Realizing suddenly the depth of my father’s stratagem, I could not suppress a shiver, with a touch of anger on Hal’s behalf. The High King had sent out his guests, knowing that more of Verun’s men might lurk in the keep but they probably would not strike the departing nobles. Verun had aimed to kill the King and princes, not mow entire swathes of Brusterian nobility. If Hal encountered any of Verun’s men, he might not be so fortunate. The King had clearly chosen him as, from Bruster’s perspective, the cheapest loss. I closed my teeth against a sigh. But the King calculated as he must, naturally as breathing.
But not easily. His hand lay on Utor’s head, stroking his son’s hair.
I strained to listen but the heavy doors admitted no sound, no hint of what might be transpiring beyond. The King’s caution was warranted. Fighting was finished in the hall but the uprising might not be. Verun’s men, unaware of their lord’s death, could be readying a second strike, and might yet be successful. More fully successful. The King’s hand moved slowly, as if soothing a fretful child.
“I should go look for him,” I said, my words seeming loud after the long quiet.
“No,” the King said. “They mean to slaughter the entire ruling family.”
“Of which I am the least,” I said. “I brought Hal here. I have a responsibility towards him.”
“Master Carlson strikes me as a man capable of taking care of himself.”
“He was the Ragoni clerk’s keeper!” I spluttered.
Murrow frowned and came back from the door, brushing his hand soothingly down my arm.
“Even so.” The King nodded slowly, as if glad to consider something else for a moment. “But he walks like a warrior. An intriguing problem, I admit.”
The inactivity was maddening, at odds with the battle burst still coursing down my back. Murrow took two cloths from his belt pouch. Handing me one, he began to wipe his sword. I took my time with my knives, and did not put them away once they were clean.
“Lord,” King Otho said. “Perhaps someone should go.”
“No.” The King’s fingers smoothed Utor’s hair but his eyes were elsewhere, fixed upon the tapestry of Bluditor.
“I’m willing,” I said, swiveling my belt knife in my hand.
“And I,” Cedrick said. Birnan opened his mouth, then closed it without a sound at our father’s cold look. Murrow had not offered. He knew better. He was Prince now. If anyone were allowed to leave, it would be not him.
A muffled knocking sounded on the door. Murrow and Cedrick hurried over. An exchange of shouts followed. We could hear what my brothers said but not the speaker without.
“It’s Master Carlson,” Murrow said as he and Cedrick lifted the bar.
Hal entered, his arms full. Dismay bleached Cedrick’s already pale countenance. “Gustor.”
Hal walked with deliberation worthy of his burden to the dais. Three other men followed, the first carrying another body, too bloodied for quick recognition, if indeed I would have known him. Yet I felt I should. The form seemed familiar. I recognized the man who bore him as a member of the Black Keep’s household force. The two others I did not know, but from their attire I guessed them to be part of King Petrus’ and King Otho’s retinues. Before Cedrick and Murrow closed and barred the door once more, I saw men looking hesitantly into the hall. More of the Keep’s guards. Some were wounded. I could hear their relieved murmurs as they saw the King.
Hal stepped over Verun’s body and lay Gustor before the high table. There was considerably more blood on Gustor than Verun. “Your pardon, lord, for my delay.” He bowed. “He...was not yet dead. I stayed with him.”
The High King leaned forward, one hand on the table, the other still on Utor’s head. “The father. Now the son.” His gaze rested heavily upon his Steward. “Perhaps I should be glad you leave no son to die in my service.” His eyes rose. “Thank you,” he told Hal. “I feared this. The Steward directs court proceedings. He would have noticed the Verune at once.”
His gaze flicked to the second body. “Anhud.”
