Fire in the Blood, page 9
Dahl darted toward the carriage, as if to grab hold of the hazel-eyed man and haul him out. But the man scrambled back, one hand reaching inside his vest. He pulled out an amulet, and with a wry smile and the momentary sense of someone snatching away a column of air, he vanished. The doorguards rushed the driver, and he placed his hands on top of his head before they even reached him.
Panting, Farideh took a step forward, and her leg buckled. Too much magic, too much blood pouring down the side of her face. The sheer number of people watching her—before she’d been aware of them as a mass, a single thing. Now a score of faces watched, judged.
Dahl caught her arm. “Did you get hit in the head?”
“The horn,” Farideh said. “Is she all right? He poisoned her.”
“And the face,” Dahl said. “You’re going to get a scar.”
“Is she all right?” Farideh said again. Brin was suddenly there, Dorn and Arven beside him as he climbed into the carriage, cursing and calling Havilar’s name.
“She’s not waking,” he shouted, all nerves and fury. He stuck his head back out. “Constancia!” The paladin stood over her fallen opponent, waiting—no doubt—for the watch.
“He stabbed her,” Farideh said. “In the arm. There was something on it, and she fell straight to sleep.”
“And you let him get away?” Brin demanded.
Before she could answer, the air reverberated with three sharp twangs, as if three fiddles had just snapped strings. Three wizards, garbed in severe black cloaks, suddenly stood arrayed around the remains of the carriage, wands pointed at Farideh.
One—a man so tall even Farideh had to crane her neck to look at him—smiled pleasantly at Brin. “Good afternoon, Lord Crownsilver. Are these people your guests?”
Brin’s face closed. “Wizard of War Nyaril,” he said. “Very good. I trust you’re here to take this fellow into custody?” He gestured at the trembling driver.
The war wizard’s pleasant smile didn’t waver, nor did the war wizards’ wands leave Farideh. “I think the Dragons can handle him. Please introduce us to your friend.” When Brin didn’t move, the man lowered his wand and walked toward Farideh, hand outstretched.
“Well met,” he said, taking her hand. He was young, in his middle twenties, brown-haired and kind-eyed. A shiver of magic ran up Farideh’s arm, skittering over her skin like a swarm of freshly hatched spiders. She shuddered and yanked her hand back. The man smiled. “My name is Ilstan. This is Drannon and Devora. We need to speak to you.”
“My household—and my guests—have just been attacked,” Brin said. “This is hardly the time—”
“The proper time,” Ilstan said, more firmly, “was when she first entered the city. As you’ll recall, Lord Crownsilver.” He smiled at Brin. “You may, of course, make the necessary arrangements. Tend to the young lady’s injuries. We’ll just wait in your parlor.”
Dorn and Arven carried the still insensate Havilar into the tallhouse. Constancia and Vescaras stood watch over the swordsman she’d disarmed and the driver who’d had the wand, waiting for the Purple Dragons to show up. Dahl helped Farideh into the kitchen, where the cook shrieked at the blood soaking her blouse and threatened to faint.
“It’s not that bad,” Farideh protested. Dahl wet a handkerchief and passed it to her. She pressed it to the wound on her cheek. “It only grazed me. I need to go see Havilar.”
“Did you smell lemons when he stabbed her?”
Farideh stopped. “Yes.”
“Then it’d be swiftsleep,” Dahl said, sitting on the bench. “She’ll be fine, if a bit out of sorts, within the next half hour. Until then, she’s not waking up. Come here and look at me.” She sat down, and he frowned at her.
“What is it?”
“I was going to see if you’re skullscorned … I forgot you haven’t got proper pupils.”
She scowled back. “I got hit in the horn, not the head. All I have’s a headache and a lot of bruises.”
He turned her head gently so the side that had been hit faced him. “Did you black out? Maybe just for a breath?”
“No—it doesn’t work like that. It just yanked my head over. My neck hurts, my forehead aches. I’m not skullscorned.”
“Right,” he said dryly, “because if you were, you could absolutely tell before those war wizards start putting you through your paces.”
