by Doug Niles
“I remember Palanthas,” the duchess said dreamily. “Such a beautiful city. Not like Caergoth, all walls and towers and forts.”
“I suppose any place can get tiresome,” Selinda replied, thinking of her private delight at getting out of her own city.
“That Golden Spire!” Martha said. “It was breathtaking! Is it true that it’s your father’s gold up in that tower that makes it glow like that?”
“Oh, yes. He wanted it displayed so the people could see it as a measure of our prosperity,” the princess explained. “Of course, he’s the only one with a key to the room!”
“Nobody ever tries to steal it?” the duchess inquired, sipping more wine.
“They couldn’t possibly,” Selinda replied. “Lady Coryn, the white wizard, has placed spells of protection around the tower. No one can remove so much as a speck of the gold—not even another wizard—without my father’s permission.”
“They say the Duke of Solanthus is very rich, too,” Martha noted, a little blearily. “Not gold, in his case.”
“Yes, he has control of the Stones of Garnet,” Selinda explained. “They are gems the merchants of Solanthus have gained in trade from the dwarves over more than a thousand years. Each to their own, I say, but my father prefers his riches in gold.”
A little later, the hostess leaned over and whispered rather wickedly to Selinda that the dinner owed some of its success to the fact that the two argumentative lords of Solanthus and Thelgaard were absent.
“They are certainly late arriving. I do hope that nothing is seriously wrong,” the princess replied. “I am looking forward to speaking with both of them.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” the duchess said, swallowing half of her glass of wine in one gulp. She held out the vessel for a passing steward to refill. “The fact is, I wouldn’t trust either one o’ them.” Lady Martha blinked, as if surprised at what she had just said.
To Selinda’s left, the duke was arguing loudly with one of his nobles over the manner of some criminal’s execution. The duke had paid little attention to the princess after they were seated, which had given her a chance to get to know her hostess.
Now Selinda leaned over, delighted with the duchess’s frankness. “Tell me more! I barely remember them. The Duke of Thelgaard … a big bear of a man? The Lord of the Crown …?”
Frowning in concentration, Lady Martha nodded. “Yes, big Lord Jarrod. Don’t let him hug you. He’ll crack your ribs.”
“Hug! Oh, my.” Selinda was a little taken aback.
“Only after he drinks too much. He’s polite enough ’til then, but he drinks every day. All day. Starts when he gets up in the morning.”
“I will keep that in mind,” said the princess. “Perhaps, therefore, we should schedule the most important conferences for early in the day.”
“Drinking makes him grumpy,” Martha admitted, “but then, so does everything else. Not that he doesn’t have a few good excuses, you know.”
“For being in a bad mood?”
“Yes. After all, Rathskell in Solanthus has got all the money. That’s what they say. My own Crawfish—” She gasped in mock astonishment and clapped a hand over her mouth with a glance at her husband. The duke was still engaged in his conversation, and hadn’t heard his wife’s use of the detested nickname. “He has this great big army. While Thelgaard is so very poor.”
“What about Solanthus? You haven’t said very much about him so far. Does he drink a lot, too?” Selinda wondered.
“The Duke of Solanthus,” the duchess began, enunciating her words with great care, “is a scoundrel and a cad. It is whispered”—her voice dropped to a breathy whisper—“that he might even be a murderer!”
“No!” gasped Selinda. She took a small sip of her own wine. It was a southern vintage, sweeter and little more fruity than she was used to. Although she liked it very much, she made sure to drink less than her hostess. “Tell me, who is he supposed to have killed?”
“Well, the duchess, his wife—his young wife—was once married to a lord, subject of the duke himself. That lord perished mysteriously on a hunt in the foothills of the Garnet Mountains, a hunt where it just so happens that the duke himself was leading the riders. Of course, the duke made a great display of grief and spoke high honors about the dead man. Very convincing. Less than a year later, he took the beautiful widow as his wife.”
“I should think the scandal would have cost him dearly,” Selinda remarked disapprovingly.
