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Two
They
entered in an untidy crowd, the Virago and seven other great barons, three
viscounts, three counts, and Parlian Beorbrook, the kingdom's chief solitary
officer, all of them caring nothing for the niceties of precedence as was the
way of easygoing northerners. Last came the host of the clandestine gather‑ing,
who slammed the tall double doors firmly behind him and shot its twin bolts
into place.
"His
Grace will join us in a, moment, "Tanaby Vanguard said, nodding *swards
another closed door that gave onto the inner chamber. He wore a simple
houserobe of russet velvet, a thin man with finely drawn, unreadable features,
whose nose jutted like an axe-blade. Chestnut hair thickly streaked with grey
fell to his shoulders. Unlike most of the other men, he was dean-shaven.
Beorbrook
spotted the table of drinks by the window and strode to it purpose-fully,
hauling his dented old silver cup out of his belt-wallet. "Is that a
Snapevale Stillery flagon that I spy?"
"Leave
be for a moment, Parli, said Tanaby, "until the Prince Heritor
arrives."
"How
sober do we have to be for this bloody mystery confab anyhow?" the awl
marshal muttered. He was a hale man in early middle age, broad rather than NIL
with muscular legs grown bandy from horseback riding, and enormous parted
hands. Blue eyes cold as an Ice Moon sky were sunk deep beneath shaggy block
brows. His beard was also black, although his hair had gone snow-white. He wore
a doublet of dark blue leather, intricately worked, having stiff sleeve-wogs
that emphasized his extraordinary shoulders. His chain of office was
con-spicuously absent.
"You
must decide the need for a clear head yourself," Tanaby told his long-time
friend. "As for blood, there may be quantities of it in the offing if we
here decide so."
The
marshal gave a grunt, and some of the others exchanged wary glances or small
grim smiles. Except for Vanguard, none of those present were intimates of the
prince. They knew only that he favored some sort of retaliatory strike against
Didion, and as Lord Constable of the Realm had the power to lead one even if
the Privy Council balked—provided that the king himself did not expressly
forbid it. Tanaby's carefully worded messages bringing these northern nobles to
a secret meeting had sparked battle-fever in some and skepticism in others, but
all had agreed to listen to the prince and decide whether or not to support him
in the undertaking.
A fire
burned in the broad greystone hearth, before which were sixteen common stools,
arranged in a semicircle. In the middle was a single collapsible field-chair
fashioned of carved walnut and faded brocade, fronted by a small table. All of
the usual furnishings of the solar, save for the sideboard with the liquor, had
been removed.
"I
realize we aren't here for a cozy chat, my lord duke;" drawled Lady
Zeandrise, eyeing the comfortless seats. She still had spurs on her booted
feet. "But is it necessary for us to perch like a gang of tomtits on
fenceposts during this conference?"
There
were a few chuckles. Tanaby said, "The unusual arrangement, dear Zea, was
meant to evoke the lack of coziness we may expect to experience if we agree to
participate in the prince's venture:'
"I
see." The baroness kept a straight face. "Well, it's been a dull year
in Marley. The harvest's safely in and ample enough in spite of the Wolf's
Breath, and my knights and thanes are restless and in need of
distraction." She glanced out the window at the spectacular sky. "A
pity we only get these magnificent sunsets when the volcanos belch."
Old
Baron Toborgil Silverside said, "King Achardus of Didion and his starving
people must take faint comfort in such beauty."
"Famine
smite the lot of them dead," growled Beorbrook, "and may a hundred
thousand vultures shite their bones!"
"And
so let it be forever;" Count Ramscrest added, in a voice hard as granite.
A respectful silence fell over the group, for everyone knew that the marshal's
two elder sons and Ramscrest's youngest brother had been in the ill-fated royal
delegation presenting the Edict of Sovereignty to the King of Didion.
