As the intense heat of the water soaked into his muscles, it melted away innumerable small aches and left pleasant languor in their wake. Aldric was surprised to find the civilised amenity of an Alban bath-house and deep tub in the pest-hole that was Seghar, and even more surprised to find it in good repair with an adequate supply of water. Most likely it had been installed by Gueynor’s father Erwan, because the Geruath interest in Alba seemed restricted to its gold.
Erwan? How close is that to Evthan? His mind played with the similarities of name. In Alba it would have suggested blood-relationship at some remove, so Evthan the hunter, a lord’s bastard brother, might have been Gueynor’s uncle in truth as well as name. That set Aldric to wondering what had become of Gueynor herself. She should have joined him by now, though not in the bath itself. There had been momentary attraction about the concept, but not much more.
That they still shared a bed and slept together were statements of fact, not euphemisms for anything else. Except for occasional handholds for companionship and an arm around her shoulders for comfort in the night, he hadn’t touched her since she paid him for her uncle’s release. Nor had he wanted to. Simple lust or idle amusement with a stranger wouldn’t have concerned him but, no matter how noble the sentiment, knowing her embrace held the price of a life made it disturbing.
There was always another face over Gueynor’s anyway, as if she wore a mask. Strange how he always seemed to want, to need, the unattainable. Tehal Kyrin would be married by now, perhaps already carrying Seorth’s child. Whatever. She was lost to him.
“I know that I am lost…” whispered a distant, uninvited voice at the back of Aldric’s mind, and a thread of chill seemed to run through the bathwater.
What was taking Gueynor so long to walk through a ruined garden? A feeling that wasn’t quite fear but far stronger than mere apprehension crept over him. Whether it was a sixth-sense stab of warning or his own mind overheated by the overheated water, he didn’t know for certain. But he did know the matter needed resolution if he was to have peace.
With an effort Aldric threw off his lethargy, surged from the tub and reached for a towel.
*
There was an interval of silence when Jervan finished. A breeze chilled the air and as the day grew a little darker, he glanced towards the sky and nodded.
“It’ll rain soon, yet ten minutes ago there wasn’t a cloud. Even the weather here is moody.”
“Jervan, what you’ve just said is all about your conspiracy and your treason – but whose usurpation? And why tell me?” Despite her question, Gueynor remained wary of being told too much. Ornamental or not, the knife at his back was a swift, simple way to keep those secrets from going any further.
“Haven’t you guessed? There’s a look about you, lady. I’ve been a soldier twenty years, and I know the look of violence held in check as well as anyone. Not delivered by your own hand, maybe, but… Well, your Alban companion is a dangerous young man.”
“He is not—!” What began as an outraged denial cut off short, for when Gueynor considered the little she knew of Aldric Talvalin, Jervan’s estimation was correct. It was strange that she had never thought it of him.
“So you agree with my appraisal? That’s good. Second thoughts are often wise ones. Now, are you sure he’ll kill at your command and more important, that he won’t kill when you don’t want it?”
I should tell him nothing, Gueynor thought. It’s not my place to say what someone will or won’t do.
“Can you trust this Kourgath with life and death?” Jervan persisted. “Or with anything at all? Even his name? That cropped hair tells the world he’s eijo – in Alba he’s landless, lordless, friendless – so whatever else he tells it may be… Let’s say unreliable. And a kourgath is just a small wildcat which lives in the Alban woods.” That was enough. She couldn’t, wouldn’t allow such allegations to continue, but even then she took care that no hint or hesitation rose to Jervan’s trailed bait about false names.
“Kourgath may be eijo, Commander Jervan, but Marek Endain and I both trust him as a man of honour.”
“Of course he is. He must have been kailin at the very least, one of their warrior class, before he was an eijo. One becomes the other if events require it. That means his honour is as much part of him as the blood in his veins. Honour is loyalty, duty, obedience, honesty, bravery.” Jervan’s mouth twitched a thin smile at his own litany. “All the Alban virtues. It also justifies many of their vices. When your friend had a lord, loyalty bound him to obey that lord’s commands even if they were cruel ones.”
