High on the farther flank of the spur it stood, a bleak, bare place, even to Northern eyes. In contrast to the Castle of the Winds, this was a single square tower, topped with a strong but crumbling battlement, an outer wall encircling a few outbuildings huddled around its foot. Its sentinels, too, looked battered and unimpressive, leaning against the wall in the late evening sun, staring at the newcomers without curiosity or concern.
‘I feared they might have had word!’ whispered Kunrad as they drew nearer. ‘Seems I needn’t have. I can’t believe that girl grew up in this flyblown hole!’
‘So we needn’t have stopped to put these bloody mail-shirts on?’
‘I didn’t say that! There’s more than one kind of armour. Come on!’
Only one of the sentries stepped out to challenge them, but his spear trailed casually under his arm. ‘What’s your concern, soldiers—’ He saw the surcoats, and hesitated. ‘My Lord Warden’s men, and afoot?’
‘For speed’s sake, overland!’ rapped Kunrad truthfully, trying to sound as clipped and sothran as he could. ‘There’s trouble afoot! I bear an important message to Lord Kermorvan. Take me to him, please!’
‘Trouble?’ said the guard sharply. ‘Not more of those bloody bastard corsairs?’
Kunrad’s heart rejoiced. They seemed to know nothing of the plot. ‘Could be,’ he said grimly. ‘But my word’s for his lordship only. He’s within?’
‘Well … yes,’ began the sentry slowly, ‘but, well, s’not for me to say, but … All right! Porry, take these lads in t’see the Castellan! Announce ’em proper, remember – good an’ loud!’
Porry, looking distinctly uneasy, led them into the tower, through a hall populated only by some very shabby servants, who stared at Olvar in particular. Waving aside the protests of one elderly flunkey, the sentinel went clumping up the main stair, steep and open, to pause before a curtained arch and bellow out ‘My Lord Ieran! Messengers from his lordship the Marchwarden!’
‘The voice that called a million hogs!’ muttered Gille.
A pewter mug whizzed past the sentry’s ear, and he scuttled off downstairs, muttering, ‘Lord K’m’n see you now!’
They looked at one another, then they stepped to the threshold, and bowed. But the bow froze halfway, when they saw the figure stretched out in the armchair before them. All of them had been curious to see this lord of a royal line, the man who in principle was still a king in their land. They had all seen images of his ancestors, tall, fair-skinned, hard-featured but handsome, and for the most part with a kindly twist to their features. The chamber before them was lined – littered, almost – with such images; but the man in the great threadbare chair resembled them hardly at all.
Lord Ieran Kermorvan must once have been solid and strong, though never especially tall. Now, though, he sprawled in his chair, hands crossed over a bulging belly, and the hair that fell around his shoulders was white and shaggy. ‘Like a waterfall of cares!’ thought Gille; for care was graven on his face, a hundred lines deep-chiselled by experience. His nose might once have been aquiline, but it was bulbous now, tipped with red veins, and with a purple-stained moustache beneath; a strong chin was barely visible among folds of stubbled skin. If there was outward nobility anywhere, it was in the sudden flash of the red-rimmed eyes, startlingly clear blue-grey, like a glimpse of sky among dreary raincloud. But the lids sank over them, guarded, wary; and they closed again, and he belched slightly. He was quite drunk.
‘Well?’ he barked suddenly, without opening an eye. ‘Why does my young lord and master the Warden honour me with such a sorry pack of ragamuffin messengers? What more does he demand of me now?’
Kunrad dropped hastily to one knee, which seemed to startle the old man. ‘My Lord Kermorvan, we are come from Merthian, but we are not his men. We are Northerners whom your daughter befriended, and we bring you urgent news of her!’
‘My daughter?’ The eyes flashed at him again, then dimmed. ‘Well, I am glad to hear she has not forgotten me already. But if it’s as to the wedding, spare me that! I still will not come, and that you may tell her—’
‘My lord! It’s nothing to do with that! Let me speak—’
‘Well, well, go on, go on! What’s the little vixen want now? What promises can’t her precious betrothed keep, all of a sudden?’
Kunrad felt a flush of excitement. There was no love lost for Merthian here. ‘My lord – he has ways of keeping his promises.’
