“And now you are King of Kiriath.” He paused, then added soberly, “Soon the great tales of the Games will be enacted for real, it seems.”
“But not with the ending envisioned by the Game Masters, I hope,” Abramm said, just as soberly.
And then, as quick as that, they grinned and embraced Dorsaddi style. Afterward, Katahn turned to accord Trap similar honors while Channon stood by, looking profoundly uneasy. The greetings concluded, Abramm instructed his captain to take the skiff over to the leader of the harbor defense line and tell them to stand down.
Channon left without protest, though it appeared to take all his strength of will to do so.
Abramm turned again to Katahn, relief and joy expressing themselves in exasperation: “Are you mad, sir? Coming in here bold as gulls when you must have known we’d see your ships as hostile?”
Katahn’s teeth flashed in his dark face. “A Gamer’s luck, Pretender.”
“A Gamer’s audacity, more like. Especially when you unfurled that banner!”
“It was my device before it was Regar’s. I have every right to sail under it.”
“Every right, perhaps, but it’s only by Eidon’s grace you weren’t all sunk.”
“On a day as still as this?” He glanced skyward as he gestured toward the sea. “We had the undeniable advantage. Though you surprised me with the shots from Graymeer’s. I hadn’t heard you’d gotten it operational yet.” Now he grinned. “In any case, I thought you might welcome the demonstration, just in case your people still aren’t convinced of the deadliness of our ‘primitive rowboats.”’
Abramm nodded. “And for that I thank you. It has been a most effective lesson.”
By now Channon had reached the lead vessel of the harbor defense line— a bulky fishing trawler with booms extending on both sides. Through Katahn’s spyglass, Abramm watched him argue with the trawler’s brawny, bearded captain, finally turning to gesture back at the lead galley where Abramm’s own banner had been unfurled beside Katahn’s red dragon.
Katahn, it turned out, had come up from Thilos along the coast, staying mostly in the mists to avoid just such a welcome as he’d received. They assumed at first his fleet had accounted for the recent sightings—until they compared locations and found that not all of them matched. On the other hand, he’d been well out from the shore and had seen no sign of any larger force, though he wouldn’t rule out its existence solely on the basis of that. And when Abramm related his reasons for fearing an attack might be launched on his wedding day and his suspicions about the Gull Islands, Katahn nodded in grim agreement.
“The winds have died almost completely across the gap from Qarkeshan,” he said. “And if the stories of a secret channel leading to the largest of the islands is true, you could have a big problem on your hands. Especially if they’ve got a corridor operating there.”
“This is not good news you bring me, old friend.”
Katahn grinned at him. “You are the White Pretender, sir. I’m sure you’ll figure a way. And fortunately, you are also a friend of the great Katahn ul Manus, who is a few weeks late for your coronation but brings you gifts that may aid you in your struggle.”
And so he did: four large chests of gold, a dozen fine Dorsaddi ponies, and six Esurhite galleys loaded with Andolen silk, Draesian wheat, wine, olive oil, citrus, and a variety of armaments. There was gunpowder, which he’d gotten at a fraction of the normal cost, shields, pikes, several cannon, and three large catapults. He’d also brought several ancient Terstan books “rescued” from the Andolen royal library before Belthre’gar burned it.
And, most important of all, he brought fresh news of the war, which was not going well for those in opposition to the Armies of the Black Moon. “Though the word of your victories over the Shadow and your ascension to the throne have spread far and wide.”
“To good or bad effect?”
“Belthre’gar is more determined than ever to see you destroyed. His Broho boast daily of what they mean to do to you when finally they face you. But the rank and file . . .” He grinned. “They are not so sure. . . .”
But Abramm found that to be little consolation after the demonstration Katahn had put on today. As much as they’d prepared, it seemed they were still sitting here with the front door wide open.
