The Warrior King (Book 4) Read Free

Chantmer decided to try the younger man. “What about the girl? Are you protective of her?”
    Darik stiffened. “What girl do you mean?”
    “Is there more than one? The daughter of King Daniel, of course. Or is she the whelp of King Whelan? It’s a rather convoluted situation, after all.”
    Markal masked his expression, but Darik relaxed. He’d been thinking of some other girl, some giggling young thing that had caught his fancy, no doubt. Beyond that, his confusion told Chantmer everything he needed to know. He allowed himself a smile.
    “Oh, so you didn’t know that Sofiana was in Marrabat. That means you didn’t know that Sultan Mufashe was going to marry the child.”
    “Oh, you’re talking about Ninny,” Darik said. “That’s ridiculous. She’s only twelve years old.”
    “Thirteen as of a few weeks ago. But yes, it is an unseemly and disgusting intention. I would warn Daniel, but the situation is delicate. The sultan holds power in the south. Whether his armies are friendly or hostile will have a great impact on the outcome of the war. If Daniel learns the truth, he is likely to behave badly, and we simply must have an alliance between Marrabat and Balsalom.”
    “You seem suspiciously concerned with the war,” Markal said, “given that you almost single-handedly lost it for us.”
    Chantmer felt a cool sort of anger at this outrageous suggestion. “I did not. I have always been and will forever remain an enemy of the dark wizard. As soon as I return to my rightful place at the head of the order we will surely defeat Toth once and for all.”
    Markal and Darik made scoffing noises at this.
    “You don’t have to believe me,” Chantmer said. “Those issues can resolve themselves later. We only need to work together for the moment.”
    “How do you mean?” Markal asked.
    “There are a few things we can agree on. First, the sultan must not touch Sofiana. And for practical reasons, having her out of Marrabat will facilitate Mufashe’s marriage to Princess Marialla instead. That would be advantageous for Balsalom and the war.”
    “I will agree to that,” Markal said, warily.
    “Why are we talking to him?” Darik burst out. “You know we can’t trust him. He killed his own wizards.”
    “Be quiet when your betters are speaking,” Chantmer said.
    “Don’t tell me what to say, Betrayer.”
    Again, he could barely refrain from casting one of his spells to silence the insolent fool. Fighting the temptation, he turned back to Markal. “And would you agree that removing the girl from Marrabat is more important than our personal conflict?”
    “So send her away,” Markal said. “Tell Daniel if you have to, but get her out.”
    “Ah, if only it were that easy.”
    Two male slaves came trudging into the square. They were thin, with lean, rope-like muscles, and faces, hands, and robes streaked with black. The stench of camel dung radiated from them. These men worked in the cellars beneath the kitchens, shoveling dried dung into furnaces to heat the ovens. Those ovens cooked the bread and meals for over two thousand ministers, servants, harem girls, eunuchs, slaves, palace guards, and other residents of the vast palace complex, and they had an almost insatiable appetite for fuel. With wood so scarce in the southern deserts, most of that fuel consisted of animal dung.
    The words of a spell came to Chantmer’s lips, but Markal beat him to it. The slaves, who had lifted their tired faces to stare, frowning at the three unexpected people in the overgrown gardens, now found other things more interesting to look at. In a moment they had opened the door to one of the humble chambers lining the square and disappeared.
    Chantmer turned his back on Markal and Darik and paced toward the dry fountain. He didn’t like any of this business, from how he was forced to work with Markal and his young, callow apprentice to the scheme that was coming together in his mind for using a child to achieve his