Lady of Mercy

by Michelle Sagara

  He cursed the trembling of his hand as he reached for the scroll. Although the edges of the seal had cracked due to rough handling, the body of its round, flat face was intact; no other eyes would read the missive. He drew a breath, unaware that he held it, and broke the wax.

  Usually, in matters of the Church, Vellen chose to have acolytes take dictation and return a completed message for his signature and seal; not this time. The distinctive, bold strokes of Vellen’s hand made clear that the request contained therein was urgent. Marak read it carefully, thoroughly; his eyes glanced over the letters again and again, as if to try to absorb what lay beyond the words in the writer’s thoughts.

  At last he looked up; the Sword still knelt upon the carpet, much as the slave had done. It was almost as if he knew what the message he had carried contained.

  “Rise,” he said softly. He clapped his hands, and the slave that ran his household was there in an instant; she had to work to make her subservience more pronounced and obvious than the Sword’s. But she managed.

  “Your answer?” the Sword asked, making no move to comply with the Lord of the Lesser Cabal’s permission.

  “You shall carry it,” Marak said softly. “But it will take time. Rise.”

  This time, the Sword did as bid, planting his feet firmly. against the pile in order not to sway.

  “See to him,” Marak added, sparing a glance at the slave. “Make a guest room ready and have a meal prepared.” He smiled almost apologetically to his new guest. “I’m afraid that I won’t be able to join you; I have business to conduct in light of this message. If you would care to follow my slave, she will see to your needs.”

  The Sword nodded stimy—he was too exhausted for grace or show. Marak watched, with concealed amusement, as his slave, and Lord Vellen’s servant, exited the study together. When he was alone, he allowed all that he felt to brighten his face.

  Prince Renar of Marantine, the message had said, is even now returned to Illan. Stop him, and all who travel with him, and I will see that your service in the province comes to an end—and your service in the capital begins.

  If you do not fail me in this, I will cede to House Cossandara the trade routes that Wintare once commanded; the alliance between Damion and Cossandara will be sealed by your ascension to the ranks of the Karnari.

  You have only failed me once, old friend, and I did not mete out the punishment that that merited because of all that had passed between us. I have not forgotten.

  Send word with my rider; I will wait in Malakar for any news of your endeavor.

  The curtains had been drawn in disdain of the garish light of day; fires burned away the chill of the winter snows. The mahogany table in the great room of Lord Marak’s manse gleamed in well-oiled perfection and cast back a reflection of each of the thirteen members of the Lesser Cabal of Illan.

  High-backed wing chairs, with burgundy velvet cushions and armrests, had been neatly and evenly spaced along the perimeter of the oval table. All of the chairs were now occupied by the lords and ladies of the Church and the families that served as houses in the province. The two finest chairs, set apart at either end, were occupied by the two men who claimed to be the most influential in the province.

  Lord Marak looked calmly and directly across the table at the visage of Duke Jordan of Maran—governor of Illan and member of the Lesser Cabal. In any other province, the Lord of the Lesser Cabal ruled; not here—not yet. On both the left and right, the duke was flanked by two of his palace guards; they stood at perfect, even admirable, attention in dress armor and surcoats of gold-tinged blue. Jordan’s eyes, pale gray, narrowed.

  Lord Marak raised his hand for silence, but as usual it was the unsubtle clearing of Duke Jordan’s throat that caught and held the cabal’s attention. The simple circlet of worked gold that cut his forehead commanded obedience from the families.

  “Marak,” Jordan said, his voice low and even, “this is a hastily called meeting; I had to interrupt somewhat urgent business, and I have little time. Why did you call us here?”

  “My home,” Marak answered, in a slightly higher but no less even voice, “is more secure than the council chambers in the palace, Your Honor. And I have news that I wish to contain within the Lesser Cabal—it may affect us all.”

