Briar King

by Keyes, Greg

  He managed to roll over, with the dirk held up.

  The greffyn was there, looking down at him with saucer-size eyes.

  Aspar’s other hand strayed to his belt, and found his ax.

  The greffyn came a step closer and lowered its head. It sniffed at him. It clacked its jaws, then came even closer and sniffed again.

  “Just a little closer,” Aspar said, gripping his ax. “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

  But it sniffed once more, and then drew back.

  Aspar didn’t know what that meant, but he took the opportunity to regain his feet. He turned and continued on, staggering often, but the greffyn didn’t follow.

  Its gaze did, however, the sweet, hot sickness that he had known three times already. It wasn’t as bad, this time. Maybe the medicine Mother Gastya had done to cure him back in Rewn Aluth was still working. Maybe that was why the greffyn hadn’t wanted to touch him.

  Whatever the case, two arrow wounds and the greffyn’s deadly gaze proved finally too much. He fell into the tall grass and slept, and dreamt foul Black Marys.

  He awoke smeared with his own vomit. His wounds were no longer bleeding, but they were throbbing and red, and felt hellishly hot.

  He got up anyway, thinking of Winna in Fend’s hands. He started a small fire and plucked out the remaining arrow, then seared out the wounds with a glowing coal. He pressed the paste Mother Gastya had given him into the cauterized holes and bound them with scraps of his shirt.

  The night came and went before he could manage to stagger more than a few yards at a time, but the sun seemed to bring him new strength, and he grimly rose to search for Fend, and his men, and Winna. Most of all, Winna.

  He found only their trail, leading back into the briar tree forest.

  Implacably, wishing his head would clear, wishing the pain would ease off instead of getting worse with each step, he set off after them.

  “I will kill you, Fend,” he murmured. “By Grim, I will. I will.”

  He repeated it until it made no sense, until long after he was capable of rational thought.

  But even then, he didn’t stop moving. Only death could stop him.

  PART III

  THE RECONDITE STIRS

  THE YEAR 2,223 OF EVERON

  THE MONTH OF PONTHMEN

  When wakes the recondite world, the sword shall appear as a feather, the wolf as a mouse, the legion as a carnival. I shall laugh from my grave, and it shall sound as a lute.

  —FROM THE CONFESSION OF THE SHINECRAFTER EMME VICCARS, AT THE PRONOUNCEMENT OF HER SENTENCE OF EXECUTION

  CHAPTER ONE

  IN THE WARHEARTH

  WILLIAM POURED ANOTHER GOBLET of his favorite Virgenyan wine and paced across the red marble floor of Warhearth Hall. He took a healthy swallow of the amethyst-colored vintage, then set the goblet down on the broad black table in the center of the room.

  The paintings were looking at him again. Rebelliously, he returned their scrutiny.

  They were everywhere; whole floor-to-ceiling panels of the wall were bracketed in gilded oak-leaf molding and painted in dense and murky colors, as if rendered with mud and soot and blood. In a sense they were, for each was a depiction of some part of the long history of his family’s wars.

  “Would you rather look at those old pictures or me?” Alis Berrye inquired sulkily. She was draped upon an armchair, bodice unlaced so as to reveal her firm, rose-tipped breasts. She rolled off her stockings and threw one bare leg over the arm of the chair. It was a pretty leg, slender, white as milk. Her chestnut hair was mildly tousled, sapphire eyes languid, despite her vexed tone. She was nearly as full of wine as he, and totally unlike the paintings in character.

  Well, not entirely true. She wasn’t murky, but she was a bit dense.

  “I am sorry, my dear,” William murmured. “The mood is no longer on me.”

  “I can put it on you, my lord, I assure you.”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “I’m certain you could. But I do not wish it.”

  “Do you tire of me, Your Majesty?” Alis asked, unable to hide a bit of panic in her voice.

  He regarded her for a moment, taking the question seriously. She was an exuberant, enthusiastic lover, if one without the skills of an older woman. Her political designs were charmingly transparent and naïve. She got drunk well, and when her guard was down she was unselfconsciously sweet, and her mind went down tracks strange to his, which he enjoyed on the pillows.

