The Inadequate Heir, page 6
The closer she got to the Anriot, the more mixed the company became, Maridrinians venturing to this side of the river despite the risks, much as her people did to the northern side of the water. Soldiers who fought each other during the day sat around rough tables, cards in hand, whores from both nations perched on their knees. The games often turned into brawls, which resulted in more corpses to feed to the Anriot’s alligators, and Zarrah gave the gatherings a wide berth, making her way down to where the street fell apart into rubble, the swampy ground consuming the cobbles.
Countless bridges had been built over the wide river, but all were destroyed, leaving behind only the remains. Rotting pieces of timber, slimy rocks, and twisted steel sat just beneath the surface of the water, providing the daring multiple ways across if they were willing to risk the snapping teeth lurking in the depths.
Zarrah followed the narrow path, which was flanked by twisted trees on both sides, her boots sinking into the spongy ground, the scent of rot rising to assault her nose. Ahead, a guttering torch was stuck deep into the earth, marking where one was to cross, its twin flickering on the Maridrinian side.
Dropping into a crouch, she scanned the opposite bank for signs of Maridrinian patrols, then the river for signs of motion, but there was only the ripple of water over the collapsed bridge, the air full of droning insects that bit at her skin.
This is madness.
Zarrah shoved away the thought. Madness was allowing the princeling to live, when every day he did so, more of her people died as a result.
Tightening her grip on her staff, Zarrah used it for balance as she slowly picked her way across the river, both her bravery and her balance precarious on the slick stones. The cold water seemed to know whenever her boot slid in the murk or her toe caught on a piece of lumber, grasping at her legs and trying to send her toppling so as to feed its inhabitants. But each time, she managed to keep her balance, making it past the deepest point in the middle. She was almost there.
Splash.
Zarrah’s heart leapt at the faint sound, which was followed by three more in quick succession.
She’d been spotted.
Pulse racing, she quickened her pace, but her boots kept sliding into gaps in the stones, causing her to stumble. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw faint ripples in the water from the approaching reptiles, eyes glittering in the torchlight.
Idiot, Zarrah silently cursed herself. This is what you get for leaping forward without a proper plan.
Then her foot caught.
Panic flooded her as she tried to pull herself free, but her boot was wedged in debris. She jerked on it hard, using her staff as leverage, only to fall on her ass with a splash, her ankle twisting painfully, the water up to her armpits.
And from all around, there were splashes as more creatures took notice.
Her breath came in fast little gasps as she twisted her foot this way and that, trying to free it. She’d seen what the alligators did, how they worked together to tear apart prey, ripping larger animals into pieces that they gulped down whole. She wouldn’t have a chance.
Her fingers fumbled at the laces of her knee-high boot, her hands shaking. “Come on,” she said between her teeth. “Come on!”
Then it was loose. Grinding her teeth against the pain, she dragged her foot free of the boot. Zarrah scrambled forward right as one of the reptiles lunged.
A gasp of terror tore from her lips, and she fell sideways, water closing over her head.
Swim!
Zarrah kicked hard, aiming toward the bank, her staff still clutched in one hand. Something banged into her leg, and she sobbed, choking on the foul water. Then her knees hit the bottom, and she was crawling up the bank.
But some sixth sense warned her.
Rolling onto her back, Zarrah lifted her staff right as a mouthful of teeth lunged toward her. The weapon went down the alligator’s throat and its jaw snapped shut, head whipping from side to side, tearing it from her grip.
Her heels digging into the mud, she scrambled backward, then flipped onto her feet. Zarrah ran up the bank, not pausing until she reached the tree line and the shattered cobbles of the street emerged from the earth. There she paused, hands resting on her knees as she gasped in mouthfuls of air, her heart pummeling the inside of her ribs.
Her night was not going as planned.
Because she didn’t have a plan, only a goal. To be impetuous was to invite disaster, and she’d proven that tonight. And now she was stuck in enemy territory, soaking wet, down her best weapon, and with only one fucking boot.
But going back the way she’d come wasn’t an option. The collapsed bridge was crawling with alligators lured in by the commotion, which meant either trying one of the other collapsed bridges upstream or waiting for a drunk Maridrinian to attempt to make his way back across, only to find himself met by a few dozen mouthfuls of teeth, thus providing a distraction.
Zarrah debated her options, but as she did, her gaze was drawn to the Maridrinian palace looming in the distance, torchlight flickering off its domes, the highest of which was still under repair, the damage courtesy of a Valcottan catapult.
Good little Zarrah, her cousin’s voice rippled across her thoughts. Obedient little Zarrah. Then his mockery turned into Silas Veliant’s laughter, those cursed azure eyes filling her vision.
With his laughter chasing her, she started toward the home of her enemy, in search of honor.
And vengeance.
KERIS EYED THE cup the child handed him, which did not look like it had seen a wash in some time, then shrugged and took a long swallow of the ale.
And nearly spit the contents on the table in front of him.
Eyes watering, he turned to the child. “What is this? Piss?”
