by Doug Niles
“And?” The lord marshal’s tone was bored.
“And”—Frankish, a Lord of the Order of the Rose, stiffened—“I am afraid I must insist that you tell me why you would like to meet with the Princess Selinda.”
“Ask her yourself … after I’m finished,” Jaymes replied. “If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you.”
“Do you understand, my lord, that my interest in the matter is more than casual?” The lord’s tone was as oily as his mustache. But he was a warrior, and it seemed to take a real effort of will for him not to strike out at the lord marshal.
“I don’t really care what your interest is. I’m not discussing my affairs with you. Good evening.”
Jaymes stalked away. Lord Frankish stood in place for a long time, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he watched the departing figure of the lord marshal.
Lord Regent Bakkard du Chagne was standing at his desk, staring impassively at the door that an attendant opened to admit Jaymes. “Hello, Lord Marshal,” du Chagne said warily. “How fares the campaign against the horde?”
Jaymes shrugged. “As you know, it would be going better if I had use of the Palanthian Legion. Two thousand more knights, with infantry, would probably be enough to turn the tide.”
Du Chagne shook his head. “I’ve told you before—it’s out of the question. They’re my only remaining reserve, and if I send them to the plains, I’ll leave this great city all but undefended.” He offered a reptilian smile. “I will speak to Lord Frankish, to see if he can spare a few companies, however.”
“Don’t bother. I can guess where he stands.”
The lord marshal sat in one of the regent’s comfortable armchairs and helped himself to a cigar from the humidor on the table by the fireplace. He leaned forward and lit the cigar off of an ember from the fading fire. Du Chagne took the adjacent chair, helping himself to a cigar as well. For a moment the two men sat in silence, a cloud of smoke surrounding them until it gradually began to be drawn up the chimney.
“I could make the same arguments that I’ve been making for a year,” Jaymes said with forced casualness. “That the only threat to this city is Ankhar’s army, the force that I’m facing on the plains. That your knights are growing fat and lazy here and need some battle time to remind them who they are and why they exist. But I won’t make those arguments. Not tonight.”
“I’m pleased that you have started to see the matter through my eyes,” du Chagne noted, smiling. “After all, you have three armies under your command already. And it’s simply not wise to put all of our troops too far away from the base of our power … which is here, of course, in Palanthas. And you know, as to funding, of course I will continue to meet your payroll needs. Here in the city we’re all grateful for the job you and your men are doing—truly we are. But it’s—”
“I’m not making those arguments tonight because I didn’t come here to see you,” Jaymes interrupted sharply. “I knew that would have been a waste of time.”
Du Chagne’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you come here, then?”
“I came to see your daughter. I just stopped in your office for appearance’s sake. We both know that there’s no point in going over the same ground we’ve been debating for the last year.”
“My daughter?” The lord regent was nonplussed. He stood up, puffing his cigar until a furious coal glowed at the end then paced over toward his desk. He paused and turned to face his visitor. “Listen to me, Jaymes. I want you to stay away from her!”
Jaymes stood up. “I’m happy to hear it. Because I also came here to give you a message regarding your daughter: Your wishes are of no concern to me,” he said.
Du Chagne’s eyes suddenly flicked to the door, and the lord marshal turned to see Lord Frankish and a lord knight dressed in a white tunic with the Kingfisher emblem. Jaymes recognized the magic-user by reputation, though the two men had never met. The two strode into the office unannounced but clearly welcomed by the lord regent.
“Ah, my lords!” declared du Chagne, obviously relieved. “Welcome. Lord Marshal, this is Sir Russel Moorvan of the Kingfishers.” The regent waved absently at the white-clad lord, who regarded Jaymes with an odd smile of curved lips.
“Your reputation precedes you, Lord Marshal,” said the magic-using knight.
“I see that you arrived safely from Sancrist,” Jaymes said wryly. Moorvan flushed—the placid waters from Sancrist to Palanthas offered one of the most secure sea routes of Ansalon.