Ramscrest's brother had left a widow and three small children. As for
Beorbrook, only his third son, Count Olvan Elktor, untried in battle at
twenty-one and thick as two oaken planks, was now left to inherit the most
strategically important duchy in all of Cathra. There was small hope that Olvan
would ever fill his father's boots as earl marshal, and it seemed likely that
the office and its great perquisites would ass out of the Beorbrook family with
Parlian's demise.
All at
once the door of the inner chamber was kicked open with a sharp rap and Conrig
appeared. The Prince Heritor was dressed all in black, as was his custom, and
his wheaten hair and short beard looked almost coppery in the ruddy light, a
strange contrast to his dark brown eyes. He had two magnums of wine tucked
under each arm and a corkscrew dangling from his right hand.
"Good
evening to you all, my friends, and thank you for coming. Be at ease, and let
there be no idle ceremony." When they continued to stand motionless and
uncertain, he said to Vanguard, "Godfather, help me cope with these
bottles, which I brought specially from Brent Lodge for this gathering. It's a
brisk new Stippenese vintage from the
They
relaxed then, and there were low-pitched words of greeting to Conrig from the
older nobles and diffident nods from the young ones. Cups were drawn from
velvet or leather pouches and held out for filling by the prince himself, who
called each person by name and made casual talk. Lady Zeandrise had her weathered
hand kissed by the royal winebearer and pursed her lips tightly to forestall a
smile.
Finally
Conrig poured into Tanaby's own simple beaker of waxed honey-wood and let the
duke do the honors for him. The prince's silver cup was lined with gold; a
great amethyst formed part of the stem, a talisman against drunkenness . . .
and poison.
"A
toast," he said quietly, lifting his drink. "To the good sense of
those here present, which must determine whether the plan I propose will be
acceptable or die aborning:"
"To
good sense," Tanaby echoed, "but also to daring." He had already
been taken into Conrig's confidence and knew some details of the scheme, but
had withheld judgment of its merit pending this consultation with the others.
They
took their seats in a poorly concealed aura of excitement, with the Prince
Heritor seated on the folding chair and the others spread out on either side.
Young Baron Kimbolton put more wood on the fire. The sunset was rapidly fading.
"Do
you like the wine?" Conrig inquired pleasantly.
Most
voiced their approval. Count Munlow Ramscrest grimaced and shifted his great
bulk so that his stool creaked ominously. His oversized mantle, trimmed with
black wolf fur, spread around him like a sledge robe. "I would as lief
take honest Cathran mead any day over foreign grape-gargle. Still, it does cut
the phlegm."
The
others roared with laughter.
But
then bluff Ramscrest asked the prince flat out, "Your Grace, does this
plan of yours involve mere punitive strikes against Didion, or would you wage
open warfare?"
"I
intend to mount an invasion:' the prince replied, "and seize Holt
Mallburn, and force Achardus to accept the Edict of Sovereignty or have it
stuffed down his gullet."
Ramscrest's
face, as homely and full of bristles as that of a boar, broke into a beatific
smile. He said, "Oh, yes. Yes indeed!"
Some of
the others began to exclaim and call out questions, but the penetrating voice
of Parlian Beorbrook cut through the clamor like a brazen trumpet. "And
what does the King's Grace think of this brave notion?"
They
all fell silent.
The
prince set his cup on the small table before him, rose, and began to pace
slowly back and forth in front of the fire. He was five-and-twenty years of
age, over six feet tall, well-built, and fine of feature as his father, King
Olmigon, had been in his youth; but no one in the room would dispute that
Conrig Wincantor far surpassed his sire both in strength of character and in
mental acuity. In recent years the king had become capricious and vacillating,
prone to following dubious advice from certain favored members of his Privy
Council, and shunting important matters aside while he dithered over some
triviality.
Olmigon
had agreed to Conrig's Edict of Sovereignty proposal only after months of
dispute. It was the king who had made the disastrous decision that the royal
delegation bearing the Edict to the court of Didion should be small and
accompanied only by a token force of warriors; and it was the king, a fine
naval tactician in his prime, who had decided that Cathra's response to the
delegation's slaughter should be a sea blockade rather than a land invasion of
the northern kingdom.
