Kellanved's Reach

They were, quite frankly, rival department heads, and their battles would be over what was always at stake: resources and prestige. And so he inclined his head in agreement. ‘You, however, will not be with us, I take it?’

She scowled at this, unhappy. ‘No. It has been decided that I remain offshore and only come in when the situation has been stabilized.’

‘I see. Very well.’ He gave a faint bow. ‘You are busy. I will leave you to it.’ He turned and walked away without waiting for her reaction.

When he reached the door she called out, ‘Tayschrenn … if you are not that kind of mage, then bring one who is.’

Facing away, he gave the slightest inclination of his head as he pulled the door open and went out.

*   *   *

It was night, and as was her habit Iko walked the open-sided halls and colonnaded walkways of the rambling palace at Kan. Finest silk hangings of pink and pearl-white shimmered in the lamplight, all to celebrate the passing dusting of glittering frost. The wind brushed through the surrounding orchards and gardens; night insects chirped, and bats swooped in to feed upon them. The only unnatural sound was the shush of the fine mail coat hanging to her ankles where it hissed as she paced.

She turned a corner of the open-walled colonnade and paused, half meaning to go back, as ahead came a gaggle of the local courtly Kan ‘ladies’, tittering and gossiping among themselves as they closed. She opted to remain still, and bowed as they neared. They passed, whispering to one another behind their broad fine brocaded sleeves, and laughing, eyeing her sidelong.

She sighed. From among these her ward Chulalorn the Fourth was to choose a mate? She did not know whom to feel more sorry for. These spoiled cloistered creatures, or her ward who would have to put up with them.

Still, she, captain of the select bodyguard, the Sword-Dancers, must no doubt appear as strange and exotic to them as they did to her.

She started off again on her meditative walk, hands at her belt, head cocked as she listened to the sounds of the night. Two turns later she paused once more and turned back. Far up the hall a young servant now closed, her bare feet only faintly slapping the polished marble of the hall. The servant bowed to her. ‘M’lady. You are called to council, if you would.’

‘It is not m’lady,’ Iko corrected her. ‘You are new here, yes? I am not noble born. It is captain.’

The servant bowed once more. ‘Yes captain, m’lady.’

Iko let out a hard breath. ‘Council you say? At this hour? The king?’

‘Safe, ah … captain.’

‘Very well. I shall attend.’ The servant hurried off ahead to pass the word.

For her part, Iko remained still for a time longer. She attempted to regain her sense of calm oneness with the gardens and the night, but the mood was broken. She hoped this was not word of some new border transgression from Dal Hon. The last thing Kan needed now after the losses at Heng was a war. Any war. Unfortunately, her enemies knew this also. So she adjusted the whipsword at her back and headed for the council chambers.

The guards admitted her, opening the broad double leaves of the gilded doors. Within, she saw Mosolan, the regent, as expected, but she was surprised to find a newcomer, a rather striking figure. Tall she was, her hair a bunched silvery mane that reached all the way down to the back of her knees. This woman turned, and regarded her with captivating, equally pale-silver eyes. Her mouth, however, soured the striking effect, pulled down as it was in a lined frown. Bitch face, Iko had heard this sort of resting expression named.

Mosolan extended an arm to the woman. ‘The Witch Jadeen. Iko, Captain of the Guard.’

Iko’s brows rose in astonishment – and a touch of alarm. This was the terror of the south? The mage who many said kept the Dal Hon shamans in line? From her sour mouth alone Iko could almost believe it. She nodded a greeting; the woman did not deign to respond.

‘You will speak with us,’ Mosolan told Jadeen.

The mage threw back her head, her spectacular mane of hair tossing. ‘I am come to demand action.’

‘What sort of action?’ Mosolan enquired. The old general, now regent of Itko Kan, crossed an arm over his chest and rested the other upon it to hold his chin. Iko knew enough of the man to know he was taking this meeting very seriously.

The witch was about to speak when the doors opened again and in swept a tall middle-aged man in a silken robe, sashed at the waist, his long black hair loose. ‘What is this?’ he announced. ‘A council meeting without the nobles’ chosen representative?’

‘This is a consultation only,’ Mosolan answered wearily. Yet he extended an arm in introductions: ‘Leoto Kan, of family Kan. Leoto Kan – the Witch Jadeen.’

Leoto flinched at the name, while Iko noted how the witch’s scowling mouth drew down even more in evident satisfaction at the response.

‘You were saying …’ Mosolan prompted Jadeen.