A crowd had gathered on the dock when they arrived, its numbers steadily increasing as they headed up to the palace. Katahn enjoyed himself immensely, looking around with bright interest. When he stepped through the double front doors, however, and found himself face-to-face with the entry banner bearing Abramm’s coat of arms, he stopped and pointed a finger at it. “I noticed this earlier . . . and wondered why in the world you would incorporate the mark of slavery that brands your arm into the device that symbolizes your kingship.”
Abramm shook his head. “This was created for me before I was born. The man who designed it is ten years dead, in fact. I never even met him.”
At that the old Gamer seemed startled, his eyes narrowing upon Abramm, an unreadable expression coming over his dark, hatchet-like face.
But before Abramm could ask what he was thinking, Simon Kalladorne burst through the front door behind them, just returned from Kildar, where he’d overseen the Kiriathans’ disastrous first engagement with Esurhite galleys. He did not look happy, and now, seeing Abramm standing there with Katahn and his subordinates, he stopped in a surprise of his own.
“Ah, Uncle,” Abramm said. “This is my former master, the infamous Katahn ul Manus. Recently departed from Andol by way of Thilos.”
Katahn sketched a sharp bow. “My lord duke,” he said in his flawless Kiriathan.
Simon stepped forward, glance flicking down to the shieldmark glittering in the deep V of the Esurhite’s unbuttoned tunic, then over to Abramm. “You welcome the man who enslaved you?”
“Gillard was the one who enslaved me. This man made me into the White Pretender.” He glanced at Katahn with a grin. “He also helped me slay the great Beltha’adi.”
“No, Pretender,” Katahn demurred, “it was Eidon’s hand in both cases.”
“Well, Eidon’s hand used yours.” He turned again to Simon. “And he brings us news from the front. As well as six fine galleys.”
“Well, after that little demonstration today,” Simon said sourly, “I’ll admit we could surely use them. Though how we would train our men to handle them in time, I do not know.”
“I give you the crews, as well, Simon Kalladorne,” Katahn said.
“All slaves?”
The Gamer gave a single dignified nod.
Simon’s scowl deepened. “We don’t hold with slavery here.”
“True, but they don’t have to know that.” The dark eyes glittered with amusement. “At least . . . not right away.”
Simon flashed a look at Abramm, who shrugged. “Not much difference between slaves and conscripts that I can see. And at the moment we need them. At least until we can train our own men.” He turned again to Katahn, gesturing toward Haldon, who had been standing there awaiting his cue since they’d entered. “Take a couple of hours to get yourself settled here, look around, eat . . . relax a bit. We’ll talk more tonight.”
Movement at the corner of his eye drew his attention then to a tawnyhaired woman in a modest gown of dark blue emerging from the small group of courtiers and servants gathered at the west end of the Hall of Mirrors. Immediate recognition triggered both pleasure and a current of mild alarm. He’d thought she’d left with Briellen and some of the other courtiers last night. Having worked themselves into a panic over the recent galley sightings, they’d decided to evacuate north. Given the possibility the Esurhites would try to snatch Briellen, he’d approved it and had assumed Maddie would go with her.
Now, in the wake of their encounter in his study yesterday, he wasn’t eager to find himself back in her presence so soon, seeing as he’d not yet figured out how to diffuse his growing feelings for her.
Fortunately for him, her attention was
fixed entirely upon Katahn. Belatedly glancing at Abramm, she dropped him a hasty curtsey, then said, “Is this really him?”
And in spite of his discomfiture, Abramm grinned. Pure Maddie, of course. What else could he have expected? “Katahn ul Manus, in the flesh, my lady,” he said with a short bow and a lifting of his hand. He turned to Katahn and introduced him to the Second Daughter of Chesedh, bracing himself for the inevitable onslaught of questions and surprised when she only stared at the Esurhite as if she had no idea what to say.
Katahn greeted her with a courtly nod and his excellent Kiriathan, and that jolted her from her spell. Her face went pink as she begged his forgiveness for her stare. “It’s just an amazing thing to meet a legend,” she said.
Katahn snorted. “My lady, you have already met the true legend among us. And, if I am any judge, are on familiar terms with him, as well.”
