by Joseph Malik
That global approach, he was sure, was the thing that Ulo brought to the table in Gavria, and it was why Gavria was now so far ahead of Gateskeep, at least as far as this war that was unfolding.
Talking to local people, even people like Saril who were quite bright by Falconsrealm standards, frustrated Jarrod because he saw the world in relationships that were far too large for them to comprehend.
“Saril, I need you to understand this. There are no coincidences. All the things you see, all the things you know and will ever learn, are only glimpsed fragments of relationships far larger. Once you learn to regard them as fragments—”
And then he had it. All of it.
“Holy shit,” he said quietly.
“What?” asked Saril.
“He’s already a king,” said Jarrod. “Or, at least, he was.”
“Yes,” said Saril. “And?”
“Why give up a kingdom?” asked Jarrod. “What does he get out of the deal?”
Saril blinked. “Well, he became Lord High Sorcerer.”
“Yes, but what does he get?”
Saril shook his head and shrugged. “Sorcerer . . . stuff?”
Jarrod stabbed at the bar top with his finger in cadence, “Nothing. Not a damned thing.
“In fact,” said Jarrod carefully, as if checking his work while he spoke, “as Lord High Sorcerer, he loses money.”
“Then why would he do it?” asked Saril.
“Because he knew Gavria would kick his ass if he didn’t. They just rolled his country up, didn’t they? I mean, Ulorak wasn’t part of Gavria; that’s recent, right?”
“Very.”
“He has to pay taxes now. He can’t be happy about that. But if the Gavrians are fighting both the gbatu and us, they won’t have the manpower to fight him if he secedes. Oh, goddammit. Oh, fuck me. We need to get back to the castle. We need to get back there right now.”
The door to the tavern blasted open. A knight shouted for Sir Jarrod the Merciful.
The music stopped.
“Do you never rest?” asked Saril.
“Here,” Jarrod announced, adding, “More or less. I’m pretty drunk.”
“Outside!” the knight shouted.
“That’s gonna take some work,” Jarrod admitted.
Saril set his beer down, “I’ll check it out.” Jarrod, slower even with Crius’s recent help, hobbled to his feet and grabbed his cane.
He took his beer with him. He figured he’d need it.
A huge posse had gathered, over a dozen knights and soldiers from the castle.
Jarrod opened his cape to show his fourragere. “Lieutenant Sir Jarrod of Knightsbridge.”
“There’s been an incident,” said one of the knights. “Captain Javal is dead. You need to return immediately.”
Jarrod put a hand on Saril’s shoulder. “Come on,” was all he said. “We have work to do.”
Jarrod and Saril pushed their way through the masses.
Carter was still in his armor, at the bottom of the tower, kneeling over Daorah as Durvin worked on her. A few knights and lords milled close, muttering in low tones.
“I’m here,” said Jarrod. “Hey, buddy.”
Daorah was conscious, and smiling. “Lieutenant,” she said. “I bet you didn’t know I could fly without my mount.”
“Don’t speak,” said Durvin, as several men rolled her onto a litter.
It is one thing to speak of a man having murder in his eyes, but Jarrod had never seen anything as black and deadly as what flared behind Carter’s jaw as they carried her away.
“He has the princess,” said Carter. “I’m taking an army down there to get her. You coming?”
Jarrod unlocked the door to his chambers and took a candle from the wall outside.
Saril followed him in. “A war? With whom? Ulorak? We can’t fight a war against Ulorak. What about Gavria? We need to fight Gavria.”
Jarrod lit candles throughout the apartment. “I don’t know who the hell we need to fight,” he said. “Fuck, it’s cold in here. What happened to summer?”
“It's gone,” said Saril. “This is autumn. Besides, you haven't seen cold until you've seen winter.”
“Oh, I can't wait,” grumbled Jarrod.
Someone had set a folded note with a broken wax seal under the cup gifted from Daelle. Jarrod picked it up, lining up the edges of the seal, and held it under a candle.