“Several of my companies are arriving shortly. I intend to have one of them join your units in the field,” the mage declared icily. “If they would be welcome.”
Jaymes nodded, his eyebrows raised. “I can use men who can fight—whether with swords or sorcery.”
“Magic. Sorcery is the purview of those who do not honor the three moons,” Moorvan clarified. His hands danced before him, fingers entwining and untangling as if making a subtle demonstration. His eyes, cold and aloof, never left Jaymes’s face.
“In any event, by all means, send them to the front as soon as you can.”
“I believe, my Lord Marshal, that you were about to report to the lord regent about the state of affairs in the field. I should like to hear,” the wizard said softly. His eyes were warm now, even friendly, and Jaymes blinked, trying to assess the situation.
Then, with a shrug, he nodded and with a wave of his cigar, began to outline the situation: His three armies were gathering on the Vingaard, ready to strike a combined blow eastward in an attempt the break the siege of Solanthus. He described the placements of his forces and those of the enemy, as far as was known. He deliberately refrained from inviting their suggestions as to strategy.
In fact, the lord regent and his companions asked several perfunctory questions before surprising Jaymes by pronouncing themselves pleased with matters. Jaymes struggled to focus on their words, feeling that he was missing something—but what?
“Thank you,” du Chagne said. He stood, bowed, and gestured the lord marshal to the door. “Now if you will excuse us?”
Jaymes nodded, happy to leave. He departed the hall, collected his white horse from the stable, mounted the animal, and rode back toward Coryn’s house. His mind was strangely vacant; it was as though he were riding in a dream, unaware of his surroundings.
It wasn’t until he talked to Coryn later that he figured out what had happened.
The lord regent retreated to his private drawing room, lamplight gleaming from the windows of a single large room high up in the sprawling palace. This was the sanctuary du Chagne used to retreat from the myriad pressures, concerns, and complications of his office. The room was stoutly barred and when he was not present, securely locked. Whenever he was here, two burly axemen—lifelong veterans of the Palanthian Legion, sworn to serve du Chagne—stood on guard outside the door.
Inside the room were three other men. The temperature in the drawing room was stifling, for the day had been hot and the flames of the many oil lamps added warmth to the chamber. Nevertheless, the lord steadfastly refused to open the windows, and his guests, each a trusted subordinate, had long ago learned not to ask.
“They spy upon me whenever they can!” said du Chagne. “The White Witch seeks to know my every plan and intention, and the marshal has agents everywhere in the city—I’m sure of it! This is why I had you inspect, by magic, every inch of this room!”
“Of course, Excellency,” Sir Moorvan replied in a soothing voice. “And there are no threats now.”
Du Chagne nodded, not entirely convinced. “Even so, we will open no window, allow no gap that will ease their espionage by a single whit!”
The other three men exchanged glances. Sometimes du Chagne’s excessive caution verged on the absurd. On this night, however, he had good cause for his paranoia.
“The lord marshal arrived in the palace this evening, hours ago.” The chubby, balding regent continued to fume, pacing back and forth before one of the lofty windows. He was staring at the
third man, the high priest of the Knight Clerists, for the other two in attendance had been privy to Jaymes Markham’s presence in the palace.
Du Chagne stared out the window, his soft hands curling into fists. His city sprawled below him, mostly dark but brightened by the street lamps in the wealthier districts and by torches and other fires that glittered from tavern windows and from the guildhalls that were common gathering places. These were mere flickers in the vast, inky darkness.
A bell, probably on the temple of Shinare, dolefully tolled the eleventh hour.
“I must say he was insolent, contemptuous as usual. And he left only under persuasion—magical persuasion—from our Kingfisher here.”
Moorvan shrugged modestly. “I merely clouded his thoughts for a little while, causing him to forget why he had come here.”
“You cast a spell on him?” Inquisitor Frost, the Knight Clerist, expressed mingled surprise and admiration, but his expression was scolding. “Surely he will not let this insult go unchallenged!”
