Gerome Constanzo Durvalle was a man prone to patience, which was fortunate, given how many circles the Veldharts had led him in since his arrival.
The family and he were old friends, but they were tiresome friends. Palatines they may have been, but if there was one thing more precious to the Veldharts than their dear old friends, it was their own putrid air of self-preservation. He could smell it about the halls from the moment he arrived. Even the servants reeked of it, and that was quite a feat.
The Veldharts were fair-weathers, in his opinion. Good people, all around, and tireless enforcers of Imperial whims. However, when the tides shifted ever-so-slightly, and it looked as though they would have to scuff their pretty boots, they hid up in their towers and locked the doors, feigning ill. It was uncanny, really. They were one of the oldest families, with one of the largest standing armies at their disposal, yet when the Empire called on them to march, they hesitated.
Consolidating issues at home, they said. Cowardice, his brother Joseph would likely call it. Their father might have allowed such insubordination, but if the Veldharts thought they could continue to act as such when Joseph sat the throne, they would likely be in for a cruel reminder of the world.
Fortunately, Gerome was not so hot-headed as his elder brother. He was the peace maker. In time he would be a king maker—and, with any luck, his brother would appropriately accommodate him for that fact.
Another night held another stalling dinner. Being a member of the Imperial family, Gerome had been accustomed to the finer aspects of dining from birth. Even so, the Veldharts managed to surprise. Every night it seemed his meals grew larger and grander than the last, which in his mind was just further evidence of their guilt. Regardless, if they wanted to dance around him and his list of demands, than at least they would keep him well-situated as they did. He could think of worse ways to spend his days.
The camps, for example. Dreadful things, those. Joseph might have adored the warrior’s life, even his father, but neither of them could gussy up a tent enough to make it appeal to Gerome. Dress a tent in silk and satin and it was still nothing more than a tent. A drafty, damp, uncomfortable tent. Give him a nice firm bed, swaddled in blankets and doted on by loving servants. Let him dip within the heated baths of the palace with his wife at his side. Comfort was what he sought in life, and he had earned it in knowing his own place.
Gerome had long ago put aside any thoughts of his own inheritance. For him, it was the dream of a child long buried. He was the fourth son of a man that rutted like a rabbit, and could likely count himself amongst the most virile men in all Visajedom. The man was past his eightieth summer, and yet but five years prior he had impregnated a second wife—and one by far his junior. Gerome had applauded along with all the others, though it had been a half-hearted gesture, in truth. One only had so much energy and excitement to spare for a twelfth sibling.
And that little boy, he had to remember, was not his brother. Not really. He was a threat to his own family, and the interests of his brother Joseph.
It was not that he didn’t trust his father’s new wife. Nor did he begrudge her, as so many others did. She was a Farren, true, but she had been nothing but kind to them, and he could not see her ever pushing for a shift in succession. She was not the sort. His brothers may not have seen it in such a way, but so it was. Gerome existed to mop up their mistakes, or put the world around them at ease, not to convince them. They thought far too much of themselves for that, anyways.
In truth, the one he did not trust was his father, and for good reason. The man was a godsend to the Empire, but he was far too whimsical. Decisions came and went with his mood, and while they had served Matthias well throughout the years, he was aging, and his wits were failing, and now a stray decision could hit far too close to home. It was the family at risk, not merely the name, or the people. The family, and that was unacceptable.
Still, even he could not be so foolish, nor so hasty. The man was called the bold, not the idiot. Were he to disavow his own children from the inheritance, not only would they rally against him—and they had the numbers, for he had counted them up to be sure—but so too would his uncles. Even Gerome’s aunt in Asantil would likely rally to their aid. No one would see a Farren sit the Imperial throne. Not even for a moment. Too many despised even the thought of the coexistence that was now law.
At least, among those that mattered. They had the nobility. His father could keep the people. Or so Joseph always said. Gerome had a more practical view of the world, but he tried to keep it to himself.
He did not ask for much.
