voice from within.
“A visitor to see your master.”
“Go away before I set the dogs on you.” The deep baying of hounds within proved the threat was not an idle one.
The wicket started to close. Quickly, the stranger held up his hand, palm out, and muttered a short cantrip. A brightly glowing ball of fire, no bigger than a hen’s egg, shot from his hand through the wicket.
Exclamations and curses from the other side told the visitor his credentials had been noted. The wicket widened, and a fiercely scowling face appeared.
“Why didn’t you just say who you were?”
The man’s clean-shaven face, lined by recent suffering, twitched into the faintest of smiles. “I just did.”
The old gate swung inward, scraping back a wedge of newly fallen snow. Seven hard-looking men, cloaked and hooded, stood on the other side. One jerked his head to indicate the visitor should proceed straight ahead to a columned porch and a great brass door much dulled with tarnish. The visitor strode on, only to be stopped by the point of a sword against his breastbone.
“Open your furs. I have to search you for arms.”
Wordlessly, the stranger allowed the guards to probe him for weapons. One of them noticed his left sleeve was pinned to the breast of his robe.
“What’s this?” he said, snatching the cylinder of cloth free. It swung limply by the man’s side.
“As you can see, I have no arms to hide,” said the stranger. The guards grunted, and sent him on his way.
The villa’s interior was almost as cold as the evening outside. Only every third wall sconce held a burning torch, giving the hall a dim and forbidding air. Suits of armor hung on stands along the walls, and racks of spears and swords were everywhere. The villa had more the air of a barracks than a fine old house.
A stooping servant, bearing a tray with a tall beaker on it, scurried down the stairs and entered the door at the far end of the hall. When the door opened, a blaze of heat and light washed out. The visitor followed the servant and stood, unannounced, in the open doorway.
The room beyond proved his host was not averse to comfort after all. It was well illuminated and heated by crackling fires in two large fireplaces. Between them was an enormous chair padded with leather. A table to one side was laden with food and drink, heavy plates and goblets wrought in bright gold. On the chair’s right was an identical table, covered with partially unrolled scrolls. Two wolfhounds lolled by the fire. They growled at the visitor.
“Come forward, Master Mandes,” beckoned Prince Nazramin. He set aside the document he was reading and leaned back in the leather chair.
Mandes pulled off his cape and let his robe hang open. Although he’d been cold before, the heat here was stifling.
The prince waved to the pile of parchment. “You bring amusing gifts. The peasant boy has been busy, hasn’t he?”
“Indeed he has, sire.”
Nazramin’s brown eyes narrowed. “I am not my brother,” he said slowly. “Do not call me ‘sire.’ ”
“Forgive me, Lord Prince. I am but lately come to Ergoth. My sojourn in the uncivilized wilds-”
“You altered these dispatches, wizard. What parts did you change?”
Sweat beaded on Mandes’s high forehead. “Only those portions that mentioned me, Lord Prince. Some I embellished to make more flattering; others I repaired because they were, ah, critical of my deeds in Hylo.”
“I see.” After a moment’s thoughtful pause, Nazramin added, “You left Lord Mudfield’s description of his own successes. Those will have to go. In fact, I intend to change them all. I know several expert forgers-though for this lout’s handwriting, a pig with a pen would suffice. When I’m done, no one will care a whit about farmer Lord Tolandruth!”
He drained a golden goblet in one toss. He did not offer his perspiring guest any refreshment.
“Lord Prince, many soldiers were present at the battle of Three Rose Creek,” Mandes said carefully. “Lord Egrin himself is now in the city, and knows the truth. How can you take Lord Tolandruth’s acclaim away without arousing suspicion?”
“First, Lord Urakan won the battle,” the prince said, refilling his goblet. “I’ll put those words in the upstart’s own mouth. That Urakan died is both poignant and useful. He was a military blockhead, but also a noble of the first blood. Let Urakan have the glory. He’ll bear it better than a peasant boy, no matter how high my brother elevates him!
“Second, the situation in Hylo is delicate. Very delicate. Lord Mudfield will request permission to remain there, to keep an eye on the machinations of Tarsis. He will be granted permission. And stay there he will-until he rots!”
Without warning, the prince flung his goblet on the stone floor. It rang loudly, and showered yellow nectar on Mandes’s feet. The wolfhounds, each one hundred fifty pounds of muscle, teeth, and fur, rose and stalked to the nervous wizard, sniffing the spilled wine. They began to lick the sticky droplets from the floor and Mandes’s boots.
Mandes bowed his head. He would have bowed more deeply, but didn’t dare shift his feet. The hounds were still busily licking them.
“An excellent stratagem, Lord Prince,” he said. “The frontier is a dangerous place. Lord Tolandruth may perish amidst its dangers.”
Nazramin gave a disgusted snort and scrubbed strands of red hair from his face. “I doubt it. Peasants are like cockroaches: Try to stamp on them, and they survive.” Slightly drunk, he mimed his own words, lifting one foot unsteadily off the floor. Letting it fall heavily, he added, “I prefer he survives anyway. I’ll savor it more if he wastes his life away on a distant frontier.”
“Alive, Lord Tolandruth is a threat,” Mandes offered.
“Perhaps to you, wizard. Not to me.”
Gauging his words carefully, Mandes said, “May I ask, gracious prince, why you loathe Lord Tolandruth so?”
Nazramin seized the front of Mandes’s robe, dragging him close. Nose to nose he whispered, “He offends me, wizard. Because he’s not in his proper place. Because he does the deeds of a hero, even though he was born to grow turnips. A proper order must he maintained if the world is to turn as it should. Don’t you agree?” A dangerous glint came to the prince’s eyes. “Most of all, he gives me a convenient way to torment my brother.”
He shoved Mandes away, swept a hand through the scattered scrolls, and came up with the one Tol had addressed to Valaran. He smiled at it-and Mandes suppressed a shudder at the singularly unpleasant expression.
“And this,” Nazramin murmured, caressing the scroll. “This gives me a chain I can bind around Valaran’s slender throat. I pull, she comes. I let the chain go slack, she flees-but never very far. She is privy to my brother’s doings, which I otherwise would not hear of. By making certain alterations to this”-he tapped the scroll against his palm-”I can twist the chain, convincing the princess to give voice to the words I want said.”
“Your vision far exceeds mine, Lord Prince,” said the sorcerer. “I confess it is beyond me.”
The prince gave a dismissive wave. “Get out. Do not approach me again unless I send for you.”
The dogs had gone to sleep, forsaking Mandes’s boots, so he stepped back and bowed deeply.
“As you command, Lord Prince.” Necessity required Mandes to add, “A reward was mentioned for what I placed in your hands…”
Nazramin took a weighty purse from the folds of his dressing gown and tossed it to Mandes. The sorcerer was not yet adept at catching with one hand, and the bag of coins thumped into his belly and fell to the floor. The clatter of heavy coins woke the dogs. In a flash the wolfhounds were on their feet, barking and snarling. Mandes