“Bah—I have greater things to worry about than insults to the lord marshal’s dignity,” the lord regent interjected snappishly. “He announced his intentions to see my daughter, and as soon as he comes out of his mental fog, he is bound to return!”
“My lord!” Lord Frankish leaped to his feet in unseemly agitation. “I must protest! He cannot be allowed to sully the reputation of the Princess Selinda!”
“No, I agree, Frankish. He certainly cannot. Who can guess his plans? He could at this moment be scheming to send some kind of secret message to my daughter. I admit she has had a soft spot for him, ever since he was acquitted of his crimes.”
“If you wish, my lord,” offered the Kingfisher. Sir Russell Moorvan was late of the order of White-Robed Mages but recently had been appointed as the new master of the order of Solamnic Auxiliary Mages—the Kingfishers. “It would be a simple matter to cast an enchantment such that we will be able to observe the princess in her chambers, here in the palace. If you could but provide me with a mirror, or even a bowl filled with clean water—”
“That’s enough!” squawked du Chagne. “Spying, spying! Too much spying. I will not have you spying on my daughter!”
“Very well. I apologize, my lord,” said Moorvan with a gracious bow.
“But we have to do something!” declared Lord Frankish peevishly. “The lord marshal grows too bold; he is a rogue and an upstart. Today he menaces your daughter. Tomorrow he may menace all of us. How do we know that he won’t bring his army over the mountains and lay siege to us after he has finished with Ankhar and Solanthus.”
“We don’t. And that is precisely why I have called you here tonight,” the lord regent said. “He must be stopped!”
“There are several ways we could proceed,” Moorvan began, choosing his words carefully. “Of course, public perception must be taken into consideration. And timing. But I suggest that while have an opportunity to, we act now, while he is here in Palanthas.”
“Can’t you just order him arrested?” asked Frankish. “He does represent the Army of Solamnia, after all, and as such, should be expected to hold to the traditions of the knighthood. Everyone knows he blatantly ignores the tenets of the Oath and the Measure. We could challenge him on his disgrace to the knighthood.”
“No,” du Chagne answered curtly, shaking his head. “Nothing would be more certain to inflame the people to support him.”
“Perhaps a more direct approach, then?” said the Kingfisher. “Some of my agents have, of necessity, established contacts with some of the more unsavory elements of our fair city—those who lurk in the darker sections of the waterfront. It has been reported to me, for example, that there is even a fledgling Assassin’s Guild taking shape.…”
Again, du Chagne shook his head. “He is alert to treachery. I am familiar with a case—one of the late dukes was to blame, of course—where an assassin tried to waylay him. Even though Jaymes Markham was chained and a prisoner of the knighthood at the time, he succeeded in vanquishing the killer and making his escape. All around it was an embarrassment to those”—he coughed nervously—“involved.”
“Er, yes, I had heard something of that as well,” said the magic-using Kingfisher. “At the time, he was suspected of being the Assassin of Lorimar, was he not? He’s a slippery one, that’s for sure.” He chuckled almost admiringly.
“Don’t you have anything to suggest, mage?” demanded Frankish.
“I suggest we continue to cast the lord marshal in an unfavorable light so that public opinion gradually turns against him. Your speech at the recent harvest festival, Excellency, did a nice job of laying the groundwork. The people grow weary from the long war; certainly, they are tired of paying for that war. And it is well known that the lord marshal rose to his current position without birthright, without noble entitlement.”
“No—unfortunately it was a matter of acclamation by the knights, after he had saved the army from Duke Walker’s ineptitude,” the Clerist said. “Really, it was a simple matter of momentary popularity. And he is certainly popular.”
“Unfortunately,” du Chagne said, “his popularity shows no signs of waning.”
“All the more reason why we should not delay. If he returns to the front, benefits from some good fortune on the part of his troops, some signal victory, the marshal will be the people’s darling.” Moorvan stood and paced. “That cannot be allowed. We must arrange to have him removed, at least from his position of power, and possibly more.”