“Well, you don’t know Solanthus,” Martha declared. “He took over there two years after the War of Souls. He’s about as rich as the Lord Regent himself—oh, excuse me. Your papa, I mean. But Rathskell has made sure that, if you don’t like the way he is doing things, you don’t stay around.”
“You mean, he has killed other people?”
Martha shook her head. “No, but they find reason to leave. Many of ’em left, the ones who didn’t approve of his rule. Lord Lorimar was their leader—good man, Lord Lorimar,” she noted sadly.
“Yes. I always admired the way he rode horseback through the streets, not like the other lords in their fancy carriages and buggies. He was very handsome, dignified. He looked you right in the eyes when he talked to you. His daughter Dara and I were friends—though she was a little older than me. Such a terrible tragedy, their deaths. And the assassin still at large!”
“That assassin—oh, he’s slippery as a ghost,” Martha said. “Everybody looks and looks for him. He hasn’t been heard of for a time now. It’s as though he’s disappeared from the world!”
Selinda suppressed a shudder. Dara Lorimar had been a good-hearted, vivacious young woman. When the news of her and her father’s death had reached Palanthas, the lord regent had been enraged that one of his most loyal lords had been cruelly slain. Selinda had grieved over the death of a friend.
“My father has offered a thousand steel crowns as reward!” the princess murmured.
“Whoever brings him to justice will earn their reward,” Martha said, clearly a little bleary from the wine. “He’s a bad one.”
“My dear,” the duke said sternly. He had risen, unnoticed, from his seat and was now leaning over his wife’s shoulder. “I need you to come with me.”
“Oh,” Martha replied. She blinked her watery eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said to the princess, before rising unsteadily.
“Surely you’re not leaving the banquet?” Selinda objected in dismay, but Martha was ushered away, the duke holding her hand until he could pass her to the sturdy arms of several of the Ducal Guard. He returned to the table, shaking his head.
“She’s a wonderful woman,” he said, whispering to the princess as he took his seat, “but she always has trouble with strong wines.”
“She is a delightful hostess!” insisted the guest of honor, but the duke didn’t seem to be listening anymore.
Instead, he rose to his feet.
“And now …” the Duke of Caergoth declared, speaking over the babble of the diners, “it is my great privilege to offer a toast to our most charming, and beautiful, visitor.”
The room fell reasonably silent, though Selinda couldn’t help noticing that there was more talking, whispering, laughing than there would have been at a Palanthian gathering.
“We are graced by a lady whose elegance, charm, and wit can mean only great auguries for the upcoming conference of Solamnic lords. Indeed, it is my fervent prayer that her wise counsel in these talks will open the way toward a new era of peace and cooperation among the lords of the three orders.
“We stand at a crossroads now … an opportunity when the future beckons as never before. The Evil Ones glimmer from the shadows. The dark shadows. We of Solamnia, we bring light into those shadows. We cast that light of truth, of justice, of the Oath and the Measure into the darkest of lightless shadows. The Evil Ones can only cower as we hold true to our just and righteous course.
“This lady who is our guest, well, she is the very embodime
nt of that torch, that righteous light. In the name of her father, our own Lord Regent Du Chagne—who has almost single-handedly brought that light into Palanthas and helped to spread it across all the plains—we salute her and ourselves!”
The duke raised his wine glass with his right hand. “Through the dark years since the War of Souls we have struggled and strived to bring civilization back to these long-suffering lands. We of the Rose, here in Caergoth—together with the worthy nobles of the Sword in Thelgaard and of the Crown in Solanthus—ever do we look toward the great city in the north for leadership, for guidance, for good counsel. Palanthas! Aye, Palanthas, the noble keystone in the centuries-old arch that is Solamnia. No place has stood against evil, has stood as a beacon of righteousness, more than have the great nations of Solamnia.
“To the great city of Palanthas, to the noble Lord Regent of that great city, and to his most gracious daughter who is here with us tonight: let us cry thrice hail, and drink a toast to the glory, the wisdom, and the long-standing might of Palanthas!”
