"On such a dangerous mission?" Frost asked him, winking. "How ever did you live so long?"
Aphan worked his face into a tight grin. "Luck!" he said.
Silence fell about the table. Madia sat thinking over all she had heard and all she still wanted to say. "Who else knows the secrets of the Blade?" she asked, mostly of Aphan.
"Only Ramins did," Aphan said solemnly. "And no one is quite sure of that."
"But he's dead."
Both men nodded.
"We will be leaving now," Frost said, rising again. "We must join our companions. Is there anything that you need?"
"No," Aphan said. "But tell me, as a favor to these old ears, where is it you intend to go?"
"He is going to help win Ariman back, of course," Madia said, then grinned as Frost looked at her.
Frost shrugged. "I am going south, toward Neleva," he said. Then he shrugged again. "Through Kamrit."
Aphan closed his eyes again. Frost turned to go, and Madia slowly followed him out. She said good-bye at the door, but Aphan was sound asleep.
"We are very different, you know," she told Frost as they entered the street, squinting at the harsh light of day. She walked up the street beside him. "Aphan said you never like to take risks."
"A fool's approach."
"You may be right, for I have never lived any other way," Madia said.
"We would both do well to consider where that has gotten you, I think," he said.
Madia started a hot reply, then realized she could not. Not yet, anyway. She followed him in silence.
* * *
"We have a boat," Rosivok announced, standing alone and greeting them as they neared the river. "Sharryl and the soldiers are aboard."
"Do you trust the boatman?" Frost asked.
"Well enough. He is a simple man, young and poor and with a wife and children. Loyalty to Lord Ferris does not run deep among the boatman, and wages are few. Some have been to Kamrit already this spring. They talk, and others listen. The river tolls are great, and penalties severe. The stories are mostly bad. He took our coins quickly enough, and will not want to give them back."
"Well, then," Frost answered, "take us there."
Madia went with them, past the last houses at the edge of town, then past a stable and a small inn. A group of men, five in all, stood about in front of the stables, their conversation kept low. Soldiers, Madia thought at first, though she wasn't certain why, since they wore no colors or armor. Then she noticed the battle swords they each wore, and their dress, much alike, styled linens and leathers—free men all.
The other four grew silent as one of them spoke, the way the peasants had been silent when the lord's hayward brought a message. The speaker seemed much too lean to be wearing the only two-handed sword in the lot. He stopped talking and looked up as Madia and the others passed, watching them, squinting to see in the fading light of early evening. Watching me, Madia thought, though she could not be sure.
But then the stables were out of sight and the river was just ahead. She kept checking as they walked, looking back over her shoulder, but no one followed. In a moment they reached the river's edge and headed aboard the boat.
* * *
The girl was not familiar, but Grear knew the man and the two strange warriors that walked with him; it had been years ago, somewhere in Achien or Lagoreth, he thought, beyond the Spartooths, but he remembered the fat wizard's arrogant face quite well—and his name, Frost, owing to his supposed prowess with a deadly kind of aging spell. The wizard had been known in the region for stopping a plague of locusts by making a heavy rain turn to ice as it touched the fields where the swarms had landed. The locusts had not only died, but had been used as meal and compost.
But he was known to be unpredictable, apparently depending on whatever framed his mood, even after an agreement had been made and fees met. Grear had thought to hire the wizard himself at the time, a precaution in the killing of a local noble who himself had hired a formidable mage—alas, a noble whose lady seemed to place great value on a swift, unconditional end to the man's life. Finally Grear had done the job with just his own men, and had lost most of them, he recalled, to a dizziness spell that forced them to keep their backs against the castle walls to prevent them from falling to the floor.
He watched the group wander out of sight, kept staring at the empty street after that.
"What's wrong?" one of the others asked after a time.
"Those merchants in the square yesterday," Grear said. "Do you recall the story they told?"
"The fight in Kern?" the other asked.
