Wrayan studied him closely for a moment, and then shook his head. That wasn't the observation of a frivolous boy.

Whether he liked it or not, Damin couldn't go on hiding behind the veneer of light-hearted charm he worked so carefully to cultivate. And the older he got, the harder it was going to be. "You're not going to be able to keep this up much longer, Damin."

"Keep what up?"

"This act you put on for other people. Sooner or later, somebody is going to realise you're not nearly as shallow as you try to make people believe."

"And it will be sooner, rather than later," Damin agreed heavily, taking a seat on moss-covered log that had been slowly rotting away in the clearing for decades, by the look of it. "Along with all the other joy the last few days have brought us, Adham Tirstone informs me there's a good chance Fardohnya is massing for an invasion behind the closed borders in the Sunrise Mountains. Chaine Lionsclaw is dead, half the provinces have lost their Warlords to the plague, the rest of our fighting capability is tenuous at best, and if we don't want dear Uncle Lernen leading what's left of our army into certain defeat, guess who's going to get that job? I imagine by the time I've called up our reserves in the name of the High Prince, trodden all over the tender egos of every remaining Warlord in Hythria and had a stand-up fight with the High Arrion to get her to release the troops we'll need from the provinces under the Collective's control, there won't be a soul left in Hythria who thinks I'm anything like the incumbent High Prince."

Marla's son to the core, Wrayan thought. His best friend is at death's door. His cousin just killed herself and he all but tore out his uncle's throat with his bare hands. And what is Damin Wolfblade doing? Hiding down here in the fens grieving? No. He's down here working out his battle plans because Hythria might be under attack.

Damin shrugged, and added, "There's a certain level of protection in being thought of as a fool, Wrayan. Elezaar taught me that."

"You know, back when I was an apprentice, long before you were born, I had a discussion with old Kagan Palenovar about you. Or at least the idea of you."

"The old High Arrion?"

Wrayan nodded. "He was one of the men who arranged for your mother to turn down Hablet's offer and marry Laran Krakenshield instead."

"You mean Hablet might have been my father if they hadn't? Gods, that's a scary thought."

"The notion of placing two provinces in the hands of one man and breaking a signed marriage contract with Hablet of Fardohnya seemed quite a bit scarier at the time. I can remember asking Kagan if he was entrusting a third of the country's military power and wealth to Laran Krakenshield in the vague hope of an heir some day who'd be more than a pointless figurehead."

"What did he say?"

"He offered me a wager. If my nephew fathers him, Kagan said, I'll bet you any amount you want, the next High Prince of Hythria will be a man to be reckoned with."

Damin smiled thinly. "I think I would have liked this Kagan Palenovar of yours."

"Actually, he's more yours than mine. He was your grandmother Jeryma Ravenspear's brother, so I guess that makes him your great-uncle, or something. But what I'm trying to say is, Damin, I think Kagan would have won the bet."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Wrayan, but it's a bit misplaced. I haven't done anything to be proud of."

"Don't be too sure of that. Mahkas is still alive because even in the depths of unconscionable rage you had the presence of mind to understand the ramifications of giving in to your desire for vengeance."

Damin smiled sourly. "You weren't there, Wrayan. There's no honour to be found anywhere in what happened last night. And you have no idea how close I came to giving in." He shook his head and then ran his hands through his hair impatiently, as if it would somehow clear his head. "Do you remember when I was a boy? Almodavar gave me forty laps of the training yard once because I didn't kill him. He took me to task again the night Luciena attacked me, because I didn't kill her, either. He used to tell me I was too sentimental. He told me I'd never be able to make the killing stroke if I stopped to think about it."

"He was probably right."

"No. He wasn't. I thought about it, Wrayan. And believe me, there is nothing I have ever wanted more than to kill Mahkas. I was ready, willing and able to do it."

"But you didn't."

He looked at Wrayan sceptically. "Don't try to congratulate me on my honour or my presence of mind. I didn't choose not to kill Mahkas. I chose not to kill him yet."

"And that makes you a bad person?"

"I don't know if I'm bad. But I'm pretty certain I've discovered a capacity for being a callous bastard I didn't know I had."

"And that's why you're down here in the fens wallowing in self-pity, I suppose?"

Damin shook his head, almost amused by the idea. "I'd be less of a callous bastard if I was. I haven't been grieving for Leila or worrying about Starros. I've been sitting here all night trying to figure out the best way to deal with Hablet." Then he added with annoyance, "For all the good it's done."

Wrayan smiled at his obvious irritation. "You mean, even with these previously untapped depths of callous bastardry to call on, you haven't thought up some invincible battle strategy in the space of a few hours? What good are you, Damin Wolfblade?"

