by David B. Coe
Mitt didn’t often back down from a fight. He wasn’t particularly strong, nor did he wield the most potent of Qirsi magics, but he could hold his own against most men. Uestem, however, was one of the Weaver’s chancellors, which not only meant that he had tremendous influence within the movement, but also that he was a fairly powerful sorcerer. He wasn’t a man to be crossed, and both of them knew it.
The barkeep shrugged. “He’s been in here a lot recently, drinking several ales at a time. Thorald golden, not the Galdasten swill. I told him today that I thought he should drink less, and be a bit more frugal in his choice of ales, lest someone take notice of all the gold he’s spending in my tavern. He didn’t like me telling him what to do, but I expect he’ll be more careful the next time he’s here.”
“You did the right thing.”
“Thank you.”
“But you made him angry, more than you know.”
Something in the man’s voice . . . It suddenly seemed that the air in his tavern had grown cold. Uestem hadn’t moved, but Mitt had to resist an impulse to back away from him. “But surely the Weaver will understand—”
“The Weaver is the least of your troubles, Mitt. Pillad went to the duke and accused you of treason. Even as we speak, Renald’s men are gathering in the castle ward, preparing to come here and arrest you.”
“I don’t believe you. Pillad would have spoken to his duke hours ago. Why would Renald wait until now?”
“I don’t really know. Perhaps he feared sending his men into a tavern full of white-hairs, not knowing which of them he could trust and which were with the conspiracy.”
Actually it made a great deal of sense. Gods, it was freezing in here. “Doesn’t Pillad realize that I’ll do to him exactly what he’s done to me? If I’m to hang as a traitor, he will as well.”
“I’m not certain that Pillad thought this through very carefully, Mitt. He was angry, and he needed to prove his loyalty to the duke. Knowing Pillad as you do, are you surprised that he couldn’t see beyond his wounded pride and his fear of Renald?”
The barkeep’s stomach heaved. “You won’t let them hurt me, will you, Uestem? I’ve served the Weaver well. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”
“Yes you have, Mitt.”
“Take me onto your ship! I can serve as one of your crew. They’ll never think to look for me there.”
Uestem gave a sad shake of his head. “I’m afraid that would be too great of a risk. You may be right: they might never look there. But if they did, and if they found you, it would endanger far more than one life. It might destroy the movement. I don’t mean to boast, but I’m quite important to the Weaver and his cause. You understand.”
Mitt nodded, tried to swallow but couldn’t.
“But neither can we allow you to be taken by Renald’s men. I don’t wish to see you tortured, Mitt.”
A different kind of fear gripped his heart. “I wouldn’t say anything about you, Uestem. When I said that I’d do that to Pillad, I meant just him. Not you. Certainly not the Weaver.”
“I know that. But torture does strange things to people. And to be honest with you, Pillad is valuable to us. He wasn’t before, but he’s made himself important again.” Once more, Uestem smiled, and at the same time he reached out and grabbed the barkeep’s hair with a powerful hand. An instant later, his other hand was at Mitt’s throat. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”
“Uestem, no!” he sobbed.
“This will be quick. I swear it.”
He didn’t even have time to struggle. His eyes closed, his heart hammering in his chest, he felt nothing, and heard only the snapping of bone.
Chapter
Fourteen
Dantrielle, Aneira
ehind you, my lord!”
Tebeo spun, his sword arcing downward, intending to cleave his second attacker in half from shoulder to gut. The soldier danced away, avoiding his blade, and the duke allowed his momentum to carry him all the way around so that he faced the other soldier once more.
Let them think on that! he thought with some satisfaction. I may look like a fat old man, but I’ve some fight left in me still.
As if intent on proving him wrong, the man in front of him lunged forward, sword held high, his dagger hand leveling a killing blow at Tebeo’s side. The duke wrenched himself down and away from both blades, stumbled and fell heavily on his side. Fortunately, one of Dantrielle’s men was there to meet the assault and drive back the Solkaran soldier. It was the second time in the last few moments that Tebeo had needed aid from one of his soldiers just to stay alive.