Conrig
said, "Before answering that question, Earl Marshal, I must impart to you
melancholy tidings. Since you've been busy for the past months keeping
Dying!
They all had the identical thought.
The
prince turned about and let his eyes rove slowly over those seated. However, my
lady Maudrayne has sent to
And
remember who it is that will succeed to the throne of Cathra when Olmigon does
sing his Deathsong.
Nods
and murmurs.
"It
was my personal decision," Conrig continued, "as well as that of a
certain other high-ranking member of the Privy Council, not to trouble the king
with this new matter until I have consulted with you all and determined whether
or not the invasion proposal is practicable. As Lord Constable of the Realm,
acting with the covert approval of Chancellor Falmire, who is the only one of
my father's advisers with the brains to understand the situation, I have the
power to summon this extraordinary council of war. The persons I chose to
invite are those in a unique position to render service to Cathra—to redress
the atrocious insult done to our kingdom by Didion, and assure the security of
the entire
Whisperings.
None of them were fools. Unlike the intrepid northerners, who had always borne
the brunt of defending Cathra's border, the lords of the south had grown
complacent and soft from long years of martial inactivity. They were
businessmen, tending to their varied commercial ventures, not fighters. With
the coming of the Wolf's Breath, worried by the decline in their private
fortunes and too shortsighted to understand the potential danger from the
Continent, the southerners were in no mood to spend money re-equipping and
training their knights and thanes as an invasion host.
"As
you all know," Conrig continued, after a pause, "the impetus for the
Edict of Sovereignty came originally from me. From my youth I have idolized
Emperor Bazekoy the Great, who unified the nations of the mainland, brought
civilization to our own island, and chose to die here for love of it. It has
long been my dream to bring all of Blenholme together and return it to the
glory of Bazekoy's time?'
"The
Emperor," Munlow Ramscrest grumbled, "has been dead for over a
thousand years . . . most of him, at any rate! And the Blenholme of his day no
more resembles our own than children's fables resemble the sacred
Chronicle."
"Count
Ramscrest speaks the unwelcome truth, as usual," the prince con-ceded, to
universal amusement. "Our world is more densely populated and our politics
more complex. Nevertheless, even the marble-domes on my father's Privy Council
eventually agreed that the time was ripe for a move to Sovereignty. Three years
of the Wolf's Breath have brought tragedy to Blenholme—but also an unprecedented
opportunity. Didion is at the brink of civil war. The gold-coffers of the
Sealords of Tarn are near empty with the closing of the mines. Even in
Moss—"
"Who
cares about Moss?" Baron Wanstantil Cloudfell sneered. He was a haughty
beanpole who dressed with great elegance and affected a foppish manner.
"Let the Conjure-King use sorcery to make the sun shine on his stinking
swamps, and may he have much joy in the fulfillment. My prince, don't tell me
you'd bother taking that soggy nest of magical mountebanks into the
Sovereignty!"
"As
it happens, Lord Cloudfell, the
"The
hell you say!" Beorbrook exclaimed. "Does this scheme of yours depend
on vile Mossback enchantments, then?"
The
prince fixed the earl marshal with a level look, saying nothing, until the
veteran general looked away, his jaw clenched and his brow like thunder.
"Hear
His Grace out, Parli," urged Vanguard. "It's true there are arcane
elements in his plan, but no invoking of the Beaconfolk or anything else an
honest warrior could scruple at. Carry on, Godson?'
"Very
well," said the prince. "As you know, the three Wolf's Breath years
have by no means left our own
"And
the required coin of payment," said Count Norval Swanwick impatiently,
"is Didionite warships. Yes, yes, and all of us know what use Foraile and
Stippen might make of them. Your Grace isn't the only prince harking back to
Bazekoy's days of glorious conquest. The emperor was, after all, a Forailian by
birth."
