And so he slammed off to the practice yard to work himself into exhaustion. His purpose had narrowed to one goal: if he had to die, he was taking Artolei with him.
That night, Connar had fallen into another cold, sweaty, anxiety-broken dream full of images from the bloodbath at West Outpost, only it was he defending against shadowy figures as everyone he knew died in bloody ribbons around him, and he struggled to get his hands around Artolei’s neck.
A voice punched through the tangle of images. It was Fish. “...wake up. There’s a report.”
Fury ignited in Connar at being dragged out of the relative oblivion of sleep, but it swiftly cooled. Report? Fish never woke Connar up for anything frivolous. He flung off the blankets and sat up in the dark room.
“The night scout swears he heard a whirtler,” Fish said.
Connar leaped out of bed, then caught himself in the doorway as waves of blackness boiled across his vision. He gulped in air, then pushed away, irritably waving off Fish, who didn’t look any better than he felt.
A short time later, he met the scout in the room they’d designed as their command center, which had a detailed map of the palace and its outbuildings, with patrols and watch changed chalked in.
“It was in the distance, but I know that sound,” the scout reported, dragging his teeth nervously over chapped, much-chewed lips.
“Outriders,” Connar breathed, and turned his face upward, as if he could see the spires beyond the ceiling, in the dark. “Rouse everyone. Let’s divide up the rest of the stores. Whatever happens, we’ll need our strength.”
When the sun came up, Artolei’s mob was already on the move, rolling wagons chained together, with hastily thrown together roofing to protect those dragging the ram suspended between the first and last wagon. Artolei, wearing a new helm, prudently rode at the back.
Connar was on the gate, his spyglass searching the crowd for Ryu. There he was lurking among the toughs some rows behind the eager attackers at the front, waving their pitchforks and sawblades and other tools sharpened into weapons.
Artolei yelled something.
Connar put his hand to his ear.
“It’s a demand for surrender,” Jethren said in disgust.
“Of course it is. I want to make him repeat it four or five times, sounding stupider with each.”
Rat was paying no attention. He stood at the far end of the sentry walk. Jethren, jealously guarding Connar’s left at shield arm position, turned his back on Rat—and jolted when Rat suddenly spoke up, “Look.”
Jethren ignored him, but Connar turned his head sharply. And his eyes widened.
Jethren had to look. So the Noth rabble had turned up at last?
The horizon, made hazy by evaporating water in the slowly strengthening sun, seemed to have grown the world’s longest hedge.
That was no rabble.
Below, Artolei was shouting the offer he and Ryu had worked on all the previous night, but when he came to the threat, “If you don’t surrender....” He realized no one was paying attention, and looked around in irritated bewilderment, as his horse began to plunge and snort.
A murmur soughed through his force, and then they stirred, as if blown by a fell wind.
Artolei’s horse, picking up the lightning change in mood, sidled, ears flattening. Artolei fought the reins, peering past the roof of the ram—and gasped. As he struggled to still the restless animal, winks and gleams of light resolved out of the haze into ghost shadows: Riders in gray riding in a line, banners furling slowly, horsetails wind-tangled.
On the wall, Connar drew a slow breath, giddy with wild joy.
Below, those who could see gaped, gasped, cried out, spreading their terror to those behind as that impossibly long line began riding slowly, the lances coming down....
Those closest to the just-beginning charge threw down their weapons, screaming “I surrender!”
“I quit!”
“Don’t kill me!”
Some ran, hands over their heads to protect their scalps from being ripped off, others dropped to their knees. The chargers didn’t waver—until a new figure detached from the westernmost line, and galloped toward them, two golds glinting on his arms: Ivandred Noth.
No one at the palace could hear what he roared, but the Marlovans understood the white and blue pennons borne by the Rider behind the commander: Accept surrender.
Noth turned toward the panicking army, shouting repeatedly, “Weapons down, and no one will be hurt! Weapons down!”