Grear nodded. "Fifteen of the king's soldiers killed," he added, thinking out loud. "And three of them turned old and white where they stood by a very fat mage."
Several of Grear's men nodded. Grear rubbed at the stubble on his chin, then he pointed to two of his men. "Follow them that went by just now; see if they go to hire a boat downriver."
Both men acknowledged him and set out at a brisk pace, disappearing around the corner.
"What are we up to?" one of the remaining men asked.
If Frost was headed toward Kamrit, Grear reasoned, he had either been hired by Kaafk, or by Kaafk's enemies—though if the stories from Kern were true, Frost was no ally of the crown. Which was valuable information, Grear decided, either way.
"We're trying to get a bit richer," Grear explained, then he told them what he knew. He found the others eager to listen.
* * *
"He is one of Grear's men," Kaafk said, standing as near to Lord Ferris as the great arms of the throne—made larger of late at the grand chamberlain's direction—would allow. He spoke as quietly as possible, so that the others assembled in the court would not hear. The soldier in question stood ten paces behind.
"And what is the trouble?" Lord Ferris asked.
"He says Grear recognized a man, one in a group of travelers buying downriver passage from Kopeth. A rogue mage who is known in other lands by the name of Frost. He makes the journey with two of your own men-at-arms, and three more unknown warriors. Grear believes the soldiers may be traitors, and may have hired the mage to aid them in some way."
"In what way?"
"How should I know?" Kaafk put both hands out, palms up. "A plot of some kind, perhaps, against you!"
"Do you believe this is possible?" Ferris asked, apparently unshaken.
Kaafk looked carefully at the soldier standing behind him, the crude armor he wore, the fine battle sword. Grear and his men had been a wise purchase, Kaafk thought, an investment that was already paying off. The good Lord Ferris would do well to take lessons from Kaafk.
"Many things are possible, lord. But I have met with Grear enough to know that he would not pass on such information unless, in his own mind, he thought there was good cause. Unless he thought it was . . . valuable."
"You," Lord Ferris said, speaking to the soldier. "Tell Grear I want these people followed and closely watched. If he learns more, I'll want to hear. It is possible the northern vassals have hired someone to help cause mischief, and some of our guard as well. And they may have friends in Kamrit itself, people we will want to know about. I have tried to leave alone as many of Andarys' knights as possible, but I may have been too lenient with them."
"There is more," Kaafk began, waiting to bring it up, recalling how thoroughly aggravated Ferris had become upon first hearing the news of that embarrassing, unfortunate defeat in the square at Kern. The grand chamberlain was not entirely sane, Kaafk was convinced of that, but he was almost entirely reliable in certain other respects.
There was something especially disquieting, now and again, about the man, however, in his manner, his answers at times, his questions—but it hadn't seemed to matter in the course of larger events. Probably, Kaafk thought, it never would. "Grear has found people from Kopeth who say this Frost and the others came on the north road from Kern just two days after the battle there. Frost, it seems, has a reputation for his aging spells. Three of your dead
guardsmen in Kern were found—"
"I remember."
Ferris sat silently awhile, and Kaafk noticed it again, the strange look, the eyes. Perhaps a spell that this Frost had created was having some effect. Or Ferris might be some sort of wizard himself and had simply never shown his hand. Kaafk sighed quietly and put these thoughts aside. The possibilities were nearly endless, enough to make worrying over them too great a task, especially when it didn't seem important.
"Also inform Grear," Lord Ferris said suddenly, jogging Kaafk from his thoughts, "that I would like Frost and the others intercepted and questioned before they arrive at Kamrit. If they are the ones who killed the guards in Kern, I'll want Grear to kill them. If they object to the questioning, he may kill them anyway. I would prefer to have the men-at-arms brought in alive if possible, for trial, but Grear may use his best judgment. We will pay him for each head, in any case."
"Very well," the soldier said.
