‘…I fear without a solution to the problem of reliably navigating a direct sea course, the cost will remain prohibitive for most. It is taking too long to go via Rubera’s coastline. The bean pods brought back don’t seem to last well on the long trip. It makes for a rich man’s drink when it gets here and I’m told the best flavours are lost.’
‘Faster boats?’ offered Pragius, a hint of impatience in his tone. The book was free from the bondage of night and called out in his mind.
‘A faster ship is usually one that carries less and is, therefore, inefficient in a different respect.’ Duce’s voice reeked of condescension cooked up by his pathetic intellect. Or was that smell the stench of fresh sweat from Majoran sat the other side of him? His forehead certainly had a shine. The reflected light shifted position as the man’s head nodded down. His eyes followed to take in more facts from his notebook, then popped up and looked out from under his dark eyebrows peppered with grey hair.
Pragius somehow missed the transition from Duce’s trade talk to the agony of Majoran’s mining accountancy. Lacking even the scant entertainment offered by a freshly waxed table, Pragius looked elsewhere in the room for distraction and found Carn.
Pragius ranted silently to himself: Why does that man bother to turn up to council sessions if all he is ever going to do is stare out of that window?
The king asked questions. The answers were thieves stealing Pragius’ precious time and delaying the meeting’s end.
End? Who are we kidding? It never ends, he thought, it just starts up all over again one month from now. I’ll be doing this until my dying day.
There was a rapid knocking on the door.
Oh God, no! he prayed silently. If God listened at all, he was not listening to Pragius.
In walked the latest drag on the proceedings, turning up as regularly as the time measured by the old grandfather clock. The aproned, grey peacock strutted into the room, territorial rights over the next quarter hour forcibly claimed by the flag planted in the middle of the table in the form of a tray of Pragius couldn’t care less what. What he did care about was the excruciating amount of time Carn spent chewing every mouthful. And he was still staring out of the window. Pragius pretended to be interested in eating and forgot about drinking.
***
Carn Serjey had long experience in politics — so long, in fact, that his experience stretched back as far as politics had existed as a profession in Valendo. Staring out of the window, he focused on points in the far distance. The top of a church or the orchestra house. The natural light and the focusing exercise was a soothing medicine for his ageing eyes that sometimes strained and caused him headaches. When he thought about it, his time in politics must have started at about the age of Prince Cory, whom he could see calling at the lodge at the edge of the palace grounds. His sight wasn’t good enough to see who answered, but he didn’t need to see. He had a scout in the orchestra.
Carn allowed himself a smile, continuing to chew slowly in an attempt to avoid some of the indigestion bread inflicted upon him. Frequent sips of water were a tonic to calm raging acids that scoured his throat. With his head turned to the window, his good right ear was facing into the room. Carn dropped his smile and replaced it with a more neutral expression. He could hear the distracted and impatient eldest prince at the opposite corner of the table from him fidgeting in his seat. Carn looked at Pragius. He was paler and sweatier than the typically nervous Majoran sat next to him.
Pragius looked ill.
***
The council session closed. King Coeric walked at a steady pace through the corridors of the palace family wing. Pragius followed at his heels; the passage was just too narrow for him to be by his father’s side.
The distinctive clack of a door latch announced the pair’s entrance to the king’s office. This place was not much of a playground for candle light. The yellow glow revealed the world in which Valendo belonged. Maps on the wall fought for credibility, each displaying their own version of the truth for the right disposition of coastlines.
Bookshelves covered the walls. The knowledge of the kingdom lay within the books lined up on the shelves. They spoke of the clamour of Ephire’s floating markets on the great river. They told the tales of eager boys pushing exotic fruits into the hands of bewildered visitors. They described pack animals adding their perfume to the streets where beggars pray for their next meal — streets where press gangs and slavers stalk in search of the able and unlucky. Overlooking the sins of the city, high on the ancient bank of the river, sits the First Church of the Sun. In Valendo, they called it a temple because it was built on a single level out of white stone with columns across its front; a contrast against the dark red soils of the river flood plain and nothing like the black church buildings in Valendo and Emiria. Other books held stories of the families of Rubera’s second city, Pira, continuing their sometimes deadly feud. Distant and different from Ephire and united only in the man they called ‘king’ and the God of the Sun they worshipped. With access to iron, minerals and forests lacking in Ephire, Pira was a place of shipbuilding and industry. Darker books carried the call of the jungle birds found in Cavail far to the west. Or maybe it is as the shaman says: the souls of the ancestors calling their warning that the king of the jungle people is not following the shaman’s direction down a trail to avoid sin. The shaman on his bamboo throne. A bamboo throne on the backs of the sullen stymies. An old and conquered people, shorter, straighter-haired and with skin the colour of milked bean brew. Books on the continent to the east were as absent as the detail on the wall map for it.
Father and son sat around the corner of a square table. Coeric was silent, setting out his notebook and gathering a few of the other books in the room. A soft knock on the door was followed by a one-word command from the king, and Mrs Samshaw’s assistant, Suki, entered with a simple stew and tea brewed with dried leaves imported from Pira. She arranged the bowls and spoons, then left.