Crash! Clang! Horsemen surrounded the army, which immediately dissolved into terrified individuals. Keeping rigid order—while watching their leaders—the Riders forced themselves into groups, dividing the panicky army, as they whacked heads and backs with the flats of their wickedly curved cavalry sabers, which further scattered the former army.
Meanwhile Noth directed his army to thoroughly disarm those before the gate, to support the defenders (who were at that moment laboring to open the gates), and to restore peace to the adjacent town.
Up on the wall, Connar watched, emotions at a pitch. He drew in a shuddering breath. It was over now, but Artolei was trying to slither away. And he wasn’t sure he had the strength to pursue him.
Connar slid a furious glance at Jethren. “Take him down,” he muttered.
Jethren’s teeth showed in a flashing, feral grin. He shouldered his way through the men crowding the sentry walk, then paused and looked back at the very same moment Connar was thinking past that puppet Artolei to his master.
Jethren mouthed, “Ryu?”
Pleased at that instant understanding, Connar opened his hand, and Jethren—though water-limbed with fatigue and hunger—enjoyed a resurgence of strength fueled by the thirst for vengeance.
ELEVEN
After his first real meal in weeks, Connar enjoyed another sensation even more rare: he slept through an entire night.
He woke feeling as if he floated in a pool under a summer sky—weightless, drained of thought, of emotion. At first he was content to lie there relishing the absence of that gnawing hunger and its resultant ache.
But the almost noiseless rustles and steps of Fish in the far room brought the previous day rushing back: the arrival of stores from the town, previously hoarded by a ferocious number of guards who melted away at the sight of armed Marlovans, and the subsequent meal as Ivandred Noth dealt with a steady stream of reports, while Connar pretended to listen.
All of it had been beyond him, except for the sweet, recurring thought: it was over. They’d won.
Now details began to emerge into his consciousness, beginning with the fact that Lineas had made to Old Faral and back. She was probably somewhere in the winter palace. He discovered he didn’t care. Any sort of reaction right now felt as remote as the sky. He liked it that way.
But he couldn’t lie in his pretend pool forever. Fish returned presently, with a tray of hot, fresh-ground and scalded coffee, a meal next to the cup. “Captain Jethren outside, wishes to report,” Fish said.
His last order to Jethren returned to Connar, causing a spurt of curiosity. This quiet couldn’t last. He didn’t want it to last. He was in command. If he stayed in here, who was giving out orders?
That roused him.
When Jethren entered a short time later, Connar was dressed, halfway through a pile of jam-slathered oatcakes and shirred eggs covered with melted cheese.
Jethren glanced around, making certain no one was listening, and as he struck his chest in salute, he said, “Done.”
“How?”
“Artolei, trying to escape. Two blows—from one of their cudgels. Before the mob trampled him. Cornered Ryu Nyidri in the town. We had to fight our way through his guards, though half ran when we carved through those at the door. He screamed about wanting a duel. I said fine. He had some Sartoran weapons, the hilts made of gold and the like, the blade long, like a sewing needle stretched out. Worthless for anything but playing around.”
Connar snorted. “And?�
�
“Twenty moves rather than two, most of ‘em learning how to handle it. I cut him up before killing him.”
“Witnesses?” Connar said, corrosive satisfaction burning pleasantly through him.
“None. Everyone was on the run. Including his own people. He was alone when we found him, trying to hide. We left him there. Noth’s people were locking up the town.”
And Jethren had fainted, but he wasn’t going to admit to that. Never show weakness had been one of the earliest lessons beaten into him.
Connar indicated the door. “Go take liberty. Say nothing about it,” he added, as the implications began slowly to occur to him.
Jethren understood. The eagle-clan king’s orders had been repeated often enough: inspection, and if there was evidence of another plot, the jarlan was to be replaced with Ivandred Noth, whom most of the jarls recognized as jarl in some form.
Jethren didn’t care. The one whose opinion mattered was Connar—and it had been so very satisfying to watch Ryu clutching his chest as he coughed up blood, before Jethren very nearly fell on top of him as faintness caught up with him.