Abramm flinched, while Maddie’s blush turned bright red. He saw the Gamer’s brows lift, saw the dark eyes dart questioningly to Trap. Desperate to squelch this flurry of unspoken communication, Abramm asked her why she was not with Leyton and Briellen. Only Briellen had gone north, Maddie told him, her voice steady, even if she wouldn’t look at him. Leyton had elected to stay behind and help with the defenses, she added, though she had no idea where he was at the moment.
I should send someone to check the Jewel House to make sure the regalia are still there, Abramm thought dryly. At least I know where the crown is.
Maddie’s attention reverted to Katahn. “I understand your galleys had quite a run this morning, evading our Chesedhan vessels with ease.”
Katahn grinned at her. “It was a windless morning, my lady. We had the advantage.”
“Plus, you must have known the reach of the fortress cannon. What is the average speed of your vessels?”
Abramm cleared his throat and, drawing her attention back to himself, glanced significantly at Haldon and the waiting servants.
She colored again. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said to Katahn. “There is much I’d like to ask you.” And then to Abramm: “I assume you’ll be holding a reception for him tonight?”
A reception? Tonight? He hadn’t thought of that, more interested in the galleys and in prying out of his old friend whatever information he had that could help them in the coming conflict.
“Everyone will want to meet him, after all,” Maddie went on. “And it will help distract folks from the scare and inconvenience they’ve had to deal with today. Though, granted, it won’t give them much time to get all their feathers back in order.”
“Their feathers?” Katahn echoed.
“Peacocks spend much time preening, you know,” Maddie said. “So that all their adornment is in proper array when it’s time to be displayed.”
Trap was scowling, but Simon had to look away, trying to suppress a smile. Katahn just looked puzzled. Abramm steered him around toward the servants.
“I’m afraid that in some respects your Games were a little more accurate than I wanted to admit,” he said in the Tahg. “Which you will see for yourself presently. For now, please, take your ease. We’ll talk when we’ve all been refreshed.”
With a nod, Katahn allowed himself to be escorted away, but not before he’d taken one more reflective look at Abramm’s coat of arms.
As soon as he’d departed, Simon and Trap closed around Abramm in a maneuver that appeared almost coordinated to cut him off from Lady Madeleine. If it was, he didn’t protest, allowing them to walk him along the nearly empty Hall of Mirrors, as Simon conceded Abramm’s assessment of the dangers posed by Esurhite vessels was far more correct than even he could have guessed. “What do you suppose their average speed is?”
“For short distances?” Abramm asked. “Faster than a horse can gallop, I’d say.”
Simon shook his head. “We’re all going to have to reevaluate our defense plans—both harbor and on land. . . . At least we’ve got a little breathing room.”
How much remained to be seen. And he was already dreading the complaining that would fill these halls once the courtiers had returned from a flight they hadn’t needed to take.
He thought perhaps Maddie was right—that an informal reception would be just the thing. With the infamous Esurhite Gamer on display, they would at least have something else to talk about.
CHAPTER
21
As one of the highest-ranking nobles in the land and Katahn’s friend—as well as being one of the few who spoke the Tahg—Duke Eltrap was assigned to escort him to the informal reception held for him that evening in the Crimson Reception Hall. They met at the Esurhite’s palace rooms and walked down together.
Katahn was suitably appreciative, remarking at various architectural details and saying over and over how glad he was to get off that galley. “I thought we would row around in the fog forever,” he exclaimed.
And when they reached the reception hall, he stopped and looked around in astonishment, then turned to Trap and said in the Tahg, “Now, this is especially nice.”
Trap grinned at him. “I thought it would appeal to your southlander tastes.”
