Conrig turned his head away, looking at the torn and gory forest undergrowth where the constable had slain the boar. “There are two persons who pose mortal threats to my life and crown. One is very far from here, in the Tarnian stronghold of Cold Harbor, on its arctic coast. Earlier, I hoped that another agent of mine would be able to deal with this enemy, but now that’s become impossible. So I’d send you—alone, save for a troop of trusted retainers of your choice—if you would consent to it. A fast ship will carry you north this very day, and every resource will be placed at your disposal.”
“Sire, I’ll rid you of this Tarnian foe gladly. Only give me particulars on where he’s to be found, and I’ll be off—”
Conrig lifted a gloved hand. “Wait. There’s a second villain, whose perfidy only came to light recently. He’s here in Cathra… in this very woodland clearing not six ells away from us. He must be killed so artfully that it appears an accident. I care not how you arrange it, so long as the deed is done by yourself alone, before you leave the kingdom.”
Tinnis Catclaw’s pale blue eyes glittered. “Name the whoreson!”
“Vra-Sulkorig Casswell.”
“Putter me blind!” the constable whispered. “A Zeth Brother?”
“And the one you must kill in Tarn is my former wife, Maudrayne North-keep, who is alive and conspiring with her countrymen to ruin me and break up the Sovereignty. Tell me plain, Tinnis, whether you’re prepared to ease both of these persons from this life, only because I ask it.”
The Lord Constable of the Realm pressed his right fist against his heart. “My liege, I will.”
No, Ansel. You may not return to the peel and Maudrayne, nor may you bespeak your cousin Ontel and warn him of the danger from Duke Feribor. My foresight counsels against it, although I don’t understand why.
“Feribor will take them, Source! He’ll use Maude and Dyfrig against Con-rig! What will become of our plan to have the king defend High Blenholme against the Salka hordes?”
We can only hope that our plan will succeed, as Feribor fails in his evil purpose.
“Why can’t we make sure that he fails? Let me return to the peel and carry Maudie and Dyfrig to a safer place! Or at least let me defend them with my sorcery.”
No. She is shortly to have an important meeting there. With someone else. You would interfere. You may not go to her.
“So. A meeting, is it? With the Royal Intelligencer, I presume! I know he’s on his way to Tarn, and I also know that Conrig all but commanded the spy to kill Maude and the child if there’s no other way to save his damned crown. Are you still prepared to sacrifice Maude and the boy for the sake of Blenholme’s Sovereign?”
Dyfrig will certainly live. He’s to be enlisted in the Conflict—as you knew full well when you rescued his suicidal mother from the sea. Maudrayne’s fate is up to her. She will choose life or death by her own response to a proposal that will shortly be made to her.
“What proposal? Do you mean to say that a compromise might still be arranged between her and Conrig?”
Yes.
“When will you put the proposal to her?”
I will not I cannot. Another will do that, provided he survives his incautious use of Subtle Gateway.
“Source! Did you give that Great Stone to Deveron Austrey? Is he already in Tarn, near Maude’s hiding place?”
The Green Man Odall gave him the sigil, at my direction, during an encounter that I engineered with marvelous precision. But the young spy was rash in using the stone. I never expected him to carry numbers of his companions with him through the Gateway to Skullbone Peel. He should have gone alone to lighten the pain-debt. Poor fool! Now he lies senseless at his destination, his flagging body enduring an extremity of torture for the past two days. He may survive. You must pray that he does, and so will I, for the proposal he’ll make to Maudrayne may yet solve our problem.
“Prayers? You might have warned Deveron of the danger!”
I thought I had. He must have misunderstood. I can’t think of everything. I’ve been so long Denied the Sky that both wisdom and resolve begin to crumble. And I also suffer, you know.
“Great God, and now you whine! I wish I’d never known you.”
Go to Donorvale, dear soul. Force the Company of Equals to wait until Maudrayne’s choice is made before revealing her secrets to the world. Will you do that for me, at least?
...
Ansel Pikan, will you do that?
...
The hunt supper was winding down, having been served in the palace rose gardens between two fountains that filled the perfumed air with cooling spray. King Conrig and most of the others at the high table settled back to drink and listen to ballads sung by a remarkable Forailean bard, brought to court especially for the midsummer festivities.