“No different to any other soldier, then.”
“Different enough. The Albans are a strange people. If he disobeyed an order, or failed in his duty… You’ve seen the black-hilted knife he carries?”
Gueynor nodded. Aldric never let it stray beyond his reach in any circumstance. Yet he was the same with the black-hilted sword Lord Geruath wanted so much, and Jervan didn’t seem to think it worth a mention. That was a mistake he might regret.
“It’s a tsepan, to kill himself if honour requires it. All Albans carry one, a few of them even use it. But he’s still alive, so what he did to make him crop his hair wasn’t dishonourable, or he decided that life is better than respect. For now, anyway. If he ever has second thoughts, I wouldn’t care to be near him in case he wanted company on the dark road…” Jervan shrugged, letting Gueynor fill in the rest of the uncompleted thought for herself. “Lady, it’s said of Albans – especially kailinin-eir, men of the high clans – that they make the best friends in the world and the worst enemies. But an eijo’s honour isn’t that of a kailin. The demon-queller Endain told me something of your friend’s past. There was trouble in Alba this spring, and your friend fought on the wrong side.”
“Stop calling him my ‘friend’ in that meaningful way, Commander.”
“What then, lady?” Jervan’s steady gaze didn’t leave her face. “Companion? Bodyguard? Lover? Friend is good enough, and friendship might be more than he deserves. He’ll have lost everything else. If he had wealth or rank or title, they’re all gone now and he’s lucky to have his life.”
“What trouble was it?” asked Gueynor, intrigued. When Aldric mentioned his home, and that was seldom enough, he spoke only in veiled hints as if recalling events in detail hurt him.
“I know little enough, lady. It was small and far away, and the doings of foreigners take second place to my present duty here. It seems that one lord stole the lands and fortress of another and there were a few killings, but not enough for the thief’s security. The defeated lord’s son survived, instead of cutting his own throat.”
“Cutting his throat?” Gueynor was incredulous. “Why?”
“He wasn’t there when his father was killed, so he didn’t fall in his defence and—”
“And you’re telling me that because this lord’s son wasn’t killed with the rest of his people, he was expected to do it himself?”
“He was a coward who broke his oaths and lost his honour. Death by his black knife would have restored it. I told you, they’re a strange people. Instead he returned earlier this year at the head of an army, reclaimed his lands and fortress then did some killing on his own account.”
“What happened then?”
“I’ve heard it said he turned religious, that somewhere in the Blue Mountains lives a monastic hermit who owns a goodly chunk of Alba. But I doubt it. Once he’d taken his revenge and proved he was no coward, he probably turned his black knife on himself at last.”
“Who was he, this self-willed son?”
“The last of a high clan, so they say. Aldric Talvalin.”
Gueynor felt a sudden tic flutter in her left eyelid. She had half-expected Aldric’s name, but hearing it linked to this particular traveller’s tale was still a shock. She had shared her bed, her body and her secret hopes and fears with the man travellers’ tales called The Widow Maker – for though the kortagor had small time for gossip, peasant villagers
gleaned both news and entertainment from such stories. Yet her uncle, entrusted with his true name, hadn’t made the connection. It was, she thought more calmly, not surprising. Aldric didn’t look like a killer, nor act like one. But Evthan, and Keeyul and the other soldiers in the old tomb, had all learned the nickname was well-given, though none of them lived long enough to benefit from their education.
“I thought you were going to tell me something of yourself, Commander Jervan. And why I interest you.”
“As I said earlier, haven’t you already guessed? You interest me because of who you are, and who your father was.” He chose an area of the summerhouse wall that was both dry and reasonably clean, leaned against it with both arms folded across his chest and legs crossed at the ankles, and looked the picture of a gentleman taking his ease for an inconsequential chat. Except there was nothing inconsequential about what Jervan had to say.