He told his tale quickly, giving the old man no chance to interrupt, leaving out only how smithcraft had helped them, lest it awaken a sothran’s disbelief. The blue eyes remained fixed on him, but they seemed to lose focus as he talked, as if their gaze were somehow turning away, perhaps inward. When Kunrad finished, the lids fluttered closed a moment.
‘Well?’ he grumbled. ‘A long enough tale. What earnest have I that any of it’s true? That you come from my daughter at all?’
‘These directions she wrote!’ said Kunrad, showing him the scrap of paper. ‘And your captain, Ferlias. He was with us on the way, saw how your daughter befriended us, saw how Merthian greeted us at the castle—’
Kermorvan waved him silent. ‘Ferlias – uh? He’s off mopping up after another damned corsair raid. Flocks driven off, barns emptied, men cut down or captured for slavery … What d’you want to come bothering me for with your wild tales? What could I do, even if there was any truth in ’em? Go see the Syndics. Go see that bastard Bryheren who’s made my sons into bellwethers – Wine!’
The roar was so sudden Kunrad almost fell over, but the servants had evidently been expecting it. The shrivelled little servant came scurrying in with a lidded earthenware jug and the dented mug, cast a fearful look at the Northerners, and scuttled out. Kermorvan seized the flagon, and gestured with it. ‘Go on, get out. Out! Not have you prigging round me with stories, tales …’
Angrily Kunrad sprang up and seized the jug. Gille and Olvar winced, then blinked as Lord Kermorvan, without much effort, pulled it back, rocking Kunrad on his feet. Kunrad braced himself, and with an appalling effort he snatched it away again, sending a great spatter of red across the worn floorcloth. ‘Now will you listen, damn you?’ he grated.
The old man flexed his arm, and grunted something. The prentices were ready to draw sword or run, but when he looked up there was more amusement than fury in the slack face. ‘Well, if you’re that thirsty, pour yourself a drink! And for the boys! Ho, three more goblets, there!’ He turned to the young men. ‘Northern laddies, uh? Not met many! You all of you that strong?’
‘Not quite, my lord,’ said Gille nervously. ‘Working on it, though.’
‘Me,’ said the old man, leaning confidingly over the arm of his chair, ‘I’m the strongest arm in this castle, see? Wrestled men half my age. Not as fast as I was, though. Wine slows you; and I haven’t the heart any more. My sons are strong enough, but not in the head, see? No independence. This friend of yours – what’s yer name? Kunrad? He’s got that.’ He leaned back. ‘Also a damned bloody load of Northern cheek!’
Kunrad was diplomatically pouring the wine into the cups the servant brought. He offered the pewter one to Kermorvan. ‘I had to make you hear me, lord.’
Kermorvan beckoned him closer. ‘Word of advice. That’s an old trick from the romances, standing up to yer superior. Bloody risky. Works with me, but that’s ’cause I’ve read the romances too. Try it with Bryheren and he’ll have you chained arse-upward on a dungeon wall in two short breaths.’ Kermorvan grinned, and years fell away. ‘Or Merthian, if I read him aright. Little prick! Known him since he was a brat. Never took to him. Too goody-goody perfect! Always the ones who go wrong – although,’ he added, sipping easily at his wine, ‘I’ll admit something might’ve been made of him. All in the upbringing. Knock the corners off ’em a bit, never too hard, never too hard, never try an’ make ’em what you want – just the best of what they’re meant to be. Missed that with my boys. Not with little Alais, though! Now what is it you are, my la
d?’
‘A mastersmith, as I said. And Gille and Olvar here are my prentices.’
‘Smiths? Smiths? Powers around us! Real Northern mastersmiths?’ Kermorvan’s eyes glittered. ‘Never met any before! Always wanted to! Tales in my family ‘bout the court mastersmiths we had, right down to old Badgerbeard Vayde who was the last of ’em! Things they could do, things they could make …’ Kunrad was alarmed to see the lids flutters, the clear eyes dim again, looking out into emptiness. ‘Used to dream of having one, when I was a little lad. Huh! Some hope. What am I come to instead? No court. Just a broken-down command I hold only for the favour of my daughter. And now she’s not here any more, off half-crazy to hop ’tween the sheets with that little prick with ears … Well, if she’s happy, let her, let her …’
Kunrad was about to say something when the eyes suddenly went wide. ‘Smiths! That how you got out of that dungeon? And the corsairs? Hah! Main reason your story didn’t stick! So that’s how! You tell me more about that, boy – but then …’
For a moment they were looking at a different man, as if the light in those eyes had somehow transformed the face. ‘Then she is in danger, isn’t she? It’s true. Alais. In durance, or worse … If he’s harmed her I’ll leave nothing worth burying!’