‘You seem distracted, impatient and unwell.’ Coeric cast the comment into the room before waiting to see what reply he would catch. Still waiting, he started to eat. Several mouthfuls later, he frowned and directed his son to do the same, using his spoon like an orchestra conductor. Pragius chewed on a piece of the cooked flesh, sucked on the swede and found the whole ensemble flavourless and pointless beyond calming his complaining stomach.
Finally, Pragius spoke. ‘Don’t you tire of the monotony? The repetition every month of mostly the same thing?’
‘Matters shift and evolve over time. And not to our timetable or momentary desires. The kingdom ship does not turn on a coin. Besides, there are other challenges we can set ourselves. Side issues.’
‘Such as?’ Pragius spoke through a mouthful.
‘Remember my attempt to secure support for a treasury contribution to church hospitals?
‘That was almost a season ago. I thought you had given up on that. Carn wrecked it when he was in a huff about not getting his way in having the road to Ostenza built.’
‘I’m not sure a man like Carn gets into a huff. Well, not a real one. No, I’m just waiting for a better time to present a revised proposal.’
Pragius showed no signs of replying.
‘I’ll get it through one day. It’s my extra little challenge to keep things interesting.’
‘Why don’t you just make a royal proclamation and be done with it?’
Coeric paused midway to another spoonful. ‘That wouldn’t be very subtle; it’s a measure that, if overused, could eventually turn the people against the monarchy. Better to keep that weapon in its scabbard until really needed.’ The king set aside his empty bowl. ‘What’s got you upset? You look tired.’
Pragius considered his response. ‘Can’t a grown man keep a few things to himself?’
Coeric chuckled, ‘Woman trouble, eh?’
Pragius shrugged. He hadn’t had any of that kind of trouble since Magdeline.
***
Time for bed, he thought sarcastically. They were his father’s words, not his. The day had dragged getting here. He unlocked the drawer in his desk and brought out the book, unconcerned about the lumpy feel the skeletal hand gave to the covering when he touched it. Opening the book, he leafed through the pages. Swirling characters assembled themselves once more and his mind descended into a new maelstrom of magic.
Chapter 5
Diplomacy and Espionage
The Battle of the Tri Valley Pass 1845.
Kingdom Army of Valendo regiment led by King-Consort General Garon Allus Artifex-Dendra.
Deaths: approximately 70.
Kingdom Army of Emiria regiment led by Commander Xolt Carmikel. Deaths: approximately 780.
Kingdom Army of Nearhon led by King Klonag Ferand.
Deaths: approximately 1600.
— Excerpt from the War Histories of Valendo
Midsummer, in the year of the Church of the Sun, 1867.
The horse hairs of the bow slowly drew over animal gut strings. White dust formed a smudge on the shining wooden body of the violin. It wasn’t the searing teeth-on-edge screech it had been the first few times, but nothing like the sound an audience hears at a performance.
Julia spoke in the Nearhon language, ‘Still too slow — pull the bow quicker and keep it smooth.’
Cory concentrated on what she had just said. Combined with the unfamiliar physical task of playing a violin, it was all becoming a stretch for the mind. He tried again. Quicker, smoother, back straight, keep the bow drawing straight and level, don’t let the left hand drop, keep a finger pressed on the string, understand Nearhon, and ignore soft warm lips on the valley between neck and shoulder.
‘Oh, come on. How am I supposed to concentrate on anything with you doing that?’ He didn’t even attempt to say it in Nearhon.
Julia giggled. ‘I am sorry, you had such a serious look on your face. I could not resist.’
He shot her a pretend evil glare with pursed lips and played again. A few notes of something that could just about be called a tune repeated several times issued from the violin. Behind him, the pluck and strum of a guitar started up.
‘I can’t believe you play that too. One instrument is hard enough.’
She smiled, glancing up from the fretboard. ‘Most musicians play two or three instruments.’
She played on for a while, then asked, ‘How many different weapons do you know well?’
‘Quite a few, but many have a lot in common with each other. It’s easier to pick up others.’
‘Like picking up other instruments, especially other stringed instruments?’
Cory looked unconvinced. ‘I’m finding the intricate things I have to do with my fingers difficult. A weapon seems easier — big movements.’
‘In-tric-ate?’
‘Oh, intricate like this.’ Cory made the small finger movements needed to hold strings down on the violin for different notes. Then he passed the violin and bow to Julia.
‘Not intricate like this.’
He stood holding an imaginary sword and executed a few sweeping motions, feeling a little self-conscious in the process.
Julia spoke what was clearly two words in Nearhon.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s Nearhon for small movement, the best translation I can think of for in-tri-cate.’
‘Not quite. You could say a piece of jewellery made from many small parts is intricate. It’s funny, I’d never notice all the little shortcuts we make in our speech until I hear you doing the same.’
‘Well, back home people speak with shortcuts too but it is… it’s not how children are taught.’
Cory took the violin and did his best to play a while longer.
‘You have never shown me your castle. You have… you’ve seen me play many times but I… I’ve never seen you practice with a sword. It looks like a dance.’
