by Tom Lloyd
Making his way out of the hall, Isak followed the corridor to the terrace that overlooked the suzerain’s formal garden, apparently in the Tor Milist style. Mihn was on his heel, as normal. He crossed the terrace and felt the lush dew-kissed grass underneath his shoes and breathed in the smell of evening blooms.
The suzerain was proud of his gardens, and though the concept remained alien to Isak, who knew nothing of such things, in the warm gloom of twilight and lit by scattered paper lanterns, he had to agree that the sight before him was beautiful. Low yew hedges sectioned off the long garden, each enclosing a different style. Thin swirls of flowerbeds cut paths through the grass, blazing with the colours of summer, but it was the stillness that Isak savoured the most.
A dwarf apple tree the height of Isak’s chest stood at the centre of a piece of lawn, flanked by slender stone birdbaths. Resting the decanter on the nearest, Isak fumbled in his pocket for Carel’s tobacco pouch; the countess had forbidden it to the veteran. Soon, the thick smell of pipe-smoke was drifting through the slender branches of the apple tree and fading to nothing in the darkening sky. Isak inspected the snow-white skin of his hand. It hadn’t changed at all since the battle in Narkang, where lightning had burned the colour from it. Not even weeks of riding with it exposed to the sun had tanned it.
‘Had you planned that?’ asked Mihn quietly, having checked for anyone who might overhear their conversation.
‘Of course.’
‘Then why did Lady Tila and the count look quite so surprised?’
Isak sighed. ‘Because I’d not planned to announce it quite like that. Did it just sound like the ranting of a drunk?’
Mihn shook his head. ‘No, it was a little more eloquent. There will be serious opposition, though, even from your supporters.’
‘Good, that’s the point.’ Isak jabbed the pipe towards the high roof of the hall. ‘Most of the Farlan legions are led by fat, contented old men. If they object to a trip to Tirah, they’ll be of no use on campaign. They need waking up, Mihn, our blades have become dulled.’
‘What threat is it you want them to be ready for?’ Mihn sounded unconcerned, but Isak could tell the man was worried by the fact they were conversing at all. He would go several days on end without speaking a word to Isak - when Mihn deemed conversation necessary, Isak knew that he’d damned well better pay attention.
‘Take your pick. I don’t think there’s any way to tell yet, but Lord Bahl wasn’t killed by accident. If Morghien and King Emin are to be believed, this is all some artifice of Azaer’s - or it might be Lord Styrax, building himself an empire. And we must not give the White Circle time to regroup - they all add up to one thing: we must be prepared for war.’
‘You intend to punish the White Circle?’
Isak shrugged. ‘They brought the fight to us; what can I do except strike back?’
‘There are ways to strike back that don’t involve razing Scree and Helrect to the ground.’
‘Is that what you’re worried about? My lack of proportion?’ Isak took a sip of wine and screwed up his face. The wine didn’t go with the bitter soldier’s tobacco Carel preferred. He turned to look Mihn in the eye: the northerner’s usual passivity was gone completely and he matched Isak’s gaze without blinking or turning away as he normally would.
‘Spreading chaos on our borders may not serve you well, not if chaos is what your enemies want. If there is another way to deal with the Circle, will you promise to consider it?’
Isak blinked. ‘That’s the first time you’ve asked me for anything.’
‘All I ask is that you do not start the war, that you do not let yourself be goaded into fighting on the wrong front.’
After a moment’s pause, Isak held out his arm for Mihn to take. ‘All you’re asking is for me to promise to act sensibly; it’s a more than fair request.’ The smaller man bobbed his head in acknowledgement, returning to his customary reserve.
Isak stopped, hand still gripped about Mihn’s forearm, and looked Mihn straight in the eye. Curiosity flickered over Mihn’s face, but he had patience enough to outlast a glacier. Isak looked away briefly, then rubbed his hand over his face, as if to sober up a little more.