Breakfast restored enough strength for Connar to seek out Noth, who had set up a command post in the main parlor, all the furnishings pushed back except for two tables of different design pushed together. The table bore a map and stacks of what looked like tally scrolls and books, with guild markings on the covers.
Runners came and went; Connar spotted Quill Montredavan-An standing behind Noth, hands behind his back, his robe muddy to the knees as he listened, and Connar suspected the royal runner had been tasked to write up everything he heard for a report to the king. On the side nearest the fire, the Sartoran princess sat, wearing what looked to Connar like all of her clothes, her shrewd gaze following everything, though she didn’t speak.
As Connar entered the room, Lavais Nyidri swept in through the main door, trailing a riding of Noth’s armed guards. She strode toward what Connar had learned was considered the principal seat in the room, and checked when she saw Seonrei there.
The princess gave her a brief glance, head to toes, then turned her head as if she were not present. Connar was not educated in Sartoran court etiquette, but he sensed the utter dismissal.
Lavais flushed, and Connar remembered the lies the woman had written. Yes, there were the scraps of paper, lying neatly in their own pile at a corner of that big improvised desk.
Lavais crossed her arms and threw her head back. “My son was murdered! I demand justice!”
“That is being addressed at this moment,” Ivandred Noth said, unimpressed by her pose of moral outrage—her best weapon, he’d realized years ago. “I am in the midst of gathering evidence, with the outland princess you invited offering to sit in to witness justice.” He opened his hand toward Seonrei in a gesture so ironic that everyone in the room could see how much he disliked Lavais Nyidri.
He went on in that dry, flat tone, “Royal Runner Quill Montredavan-An, in company with Princess Seonrei’s herald-servant, personally inspected your son’s body. The wounds were punctures, made by no weapon any of us carry. Your son was more likely murdered by one of your own mercenaries.”
“We never deal with such trash,” Lavais snapped.
“Hirelings, then,” Ivandred said in a tone of such disbelief she gasped—and her eyes strayed to those notes lying on the table.
But she rallied. “It was all Khael Artolei,” she stated. “He is entirely responsible for this reprehensible and tragic situation. We were merely guests at his winter palace. We were viewing the frozen falls when he sent his people to attack, and yes, my sons were seen with him, but they were there trying to remonstrate with him.”
She paused there, chin lifted, a thin smile evident, and Connar understood that he had erred in siccing Jethren on Ryu and Artolei, which prevented Noth from interrogating them until they admitted the truth.
Jethren, listening at the back, cursed under his breath when he realized that he and the true king would certainly have gotten to watch that interrogation. Maybe even take part. But at the time, it had looked like the two would slither into the stampeding crowd and escape.
So here they all were, everybody in that room knowing that Lavais Nyidri was a lying liar. But she was getting away with her lies yet again. Connar’s head throbbed with the sheer injustice of it—until he remembered his orders.
Triumph surged in him. He looked across the room at Lavais Nyidri. “The king said that if Feravayir proved to be inadequately governed, and I believe we can all accept your inability to prevent what has happened as evidence, then I was to remove you from the jarlate, and hand it off to Ivandred Noth.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” Lavais whispered.
“I am the King’s Voice, delivering his order. Any arguments against your replacement may be made at the next Convocation, but as of this moment, Ivandred Noth, you are now Jarl of Feravayir.”
Shock rang through Lavais. Impossible. Her people would surely rise against....
Uncertainty caused her mind to falter. She had forced all the holders to furnish those supplies now being gobbled by the invading Marlovans. In the name of the faraway king, but it had been Nyidri guards who had smashed into storehouses and homes. It would take some work to win them back. But she had to be free to do it.
She turned a speculative glance toward Ivandred. On the surface, she’d maintained civility. She had always made certain of that. He was so dull, so ignorant outside of his endless marching and whatnot, surely she could win him again.... But first she had better begin with Seonrei.
