The Silent Enemy (3 page)

But Nermesa did not immediately rush to his betrothed. Instead, on the swiftest horse, he rode to speak with his parents, more specifically his father. Bolontes, evidently just departing for business of his own, met him at the gates. The elder Klandes ushered his son into the family house. With Nermesa constantly gone, it had been Bolontes who had overseen both his own business and that of his now-prominent heir.

“Yes, the Sibelio house renovation is almost finished,” Nermesa’s father replied to his son’s first question as they stood in the great hallway, “and I’ve inspected it from top to bottom to ensure that there will be no future surprises.”

When Nermesa had first inherited the stately house of the traitorous noble, his initial inspection had uncovered a secret room containing documents concerning Antonus Sibelio’s plot. Worse, that room had led to another hidden chamber . . . a dark place where the baron had clearly kept prisoners. Evidence indicated that at least one of those prisoners had been a rival merchant who had disappeared nearly two years prior, a man very loyal to King Conan.

Nermesa had immediately ordered the house stripped from top to bottom and any further evidence brought to his attention. Bolontes had overseen that work with the same utter efficiency with which he had run House Klandes for more than twenty years.

“I’m grateful,” Nermesa replied, looking up to his father in more ways than one. Bolontes stood a few inches taller than his son’s six-foot-plus height and had a back so straight that he seemed to loom even higher. Until Nermesa’s impetuous decision to enter into service to the king and break his lifelong betrothal to Orena, the younger Klandes had religiously followed the elder’s example in everything.

They were alike in many ways besides height and attitude. Nermesa was very much his father’s son in looks. Of course, Bolontes’ patrician features were a bit sterner than his son’s, and the brown hair that would have matched Nermesa’s was thinner and gray. Their eyes were both blue, too, although, admittedly, the shape and hue were closer to that of the knight’s mother, Lady Callista. The two men were also left-handed, an uncommon trait in Tarantia, but one that had, during the courses of both men’s lives, proven advantageous in combat more than once.

“The house is ready to be occupied . . . although you know that ours is always open to the both of you . . .” There was a moistness in Bolontes’ eyes that Nermesa had rarely seen. “Your mother would take much pleasure in that.”

Nermesa gazed past his father, seeking his other parent somewhere down the vast hallway running through the center of his ancestral home. “Where is she, anyway?”

“Preparing, of course.” Bolontes allowed himself a brief smile. “So you know, Pallantides sent word ahead about your leave.” The general and Nermesa’s father were old, trusted comrades. “She was thrilled, of course, and immediately set to work since your journey to Poitain should not take all that long. It is not every day that her only child finally—and I emphasize
her
here—
finally
marries.”

Preparing. In Lady Callista’s case, that meant that Nermesa’s mother was out in the market seeking the most elegant, most glorious fabrics and articles with which to decorate her son’s wedding. Under normal circumstances, it would have been the House of the bride that performed such duties, but Orena could not be expected to do so. Besides, Callista no doubt loved the notion of planning the event. Most of the nobility of Tarantia would be in attendance . . . and there was even a good possibility that the king and queen would make an appearance.

“I’m sorry to have missed her, Father, but I can’t stay long. The sooner I depart on this journey, the sooner I can be back. Chancellor Publius is already supposed to be preparing the papers for the journey.”

“You will be riding alone?”

“Yes, and with my armor carried by a packhorse. A lone but fully clad Black Dragon riding through the countryside would attract as much attention as any armed party.”

This did not sit well with the patriarch of House Klandes. “You’ll be entirely unprotected? I wasn’t aware of
that
.”

Nermesa grinned. “No, my breastplate will be hidden under my tunic.” He patted the sword sheathed at his side. “And I’ll have this with me.”

The blade had been given to him as a reward from the king for past services. It was jewel-encrusted on the hilt and also had the king’s symbol, the lion—also, coincidentally, House Klandes’ symbol—embossed there. Over the course of his time serving Conan, the shiny, keen-edged blade had saved Nermesa’s life several times over. Yet it still looked as if it had been forged only yesterday.