  She was a welcome change from Gramme, whose mind had turned almost obsessively to her bastards these last few years. They were provided for, of course, and he liked them, especially little Mery, but Gramme wanted them to have the Dare name and said so far too often. Alis was less ambitious, and perhaps didn’t even have the intelligence for such ambition.

  That was fine. Two intelligent women in his life were more than enough.

  “No, not at all,” he told her. “You are a delight to me.”

  “Then shall we to bed? It’s something past midnight. I can soothe you to sleep, if you don’t desire loving.”

  “You go to bed, lady,” he said gently. “I shall join you presently.”

  “In your chambers, Majesty?”

  William turned an irritated frown on her. “You know better than that. That is my marriage bed, and I share it only with my wife. Do not presume, Alis, merely because she is away.”

  Her face fell as she realized her mistake. “I’m sorry, Sire. You’ll come to my chambers, then?”

  “I said I would.”

  She swayed to her feet and picked up the stockings, then came over, stood on tiptoe, and gave him a little kiss on the lips. Then she smiled, almost furtively, and cut her eyes down, and for a moment he felt himself stir, but he was too drunk and too sad, and he knew it.

  “Good night, Sire,” she murmured.

  “Good night, Alis.”

  He didn’t watch her go, examining instead the largest painting in the room. It depicted Genya Dare, burning like a saint, leading a great army. Before her towered the vague but threatening shadow of the Skasloi fortress that had once stood on the very spot where Eslen castle now stood. Against that dark red citadel, giant formless shapes of black were barely discernible.

  “What shall I do?” he murmured. “What is right?” He took his gaze round the other paintings—the battle of Minster-on-Sea, with its rolling thunderheads, the fight at the Ford of Woorm, the siege of Carwen. In each, a Dare stood at the head of an army, resolute and steadfast.

  A hundred years ago, these same walls had depicted scenes of Reiksbaurg victory. They had been stripped and painted over.

  It could happen again.

  He shivered at the thought, and wondered if it wasn’t time to go see him. The thing in the dungeon, the thing his father had shown him, so long ago. He found that thought nearly as troubling as a Reiksbaurg victory, however, and dismissed it.

  Instead, William moved back to the table and unscrolled a map, weighting its corners with brass counters made to resemble ram-headed vipers, coiled to strike.

  “Still up? Still brooding?” a faintly mocking voice asked.

  “Robert?” William swung around, nearly lost his balance, and cursed.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I can hardly drink at all, these days. It takes no more than a bottle to give me clumsy legs. Where the saints have you been this past nineday?”

  Robert smiled thinly. “Saltmark, actually.”

  “What? Without my leave? For what?”

  “It were better not to have your leave for this,” Robert said darkly. “It was more of my—I think you would say inappropriate—dealings.” He put on a grim smile. “You did make me your prime minister, remember?”

  “Had this to do with Lesbeth?”

  Robert fingered his mustache. “In part.”

  William paused for courage before he asked the next question. “Is she murdered?”

  “No. She is alive. I was even allowed to see her.”r />
  William took a deep draught of the wine. “Thank Saint Anne,” he muttered. “What sort of ransom do they want?”

  “May I have some wine?” Robert asked mildly.

  “Help yourself.”

  Robert glanced at the carafe on the table and made a disgusted noise. “Do you have anything else? Something from a little farther south? I don’t see how you stomach that sour stuff.”

  William waved at the cabinet. “There is a freshly decanted bottle of that red from Tero Gallé you’re so fond of.”

  “Vin Crové?”

  “That’s the one.”

  He watched impatiently as Robert produced and poured some of the sanguine liquid and tasted it.

  “Ah! That’s better. At least your vintners have good taste.”

  “How you can be so calm, when our sister has been kidnapped?”

  “Don’t ever doubt my concern for Lesbeth,” Robert said sharply.

  “I’m sorry—I was wrong to remark so. But please, give me the news.”

