Sons of Plague: Tales of Kartha Book One Read online

  Creator, that’s an exposed crossing.

  There hadn’t been any other way. The far side of the manor butted up against a few scant yards of bare rock and then a steep hundred-foot cliff face. Getting out would be easier. The moon would set in another hour and, after completing her mission, she could cross again wrapped in total darkness.

  No chance of some sleepless caretaker spotting me then.

  Olinia lifted her mask back in place. She followed the wall around to the back of the building. The manor had two doors, one for the servants near the caretaker’s quarters, the other the spell-locked main entrance. She could have picked the lock—even a spell-warded lock couldn’t hold her out for long—but there were simpler ways to get inside.

  Olinia chose the window farthest away from the caretaker’s quarters. From her toolkit she drew out a square nail, four inches long and made of a flat, gray metal. She put the nail’s tip in her mouth to wet it, then dipped the point in one of her pouches. When she drew it out a fine white dust coated the end.

  Olinia opened a vial and poured a thick, mucus-like liquid out over her gloved hand. She waited for a count of three and pressed her sticky hand flat against the glass. Using the nail’s tip like a pencil, she drew a large circle around her hand. She counted to ten, pulled, and the circle of glass came free with a muted snap.

  After setting glove and glass aside, Olinia entered the house. Reaching into her toolkit again, she took out a bundle of thick cloth. She unwrapped the material and took out a blue glowing stone. She squeezed the stone in her hand and the room was dark; she parted her fingers a bit and light shone out between them.

  She was in a bedroom. The heads of some fearsome beasts along with a few paintings of mountains and meadows decorated the walls, and there were books stacked on several shelves. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  The archives in the Academy had showed the plans for the manor, but they had been decades old, and you never knew how much might be changed over the years.

  At least the master bedroom is where it should be. The office should be up on the next floor, directly above here.

  Olinia eased the door open. She crept out into a hallway. She spread her fingers a hair’s width, letting a hint of light escape, and started down toward the stairwell. The house had two of these, one for servants, one for guests. The latter should be the closest.

  She found the stairs without difficulty and stalked silently up to the second level. Down another long hallway, she found the office. This door was spell-locked as well, but she’d planned for this. It would only respond to a touch from the master of the house or one of his near kin. Olinia pulled the cloth over her face down again. She changed her features to those of Bevin Dalrone. She brought her hand to the door and the lock refused to budge. She sighed, then leaned down and touched her cheek to the handle. It clicked open.

  Life would be so much easier if I could mimic other people fully. Being limited to their faces and voices and skin tone is such a bother. If I could shift perfectly I could accomplish anything.

  Closing the door behind her, Olinia set the glowing stone down on the heavy desk. Unlike her father’s office, Tresam Dalrone’s was clean and orderly. She sat down behind the desk. One by one, she opened its drawers until she found a stack of letters. She read the first.

  My friend Tresam,

  Thank you once again for your generous terms regarding our arrangement. As you well know, the tragic loss of my fleet in Monport has crippled me financially and only your support keeps the money lenders at bay. With my influence, the merchant union will fully endorse your proposal to levy additional funding for construction on your ‘little’ project. Please let me know when we should proceed and how I can be of further service.

  Senator Myrlan Garr

  Olinia pursed her lips in thought. Myrlan Garr was one of the newer senators from LaBrogue. He’d taken out a loan and purchased a fishing fleet based out of Monport just prior to the invasion. When the Fleure took the port they had looted and then destroyed his ships and he’d been unable to repay the loan.

  Looks like the Dalrones offered him a way out. Nothing comes from them without a price, though.

  Olinia set the letter aside and opened the next.

  Dearest Tresam,

  Business is booming thanks to your warning about the invasion from the Fleure. We were able to sell off our investments in the lowlands and protect our assets. Now we are buying them back at bargain prices. Many thanks again for your sage advice. I so look forward to our time together celebrating when you reach the city. I have saved a bottle of ‘74 Minongo as you have requested. As requested we have called in the loan to Myrlan Garr.

  Helera Wakefield, Wakefield Banking.

  Olinia smiled at the last. That explained why the bankers had called in Senator Garr’s loan early. The rest of the letters were more of the same. A few bribes to various organizations and committees, some political favors for other senators—about what she’d expected, but not what she’d been sent to learn. All of Tresam’s maneuverings added up to something; her father had seen enough in the Capital to know the Dalrones had some grander scheme at work.

  She put the letters back just as she found them, closed up the drawers, and started searching over the rest of the room. A tall bookcase stood alone in the far corner. Sometimes people hid things in books. She shifted a few books around and rifled through the pages. Nothing.

  There was a hideous portrait of Tresam’s brother, Janash, on one wall. Fully armored, Janash made an imposing figure. His hair was cropped close enough to see his scalp and his eyes were dark and hard. Years ago, before Kartha had been reunited, Janash Dalrone had been admired throughout the kingdom. He’d been a hero in the third Fleure invasion, much as her brother Cagle was now. Even among the lowlands, where the Dalrones were cursed by every tongue, he’d been grudgingly respected.