“Yes, sir.” The girl inclined her head, a grin rising to her face, which appeared the product of a union between a Maridrinian and a Valcottan. “But I assure you, it is our finest piss. My mother sends me out at every dawn to sit beside the palace sewers to collect the royal offerings, which we serve to only our best of customers. Liquid gold, it is, sir.”
Keris laughed, amused not only at the thought of being served his own urine, but at the thought of being up at dawn to deliver it. Those early hours were the only ones where he slept. Pulling a silver coin out of his pocket, he held it up. “Find me something drinkable, and this is yours.”
The girl’s eyes gleamed with hunger. “I’ll find you something fine xenough for Crown Prince Keris himself.”
Keris nearly choked, covering his reaction with another mouthful of the awful ale. “A clean glass, too, if such a thing is possible.”
But the girl was already off running.
“You going to play or keep whining about your drink?” One of the men across the table jerked his chin toward the pile of coins: mostly coppers with a bit of silver mixed in.
Picking up his cards, Keris glanced at them, considered the odds, given what had already been played, then folded.
The establishment was only a block from the River Anriot, the stench of the swampy waters nearly enough to drown out that of spilled drink, vomit, and worse that permeated the air. The building only had three walls, the front having been caved in during the last bombardment from Valcottan catapults, and the tables were all broken doors balanced on barrels, the chairs a mismatched assortment salvaged from around the city. A typical venue this close to the river, which tended to cater to common soldiers, the officers and nobility preferring the more expensive locales around the palace.
Keris liked it, because there was almost no chance of him being recognized.
The girl came back, carefully balancing a glass of wine, which she handed to him.
“Well? Try it!”
He dutifully took a sip. The wine was not nearly as bad as anticipated, and he flipped the silver coin in the girl’s direction, wishing she’d spend it on something worthwhile, like shoes, but knowing it was more likely to go into her mother’s pocket.
The lanterns hanging from the ceiling swung back and forth on the breeze, casting dancing shadows as he played, lost to the rhythm of counting cards and amassing coins that he didn’t need. He enjoyed gambling, but what really lured him out was the opportunity to listen to what people had to say. When they saw Keris Veliant, people filtered their words for fear of offending him, but when they saw an anonymous Maridrinian, men and women spoke their mind. Curiosity had always been his greatest vice, and he plucked and pried tidbits of information from the men around the table, storing them away for later consideration.
Yet as engrossed as he was, habit had him look up as a figure passed the building. A woman, judging from her shape, her chin-length hair concealing her face. A Valcottan woman, given the voluminous trousers. And to top it all off, a soldier, as she wore a high-laced military boot.
Boot. Singular. For her other foot was naked as a babe’s, which, in combination with her soaked clothing, suggested that her crossing of the Anriot had not gone … swimmingly.
In the distance, Keris picked up on the sound of horse hooves, no doubt a Maridrinian patrol. And without breaking stride, the Valcottan woman cut into one of the abandoned buildings across the street.
Curiosity piqued, Keris folded his cards and scooped his winnings of copper and silver into a purse, which he tied tightly to muffle the jingle of metal. “Good night,” he said to the other players. “And good fortune.”
If any of them answered, Keris didn’t hear, his attention all for the building the woman had entered. Walking on silent feet, he ducked inside, stepping carefully over debris, wrinkling his nose at the stench of rat droppings and mildew. Moonlight filtered through holes in the floor of the second level, and peering upward, he noted that the ceiling had collapsed during one of the bombardments. One of the walls was canted inward at an alarming angle, and to his right, the floor had fallen into the cellar. The whole damn structure was probably a good windstorm away from collapsing entirely, but hearing the squelch of a wet boot, Keris pressed on.
The soft leather of his own boots made no sound as he climbed the stairs, stepping over the body of a dead bird, one hand extracting a knife in case he ran into trouble. His heart beat at a steady clip, and he paused at the top of the stairs, eyes searching the shadows, but what remained of the room was empty.
Where had she gone?
The floor groaned under his weight as he crossed to one of the walls. Bending his knees, Keris leaped up, catching hold of the edge and praying it would hold as he heaved himself on top, the shadows from the neighboring building cloaking his motions. He crouched in place, scanning the rooftops of Nerastis until he picked up a flicker of motion.
You should report her to a patrol, a voice whispered in his head. A sober Valcottan soldier on this side of the banks only means trouble.
But if he reported her, she’d be captured, and the best she could hope for was to be killed quickly. It wouldn’t matter if she’d done anything wrong or not: she was the enemy.
You could let her go.
Except that would mean if she got Maridrinian blood on her hands, it would be on his as well.
Which left only one option. To deal with her himself.
Keris ran down the length of the wall and leaped onto the next building, following her path through the city toward his palace.
SWEAT MIXED WITH the drying water of the Anriot as Zarrah meandered across the rooftops of Nerastis, the sound of music, laughter, and drunken soldiers covering any sound she made as she leapt from building to building, heading toward the palace.
The princelings always had their rooms at the top of the main tower. Given her spies reported that, unlike his predecessors, Keris Veliant rarely left his rooms, she assumed that was where she’d find him. Climbing the stairs of that tower would be impossible, but the repair scaffolding running up the side was another matter. Like her own palace, most of the windows were broken, so gaining access would be easy. Then she’d find his room, smother him in his sleep, and escape, with no one the wiser.