"You may go as well," Ferris told Kaafk, using a satisfied tone. Kaafk felt reasonably good himself. He turned and motioned the soldier to one side and out, then he bowed to the lord and swept himself away.
Chapter XIII
The river ran wide and slow from Kopeth south into Chelle Lake, then split, one small arm flowing inland while its main arm continued south and west to its mouth at Kamrit and the sea. The journey took three to four days most of the year, but the waters north of Chelle were high and muddy from the spring rains, and unusually swift. The boat arrived at the lake's northern tip by the end of the second day, and with morning, they set out again across the wide waters.
Frost sat back near the boatman and watched the others, all gathered nearer the open bow, and tried not to think about the situation. The river was not wide and no deeper than a man was tall in most places.
But the lake was more menacing; water was a barrier to most magic, a thing not easily controlled or understood, a void that could swallow even a great wizard in a single, unremorseful gulp. There were far too many omens and practices for good and bad luck to do with the sea, most of which he was not familiar with.
Such voyages were a thing Frost had always sought to avoid. Yet at times, there was no reasonable choice.
He watched the shore pass by as the long, deep lake gathered all around them. Then he noticed Madia turned around, staring at him as he looked back. She got up and made her way toward him, climbing over piles of raw wool covered with burlap, the boatman's bonus cargo. She crouched beside him in silence at first, watching the shore with him now. A group of villagers were gathered on their knees at the water's edge, sinking pails to gather water.
"I have done that with buckets," she said, "and worse, living in the villages just west of here, before I found Hoke."
"Few nobility ever know what life is like for most of their people," Frost told her. "You are fortunate."
"It didn't seem that way at the time."
"Yet you survived."
"Hoke helped me, and so did Keara. They expected me to act like 'Princess Madia,' just like everybody else, but with them, I began to want to."
"So many things make us what we are, like the many things that affect a realm."
"I never wanted to be queen."
Frost could not help a smile. "Nor do I."
Madia smiled back, then her expression grew more serious.
"So tell me," she said, "what does Frost want?"
He said, "That has a tendency to change from one day to another."
Madia leaned closer, her eyes fixed on his. "I know. So just today, then?"
"Soon enough, I will let you know."
"But it is soon enough. I keep insisting you will help me, and you don't argue, but that does not mean you will. I stand little chance against Ferris without your magic and experience, but I can't make plans when all I know for sure is that you may not always be counted on."
Frost considered his reply. He was still too busy eyeing the waters and reading the signs and thinking over all that Aphan had said to him, but a number of possibly unpleasant decisions were growing ever more imminent. He was impressed with Madia, more so all the time, and he held no doubt that she was the true heir to the throne at Kamrit—and that if she were somehow successful in displacing the grand chamberlain, she would pay him well enough. Money was not a concern. But the issue was more complex.
He had helped her grandfather create this realm, and Madia's blood alone did not entitle her to control its destiny. He had already learned enough about the grand chamberlain to convince him that Lord Ferris must ultimately be removed, and that he might well need to lend a hand to the task, but that did not require that Madia be made queen. She held great promise, but she had not proven herself as yet.
We will find ourselves opposed by very powerful enemies indeed, he thought, looking at her. But she needn't know that now.
"I have kept away from feudal squabbles these many years," he said in answer, "because they tend to grow much too messy, just as this entire affair seems to be. Politics do not suit me. Now, an evil curse, natural catastrophes, rogue creatures conjured or natural, out wreaking havoc: these are far more palatable challenges."
"You know," Madia said, "even among the most pitiful villages, a man with a well cow will share milk with a poorer man's children; the strongest men will help a weakened neighbor with the gardens; the best weavers loan their hands to the worst."
"So we have a responsibility to others, because of the blood we were born with, is that what you're saying?"
Madia looked away. "Yes."
"How completely charming," Frost replied, "to hear these sentiments coming from your own lips. You have made your point, but my abilities are of consequence to no one, and my first duty is to myself. You felt as I do until quite lately, I understand, or have you forgotten already?"
