The Long War 03 - The Red Prince by A. J. Smith Page A

the third. He was a thin man of Ro in tarnished steel armour and with an ugly red brand on his cheek. Elihas of Du Ban, who stood over Saara’s shoulder, was impassively scanning the newcomer but remained still.
    ‘My lady,’ said Pevain, the smooth scar across his neck making him rasp as he spoke. ‘This is Yacob Black Guard of Weir.’
    The thin man nodded with only the barest hint of deference.
    Saara moved round the table and smiled at Yacob. She was wearing a white dress, less revealing than those she customarily wore, but more appropriate for Tor Funweir and the stiff-necked Ro. She lowered her eyes and seductively touched the man’s chest.
    ‘Good day,’ purred Saara. ‘I apologize, but I need to speak to Sir Pevain alone.’ She smiled girlishly. ‘And if you enter my chamber unannounced again, I will have you skinned and salted.’
    Yacob blinked several times and turned to Pevain. ‘I... was told that you’d welcome my assistance.’
    ‘He does not make my decisions,’ replied Saara.
    Pevain laughed, his face splitting into a grotesque mask. ‘He has some knowledge you might find useful, and a few skills, too. Maybe talk to him before you skin him.’
    She backed away demurely and perched on the edge of the table. She thought the Black Guard had probably been scared sufficiently by her initial threat and could be allowed to stay. She gave him an open smile of apology. ‘What knowledge do you possess?’ she asked gently.
    Yacob was hesitant now, but the smiling mercenary beside him nodded and showed little fear of the enchantress. Parag directed his slack-jawed gaze at Saara’s breasts. She inferred he was not overly encumbered with brains.
    ‘I think we should discuss payment first.’ The Black Guard did not speak with any confidence.
    Elihas walked round the table. With a dutiful look at Saara, he punched Yacob squarely on the nose. The blow was delivered with minimal strength but had the desired result, mangling the man’s nose and dropping him to the floor.
    ‘I warned you,’ joked Pevain.
    ‘Keep your mouth shut.’ Elihas turned to the mercenary knight. ‘When I hit you, it’s with a blade, not a fist.’
    ‘So draw your steel,’ challenged Pevain, looking down at the broad-shouldered Black cleric.
    Saara clapped her hands excitedly. ‘As intoxicating as this display of aggression is, I have little time and I need both of you.’
    She allowed Pevain to relax, but made no effort to sway the cleric, knowing that he would follow her commands without argument.
    ‘And as for you, my dear Black Guard.’
    She placed a finger under Yacob’s chin and raised his bloodied face. He had a hand clamped to his nose and blood was seeping out from between his fingers.
    ‘I will not pay you, but I will give you a great gift.’
    She looked deep into his eyes and penetrated his mind. Yacob’s eyes widened, his hand falling from his broken nose to hang limply at his side. His body shook as extreme pain flooded his senses, but he was helpless to react or speak. Saara began to feel intoxicating pleasure as his pain flowed into her. His mind became malleable and open. His thoughts and memories were hers to enjoy.
    She saw his upbringing in the city of Ro Weir. He was the son of the previous duke, an infamous nobleman called Rafe. Yacob had been an arrogant child. A bully and a sadist, he had followed in Rafe’s footsteps, taught by an abusive father to view the peasants as if they were insignificant cattle. By the time Yacob was eighteen he was his father’s finest assassin and would kill on command. Noblemen, businessmen and clerics, all died at his hand. Saara felt his lack of empathy and his need to prove that his own life had worth by taking the lives of others. When Rafe was executed for his numerous crimes, the boy had been spared and branded as a Black Guard. Duke Lyam had wanted him killed, but the Purple clerics insisted that his father was to blame and had merely exiled Yacob.
    ‘You have