Her bare foot was scraped and bruised, but Zarrah ignored the pain, pausing on the roof of one of the garrison barracks and surveying the wall that encircled the palace. The Maridrinians loved walls. But her people loved tearing them down, and she could see the sloppy repairs that had been made of damage from the last major battle, broken and uneven blocks of stone mortared together, platforms of wood placed across them for the patrols that circled the ramparts. And beneath one such platform, there was a gap. A gap just large enough for a slender woman to squeeze through.
A scraping sound caught her attention.
Dropping low in the shadows, Zarrah scanned the rooftops around her, but there was no sign of motion. Just a cat, she told herself, easing over the edge. Or a bird.
Climbing down the side of the building, she pressed her back against it, eyeing the thirty feet of open space between her position and the base of the palace wall. It was not well lit, and there was still debris from the last battle large enough to provide some cover.
Watching the progress of the soldiers patrolling the wall, Zarrah waited until a pair had passed, and then crawled to the first pile of debris, lying flat in its shadow. Another patrol passed, and she repeated the exercise until she was able to roll against the base of the wall.
Her pulse was a dull roar, but her fear had fallen away, replaced by the intense focus she felt going into battle. Glancing up, she listened for the thud of passing boots, then climbed the rough wall, moving as fast as she dared until she reached the gap beneath the platform. Wriggling under, she paused to catch her breath, taking the moment to peer down into the courtyard surrounding the building.
There were at least a dozen wagons, soldiers working to unload knives, swords, and other weapons, the metal glittering in the moonlight. All the Harendellian steel the Rat King had spent a year transporting through the bridge, which, if the rumors were to be believed, was integral to the invasion of Ithicana. And now he intended to repurpose it against Valcotta.
Waiting for another pair of soldiers to pass over her, Zarrah jumped, landing in a pile of hay. Rolling down the side, she took several quick steps to hide behind two barrels. There were endless shadows this late at night, and she moved between them until she reached the base of the palace, where the decorative stonework created two parallel walls about two feet deep. Resting her shoulders against one, she braced her feet against the other, slowly working her way higher and higher, trusting that the soldiers on the walls were more focused outward than inward.
Reaching the top of the main structure, she crawled to one of the towers, which had scaffolding running up the side that she swiftly scaled, her eyes on an open window, curtain flapping in the breeze. Cautiously, she looked over the sill and into the darkness inside.
A lamp burned on the table next to the bed, but the blankets were untouched, the room empty of life. Rolling inside, she crouched behind heavy velvet drapery, sucking in a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart before she stepped out into the room.
In the years she’d served in Nerastis, they’d sacked this palace a total of three times, but in none of those battles had Zarrah actually gone inside this infamous structure.
It was not what she expected.
While the palace itself was grand and imposing, the room she stood in was sparsely furnished, the furniture either worn or inexpensive, the stone floors and walls barren of any adornment. Only the bedding spoke to the importance of the room’s inhabitant, and Zarrah ran her finger over the fine silk before picking up the lamp, her eyes lighting on a discarded Maridrinian uniform draped across the back of a chair.
Picking it up, she noted the silver braiding and the turquoise and silver pins indicating the owner was a high-ranking officer, but it was the weight of something in the pocket that captured her attention. Extracting a packet of letters, she smiled at the sight of the royal seal on the front of one. Official correspondence, which meant there might be something in them of use. She shoved the papers into her pocket for later perusal, then sloshed the lamp to judge the level of oil, considering her options. She needed a distraction once she killed the prince to ensure she got out of this alive.
Then a low voice said, “I don’t think you’ve really thought this through.”
Zarrah jumped, nearly dropping the lamp as she whirled toward the open window.
On the sill perched a figure, his hood shadowing his face but the knife in his hand clearly visible. As she watched, he stepped down to the floor, moving with such utter silence that Zarrah knew he could’ve slit her throat before she’d even felt the press of the blade.
Her hands turned cold, and she pulled free her own knife, backing away as he prowled toward her.
“You’re planning to start a fire, correct?” His accent was Maridrinian, his tone soft, with an edge of amusement. “Though to call this a plan is an insult to the word.”
Zarrah’s hackles rose, but she was not one to let her temper get the better of her. “And yet you climbed all the way up here to stop me.”
“You wound me, Valcotta. I’m not here to stop you, but rather to offer my advice on how to turn this fool’s errand into a roaring success.” He chuckled softly. “One: you will require somewhat more than half a lamp full of oil. Two: you will require somewhat more than a bed’s worth of fuel. Three: if a body count is your aim, you really ought to start the fire at the bottom of the tower, not near the top. And four: if you wish to emerge from this venture unscathed, you will hand over those letters.”
Her aim was a body count of one, but she was not opposed to making it more. A slow smile rose to Zarrah’s face, and she patted her pocket before leaping onto the bed, the silk cold beneath her one bare foot. “Why? Are they yours?”
“They’re certainly not yours. Hand them over and I’ll let you go. You’ve proven yourself to be only a marginal threat, so I feel able to do so with a clear conscience.”
