In the Eye of Heaven

by David Keck

  But familiar faces glanced up.

  Between the two ditches, knights and animals sprawled in clumps. Shield-bearers picked through the wreckage, clearing the road. In the midst of it all, a knot of men crouched round Lamoric's prone form. Durand could not see whether their lord lived or died.

  Faces popped up to look at him: Heremund, Berchard, Agryn. Coensar's face was stern. Each man wore his own version of shock. Finally, he saw Deorwen. Bent very low, she looked up into his face as though she was looking at a dead man.

  Abruptly, Lamoric craned his neck. A sword wound had split the sleeve over his shoulder. "Hells," he breathed. "What have they done to you ? "

  Durand blinked. He went to brush at his cloak, and saw his hands—shaking and bloody as a butcher's. A sticky mask covered his face, and his cloak stuck and clung with the stuff.

  "No no," he said. "I met the captain on the road. It's his, or most of it."

  There was sick, gusty laughter.

  "Gods, Durand, wash up. We'll all be sick," Lamoric managed.

  Deorwen was raising a hand, shaking, to her face.

  Through luck or the intervention of the Powers, Lamoric's company had lost only three horses and two men, though a few had taken crossbow bolts.

  "We're lucky," said Coensar. "You don't walk out of a trap like this, let alone drive the bastards off. They hadn't the men for it, and I think we got more warning than they intended."

  A commotion turned their heads.

  Stalking through the wreckage came Waer the wrestler at the vanguard of half-a-dozen knights, including Lord Moryn himself. Durand and a few of the others stood up to intercept him as Lamoric shoved his helmet back on, grumbling an oath.

  "Very pretty," said Waer. He set big fists on his hips.

  "You should watch what you say," Ouen warned, but Waer only laughed.

  "Very pretty indeed. We all get bottled up behind your lot, and then they're on us. What did you pay?"

  Lamoric forced himself into the thick of the confrontation. "I lost men!"

  Waer sneered. "Or did they threaten you? Was that it? You had another half league behind them than we did. Did they have you at the point of a sword, telling you to shut up and let us come on? Was that it? A coward's bargain?"

  "Waer!" said Moryn.

  "It's easy to call off your dog after he's bitten, isn't it, Milord?" said Lamoric. Durand could hear a hitch of pain in his voice. "Why don't you just say what you wish and have- done with it? This man and his temper are a bloody thin excuse."

  Waer lunged forward, caught short by his friends even as his fingers hooked the air at Lamoric's throat.

  "You are enough to make a man ill, Moryn," said Lamoric. "You needn't worry about us getting under your feet any longer. There is more than one way to Tern Gyre, and I won't be on the same road with you any longer. Coensar?"

  Coensar nodded stiffly.

  "And Guthred?" Lamoric said. The aging shield-bearer looked up from his work in the blood and torn flesh. "Get that lot ready to travel. We!ll find a sanctuary to take the dead. And get a party forward to butcher those oxen and heave them out of the road."

  THEY LEFT THEIR dead in a town called Lanes Hall and rode north down back roads as a ship tacks into the wind. Where the Lawerin Way would have been straight and clear, now they navigated a maze of hamlets, following Heremund the skald. The little man knew every well and standing stone in Errest, but mysterious strangers stalked the countryside, and black shapes flapped from felons swinging at every crossroad.

  They chose to make for Port Stairs. The men judged that from its cliffside perch above the Broken Crown, the city was no more than twenty leagues across the bay from Tern Gyre.

  Berchard swore that coasters and fishermen crossed the Crown every day.

  Outriders questing ahead of the party reported lone horsemen and slinking strangers among the hedgerows, though none would stand when challenged. Once, they heard hoof-beats over a rise—a fleeing rider. Durand could feel eyes on them from every side. He shot a glance at Deorwen and kept his hand near his blade.

  Out ahead, Badan and two of Guthred's shield-bearers were hunting for a refuge.

  "You can feel the buggers, closer and closer," muttered Ouen. "A hand's closing about us. We'll wind up missing Lord Moryn's party yet."

  "Mind what you say," cautioned Berchard. The Sons of Atthi did not name a doom they hoped to avoid.