  Dallis of Handerness raised a pale brow and tilted his head in a manner just shy of insolence. “Indeed, Marak, we had assumed as much.” He cast a sideways glance at the duke, who caught it, frowned, and returned a slight, but perceptible, shake of the head. The two men were almost of an age. They were both nearing fifty, and in the prime of their power and the stations they had contrived to achieve. They were allies, and not uneasy in the alliance, as might have been the case had they been Veriloth-bred.

  “Dallis, ” another member said softly, “please allow the high priest to continue.”

  Had any other spoken, Marak would have counted these words in his favor. But the shock of her voice unnerved him. Verena of Cosgrove was the only priest-designate on the Lesser Cabal who happened to be a woman. In and of itself, it was not completely unusual; women sometimes served the ranks of the Lesser Cabal, although they did not ascend to the Greater.

  But Lady Verena, with her dark brown hair and her sharp, angular face, was not possessed of the character that Marak expected in a woman. She was as like to poison an enemy—a kill particularly used by the gentle sex—as to draw the dagger she wore openly at her thigh and cut through his chest. She practiced no veil of modest power, no subtle manipulation, unless particularly hard pressed—and even then, the menace in her carefree smile and her jaunty, friendly laugh was so strong it was tangible.

  Fennis of Handerness reached out and caught her hand. She tensed, and he released it immediately, but his annoyance was plain. His father, who carried the line, was not to be corrected by a Cosgrove who did not even hold the title.

  Were there not the subtle interplay of politics between those who had come from Malakar—Priests Jerred, Correlan, Altain, Corten, and Sental—and those who had always called this city home, the families would no doubt resort to a more open method of solving their conflicts. They did not.

  “Very well,” Marak said, nodding quietly. “I have just received word—from a source that I will not even question the veracity of—that Prince Renar of Marantine will soon return to Dagothrin.” His breath filled the silence as he paused to let the words sink in. “He will arrive in a matter of days. I believe we can apprehend him at the gates.”

  Whispers filled the room, some close enough to be heard by the priest, and some meant for the duke’s ear. Neither of the two men spoke next.

  “No,” Verena said softly, raising a hand and smiling with just one corner of her mouth.

  “Oh?” Fennis said, before anyone could stop him. “Do you still consider Prince Renar a Cosgrove?”

  His words fell like full challenge in the room; all eyes turned first to him, and then to Verena, to wait for her reply.

  “No, Fennis dear,” Verena replied. “He was never a Cosgrove; that was made clear by Lord Cosgrove when my aunt chose to join Maran.” Fennis opened his mouth to reply, and Verena raised a hand, almost snapping her fingers in the air. “But unlike yourself, Cosgroves are not famed for being ... premature.”

  “Fennis!” Dallis said sharply; his son subsided angrily, choking back a reply. “Lady Verena?”

  She nodded. “We could trap him at the gates—if he enters as you expect him to; I would not count on it. Or, we could prepare more carefully and more cunningly. There is still resistance to our rule in the city, even now. There is still the ragtag little underground that the fires didn’t claim.”

  “They’ve caused us no trouble for years.”

  “Talk to Shiarin’s merchant guard!” Verena snapped back. “Talk to ours!” But she subsided, as if the anger were an uneasily worn mask. “He’ll make contacts here; he has to. If we know he is coming, we’ll be able to see where he goes and who offers him aid. These people we can de
al with at our leisure, and without giving warning.”

  “I am not certain,” Marak said at last, “that this course of action is wise.”

  Lady Verena swiveled her head and stared down the point of her nose at the elder man. “Oh?” she asked, in a voice that was too soft. “But, Lord Marak, in your two attempts to take control of this situation, you have failed the Lesser Cabal twice.”

  Marak’s eyes suddenly silvered. Two of his compatriots drew sharp breath and involuntarily moved back from the table; their chairs scuffed along the carpet, teetering dangerously.

  If Verena tensed at all, it went unnoticed; she met the sudden pupilless sheen of his eyes as if they were just mirrors in which she could better study the hard lines of her reflection.