Saril looked over his shoulder. “That’s the seal of the Chancellor of Ulorak,” he said. “What are you doing with that?”
Jarrod handed it to Saril. “Read it.”
Saril unfolded it, his eyes flashing across the script.
“It’s from the Lord High Chancellor of Ulorak to Duke Edwin Hillwhite. It’s a promissory note,” he said after a moment.
“A promise of what?” asked Jarrod.
“My Uloraki is weak,” said Saril. “But I believe this says that Ulorak promises him an additional hundred suits of sheth armor.”
IX
ETUDE
“It is a great ability to be able to conceal one’s ability.”
— Francois de La Rochefoucauld
Edwin’s an ore baron,” said Carter, lining up his beer stein exactly with a crack in the table. He and Jarrod talked in Carter’s guest chamber. “He sells iron. He doesn’t buy armor. Why is he buying Uloraki armor?”
Jarrod swore and softly pounded his hand against the windowsill. “And only a hundred suits. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“You know for a fact that this is the gbatu armor,” said Carter.
“Why else would he be buying it?”
“Why wouldn’t he just make it himself?”
“Because people would talk,” said Jarrod. “Some smith, someplace, would say something about making suits of giant-sized armor. He needs to be insulated from this.”
“It’s a loss leader,” Carter said, half a beer later. “Check it out. When I opened my gym, I needed customers, right? I gave out half-price memberships for the first month. I lost my ass at first, but made it up in the long run.”
“Okay.”
“Edwin fronts the money, the gbatu get this armor. Ed knows that we’ll beef up our forces to counter the new threat. We quadruple our iron requisitions; he makes a mint. And if—if—Gavria marches on us, he can fund both sides. Hell, he’s a war profiteer.”
“Who isn’t?” asked Jarrod. “Javal knew this was coming. He left this for me. We boosted this letter and several others from Edwin’s Keep four days ago. Goddammit. This is what Gar was trying to kill me over.”
“This is what everybody is trying to kill you over,” said Carter. “We’re talking fortunes, here. This is immense.”
Jarrod let out a long breath. “I need to think,” he said. “We are about to enter a point in this war—and this is now a war, make no mistake—where we can actually make a difference. You and me. If we do this right.”
Carter blinked. “What do you need from me?”
“Javal’s funeral is tomorrow. And Albar’s, the day after that. I need you to render my apologies to the royal family,” said Jarrod. “But I have other business, for the order.”
“You’re not going?”
“Hell, no. I’m not going to show up anyplace I’m expected for quite some time. I was supposed to be in that room, you know.”
“I was in that room, you know.”
They stared at each other.
“Is she going to be okay?” Jarrod asked.
“She’s fine,” Carter said. “It looked like she broke her collarbone. Maybe her shoulder. She’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” said Jarrod.
“So you go do a thing. Then what?” asked Carter. “There’s more. I know you. What else?”
“I need you to go to the king and ask permission to attack Ulorak,” said Jarrod. “With everything you’ve got. Not Gavria; Ulorak. And you take every motherfucker who can carry
a sharp stick.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“I need a week to heal up,” said Jarrod. “And when I do, I’m going to take care of Edwin. But I need to disappear for a while, so if anybody asks, you haven’t seen me.”
The royal stables were quiet in the evening.
Jarrod made his way to the back, finding Perseus calm and patient in his huge stall.
“You can’t be here,” said a voice. A young voice. Jarrod knew the guy; he was one of Perseus’s handlers, a kid named Iaxol, whom Jarrod called Jack. “That horse belongs to Lieutenant Jarrod.” Jack loved Jarrod, and was always trying to help him with the finer points of horsemanship.
Jarrod turned on him. “Hey, Jack.”
“Sir!” Jack saluted, beaming. “They said you were dead, sir!”
“I need you to shut up, right now,” said Jarrod.
“Yes, sir.”
“I need all the tack, riding gear, barding, and saddlery for Perseus. Immediately. And extra blankets. Ready my pack horses and put Perseus’s gear on the cart, along with as much food as they can pull. Brush down Lilith and get her ready to travel. You do this and you, alone. Don’t tell anyone what you’re doing.”