The Lord Constable excused himself to the king, left his seat, and went to speak to Vra-Sulkorig, who sat near the other end of the board. Tinnis Cat-claw’s handsome features bore an expression of diffident concern. “Brother Keeper, it was made plain to me during today’s sport that you are one wise in the ways of horses, as well as in arcane matters. You may have noticed my own fine stallion, Windhover, a beast of high spirits that I love like a child. Of late he has puzzled me with a strange and annoying mannerism that neither the stablemaster nor the horse-leech can explain. I wonder if you would be so kind as to stroll with me to the royal stables now, while all is quiet there, and perhaps advise me on what might ail him? The odd quirk is not easily described, but I’m sure we can provoke the animal into demonstrating it to us.”
Sulkorig smiled. “Why not? Puzzles amuse me, and one involving a horse might prove more diverting than most.” He addressed the king. “With Your Grace’s permission, I’ll withdraw with Lord Tinnis.”
“Go, by all means,” Conrig said, catching the eye of the constable for the briefest instant.
As they left the gardens and circled round to the rear of the palace, Tinnis Catclaw questioned the Brother casually about how talented persons made use of the so-called wind to scry and bespeak one another. Sulkorig did his best to simplify the arcane technicalities for this interested layman, making what he thought was a good job of it by the time they reached the stableyard. Only a few grooms were still about the building where Windhover was stalled, the animals having been settled for the night some time ago.
“That was a most fascinating explanation, Brother!” Tinnis said, as he unlatched the stall door. The powerful sorrel, who stood at least eighteen hands high, whiffled and snorted as his master caressed his cheek. “Now let’s hope your talent—or perhaps your horse-sense—is able to penetrate the brain of this recalcitrant beast and fathom the motive behind his peculiar behavior. Be pleased to enter the stall with me.”
The enclosure was good-sized, as befit such a large animal. Windhover stood placidly enough as Tinnis fed him a carrot from his large belt-wallet.
“Now be so good as to stand at his left shoulder, facing his rear and resting your own left hand on his withers… Excellent. Is he shuddering faintly at your touch?”
“I feel nothing unusual,” Vra-Sulkorig said.
“Soon you will. Tap him a little with your fingers.”
The constable stepped behind the other man, pulled a horseshoe from his wallet, and smote Sulkorig a mighty blow on the right temple with the iron. With a groan, the Brother fell into the straw. Windhover shied away, rolling his eyes. Tinnis knelt, then took from his wallet a harness-maker’s awl, thin-shafted as a quill and sharply pointed. This he drove with great force into Sulkorig’s right ear. The Brother’s body gave a single convulsive jerk, then went limp, its sphincters relaxing in death.
Windhover let out a shrill scream and retreated stamping to the far side of the stall, frightened by the smell of the fast-pooling blood and effluvia. Tinnis wrapped the tools of murder in a piece of wash-leather and replaced them in his wallet. Then he took hold of Sulkorig’s robe and began hauling him out of the stall, shouting for help at the top
of his lungs.
“So he is dead, with his poor skull cracked by a startled horse!” Tears spilled from Stergos’s eyes as the king told him of the dreadful accident. They were together in the bedchamber of the Royal Alchymist, who had not yet retired, seated in a large window seat that overlooked the now-deserted gardens. “And he loved the animals so.”
“Vra-Sulkorig was attempting to advise the Lord Constable on some crochet of his stallion’s behavior when the beast lashed out with his forefeet for no good reason. The Brother died instantly. There was nothing the alchymists and physicians could do. Tinnis is devastated by sorrow, but there’s no question of his remaining in Gala for the funeral. He must take ship for Tarn on the morrow. I need him to talk some sense into the Sealords in Donorvale before going in search of Maude and the boy.”