“There are two powers in this Empire, lady. One is the Grand Warlord, the other is young Emperor Ioen. Lord Geruath’s lack of diplomacy and tact – and the foolishness of his son – has lost the friendship of both. Alban money enters this town each month, not gold but credit scrip drawn on the merchant guilds. It’s meant to finance unrest, uprisings, anything to keep the Warlord’s attention from Alba, because without war, what realm needs a Warlord? Instead it buys Lord Geruath his weapons and Lord Crisen his sorceries, his women and his wines. There’ll come a time when a force arrives to stamp this place into muck, and it won’t matter if it’s sent by Warlord Etzel or the Emperor. The result will look the same.”
“Get to the point!”
“The point, Lady Gueynor Evenou, is that if you took this citadel and held it – held it well – for one side or the other, both would regard you with favour. As a stabilising influence in unstable times, shall we say?”
“Say whatever you like, just say it quickly!”
“You would restore peace to Seghar and avenge your father and your mother. I don’t know which you would value most. There’s a similarity between yourself and the Alban lord I mentioned, except that you waited ten years while he waited only four.”
“What advantage,” Gueynor’s voice was icy, “do you expect to gain from this enterprise?”
“Ah, lady, now we get to the real point. Advancement, of course, the favour of the new Overlord, and—”
“And if I say no? What then?” Jervan’s eyes opened wide for an instant, reminding Gueynor of a startled hawk, then his right hand moved to the knife at his back, not drawing it yet though the possibility was there for the very immediate future.
“You wouldn’t live long enough to betray me,” he said. Gueynor hid her brief fear with an arched eyebrow and a thin cool smile like those she had seen Aldric use.
“I said nothing of betrayal, Kortagor Jervan. Only refusal. What will happen to the garrison commander when one or other of the Great Powers stamps this place to – to muck, wasn’t it? Will they strike off your head or simply hang you as a common criminal?” Her shot struck home.
“Lady Gueynor, I think you’ll make an admirable Overlord.” It wasn’t a compliment.
“Overlady, Commander.”
“The title is neutral, it doesn’t change gender to match whoever holds it, so Overlord I said and Overlord I meant. For all the years you spent consorting with your peasant friends you remain aristocratic enough.”
“Do you mean lordly?”
“Not the way my men would mean it, but haughty and arrogant enough for any Princess. Even the Emperor’s sister.” That wasn’t a compliment either.
“Would you speak like this if I was your Overlord?”
“No, lady, I would not – though any sensible lord should have a trusted advisor who would. But until then I’ll do it myself, because you understand the reasons why.”
“Very well. So what’s your plan?”
“Simple and direct. Leave matters to your eijo—”
“He’s not mine.”
“And let events take their course. The Overlord collects weapons and has done so for years, yet he remains stubbornly ignorant of the etiquette surrounding them. From what I hear there’s already been one confrontation about the Alban’s sword.”
“Are you perceptive, Commander, or do you have a network of spies throughout this fortress?”
“I guess, Lady Gueynor. I guess correctly, and I add up those guesses to form a conclusion. Kourgath carries a longsword of master quality, and Geruath wants it. The next time he asks will be more forceful, and the Alban will respond in kind. Geruath may not survive that refusal.”
“What about his guards? The citadel is over-full of soldiers.”
“Soldiers whose wages are months in arrears. All that keeps them here is the hope of getting part of it, and one of my duties as garrison commander is to make sure they’re paid enough to guarantee loyalty, if only from week to week. If you pay any more than that, lady, they’re yours to command.” Gueynor’s heart was beating fast. Though Jervan’s proposal was frightening, it was also far more constructive than anything Aldric had ever suggested.
“And how many months’ back pay would a garrison commander expect to receive from his magnanimous new Overlord?”
“I’m owed nothing.” The kortagor tried and failed to hide a foxy, self-satisfied grin, then caught the look in Gueynor’s eye and his grin became a frown. “Yes, because I have access to the pay-chests – but not the way you think. I took only my due, not a copper more. Albans don’t hold the monopoly on personal honour. I’ve served the Empire faithfully for twenty years, and I should be hautheisart by now, or eldheisart at least. Instead I’m still just kortagor, and the garrison commander of this!” A sweep of his arm took in the ruined gardens, the tumbledown buildings and the grimy towers of the fortress. “What I want is what money can’t buy. Respect. Is that so unreasonable?”