‘You might not like what else I’ve decided quite so much.’ He could almost feel the quiet of the night, and found himself peering around at the shadows, unwilling to continue until he was sure they were not being spied on. He couldn’t feel anything; it was only his muzzy brain and his innate sense of caution.
‘I want you and Morghien to fetch Xeliath for me, to bring her back to Tirah. It won’t be long until someone works out her part in what happened, and when that happens, she’ll not live long. She knows Morghien, and you, I assume, can speak Yeetatchen. I have no one else I could ask such a thing of.’
Mihn was quiet for a moment, then he bowed his head. ‘If she is that important to you, I will do it.’
‘I don’t know how important she is to me,’ Isak said honestly. ‘I’ve only spoken to her a handful of times. All I know is that she’ll be another casualty of my existence - of my twisted destiny - if I leave her to her own fate. The blood of another innocent on my hands.’
He took a draw on the pipe, only to find it was out. He jabbed his thumb into the pipe bowl and hissed as he discovered the embers were hotter than he’d expected. He wiped his thumb on his tunic, leaving a smear of ash on the white fabric. ‘Speaking of blood on my hands, it’s time to check on Carel.’
CHAPTER 5
‘Xomejx? That’s a long way to go for a girl you hardly know,’ Morghien said. ‘I know she’s a pretty young thing-‘
‘She’s in danger and I can hardly go myself,’ Isak said, raising a hand to cut Morghien off. ‘I need you to go because she knows you, and she can reach your mind.’
‘But I don’t speak Yeetatchen - never been there in all my years of traveling.’
‘Well here’s a chance to correct that oversight. As for the language problems, Mihn is going with you and I’m sure he’ll manage to pick up a few words.’
Isak squinted up at the old wanderer and grinned. He was stretched out on the grass in the suzerain’s private garden, dressed in only a thin shirt and cropped trousers that looked more suitable for a dock worker than a duke. An eight-foot stone wall surrounded the garden, so he’d donned the shirt only when Morghien arrived - he hated displaying the scar on his chest, even to those close to him. Morghien knew the truth about his snow-white left arm, so Isak didn’t worry about trying to keep that from sight.
He had declined the invitation to go hawking with the suzerain and his fellow guests, determined to spend at least one day out of the saddle. Instead, he had spent the morning lying on the grass, a cushion under his head, and a cup of apple juice to hand, enjoying the birds and butterflies swarming over the countess’ flowers. A book lay unopened at his side and a grey-muzzled hunting hound, the suzerain’s favourite, stretched out untidily at his feet. The dog might be too old to go hunting with its master, but it was more than willing to spend a lazy day being pampered by Isak.
Unable to summon the effort to get up properly, Isak indicated Morghien should sit. He was dressed in fresh leathers and a new shirt, a gift from the countess, whose delicate sensibilities were offended by his own filthy, tattered clothes. It was a scrubbed, shaved and nearly presentable Morghien who sat now before Isak, though the overall effect was still one of slightly disheveled elegance. Morghien reminded the white-eye of his Chief Steward, whose fine clothes always looked untidy and rumpled, simply because he was the one wearing them. And that’s not the only similarity, Isak thought. Perhaps I should keep Morghien with me just to keep Lesarl off-balance when I return to Tirah.
Morghien cupped the hound’s whiskery muzzle in his hand and wiped a trace of sleep from the corner of its eye with a deft movement. ‘I’ve not visited the Yeetatchen for a reason. They don’t like outsiders - they are a most inhospitable people.’
‘Do you think I would be more welcome?’
‘It’s not a political delegation - if Lord Leteil discovers why you’re there, he’ll kill you both, along with Xeliath.’
‘You are sure of that?’
‘He’s a white-eye, isn’t he? Xeliath has a Crystal Skull, and if he finds out about that I can’t see any other possible outcome, can you? It’s not going to be easy, but I am quite sure you could think of something that might compensate you for the trouble.’
‘Rewards are no good to a dead man,’ snorted Morghien. He ran a hand through his own grey hair, as rough and wiry as the dog’s coat.
