And then, at dusk on the third day, when the Black Road still had not come, a moment Taim had both hoped for and feared arrived. He went with apprehension clenched in his chest and two dozen of his veteran warriors at his side to the southern edge of Kolglas and stood looking down the coast towards the distant sunset. His exertions, and the paucity of sleep, had left his head heavy, his neck stiff, his legs aching. He felt, standing in that gloaming, watching the waves sighing up along the shore, as old as he had ever done. He did not have to wait long. Out of the gathering gloom, coming like a dark, roiling river beneath clouds turned orange and red by the sinking sun, Aewult nan Haig’s army arrived.
Abeh oc Haig brought an unexpected and unwelcome guest with her to the Palace of Red Stone. She was wife to the Thane of Thanes and thus beyond the reach of any disapproval, but Tara Jerain was in any case too well schooled in Vaymouth’s manners to betray her irritation. One could not prosper in the ants’ nest of aspiration and competition that the city had become without learning to speak only with a smile in Abeh’s presence. For Abeh, the world and her life within it were glittering things, filled with glory, fine food and pleasures of every kind. Her husband and sons were flawless, loved by all; their wealth was limitless and resented by no one; every gift that was pressed upon her was born of affection, sired by admiration. Anything contrary to her vision was hurtful, a personal insult. And one did not insult Abeh oc Haig.
Tara Jerain’s smile never faltered as she greeted Abeh on the steps outside the palace. The inevitable crowd of maids and attendants bunched behind the High Thane’s wife. The line of carriages and horses that had brought them filled the street, amongst them a strange box-like contraption from which the source of Tara’s annoyance was being roughly removed: Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig. The former Thane of the Dargannan-Haig Blood was dressed in a fine lace bodice and skirt. His hair and beard, both grown long during his imprisonment, had little silken bows in them. His hands were tied behind his back with a cord of soft velvet, his empty eye sockets — emptied on Gryvan oc Haig’s orders when Igryn was captured — were hidden by a band of flowery cloth wrapped around his head.
The sight was as surprising and distasteful as anything Tara Jerain had seen in a long time. Yet her face as she embraced Abeh oc Haig was a study in delight, her voice a smooth melody. Her husband the Shadowhand would have been proud of her.
“You are most welcome, my lady,” Tara said. “I am quite delighted, quite delighted.”
“Well, it has been too long since I came to one of your gatherings,” beamed Abeh.
Her pleasure in her own cleverness was bubbling up, too vigorous to be restrained. She glanced over her shoulder, her chin quivering with anticipation.
“You see I have a new maidservant,” she breathed. “Quite ill-suited to her calling, but I was sure you and the other ladies would like to see her.”
Two guards were manhandling Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig up the first couple of steps. Abeh’s throng of servants laughed behind decorous hands and whispered to one another. Much as Tara would have liked to ignore the humbled Thane’s presence entirely, she gave a soft chuckle.
“She seems strangely familiar, my lady. And, if I may be allowed the thought, a trifle old to be embarking on a new role in life.”
Abeh glowed with satisfaction. “Well, it is only for today. The Thane of Thanes was kind enough to lend him — her — to me for the occasion.” She looped her arm around Tara’s and drifted into the Palace of Red Stone. “He was reluctant, really quite reluctant, but I insisted.”
Tara smiled. Abeh’s determination in pursuit of her own amusement was infamous, but it would have been far better for Gryvan to deny his wife this petty indulgence. Such humiliation of Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig, once it became widely known, would only feed the ire of those opposed to Haig’s rule. Igryn might be a prisoner, a traitor condemned by his own deeds and words, but nevertheless he had been a Thane not long ago. Such considerations would not occur to Abeh, of course. She had founded her life, her very understanding of the world and all its processes, on the primacy of her whims.
“Well, do bring him or her in quickly,” murmured Tara. “We don’t want that lovely hair to be ruffled by the breeze.” It would hardly help, but at least they could get Igryn inside the palace and away from curious eyes.