“Help me into bed, Con,” Stergos said. “This death on top of the ominous disappearance of Deveron has drained me sorely. Aside from losing a dear friend and colleague in Sulkorig, we are now deprived of our confidential windvoice. I shall have to shoulder that task again myself, I suppose—at least when we deal with the miserable shaman Bozuk. Do you think he told us the truth about Maudrayne’s place of captivity? When Duke Feribor’s windvoice Vra-Colan bespoke Sulkorig with the tidings, there seemed to be a tinge of reservation in his windspeech. Sulkorig spoke to me about it and was anxious. If only he were still alive, Con! We could have analyzed his memory of the message’s nuances. Perhaps compelled Golan to repeat it—”
The king drew fine net midge-curtains around the bedstead after Stergos was composed for sleep. “We can talk of that later, Gossy. For now, you must rest. The Lord Constable will sort matters out when he reaches Tarn in a few days.”
“Yes. I’m sure he’ll do his best—for one not possessed of talent.” Stergos lay back on his pillows. His next words were weighted with grief. “Sulkorig might have discovered the truth much quicker. He was an extraordinary adept and a good man, steadfast and loyal for all that he was deeply troubled by the secret knowledge that he learned so inadvertently.”
“You think he would have kept silent about my talent, as you advised him?”
“I explained to him at length the dire political ramifications of revealing it, and also the strong moral arguments in favor of keeping the secret. He seemed fully convinced.”
The king went to the chamber windows and drew the drapes to shut out the twilit sky. “Well, the question is now moot. The only ones who can still attest to the truth are Maude, Ansel Pikan, Ullanoth… and you, Gossy. My former wife can accuse me, but has no sure proof. Ansel’s testimony may impress the sealords, but it would never sway a Cathran tribunal. Ullanoth, even if she lives, would never betray me—and neither would you.”
His brother said nothing.
“Gossy?” Conrig felt ice stir in his vitals and hastened to return to the bedside. “Would you, Gossy?”
But the Royal Alchymist was already asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The heavy rain returned, and all that the king’s men could do was huddle beneath the rock ledge, share tales of their exploits, sing bawdy songs very softly, and consume endless cups of tea improved by their fast-dwindling supply of spirits. It was early in the morning. Their leader had been unconscious for two days now. Radd Falcontop, who had the most experience with ailments and was the closest they had to a physician, was growing apprehensive.
“The chills and sweats are worse,” Radd confided to Sir Gavlok. They were in the deepest part of the overhang, where the ground was driest, and Snudge lay beside a tiny fire. “That’s not all. He almost never moves. I can’t rouse him enough to get water down his throat, and he gags at swallowing mush. His piss is scanty and orange in color. If this was anything but a sickness brought on by sorcery, I’d fear he was dying of poison.”
“He warned me that doing the magic would provoke awful pain, but said nothing at all about these other things. Perhaps he didn’t know.” Gavlok bent over the figure shrouded entirely in blankets, uncovered his friend’s face, and laid a hand on his forehead. “Shite! His brow’s like ice. And if he won’t drink, he’s surely in a bad way. Have you tried plying him with a bit of liquor?”
The Swordsman shook his head. “It’d do harm to one in his state, that I’m sure of. Sweet warm tea and broth are the best drinks for Sir Deveron—if we could only get him to swallow. But what our commander really needs is a doctor and some stronger remedies. The map shows a wee village not far south of here. It might have a resident herb-wife, if nothing else.”
Gavlok winced at the thought. “Do we dare risk it? They’ll be wary of strangers. They’re bound to report us to their overlord in Skullbone Peel. We’ll be captured, perhaps killed if they suspect we’re after Princess Maude. At the least, our mission might fail.”
“As it will in certainty if Sir Deveron never awakens,” Radd said starkly. “None of us can use these magic amulets to rescue the lady and her son. You must make the decision. But if we’re to try the village, it’s best we do so at once, before Sir Deveron gets any worse. We’d have to bring the healer here. Gold would provide incentive enough in a poor region like this. Maybe gold would stop the healer’s gob, too—at least for a little while! We could say our boat’s pulled up in the ravine cove for repair of a sprung garboard strake. We were taking on water so fast we couldn’t make it to the village harbor. Our sick shipmate that we were hoping to bring to the shamans at Fort Ramis took a turn for the worse.”
Gavlok bowed his head, either in thought or prayer. After a long moment he looked up and held Radd’s eye. “It’d have to be you and me who go. We can’t leave the armigers alone. They might betray themselves to the enemy with some incautious action. Hulo must stay with them.”