"It
was to squelch such harkings," Conrig said, "that I pressed for the
Edict of Sovereignty?' And he quoted from memory. "`For the benefit and
security of all Blenholme, and to thwart those Continental opportunists who
might think to take advantage of the current natural disaster afflicting our
island, the Kingdom of Blencathra extends its merciful hand to the suffering
people of its neighbor, Blendidion, and vouchsafes it prompt paternal succor
and relief as Blendidion acknowledges vassalage in the new, benevolent
Sovereignty of High Blenholme, and accepts Olmigon Wincantor as its Liege
Lord."
"But
they didn't, did they?" Viscount Skellhaven pointed out, with sour satisfaction.
"Not without a Cathran army and a train of grain wagons coming at them
over Great Pass along with your precious Edict:'
Even
though he had ridden into Castle Vanguard on horseback like all the others, he
wore salt-stained seaboots, the wide pantaloons favored by sailors, and a silk
scarf tying back his long hair. His attire was of good quality but shabby, as
if to reinforce his perennial pose of being ill-used and unappreciated by the
Crown.
Beorbrook
said, "We all know how the King of Didion responded to Cathra's
declaration of Sovereignty. He killed our people and stuck their heads on pikes
above
"It
was six months ago that my sons and the others died," Beorbrook went on.
"The Crown's blockade of Didion isn't working—no offense,
Skellhaven!—because there's too much water to cover and the bastards are better
sailors than we are. Now that Achardus knows for sure we're out to topple him,
you can be sure that he'll be on the lookout for a land invasion as well. I can
assure Your Grace that the Didionite mountain fortresses beyond
"The
King's Grace deemed such a course too expensive," Conrig said, smiling
without humor.
"Of
course he did," Skellhaven said bitterly. "Same reason Ingo and me never
get the brass we need to do a proper job patrolling the northern sealanes! The
king won't raise taxes on the rich merchants and trader-lords who curry his
favor."
Count
Norval Swanwick climbed to his feet. Vanguard's son and heir was an experienced
battle-leader who had often fought at the side of the earl marshal, defending
both
"Please
do, my Lord Swanwick. All of us know that you and your valiant brothers have
fought many a skirmish against Didionite robber-barons and Green Men. I have
great respect for your opinion."
"Here's
what I'm afraid will happen if we invade Didion by land: At the first hint that
we're on the move, their arcane talents as well as their best fighters will
rush to meet us at Castlemont beyond Great Pass. Even if we're aided by the
magical flummery of Mossland's Conjure-King, we can't hope for any element of
surprise. The country in that region is so open, they'll see us coming from
leagues away. And there are no strongpoints between the frontier and their
Castlemont fortress where our forces might safely encamp to beseige the place:'
Many
spoke up in agreement.
"Furthermore,"
Swanwick went on, "the earliest we could launch an invasion is in
spring—late next Wind Moon, when the mountain snows will have melted and the
mud dried. But by then our granaries will be sore depleted after winter.
I'm
sure Your Grace realizes that there will be no chance of foraging in the
faminelands of Didion as we march eastward toward Holt Mallburn. Even if we're
victorious at Castlemont, enemy forces could easily sever our supply line over
the mountains while we engage the main host of Achardus."
There
were gloomy comments from the others. But the prince cut them off with a
ringing voice. "We can take them by surprise!"
"How?"
asked Swanwick.
"I
would not lead a large army but a smaller, swift-moving force of some five
hundred picked warriors. We would penetrate Holt Mallburn in a lightning raid
and seize Achardus, his entire family, the court officials, and the
merchant-lords who control the nation's commerce. And we would not invade
Didion in spring . . . but within five weeks, when they have no reason to
expect us. My plan is not to march through
"Over
Breakneck?" the earl marshal exclaimed in disbelief. "There is no
road—only a poor track that is often little more than a goat-path path! And in
late Boreal Moon we would risk fierce rains and washouts, snowstorms driven by
hurricane winds, or—God help us—those sudden ice-mists that freeze a man and
beast to glazed statues before they realize their mortal peril."