The other guests — most of the wives and older daughters of Vaymouth’s great and powerful — had been gathered in the music room for some time. It was the prerogative of the High Thane’s wife always to be the last to arrive. There was a stir of interest as Tara and Abeh swept in, which gave way to gasps and laughter when Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig followed them. Tara was gratified to see that at least a few of those present had the sense to be dismayed at the sight of the former Thane.
An attentive flock of admirers descended on Abeh oc Haig at once. Tara took the opportunity to edge up to one of the guards who flanked Igryn.
“Please do not feel you have to stand there like idiots,” she muttered in his ear. “There are chairs over there.”
“I offend you, do I?” Igryn rasped. The guard laid a hand on the prisoner’s arm and squeezed tightly, but Igryn did not appear even to notice it. “It’s my sight that’s been taken from me, not my hearing. You’ll have to whisper quieter than that if you want me ignorant of your contempt.”
“It’s not contempt,” Tara said, gesturing to the guards to remove Igryn to the farthest corner. “But you hardly fit in with the mood of the evening. If you’d rather stand there and have all Vaymouth’s fine ladies spitting insults and laughter at you for the rest of the night, you’ll just have to forgive me for denying you your wish.”
When the musicians began to play, the chatter quietened for a time. They were masterless men from the Free Coast, found by Tara’s embroiderer playing at the last night market of the year. Their style was energetic, a novel departure from the light, flowing Tal Dyreen music that had been preferred in Vaymouth for the last couple of years. But their greatest attribute was the singer who soon came to the front. She was an exquisitely beautiful girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. And her voice was as sweet and fair as any voice could be. It filled the room like a formless, enchanting quality of the air itself. Even Abeh oc Haig was held and stilled by it for a few moments.
Time passed as it always did at such a gathering: in smiles and murmured pleasantries, in flattery and aimless talk. Tara moved slowly around the room, ensuring that no one ran short of wine or conversation. The singer sang, and everyone praised her voice; some cultivated jealousy of her youth and beauty. A roasted swan, resting on a bed of its own white feathers, was carried in on a huge silver platter.
A serving girl came hesitantly to Tara’s elbow.
“Forgive me, my lady, but your other visitor has arrived. He has been taken to the Chancellor’s audience chamber, as you instructed.”
Tara nodded, and left as discreetly as she could to greet her new guest.
Lammain, Craftmaster of the Goldsmiths, had a sharp, long nose and angular cheeks and chin. It gave him a certain dignity, Tara thought, but it also always made him seem rather gaunt and hungry. And hungry he was, of course, though not for food. In common with much of Vaymouth’s population, wealth, power and standing were what he craved.
Tara did not dislike the Craftmaster. He was one of those amongst the city’s game-players who had never mistaken her for a mere wife, an empty adornment on the Shadowhand’s arm. Lammain had always respected her intelligence, and the particular kinds of influence she could wield. He was, as far as she could tell, one of the few men she had met who was not blinded by her beauty.
“Did they offer you wine, Craftmaster?”
“They did. I declined it. I did not realise you had other visitors this evening. I had no intention of disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” said Tara as she settled gracefully into a chair. She leaned a little closer to the Goldsmith, with an expression that conveyed both guilt and amusement. “I asked you to call on me to
day for this very reason. These ladies make for demanding company, you know. A few moments away from them will give me the chance to recover my strength. And it is only polite to give them the chance to discuss me, and my hospitality, without having to whisper.”
Lammain gave a brief half-chuckle. “I am sure it is not quite as tiring as you say,” he murmured.
“Oh, but it is. The talking is incessant. And the mind must be fast as a deer to keep up with it. One moment it’s gossip about some lustful intrigue, the next talk of war. Then it’s fretting about the cost of fine cloths. You can never be sure what is coming next. As I left, they were all agog at the news of Gann nan Dargannan-Haig.”
“They were?” The surprise in Lammain’s voice was far too unguarded to be false. It pleased Tara. So long as she kept the Craftmaster off balance, the conversation was hers to steer.
“You’ve heard, I assume?” she enquired. “They say he fell off the dock at Hoke, straight into the sea.”