He sagged again. ‘Hark at me! Words! What can they change? What can I?
A warrior bold, a free lance am I,
Over the blood-red Marches riding,
Waving my freedom’s golden pennons …
Hear that? Merthian wouldn’t know that – not ’less you were going to set him a test on it! He’d know it then, backward – but not what it meant. Me stop him? Huh.’
‘Alais knew,’ said Kunrad, and wondered why he put her in the past. ‘That was her message – get word to her brothers, and through them to the Chief Syndic, this Bryheren man. That you can do, if you’re quick enough!’
‘Uh,’ said Kermorvan. ‘Fact is, they and I … Good lads, really; but when they took service under the Lord Bryheren … Ancient family enemies, the Herens; right back to Kerys. Unmitigated bastards, most of ’em, and worse, sometimes; traitors, serving the Ice, even.’
Kunrad nodded. ‘We’ve heard the old tales in the North. But this one?’
Kermorvan shrugged, grudgingly. ‘Oh, he’s not that bad. Well enough in his way, perhaps, one of the best of ’em. But a chill narrow sort of a mind, no spirit to bring things back to life. Everything as his daddy had it, and don’t disturb the dust! Makes me want to sneeze every time I see him! And hard, hard, unyielding. My lads – well, they’re bright enough. But we quarrelled. They think I’m an old souse; they may not take me seriously. And Bryheren? Wouldn’t credit me if I said the sun came up i’ the morning!’
‘That doesn’t matter!’ said Kunrad, leaning over the chair. ‘Believe it or not, they’ll mount guard, won’t they? And then they’ll send a force north to investigate. Maybe not a big one – but even a small force will spoil my Lord Warden’s plans. If only it’s quick enough!’
Kermorvan’s stained moustache twitched. ‘Guards!’ he roared, almost overturning Kunrad again. ‘Guards! Pass the word for my clerk, and find volunteers to bear messages for me. Southward!’ He grimaced. ‘No shortage, I’ll wager. Any chance to get out of this arse-end posting!’
‘But my lord,’ pleaded Gille, ‘won’t they go straight to the Marchwarden? They’re his men!’
Kermorvan snorted. ‘Laddie, they may wear his livery ’cause I can’t afford one, but they’re my own housetroops for the most part, and men off my own lands, as were. Only way I could keep ’em. The Marchwarden may have a spy or two here, almost certainly does; but the men I’ll send, I’ll pick myself, men I can trust. And send several, by different ways. That’ll pin his ears back! And Bryheren, by the Powers, who was so hot in appointing him!’
He was half out of his chair, but he slumped back. ‘Bryheren! There’s a stumbling block, still. You don’t know him. Merthian was his man for the Warden’s office, and if he’s rotten, Bryheren’s a long way out. He’ll investigate, you say; but will he make known what he finds, or simply bury it? Seek to draw Merthian’s teeth and keep quiet about it? Suppress those who know? If there’s the least error, any lie, any misunderstanding even he can make use of, then I’m humiliated. Ruined. Oh yes, he’ll see to that.’
‘But there is no error!’ protested Kunrad. ‘He’s only to ask Alais … Yes. I see.’
The old man nodded grimly. ‘Puts her in danger, doesn’t it? Her, the chief witness, because she’s of our folk, and my stock – and one even Bryheren could never silence. Not Merthian’s betrothed! Her word’ll carry far more weight than any Northerner’s.’
Kunrad bit his lip angrily. ‘Merthian’s in love with her.’
Kermorvan leaned forward. His eyes were very cold. ‘Yes – and if all you say’s true, she’s betrayed him. What’s he going to feel then? Ever heard of a thing called jealousy? And with a couple of companies marching to his doorstep, and her the only witness worth the name – what might that make him do?’
Kunrad was pacing around the room like a caged animal, looking at the rows of stern faces, seeing sudden flashes of Alais’s bright, impulsive features everywhere. ‘My lord, I don’t know. I hadn’t been thinking much beyond getting out the warning. I urge you, send that, whatever else. If Merthian and his ambitions are not reined in, there could be so many lives lost. Here, and in the North; and we were your people once, also. Your daughter knew that, when she stayed behind. And I left her only because I knew it, and because it was the only chance of getting through. She’s important to you, obviously. I, well … My Lord Kermorvan, just send that warning, and –’ Kunrad stopped almost in midstride and you can clap me in chains and trade me back to Merthian for her!’