A small group of Solkarans had caught them unawares, apparently entering the castle through a sally port that had been left unguarded. Bausef DarLesta, his master of arms, had taken several men to secure the entry, leaving Tebeo and perhaps two dozen soldiers to deal with the intruders. It was more than enough men—they outnumbered the Solkarans by nearly two to one—but Tebeo’s mistakes had forced the other men of Dantrielle to fight not only for their own lives, but for his as well. He should have found a way to retreat, to allow his soldiers to take care of the enemy and be done with it. But pride held him there.
There had been a time when Tebeo was thought to be one of the finest swordsmen in the realm. Back in the days when Tomaz the Ninth still ruled in Solkara, and Aneiran soldiers raised their steel against one another only in contests of skill, Tebeo had fought in his fair share of battle tournaments. Most considered Vidor of Tounstrel the land’s best—certainly he won the lion’s share of the competitions, though Tebeo had long thought that Bertin, the old duke of Noltierre, was Vidor’s equal—but when the betting began, there were always a few who chose to risk their hard-earned gold on Tebeo, and on more than a few occasions their faith in him had been rewarded.
Those days seemed centuries gone. The duke felt old, sluggish, like a plow horse that’s been worked too hard. He could still see the battle in all its intricacies, but too many years and too many castle feasts had taken their toll. He recognized feints, but he couldn’t adjust swiftly enough to guard himself against the true attack. He saw openings, weaknesses in the defenses of his opponent, but he couldn’t strike quickly enough to exploit them. In a sense, even the strengths that had come to him with advanced age worked against him. He remembered the excitement of old battle tournaments, the surge of strength and alacrity that used lo come wilh it. And he saw much the same thing in the young soldiers he commanded. Warriors had a name for it: battle fury. But Tebeo was too wise to succumb to such emotions, even knowing that they might fuel his fighting and counterbalance some of what he had lost to age. This war was destroying them, weakening the realm when it most needed to be strong, giving aid to Qirsi enemies who needed none.
The second Solkaran soldier advanced on the duke again, his sword and short blade raised. Tebeo scrambled to his feet and readied his steel, his eyes darting to the left and right. All of his men who were close enough to come to his rescue were engaged in combat. He’d have no help with this fight.
The Solkaran, a large, yellow-haired man with small dark eyes and a drooping mustache, gave a harsh grin, seeming to sense this as well. He closed the distance between them with one great stride and leveled a blow at Tebeo’s head. Looking for any advantage, Tebeo tried a trick Bertin had once used against him. Just as the man committed to his attack, Tebeo switched his sword to his left hand, turning his stance just enough to throw off the timing of the Solkaran’s assault. The big man’s sword whistled harmlessly past Tebeo’s head. And as it did Tebeo hacked at the man’s shoulder with his own blade. The soldier’s mail shirt absorbed most of the blow and kept Tebeo’s sword from drawing blood, but the Solkaran was staggered and when he faced the duke again, his grin was gone.
He wasted no time beginning his next assault, though he advanced more cautiously this time, and aimed his strike at the center of Tebeo’s chest, giving the duke no opportunity to turn a second time. Instead, he was forced to block the man’s blade with his
own, the force of the blow numbing Tebeo’s arm and shoulder. The Solkaran raised his sword to strike again, the grin returning when he saw Tebeo back away. The duke flexed the fingers on his sword hand, trying to get some feeling to return. He took another step back, but came up against the castle wall. Seeing this, perhaps sensing that the end was at hand, the Solkaran launched himself at the duke. Their swords met again and Tebeo’s entire body seemed to shudder with the impact. Rather than stepping back to strike at him again, the Solkaran continued to press forward, crushing Tebeo against the stone, pinning the duke’s sword beneath his own. Tebeo could feel the man’s breath on his face, and even as he tried to free his own dagger, he sensed that the Solkaran was doing the same.
