They offered him money, which he refused, proud of himself for being sober when he did so. “Just tell me what you want.”
Spying, he discovered, was an absurdly easy occupation. Few people ever see more than they wish to, he decided, having accepted an invitation to read poetry to a gaggle of merchants’ wives, rich in gossip and fat with information regarding the new trade routes their husbands had been obliged to forge since the war. They saw a handsome young poet, tragic hero of a tragic war, wilted obligingly at his verse and proved very helpful when he asked for likely investment opportunities. “For my father, you understand. He needs something to occupy him these days. Peacetime is such a trial for a military man.”
He would go to inns frequented by the Realm Guard, finding welcome among the veterans who had been at Linesh with Vaelin, embittered cynics to a man and talkative when sufficiently full of ale. He made it known he was available for commissions, penning love poems for smitten young nobles and eulogies for the funerals of rich men, gaining access to the wealthy and the powerful in the process. His Meldenean contact was happy with his work and provided the pigeons to speed delivery of his intelligence, and the dagger should he ever face discovery.
“I’m not an assassin,” Alucius told him, eyeing the dagger with distaste.
“It’s for you,” the Meldenean told him with a grin before walking from the wineshop. Alucius never saw him again. The following week came the summons from the King and his order to spy on Alornis, after which he found his enthusiasm for his new occupation began to wane. Being with her dimmed his anger, made the sting of betrayal less acute. He continued to gather information, mostly trade gossip of little value, sending the birds off and knowing, should he include his notice of retirement among the messages, the Meldeneans were more likely to offer a blade than a pension. As it turned out, the Volarians made such worries redundant.
Alucius stood with Twenty-Seven some ten yards behind his father, who had positioned himself outside Darnel’s coterie of sycophant knights. “Impressive beast, isn’t it?” he asked, moving to stand on his father’s left.
Lakrhil Al Hestian nodded as the ship came closer, Alucius seeing two smaller vessels following in its broad wake. “Apparently it’s the sister ship to their Stormspite,” his father said. “I forget the name. Mirvek thinks it a sign of the Ruling Council’s continued faith in his command, bringing more reinforcements than expected.”
Alucius remembered the Stormspite as a brooding monster that had sat in the harbour for days until General Tokrev sailed it off to Alltor, never to return. Picking out details as its sister came closer, he was struck by the similarity between them; even for ships built to the same pattern the resemblance was striking, though the Volarians were a people greatly fond of uniformity.
“Are your preparations complete?” he asked. “All made ready to bleed Lord Vaelin’s army white?”
“Hardly,” his father grunted. “The Free Swords are lazy when not set to pillaging, and the Varitai little use in labour. Give them a shovel and they just stare at it. Still, it seems we’ll shortly have more hands to complete the task.”
“Could you have held Marbellis? If you had had this much to work with?”
Lakrhil turned to him with a quizzical expression; it was an unspoken understanding that Marbellis was a subject neither of them wanted to discuss. “No,” he said. There must have been something in Alucius’s expression, some vestige of his intent, for he leaned closer, speaking softly. “You don’t need to be here, Alucius. And you’ve yet to produce a single useful word from the Aspects.” His eyes flicked to Darnel. “I can’t protect you forever.”