King of Ashes. Raymond E. Feist

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      Balven waited beside a wooden bucket of fresh water and a heavy towel. A proper bath would have to wait until he reached home, but he could at least remove the worst of the mess from his body.

      As Balven began to strip off Daylon’s armour, the Baron of Marquensas wondered again about the Firemane baby. What if there was a child out there, destined to plague the sleep of the four remaining kings?

      Balven was the younger brother by two years, but he had been with Daylon since the age of six and could read his moods well. Daylon’s mother had done all she could to put a wedge between the half-brothers, but all that she had succeeded in doing was bringing them closer. Daylon had possessed a rebellious nature as a child, and he dared not reveal it to their father, so his poor mother had borne the brunt of it. As a result, the two men were far closer than master and servant.

      Balven was an average-looking man of middle height, with close-cropped brown hair and dark eyes; his appearance was unremarkable, but he resembled Daylon in small ways, the set of his jaw, his brow and nose, and how he carried himself. Balven studied his brother’s face as he soaped his body. ‘You are troubled?’ he asked softly. He had anticipated his master’s changeable mood and had a girl waiting in the corner of the tent rather than in Daylon’s bed, as he knew that his brother’s disposition could swing in either direction after a battle. The girl’s brown eyes were fixed upon the Baron of Marquensas, silently awaiting his order.

      Daylon considered her for a moment, then shook his head. He felt tired deep in his bones. Balven dismissed her with a tiny motion of his head. She nodded once and silently left.

      Daylon watched her depart with no hint of desire. He wished only for a hot meal and a long sleep after today’s bloody work. He endured the cold water and harsh soap; the discomfort was worth the loss of muck and blood. ‘I miss a hot tub,’ he said to Balven as he towelled himself dry.

      His bastard half-brother nodded in agreement. ‘I miss home.’

      Daylon grunted assent. He also longed for the warm sun on the shores of Marquensas, where his castle overlooked an orchard that ran across the hills and down to the coast of the Western Sea. He missed the rich orange blossom scent on the spring breeze from the ocean and the sheer beauty of his holdfast. He missed his wife’s lithe body and the promise of children. As he donned the robe Balven held for him, Daylon said, ‘Mostly I miss the peace. The sounds of war still ring in my ears.’

      ‘They echo in mine, as well, my lord,’ agreed Balven. ‘But at least our world didn’t end this day,’ he added in a lighter tone.

      Daylon laughed. One of the many things he shared with his half-brother was a love of their father’s library. Balven knew of the legendary Firemane line and the supposed destruction attached to its end. They had almost had an argument before Daylon agreed to participate in Steveren’s betrayal; Balven had contested their joining Lodavico and the others. As was his usual tactic, Balven had argued against the course Daylon had almost certainly already chosen, to explore any failings of logic that the baron might have overlooked; neither man placed much faith in auguries, omens, and prophecies, but after ample wine, the discussion had factored them into the decision, or rather ignoring the legend had, as part of Balven’s last argument on the matter.

      ‘Food?’

      ‘I’ll fetch your meal straightaway, my lord.’

      Within a few minutes Balven placed a hot plate of beef and vegetables, with some edible bread and a sliver of cheese, next to a full bottle of wine and goblet. He set the small table and departed without instruction. He knew that his half-brother’s mood called for solitude.

      Daylon ate alone, his silence broken only by the faint sounds of knackers, scavengers, and body robbers in the distance. Then he fell heavily into bed.

      DAYLON HAD A DAGGER IN his hand before he was fully conscious. He listened. It was quiet, though occasionally he made out the shout of a distant sentry or the faint sound of looters arguing over spoils. He heard a rustle in the corner and sat up, blade ready. Had the camp girl returned without bidding? As the fog of sleep lifted, he decided that a camp girl would not lurk in the corner but would have probably slipped into his bed.

      Then Daylon heard a strange sound. He took up his night lamp and opened its shutter to illuminate the tent’s interior. In the corner where the girl had waited lay a bundle of cloth, and he could see it moving.

      He approached it warily, as he would not be the first noble of Garn to be gifted with a venomous serpent or rabid animal. Then he recognised the noise and knew that the cloth held something far more lethal.

      The Baron of Marquensas crouched and pulled aside the covers to see a tiny face looking up at him. He held the light close and saw large blue eyes in a little round face and a forehead crowned with wispy hair, silver-white in the lamplight. In that moment, Daylon was certain that this baby was the last of the Firemanes, as certain as he was of his own name. He guessed that the child’s fine silver-white hair would turn a brilliant copper when it was two or three years old, but around the baby’s neck a woven copper wire had been placed, and from it hung a gold ring set with a single ruby – the signet ring of Ithrace, the king’s ring.

      Who had put this child in his tent? How had that person passed his sentries, or stolen past Balven, who slept before his threshold? He gently picked up the child to examine it in the light of his night lamp and saw it was a boy. The child looked into his eyes and Daylon was even more certain that this was the Firemane baby.

      Crouching on his heels as the baby watched him silently, Daylon Dumarch, Baron of Marquensas, muttered, ‘Gods old and new, why me?’

      ALONG THE SHORE, AWAY FROM the battle site, a man waited by a cluster of rocks. Daylon could see him clearly in the early morning sunlight as they rode slowly towards him.

      The man wore a covering over his nose and mouth, leaving only his eyes exposed; the only clue to his identity was the age lines at their corners. Other than that, he appeared to be a common soldier without badge or tabard, but he was a member of the unseen army of Coaltachin, the legendary Invisible Nation.

      Coaltachin’s rulers had never affixed their names or their seals to the Covenant, and this exclusion had made them a nation apart, yet they had honoured the pact since its inception. Few nobles and fewer commoners understood the genius of Coaltachin’s security, and their success was due to their Quelli Nascosti, meaning ‘The Hidden’. Coaltachin had the finest spies, infiltrators, saboteurs, and assassins in the world. On the street they were known as sicari, ‘the dagger men’.

      The Invisible Nation was publicly loathed and privately employed by every ruler with the means to pay them. They were also universally feared, for legend claimed they could walk through walls, kill with their breath, and become undetectable at will, or at least that was the myth surrounding them. In reality, they were the most effective assassins, spies, and provocateurs on Garn.

      The true strength of Coaltachin lay in the extent of its network. It had placed agents everywhere, from the tables of nobility to the gutter gangs of the most dangerous cities across the world. Few knew exactly where the Invisible Nation lay among the thousands of islands off the eastern shore of South Tembria. Only a few, trusted, eastern traders could navigate the route to Coaltachin. All anyone else knew was that it might lie somewhere between South Tembria and Enast.

      Daylon had been certain that the sicari would be at hand during a battle of this scope. A betrayal so majestic was far beyond the skills of men like Lodavico Sentarzi or Mazika Koralos. It had taken Balven a full day and a night to find someone to carry word and СКАЧАТЬ