“I had heard, yes,” Lammain said.
He would have been amongst the first to hear of Gann’s demise, Tara knew. The dead man had, after all, been the Goldsmiths’ possession, purchased over many years with coin and favours. How her husband had arranged the man’s death — and such an appropriately grubby kind of death, at that — Tara had no idea, but that it was a costly one for Lammain was beyond doubt.
“The Dargannan-Haig Blood is having no fortune, is it?” she said. “First Igryn gets himself thrown into a gaol cell, now his cousin manages to die a very common little death. Of course, rumour has it that Gann brought it on himself. I hear he was terribly drunk, and wandering about the harbour at dead of night. It is no great surprise that one with his habits should come to an ugly end.”
“Well, I never met the man myself. But yes, he had a certain… reputation.”
“Still, his death is rather regrettable. It proves the fragility of all our dreams that someone could come within reach of a Thaneship only to be denied by drunkenness and cold water. My husband will be disappointed, when he hears of it. He was most interested in your view, you know, that Gann might be the best choice as Igryn’s successor.”
“Was he? Well, I am gratified. Though it hardly matters now.”
“Perhaps you could consider whether there is anyone else you think well-suited to the task of leading the Dargannan-Haig Blood. I know that the Thane of Thanes took a much closer interest in Gann once he knew of your advocacy. Really much closer. Should you have anyone else to put forward…”
She left the suggestion hanging, with a delicate smile.
The Craftmaster’s face darkened for a moment before he recovered his self-control. It was only a fleeting slip, and the change had been almost imperceptible, but it was enough to satisfy Tara that she had done what her husband had asked of her. Mordyn seldom involved her directly in his dealings but on this occasion his enforced absence from Vaymouth had made it necessary.
“Make him doubt,” the Shadowhand had whispered to her on that last night — a long night, and gentle, both sweet and sad — before his departure. “That is all that is required. When word comes of Gann’s death — and it will come — give the Craftmaster just enough cause to wonder about the circumstances. I need Lammain to consider the possibility that his ambition ran too far ahead of his sense.”
“I will give the matter some thought,” Lammain now said quietly.
“Do. Well, we neither of us have the time to fritter away on idle chatter, I imagine? Before he left, the Chancellor asked me to make a gift to you in his absence. He had hoped to see you himself before his departure, but there simply wasn’t the opportunity. You know how it is, when there are armies marching to and fro.”
“Of course. I am not sure what I or my Craft have done to merit a gift from your husband, though.”
“Must every gift be merited?” Tara kept any hint of a smile from her face. She spoke softly, precisely. “Just as not every crime is punished, so not every reward is earned.”
Lammain nodded. He was watching Tara intently. She wondered if it was hostility that narrowed his eyes, but concluded that it was only concentration.
“Anyway,” she continued, her voice now light, glittering, “the gift is not for you, in truth. You know how Mordyn and I have always admired your Craft’s dedication to the service of the less fortunate. Your orphanages, in particular. You have two now, don’t you?”
“Indeed. Here and in Drandar.” The Craftmaster’s self-discipline was impressive. His tone shadowed Tara’s to perfection, pitched just short of merriment.
“It’s a most worthy cause. I will have the donation brought to the Crafthouse in the morning, if that is agreeable? Delivered to the Secretary in person, I imagine?”
“You are most kind, dear lady, most kind. I will ensure that it is expected, and dealt with appropriately.”
Tara strolled back towards the music chamber with a light tread. She did not hurry, savouring these few moments of peace and solitude. Her soft footsteps rang faintly along the marble-clad corridor. She wondered how much of the donation Lammain would keep for himself, and for his Secretary. However much was needed to salve the blow of Gann nan Dargannan-Haig’s death, no doubt. Which was exactly as Mordyn intended. He would be pleased to hear how smoothly everything had gone upon his return. And that return could not come soon enough for Tara. There was no one else in whose company she could set aside all pretence and be wholly herself.