  Early on in the war, after the disastrous defeat at Irenton, he’d single-handedly fought off a platoon of Fleure soldiers at the river crossing, allowing the Karthan leaders, including her father, Tresam, and the future King Geron, to escape. He’d been gravely wounded in the fight—the best healers in Kartha gave him only the slightest chance at recovery. But Janash defied them all. Though he lay in bed for over a year, in and out of consciousness, he somehow made a miraculous recovery.

  There were a number of legends about the man, both for his fighting prowess and rumors of how he’d managed to survive those wounds. Some said he’d sold his soul to a demon in order to live again. Others told of an enchanted suit of armor that fortified his body and kept him alive. Regardless of the truth, at war’s end he was back for duty, eager to slay Kartha’s enemies—only by then there were no enemies left to fight. A month before his return, the combined armies of Kartha, highlanders and low, had driven the cursed Fleure back into the sea.

  With nothing else to do, Janash kept fighting. Tournaments, personal duels, drunken brawls—he looked for any excuse to bare his sword. He fought for money and power and for the sake of his own skill. Admiration from the people turned to indifference. Like scattered weeds, new rumors sprang up around him. The demon was restless and hungered for souls. The armor was thirsty; in return for its protection it demanded blood.

  He fought his final duel at a tournament in the capital. Despite the rules, he killed his opponent, a well-liked young man from LaBrogue, and was forever barred from fighting again. Janash cursed the people, cursed the king, cursed even his brother, and hadn’t been seen in the long years since.

  Olinia noticed the painting hung strangely; the frame wasn’t sitting flush against the wall. She peeked behind it and saw another framework of some kind. She slid the painting off its hanger and laid it flat on the desk.

  A safe had been built into the wall. That’s where I’d hide my real secrets, Olinia thought, smirking. There was a key
hole, and she took out a pair of long picks and set to work. Within a few seconds the safe swung open.

  Inside were stacks of coins. She did a quick count. At least two thousand crowns worth of gold, a bag of various cut gemstones, and a piece of folded parchment. The gold was no small sum and the jewels would be worth many times more, but the parchment drew her interest far more keenly. She unfolded it and began to read.

  The plan will proceed. You are to remain in place and keep me appraised of any new developments. Blind the enemy to our movements, but never at the risk of exposure. I must have you hidden for our designs to succeed. The maps you sent will be most useful. I agree that our timetable should be accelerated. The current crisis provides exactly the opportunity we’ve searched for. I will send further instructions. After so many years the end is near. All will be restored.

  Tresam Dalrone

  Olinia frowned. There was no address or even a name on the letter. Who was Tresam planning on sending this to? The parchment was maddening. It promised much and spoke of enemies, but there were no specifics, no way of proving anything except that the Dalrones were planning...something. Something big. The Dalrones were sly. They were cowards at heart; they never acted in the open. They always moved in the shadows or through intermediaries, building alliances, currying favors, enriching themselves at the country’s expense, but they were dangerous and now it seemed they were plotting what sounded like an endgame.

  Olinia sighed. Something father will have to put a stop to, no doubt. Well, that’s why he had sent her here. But so far, she had learned of nothing more than a few vague hints and promises.

  She moved the coins aside, peering around the safe in hopes of a second letter, or anything to shed more light on what the Dalrones had planned. Nothing again.

  For a moment she considered taking the letter and the coins, but father’s instructions were clear. “Disturb nothing. I don’t want them to know you were ever there,” he’d said. She had even packed a special glue to re-bind the window and hide her entrance.

  They’d spent hours planning this, going over the fine details again and again. She’d hated every minute of it. She worked best when she could be spontaneous, and if things didn’t quite work out how she planned...well, mostly they worked out fine enough.

  She put everything in the office back exactly as she’d found it. Then she picked up the glowing stone and stepped back into the hall.

  Time to get out of here.

  The door clicked shut and she started toward the staircase. Just then, the caretaker stepped into the hallway. Olinia raised a hand to cover her face and squinted against the sudden glare from his lantern.

  “Don’t try anything. I’ve a crossbow,” he said.

  He set the lantern down and Olinia caught sight of his face. He was younger than she’d expected—a few years short of fifty. He held the crossbow steady in both hands. Light glinted off the quarrel’s sharp point.

  “It’s poisoned, blue speckled toadstool. Very painful,” he continued. “Bad way to go. Now, who are you? Lower your mask.”

  Slowly, Olinia reached for the cloth around her face. She pulled it aside.

  “Master Bevin,” the man said, confusion plain in his tone. “Why?” The crossbow dipped.

  Olinia’s other hand swept down as she grabbed the hilt of a throwing knife. The caretaker’s finger twitched, and the quarrel flew and hit the floor in front of her. It rattled and slid down the dark hall. Olinia’s hand whipped forward and the knife struck the caretaker, hilt first, on the chest. It bounced off without harming him.

