Peter Morwood - Book of Years 02 by The Demon Lord

Author:The Demon Lord [Lord, The Demon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-05-29T20:12:38+00:00

“Oh, everybody.” Gueynor was adopting a brightness that grew more artificial with every second. “Absolutely all the people—”

Don’t overdo it … “Are in terror of their opinions being overheard,” Aldric interrupted crisply. “It’s the sort of thing they would love to talk about, but dare not. Only the women—” he shot a warning glare at Gueynor—“can’t keep from prattling to save their lives. Or anybody else’s. There was a merchant who—”

“I heard about him.” Marek’s tone was disinterested now; he would hear nothing new from this pair. In which he was wrong, for had he not looked away from Aldric he might have seen the Alban’s solitary pupil contract as it stared at him.

“Then,” he purred silkily, “if you knew about him you must know why it happened.” He knelt, settling his heels beneath him. “May I share your wine?” he asked.

Marek nodded hospitably, leaned forward and filled another bowl. It was casually lifted, apparently sipped, and just as casually set down again. Untasted. Aldric did not drink with those he distrusted.

Gold blazed briefly in the afternoon sunshine as his left hand came up to rub wearily at the back of his neck. “And if you know why it happened,” he continued, “you must also know already what Gueynor had just told you.” His gloved right hand made an elegant, eyecatching gesture towards the girl, and Marek’s eyes were caught for maybe half a heartbeat, following it. “So why ask again?”

Abruptly there was steel jutting like a serpent’s tongue from between the fingers of Aldric’s clenched left fist, its glint a brutal contrast to the soft golden glow of the signet ring beside it as the small blade licked towards Marek’s face.

“Aldric, No!” Gueynor’s gasp was not loud, but it was sibilant with shock and carried all too well.

The punch-dirk stopped just underneath the Cernuan’s chin and made a warning upward jerk that stung him and drew blood. “Fool!” said Aldric. His voice, his face, his whole being had gone cold, bleak, deadly… and no one could be sure to whom he spoke. To Marek, for asking too much; to Gueynor, for saying too much; even to himself, for thinking too much and letting matters run out of control until they came to this… For he would have to kill now, in cold blood, like it or loathe it. The demon queller knew his name. Not the full name, but enough of it to betray him. Too much of it. His fingers tightened sweatily around the tiny dagger’s hilt as he steeled himself to push it home.

Marek saw death looking at him; but he saw more now than a one-eyed mercenary. He saw Deathbringer. “Aldric… ?” He had to force the words past palsied lips, out of a mouth restricted in its movement by the blade beneath it. But he had to say something— anything—and quickly… “Aldric-erhan… ? You … ?”

The Alban flinched, not as if he had heard a familiar name but as if he had been struck in the face.

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