She turned back to him. “Your concern is noted, and if I start stumbling around and vomiting, you get to say you warned me.”
Dahl looked away, but he smiled. “Well met, by the way.”
“Well met,” she said. “Where’d you come from?”
“Tam.”
Farideh winced—carefully. “Is Brin in trouble?” She pulled the handkerchief away, Dahl pushed it back.
“Still bleeding. Not … trouble,” Dahl said. “Though there’s enough on the edge that it wouldn’t take much. Did he really never bring you to the war wizards? Even I know you have to do that.”
Farideh hesitated. Ilstan had seemed friendly enough—but she’d been warned about the war wizards, in jest and in earnest, more than a few times. “Do you know what they’re going to do?”
“Suss out what you’re capable of,” Dahl said. “Somehow.”
A chill ran down Farideh’s spine, and she wondered how deep their magic would penetrate, if they’d see the connection to the Hells, or worse, Asmodeus. She wondered if she could run.
“How do you like Suzail?” Dahl asked.
“How do you think?” Farideh checked the handkerchief again, the wound on her face stinging as the air hit it. “I leave the house once every tenday and a half, and when I do, things like that happen.” She touched the cut on her cheek. “I’m not ungrateful,” she started. “But if Brin doesn’t figure himself out soon, I may just … run off to the Shaar Desolation.”
She thought of Lorcan, the stars burning through the cloudless sky, and the endless rolling dunes. He might rescue her from the war wizards, if it came to that. And then the quiet and the peace and the utter lack of villains who would use her as a pawn.
A little part of her laughed at that—no kidnappers sent by nobles, but there was nowhere on Toril she’d be free from Asmodeus.
Dahl gave her a funny look. “Why in the Hells would you go to the Shaar? It’s a godsblighted desert full of mad elves.”
Farideh felt herself blush. “Better than Suzail.”
“Suzail has water.”
“And war wizards.” Farideh glanced back at the door.
“They’re not going to throw you in a dungeon for destroying a carriage and wounding some sellswords. Hey.” She turned to look back at him. “Would you mind if I came around again? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“If you have to come down into the dungeon, you’d better bring a key.”
The trio of war wizards was waiting in the front room, with a furious-looking Brin. Ilstan smiled at her as she entered, as if she were joining them for a drink. “You are well, I trust.”
“Bruised,” she said.
“Better than your victims,” the bearded man, Drannon, said.
“Assailants,” the red-haired woman, Devora, corrected. “Be fair.”
“I wouldn’t have done anything,” Farideh insisted. “Only I didn’t see another way to stop them—”
“Do you think that’s an excuse?” Drannon demanded. “That your Lord Crownsilver’s standing is enough to protect you from the established consequences?”
Farideh glanced over at Brin again, who was giving her a grim look of his own. “I don’t think Lord Crownsilver’s about to protect me from anything. I didn’t catch them, after all.”
“What Drannon means,” Ilstan said, “is that the sort of spells you apparently cast mean you were required to register with the Crown and the war wizards when you arrived in Suzail. Why didn’t you?”
“You don’t have requirements about warlocks,” Brin said before she could reply.
“With all due respect, Lord Crownsilver, that’s a technicality and you know it,” Ilstan said. He turned back to Farideh. “Your friend should have made you acquainted with our laws. We’re well aware they’re not the clearest to all.” He smiled and shrugged. “But they make our kingdom what it is, and they must be followed. All mages of a certain skill must be registered.”
Farideh watched his face as he spoke, stiff with fear. But there was no malice in Ilstan’s expression, no threat. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“We ought to clap you in irons,” Drannon said. “The both of you, Lord Crownsilver.”
“Don’t be overwrought, Drannon,” Ilstan said. “She helped stop a crime.” His eyes shifted to Brin, and grew just a bit cooler. “Prevented her sister’s capture and perhaps the death of one of the Loyal Fury’s finest.
“And,” Ilstan said, “I made sure right away that—warlock or not—she isn’t seething evil.” He smiled at Farideh. “My apologies for the unannounced spell. I find it works best when people aren’t expecting it.”
Farideh nodded, more relieved than she dared show, but she was still thinking about the way he’d looked at Brin.