  "I've never seen an outlaw band who'd attack so many swords," said Ouen. "It's madness, or it's not finished."

  Abruptly, Agryn spoke. "I'd be happier if we had shelter."

  They were losing the light of Heaven.

  Coensar stood high in his stirrup irons, twisting to look out over the gloomy fields. 'There!"

  Badan and his shield-bearers appeared from the gloom ahead, their horses puffing clouds.

  "What news?" demanded Coensar.

  "There really are men on these roads, Coen," Badan said, eyeing the hills and hedges. "Luring us into some hard corner or waiting for a chance, I can't say. Quick to ride and slow to answer, anyway. But we've found a place. The plowman we rousted called it 'Attorfall.' Big enough to get inside and bolt the door."

  "Let us hurry," commanded Lamoric.

  DURAND JUDGED IT a miracle that Badan had found the place at all.

  In the dusk, a deep curve of shadow swallowed the village entirely. Badan and his shield-bearers pointed at what seemed a lonely, oak-scabbed hump of hill, and no one believed them. Then they saw it. The whole village—two dozen barns and cottages—huddled where the hill's old flank had slumped into the road. Shingles, thatch, and walls were green with moss and black with damp. A dog barked.

  "Hells, Badan," said Berchard, "there's a wellborn man living in this warren?"

  "Some vassal knight of Hellebore's," Badan answered.

  "Heaven help him."

  Ouen winced. "Aye. Look there. A stone house."

  "It's green as old pork," was Berchard's dubious answer.

  Now, the dog was yowling.

  "Let us get inside," prompted Agryn.

  They rode on into the cramped alleys of the village and under the staring eyes of long-haired cattle. Durand watched Deorwen and Bertana moving through the damp as faces peered from between the green boards of their shutters.

  All of the men went armed.

  Berchard pointed at an ox. "I can actually see mold growing on this one. They're more than half vegetable, these brutes. I—"

  "—Keep your eyes open, all of you, and your mouths shut," directed Coensar. "No more surprises."

  At the next corner, a stooped manservant met them. This was no knight-at-arms.

  "Sir," said Lamoric. "I am Lamoric of Gireth and these are my retainers and traveling companions. We have encountered trouble on the road and crave the hospitality of your master. There are womenfolk among us."

  The servant regarded them wordlessly, slack and gray as a mushroom.

  "We mean no harm," said Lamoric.

  Another moment of silence passed. Durand heard leather straps creak around him—belts and gauntlets. No one wanted to turn back into the shadows on the road.

  Without a word, the servant turned, and the company followed him through a crowd of sheds and coops and into the gloomy entry stair of the greenish manor house.

  Durand kept an eye on arrow slits and upper windows, and kept his fist on his blade.

  Stepping through an open door, the whole party crowded into the stair—a place damper than tombs—and a door rattled open above them. Durand followed the others shuffling into a cavernous darkness, conscious of keeping himself between Deorwen and the unknown.

  But they found only the lank servant bowing in the gloom. "Sir Warin of Attorfall," he announced.

  And no host answered.

  The room was dark as a pool and nothing twitched. A dog was growling. Two dogs. Badan was already grumbling when a vague shape finally shifted in the murk.

  Lamoric cleared his throat. "Sir Warin? I am Lord L
amoric, second son of Abravanal, Duke of Gireth. These are my retainers and traveling companions."

  Durand thought he made out the long shape of a table.

  "You come armed into my hall," grunted a voice.

  "We met trouble on the road." He lifted his hand, triggering a booming bark from one of the dogs. "We mean no harm."

  Eerily, flames appeared in the dark silence, bobbing in the empty air. They could have been candles borne by Lost souls. The lamps clunked down on the tabletop with a whiff of fish oil.

  "Dinner and a roof?" said the reluctant shape that must be Warin.

  "Aye," said Lamoric. "For a night. My men and I are bound to Port Stairs on my father's business." It was a simple lie.

  Warin grunted again, and the manservant ushered the men silently to his. master's table where smoky lamplight gave the party a better look at their host: a sour old man, his thin hair bristled over the pale bladder of his face. He sat between two simperingly uneasy women, each like toadstools. Flustered, they were almost too late to usher Deorwen and Lady Bertana to sit by them.