The young man forced a smile. "I've had military strategy forced down my throat with every meal since I was three years old. I should have been able to come up with something in about ten minutes."

"How can you? You don't have any reliable intelligence to go on. For all you know, Adham's got it completely wrong and Hablet's just massing his harem behind the border. It's an easy mistake to make. I understand his daughters alone number close to his standing army."

This time Damin's smile almost looked genuine. "They're more dangerous, too, from what I hear. The eldest daughter is apparently a shrew of monumental proportions."

"I've heard that, too. And that's my point, Damin. Don't lose any sleep over what you don't know. Find out what's really happening over the border. Then, if it turns out we are about to be invaded, by all means, lose all the sleep you want trying to figure out a way to stop it."

"Will you help me, Wrayan?"

"Of course I will," Wrayan replied, surprised that Damin had even felt the need to ask.

The young prince nodded and rose to his feet. "Good. Then I want you to go to Greenharbour. I need you to speak to my mother. What I want of her will be less inflammatory if I don't commit it to paper."

"What did you want me to tell her?"

"She needs to know what's happened here," Damin said. "She needs to know about Mahkas.

And about Starros and Leila. And about Hablet's possible plans for us."

Wrayan frowned, thinking that nothing of what Damin wanted him to tell Marla seemed particularly contentious. "And?" he prompted, guessing there was more.

"And then I want you to have her make Lernen appoint me general of Hythria's combined armies."

"Oh. Is that all?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"There's one problem you may not have considered, Damin. Even if you had the rank, you can't lead Hythria's armies anywhere if you've not come of age."

"Then it's time we did something about that, too."

"Don't even think of asking me to magically speed up time so you can reach your majority faster."

Damin looked at him in surprise. "Can you actually do that?"

"I don't know. And anyway, it's beside the point. Even if I could, I wouldn't. So how, in the name of all the Primal Gods, are you planning to get around the fact that your thirtieth birthday is six years away?"

"By making it irrelevant."

"I don't follow you."

He shrugged. "We'll just change the age of majority to twenty-five."

Wrayan stared at him in shock. "Just like that . . . change the age of majority?"

"Works for me."

Wrayan was silent for a moment as he thought about what it would mean to the whole nation if Marla was able to get Lernen to make such a radical change in the structure of Hythrun society. He shook his head, flabbergasted by the very notion. "It would throw the whole country into turmoil."

"Only for a little while. And in case you haven't noticed, Hythria's already in a fair bit of turmoil now. A little more will hardly be noticed in the general scheme of things."

"But think of what it means . . . there are provinces-"

"Currently under the control of the Sorcerers' Collective-like Izcomdar and Pentamor-with living heirs capable of taking charge, that will suddenly find themselves with a Warlord again," Damin finished for him with a smug little grin.

"And no longer under Alija's control. You really are a lot smarter than you look, Damin."

"Well, I'm quite happy for Marla to get the credit for this one. I just want the control such a change will give me over our troops. If we're going to face Hablet across a battlefield, we can't do it with one hand tied behind our backs." Damin glanced up through the canopy of trees and frowned. "It's getting late. We should be getting back, I suppose."

Without waiting for a reply, Damin headed along the path back towards the gate that led up to the palace. Wrayan watched the young prince leave, a little dumbstruck. He'd always suspected Damin was brighter than he pretended, but the proof far exceeded his expectations. Even Marla would have been hard-pressed to come up with such a drastic and surprisingly workable solution.

And then another thought occurred to Wrayan, which turned his faint smile into a deep frown.

"Damin!" he called.

The prince stopped and turned to look at him. "Yes?"

"I don't suppose it escaped your notice that if Marla manages to convince Lernen to lower the age of majority, in a few months you'll be able to inherit Krakandar."

"No, it didn't escape my notice."

"Don't you think Mahkas might have something to say about that?"

"Go pay him a visit, Wrayan," Damin suggested coldly. "I think you'll find Mahkas Damaran is going to have a bit of trouble saying anything to anybody from now on."

Without waiting for Wrayan to answer, the young prince turned and continued to walk back along the path towards the palace.

It was only then that Wrayan understood what Damin meant when he spoke of his previously unsuspected capacity for being a callous bastard.

Chapter 74.

If Alija Eaglespike thought the information she had accidentally gleaned from Ruxton Tirstone's dying mind was shocking, what she learned from Tarkyn Lye's meeting with the dwarf left her breathless.

Tarkyn brought her the information supplied by Elezaar several hours after she had dispatched him to Venira's Emporium to collect Crysander, and a week later she was still trying to digest it all.

