Starsinger

Plots

Malcolm was in a foul mood.

"You promised me good fighters," he snarled. "Fellows who could get the job done."

"And I got you the best crew I know," said Captain Niko.

"Then what is this, Niko?" Malcolm stabbed a finger at the offending letter. "'Targets sighted, but not acquired. Man down in the Wood. Signs of interrogation.' The hawk arrived only just this morning."

"It's a step closer, isn't it?"

"At what cost?" Malcolm demanded. "I gave your people a location. They had the targets isolated, surrounded, unsuspecting, and now they've disappeared. No tracks, no trace. Your people say they're expanding the search territory, but there's no way the targets could have run that far east without being caught. Those moonies may as well have given the girl a warning to watch her back and sent them on their way."

Niko shrugged. "I promised you the best money can buy, Mal," he said. "You got it. Trouble is, even money can't buy perfect."

"Of that, I am well aware." Malcolm jabbed at his temple in irritation. "Get back to your ship, Niko. You have business in Lisha. My secretary will give you the details."

Captain Niko bowed his head and retreated.

As soon as he had gone, Malcolm collapsed into his wing-backed chair. Damn it all. So much time and effort, so much money, and for what? A half-victory was no victory at all.

He stroked his short beard. They had found the travelers only a few leagues north from where his source had told Malcolm they would be. He supposed that was something. A reliable spy was nothing to sneeze at – he'd have to keep the amberglass close.

But still, the mercenaries hadn't even possessed the wits to dispose of one of the soldiers. That, at least, could have been construed as helpful. And the note about them disappearing from plain sight... Either they'd found a mage, or the girl's powers were already manifesting. Malcolm shut his eyes tightly to stem the flow of frustration. Too many variables. He'd been sculpting this plan for years, fueled by the fire of his dream. The throne was so close now.

He couldn't risk another straightforward attack. They would be ready for that. What's more, he couldn't trust the mercenaries not to muck it up all over again. That's what his father would have done. Throw more money at it, hedge your bets, and hope it all works out.

Malcolm loved his father. But his father had failed. This dream was older than both of them, and if it took hiring every guttersniping mercenary in Zareyma to achieve it, he would.

More muscle won't be enough. If her companions recognized what she was, the girl could crush any ordinaries he sent their way. Already she was shaping up to be a formidable opponent.

No wonder the fatemongers think her destined for greatness. His allies had explained their prophecy to him, just once, when Malcolm had finally convinced them of his dependability. He'd spent years searching for them, guided only by the legends in his father's library and the notes of ancestors long expired, chasing rumors. Another year earning his way into their trust. They needed his help to locate their promised one. He needed their power to claim his throne. An alliance made long ago, finally coming to fruition.

He needed them again. The realization flicked through him, leaving an aftertaste of fear. He hated asking them for help. The more I ask for, the more they will ask of me. Already he could feel the hooks of obligation, another dangerous deal sinking its fangs into his skin.

Malcolm grit his teeth. I have no choice.

Perhaps he could trade them information. His agents in Ellanoi whispered that the queen had been packed up and shipped to Aster along with all her fine Apprentices. A royal squabble always presented opportunities. The fatemongers – or shadowseers, as they liked to call themselves – might appreciate that.

A slight knock, and the heavy door creaked open. "Lord Malcolm?"

"Yes," he barked. "What do you want?"

A young man entered. He was stockily built with blowsy, sandy hair almost covering the long scars that traced his flesh from cheekbone to ear. He would have been attractive but for his swollen, solid-black eyes.

Malcolm relaxed. "Ah, of course. What is it?"

"He is here to see you."

Malcolm's heart pounded. "Then we'd best not keep him waiting."