Radd climbed to his feet. “We’re off, then, right now! You find some money and put on clothes that aren’t so grand. I’ll talk to Hulo about how to care for Sir Deveron, and fetch the things we’ll need.”
Induna was vexed with her grandfather.
After two days aboard Duke Feribor’s speeding frigate, Bozuk was in misery from seasickness and the strain of generating favorable winds. The ship had made a splendid rate of knots until reaching the area of the Icebear Channel off the upper Lavalands Peninsula. There the natural wind fell off and thick fog closed in. More ominous, there were many icebergs. The captain had immediately demanded that the shaman either push away the bergs and melt the fog with sorcery, or else use his scrying ability to guide them through the treacherous waters. All this while keeping the ship’s sails filled.
Bozuk had already worn himself out generating the wind. Moving drifting mountains of ice was impossible, and as fast as he dissipated the fog, more rolled in from the Barren Lands to the north. So he was obliged to search out their route, which meant huddling on the cold, damp quarterdeck for hours on end, giving orders to the steersman. Unlike weaker magickers such as the Zeth Brethren and the Glaumerie Guild wizards of Moss, a top-notch shaman such as he had no difficulty performing two acts of sorcery at once—provided neither was too strenuous. So he kept a breeze blowing in near-dead-calm conditions as he oversaw the ship’s course, shivering in a cocoon of woolen shawls and calling down curses on Duke Feribor or anyone else who had the temerity to interrupt his work.
Including Induna.
You’ve got to bespeak me, Eldpapa. It’s important. I won’t wait until later. Listen to me!
Damn the wicked jade! Why wouldn’t she let him be, stop breaking his concentration? It was too hard to hear her from so far away whilst scrying and wind-whistling together. Let her wait until the ship rounded the tip of Lava-lands and escaped the cursed fog and ice.
Eldpapa! Someone else is here. Five men—maybe six. They’re hiding near the peel. I think they might try to rescue the princess and her son.
He gave it up. “Lower sail,” he commanded the first mate, who stood on the other side of the helmsman. “Drag an anchor—or however you slow the bloody ship down. Have your own men watch out f
or ice. I must cease this work for a time and go to my cabin.”
The mate began to protest. “But my lord duke has given orders—”
“Putter Feribor and his orders!” Bozuk shrieked. He threw off the wrappings and tottered to the companionway. Before he entered his little cabin, he told an amazed seaman: “If any man dares to disturb me, I’ll turn him into a toad! Give warning—and be sure you tell the damned duke!”
He slammed the door, shed his damp robe, and flopped onto his bunk, rolling himself in the feather-tick he’d insisted on bringing and making sad moans until he finally felt warm and dry and fit to bespeak Induna.
“Granddaughter, respond to me at once! Tell me everything you know about the men you’ve found. Everything—or it’ll be the worse for you.”
More nasty threats, Eldpapa? Will you never learn?
“You young ingrate! Why can’t you show respect? I’ve a good mind not to share the second part of the bounty with you. Why should I? Our agreement was for you to get a third of the five thousand. It’s quite enough. What does a young wench like you need with more? You’d only squander it on baubles and gowns—”
Stop it. You’ll waste what little strength you have left. Now listen! I only just located these interlopers, and I don’t think the talented ones at the peel have taken note of them yet. They’re encamped in a seaside ravine about half a league from the peel. Five of them are hale and sturdy and well armed. The sixth man—if he is indeed a person and not merely a heap of blankets and gear, lies unmoving and may be sick. It’s impossible for me to scry him clearly, covered up and hidden beneath a rock ledge as he is. The style of the men’s garb is Cathran, and I believe they’ve surely come for the princess and her son.
“Did they arrive by sea? On horseback? How could they have eluded the oversight of Shaman-Lord Ontel as well as your own?”
I know not. There’s nary a trace of boat or mounts. As to why they weren’t scried, I can’t say, except that I never thought to look for such persons earlier, as I rode towards the whaling village from the Mornash track. Perhaps Lord Ontel didn’t think anyone would come looking for his prisoners so soon. The men are very craftily concealed from oversight down in the ravine. The true mystery is why Red Ansel never spotted them. What do you want me to do?