“All that remains is for us to see you properly registered. Just sit there, and we’ll do the rest.”
BRIN WATCHED THE war wizards from beside the entrance to the front room, arms folded, never taking his eyes off of Ilstan. Was it coincidence that Raedra’s pet war wizard had come when Farideh had finally failed to hold back her spells? The war wizard was as merry as he ever was, unconcerned with the fact that their circling spells studied a tiefling, a warlock, and the twin of Lord Crownsilver’s mistress.
How badly would this throw Brin off course?
How much further could he even be thrown? Brin wondered. Since he’d finally met with Raedra after returning to Suzail, one by one a handful of highly placed nobles had snubbed him—subtly now. A forgotten invitation. An insistence that they hadn’t seen him standing there. The delicate game of playing off their pride and their sense of intrigue and adventure could be thrown into entire disarray by the chance to insert themselves into the drama of the Royal Court. A handful of nobles and already one of his routes was in jeopardy.
He watched Farideh, gray-faced in one of the needlepoint chairs, and felt a twinge of worry. She’ll be fine, he told himself. Cormyr might not be.
Constancia came down the stairs. “She’s awake. And cursing up a storm cloud.”
Brin hurried up to the bedroom. “Any word from the Dragons?” Constancia asked.
“You know they’ll take their time with this.”
“Mehen?”
“I presume he’s on his way.”
Havilar was propped up on one side of the enormous bed, her eyes still glassy, her cheeks flushed. Brin sat down beside her. “How are you feeling?”
“I slept through an entire fight. I got dragged off like a sack of apples—how do you think I feel?” She pushed the covers back. “I thought you said you were going to fix this.”
“I am,” Brin said. “It’s not as easy as it seems.”
“Who sent them?” she demanded, each word as forceful as a thrown rock.
Brin shook his head. “We’re still searching. The carriage was hired. The urchins were paid by someone they’d never seen—”
“Guess,” Havilar said.
“I can’t,” Brin said. “I don’t know. I have enemies. We have enemies.”
“Your aunt?”
“A possibility.”
“Her?”
“I don’t know. I mean it—there are too many options. Helindra, Raedra, Baron Boldtree, some charged-up, would-be Huntsilver heir? Or someone new? I don’t know.”
“When are you going to know?” she demanded. “If I’m not allowed to fix this, then you need to. Now. Not later. Not when you can. I am not a karshoji treasure they steal from you, understand? I am not a piece in this big, stupid, Cormyrean game.”
You are, he thought. We all are. “I’m working on it. We caught one of them this time. We’ll have answers. We’re working on it.”
Havilar gripped his arms hard, her eyes wild. “Brin. Work faster. I love you. I trust you. I said I would wait for you. But you never mentioned karshoji assassins who you can’t even guess the patrons of! You never mentioned your aunt trying to buy me off. You never mentioned being trapped in this tallhouse, and … and none of that goes away because you buy me some godsbedamned dresses!”
“Wait,” Brin slipped his arms around her. She was stiff as iron. “Helindra tried to buy you off?”
“She said as much coin as you spend on me, plus enough for a little cottage.” Havilar scowled down at her lap. “She all but called me a whore.”
“You can’t let Helindra get to you. Not a word.”
“She’s threatening me,” Havilar said, “threatening my family—and if there are karshoji war wizards—”
“Havi …” Brin sighed. He could explain it a thousand times, and it felt as if it would never make a difference. “She’s looking for a weak spot. An opening. Pretend she’s a swordswoman trying to break your guard.”
“I tried that,” Havilar said through her teeth. “It does not make it easier.” She tugged nervously on the end of her braid. “Is Farideh all right? Constancia said the war wizards came.”
“They’re just making sure of her.”
The door opened, and Mehen came in. “What in all the broken planes happened?” he demanded.
“Kidnappers,” Havilar said.
“And war wizards, I see.” He turned to Brin. “You said she’d be clear.”
“I said she’d be clear so long as she didn’t cast anything flashy. Pushing a volcano through the street is the definition of flashy. We’re lucky,” he said. “They’re just registering her.”