  “As I said, she is well, and I was allowed to see her. She sends her love.”

  “From where? Where is she?”

  “She is a captive of the duke of Austrobaurg.”

  “How? In the name of the saints, how? She was last seen on her horse, riding east from the Sleeve. How did they abduct her from this island?”

  “That, Austrobaurg would not tell me.”

  “Her fiancé from Safnia arrived, you know. A day ago. He is beside himself.”

  “Indeed?” Robert’s eyes gleamed strangely.

  “Well, come. What does the duke want?”

  “What do you suppose? He wants a ransom.”

  “What ransom is that?”

  “He wants a ransom of ships. Twenty, to be precise.”

  “Twenty sailing ships? We cannot spare them, not if we go to war with Saltmark. Or Hansa, saints-me-to-bed.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t want twenty of our ships. He wants twenty Sorrovian ships. Sunken. To the bottom of the sea.”

  “What?” William thundered. He hurled the goblet against the wall and watched it shatter into a thousand purple-drenched shards. “He dares? By Saint Rooster’s balls, he dares?”

  “He is an ambitious man, Sire. Twenty ships to his credit will take him far with the court at Hansa.”

  “To his credit? My ships must appear to be from Saltmark? You mean he expects my ships, my crews, to sail under his flag?”

  “That is his demand, Your Majesty,” Robert said. His voice took on an angry edge. “Else, as he put it, he will rut with our sister to his heart’s desire, then give her to his men with orders to ride her until her back is broken.”

  “Saint Michael,” William swore, taking his seat. “What has the world come to? Is there no honor in it?”

  “Honor?” Robert bittered a humorless laugh. “Listen, William—”

  “You know I cannot do it.”

  “You—” Robert actually lost his tongue, for a moment. “You pompous ass!” he finally got out. “This is Lesbeth!”

  “And I am emperor. I cannot sell the honor of my throne for one sister, no matter how well I love her.”

  “No,” Robert said, voice very low, finger pointing like a dagger. “No. William, I will sink those ships myself, do you hear me? With my bare hands, if need be. You should have sent Lesbeth off with the rest, but you heeded her whim and let her stay here to meet her Safnian prince. The same Safnian prince, I might add, who sold her to Austrobaurg.”

  “What?” William stared at his brother, wondering if he had somehow misunderstood the words.

  “I said Austrobaurg would not tell me how he kidnapped her. But I did discover it through my spies, one murder and torture I’m sure you don’t want to hear about. Austrobaurg has enemies, some very near him, though not near enough to open his throat, more’s the pity. Not yet. But I discovered what I wanted to know. Lesbeth’s Safnian prince has called in Hansa many times. He is well known there, and he is in their pay. He sent a letter, telling Lesbeth to meet him on the Cape of Rovy, that his ship was damaged and he’d made camp there. She went to him, only to find a Hanzish corvette.”

  “Prince Cheiso did this? You have proof ?”

  “I have the proof of my ears. I trust my sources. Oh, and there is this.”

  He pulled something from the pouch at his belt and tossed it to William, who caught it. It was a slim metal box, with a catch fastening it.

  “What is this?”

  Robert made a peculiar sound, and William was stricken to see tears start in his brother’s eyes.

  “It’s her finger, damn you.” He spread his right hand and wiggled the index finger. “This one, with the twin of this ring. We put them on when we were eight, and have not, either of us, been able to remove them since we were fifteen.”

  William opened the catch. Inside, indeed, was a slim finger, nearly black. On it was a gold band with a scroll of oak leaves about it.

  “Ah, saints of mercy!” He snapped the box shut with shaking hands. Who could do this to Lesbeth? Lesbeth the ever smiling, the best, the most compassionate of them all?

  “Robert, I did not know. I—” He fought back tears.

  “Do not console me, Wilm. Get her back. Or I will.”

  William found another goblet. He needed more wine for this, to pacify the blood thundering in his ears, the blind rage he felt building again.

  “How, Robert?” he snapped. “If we do this thing, it could cost us every alliance. Even Liery might break with us. It’s impossible.”