  “Lord Marak,” Duke Jordan said, interrupting yet another obvious power struggle. “Enough. What Cosgrove suggests makes eminent sense to me. The prince was always rather brash and arrogant—and if reports from the south are true, he remains so. Let him come, let him seek contacts and aid, and let our people be prepared to take action in one concerted movement.” Before Lord Marak had a chance to reply, the duke rose. “And now, I have business to attend to. On the morrow, we may formulate the exact methods by which we will counter Renar’s intrusion; for today, have the gates watched. That is all.”

  The family representatives rose as well, pushing their chairs back, and bowing at the duke’s passage. Verena smiled politely at Lord Marak’s obvious dislike and trailed her ruler’s exit.

  Marak hated the Lesser Cabal in Illan with a passion that bordered on youthful indulgence. Not a youth, he kept it firmly under control. He did not dare to openly defy the duke; not yet. It was clear that the families that held power gave more of their allegiance to the duke than to the Church—and those houses that had started relocation in the intemperate climes of the north had not yet gained a strong political foothold.

  But he prayed that he would not have to wait until they did.

  The wagon lurched to a stop at the gates embedded in the great walls that surrounded Dagothrin. Erin could see them long before she approached, but it was not their size that caught and held her attention. It was the gentle glow that had been the signature of all of the Lady of Elliath’s work. Gallin’s sword had been an artisan’s work—but it paled in comparison to this monument of stone, steel, and wood.

  Why did you choose to wall this city, Lady? Why this city and not our holdings?

  She did not ask. Instead she began to pay more attention to the guards that had ordered the wagons to a full stop and now made their way over to inspect them.

  “Pardon, ma’am,” one man said, and Erin realized he was speaking to her. “You’ll have to step down for a moment while we check the wagons.”

  She nodded meekly and followed his directions, doing her best to stay out of his way.

  “What’s that, then?”

  She stopped as a frown crossed his face, turning it ugly. She looked down, as he did, and flushed. “It’s a—a sword, sir.”

  “I can see that. Why are you carrying it?”

  She tensed, keeping her hand away from the hilt with an effort. To her relief, the man did not ask to see it. On the other hand, the Bordaril guards were also in force, and while they cooperated with the city guards, it was clearly not out of respect for anything but custom.

  “Come, come, Captain,” Hildy said, although the man was clearly not a captain. “You know the problems merchants have had with banditry these last few years; it’s not as if the Church—or the governor—has had much success in dealing with them, for all of their promises to us. We can’t possibly take too many precautions—and you’ve seen the girl yourself. Quite pretty.” Hildy flipped through a sheaf of papers that rustled and slid against the wool of heavy mittens. “Here. It’s all here. I’ve permission to arm my own guards. Bears the insignia of—”

  “I know, ma’am,” the guard replied, in a tight, curt voice. “I’ve seen them already.” He turned to stare at Erin again, weighing his choices, and then abruptly deciding. “Keep it bonded in the city, girl, and don’t go wandering away from your quarters carrying it. Weapons are strictly prohibited for civilians; if you’ve a need to go armed in the city, you’d best get another set of papers to carry with you.”

  Erin nodded, relaxing.

  In another half an hour, Hildy’s cargo had been cleared. The gates were opened, and the wagons, preceded by Hildy’s guards, entered the city. The guards had obviously been through this gate before, for they led the wagons into the heart of the city without asking for directions. Eventually they approached a series of large, tall buildings. From the sounds that permeated the thick canvas of the wagon, Erin could only assume that other merchants made winter treks to Dagothrin. Only when the wagons came to a halt again did Hildy speak.

  “You’ll know where I am, Erin. Remember me if you need help.”

  “You’ve helped us more than you—”

  Hildy raised a heavily covered hand. “Wait an hour here, and then you’d best be on your way.”

  “Thank you, Hildy.”

  The older woman caught Erin’s hand and gripped it tightly through her mittened fingers. She said nothing, but none of her meaning was lost through lack of words.

  “Right.” Renar paced in a tight circle. “Are we ready, then?”