His father took some heart from Nermesa’s words. “Well, may Mitra still watch over you. Of course, since you
are
traveling to Poitain, there shouldn’t be that much to fear. Other than Tarantia and Attalus in the southeast, it’s likely the safest, most civilized place in all Aquilonia . . . perhaps even safer.”

Even though he himself had never been to the province, Nermesa could not agree more. He had heard tales of sun-drenched Poitain and its almost idyllic landscape. Of course, the reason that the province was so safe was the tremendous fighting abilities of its people. That Poitain was now so quiet was due to its very bloody past.

“I won’t be able to wait for Mother, I’m afraid. Will you bid her farewell for me?” Nermesa asked.

Bolontes’ brow arched. “Haven’t I done so each time you’ve missed her?”

Nermesa gave his father a brief but strong hug. They returned outside, where a servitor held the reins of the knight’s horse. Taking them and remounting, Nermesa nodded to his father.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“And you are certain that this is the
last
mission before you can finally marry Telaria?”

“The king swears to it.” The new baron grinned. “More to the point,
Queen Zenobia’s
made him swear to it.”

The elder Klandes chuckled. “That will guarantee it, then. A swift and smooth journey to you, son.”

Nermesa saluted his father and rode back to the palace. There, he at last confronted Telaria.

The auburn-haired lady-in-waiting met him in the cavernous halls of the gigantic, towered structure. Telaria’s pace before she saw him coming from the opposite direction indicated that she had clearly been in the midst of some task for the queen. However, the moment that Nermesa’s presence registered with her, she raised the rounded skirt of her emerald gown and rushed to meet him.

Their lips touched almost the instant the two lovers reached one another. Nermesa marveled again how a mousy slip of a girl could have transformed in the matter of a few scant years into such a beauty. While her features were very much akin to her blond sister’s—slim nose, full lips, and cheekbones worthy of a sculptor’s tool—Telaria’s had a softness to them that could never have been found in Orena. Her emerald eyes, the same color as those of her sibling, radiated warmth, understanding, and, of course, love. From Baroness Sibelio’s, Nermesa had never seen anything but cold, calculating ambition.

“Nermesa . . .” she breathed, when at last they separated.

He saw it in her eyes. “You know.”

This brought an impish smile to her lips. “The queen, naturally.”

“You understand I still have to perform this one last task for his majesty?”

“Queen Zenobia explained it all very well.” Telaria’s smile reversed itself. “It
will
be simple, won’t it?”

“Poitain? Of course! Count Trocero is well-beloved of his people, and you’ve met Sir Prospero! There’s nothing to fear in Poitain, nothing at all!”

Her fears vanished. The smile returned. “It sounds like a lovely place, Poitain. Perhaps we could visit it? I hear that the olive groves are beautiful . . .”

“We shall see what can be done.” He pulled her toward him again. However, Telaria did not allow the second kiss to last very long.

“I
must
be on my way! Two of the other ladies are ill, and so the queen needs my assistance more than ever! After what she’s done, I can hardly be lax now!”

Aware of how Zenobia had influenced Conan in the matter of the two, Nermesa readily agreed. “I leave at first light tomorrow. The road is a well-traveled one, so even though I’ll be riding alone, I likely won’t be by myself most of the time.”

“Must it really be you? Couldn’t someone else deliver the documents?”

“If the king and General Pallantides think it necessary to have an officer of the Black Dragons carry them, then I’m honored to be the one chosen.”

She considered this before stating, “There can only be one reason for adding this last mission, Nermesa. I think that they must be
grooming
you. They must be considering you for some other position, perhaps on the general’s
staff
.”

Nermesa had not thought about that. Other than actually replacing the commander of the Black Dragons himself, a place on his personal staff was the most prestigious position a Black Dragon could achieve. The officers on the staff were privy to secrets and details known otherwise only to the king, Pallantides, and the chancellor. They were in positions of trust and authority that made them among the most powerful men in all the realm.

The general’s staff
. Could it be? Surely not . . . and yet . . .

“We’re only guessing, and that’s risky,” he finally replied. Still, Nermesa could not hold back a slight smile at the notion. “But it
is
something to think about.”