“Hail! Hail, hail!”
The cry rocked the great hall, so forceful that Selinda was taken aback. It was dizzying to think that all of these people put such faith in herself and her house. Nevertheless, she stood swiftly and gracefully, very glad that she had been careful with the wine.
“My most kind and hospitable host, I thank you,” she declared. “On behalf of my father, in the legacy of the Council of Whitestone, and with all our prayers for the future, I most humbly aspire to prove worthy of the many flatteries you have offered.”
Selinda lifted her glass and all those present did the same, goblets clinking around the room. They all drank, and the great hall filled with cheers.
Sitting down again, the princess was amazed and delighted as a procession of servants flowed through the massive doors from the kitchen. She had been been to many banquets in Palanthas where the fare had consisted of dainty roasted fowls, or slices of ham graced with apples and plums, or bits of fish arranged fashionably on golden platters. That was not the Caergoth way: Here they brought out whole pigs roasted, and set upon massive platters carried by two burly men. Milk was poured from massive, ice-encrusted jugs, and those who wanted ale simply wandered over to one of several kegs set up in various parts of the great hall.
Selinda ate more than she ever had a single sitting before, and washed it down with the southern ale that, she decided, was smoother and less presumptuous than its Palanthian cousin.
The duke seemed to come alive as the evening progressed, chatting with Selinda about the glories of his realm, most of which seemed to center around the city’s position as a natural seaport.
“Of course, we have problems, too,” he admitted at one point. “The goblin crisis here isn’t what it is in Thelgaard and Solanthus, closer to the Garnet Mountains, but we do find the wretches skulking about now and then. I have a prime specimen locked up in my dungeon right now!”
“Really!” said Selinda. “We never see any goblins in Palanthas!”
“Well, one day I hope to say the same thing about Caergoth,” the duke professed. “My man here, Captain Reynaud, captured this one in the Garnet Mountains and brought him here for interrogation.”
“Really?”
The princess leaned forward, out of the corner of her eye regarding the knight with whom the duke had earlier been arguing. The knight was a man with slick black hair and a long mustache that curled into twin prongs, like the horns of a steer. Now the man cocked an ear, hearing them and assuming a humble expression.
He waved a hand dismissively. “It was nothing, really. We had to kill a few of his comrades. They were pickets, on the ridge around a huge clan of the beggars. We chained him up and brought him back here, quick as you like.” Reynaud spoke as though it were a simple business, but the princess noticed the hard edge in his eye and perceived a stern, even cruel set to his thin lips.
“I think it’s really quite a thrilling story,” the princess said. “Do you suppose I could see the creature? Perhaps take a tour of your dungeon?”
“Absolutely not! Out of the question!” She was surprised to have her question answered not by the duke but by a knight who had stood behind the lord during the entire meal. He was the same warrior, Sir Marckus Haum, who had met her at the docks.
“I beg your pardon,” she said archly. “I was speaking to the duke!”
“Yes, Sir Marckus—she was talking to me!” added that worthy noble.
“Begging your Excellency’s pardon, but the very idea of taking the lady into them stinking dungeons is loopy. No disrespect intended, my lady, but it’s dangerous activity. The blighters will as soon bite and scratch you as glance at you. They’d spit upon you if you so much as showed your face down there!”
“I’m not worried about a little spit,” Selinda retorted. Perhaps it was the ale, but she felt surprisingly indignant and more than willing to speak her mind. “I do so much want to see a goblin!”
“The risks are simply too great. Why, if your father was to hear—”
“My father is not here!” the princess responded. “Even more to the point, my father sent me here with the authority to speak his will. It is in his voice that I demand—” She paused, smiled sweetly at the duke, who was staring at her wide-eyed. “I respectfully request that your Excellency provide me with a tour of your dungeon, during which I may lay eyes upon a captured goblin or two. I shall count upon the diligence of your knights to protect safety of my person.” She turned her beguiling smile upon Sir Marckus and watched the flush creep slowly across his face.