‘I’ve never thought of it as a dance. I suppose you’re right, and I can dance.’ Cory thought for a moment. It was Weekend Day. ‘We could always go now?’
***
The cooler days of spring were a memory now that midsummer sun filled the outer walls of Dendra Castle with heat. Light and heat also reflected off the worn, polished cobbles of the steep approach road to the castle keep, making it an arduous climb.
‘Diplomatic visitor today, Jake,’ Cory announced.
The gate guard nodded and they passed through to the stables.
‘Do you know everyone’s name?’ Julia asked.
‘Most of them. It’s something my grandfather did. He must have known a couple of hundred or more names at any one time.’
It was cooler in the training room and Cory cast around, wondering which drill to do.
‘I’m not sure what you want to see,’ he said.
Julia sat on the table near the door next to a bowl of fruit and a water jug. ‘Oh, whatever you normally do.’
‘All right, defence. One the first things we’re taught.’
He was about to pick up a sword and shield, then stopped, removed his jacket and shirt folded them neatly and stacked them in the corner of the room as usual.
‘If I had known it was going to be this kind of show I would have got you to bring me here weeks ago.’
Cory gave her a look through raised eyebrows and found Julia had another mischievous grin on her face. ‘I’ll have to start whistling at you from the audience when you get up to perform.’ He stretched and moved gently for a while, sword and shield in hand, before starting flowing moves. The moves were so familiar they came without thought, feet working in unison with his upper body to maintain balance. Julia tried to imagine an attacker breaking through the defensive whirl of shield and sword. It was as mesmerising and serious as a solo act at the front of an orchestra. The dance came to rest and Cory exchanged the practice sword for another. The new sword was longer and thinner.
‘What is that one for?’
‘Grandfather had it made for me. Light and easy to move — fast, but no use against armour. Getting enough power behind it is hard. It’s good exercise for keeping me light on my feet, though.’
The dance resumed, fast and furious, and after a while it left Cory breathing hard.
He stopped with a laugh. ‘Enough fun.’ Sweat dripped from his nose and hair as he returned sword and shield to the rack. Turning back to Julia, he noticed a look of concern on her face. ‘You all right?’
‘How many people have you killed, Cory?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Oh. What kind of answer are you expecting? Does it bother you I might have killed someone? I am a soldier.’
‘I know but… does it bother you? How many?’
‘There has been no war for me to fight in. My job is here, not on the border dealing with bandits. I have never had to kill anyone. Does it bother me I may do some day? I suppose in a way it does, but I think if it came to it, I would do what I had to do. This diplomatic mission of ours is about trying to avoid war… Apple?’ He offered her one from the fruit bowl on the table where she sat.
The look of concern had departed, leaving behind a calm expression. She bit into the apple. Cory filled two cups, downed one and refilled it from the jug several times before reclaiming his shirt and jacket. Julia sipped at the water Cory had poured for her.
‘I would generally conquer the five towers now. I mean, run up and down the stairs of every tower in the castle. Not very sociable, so I won’t this time. I’ll show you the view from the Great Hall.’
Making their way along cooler corridors, they climbed stairways and entered a place where history was made. The Great Hall was quiet, dusty and growing dim in the orange light of late afternoon. Cory stood at the main window overlooking Beldon Valley, then realised Julia had not followed.
Standing in front of the fireplace, she had
her hands on her hips as she looked up at a large painting hanging there. Admiring the curves her trousers flattered so well, Cory slipped his shirt back on. Hues of orange, yellow and red dominated the painting. Exquisite in detail, it was an artist’s labour of love. At the bottom, on the ground beneath the feet of a warrior, lay blue-green robes in a heap. A man’s face with a deathly countenance looked out from under them. Bursting out of the fire came a beast with long fingers and claws like knives. Its mouth was crammed with long, sharp teeth. It had black eyes, a thin body and legs too small for the overall size of the creature. It was hard to say from the picture which was more fearsome, the beast or the man it towered over. Armour was torn from his bloodied right arm and a sword was raised in his left hand. The sword with a yellow eye-like jewel. The man was half bald with is hair on fire. Cory slipped his hands around Julia’s waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.
‘My grandfather. Many a soldier comes to see this picture and leaves inspired.’
‘What happened to the mage on the ground? Is he dead?’
‘I have no memory of him, but I’m told he was taken from the battlefield alive and spent a long time in the church hospital. He was never the same again. We called the creatures Rippers.’
‘My uncle did this,’ she murmured.
‘Why?’ Cory asked.
‘I don’t understand him. I’m not sure my father understands him, but he is king and people obey.’
‘Can’t your father talk to him, try to understand him?’
‘I think my father has become afraid of him. He says he has become… I don’t know the word. Afraid people are against him. He makes his grip on the people stronger with fear. He accuses people of treason too easily. I don’t believe my father wants war. It is why he encourages trade.’
They were silent for a while, just looking, then Cory spoke again. ‘Conquer your fears and reach for your desires — that’s what Grandfather always said.’
The General's Legacy_Part One_Inheritance Page 9