Telaria kissed him soundly on the cheek. “I
must
go now. Promise me that you won’t let any of those sun-bronzed Poitainian wenches turn your head.”

“Never.”

She started off, then suddenly halted again. The change in her expression immediately told Nermesa that the subject upon which the lady-in-waiting was about to speak was not one in which he would find pleasure.

“I talked to Orena again.”

His guard instantly went up. “And?”

“I would
like
her to be at the wedding, Nermesa.” Telaria bit her lip.

“Would she actually come?”

“I—I think so. So does Morannus. She—she’s a proud woman. But she’s changed. The inroads we started to make before the discovery of Antonus’s treachery were still there, after all.”

He was not quite moved. “And does Orena
truly
understand also that I fought to enable her to keep the other half of the baron’s properties, not to mention retaining Lenaro’s holdings? Aquilonian law said otherwise.”

Telaria drew herself up, momentarily looking very much like a dark-haired version of her sibling. “Yes . . . as a matter of fact, she does.”

Her response made him exhale. Nodding, Nermesa said, “If it can be so, then let it be so. Nothing would make me happier than to see her there, if only for your sake. She’s done more harm to you than to me, remember.”

“And I’ve forgiven her for it.” Once more, she was the soft, warm Telaria. Her smile illuminated the marble hall more than could all the oil lamps lining the walls combined. “Thank you, Nermesa. Thank you . . .”

And with that, she hurried down the hall.

Nermesa drank in the sight of Telaria for as long as possible, then turned off in the direction of the Black Dragons’ quarters. He wanted to be ready to leave the first moment possible. The sooner that could be, the sooner Nermesa could return home.

Three weeks, he estimated. Three weeks at most, and he would be back in Tarantia. After everything else that had happened, not long at all.

Not long at all . . .

 
HE RECEIVED THE leather pouch from Publius in the corridor just beyond the royal stables. The chancellor, a rotund, balding man who hardly seemed the sort to be a member of King Conan’s powerful inner circle, tapped the royal seal on the pouch’s lip as he handed it to the knight.

“Count Trocero will not accept this if the seal is cracked! Mind that nothing happens to cause that! I told the king that he should send a courier with an armed escort, but he and the general think this wiser!” Publius tsked. In his anxiousness, the many gold chains around his neck tinkled. He wore a long, draping purple robe that strained to contain his voluminous belly. “Don’t know why the king even has me if he won’t listen.”

Nermesa nodded politely, responding accordingly. He was well aware that the man before him, for all his anxious blathering, was a cunning politician whose goals on occasion did not—at least to Bolontes’ son—match those of his liege. Still, Conan relied on him for much more than Publius let on.

“It will reach the count safely and securely,” Nermesa promised.

With a noncommittal grunt, the chancellor bid him good journey, then seemed to dismiss the Black Dragon from his thoughts. Nermesa mounted the brown charger he had been given for the journey. A trusted stable hand brought up the reins of his pack animal, a dusky, dreary-eyed mule that could have, from a distance, passed for a fairly good horse.

“Your things are packed well, my lord. In addition to the dried food in your saddlebags, you’ll be finding some more with your armor.”

“Thank you, Ulric.”

“Think you could bring back a Poitainian lass for me?” asked the hand with a grimy smile. “Or at least some of their fine wine?”

Nermesa chuckled. “If I brought either, Sir Garaldo would claim both before you saw them.”

Sir Garaldo had been one of Nermesa’s chief trainers upon his arrival in the palace and was a respected fighter. He kept a tight leash on those he felt under his jurisdiction. Since he was also a master with horses, he considered the grooms and stable hands to fall under his command, as well, whether they actually were or not.

Ulric chuckled, then went to open the way for Nermesa. Bolontes’ son was clad as many a general traveler was, with brown tunic and pants, boots, and a nondescript, hooded cloak of a look akin to his other garments. The leather pouch he had secreted in his saddlebags. His sword hung in a much-abused sheath at his side, the spectacular hilt masked with weathered leather bound tight. Other than his height—which was three or four inches above the average—there was nothing out of the ordinary that might mark him as more than a simple peddler or pilgrim.