“And if they find something they don’t like?”
“What are they going to find?”
“What are they going to think they’ve found?” Mehen corrected. “What’s there doesn’t matter.”
Havilar yawned so wide her jaw popped. “You have to rest,” Brin said, knowing there wasn’t a thing Havilar would want to do less. “Give the swiftsleep a little time to burn off.”
“Swiftsleep?” Mehen cried.
“I’m fine,” Havilar said.
“She’s fine,” Brin said. He patted her knee. “But, truly, you’ll be happier if you nap a bit.” Havilar frowned at him, and he shrugged. “I’ve gotten a dose before. Although I slept a good deal longer than you. I’ll be right back.” He kissed her cheek, and steered Mehen out of the room.
“Any luck?” he asked, his voice low.
“Don’t change the subject,” Mehen said. “The kidnappers were supposed to be dealt with. Your way.”
“If my very recognizable bodyguard goes thundering through every low tavern in this city, whoever sent the kidnappers will hear and we will never find them,” Brin pointed out. Mehen should know this—after eight years of this life, how could he not? “I’m narrowing it down.”
Mehen folded his arms. “To how many?”
“Assuming it’s someone I already know? Eleven,” Brin said. “But it’s not Princess Ospra and I’m fairly sure it’s not Raedra—which means it’s not out of reach to stop. The Dragons have the driver, the children they paid off. I’m waiting for answers, and we’ll see then if the number comes down. Although, if I had to lay coin, I’d say it’s that henish Erzoured and so we’re never going to find the proof that it’s him, and you might as well take her off to Tymanther—or whatever it is you’re planning on doing—tonight.”
Mehen looked down his snout at Brin. “Am I the wicked father out of one of your chapbooks now?”
Brin scowled at him. “Don’t act as if you’re not thinking about it.”
“Don’t act as if we’re all set against you. Since they’ve come back,” Mehen said, “you’ve been acting as though you’re seventeen once more. Not a lord of Cormyr. Not a Harper. Not a grown man who’s made something of himself, and certainly not a man who’s worthy of the amount of turmoil my daughter’s putting herself through. You’re acting as though you’re trapped, and there is absolutely no reason for it.”
Brin heard the truth in Mehen’s words, but it slipped through his soul as if it were nothing but a ribbon in a current. “How am I not trapped?” he demanded. “Eleven. Eleven well-connected people are willing to hurt the woman I love just to get a little advantage, jump a little higher in the line for the throne—which hardly bloody matters when Foril’s already got a crown prince named, mind—and I can’t nail down which one, which means I can’t be sure it won’t happen again. Meanwhile, Raedra’s turned the Illances squarely against me, which means I have no way of securing the eastern path and that’s at least seventy-five folks dawdling in the wilderness, waiting for goblins. I’ve wasted a kraken’s load of coin on locking up silk, just to delay the wedding long enough to figure out a way to either wrap up all these loose ends so that Garce doesn’t run the godsdamned thing straight into the Dragons’ hands and get everyone talking about how we ought to decide who can live in the city. And all the while blackguards keep turning up trying to take her away again, and yes—I’m well aware I’m doing a shit job of stopping it. I’m trying. Though all the good that will do when your shadow from Djerad Thymar turns up and you all run off for Tymanther.”
“Are you through?” Mehen asked calmly.
Brin rubbed his forehead. The tirade had poured out of him, an avalanche of words. But all it left behind was the sick sense of all these things building up again. “I will never be through,” he said, and that time he heard it, the sullen, selfish anger of his youth. “I keep thinking one of these times you’ll come back with your Kepeshkmolik unmasked, ready to run, and it will be the last I see of any of you.”
Mehen scowled. While Mehen had traveled to the Shadovar camp where Farideh had been held, a few months prior, the Westgate spymaster had told him there was a dragonborn man, Kepeshkmolik Dumuzi, looking for Mehen. From what little Brin had gotten out of Mehen, he didn’t know the other man and he wasn’t looking forward to finding out what he wanted. Once a month or so, Mehen would search the kinds of taprooms and inns that might be friendly to a wandering dragonborn, looking for information.