Anhud. I had thought myself brimful with sorrow, but new mourning welled up at that name. He had been captain of the Black Keep’s force as long as I could remember. He had taught the King’s children, including his daughter, the skills of a warrior. I remembered with glass-sharp clarity the scrape of his calloused fingers correcting my grip on a knife, his growl-like laugh at my follies, the rough music of his praise. Utor taught me how to throw knives, but Anhud taught me how to fight with them. He’d taught me knife tricks he’d not shown my brothers—“a lady might, at times, have greater need, princess.” At the time I thought my father would not approve. Now I suspected he would commend anything that kept his children alive. I gripped the knives I still held tightly.
My father caught my gaze. His eyes flicked. Understanding his unspoken command, I sheathed both knives. The fighting was over. Most likely. If he were allowed to calm the situation, and no one ignited fresh trouble.
The man—Dunstan, that was his name—laid Anhud beside Gustor. “Lord Rummel, the leader of Verun’s retainers, told Anhud he was worried.” He glanced, apprehensive and apologetic, at King Petrus. “He said he had heard whispers the King of Eban meant to try something at court.”
“Rummel told me,” King Petrus’ man said, “that he had heard the High King had called counsel as a ruse to dispose of the other kings and put his sons on their thrones.”
King Otho’s man nodded. “I was told the same.” Both, I realized, were not merely members of the under-kings’ retinues, but their captains. The suspicion that had been poured into their ears would have been repeated to their kings—and had been deemed credible.
“He used our distrust to his gain.” The High King’s gaze flicked back to Dunstan. “What else passed outside the hall?”
“I can’t be certain.” He shrugged unhappily. “My guess is Rummel killed Anhud and Gustor, then the doorwards, and opened our gates to his men.” He knelt. “They locked us in our own dungeons. We failed in our duty, lord.” His head bowed, as if bitterness and shame were a palpable weight upon his shoulders.
“The servers they replaced?”
“I think they were locked in the storerooms.”
Hal nodded. “I spoke to them, but told them to stay there. It seemed safest.”
“Good man.” The King was silent, looking out and over the bodies of his two most trusted retainers, his left hand still resting on the head of his son.
“Dunstan.” His voice slid lower. Formal. “You were Anhud’s second. You are now Captain. Secure the Keep.”
His head came up. “Lord—I—”
“Secure my Keep. Captain.”
I saw consternation in his face, pushed aside the next instant by duty, and the relief that something might be done. “Yes, lord.”
At their kings’ command, the Soludin and Ebane captains went with him, to gather their remaining men and provide assistance.
Silence returned as the door was barred once more. The King resumed stroking Utor’s hair. I could not bear it any longer. I stepped onto the dais to his side, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Father—”
“Later, Maudlin.”
I hesitated, then did as he bade, moving away. I kept my gaze on the bodies of Gustor and Anhud rather than my brother. I doubted I could look upon him, grasp and accept, and be as the King required.
King Otho and King Petrus exchanged glances as the quiet lengthened. “What will be done with Yvein?” King Petrus asked, as if his mute dialogue with King Otho had elected him to broach the High King.
“We shall take counsel, and decide.”
“Lord—”
“In counsel.”
King Petrus and King Otho again shared a look. King Otho seemed as if he intended to speak—but did not.
A knock sounded, but this time upon the door leading to the main gate. Murrow went to it, unbarring it after determining it was Dunstan without. He entered, followed again by the under-kings’ captains.
The new master of the guards crossed to the dais and went formally to one knee.
“Lord. The Black Keep is yours.”
“Thank you, Dunstan. Rise. Were any Verune taken or killed?”
“None taken. Eight killed. Five others found dead. More than a few, I suspect, escaped. Rummel among them. At least I have not found him among the dead.” He paused. “I sent word to the shipyard, but the Verune boat was already gone.”
I thought of Hal, searching the Black Keep with thirteen of Verun’s best warriors wandering its chambers. Only later did I question how, with the Keep’s guards imprisoned or killed, the five found dead had come to be so, and wonder about the deep pools he kept shadowed.
“Have your men search the town and the approach to the keep. Then release the servants.” The High King looked at Hal. “Would you return to them and explain?”
“Your will, lord.” Hal left once more.
