Tyrant’s Blood. Fiona McIntosh
Freath closed the door. ‘Freath, have I told you about Vulpan yet?’
‘No, my lord. Perhaps you’ll enlighten me now,’ the aide said, returning to his previous task of brushing lint from the emperor’s shoulder.
‘He’s one of our Vested. It’s a strange talent but he only has to taste a person’s blood to know that person again.’
Freath stood back from Loethar, his forehead creased in amused puzzlement.
Loethar held up a hand with helpless resignation as he swung around. ‘I know, I know. But there’s no accounting for these Vested. Some possess enchantments that defy imagination.’
‘You mean his taste of blood works in the same way that a dog can trace a smell?’
Loethar grinned. ‘I suppose. He never gets it wrong, Freath. We’ve tested him time and again…even tried to trick him.’
Freath frowned. ‘So he has tasted the blood of the wounded outlaw.’
Loethar nodded. ‘Why would they rally around the man unless it was Faris? There is no one else of any importance in that cohort.’ He noticed Freath blink, but continued, ‘And some day the outlaw will slip up and Vulpan will deliver him to me. I am a patient man.’
‘Incredible,’ Freath remarked, shaking his head as he stacked the cups on the tray. ‘And this Vulpan is loyal, sir?’
Loethar shrugged. ‘The magic is not in doubt.’
‘Is Kilt Faris that important?’ Freath asked, reaching to do up the emperor’s top button.
Loethar raised his chin. ‘Yes. He challenges me.’
‘He did the same to Brennus before you, sir.’
‘Is that supposed to reassure me, Freath?’
The aide straightened his lord’s jacket, moving behind him. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I meant only that Faris is a gnat—a vexing irritant—who thinks stealing the royal gold is somehow not the same crime as stealing from the good folk of Penraven.’
‘Precisely, which is why I wish to hunt him down.’
Loethar’s eyes narrowed as he heard the aide suck in a breath that sounded too much like exasperation.
‘If you’ll forgive me, my lord? May I offer a recommendation?’
‘You usually do, Freath. Make it quick.’
Freath cleared his throat as he returned to face his superior. ‘Let me escort you down, my lord, we can talk as we walk. We really must go.’
Loethar nodded and Freath moved to hold the door open. ‘After you, sir.’
They moved through Brighthelm side by side. Loethar was sure the man was far too sharp to have ignored that the emperor permitted him equal status—if not in title, then certainly in access—to any of his closest supporters. Even Dara Negev, who was showing no signs that her god was preparing to claim her, still maintained the old ways of walking a few steps behind the man of her household. But it must be two anni now that Loethar had given up talking over his shoulder to Freath and insisted the man walk next to him when discussing state business. Though Loethar’s mother, half-brother and even Valya had haughtily mentioned on many an occasion that Freath couldn’t appreciate the honour, Loethar was convinced that Freath not only appreciated the shift but quietly enjoyed the privilege.
They approached the grand staircase, walking down a corridor of magnificent tapestries depicting the former kings of Valisar.
‘Forgive me, sir,’ Freath continued. ‘Returning to our discussion, I was simply going to suggest that you should consider raising people’s taxes in and around the northern area. Chasing through the Deloran Forest is time-consuming and a waste of your men’s resources. It also makes a fool of the emperor.’
Loethar’s head snapped to look at Freath. ‘He is mocking me?’
‘Tax those who protect and laugh at you, my lord. Tax the north. Any excuse will do. In fact, offer no excuse. Tell them the new tax is to cover the losses that Faris inflicts. Remind the north that it is their hard-earned, hard-paid taxes that are being stolen and if they won’t help you find him, they will certainly help repair his damage.’
Loethar smiled. ‘Very good, Freath. Very good indeed.’
He felt Freath shrug beside him. ‘I would call off your men immediately, my lord. You should make it appear as if you don’t care one way or the other, so long as you have the money due the empire. I would be happy to make that declaration for you, sire, should you need.’
‘Not frightened of being unpopular?’
Freath gave a snort of disdain. ‘They hated me a long time ago, Emperor Loethar. Nothing’s changed.’
‘I shall think on your idea.’
Freath bowed. ‘I shall let the empress know, my lord, that you and her guests await her.’
As Loethar moved into the grand salon to the heralding of trumpets, Freath strode up the stairs, feeling an old familiar tension twisting in his belly. Once out of sight from the ground level he took a moment alone on the landing to lean against the balustrade, taking two deep breaths to calm himself. He hadn’t felt like this in so many anni he’d nearly forgotten what it was to be poised on the precipice of death. Ten anni previous he’d been exposed to negotiating that very knife-edge daily. Though somehow he’d survived, his beautiful Genrie had not. The passing years had not made her loss any easier. He visited her unmarked grave frequently, and although it hurt his heart not to leave flowers—for he couldn’t be seen to be mourning her—he left behind his silent grief. Her death had bought his life, and what a strange, evil life it had become: forever lying, masquerading and patiently plotting.
The only surprise had been his helpless admiration—although he fought it daily—for the man he knew he should despise. He found it easy to hate General Stracker, to inwardly sneer at Dara Negev and to truly abhor the empress. But Loethar was not as simple. The man was actually every inch the born leader that Brennus had been. And if he had been born a Valisar rather than a Steppes barbarian, Freath knew they’d all be admiring him. Loethar was taking an approach with the Denovians that could only be congratulated. There was no doubting that the new emperor was very tough—but which sovereign wasn’t? None of the Valisars down the ages were known for being spineless. All were hard men, capable of making the most difficult of decisions. Any ruler who took a soft line with detractors would almost certainly perish. Freath often thought, hating himself as he did so, that if he had been in Loethar’s boots, there was little he would or could have done any other way.
He’d tried to explain this once to Kirin, his constant companion, but Kirin would have none of it. Besides, Kirin always had him over a barrel whenever he resorted to the final demand, always impossible to answer. Why, though, Freath? he would challenge. Why did he do it in the first place? It has to be in pursuit of power. And there is no honour in coveting what is not yours in the first place.
Kirin was right—in principle—especially if you believed in fairies or the Legend of Algin, and that everyone wanted to live in peace and no one ever got jealous of anyone else. Freath grimaced. The Valisar Dynasty might be revered but it had been founded on bloodshed, acquiring land that had never belonged to the Valisars, not so very differently from the way that Loethar had taken the Set. The only difference was that Cormoron had seen the benefits of giving realms to families he could dominate, giving the false impression that he was a magnanimous conqueror—a benefactor to the region even. It was naive of Kirin to suggest that the Valisars—or any of the royal families—were blameless. All land, power and wealth were initially acquired through the spillage of blood. Loethar and his horde were no different—if anything, where Loethar was blunt, he was at least honest.
Despite Loethar’s surprising explanation that his attack on the Denovian Set was purely a matter of opportunity, Freath still wasn’t convinced fortuity alone had triggered the seemingly sudden invasion. The