She could hear the singer’s voice, an ethereal shiver through the halls. The girl really was very good, Tara thought. In all likelihood, Abeh would steal her away and have her singing in the Moon Palace within the month. And then, inevitably, her beauty would sooner or later catch the eye of Aewult or Stravan, the High Thane’s sons. Whatever happened after she had drawn such attention, it was unlikely to end well for her.
Tara paused outside the music chamber. A single upraised finger was enough to tell the servant there to wait before opening the door. Tara took a moment to run a careful hand over her hair, to settle into place the required bright smile. Then she made her entry.
The narrow strip of fields that skirted Kolglas — fragments of land gnawed out of the vast forests of Anlane — had disappeared beneath the boots and tents and hoofs and creaking wheels of Aewult nan Haig’s host. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of his men were yet to reach the town, but enough had arrived to transform the landscape. The earth was churned into a great lagoon of mud that curved around the town’s landward flanks. It made for a slippery, sodden camping ground; one that would sap the spirits and vigour of the Bloodheir’s men. Aewult nan Haig himself, to no one’s surprise, found it not to his liking. He claimed finer quarters, in the centre of the town.
That was where Taim went seeking him, but the guards on the gate told him the Bloodheir was not within. Aewult, it transpired, had gone to the sea, to view Castle Kolglas. Taim hastened down through the crowds towards the harbour. The thought of Aewult nan Haig observing the empty shell of the castle in the sea was irrationally distasteful to him. For Taim and everyone else of his Blood, what had happened within those walls on the night of Winterbirth was a bitter memory: painful, but also, in an ill-defined way, shameful. It was all too easy to imagine the Haig Bloodheir having a very different response. It felt rather like having to watch an enemy gloating over the corpse of a fallen friend.
The night before, there had been no opportunity to speak with Aewult at any length. When Taim had greeted him outside the town, their reunion was, if not exactly hostile, certainly cold. The Bloodheir had made it plain that his only interest was in finding himself a warm bed and hot food. Taim had found himself dismissed and all but ignored. Unexpectedly, he slept well that night.
Now, the morning after, he had no difficulty in finding Aewult. The Bloodheir’s Palace Shield had cleared a stretch of the quayside and stood like an array of metal-clad statues in a wide half-circle. Protected from the common folk by that barrier, Aewult was gazing out over the choppy water towa
rds the castle. A woman was by his side, wearing a heavy but intricately decorated coat with a thick fur collar. It took Taim a moment or two to recall her name: Ishbel, the companion Aewult had brought with him all the way from Anduran.
Taim slipped between a pair of the silent shieldmen. He was relieved that neither made any move to obstruct him; he was, at least, saved that minor humiliation. He came up to the Bloodheir’s side with a small bow. Aewult did not acknowledge his arrival.
“It’s a fine castle,” Aewult said. He turned to Ishbel, gesturing at the lifeless mass of Castle Kolglas. “Don’t you think, my lady? It’s a noble setting.”
Ishbel gave no sign of any genuine interest. “I suppose it is. If you can call anywhere this cold noble.”
Aewult smiled at her.
“It was a fine castle,” Taim said. “The roof’s half gone now. Most that wasn’t stone has been burned out.”
“You can build it back,” Aewult said. The smile vanished from his face as soon as he turned his attention to Taim. “It’s nothing that can’t be mended, once your young Thane’s back on his throne. Where is he, by the way?”
His voice had a powerful edge of threat, of aggression, in it. Where his father Gryvan, in Taim’s experience, spoke with subtle daggers concealed behind each word, Aewult flailed around with cudgels.
“I don’t know, sire. I have not seen or heard from him since we marched from Kolkyre. We expect his arrival any day, though.”
Aewult grunted. The answer clearly did not satisfy him. “You can expect whatever you like. Where did he go? Was it Highfast? That’s what Mordyn thought.”
Taim had to take a moment to consider his answer. The Bloodheir was unlikely to believe him if he feigned complete ignorance of Orisian’s plans. Even so, Taim had no intention of reporting to the Haig Blood on the detail of his own Thane’s intentions.
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