The Soludin and Ebane retinue commanders knelt before the dais. King Otho’s man spoke first. “Lord, I ask to be removed from my post. I was behindhand, not seeing this danger.” King Petrus’ captain expressed the same regret and request.
The High King looked sidelong at his under-kings. “What say you?”
“Rise,” said King Otho. “I do not find you negligent, and I will not lose my captain for the sake of his pride.”
“Nor I,” King Petrus gestured to his man to stand. “But I regret that our habitual suspicion made us vulnerable.”
The High King looked back at his captain. “When you release the servants, send the cook to me.” His eyes flicked sideways again, towards the under-kings. “When you can spare the men, have them take the bodies of Verun and his followers outside. Burn them and scatter their ashes in my pig-sty.”
“Lord! A fellow king—” King Otho said.
“He will not be buried as a king.”
“Tyrant!” Yvein’s eyes blazed. “You show Verun was right! You are no true King!”
“Now you accuse me of heavy-handed rule?” His voice did not rise, and his hand did not move from Utor. “Verun moved against me because he thought me soft. I sought to prevent war within Bruster, strengthened our ties to our allies, and made wider alliances with the Valenian kingdoms, that our warriors might hone their skills but use them less. I learned letters, and had my children taught. In these things Verun saw weakness, and in weakness, opportunity.”
He had asked no question, but her fierce stare confirmed what he had said. “Now tyranny. Your justifications shift readily.” His free hand moved in a dismissive gesture. “Verun rebelled for his own ambition.”
“How dare you burn him like a thief or an animal!”
“Be glad I do not hang his body from the walls.” His voice was cold, and seemed more so in its quietness.
“We have proof!” Her gaze turned to the under-kings. “Bruster stands threatened and he does nothing.”
King Petrus blinked. “We hold counsel to consider Philip of Ragonne’s purpose.”
“Not Ragonne.” She was almost spitting. “We have the letter. Ulton sent us a copy. Sar—”
“Remove her. Now.” The High King did not raise his voice but his command was a whip crack.
Dunstan leapt to obey.
“Take her to the King’s rooms. Well guarded. Three men. Ones who know better than to listen to traitors.”
He took her arms and began pushing her towards the stairs. She was still shouting. “He didn’t tell you. Why do you follow this man? He—” Her words were lost as Dunstan forced her up the stairs.
The under-kings’ captains forgot themselves enough to stare open-mouthed.
“Lord?” King Petrus said. The depth of uncertainty in his voice was all Yvein could have wished.
“In counsel, King Petrus,” the King said wearily.
Half a dozen heartbeats later, the under-kings seemed to notice that their captains were looking from king to king in shocked curiosity, and dismissed them.
The wait was even longer this time. Dunstan had a great deal to do. The King would not remove until the Keep was set as right as could be. Nor would he discuss the Saradenian letter in the open hall. None were now present that should not hear of it, but the habits of secrecy that kept him alive were not easily put aside. If King Petrus and King Otho realized this, it did not soothe them. Their backs grew rigid as time dragged on. They were certainly wondering whether, as Yvein had claimed, the High King had concealed vital information. The Saradenian letter had come to Vere months before. When the High King told them he had first seen it that very morning, would they believe him? When they saw the letter, would they believe it?
Magistre Ulton had sent a copy of the Saradenian letter to Verun.
Which meant the Clerk—and Verun—had known of the danger, and neither brought it to the High King. To enable the accusation Yvein made? Magistre Ulton might even have encouraged Pedagno Olwen to assume the letter was a fraud, while planning to use that knowledge to his advantage, and Verun’s.
For surely the cousins had colluded in their ambitions, Ulton to take Vere, Verun to seize all Bruster.
I opened my mouth, then shut it. The High King would not discuss this in court either. I would have to wait, as impatiently as the under-kings. Ulton and Verun. Vere. The Pedagno. Saradena. My thoughts circled and whined, like hounds off the scent, until Dunstan returned, accompanied by Hal and the cook.