  As the men settled uneasily upon the benches, new servants appeared from the dark, thudding trenchers down and leaving the party with flat loaves and a wheel of what looked like yellow wax. Men like Badan and Ouen made faces, though Lamoric held his pleasant smile and picked up a bit of bread.

  From the strain in his neck, he might as well have tried to bite an old woolen stocking.

  In the candlelight, Durand could make out two monstrous mastiffs, bone-gray and looking as big as steers.

  "You've a lot of men with you," their host grunted. "I have, and I'm sure we're grateful for whatever you can spare. Have you had many guests of late?" "No. No guests. It's lean times."

  The servants returned, setting down tumblers and slopping out beer. One of the simpering mushrooms pulled at her lord's sleeve.

  'These two are my daughters," Warin said, an introduction that provoked nodding bows from the pair.

  In silence then, the men took their second bites of coarse bread or scrabbled at what they hoped was cheese.

  Durand shifted on the bench, and his hand touched something on the seat: a pair of men's gloves. Well made, but too new for Warin, and he had never seen them before.

  "So, Sir Warin," Lamoric ventured. "You will have seen the signs in the Heavens?"

  "I've seen. Turned the milk sour in half my kine."

  As the man scratched his wattles, his servant slipped in at Durand's elbow. The gloves were gone when Durand looked.

  "And there are men on the roads. Messengers, maybe. Spies. I wondered if you might have heard something."

  "There's always strangers on the road. More when times are uncertain. If you're asking after the king and his kin," Warin said, "we've heard naught, though I wouldn't be surprised with tax on tax and fines and levies. And now this great loan. No one much liked the story of Carlomund riding out with those two elder boys of his and coming back with a busted neck."

  "Sir Warin," Lamoric warned.

  "No one's ever much liked King Ragnal."

  "And what of His Grace of Hellebore? Has your duke sent you warnings of his plans? I'm told the Great Council will sit at Tern Gyre."

  "He'll do as sees fit."

  "He's sworn his allegiance at the high sanctuary in Eldinor." "Many oaths were sworn to old Carlomund." "Some might call that treason."

  "And some might call it late!" The old knight stood and snapped his fingers for dogs and daughters both; the whole lot got to their feet. "Finish as you like. You will not stay long, I trust."

  Attorfall and his kin left for the wooden stair that led to rooms on the upper floor.

  "My father would have hanged that man, I think," muttered Lamoric. He seemed tired. Deorwen cast her eyes down.

  "I'd hang him for this wheel of cheese." Ouen gestured to the waxy block.

  Lamoric nodded toward the upstairs rooms and asked his captain, "Are we in danger, do you think?"

  "Attorfall does not seem a man of action, Lordship," Coensar whispered carefully. Servants still prowled the gloom.

  "And no one could have known we'd stop here," Berchard added.

  "We should be on our guard," Coensar concluded. "Men at the windows. A man on the door."

  "Who are the bastards?" said Ouen. "Those weren't common outlaw brigands this morning, were they Badan?"

  "You'd never go for a company of knights," he admitted. "There's plenty better game on the roads. Priests. Traders."

  "You heard what Moryn's man said," Lamoric replied. "He said we arranged this trap. What if it's him? Is it so hard to believe Moryn might have been behind the whole thing? What better way to hide their complicity than to point a finger at us?"

  Durand did not believe it. Gol had not expected to meet him. There had been more than the Red Knight's men on that road.

  "Which way will the Duke of Mornaway vote?" Durand murmured, surprised to hear his voice aloud.

  Men turned.

  Agryn spoke, choosing his words. "Duke Severin is a faithful vassal." Lamoric shot a sharp glance at the long-faced knight, but Agryn continued. "There is honor in his house. He would never vote to cast his king down, not if it cost him his last acre."

  Agryn looked Durand full in the face, waiting. Durand swallowed as Deorwen's stare joined the others. 'That captain," he said. "The man I killed. I knew him from Yrlac. I worked for him. He was called Gol."

  Some nodded, maybe having heard Gol's name or having met the man. Some were puzzled. He wondered how many now knew he had served Radomor. He wondered what Deorwen understood.

