CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SO HE HAD BEEN RIGHT to be suspicious. But by the Hewer’s blood, Cavran had never dreamed of murder, not by that ragtag little group! He had been braced, rather, for Turga’s wrath at being awakened, had almost turned back when Turga’s guard told him the boss was asleep after a night of drinking. But he had persevered, and when he explained his suspicions—suspicions that had sounded so flimsy at the guardhouse that he had tried to follow Rayf’s advice and bury them in a few rounds of betting tiles—he had gained an unexpected ally.

Turga’s night guard had frowned. “That don’t sound right,” he said. “I don’t see how he could have even got news of those slaves—he was shut up with that dancing woman all night. She only left a short while ago.”

And so they had knocked and shouted and then entered Turga’s private chambers, and found him not deaf from drink, as they expected, but dead.

Now, while Turga’s guard went to rouse Zhirak, Turga’s second man and likely successor, Cavran’s mind raced into the future. The death of a warlord brought danger—and sometimes opportunity—to his men. Zhirak would not assume Turga’s power unchallenged. And as soon as word got out, neighboring warlords would attack, sensing weakness in the leadership like a shark senses blood.

Where would Cavran be when the blood stopped flowing?

He pondered this as he made his way back to the gatehouse. He had some faith in Zhirak—the man didn’t have Turga’s style, but he was smart and courageous, not to mention a one-man powerhouse in a fight. As a betting man, he put his coin with Zhirak. And that meant he wanted to be right at his side, under his protection, as soon as possible.

Cavran was a recent recruit of Turga’s, a former merchant sailor hired for his knowledge of the Krylian language and coastline. He was still low in the ranks, but if he were to prove his worth now he could rise, and fast. How better than to bring back Turga’s assassins, along with his slaves (alive and kicking, Cavran would bet on that too) and their gold? He would need men...horses. And weapons. He was not authorized to order up a posse, but if there was ever a time to bend the rules, this was it.

A sudden doubt stopped his steps. What about the girl? She was not long gone from Turga’s chamber, surely still within the walls. Should he not go after her? His lip turned in scorn—all those men, and they sent the Tarzine woman to do the dirty job.

No, he would let Zhirak deal with her. Cavran’s business was with the foreign thieves, the ones he had suspected when the others were gulled.

He was trotting now, his purpose clear. Men. Horses. Weapons. They would sweep down on those ill-begotten vagabonds and teach them the folly of cheating a pirate warlord.

MATTHIEU BRUSHED AT THE mosquito feasting on his neck, not allowing himself to slap, and shifted his weight to one side, trying to ease away from the stone poking up against his hip. He’d been lying there a long time, long enough for every rock, stick and root to make itself felt. Long enough for the air to lose its dense blackness and soften to gray. He had even heard a few sleepy tentative birdcalls, but the road was still quiet. Maybe they weren’t even coming. Maybe they’d guessed wrong, busted the wheel for nothing and now they’d be stranded.

It hadn’t been that easy to find a place to hide, especially in the dark. The torches from the caravan made only small puddles of light. This low pocket of land had a lot more trees than the rest of the countryside, but most were thin and scrubby. The one Matthieu peered through, however, had been ripped from the ground in some former storm, and its once buried roots now thrust their snaky fingers into the air. The solid center was broad and high enough to shield him even if he sat up, while the gaps in the twined wood made perfect peepholes.

The short sword his father had given him lay snug along his side. He eased his hand down to curl around the hilt. “Just for your own protection,” Papa had stressed, and given firm orders to stay out of sight. Still, he hadn’t made him go off into the woods with Gabrielle and Madeleine, had allowed him to stay within view of the road. If anything did happen, Matthieu would see it.

FÉOLAN, STATIONED BEFORE the bend in the road, heard the hoof-beats long before there was anything to be seen. As he loped back to the others, he took a last look at their handiwork: The approaching horsemen would come down a slope to a hairpin turn, then to the cart canted off at the roadside with a broken wheel. He nodded, satisfied: It was a believable scene. And there wouldn’t be time for them to think twice. He raised his arm to signal their pursuers’ approach.

YOLENKA’S KNOCK ON the barracks door was soft but persistent. The last thing she wanted was to wake the whole lot of them.

Finally, she heard a mumbled curse and footfalls. The door opened.

“What?” The man’s sleep-rumpled face went slack with surprise when he saw her; then it rearranged itself into a bleary grin.

“Helloo-oo. Looking for me?”

Yolenka smiled apologetically. “Sadly, no. I’m sorry to disturb. I need to speak to Gurtemin. Is he there?”

“Course he’s here, he’s sleepin’ like the rest of us.” Surly again. “‘Cepting me, that is.”

Yolenka laid a placating hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I think he will not mind waking up for me. And”—with a little caress, she laid a gold coin into his hand—”of course I will make it worth your while as well.”

“Mmm.” Cheerier now. “Hang on, then.”

Gurtemin, one of the gatehouse guards Yolenka had made it her business to meet, was more alert than his predecessor when he came to the door. He tugged his fingers through bed-tousled hair and leaned against the doorframe in a pose he no doubt imagined as rakish.

“Yolenka. Couldn’t keep away from me, is it?”

It was easy to get him outside into the privacy of the compound.

“Gurtemin, I need your help. My partners”—she spat angrily— “my so-called partners, have left. They took our profits and lit out. And they’ve lifted some of Turga’s possessions and left me to shovel their dung.”

Gurtemin’s bony hands lifted in the gesture of warding.

“You got me up for this? It’s not my problem.” Mouth drawn down in displeasure, he made to turn away.

“Gurtemin, wait! You haven’t heard all.”

A pause. A sigh. And he faced her once more.

“Tell, then. But make it fast. You’re a woman to dream on, but you got no claim on me.”

“Yet I think you will be interested in my offer.” Yolenka smiled lazily and drew close to him, speaking low so he would have to bend toward her to hear, as she laid out her plan.