The
pass in the eastern reaches of the
The
prince said, "The Wolf's Breath has upset the seasons of our island in
many ways, significantly delaying the onset of winter in the high country.
Favorable weather will prevail over
"By
the Conjure-King of Moss?" Lady Zeandrise inquired softly.
Conrig
continued without responding to her. "Our fighting force will consist only
of mounted warriors, lightly armored for the sake of speedy travel. We'll have
no foot soldiers. Strong mules and ponies will carry supplies in the rear.
We'll move very quickly once we cross the frontier and strike without warning.
There is only one small mountain outpost between
"Fog!"
Beorbrook's eyes narrowed. "And we can count upon fog?"
"Oh,
yes," the prince reassured him. "And not the dreaded freezing mists,
but a warm concealing shroud, through which our army will ride on muffled
hooves, led by friendly guides. We'll seize Castle Redfern and use it as a
staging area for the main assault upon Holt Mallburn, after we have briefly
rested:'
"What
of Redfern's windvoices?" asked Baron Bogshaw. He was a hulking presence
whose face was disfigured by a livid diagonal scar from a swordcut that had
blinded his left eye. His lands, like those of Ramscrest and Cloudfell, lay
along the mountainous frontier between Cathra and Didion. "And the foe may
have talented ones posted at their outpost as well. Once they spot us, they're
sure to windspeak the alarm, even if our covert crossing of the pass is
successful:'
"Any
Didionite windvoices along our line of march to Redfern will be silenced before
our arrival," said Prince Conrig. "And so will those at the
castle."
"Ah
. . ." A soft sound from many throats.
"However,
it will be up to us to make certain that no ordinary foemen escape and give
warning in a commonplace manner. When we leave Redfern, we'll move like ghosts
through the mist, down from the mountains to the
"Great
God!" said old Toborgil Silverside. His sunken eyes were shining.
"What a glorious feat that would be!"
"We're
to accomplish all this under cover of fog?" Munlow Ramscrest was dubious.
"In a strange city notorious for its twisted maze of streets?"
Conrig
inclined his head. "As I've said, we will have guides. From the summit of
Ramscrest
persisted. "What manner of guides? Creeping Mosslander wizards bearing
magic lanterns?"
"Nay,"
said the prince. "I may not speak of the guides to you yet, but I'm
assured of their assistance. They are to meet us at the top of Breakneck Pass,
and if their aspect provokes mistrust among you, then I pledge to abandon this
enterprise forthwith."
"It's
magic, true enough," said Lady Zeandrise, her mouth quirked by a roguish
smile, "but not so outlandish as to put off our knights and thanes, eh,
brothers? Fog, eldritch pathfinders and gate-openers, cold steel, and hot
tarnblaze! A lightning thrust into Didion, and Holt Mallburn waiting like a
sleeping babe . . . Can we be sure King Achardus will be in residence?"
"Oh,
yes," said Conrig dryly. "He's there now, and he has little incentive
to leave his stronghold. At least it's well stocked with food and drink."
There was scattered laughter among the council, for the gigantic Didionite king
was an infamous trencherman. "As we prepare to sally forth from Castle
Redfern, I'll be kept informed by windspeech of the king's precise whereabouts,
as well as that of the merchant-lords and our other special targets. My brother
Vra-Stergos will accompany the expedition, as will Duke Tanaby's trusted
alchymist, Vra-Doman Carmorton." He said nothing of Snudge.
"And
will these good Brethren also use windspeech to transmit reports of our daily
progress to the Conjure-King?" Skellhaven inquired archly.
Conrig
paused, then spoke with reluctance. "King Linndal of Moss has nothing to
do with this plan. Most of the time he is raving mad and confined to his rooms.
He spends his lucid days voicing Salka sorcerers in the Dawntide Isles, trading
arcane secrets. Our Mossland collaborator is another?'
"Who?"
Beorbrook demanded.
"His
daughter, Princess Ullanoth." The prince took up his cup and sipped from
it, but his eyes did not waver from the skeptical face of the earl marshal.