The night’s feast was a sensuous caravan of sweet-smelling delights: plump roast geese prodded with leeks, juicy kielbasa, and hearty soups laden with beef and potatoes, among others, accompanied by the aroma of fresh rye bread, produced from some of the finest wheat fields in the Empire. To wash the food down came bottles of the finest Imperial white, and he watched them move with no lack of anticipation. All of it was ushered in on the arms of dozens of men all careful not to meet his gaze.
Gerome caught himself grinning. Fowl was always to his liking. Goose perhaps not as much as the game hens they had dined on the night before, but Count Melar was surely trying, and he appreciated the effort. He could scarcely wait to see what would come along for dessert.
“And how fares His Majesty on the front?” Melar was saying.
The question caught him half-way to a string of kielbasas. Drawing them back and resettling his composure, Gerome replied, “As fair as one might expect.”
“Do send him our regards, won’t you? It pains us so to think of him out there amongst those bloodthirsty creatures.” He caught a whiff of false pain in the man’s voice. Frail old Melar had laid one bony hand across his chest, his face a delicately crafted mask of sympathy. “When is he expected to return?”
Hopefulness. He hoped it would be done soon enough he would not have to send his troops at all. Wily dog.
Gerome shrugged noncommittally. “When the task is done. With the fresh reserves, I am certain it should not be long, though. Effise has committed all but its Kingsguard at this point, and I shan’t expect we’ll see them beyond Mankałd.” He paused to bite a chunk out of the sausage. “Still, he could use whatever troops he could. Your men, ser,” and he wriggled the mangled sausage at the count, “are surely suited to the task.”
The count smiled at him placatingly. “Oh, no doubt. No doubt. And you must believe me, highness, I am mobilizing them as quickly as I am able, but as I’ve said before, there are other troubles closer to home that have detained us. This trifle of unrest amongst the littlefolk will soon piffle away into nothing, I am sure. Like a bad dream. As soon as I am able, I will see my men riding into battle alongside His Majesty.
“Did I ever tell you my father rode alongside your grandfather when they were young? Oh, quite the thing that was. Back in the days before Surin was quite so tame. Lions, the both of them. Hearty lions. I myself almost led my men to take the Ulne, but alas, you know, my leg and all…”
Gerome groaned inwardly. Melar had a habit for tangents, and he was not interested in them in the slightest. Stories of what might have been were not quite his cup of mead, and those were the only stories the man was full of. Melar was a man that had everything and managed to spend his whole life doing nothing for it, and everything he possibly could with it. Joseph, he imagined, would eat such men alive when he sat the throne.
Not an entirely unpleasant thought, though even creatures such as Melar served their purpose. Surely the world itself risked disaster if such men were not about to take the taxes and fill the coffers up tight. And the wine. Heavens, the wine. It was men like this that knew the secrets of the Empire’s bittersweet valleys—and to risk such a loss was to risk life itself. For him, at least.
Gerome could only hope in time, perhaps, his brother would mellow somewhat as to his…habits. The Empire might not survive them.
“And why is it you presume our good baron K
arinth’s hand in all this madness?” He asked, forcing the subject back to where it belonged.
“Oh, my lord, you know me, I would never presume.”
Yet you claim it’s why you hold your troops. “Speak your mind, Melar.”
“But, well…it’s the riots, yes? The food riots.” The man smiled knowingly, as though he held some grubby little secret dangled juicily above his head—never mind they had discussed the very thing but a night ago.
It was a sour note. Until he had arrived for the talks, Gerome had been under the assumption—as a great many of his siblings had—that Melar Veldhart had simply invented such notions for an excuse. They would melt away like any dream upon his arrival, to be replaced by still more excuses. Surprised he was to find the mobs very much a reality, and only a thin line of armor and horses and blades to protect him from their seething stares.
Worse was that the rabble were armed. Most held little more than clubs and sickles—nothing more than what they could scrounge from home. As they had passed through the county, however, he had seen glimpses of blades—good, strong steel, well beyond the capabilities of the common man, and entirely illegal for them to bear.