“You’re taking them out, sir? Right now?”
Jarrod looked left, and then right. “No,” he said. “You are.”
Jack was tying Lilith off to the back of the loaded cart when Saril showed up with Bevio and Rider Peric. All three were in shirts of mail, all three had brought riding horses. Saril’s mount led a small, sturdy pack horse with bivouac gear on one side and a whole shitload of shields and weapons on the other. Peric had a warhorse on a tether, a big, powerful black mare that rippled with muscle. Not as big as Perseus, but big.
One of the massive square-headed dogs from the castle, brindle with a black face, trotted beside Peric’s riding horse, his tongue lolling in joy. “Yeah, why not,” Jarrod grumbled. He was not a dog person.
“Figured we might need security, sire,” said Peric, swinging down. “He’s a good dog.” He clapped Jarrod’s hand in both his. “Good to see you, sir. We feared the worst.”
“It is the worst,” said Jarrod. “I’m glad you two are coming,” he said as Bevio joined them.
“What about Javal’s funeral?” asked Bevio. “And Albar’s?”
“We’re going to skip that,” said Jarrod. “The people who killed them are looking for me. They figure I’ll be there. I’ve come too far to go walking into swords on purpose at this point.”
“Okay,” said Bevio.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said to Bevio and Peric, “the three of you are temporarily detached from your orders and attached to the Order of the Stallion, under me, as my sergeants. My loyalty is to the King of Gateskeep and the Princess Adielle. Your loyalty is to me. Are there any questions on that matter?”
“Are we going to get the princess, sir?” asked Peric.
Jarrod was quiet for a moment. “No.”
“What’s the mission, sir?” asked Bevio.
“He didn’t tell you?” said Jarrod, looking to Saril.
“He said to follow him, and whatever you asked us to do, to say, ‘yes.’”
“That makes it easy,” said Jarrod. “We need to do some dirty work. There’s a war brewing, and we need to stop it. There are actually two wars about to happen, and possibly three. We need to stop at least one of them. Ideally, all of them.”
“And how do we do that?” asked Peric. “Respectfully, sir.”
“It’s complicated,” Jarrod said. “And we can’t do it from here.”
Jack was standing next to them. “Jack, how old are you?” Jarrod asked.
“I don’t know, sire.”
It didn’t surprise Jarrod; a lot of Falconsrealmers didn’t keep track of their age. Jarrod guessed him to be fourteen or fifteen.
“Here’s the deal,” he told Jack. “The four of us need to disappear. There are traitors who will hunt us down if they learn where we’ve gone. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sire.”
“The problem, Jack, is that you just helped us out. And if, in the morning, our horses are missing and you’re still here, you’re going to hang for thieving, or at least get fired and probably horsewhipped, if I know your boss.”
“I can take a whipping, sir.”
“I’m sure you can,” said Jarrod. “But if you tell anyone you helped us, we all die. But first, someone is going to cut pieces off of you until they’re convinced you’ve told them everything. These are evil men.”
“Yes, sire. What should I do?”
Jarrod looked to the others. “I need a valet, and we could use a horse master,” he told Jack. “So you have a choice. You can go back in there and get your tools and drive the cart for us, or you can stay here and take your lumps.”
“I’ll do it,” blurted Jack. “I’ll go with you, sir.”
“You’ll have, what, nine horses to take care of—expensive horses—plus that damned dog, plus whatever else we need done around camp. Scullery, firewood, security, whatever. It’s shit work and all I can pay you right now is adventure and glory and stories to tell, but I’ll make sure you don’t freeze and you don’t starve. And if you do well, and if you and I survive this, you can run my stables and breed my horses when I get my own castle. You’ll be rich. And you’ll have some fun along the way. How does that sound?”
“I’ll be right back.”
Jack disappeared. Jarrod turned to the others. “There’s going to be a lot of riding, a lot of hiding, and a lot of people are going to die and we may, too, before this is all over. But so help me, we’re going to break the hearts of some very bad people. We’re going stop this war before we need to win it. Are you with me?”