"What if I was but a fool?"
"Suit yourself."
She was quiet for a moment, pursing her lips, eyes darting with the energy of her thoughts as Frost considered her, readying a parry for her next counter-thrust. She was not easily shaken, nor easily refused, this girl. And not easily fooled, either. An impressive combination, in fact.
"Most men of magic align themselves with a crown," she said.
"In order to surround themselves with the protection afforded by the crown's armies. But I have never felt the need." Frost glanced toward Rosivok and Sharryl. "I have always kept my own personal guard. I consider them more trustworthy than noblemen and mercenaries retained by others, men who truly owe me nothing." Though there was something to be said for nameless castle regulars, he thought; in return for their pledge to him he had always pledged his protection to his Subartans, and Jaffic had died.
Madia let the matter rest. The day passed slowly, and silently, while both pondered the deep waters the barge passed through. As early evening arrived, Madia was watching the village of Chelle pass by as the boat reached the far end of the lake, and again entered river waters. A relief, Frost thought.
"Do you see them?" Madia asked him, breaking her long silence, pointing toward the shore. The boat was just rounding a small pine-covered isle set in the middle of the stream. The boatman stayed to the right side, avoiding the rocks that seemed to be everywhere on the left. A small group of men and horses stood on the river's right-hand shore, waiting just at the water's edge.
"Better sit down," the boatman said, guiding the boat steadily right of the island, directly toward the men. "River's shallow on this side, too. We'll likely hit bottom a time or two."
"What of them?" Frost asked, waving toward shore. The boat drew close to them now, six men in all, unfamiliar, wearing light, mostly leather armor and carrying swords and crossbows. Soldiers from some distant land, Frost decided. Mercenaries, perhaps.
"I think I saw them in Kopeth, at a stables near the river," Madia said, pointing to a man who seemed to stand at the head of the bunch.
"You're certain?" Frost asked.
Madia nodded. "That one, the short one wea
ring the double-handed sword, he watched us go by, like he knew us . . . or knew me."
"Rosivok!" Frost shouted. The boat jounced once off the river bottom, rocking its passengers. Rosivok waited an instant then got up, followed by Sharryl, and tried to step to the back of the boat. They hit bottom again, and the boat rolled hard to one side as the two Subartans stumbled over wool and burlap.
"Stay still, the lot of you!" the boatman shouted, fighting the rudder to keep the boat straight in the mixing currents. Frost held his hand up to Rosivok, staying him. He pointed toward shore. Rosivok and Sharryl turned toward the men.
"They seek us out," Frost told the two. The Subartans nodded, then slowly settled into ready positions.
"They have a rope across," Sharryl called back, pointing just beyond the bow into the water. Frost saw it then, one end of the line tied to an island pine, the other to the saddle of one of the horses just behind the waiting men.
"When the boat stops, talk to them," Frost told Madia, his voice near a whisper. "See what they want."
Madia looked a question at him.
"I will need a moment," he said.
Madia nodded, then turned and got forward just a bit, putting herself between Frost and the shoreline as the bow contacted the rising rope. Olan and Delyav were both on their feet, knees bent for balance, swords drawn, following the lead of the two Subartans. Frost breathed deeply and closed his eyes, drawing on his ample reserves, then set about assembling the two spells he thought would do the most good. When he looked again, he saw the lead fellow on shore, his boots just touching water, press the heel of one hand to the hilt of his two-handed sword. Another man, taller, just as lean, held the line of horses while their four remaining companions drew crossbows from behind their backs.
"We'll have a word with you!" the leader shouted. Frost glanced up and examined the look in the other man's eyes—tense but focused, cold. The face was older and more keen than Frost had thought.
"Who are you?" Madia asked, leaving her own blade in its scabbard, planting her hands on her hips. Frost couldn't help but notice the defiance her manner implied, the courage, warranted or not.
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