They had seen such things stirring in other provinces, but not for a long time. Years earlier, when the Farrens had first begun insinuating themselves into the populace, they reacted violently to attempts to put them down. Such things had been resolved though and the problem had never spread to Varstein. Implications aside, it was not a trouble Idasia could bear at such a crucial moment. It could not afford to fight a war on two fronts—especially when one of those fronts was within its own borders.
The night previous, Melar had teased out into their conversations a belief—troubled though he confessed it was—that Yohan Wendoc, the baron of Karinth, had instigated the mobs. Testing the waters, to gauge his reaction. At the time, Gerome had not bitten, and Melar had hastily changed subjects.
The count pressed on without awaiting a reply. “The most recent trouble spilt into several of our churches. Priests were assaulted. Relics smashed. Altars were…well…desecrated, my lord.
“Such iconoclasm was unexpected here. A few miscreants sparked this, it would seem. Turned the crowd to their own devices. Ruthless, mindless stuff, that. The travesty of it. My men recently took a few of these and bound them to our dungeons. Swine. Filthy swine, my lord, if I might say so. But it was so. Farrens. In my own country!”
It is the Emperor’s country, Gerome noted glumly. And you would do well not to forget it.
The palatine snorted derisively and cast a needy glance at his wife, the countess. She smiled sympathetically back and took his hand in hers. Frail old thing, she was. Always looked on the verge of sickness.
“Suffice to say, we put them to the question. I know His Majesty’s decree. Truly, I do, but such creatures are not from mine own lands. I assure you of that. And I was well within my rights, there. This was not about their creed—or at least, insomuch as such things go—but this was about their sponsors. Their makers. Their natures. Why were they here? I put them to this, and so I found it. The baron, they say, had sent them. And more. More! My people grow weary, my lord. They cannot take any more of this rabble.”
A gasp beside Gerome told him of his own wife’s shock. No surprise there. What the palatine was insinuating was rather dangerous for anyone involved. That he would admit to the willing persecution of such heathens was sign enough of his own certainty. One did not do such things. Not in his father’s empire. Of course, one could rarely prove it when it happened, but it was not something discussed aloud in polite conversation. Despite what the Church called for, it was his father’s word that was law in the Empire and no one dared to cross it, at least publicly.
If only he hadn’t taken that Farren for a wife. It all could have been different.
The meat was beginning to taste sour in Gerome’s mouth.
When his mother had still been alive, his father had been a paragon of Visaj. Yet she died, as all people did. Carried away by age. Before that, he had held the title of Defender of the Faith. Stripped, that, more than a decade ago, when the new lady caught his eye. Idasia was crawling with them now—the Farrens. Asantil bred them, the littlefolk said, but Idasia fed them. If Joseph or any of his brothers had their way, that would change. A far off thought, perhaps.
Gerome swirled a cup of wine between his delicate fingers. “And you believe them?”
“I do, my lord. I wish it were not so—”
“The good baron has ever been a friend to us in the past,” the palatine’s wife cut in.
“Indeed he has. Indeed he has. But these times change people, and we all know what path he has taken.” The palatine squeezed her hand protectively. “He no longer walks in the light of Assal, my lord.” Melar almost managed to look sad as he said it, too.
“And I suppose you would gain nothing from this arrangement yourself?”
“Why, my lord, only the joy that comes from peace and security within my home.”
Jesmere, his wife, leaned into Gerome’s ear. “Never mind their son took the baron’s daughter a year ago.”
Gerome grunted. He swished the wine around the tip of his tongue, savoring every intigorating tingle. It was a thick drink, with a strongly sweet taste to it that lingered in his throat long after it had passed. Good scent to it. Strong. Old. One could tell in that very first whiff how much a treat they would be in for. Melar had not disappointed. If it would get them the troops, then he supposed he could return the favor. A few more drinks, and he imagined the decision would be all the easier.
“And if the crown were to investigate these matters, might some of your troops be made ready for the lines?”
“I suppose something could be arranged.” A sly smile was smothered in a greasy clump of duck.
