Tales of King's Blades 02 - Lord of The Fire Lands

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Tales of King's Blades 02 - Lord of The Fire Lands Page 13

by Dave Duncan

appall any other man I have ever met and I

  certainly can't promise--"

  The raider frowned. "I don't like risks."

  Gerard opened and closed his mouth a few times.

  ...

  Aeled's green eyes stared icily down at

  him. "Stupidity is not courage. Brains are not

  cowardice. I never take unnecessary risks; I

  plan my moves and weigh the costs. My motto

  is "When you hunt the wolf, beware the

  she-wolf!" [Wigest wulfe, wylfre

  ware] She is rarely far away. Had you

  remembered that in Ambleport, you would have realized that

  Waerferh`ed would have many she-wolves at his

  back."

  "Yes, ealdor," Gerard said, chastened.

  "But I will take risks if the prize is

  worth it and the odds are reasonable. Go on."

  "Thank you, ealdor. The hunt I

  propose may make you king or kill you, but if

  you fail I don't think men will laugh at you."

  Then came the grin, bright as the rising sun.

  "That is important! Mount up. Let us be on

  our way, lest the shire reeve come hunting me

  again, for if I throttle him as I want to,

  then good King Ufegeat will be seriously annoyed."

  At first he set a pace that made conversation

  impossible, but as they were leaving the sprawling

  fringes of the city behind, heading inland through grain

  fields toward the ice-capped cone of

  Cwicnoll, he let the horses slow to a trot

  and Gerard was able to draw level.

  "Is it safe for you to ride out like this without

  guards?"

  "Me? House thegns?" Aeled snorted

  contemptuously. "Like Taisson the Frail, you

  mean? A hundred swordsmen around his sickbed?"

  "You have won the richest shire in the country. You

  must have acquired enemies to go with it."

  Such talk made Aeled smile. "Of

  course. King Ufegeat, for one. But

  assassinating me would just start a blood

  feud. If someone kills Taisson, the

  Chivians will automatically be stuck with

  Ambrose. Here we have better ways. When the

  fyrd of Catterstow decides it wants to be

  rid of me, there are means available."

  Put like that, the peculiar system seemed less

  barbaric, almost rational. "What about the oaths of

  loyalty everyone has been swearing to you?"

  "What about them? I respond by swearing to be a

  strong and just lord. If I get greedy or

  vicious or too decrepit to swing a sword,

  then I have broken my side of the bargain and they are

  free to find a better man." The grin flickered

  back, briefly. "And if I haven't, let

  traitors beware! I mean to be king, though, and

  then I will make Catterstow rich and happy.

  Tell me your plan."

  He slowed the pace to a walk as the trail

  left cultivated plains behind and began climbing

  through steep pastures. Cwicnoll had withdrawn from

  view, retreating behind ridges and lesser peaks.

  Gerard gathered his thoughts. He had rehearsed this

  often enough. "You need to do something different, not just

  another foering, because you have shown you can do those

  better than any. Nor just shedding a lot of

  blood."

  Aeled nodded impatiently. "Any fool can

  make a massacre. Violence usually stores

  up trouble for the future, so I use it only when

  I must."

  "I will remember, ealdor. This should not need

  violence, or very little. I was in Ambleport that

  night because I was on my way back to Grandon from

  Candlefen. That's on the Wartle, about a day's

  journey west." A shrug told him the raider

  had never heard of it. "There are old records of

  Baels raiding upriver as far as Wartcaster and

  Tonworth, but back in Goisbert the Third's

  time they built a highway along the coast there and

  bridged the Wartle. The fiendish Baels

  couldn't get their ships up the river anymore."

  Aeled raised his copper eyebrows

  skeptically. "No?"

  "Or they haven't tried. Candlefen Castle

  has fallen into ruin. It's deserted. The

  family lives in Candlefen Park, about three

  leagues inland. That's a very fair mansion, but you

  could jump the wall. I told you I am--was--

  a gentleman scholar for the College of

  Heralds. I do odd jobs for the

  nobility. Lord Candlefen is marrying his daughter

  to the Duke of Dragmont, who owns half of

  Westerth. There will be a huge celebration. I was

  sent out from Grandon to advise them--who must be

  invited, who is presented to whom, who sits above

  the salt, who can bring men-at-arms. How many

  servants. All that."

  He could have done it in three days. He should have

  done it in a week. He had spun it out for two.

  "Lots of loot at the party?" Aeled said with

  no great enthusiasm.

  "Loot? I suppose the fat ladies will be

  wearing their weight in pearls. The Duke of

  Dragmont is a swine. I called him Dreg

  Mouth behind his back until I was terrified I

  would do it to his face--his breath will kill a

  horse at fifty paces. He also has a

  disgusting rash on his neck and hands, and I assume

  everywhere else from the way he scratches, and he's

  three times as old as the bride. He has

  grand-children almost her age! But he's the king of

  beasts in Westerth--powerful, spiteful,

  vindictive. The Candlefens daren't do a damned

  thing to--" He was almost shouting and Aeled was

  looking at him oddly.