  “Damn,” Olinia hissed. She ran forward, a knife in each hand now.

  The caretaker clutched his chest, then looked at the knife laying on the floor; he started to draw a wooden mace that hung at his hip. Before he could get it free, Olinia’s first blade struck him in the elbow, the hilt of her second slamming into his temple.

  He turned and staggered two steps down the hall. Olinia moved after him; she grabbed his belt just before he could topple over the railing at the top of the stairs. His head lolled to one side, eyes shut and now unconscious. For a moment she held him there, considering if she should just let him fall. He’d seen her, or Bevin at least, and it might be simpler if he wasn’t around to tell of what he’d found.

  Disturb nothing. Well, too late for that, father.

  With a sigh, Olinia pulled him away from the stairs and eased him down in the hall. The wound in his elbow wasn’t deep and the blood was starting to clot. He had a fat goose egg on his head.

  Likely he won’t remember anything from tonight.

  Olinia raced back to Tresam’s office. She threw the painting of Janash aside and opened the wall safe. She took the coins and gems and scooped them into her bag. She threw the letter on the floor. A thief wouldn’t care about a piece of worthless paper, just the gold and jewels. She opened the desk drawers and scattered a handful of the letters around.

  Good enough. A cautious thief broke in, but he got unlucky when the caretaker startled him. Maybe they’ll believe it.

  Olinia left via the servants’ entrance and slipped back across the lawn and into the forest. All she needed now was to get back to her father.

  Ragnall Niall waited in the forum along with his fellow senators. Despite the evening’s excitement, the midnight summons, and the urgency of Geron’s message, he stifled a yawn.

  I am growing a bit old for this sort of thing.

  As requested by the king, every senator in the capital was here. Eighty-three in total. Twelve were missing. Thirteen, counting Davrish’s seat. He’d died in his sleep last month and the people of his district hadn’t elected a successor yet. The rest were outside the city.

  Likely sleeping soundly, as I should be.

  The forum was bowl-shaped except for an elevated dais on one end. Atop the dais stood a throne of carved black marble. It was the rooms only proper chair. Six concentric rings rose from the floor, each elevated two feet higher than the last for the senators to sit on. As one of the more senior members, Ragnall’s place was on the lowest ring, the nearest to the king.

  Senior, he sniffed, still a year short of fifty and I can outfight most of the men here. I could gut half of them like pigs before they even drew their swords.

  Ragnall took a moment to examine his fellow senators. Like himself, none had donned the blue robes tradition called for in the forum. Most wore simple sleeping robes with only a slightly more ornate overcloak. Several still wiped the sleep from their red eyes and more than a few couldn’t hold back their own yawns.

  Behind Ragnall sat the other lowland senators, twenty-four men representing the lower third of Kartha. To his left, directly across from the throne, were the senators representing the middle third of the country, including LaBrogue, Kartha’s largest city and capital. Then there were the northern senators.

  His eyes settled on Tresam Dalrone sitting opposite himself. Ragnall’s blue eyes met Tresam’s brown, and Ragnall breathed out through his nose slowly. If ever a senator deserved having three feet of steel run through his guts it was Tresam. The upland senator thought he was too clever by half. He and his fellow northerners roamed the capital like a pack of jackals, using their positions to enrich themselves, pouncing at the first sign of weakness.

  Not to mention that between the Fleure and the plague, the lowlands are weaker than ever. Something I have to remedy soon.

  Next month the senate would meet to allocate funding for rebuilding what the Fleure had destroyed. Ragnall had been rallying his fellow lowland senators and courting those from around the capital to put the bulk of the money in the lowlands. He had a proposal on his desk for where investments should be made. He suspected Tresam and his fellow northerners would make their own plea for money, even though they hadn’t suffered at all during the latest invasion, the Fleure had concentrated their
attacks on the south this time. The northerners long wanted more fortifications around their few deepwater ports, as well as more soldiers to defend them and to dredge out the old harbor in Restlain. He knew Tresam had been active building alliances with several of the newer senators from LaBrogue.

  Every coin sent north is one fewer used to rebuild the lowlands. Tresam can bolster his own lands and starve us out at the same time.

  That’s why Ragnall had sent Olinia to see how much progress the northerners had made. More than anything he needed to know who he could trust and who he needed to pressure.

  She’ll uncover how far the damage has spread, and then we can start cutting the rot out. He nodded to himself. Geron well knows the danger Tresam represents. He will help me.

  A Praetorian stepped into the room. He banged his spear against the floor to call them to attention.

  “Honorable senators, please rise,” the Praetorian started, “for His Royal Highness, Geron Xur.”

  Before the words were even out of his mouth, the king swept into the forum, striding across the room. He at least was wearing the proper garb of his station, a robe of deep purple and a crown of gold olive leaves. The room fell into silence. Every eye watched the king. Like an arrow, Geron moved for the throne, eyes locked only on it. He carried several thick scrolls, each with their waxed seals broken.