"And
what does this benevolent lady ask in exchange for her good offices?"
"That
Moss receive First Vassal status in the Sovereignty, with a reasonable guerdon
paid annually, and that we support her claim to the throne of Moss above that
of her younger brother, Beynor:"
"It
seems a modest enough boon;' Lady Zeandrise remarked. She frowned, then added,
"Perhaps too modest?'
Beorbrook
addressed Vanguard. "Did you know of this, Tanaby? Your royal godson
consorting with a Mosslander witch?"
"I
knew," the duke replied stolidly. "An unlikely ally, perhaps, but the
Lady Ullanoth is a powerful sorceress, and there seems no good reason for her
to con-template using us treacherously."
Munlow
Ramscrest exploded in a coarse guffaw. "Why should we give a mule's fart
who rules that godforsaken corner of our island? Fens and frogs and peddlers of
hocus-pocus and gimcrack amulets! Let the Conjure-Princess have the poxy place
and welcome. As for her bribe, we can wring it out of vanquished Didion?'
Baron
Sorril Conistone, a middle-aged peer who was famed for his scholarly bent, had
remained quiet as the prince set forth his plan and the others made comments,
seated on a stool at the far left of the blazing hearth where he was almost
lost in shadow. Now his deep voice rode over the laughter that had greeted
Count Ramscrest's remarks.
"Your
Grace, are you certain that this Ullanoth will require nothing more of
us?"
"She
has asked for no other thing, Lord Conistone," Conrig said. "I swear
it on my honor as Prince Heritor of Cathra."
Zeandrise
Marley remarked, "Without the lady's help, we're flat skinned, my lords,
having not a hope in hell. Do any of you know a better plan?"
"If
we're to venture an invasion at all," said Baron Tinnis Catclaw,
"then it must be in the manner described by His Grace. The scheme is a
goodly one, to my mind, although I would wish it not so dependent upon the
whims of an alien sorceress.
Someone
sighed.
"And
how are we to pay for this grand enterprise?" Viscount Skellhaven asked,
not bothering to hide his ill will. "Certain lords and their knights will
loot Mallburn Palace of its treasures, while my fighting sailormen and I merely
torch the Diddly waterfront. Are we supposed to be content with the spoils of
empty warehouses, worm-eaten scows, and burnt-out hulks?"
"Our
mission is not to pillage the city," Conrig declared. "It is to seize
it and to force the capitulation of Achardus, his state officials, and the
powerful Guild of Merchants. This I vow to do. This I will do with the aid of
you stalwart northerners, who are familiar with mountain terrain and the
battle tactics needed for a swift and stealthy assault against an unsuspecting
foe. As for your material reward, it will be more than generous. I'll not
forget those whose bravery helped cement the Sovereignty of High Blenholme.
This I also vow, on the head of Emperor Bazekoy the Great?'
Skellhaven's
thin lips stretched in a disagreeable smile. "A very impressive oath, Your
Grace. Please don't take me wrong. I'm a poor man, only concerned for the
welfare of my followers. All too often the Crown has made fine promises to us
and then ..." He shrugged.
"I
am not King Olmigon, Conrig said. A few of them drew breath at his lack of
respect, but he turned away from Hartrig Skellhaven and let his gaze sweep them
all. "The time has come, my friends, for you to decide. Please
say—beginning with you, dear Godfather—whether you will join me in an invasion
of Didion.
"I
will come," said Tanaby Vanguard, "along with one hundred of my
knights and thanes."
"And
I with forty," said-Norval Swanwick. "Plus-farriers, cooks, and
leeches well able to fight?'
"Ramscrest
pledges sixty mounted warriors and twenty sumpter-mules well provisioned?'
"The
Virago of Marley will follow you with a force of eighty mounted men,"
Zeandrise declared, "plus thirty stout pack-ponies and their armed
drivers.
"My
festering leg precludes my personal participation," said Conistone,
"but I will send my four sons, ten knights of my household, twenty
fighting thanes, and five farriers?'