“That’s—” He coughed as a tickle settled in the back of his throat. Growling it out, he tipped another mouthful of wine down to smother it. “Excuse me. That’s good, Melar. Quite good. My father will be glad to hear it, I’m sure. And the crown is—” He winced as a chill ran up his spine. Something heavy was settling about him, as though his whole body was being rolled into a thick carpet. He coughed and meant to throw it off, sinking back into his chair.
The palatine looked at him oddly, and as his gaze shifted, he found the others were as well. Even his own wife seemed concerned, her hand settling about his lap as she fixed him with her loving gaze. Sweet woman. Frail woman.
“Are you alright, dear?” she asked. He shivered at her touch, but smiled despite himself. He could not shake the feeling of being watched, above and beyond the nobles’ eyes. The palatine beckoned a servant girl to him.
“Fine, darling. Fine. I just—I must have eaten too fast. Forgive me.”
There was a taste—no, a sort of absence of taste—that settled about his throat. He tried to tongue it away, but it was on his tongue and in his mouth, and in all the spit salivating suddenly to his jowls. The palatine sent the girl for some water. Gerome himself went for more of the wine, downing the last of his goblet in an effort to oust the taste. The strange sense of himself remained, but the wine seemed to drown out whatever was in his throat at least. He eased, with a wheeze and a relaxed smile. The palatine and his wife still looked rigid in their seats.
“Apologies,” he offered after a moment. “My haste for all this fine cuisine seems to have gotten the better of me.”
Jesmere, his dear Jesmere, watched him with her quivering angel eyes. Her hand was in his still, and he could feel her warmth cradling him through the smooth white fabric, but she was straight and still, composed as any proper woman should. Stoic as ever. One of the few traits left from younger days, before their marriage had gone hand-in-hand with love. He could see the girl, if he wished, and miss her, but the woman was all he wanted.
He caressed the back of her hand with his thumb, longed to kiss it, but held the urge. Times and places.
He could see the palatine visibly heaving in re
lief. “Nonsense. You eat like a true gentleman, ser. I am certain it was the food. Dry, surely dry. I’ll be certain to have the cook reprimanded for it, I assure you.”
“Oh that won’t be…”
But he stopped himself, thinking better of it. However small a thing, if the palatine thought himself responsible for offense, then he was more likely to make up for it. Something to be used in the press for specific levies, at any rate.
What few others gathered at their table smiled at him and looked quickly away. Ashamed, are you? Relieved? These puppets of Melar returned to their whispers. The servants would not meet his gaze at all.
Jesmere’s eyes did not leave him, though. He smiled at her comfortingly, and she smiled back. Giving her hand a pat, he leaned forward to kiss her cheek. To Hell with the rest. She did worry so.
Her cheeks flexed beneath his touch, and he knew she was smiling, could feel the warmth rising through her skin. Then there was an unbearable burn, deep within his bowels. Sharp and quick, like a stab of a knife. The warmth of her seemed to ebb as the flames below flowed. They shuddered and twisted within him, such that he flung a hand to his gut, fearing a blade had struck. There was nothing there, yet his whole body trembled as he gasped aloud.
But before the air could even reach his lungs, he felt something surging up through him. He panicked, yanking away from his wife, but the burn did not abate. It spread. Then his lungs were on fire and he parted his lips to scream, but all that emerged was an onslaught of thick, black bile, pouring from the very depths of him. He yanked back, but not in time. Bile coated his wife and himself as he swooned and toppled, clawing at his own throat.
Jesmere screamed and flew away from him, clawing at her own face. Servants were rushing and the palatine and his wife recoiled from the table, their shouts added to the chaotic throng. Plates clattered as chairs screeched back. People were shouting, pointing.
Gerome writhed on the table, hearing the screams, but seeing nothing save the ceiling as he thrashed, trying desperately to throw off whatever was upon him. The room constricted. Everyone else fell further away. Still the bile poured on and his throat was so parched he could not scream. Everything was on fire. His skin, his lungs, even his blood felt aflame. He screamed, yet no sound emerged, but for a hollow, ghastly moan over which he had no control.
The Hollow March Page 21