Dunstan bowed. “The streets have been searched, lord. My—” his voice caught, “men are going to each house, but that will take hours. And,” he paused, “a fire has been built.”
“Well done.” The High King dismissed him with a generous nod that acknowledged how competently the hastily promoted captain had taken up the demands flung upon him. Dunstan bowed, very low. Taking up the body of Verun, he carried it from the hall.
The King turned his attention to the cook, who bowed. She was a short, broad-shouldered woman, her hair braided in a variant of the royal family’s style, one of the privileges of senior retainers. I recognized her; she had been Vere’s head cook.
“Lord.” The cook looked at the disheveled hall, seeming to weigh what to say. “I trust the food was not the cause of this...disagreement.”
He gave a strangled laugh, devoid of real mirth but appreciative of a moment’s leavening. “Kimbur. The Steward of the Black Keep is dead.”
She looked down at Gustor’s body and sighed.
“Who should be my new Steward?”
The cook looked surprised, but considered. “Murton has promise.”
“Too young.”
“There’s Almun,” she said.
“Almun trusts too easily. The Steward must suspect everyone.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Does the King have someone in mind? Trevur, perhaps?”
That name I recognized. Trevur was kin to my mother. For her sake, the King had given him a place in the household staff. It was a gift. He was lazy. Steward Bernuth always had Trevur work with another man; solitary tasks took him twice as long as they should. The King’s generosity would certainly not extend to making him Steward, but Kimbur had not been with him long enough to understand.
“No,” he said flatly. “Any others?”
“I am sorry, lord.” She shook her head. “Almun is the most competent, but I agree, he is too trusting to make a good Steward. Gustor was training Murton but he is too young. Trevur—”
“Has nothing but his blood to recommend him.”
“Yes, lord.”
“Your assessment is just.” He leaned forward, the fingers of his free hand brushing the table. “I hope you have trained your assistant well. You are now Steward.”
Her eyes widened. Nor was she alone in her astonishment. The under-kings stared for several heartbeats before recalling themselves. My brothers were no less surprised but recovered more quickly. Even I, who through my father’s doing was the first woman trained at Vere and knew his willingness to disregard how things were done if a better way presented itself
, was taken aback.
“But—lord—”
“Head cook is nearly as demanding as Steward.” He met his new Steward’s gaze evenly. “No one is more ready to this task.” His eyes flicked down. “It is not without danger.”
I watched as the under-kings struggled to maintain an impassivity that did not conceal that they were nearly as appalled as if the King had chosen one of his boat slaves.
“I am pleased to serve, lord,” Steward Kimbur said. “Until someone more suitable is found.”
“As you will. But I suspect it will be years before you can return to your kitchen.”
The Steward bowed her acquiescence.
“Steward,” the High King said, formal once more, “return order to the Black Keep.” He glanced around the hall. “In all haste.”
She bowed again and left. Within minutes, household servants entered. The King waited until the bodies of Gustor and Anhud had been taken out, to be prepared for burial.
“Now,” the High King gathered Utor into his arms, “we take counsel.”
Chapter X
The guards held Yvein, wrists bound, just inside the door to the King’s rooms. The High King nodded to Murrow and Cedrick, who dismissed them and took charge of her, each with a knife and a look that dared her to give him a reason to use it.
Before the evening had descended into madness, the room had been readied for the gathering of kings. The chairs that had stood before the hearth that morning were gone. The High King’s high-backed seat was now encircled by three other chairs, identical to one another, ornate but not as large as the King’s. I’d never seen them before. I supposed they were used only when the kings held counsel, and wondered where they were kept otherwise.
His face taut, the King stepped beyond the circled chairs to the hearth, where a low fire burned, and lay Utor’s body on the rug before it. What would happen when his grief overpowered his control?
He went to his seat and stood in front of it. King Otho and King Petrus moved to what must have been their customary chairs and stood, again glancing at one another as if debating who should speak first.
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 41