Saril said, “You couldn’t stop me.”
While Jack was gone, Jarrod dug through the duffle bag and came up with a dagger, a multitool in a leather holster, a black cashmere sweater, a woolen watchcap, a thick fur cape, wool mittens, and a spare swordbelt.
Jack showed up about then, lugging a huge wooden toolbox that Bevio took from him and set on the cart with one hand. Bevio, though round-faced and soft-looking, was immensely strong.
Jack was beaming as he buckled on the dagger and multitool. He looked dangerous and wily once he’d donned the watchcap and cape. Bevio and Peric climbed into their saddles and Jack climbed into the cart.
Jarrod took Lilith’s reins from the cart, saying, “The kid belongs to me, guys. Don’t give him any shit.” He grabbed the saddle and mounted with a backflip. The dog wuffed distrustfully at him.
“And to think,” said Peric, “I saw you nearly dead yesterday.”
“A lot of people did,” Jarrod growled. “Let’s go ruin some expectations.”
He snapped the reins and settled back in the saddle as the procession, at this point pretty much a circus, muscled up and moved out. The cart horses strained, the leather harness creaked, and then the wheels broke free from the mud and with a lurch they were rolling.
Loth looked across the table at Kaslix, Lord High Chancellor of Gavria. He folded his hands on the table and shrugged. “He said he was going to High River. He and Mukul, to negotiate for Gar.”
It was morning. Coffee steamed from ceramic mugs, and a serving girl set a plate of sausages blistered with fat in front of Loth. She left in a whiff of perfume and a flash of jewels.
Without his signature dark robe and hood, Kaslix was bald, deeply tanned, whip-thin, and nearly a hundred years old though he looked half that. Rumors abounded that he was part Faerie, that he was part demon, that he was both, that he had made a pact with dark forces.
Word had already reached Kaslix, through a telepath at High River on Gavrian retainer, of the night’s affairs.
“You believe they never arrived?”
“I find it convenient,” said Loth, “that the moment that the most powerful sorcerer in the world has his every enemy in one
room, he kills them all and disappears.”
“Maybe the gods finally smote the bastard,” said Kaslix.
“I would bet my life that he and Mukul are in Ulorak right now, toasting their victory,” said Loth.
“Good,” said Kaslix. “Because I’m asking you to do exactly that.”
“Toast their victory?” Loth’s tone was puzzled.
“Bet your life.”
“What do you need from me?” Loth asked.
“Sabbaghian’s head,” hissed Kaslix. “I need you to find him. And if he’s alive, I need you to plan a war.”
Jarrod shook four ibuprofen capsules out of the bottle and washed them back with a swig of bourbon.
This was going to be unpleasant.
They were taking a midday break. The horses drank from a shallow spot in the river just off the road as Jack checked them over, brushed them down, and tightened and adjusted various things. Perseus had his feed bag on. It was another Falconsrealm day, gray and cool and spitting rain off and on. They had all shucked their armor.
Jarrod sat on the cart. Crius’s magic had done the opposite of Durvin’s; Jarrod was healing up but he was sore as hell. Oh, God, it hurt.
He applied a coat of neatsfoot oil to his leather motorcycle jacket. His fingers hurt, his face hurt, his neck hurt, his ass hurt.
The rain started again as Bevio brought him a pile of berries. The dog, named Dog, rolled in the wet grass and flopped his jowls around in rapture.
The break in the mountains loomed to the east.
“Due east from here,” said Peric. “Wide, flat, a river to water the horses, plenty of grass. Best of all, nothing there but subsistence farmers. No mines, no trade, no villages. No one goes through there. It’s called the Dragon’s Trail.”
“Are there dragons there?” asked Jack.
“Maybe,” said Peric. “If they’re anywhere, they’d be there. I do know it leads to the Silver Gate and the Faerie Stronghold if you follow it long enough. Not that anyone ever does. That whole road? Nobody on it. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be exactly nowhere.”