Tyrant’s Blood. Fiona McIntosh

everywhere from there on. It had won hearts right around the realm and Iselda’s foreign status had been instantly forgotten, as had Brennus’s unusual step of not taking a wife from within the Set.

      Nowhere had Iselda made greater impact than Francham. Here, hardened men, used to traversing the most inhospitable of regions, had melted in her presence, grinning like loons. Freath was sure Iselda’s popularity in this region was due to the fact that she had grasped just how tough life was on the road through Hell’s Gate, and that winning the hearts of these men would spread word even faster as they were always on the move around the realm.

      She’d agreed to sampling the local liquor known rather dauntingly as ‘Rough’. To the delight of all in Francham, the new queen had stepped into an inn known as The Lookout and there she had surprised everyone by tipping back her head and swallowing a man-sized shot of the deep amber liquid. If it had burned—as Freath knew it must have—she had not shown it, having had the audacity to suggest the innkeeper pour her another ‘for good measure’ .

      The silence that had gripped the inn had erupted into cheers and whistles. And as Queen Iselda had clinked glasses with King Brennus prior to downing her second shot of Rough, a rousing chorus of the realm’s royal anthem had been belted out noisily by the crowd.

      As Brennus had commented to Freath later that night, ‘The queen has won more than hearts this day. In a single swallow she has guaranteed a loyalty to the Crown that feels unparalleled.’

      Prophetic words, Freath thought now as he entered the main street. From that day, patriotism and genuine pride in the Crown of Penraven had escalated noticeably and not waned throughout the reign of King Brennus the 8th.

      Next to him, Kirin cleared his throat. ‘Master Freath, we’re staying at The Lookout.’

      It was fortunate Kirin had noticed he had been daydreaming, Freath thought, jolted out of his memories, or he’d have strolled his horse right by the inn. ‘Yes, of course, thank you.’ He looked around and noticed that the three bodyguards that Loethar insisted be sent along with him were regarding him sullenly through their tatua. ‘Master Felt and I are sharing a room. I have made arrangements for two other rooms. Work it out.’

      The Green nodded on behalf of his companions. ‘We’ll take the horses for stabling. Do you need us?’

      Freath shook his head. ‘No, but your emperor seems to think I do.’ He smiled but it won no warmth in their faces. ‘The local liquor here is called Rough. Try some. You’ll be pleasantly surprised. I hear the brothel here is lively too. I will be eating in the dining room at The Lookout tonight, so I require no supervision.’ As the Green began to protest, Freath held up a hand. ‘I insist. Take your men for some relaxation. I am going nowhere. Tomorrow morning I will meet with the mayor to discuss the emperor’s new tax levy. By noon I imagine I will be hugely unpopular and will require your presence more keenly. Until then, I can survive the odd gob of spittle or harsh word.’

      He thought the two younger guards grinned but then again it could have been a grimace. He knew they considered him a traitor to his own. And therefore the lowest of the low, and they hated that he had the ear of their warlord, besides. He was also sure that Stracker did his utmost to poison his men’s attitude towards any person from the Set. Stracker was still living in the past, believing that every Denovian should perish, or at least be treated like vermin. Although most of the Set had come to realise that it needed Loethar, the emperor’s charismatic hold over his horde—and his blood-hungry half-brother—was all that stood in the way of ongoing death and destruction.

      As the men walked the horses off in search of the inn’s stables, Freath muttered under his breath, ‘I have to seriously wonder whether they’d even care if a blade was slipped into my gut.’

      ‘You can be sure they wouldn’t,’ Kirin said.

      Freath nodded. ‘I think you’re right. Come on.’ He breathed deeply. ‘It’s good to smell this fresh mountain air.’

      ‘Is it?’ Kirin grumbled. ‘I’ve been a city lover for a long time.’

      ‘Wait until you’ve tried some Rough,’ Freath quipped.

      ‘When is this meeting going to happen?’ Kirin asked, looking around to see that they weren’t being overheard.

      ‘Tonight, I hope. We have to slip our guard somehow although once they begin drinking I reckon that won’t be as daring as it sounds. By tomorrow I’ll be watching my back.’

      Freath led the way into the front door and his belly responded immediately to the aroma of roasting meat. Ah, he remembered now—the local delicacy.

      Kirin gave an appreciative sound. ‘What a delicious smell,’ he commented, pulling off his hat and travelling cloak.

      ‘I’d forgotten how unique the north can be, especially this town that feels the full effect of the various cultures brought in by the merchants and the folk who travel regularly. That smell just gets better, by the way. It’s called “Osh”.’

      ‘Osh?’ Kirin repeated. ‘Please don’t tell me it’s mountain bear or something.’

      ‘And if it was?’

      ‘I couldn’t resist it, I don’t think.’

      Freath gave a half-smile. ‘Nothing so exotic. It’s goat, ox, sheep, chicken, pig, deer. Slabs of meat are pinned onto huge skewers and roasted upright over woodfires made of flaxwood, whose embers release a special spicy fragrance that permeates the meat. The meat, I might add, is rolled in spices that we hardly see in the city: toka, ferago, leem and peregum.’

      ‘I’ve heard of leem.’

      ‘I’ve even seen leem, but not the others. The rest are found only in the mountains. When the meat is cooked, it is sliced off onto trenchers of herbed honey bread, and drizzled with oil. It’s magnificent.’

      Kirin nodded. ‘I’m already hungry for it from your description.’

      Freath looked over Kirin’s shoulder. ‘Ah, you must be Innkeeper Woolton?’ he said to the ruddy-faced man crossing the large reception area towards them.

      ‘I am,’ he replied. ‘Are you the party from the…er…city?’

      ‘Indeed,’ Freath said, glad that the man had taken his early warning of discretion seriously.

      ‘Three rooms?’ Freath nodded. ‘They’re ready and waiting for you, sir. Tillie will show you up.’ He pointed to a rosy-cheeked girl, no more than thirteen anni, who, going by the dimple in her chin, was his daughter.

      Her smile echoed her father’s. ‘It’s upstairs, sirs,’ she lisped.

      Their room was very large, with a big window, two beds, and a fabric screen that surrounded a small basin for privacy.

      ‘Nice,’ Kirin said as Tillie left.

      ‘Glad you approve,’ Freath said, setting down his small leather bag. ‘So, down to business. A message will be delivered to us but I don’t know—’

      A tap at the door interrupted Freath. ‘Yes?’ he called but Kirin moved to open it.

      ‘sorry to disturb you, sirs,’ Tillie said, the words accentuating her lisp as she curtsied. She was carrying a vase of mountain flowers.

      Freath was irritated by her re-entry. ‘Pollen makes me sneeze,’ he said.

      Kirin glared at him. ‘Over here, Tillie. I’ll keep it on my side.’

      She smiled gratefully, closing the door behind her as she entered the room, which irritated Freath all the more.

      ‘Was there something else?’ he asked, frowning.

      ‘Yes,’ she said clearly, her lisp gone. ‘You are Master Freath, are you not? From Brighthelm?’

      Kirin glanced at Freath, shocked. Freath had no choice. If worst came to worst, he decided in that moment of alarm, they could