Hal - The Duellist #1

Epilogue

In spite of the cold, Léac was sweating. No sooner had he arrived in Dal Reniac than he had caught wind of rumours concerning his daughter's flight from her husband. That was when the urgency of Nérac's summons began to dawn upon him. He had assumed that there was to be a re-negotiation of their contract: not that the contract would be torn up altogether.

He fumed inwardly, pacing the corridor outside Nérac's private chambers. To be made to wait in such a way was demeaning. He was not the man's servant. Whatever Meracad had done, she would pay for it, he would assure Nérac of that. But their arrangement had proved so lucrative for both men. Why throw everything away now?

Cursing, Léac wiped his handkerchief across his face. He should have listened to Cara Thæc from the beginning. That girl of hers seemed to believe she was answerable to no one, that she could roam the empire as she pleased, stealing the wives of powerful aristocrats from beneath their very noses. Deep down, he harboured a desire to catch her before Nérac did: to teach the bitch her place before putting her out of their way for good.

"Lord Nérac will see you."

Léac gave his forehead a hurried wipe and followed the page through into Nérac's rooms. There was little light and he strained to make out the figure of his business partner who was sitting behind a writing table with his shirt unbuttoned, a few days' worth of unshaven stubble on his cheeks. A large bruise encircled his left eye and his hand appeared to be shaking as he wrote. Léac stared down at him. This he hadn't expected.

"I gather you understand the reason for our meeting." Nérac continued to write, not looking up once.

"I had heard rumours as I came through the city."

"Ha! Rumours!" Nérac spat the words out and threw down his pen. "Yes. You see, Master Léac, that is what you and your daughter have subjected me to. Rumours. I am now the butt of a thousand jokes." He looked up at Léac, an intense fire raging in eyes.

"Nérac, I had no idea that..."

Nérac held up a warning finger. "Today I am Lord Nérac, and if you want me to believe that you had no idea about your daughter's affair with this woman, you insult me further."

Léac shifted from foot to foot. Lying would not help his cause now.

"I attempted to deal with the matter, Sir. Twice."

"Twice! Were you deliberately incompetent or is this woman some kind of spirit that she slipped from your grasp on both occasions?"

"She is neither, Sir. But she has powerful friends."

"So I've heard. Not far from Dal Reniac, it seems."

"I don't think I understand you, Lord Nérac." Léac scrutinised Nérac's face, attempting to gauge his meaning.

"No, I believe you don't," Nérac said at last. "What a pity. That is the best part of the entire story it seems. If you are in the mood for gossiping. Which I most certainly am not. Those men who returned from the moors that day saw both your daughter and the duellist leaving in the company of the Master of Hannac fortress. It is therefore interesting, is it not, that Franc Hannac has just acknowledged the duellist to be his own daughter and heir?"

"Halanya Thæc is Franc Hannac's daughter?" Léac gasped in astonishment.

"Yes, she is. Which is going to make your task all the more difficult."

"My task? I am not your errand boy, Lord Nérac. I will not answer for my daughter's behaviour."

Nérac rose suddenly, hurling the table to the floor. He stepped over the scattered books and pens to stand face to face with his business associate. "You will find your daughter and bring her back here." He jammed his finger into Léac's ribcage as he spoke. "And if she begs on her knees for her life, I may determine to spare it, on the condition that the child she delivers me is a healthy one."

Shocked at the snap change in Nérac's behaviour, Léac remained silent. The northern lord turned away, reassembling his composure. When he finally faced Léac again, his face had become cold, impassive, almost a mask. "And you, personally, Salius Léac, will bring me the heads of the duellist and her father. And until you do, you may consider our contract annulled."

"But Lord Nérac, this is impossible ‒ I am no agent of the law. We can seek redress through the Emperor himself if need be, but to murder Franc Hannac ‒ you ask too much."

Nérac's voice was now low, soft, dangerous. "I don't think we understand each other, Léac. I will set the North ablaze if need be. I will put to the sword every last inhabitant of the Eagles' Nests. And I will do so with pleasure. So if you do not wish to have an unprofitable war on your hands, I suggest that you do as I ask. If not, I will make widely known your inability to keep your own affairs ‒ and those of your daughter ‒ in order. If the Emperor wishes to know why the North has suddenly caught fire, I will lead him to your door."

For the first time in his life, Léac felt that control had slipped from his grasp. He also knew that it was his daughter and her lover who had brought him to this impasse. His blood seethed. "Very well. I will deliver what you want before the month is out."

Nérac's tension appeared to dissipate. To Léac's frustration he said nothing, moving about the room, setting upright the overturned table, picking up scattered papers and pens. He turned round as if just noticing the merchant standing, watching him, wrestling with his own self-composure.

"Still here, Léac? You may leave. Please do not return without bringing me what I have asked for."

***

Furious, Léac slammed the door behind him. Nérac slumped, suddenly weary, in the chair. A duellist? He pulled his own sword from his belt, eyes narrowing as he examined the blade's glint in the candle-light. He had always been, it was said, a skilful swordsman.

He stood once more, pointing the weapon at the throat of an imaginary adversary. Then he drove it forwards with slow deliberation, twisting the blade as it cut through the air. And in his mind's eye, Hal lay dead at his feet.