Standing on the balcony of her bedroom as the sun set in the west, painting the white city pink and gold, Alija smiled at the irony.

The Fool really was a fool, after all.

A slight breeze blew in off the harbour, cooling the perspiration on her skin and making her shiver. She pulled her robe a little closer and glanced across at the bed where her latest lover lay sprawled across the covers, his breathing deep and even as he slept. Younger than Alija by a good ten years, his name was Galon Miar. He was a recent widower, his wife having fallen victim to the plague in the first wave some months ago. He was a commoner, too-a quaint little habit Alija had picked up from Marla. But he was a powerful man in his own right, despite his common birth. On his right hand, he wore a gold ring worked in the shape of a raven. The ring of the Assassins' Guild.

His advantage to Alija-besides the obvious sexual attraction of a handsome and athletic younger man-was the rumour rife in Greenharbour that Galon Miar would be the next Raven. With the head of the Assassins' Guild in her bed-quite literally-Alija didn't anticipate much resistance to anything she wanted to do, once her lover took over the guild.

It warmed her soul, simply thinking of the possibilities.

She was under no illusions about Galon. There was no love involved in this affair. Alija was almost fifty and it was dye and a lavish and expensive daily routine of cosmetics that kept the more obvious signs of ageing at bay. She didn't kid herself that Galon had taken her as a lover because he desired Alija more than he might a younger woman. He found her attractive (she'd been in his mind, so she knew that for certain), but what really attracted him wasn't her body, it was her power. He was in her bed because he was just as determined to have the Sorcerers' Collective in his pocket when he ruled his guild as she was to have him in hers.

And now . . . well, with what she now knew about the goings-on in the Wolfblade household, there was nothing standing in her way.

It was luck, or perhaps divine intervention, that had finally provided Alija with the edge she needed to bring the Wolfblades down. She had been at Venira's, looking for house slaves when she spied the old slave named Crysander. Normally, the High Arrion wouldn't have gone to anywhere as exorbitant as Venira's for simple house slaves, but with the markets closed, and her own staff depleted, she had no choice. Besides, with his slaves protected and isolated from the general population, they were much less likely to have been exposed to the plague.

Venira really had been planning to toss the slave onto the streets and let him starve when Alija first saw him. It was a comment the slaver made in passing about Crysander being a waste of food that made Alija stop and take a second look.

"What did you call him?"

"Crysander," Venira had told her with a shrug.

"I had a court'esa once," she said. "His name was Crysander, too."

"I remember him," Venira had replied, with the distant look of a man reminiscing about a large amount of money. "He was the Fool's brother, wasn't he? Didn't he die in that awful massacre at Ronan Dell's palace?"

Alija's eyes narrowed. "I paid you rather a lot of money, Venira, to make certain our transactions that day remained confidential."

The fat man had smiled obsequiously. "Trust me, my lady. Your coin purchased my total amnesia on the subject."

"Show him to me," she ordered, curious to see if this Crysander was anything like the slender, handsome young man she remembered. As it turned out, he wasn't. Wizened and old, bent almost double by a lifetime of cruel physical labour, the slave was a walking human ruin.

Then Alija noticed the scar, thinking it strange that he would bear such a mark in almost exactly the same place her Crysander was stabbed. And he had been stabbed. She'd made certain of that; demanding they bring the court'esa's body back to her. Alija wanted proof the slave was silenced, and nothing short of his dead body lying at her feet would have satisfied her.

"How did you get that mark on your belly?" she asked the old slave curiously.

"A plough blade, my lady," the slave replied in his hoarse, rasping voice. "I slipped and fell on it when I was a boy."

"You're lucky to have survived," she remarked.

"So they tell me, my lady," the slave replied.

"Ironic, don't you think," Venira chortled beside her, his multiple chins wobbling with mirth.

"Your Crysander would be almost this age by now, too, had he survived."

Alija had thought no more about the man, until she'd woken up from the stupor brought on from being caught in Ruxton's dying mind and realised that she now possessed the information to make this poor imitation of Crysander the court'esa into a reasonable facsimile of the real thing.

Among the recollections she discovered in Ruxton Tirstone's thoughts were images of him and Marla's dwarf sitting in a dimly lit kitchen late at night (she supposed it was the kitchens at Marla's townhouse). Apparently, the two men shared ale quite often. Ruxton had been a common man, after all, and for all his outward veneer of civilisation, there were some things from his youth he'd still enjoyed, and a good dark ale was among them. The memory was so sharp, Alija actually found herself craving a tankard on occasion.