‘Don’t die then!’ Isak snapped back. ‘You’ve managed it thus far! I wasn’t offering you gold - though that’s easily given if it’s all you want - I assumed you’d want some sort of a favour in return.’
‘You assume you have something I want,’ Morghien replied coolly.
‘Correct. I don’t know exactly what your relationship with King Emin is, but I know you’ve got plans for the future, and I suspect my involvement would be helpful. Just what you are up to is your own business - for the time being, at least. I’m caught up in quite enough plots as it is.’ He sighed. ‘I assume it has something to do with Azaer, so I think we would both benefit from our alliance.’ He felt rather than saw Morghien tense at the name.
The dog whined as Isak pulled himself to a seating position. His massive body cast a shadow that almost completely enveloped the wanderer. ‘Decide now whether you want my friendship or not. Emin already has, but I’ve yet to decide which one of you is truly in control of whatever bargain you two have going. I suspect you were - Emin said you met before he took over Narkang, and that happened when he was my age - but that man’s too clever to still be taking anyone’s orders for long. So enough of the games. I need this of you. Will you do it?’ Isak spat in his hand and held it out.
After a moment of consideration, Morghien did the same and they shook on the strange bargain. Despite the warmth of day, Morghien’s leathery hand felt chill to the touch.
‘If we must go, let it be soon,’ Morghien called to Mihn, who was standing in the shade of the doorway. ‘Storm season on the Green Sea isn’t much fun. If we have a ducal warrant from you, Lord Isak, then we can be ready to leave tomorrow.’
Mihn nodded at that and walked over to join the two men. He too had stripped down to just a thin shirt and Isak could see how slender he was, all sinew and whipcord strength. It was no wonder Harlequins could hide their gender so effectively if even the men were so slim. They looked androgynous, and many thought them not even human, for their talents could appear almost supernatural. The Harlequins were trained from birth; they carried in their memories the history of all the Seven Tribes of Man, and they could mimic the speech of each of them.
‘Mihn, you’ve been traveling for weeks,’ Isak said. ‘At least take a break before starting out again. I’m sure there’s time.’
Mihn shook his head. ‘Morghien’s right. Better to leave as soon as possible. I will be ready by tomorrow morning. A ducal warrant will mean we don’t need to carry much in the way of supplies, we can requisition what we need en route. Give us fresh horses and we can be off.’
Isak’s own heart sank at the thought of getting into the saddle again; he was astonished that Mihn was willing to just up and go, especially as he wouldn’t be back in Tirah before winter paralysed the country.
But it was his fault they were going in the first place, now he would have to let Mihn and Morghien do it their own way.
‘You’re both as stubborn as each other,’ he groused. ‘Fine, if that’s how you want it, so be it. You leave tomorrow.’
The return of the hawkers led to lunch, followed by an afternoon of summer games. Isak found himself as delighted with the small jokes made at his expense by normally reserved matrons as with the children who enlisted the huge white-eye in their own entertainments.
Summer was a time for relaxation for the Farlan nobility, and as the season was short, and too often occupied by campaigning, any opportunity for socialising was met with added gusto, a spirit of living Isak hadn’t experienced before. He’d never even imagined people could live like this when he had been working every daylight hour with the rest of the wagon-train. From the duty of the lord of the manor to present, on bended knee, a bowl of wild strawberries to any female child amongst his tenants on her birthday, to the highly juvenile Feast of Apples that made most soldiers’ drinking games look sensible in comparison: the Farlan nobility took summertime amusements seriously. To his surprise, Isak loved it all.
That afternoon, he found himself kneeling on the grass with three whooping children, young relatives of the countess, balanced on his broad back. Vesna and Tila were standing close together, fingers interlocked, watching.
‘Of such things are the most perfect childhood memories made,’ said Vesna, grinning.