They struggled for several moments, silent save for the rasp of their breathing. And just as Tebeo managed to wrap his fingers around the hilt of his dagger, he saw the man’s arm fly free, steel glinting in the sunlight like the wing of a dragonfly. Then the arm angled downward, a blur of steel and mail and flesh, and Tebeo felt a searing pain in his side. His body sagged, though he fought to stay on his feet. The soldier stepped back, raising his sword again, the other hand empty, save for a smear of blood on the crescent between his thumb and forefinger. Tebeo tried to raise his own blade to ward himself, but it was all he could do not to tumble onto his side. The flesh under his right arm was ablaze; he felt himself growing light-headed. He heard someone call out to him from what seemed a great distance, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the man standing before him. The Solkaran, with his sword over his head, ready to smite the duke like some warrior god, and a blood stain on his hand that looked oddly like red Ilias early in the waxing.
Tebeo expected to die then. He wondered how the siege would end, whether Bausef and his men would give in to Numar of Solkara, or whether this civil war would continue, perhaps with Brall or one of the others taking up the cause. He thought of Pelgia and their children, and he nearly cried out with his grief at having failed them. All of this in the span of a single heartbeat, as the Solkaran began to bring down his sword for the killing blow.
But then another figure came into view, also a blur, though the duke recognized the colors of his own house, gold, red, and black. This second man crashed into the Solkaran, knocking him off balance, causing the sword to fly from his hand and clatter harmlessly against the wall beside Tebeo’s head. The two soldiers fell to the ground and began to struggle. Almost instantly a third man joined them, and then a fourth, both of them wearing the colors of Dantrielle. Still another man rushed to Tebeo’s side, crouching beside him, a stricken look on his youthful face.
“I’m all right,” the duke muttered, though he knew he wasn’t. “Don’t kill him.”
“My lord?”
“The Solkaran. I don’t want him killed.”
“But my lord . . .” The man shook his head and gestured at Tebeo’s side, forcing the duke to look there. The Solkaran’s blade jutted from between his ribs and his surcoat was stained crimson. He closed his eyes and clamped his teeth against a wave of nausea.
“I don’t care. I want him alive. We learn nothing if he dies.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The man shouted something to the others.
Tebeo closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the stone, and for some time he was aware only of voices shouting around him and the sun on his face.
“The healer’s here, my lord.”
Tebeo started awake, as if from a deep slumber, though when he opened his eyes he found that he was still in the castle ward, leaning against the castle wall. He glanced around slowly, and saw the Solkaran standing nearby, his arms pinned at his sides by a pair of Tebeo’s soldiers. There was a cut over the man’s eye, and another on his cheek, but otherwise he appeared unharmed.
“Drink this, my lord.”
A Qirsi face loomed before him, pale and bony, yellow eyes like those of a wolf. The healer held out a cup containing a steaming, foul-smelling liquid.
“No,” Tebeo said. “Where’s Evanthya?”
“The first minister is on her way, my lord. But you must drink this. It will help you rest, and that will allow me to heal your wound.”
“I don’t know you.”
The man frowned. “You should, my lord. I’m Qerban. I’ve served as a healer in Castle Dantrielle for more than six years.”
Tebeo narrowed his eyes. Perhaps there was something familiar about him. “You’re still Qirsi.”
“Yes, my lord. And you’re dying. You’re losing far too much blood. If it’s poison you’re worrying about, you have no need. If I wanted you dead, I’d just let that dagger do its work and be done with it. Now please, my lord. Drink this, and let me help you.”
Tebeo nodded, and reached for the cup. But before he could take it in hand, he felt his world pitch and roll, and closing his eyes once more, he fell back into darkness.
When next the duke awoke, he was in his bedchamber. Pelgia sat beside him, holding his hand in hers, worry written in the lines on her face. Her dark eyes were dry, but that was her way.
Evanthya was there as well, looking small and pale. The healer stood beside her, his expression unreadable.
“I take it I’m going to live,” the duke said.
Qerban grinned. “It would seem so, my lord.”
“Then I have you to thank.”