Ankhar relished his first night as leader of the great horde. He stayed in the Big House as, in fact, it rained hard on the thousands of gathered hobs and gobs. Naturally, there was insufficient space for more than a fraction of them inside the building, but they didn’t seem to mind. Instead, they drank, danced, and cavorted around the great fire all through the dismal night.
It wasn’t until later the next day that Laka came to see her adopted son, finding him awake and hungry—and scattering the dozen or so young gob wenches who had clamored to provide the new chieftain with whatever nourishment he needed through the night.
So tired and sore was Ankhar that he didn’t even object to his mother’s harangue.
“What you do with all these gobs and hobs?” she asked him, shaking the skull-totem so the pebbles inside the bony talisman rattled and hissed. “You got army here. You gotta lead them.”
“Lead them where?” wondered the half-giant. He recalled Bonechisel’s numerous campaigns, all of them bloody but none of them particularly momentous. “To go kill more hobs and gobs?”
Laka shook her rattle meaningfully. The black eyes gaped empty, but chiding.
“No. Go kill dwarves?”
The half-giant realized that idea made no sense. The dwarves lived in fortified cities under the ground. There was no effective way to attack them. Nor was there any reason, save a lust for the treasures that were reputedly locked away in the vaults of Kaolyn.
“No, humans. With this many gobs, we kill lots of humans. Maybe even a whole city.”
With those words, the eyes of the skull-rattle glowed bright green, and the fleshless lips seemed to curve into an approving grin. Laka shook the rattle again, and the half-giant was more than a little impressed as words, delivered in a croaking rasp, emerged from between those bony jaws.
“Truth is in your soul,
“Justice in your blade.
“Blood is battle’s toll,
“A savage empire made!”
Ankhar nodded. A savage empire made …
Now that was a Truth worth fighting for.
“You must do exactly as I say,” huffed Sir Marckus.
“Now, now, Marckus,” reassured the duke, “this is a recreational outing, not a military campaign.”
“I still say, bring the creature out here and let her see it. She doesn’t need to go in there.”
“Nonsense!” replied Selin
da. “The risks of an escape are much greater if you bring it outside. No, I am quite prepared to go in there to see this creature. I am not afraid.”
“Then with all respect, Excellency and your highness, do consider: We are dealing with a treacherous and implacable foe. He will do anything to get hold of an example of human womanhood—begging the lady’s pardon.”
Sir Marckus was accompanied by a dozen sturdy knights, all more than six feet tall, broad shouldered and solidly built. Each wore a supple leather tunic that gave him good freedom of movement yet still provided protection to the torso and groin. Instead of their usual lances and great battle swords they wore short swords that looked more like overgrown knives than true swords.
Selinda was glad, thinking about it, that Captain Powell had gone back to the ships to tend to matters. He would have been every bit as stiff and protective as Sir Marckus, and she certainly didn’t need two such officers clucking over her like mother hens.
“First cells won’t be too bad,” the knight of the Rose explained as they crossed the castle courtyard into a dark, muddy passageway between two high walls. A lone door with a swordsman standing guard stood at the end of the way. The guard saluted and opened the door as Marckus approached. “These’ll be scum from the city, thieves and the like. Worthless wretches, but some of them have a chance to be paroled, so they’ll be on their best behavior as we pass through.”
They went through a small room with another guard, and this one unlocked the door carefully. Marckus and several of his men took torches from a rack on the wall. With the brand held high, the captain preceded the party through the second door. There was a row of cells to each side. They were tiny cages, with iron bars and a single, small door forming the front wall of each.
“Aye, Cap’n—how’s the gout?” shouted a one-eyed scarecrow of a man in the first cell. “Yer lookin’ fit, aye you are.”
“And the lovely missus?” croaked another fellow, lurching upward from a filthy straw pallet. He came to the bars of his cell and extended an imploring hand. “You give her that bauble o’ mine, I trust? I tol’ ya, give it to the missus!”