The
others chimed in their assent one by one, some charged with eagerness and
others, like Skellhaven and Holmrangel, with an air of having been coerced,
until the number of warriors pledged reached well over four hundred, with a
wholly adequate supply train and remounts. The last to speak was Earl Marshal
Parlian Beorbrook.
"Your
Grace; said he, "I am a cautious man, but not an ignorant one. I've read
the Chronicle from beginning to end, the histories of more than a hundred
Cathran rulers. But none of them, I think, will be the match of you if you can
pull off this mad stunt. I pledge thirty knights, the same number of fighters
mounted on sturdy coursers, and fifty mules loaded with goodly fodder for man
and beast . . . and I pray I'll live to hail you Sovereign of High Blenholme:"
The
council of war surged up from their seats and cheered.
Conrig
nodded in ironic acknowledgment of the backhanded compliment "Your
agreement to my proposal gladdens my heart, Earl Marshal.' He opened the ornate
black velvet purse that hung from his belt. "I have here wafers of the
most exquisitely flavored pyligosh, which I will share with you all as a token
of our new fellowship.
Almost
solemnly, he handed out the rare small sweetmeats, each of which was wrapped in
a green cloth square and tied with golden cord. "Please eat them now to
symbolize our unified resolve—and then let's see what manner of liquid cheer
Duke Tanaby has set out for us. I, for one, am now in need of refreshment
stronger than wine."
The
nobles sprang up from their stools and crowded toward the laden side-board,
leaving only Zeandrise Marley to stand before Conrig, holding her wrapped
tidbit. She spoke in a voice that was almost inaudible.
"My
prince, do you know why I am called the Virago?"
He
smiled. "I was told that when your wealthy young husband died, and you
were left childless, a certain uncouth mountain lord came a-wooing. You spurned
him, and he returned with an army to press his suit. Whereupon—"
"I
rallied the knights and thanes of my barony and whipped the britches off the
whoreson. And I defeated another force led by my late husband's saucy cousin,
who tried to lay claim to my fiefdom through some trivial point of law. After
that, Vanguard gave me the warrior's belt with his own hand, and I've held
Marley against all comers for the past twenty-two years. I'm a hard woman,
Prince Heritor:"
Conrig
bowed his head in acknowledgment, still smiling.
"And
I think you're a hard man." She held up the green-wrapped sweetmeat.
"What would have happened to those who opposed your invasion scheme? Would
they have been given wafers wrapped in a different color of cloth—or with cord
tied in a special knot?"
He
stepped closer to her, and for an instant something flickered in his hand-some
face. She stood her ground and his ambiguous expression was transformed into a
broad grin. He unwrapped his own wafer and bit into it with evident enjoyment.
"Absolutely delicious. And much more efficacious against noxious
substances than drinking-cups with amethyst talismans. That's just a silly superstition,
as any alchymist can tell you. You may ask my brother Stergos, if you doubt
me."
Her
eyes widened. "So it was the wine.
"Which
I partook of, along with the rest of you. The effects of the subtle poison
would not be obvious for at least two days, when the unfortunate nay-sayers
were well on their journey home. Thus no suspicion would fall upon me or Tanaby
Vanguard—who, by the way, knew nothing about my precautionary measures.
Earlier, I pressed him to take prisoner anyone who opposed my plan, but he
wouldn't agree to it. My godfather is too trusting and chivalrous. But then, he
doesn't aspire to be the Sovereign of High Blenholme:"
"And
such a one must be ruthless?"
"Very."
He rested both hands on her shoulders in a gesture that might have passed for
affection. "Are you going to tell the others what I did?"
Her
worn face remained calm. "No . . . I won't tell them. But I think it would
bode well for our future comradeship—and the Sovereignty—if you did."
They
stared at each other-without speaking. Then he took her arm and led her gently
toward the waiting table of drinks where the others were gathered. "I'll
think about it, my lady. And you won't forget to eat your wafer, will
you?"
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