  “No,” Robert said, his voice still quavering. “It isn’t. We have already sent ships in secret to the Saurga Sea, haven’t we?”

  “It’s not much of a secret.”

  “But the ships have not been counted or accounted for. Only the two of us know how many have been sent. Crews can be found; I know where to find them. Crews that will ask no questions and tell no stories, if they are paid well enough.”

  William stared at Robert for a long moment. “Is this true?”

  “It is. Austrobaurg will get all the credit, as he desires— and he will get all of the blame. The sea lords of Liery will be none the wiser of our part and will remain our friends. I will oversee this personally, William. You know my love for Les-beth; I would risk nothing, here, that might mean her life. But I would never risk our kingdom, either.”

  William drank more wine. Soon it would be too much; already the world was flat, like the paintings on the wall. This was a poor time for judgment. Or perhaps, in such matters, the best.

  “Do it,” he whispered. “Only do not give me details.”

  “It is done,” Robert replied.

  “And Prince Cheiso. Have him arrested and put in Spinster Tower. Him I’ll deal with in the morning.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE PRINCE OF SHADE

  THE AIR ABOVE the ochre brick of the Piato da Fiussa shimmered like the top of a stove. It was so hot that even the pigeons and grackles—which normally covered the square, scavenging for bits of bread or cheese—would not light upon it for fear of roasting themselves.

  Cazio, similarly concerned, exerted himself just enough to scoot an armspan, following the shadow of the marble fountain his back rested against as he gazed laconically around the square. There he found few people with any more ambition of mobility. Earlier, the little market town of Avella had been a bustling place. Now, with the sun at noon, people had more sense.

  Buildings of the same yellow brick up to three stories high walled the piato, but only on the south side did they cast a meager shadow. In that welcome umbra, the shopowners, bricklayers, vendors, street officers, and children of Avella, sat, lay, or otherwise lolled, sipping the brash young wines of the Tero Mefio, nibbling cellar-cooled figs, or dabbing their brows with wet rags.

  Smaller gatherings under awnings, next to stairways— wherever the sun was thwarted—made plain why the hours between noon and three bells were named z’onfros caros— the treasured shadows. And,
in a city where noon shadows had value—indeed, were sometimes bought and sold—the shade of Fiussa’s fountain was one of the dearest.

  That was where Cazio rested, with the nude, flower-adorned goddess watching over him. The three nymphs at her feet disgorged tall plumes of water, so that a gentle damp mist settled on his darkly handsome face and broad shoulders. The marble basin was cool, and no matter which hour of the sessa it might be, there was ample shade—for perhaps four people.

  Cazio lazily examined the upper-floor windows across the piato. This time of day the rust or sienna framed windows were all thrown open, and sometimes pretty girls could be seen, leaning on the casements to catch a breeze.

  His laconic search was rewarded.

  “Look there,” he said to his friend Alo, who reclined nearby. “It’s Braza daca Feiossa.” He nodded his head toward a dark-haired beauty looking out over the square. She wore only a cotton undershift, which left much of her neck and shoulders bare.

  “I see her,” Alo said.

  “She’s trying to catch my attention,” Cazio said.

  “Of course she is. The sun came up just for you today, too, I’m sure.”

  “I wish he hadn’t bothered,” Cazio murmured, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead and pushing back his thick mop of black hair. “What was I thinking, getting up so early?”

  Alo started at that. “Early? You’ve just now risen!” A sallow-faced boy with caramel-colored hair, at sixteen Alo was a year younger than Cazio.

  “Yes, and see, it’s too hot to work. Everyone agrees.”

  “Work? What would you know of work?” Alo grunted. “They’ve been working all morning. I’ve been up since dawn, unloading bushels of grain.”

  Cazio regarded Alo and shook his head sadly. “Unloading grain—that isn’t work. It’s labor.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  Cazio patted the gleaming pommel of his sword. “Of course. A gentleman may work. He may do deeds. He may not labor.”

  “A gentleman may starve, then,” Alo replied. “Since I labored for the food in this basket I doubt that you want any.”