The Crimson Reception Hall was one of Abramm’s mother’s redecorating projects, taken up shortly after Trap had come into Raynen’s service. Her choice of vivid scarlet wallpaper had initially shocked the court. “Eyesearing!” one elderly countess had branded it—behind the queen’s back, of course. Other descriptors included garish, hideous, and nauseating. Time and familiarity had made it more appealing, especially at the end of Kiriath’s long dreary winters. White-lacquered wainscoting, marble fireplaces, and tall windows curtained in gold modulated the red walls, as did the expanse of ivory carpeting with its delicate tendrils of gold and green. Three huge chandeliers set with hundreds of kelistars illumined the room, where already quite a few courtiers and uniformed officers stood in knots of conversation. As a string quartet played in the next room, servants circulated freely among the guests with trays of food and drink.
“This is quite a crowd,” Katahn said beside him. “I thought you Kiriathans were at war.”
“Preparing for war. Though to most of these people that means packing their things and fleeing upriver. But you’re right, this is quite a crowd. I’d guess many of them didn’t finish packing before they learned no attack was coming, after all.”
And even then they were disgruntled at the inconvenience. Those who had managed to get out of Springerlan quickly were even more upset. They had begun to trickle in this afternoon—fatigued, frazzled, and furious. “All that trouble and it’s a false alarm?” he’d heard one woman say. “How could he have done this to us so close to the wedding!”
As if it were just some heedless bungle the king had made as he went about his day. As if the need for someone’s gown to fit properly could in any way be called a problem when compared with the possibility of being invaded. The worst of it was, Abramm had not even told anyone to leave. If they’d panicked and rushed off before they even knew for sure there was a hostile fleet out there, was that not their own doing?
Fortunately, as Maddie had suggested, Katahn’s presence had taken the edge off their displeasure. What a novelty to have real Esurhite galleys moored in the harbor! And an honest-to-goodness Esurhite Gamer visiting the palace! Moments after he and Trap had entered the room, they were crowding around him, fascinated by his person, intrigued by his violent past, astonished by how well he spoke Kiriathan.
Trap dreaded the moment Briellen returned, however, for she was not likely to be so impressed, and Abramm had personally approved her plan to leave. She was sure to be furious beyond anything she’d yet displayed, and her temper had already become well-known among Whitehill’s denizens. Indeed, he half hoped she wouldn’t make it tonight, just so the rest of them could enjoy this evening—even if missing it would increase her ire tenfold.
They’d just visited one of the side tables for a bite of meat pasty when the music changed, conversation broke off, and everyone turned toward th
e doorway as the Crown Princess of Kiriath arrived, Lady Madeleine a forest-green shadow in her wake. He noticed Madeleine almost as an afterthought, and part of his brain made the dry observation that, while neither of those ladies had fled the city with the other courtiers, Prince Leyton, who had claimed all on his own that he would stay, apparently had, for he was still nowhere to be seen.
But those were minor thoughts, swiftly swallowed up by his overwhelming awareness of the crown princess as she glided across the carpet toward them. She wore a gown of deep plum, its tight, deeply scooped bodice trimmed with silver against a billowing skirt paneled with silver trelliswork. Her golden hair was piled in curls and narrow braids upon her head, a single long curl set loose to lay provocatively across the pale skin of not-quite-bared shoulders. Tonight her delicately hawkish features were coldly beautiful, even intimidating, particularly as those sharp blue eyes fixed upon the Esurhite at Trap’s side, then flicked down to the shield glinting between the open edges of his tunic. Her gaze came back up to his with a slight frown. Whereupon he bowed and said, “Your Highness.”
She nodded to him, then turned deliberately to Trap and said warmly, “My lord duke. It is good to see you whole and well.”
He cocked a brow at her. “You had reason to think I would not be?”
She shrugged. “This morning was a time of great uncertainty.” A smile touched her lips. “I have learned again the wisdom of Eidon’s Words when they command us to put away vain imaginings. . . . All the fear I caused myself turns out to have been for nothing. Again.”
She feared for me? “Well, all is secure for the moment,” he said.
“Aye,” agreed a dry, irritating voice from just behind his right shoulder. “But now when we really do have to run, how many of us actually will?” It was Oswain Nott. What a surprise. “And of those who do, how many will do it with alacrity?” The man stepped abreast of Trap and bowed to the princess. “My lady, your loveliness exceeds itself each time I see you.”
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