  “Renar, you’ve asked this—”

  “Yes,” Erin said, picking up her pack for the tenth time, as she cut off Trethar’s growing annoyance.

  Renar nodded and peered out of the dirty window. He cursed and went back to his pacing. “Why are the guards out in such numbers?”

  It was a rhetorical question; Trethar had already tried answering it twice a mere half an hour before. Nor would Renar tell them where they were going; he thought it too much of a risk. He had already gone out once, on his own, and his return had been unexpected and hastily accomplished; he would not explain where he had gone, nor why he had entered from the back roof.

  To Erin, it was clear that he had managed to evade someone who had followed him; it was also clear that to gain the advantage of that, speed was of the essence. It did not seem as clear to Trethar, who had argued it for a full fifteen minutes before giving up in suspicion and disgust.

  Darin took the opportunity to peer, yet again, out of one grimy window.

  It doesn’t look much different.

  No, Initiate. Conquered cities change slowly if the battle to take them is finished quickly. But there are differences.

  He sighed, his fingers caressing the hardwood sill.

  “Right. Are you ready?”

  Pulled out of his reveries, Darin nodded. Erin picked up her pack again. There was more cursing.

  Renar pursued this ritual until the streets were at last clear of guards that Darin was almost certain were mythical. Then the prince stepped quickly out of the large building, gesturing for the others to follow. Darin went first, followed by Trethar. Erin hung slightly back, her hands fluttering above the one weapon she was certain of.

  The streets were empty. Renar navigated them with the ease of one who is in a familiar house. He walked in the tracks left by horses and wagons, skirting new snow; his companions took care to follow his lead. Twice, they were forced to backtrack while they listened to the ominous sound of clanking armor. But the guards never met them; as a guide, Renar ensured that. He did not speak at all, making his desire known with brief, curt gestures. Seeing him, Darin could almost believe that everything else he had ever shown them was an act: he was efficient, and the expression in his eyes was cold and dark.

  The streets began to get larger and cleaner; the buildings became more grand and obviously better kept up. Packed dirt and cobbled stone gave way to lawn, and lawn to sweeping grounds that lay under a blanket of white, behind iron gates. Renar stopped in front of one of these.

  “Here,” he said softly, his face turned to one side. It was the first word he had spoken since they’d left the merchant quarter. He walked quickly
up to the gates and inserted an arm between the bars. Erin thought it odd that such a manor would have no guards, but offered no comment. The gates creaked; Renar pushed them to one side and stepped forward, motioning the others to follow.

  “Welcome,” he whispered, “to House Brownbur.”

  “Brownbur?” Darin’s eyebrows rose.

  “No, he wasn’t born with the name. I believe that he was required to choose one to establish his house. He’s wily; he’s managed to survive the takeover almost intact. He holds more land than previously and has wider trade routes. Most of the southern-based merchants don’t choose to travel this far to the north; many won’t even come as far as Verdann.”

  “Isn’t a brownbur a weasel?”

  “Yes.” Renar smiled. “Yes. It’s the choice of the name that brings us here. He’s an old friend, and as I’ve said, wily. Anything that can be survived, he’ll survive. Much of what I know, I learned from him.”

  “He’d have to be intelligent to have survived the fall of the city.”

  “Or immoral.”

  “Trethar, please.”

  As they approached the front of the manor, the doors swung open. A balding head peered nervously out at the group. It nodded quickly, and Renar stepped into the house, followed by his companions.

  “Hello, Anders.”

  “And yourself, Your Grace.” The man gave a clumsy bow. “Not the best of circumstances to see you in.”

  “Nor, one hopes, the worst. Is he awake, pray tell?”

  “Aye,” a melodious, deep voice said. “Awake and waiting your pleasure.”

  Darin spun first and gave a nervous smile. Lord Brownbur did, in some ways, resemble the namesake he had chosen; his face was triangular and pointed, his front teeth protruded prominently in his small jaw, and his nose, straight and short, rounded out the picture.

  “These are the three I received word of, then?”

  Word? Darin thought, but asked nothing.