Olvar groaned. Kermorvan stared. ‘You think he’ll agree?’
Kunrad shrugged, desperately. ‘He might not! Or he might try some treachery, more like. Either one of us is a threat to him. But he might just be desperate enough to do it, for now.’
‘But Lord Kermorvan,’ said Gille into the silence, ‘even if he lets Lady Alais go against our master for now, he’s never going to feel secure. Not while she lives – or you, now. Even hearing our tale like this places you in peril. He might agree, and then descend on this place.’
‘He can try!’ snorted Kermorvan. ‘That at least’s no concern! We’re not as strong as his great fastness, but this old burg has stood a good few sieges in its day. Doubt the Warden could take it by storm, even with all his garrison! Not in time, anyway!’
‘He wouldn’t have to!’ said Gille. ‘He’d use corsairs. They have men enough, and he’s been training them, remember? It’d look like one more bold raid. He could even use it to extract more money from the Syndics.’
‘Getting her out!’ cut in Kunrad emphatically. ‘That’s what matters! Then she can make a run for the south! You all can! He won’t be able to harm you openly down there!’
‘I don’t know,’ mused Kermorvan. The wine-cup hung unnoticed in his hand. ‘Don’t know …’
It was then they heard the sounds of a horse hard-ridden, not far off in the still afternoon; and even as they listened the hoofbeats echoed in the courtyard below.
‘Courier from the Lord Marchwarden!’ came the cry. ‘Utmost importance!’
Kermorvan stood suddenly, with an effortful wheeze. He looked much more impressive thus, the ruins of a sturdy frame and strong face more apparent, like old walls suddenly glimpsed through ivy and overgrowth. Snorting wine fumes, he rolled over to the stairs and roared down. ‘From my Lord Warden? Send up the scrip, then – no, my lad, spare the ceremony, you look hot and hungry! You there, see him looked to at the buttery. Just toss me up his message!’
Kunrad shot an excited glance at the prentices. Kermorvan wasn’t giving them away – yet.
The old man deftly snatched a small bag out of the air, grunting with satisfaction, and glared at the red wax seals which dangled from it. ‘Never misses a cha
nce for the formalities, the twerp!’ He crumbled them impatiently in his stubby fingers and tore out a neat roll of red-ribboned vellum. ‘Let’s see, now … Merthian Anlaithannen, by the grace of the Powers and appointment of the Syndicacy and people of Ker Bryhaine Lord Warden of the Northern Marches, Governor of the Provinces Northern, Protector of the Frontiers, Lord Commander of the Realm of Bryhaine, Holder of the Castle of the Winds, High Steward of … Defender of the … um, um, and little prick with ears … Ah! Does make known to you the escape from due custody of three condemned outlaws and pirates of Svarhath extraction, and mongrel Northern birth, claiming to be smiths, their leader of the description following … hmmn, hah, not very flattering! They are to be immediately recaptured, alive or dead, upon suspicion of involvement with recent outlaw incursions into our domain and the robbery, rapine and … so on and so on. If alive, they are to be held without interrogation, strictly apart, firmly gagged and without free movement; and to have no communication with anyone of whatever standing, to forestall their treasonous links with the outlawry, and to prevent any possible transmission of intelligences detrimental to our preparations for the defence of the region. They or their corpses are to be returned under heavy guard and in conditions of strict secrecy with immediate effect, upon pain of … cheeky little bugger! It is to be noted that the security of the state depends upon prompt and efficient action, and will take precedence over … all … other … considerations …’
The bleak blue eyes looked at them over the edge of the tanned skin. ‘Well!’ said Kermorvan gustily. ‘Well, well, well!’ He turned to the stairs. ‘You below! See to it that the man waits. I may have word to send back, very shortly!’
‘Merthian didn’t know we had Alais’s guidance!’ said Gille. ‘He couldn’t imagine we might get here before a fast horseman!’
Kermorvan appeared to ignore him. His eyes were more alert than Kunrad had yet seen them. ‘My time for wavering is ended! These orders leave me no option but to send you back. To disobey’s treason and ruin in itself.’
The Castle of the Winds Page 29