“We decided that assassination is out of the question,” the priest noted dryly. “At least, this was His Excellency’s firm position!”
“Yes!” du Chagne said. “The risks—to us—are too great!”
The thin-faced magic-user gazed pensively at Lord Frankish. “You, my lord, are among those who would court the fair daughter of our regent, are you not?”
“The fact is well known! But what does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s just that … if anything should impugn the honor of the princess … well, it seems to me that she might need a loyal and accomplished champion to defend her honor. That might supply an honorable solution to this whole predicament.”
“You mean, take on Jaymes Markham in a duel?” demanded Frankish. He stood and paced toward the door. Dueling was rare in Palanthas, but it had a long tradition in Solamnic culture. It was structured around ritualized combat and frequently resulted in the death—or at least crippling—of the loser. It was a testament to the lord’s courage—and to the fervor of his interest in the Princess Selinda—that he did not immediately discount the idea.
“Do you think I could defeat him?” the Rose lord asked.
“You’re an accomplished swordsman, certainly.” It was the Kingfisher who spoke for the group. “Given matching weapons, a fair fight, you would have a very good chance.”
“But only a chance!” the Clerist protested.
Frankish stretched to his full height—he was a big man, broad shouldered and formidable—and addressed the lord regent. “I am not afraid of the marshal,” he said. “If it is your wish, my lord, that I issue this challenge—”
“I can’t afford to lose you!” snapped du Chagne.
“No, indeed, we—none of us—could afford to lose our esteemed General Frankish.” The Kingfisher spoke soothingly. His eyes narrowed as he scratched his chin, staring at Lord Frost. “My dear Clerist—would it be possible for you to research this matter in the temple archives? The last duel under the knighthood’s rule was many decades ago, but it would be useful to learn the nuances. You could clarify the rules and the risks.”
“Certainly, if it is my lord’s wish.”
“Please,” du Chagne said. “I would consider it a personal favor if you would investigate this matter at once.”
“Of course, my lord. It is my pleasure to serve.” The priest rose from his chair, bowed, and left the room. The lord regent spoke again as soon as the door closed behind him.
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nbsp; “Think, now! A duel is too dangerous. We need a better plan, something more assured of success.”
“Begging the lord regent’s pardon,” the Kingfisher said quietly. “I had not finished outlining my plan. But I don’t think we need bother the lord Clerist with the details.”
“Hmm, I see.” Du Chagne was intrigued. “Go on.”
“I think our Rose Lord Frankish could be furnished with the means to win this duel in a way that will remain undetected. As you know, part of the dueling ritual requires that opponents be armed with identical weapons, and that an impartial judge and at least two wizards are present to ensure that neither party makes use of any magical device.”
“Yes, I know all that,” the regent said impatiently.
The Kingfisher refused to be hurried. “I suggest that I cast upon our lord here a spell of haste, before the fight. If he is reasonably subtle in its employment, such that he limits himself to slight improvements in his normal reflexes, attack speeds, parries, and so forth, no one ought to notice the enchantment. But it will provide him with enough of an advantage that he could block every blow directed at him and—eventually, after putting on a convincing show for the judge—enable him to make the killing thrust. I didn’t feel the Clerist would care for my little subterfuge and thought it best to send him on a little errand while we discussed things.”
“Hmm, but what about the other wizard? The White Witch will surely be alert for any treachery.”
“A spell is not like a magical device. There is no detection she will be able to conjure that will indicate Lord Frankish is the beneficiary of a haste spell. It will depend upon your discretion, of course,” the Kingfisher noted, turning his attention to the lord. “If you move about in a blur, she will suspect—so, as I said, subtlety will be the key.”
“Can you do that?” asked the lord regent.
“Yes, of course!” replied Frankish. He stood and paced around the room, punching his fist into the palm of his hand. He whirled, shuffled his feet, almost as if he were mentally choreographing his movements in the duel. “I shall challenge him at the first opportunity.”