“Respect in your lifetime or respect for your memory?” said a quiet voice behind him. “Which will it be?”
*
What forced Aldric from the heat and comfort of his bath had begun as just a tickle of apprehension at the back of his mind. As his bare feet hit the stone floor that feeling expanded to a gut-churning sense of something wrong which came close to physical nausea.
He stood naked and dripping in the bathhouse as racking shudders tore through him like the strokes of a mace, then flung his unused towel aside and fought his way into clothes that clung to wet skin every inch of the way. With each passing moment he grew more certain that events in this fortress involved Gueynor far more than she thought, would try to involve him, and would take him off-guard if he gave them any chance.
Marek Endain might have thrown light on the matter, except there was no sign of the demon-queller anywhere. It was like Gemmel in Dunrath when King Rynert laid out his plotting, as if the one man he most wanted to talk to, from whom he most needed reassurance, was deliberately avoiding him. Given the Cernuan’s mood when they parted, that wasn’t a surprise.
It was then he began asking after Gueynor, and it wasn’t coincidence which brought him to the summerhouse. Two servants had given the same answer to questions about ‘Lady Aline’s’ whereabouts and the second, by way of helpfulness, had added that Commander Jervan was asking similar questions just a short time past.
Natural caution brought Aldric into the sad gardens on soft feet – when he put his mind to it he could move as quietly as the kourgath cat of his crest – but the fluttering under his breastbone made that stealth as quick as possible. As he approached the tumbledown building he expected to hear sounds of interrogation, threat and protest, something of that sort. Not civilised conversation. No matter that it seemed dominated by Jervan’s deep voice, what few words he heard spoken by Gueynor seemed relaxed, even confident. Certainly more than he was.
He waited for an opportune moment, aware it smacked somewhat of melodrama, then stepped through the door to speak his entrance cue. Just like an actor, Aldric thought sardonically as two heads turned towards him, but
in what play? A tragedy, or the blackest of comedies?
“The plotting which goes on in the Drusalan Empire never fails to astonish me.” He spoke as if from vast and weary familiarity with Imperial policy, more concerned with internal scheming now than at any time in its history. “And I was only curious about a werewolf.”
The kortagor’s eyes opened wide, and Aldric wondered if this was the first time anyone had dared to speak that word aloud. Jervan had the look of a man who knew more than he dared to mention, but he was suddenly willing to say a great deal more than he had told Gueynor. It didn’t take long before Aldric decided the man was either very perceptive, or so well-informed because he really did have spies everywhere. If that was the case they were most likely for his own protection, gathering evidence to save his neck when saving became urgent.
Aldric had heard, or at least overheard, much of it before he made his presence known, but when Jervan mentioned the hunter dragged before Lord Crisen for striking a mercenary soldier, his gaze flicked to Gueynor’s face. She stared back, expressionless and dry-eyed as if the tale concerned someone else, and scarcely even blinked as it trailed to a close.
“I hear you claim to be good at guessing, Kortagor Jervan,” said Aldric. “So here’s a guess of my own. Crisen had that shift-spell laid on the forester as a punishment. A cruel and unusual punishment, as the lawyers have it.”
“Cruel yes, but not unusual, not for the Geruaths. And not even a punishment. The man was available when Crisen wanted to witness a shape-changing, and Voord suggested him. Otherwise a sheep would have sufficed.”
Aldric’s mouth quirked as if he had drunk vinegar. Despite increasing suspicions he had wanted to believe Evthan’s curse resulted from ordinary brutality, as might be expected from a lord who had people quartered by ox-teams for speaking out of turn. Sorcerous experiments from idle curiosity were far worse. The thoughtful look he gave Jervan from under his brows would have worried anyone who knew him better, but the commander remained ignorant of its threat.
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