  "Radomor's man?" Coensar pressed.

  "He made it sound as though he was on the outs with Lord Radomor. My fault, getting away, I think. He meant the ambush as a present for Radomor somehow."

  There was a lot of shifting around the table while Durand schooled his features. He dared not look to Deorwen. Finally, Ouen thrashed his head, astonished.

  "But Radomor, he fought in the Marches. He led his father's host under the king's banner."

  Agryn nodded. "He was gravely wounded leading the vanguard on the second day. A fine career nearly blighted."

  "But I've had nothing to do with Radomor," protested Lamoric. "He was my brother-in-law. I don't understand."

  Durand struggled. This brother-in-law had sealed his wife in a tower. In all of Durand's confessing, he had never quite said as much. Now, he had delayed too long.

  But Coensar was nodding.

  "Lord Moryn carries his father's proxy," he observed.

  "And this was to be Gol's little gift for his erstwhile master?" Lamoric said. "I wonder. How would he have taken it? I remember once my sister's cat left an adder in her bed. Dead, though."

  "Gol was a hard man," Durand said, a coward still.

  "The man was a savage," Berchard amended. Agryn shot a disapproving look across the table; a wise man did not speak ill of the newly dead. Berchard finished timidly: "I saw him in Pendur."

  "So he might well have gone further than anyone asked him," Lamoric reasoned. "A lord must be careful whom he takes as his liegeman."

  Coensar spoke, eyeing the shadowy corners of theieasting hall. "Maybe Gol was hunting Moryn. Maybe he never meant to find two strong parties in that road. Maybe he thought he had help. We can't know. The roads beyond this hall are still thick with strangers. Lamoric, taken, might make a lever to change his father's vote. Maybe Moryn's not quite the man his forefathers were. Eat. Watch. We don't have far to go."

  They finished their lean meal and bullied the stooped manservant for some old straw pallets. The women and the wounded got the good ones, though Deorwen complained. The rest—those not on watch—stretched blankets over damp straw, silverfish, and earwigs, muttering charms against vermin.

  Durand lay on one shoulder, listening to the farts and grumbles of the men and to the rustle of things alive in the dank At-torfall straw.

  Deorwen was breathing somewhere in the dark. He tried to put it from his mi
nd.

  He pictured Radomor boiling in that furnace hall down in Ferangore, and all the magnates riding to the Council at Tern Gyre. There were too many men too angry with Ragnal, and there were too many Cassonels stitching them together.

  Durand wondered how many votes the magnates had. If the fools meant to overthrow their king, they would need to win at the Great Council, and they would need someone to stand in the king's place. But "Radomor had not answered when Cassonel asked, and he was not heir while his father lived.

  But someone had died in Yrlac.

  Whatever Radomor once had been, Alwen's betrayal and the nagging doom of a skald must have changed all that. He might do anything.

  If you set aside Lost Hesperand and the Marches, there were thirteen duchies. Cassonel's Duke of Beoran would vote to throw the king down. Mornaway would never, and old Abravanal of Gireth would no more rebel than he would sprout wings. Cassonel had spoken of some angry heir coming to power. Durand tried to remember the duchy. Was it Cape Eame? And what of Hellebore? And the widow who held Saerdana and Germander. How would she cast her vote?

  Something chose that moment to scamper across his ankles on tiny needle claws.

  Durand mashed his palms over his eyes. War at the heart of the realm would sweep up every man, woman, and child in Errest, catching them all by their countless oaths and tearing the land to pieces. What did a king's man do when his own sworn lord declared for a usurper? What oaths did a man keep?

  When Durand opened his eyes, a tiny flame stirred at the top of the stair. It winked in the first floor passage where old Warm's room was. After an instant, the light swelled. In its wobbling circle, Durand made out Warin's sour face.

  But there was a stranger in that circle as well. Durand remembered the gloves.

  "Durand?" one of the watchmen asked.

  In a moment, Durand had crossed to the stairs. Fumbling at first, he caught hold of the wooden steps and vaulted up.

  Though they had only seen one door into Attorfall—as the hall backed on the hill—there were plenty of windows in the master's rooms on the upper story. A trapped man could escape that way.