“I’m a healer, my lord,” the man said with a shrug. “It’s what I do.”
“I owe you an apology.”
“You were hurt, my lord. You hardly knew what you were saying.”
“I knew well enough.” His eyes flicked to Evanthya, who had lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry, healer. And I thank you for my life.”
“Of course, my lord. There’s more of my brew on the table beside your bed. Drink it all, and rest. You should be able to leave your bed in the morning, but no more combat for a few days. I healed the wound, but your body needs time to recover the blood you lost.”
Tebeo nodded, saying nothing. Healers were always prescribing more rest than was necessary.
The Qirsi smirked, as if he could read the duke’s thoughts. After a moment he bowed and left the chamber.
Pelgia lifted the cup of brew from Tebeo’s table and held it out to him. Seeing the face he made, she smiled archly. “You heard him, Tebeo. All of it. And if you argue, I’ll have him prepare more.”
Reluctantly, the duke took the cup from her and drank, nearly gagging on the stuff. He tried to hand it back to her, but Pelgia merely stared at him until he downed the rest of it. Glancing toward the open window, he saw that it was night. Ward fires still burned atop the castle walls, but he heard nothing unusual.
“What’s the time?” he asked.
Evanthya looked up. “It’s nearly time for the gate close, my lord.”
“I was out that long?”
The first minister nodded.
“What of the Solkaran?”
“He’s alive, held in your dungeon.”
“I don’t want him in the dungeon. Have him moved up into the prison tower.”
“Are you certain, my lord? The master of arms insisted that it be the dungeon.”
“Bausef put him there because of what the man did to me. To have done less would have been . . . inappropriate. But the man is Aneiran, just as we are. He was ordered by his sovereign to quell a rebellion, and that’s what he was trying to do. Our quarrel is with Numar, not with the Solkaran people or their army, nor with the soldiers of any other house for that matter. He may be our prisoner, but he deserves to be treated with some courtesy. I’ll question him myself in the morning. Please see to it, First Minister.”
Evanthya bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
When the minister had gone, Tebeo faced Pelgia again. “Sorry if I gave you a scare.”
She gave a small smile, looking lovely in the candlelight. “By the time I’d heard anything, the healer was already quite certain that you’d live. But the children are a bit shaken.”
“Well,
bring them in. It might do them good to see me.”
The duchess shook her head. “In the morning. The healer told you to rest. I intend to make certain that you do as you’re told.”
“Surely seeing the children—”
“Tomorrow,” she said, more firmly this time.
Tebeo grinned. “Yes, my lady.”
She patted his hand and stood. “Rest awhile. I’ll have some food brought in shortly.”
“Where are you going?”
“To tell the children that you’re all right. I’ll be back soon.”
He watched her go, then lay back against his pillow, closing his eyes and savoring the remembered touch of her fingers. His side ached dully and he felt weak, but he had been fortunate this day. Had the Solkaran’s dagger found something more vital, or had the man managed to plunge his blade into Tebeo’s side a second time, the duke would surely be dead.
This is what becomes of fat old men who fancy themselves warriors. No more fighting for me. That’s why Dantrielle has an army.
He felt an unexpected pang of regret at the thought that his days as a swordsman were over, but he knew that this was the right decision. Not only had he risked his own life this day; he had also endangered the men who had been forced to rush to his defense time after time.
After several moments he began to doze off, only to be tugged back awake by a knock at his door. Pelgia.
“Enter,” he called sleepily, not even bothering to open his eyes.
He heard the door open and close, and the soft scrape of a boot on stone.
“My lord.” A man’s voice.
Tebeo opened his eyes and, seeing Bausef standing near the door, sat up too quickly. His head spun.
“Are you all right, my lord? Perhaps I should return later.”
“No, armsmaster, I’m fine.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds, then opened them again. The spinning of the chamber seemed to slow somewhat. “What do you want?”
“The first minister told me that you wanted the Solkaran moved to the tower. I wasn’t certain that I believed her—I wanted to hear it from you before doing anything.”