Ivandred Noth, who had been watching her closely, spoke. “Take her out. And see to it no one can disturb her. There are angry mobs still wandering around looking for someone to blame.”
That stung. She worked to find a sufficient retort, but the runners were like huge ruminants, their breath smelling of cabbage as they herded her firmly out—just as Demeos was brought in by another group.
Demeos looked somberly at his mother, then turned away as he was thrust through the door into the chamber. He wondered what she had said, and the thought occurred to him that she might blame him, to save her own skin. It was a horrible thought, but he had heard her lie so many times, he was no longer certain what she would do or say. Except to present an innocent face to the world.
“Sit or stand,” Noth said. “You will answer my questions freely, or after coercion, as permitted for investigation of treason. It’ll either happen here or at the royal city. Take your choice.”
Demeos still wore his Sartoran silks, and his fine brown skin had flushed with color, but he said evenly enough, “Ask your questions.”
Noth did. Demeos began denying knowing anything—as everyone there expected.
Connar was so annoyed he walked out, to inspect the state of the palace as well as the perimeter patrols.
He stopped by the kitchen, ate a meal, then returned, to discover Demeos sitting in a chair, blanched as colorless as paper as Noth continued to shoot questions like arrows. Every time a piece of gathered evidence contradicted his lie, Noth read it out: reports from searches, inspections, and the slowly accreting reports of interrogations of the erstwhile army.
Over the few days, it became clear enough that Ryu had been the mastermind, Artolei his active accomplice. The only proof that Demeos had known about the conspiracy was testimony to his presence when Ryu or Artolei handed out orders. Nobody had heard him give orders himself—except about matters pertaining to entertainment and transportation in the carriages.
Lavais had been very careful to never be heard contradicting her pose of innocence, except for the damning conversation Lineas had first overhead. But even then, Lavais had not actually given orders that time: it was Ryu who had suggested the plot.
Meanwhile the defenders regained their strength as they worked alongside the rescuers from the far garrisons. Jethren shadowed Connar, determined to anticipate his orders and be seen carrying them out before Rat Noth could. Quill w
as still under Ivandred Noth’s orders, mostly writing as witnesses were questioned, all to be sent to the king.
Lineas had seen at a glance the cost of the siege in Connar’s sharp-boned face and tense expression. She made herself useful, but at a distance, making certain she never irritated him with a glimpse of her. She knew from meeting Quill at night that the king’s report was being prepared, and so she went to Noth’s first runner to volunteer to take it.
On a rainy morning Connar got to the interview room before anyone else—except for Noth, who didn’t seem to sleep. “Are you going to dose Lavais Nyidri with kinthus?” he asked.
Noth said, “There isn’t any of the white stuff to hand. It would have to be brought in and administered by a healer, is my understanding. And I’m not certain that is within the bounds of my orders.”
“But you’re now the jarl.”
Noth looked up. His eyes were marked with tiredness. “I’ve been trying to determine if she gave treasonous orders. So far, no one testifies to that, which is no surprise. She knows that Marlovans obey orders or die. Which means those at the top bear responsibility in matters of treason and conspiracy. Her strategy all along has been to point blame anywhere else but at herself.”
“But surely the truth herb would reveal how much she’s lying, wouldn’t it?”
“I suspect if we force that herb down her throat, all we’ll hear is an ugly tangle of self-justification, all pointing at Ryu, whose bloodlust she conveniently ignored, if she didn’t outright encourage it. I never understood how that boy came to be the way he was—his father was reputed to be lazy and comfort-loving. Doesn’t matter now. The thing is, I don’t know how much she’s come to believe her lies in her own head.”
Connar exclaimed, “You’re not thinking of letting her go?”
The new jarl jerked his hand away, palm down. “No chance. If it were left to me, she would spend the remainder of her life in a one room cottage on a bit of isolated land, where she would have to grow her own vegetables. Cook her own food. Make her own clothes. Work to trade for what she needs.”
Time of Daughters II Page 64