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Tila with a laugh. ‘Within four summers they’ll be horrified when they remember clambering over Lord Isak, let alone how they bit the duke on his white-hand!’ She giggled as Isak stretched out an arm so the boys could swing from it, as if it were the branch of a tree. With a roar, a little girl lunged for the arm as well, struggling to dislodge the boys. Isak could almost imagine that he was playing with Tila’s children while she and the count watched on in parental approval. As he tickled the girl, provoking squeals of laughter, Isak grinned as he realised that for the next few weeks he could have a childhood of sorts, one denied to him in the past. The impositions of adulthood would return all too soon; for now, it was summer, he was surrounded by friends and the sun was shining.
Groaning, Isak swung himself into his saddle. Though the morning was a little cooler, Isak still found his new dragon-emblazoned green tunic uncomfortably warm, but he would look the part of a duke as he saw Morghien and Mihn off. As it was customary for the Saroc household to accompany those leaving for the first hour of their journey, the suzerain had decided to turn this into a visit to the nearest town.
Red oak-leaves embroidered all the way up Isak’s left sleeve drew attention to the exposed skin of his hand, but he couldn’t deny the overall effect. With Eolis hanging from a bright red swordbelt and scarlet leather boots, Isak looked more like a Farlan noble than he ever had before. Only the white cloak around his shoulders ruined the image a little, but they had officially proclaimed Bahl’s death now, so every person in the party wore similar cloaks, embroidered with ancient symbols of mourning. The women wore white scarves, and would keep their hair covered for the fortnight of mourning.
‘I must say, Countess, your seamstress has surpassed herself,’ commented Tila as Isak wheeled Megenn around.
‘The very image of a gentleman,’ agreed the countess with a smile. Isak glowered at the two of them, but good-naturedly. He had to admit it was nice to be dressed in new clothes; the months of traveling had taken a toll on their wardrobes.
‘Everyone will be talking about times changing,’ Tila continued. ‘Lord Bahl’s image was rather that of a hermit, and a threadbare one at that. I’m afraid it didn’t serve him well.’
‘I hardly think people’s opinion on his dress worth worrying about,’ Isak said. He spoke without rancour, but Tila stopped. Isak had become extremely protective of Lord Bahl since his death.
‘This is your first public appearance as Lord of the Farlan,’ Tila said firmly. ‘You may not like it, but word of how you appear to
day will spread to the other suzerainties very quickly. They have heard only that Lord Bahl is dead. They will be reassured that you look the part, that you look like the Duke of Tirah.’
‘I suspect they’ve heard too much about me already.’
‘Then we have a new image to present,’ Tila said, still composed. ‘The refined, sophisticated Lord Isak, Duke of Tirah is a quite different beast to the uncivilised Suzerain Anvee!’
‘The things a woman will do for a state wedding,’ Isak retorted, remembering Lord Bahl’s parting words. He grinned at her blush. State wedding indeed, he thought. Better be sooner rather than later, or there might be a little embarrassment - I’d be surprised if a virgin smiled like that!
Before either could say more, Count Vesna ushered them all through the gates. Morghien and Mihn were already there, waiting impatiently, and as soon as they spotted Isak they swung their horses around and broke into a gentle canter. The procession took a while to catch up, but soon everyone settled in to an easy stride.
The early morning mist didn’t linger for long and the air was filled with birdsong. Isak noticed the difference in the Land here, far from the mountains and dark forests a wagon-brat had considered home. The undulating ground of Saroc was mostly scrub, where the forest had given way, populated by goats and long-horned sheep, interspersed with cultivated fields neatly enclosed by drystone walls or high bramble hedges.
The hour went quickly as the warmth increased. Brief goodbyes were exchanged on the highway, under the watchful gaze of a solitary, ageing roadman whom Suzerain Saroc had greeted by name. When the time came, Isak found he didn’t know what to say to Mihn, the man who had been his shadow for six months now. The words caught in his throat as he realised how much he would miss the silent presence, almost fatherly, though Mihn was only just thirty summers.