  He took out the tube of paper he had tucked

  inside his tunic, untied the ribbon around it, and

  passed it across. Aeled glanced at it and handed it

  back.

  "Yes, I saw that. You are very talented. I

  wondered if she could be real."

  "It doesn't do her justice. Not close

  even. She's seventeen. She's--she's

  perfect! Witty, spirited, considerate ..." And

  she was to be married to that human sewage. He had

  promised her he would not go back for the ceremony.

  "The wedding is set for the fifteenth of

  Seventhmoon." Realizing that the Baelish

  calendar might be different, he said, "That's the

  day of the full moon closest to the summer

  solstice. I watched you beaching Groeggos. That

  bridge would be no obstacle at all. You'd just

  push your ships around it, across a road. About as

  far as here to that rock."

  "We could do it with rollers." The Earl was not

  impressed so far. "If the tide's in and the

  river's navigable and the weather's favorable. We

  could be back at the coast before any troops get

  there. It would have to be well scouted in advance.

  She's very lovely, and I understand why you

  disapprove of the match, but I can't risk the

  lives of hundreds of men just to kidnap a rich

  old duke from his wedding. The fat ladies'

  jewels are tempting, I admit. It would be a

  riotous caper and every mead hall in Bae
lmark would

  shake with laughter, but--"

  He broke off with a frown because Gerard was

  laughing. Rather a high-pitched laugh, teetering on

  the edge of hysteria.

  "Sorry, ealdor! I'm not experienced at

  this roed'-giving. I forgot to mention that

  Charlotte's mother's mother is Princess

  Crystal, a daughter of Ambrose II.

  Charlotte is first cousin, once removed, of

  King Taisson, and thus second cousin of

  Crown Prince Ambrose. She is a generation

  closer to the throne than I am. I'm just connected

  by marriage. I'm not royal and she is.

  Charlotte is of the blood. She's seventh in the

  line of succession."

  Aeled's grin reappeared. It grew wider and

  wider and wider. "Let me see that sketch again!

  Oh, yes! Oh, yes, yes. Speak on,

  wita!"

  "You'd have to marry her," Gerard said in sudden

  terror. "Just carrying her off and raping her wouldn't

  do! You must marry her!"

  "Yes, Gerard. I'd marry her." Aeled

  took a deep breath. "Yes, I will marry

  her! Cousin of the King of Chivial! And the greatest

  beauty of the land. To go to the witenagemot with her on

  my ... This would be truly throne-worthy! You

  give vintage roed, wita. Speak on!"

  "There is one she-wolf lurking."

  "I can see at least six!" Aeled said with the

  glee of a child counting cakes.

  "She is close enough to the throne that they must

  invite the King to the--"

  "Taisson will be there?" Baelish eyes

  flashed.

  "No, no!" Gerard said hastily, remembering

  he was trying to steer a killer who might well

  prefer to go to the witenagemot with the King's head under

  his arm instead. "His health won't let him.

  He wouldn't go anyway, because a reigning monarch

  eclipses the bride and groom. And don't

  look disappointed, ealdor! Kings of Chivial

  have Blades! Two or three Blades could cut

  your whole werod into fish bait."

  "Maybe."

  "Truly! The snag is that Crown Prince

  Ambrose may accept the invitation. He's been

  doing a fair bit of traveling since he came

  of age, and he hasn't been to Westerth yet: I

  warned them that they might have to put up with Tin

  Trumpet. That's his nickname. He's a young

  blowhard. And he has some Blades too, so--"

  "How old is he?"

  "Twenty. Well, he'll be twenty next

  month."

  "Oh? What week?"

  "Er, second."

  Aeled's grin returned, bigger than ever.

  "Coincidence! We're the same age." He

  rode on, staring down at the grass, while his

  wita waited breathlessly. Then the Bael looked

  up with a very, very dangerous gleam in his eye. "How

  much ransom would Chivial pay for its Crown

  Prince?"

  "He may not be there!"

  "But if he is? How much silver would

  Taisson pay?"

  "How many men would you spend? I told you

  Ambrose has Blades of his own; and he may

  bring some of the Royal Guard as well, because

  they're going crazy guarding a sickroom. You'd

  lose a hundred men before you could lay a hand on

  him--and he fancies himself as a swordsman, so

  he's likely to die in the melee and then you gain

  nothing. How many of the witan would support you after

  that kind of massacre?"

  Aeled chewed his lip for a while, then sighed.

  "Too few and I would not be one of them. You are

  right. I give you my word I will not move against the

  Prince. You sound as if you had fallen in love

  with the girl yourself." His green eyes raked Gerard.

  "Did she spurn you, friend? Is this your revenge

  --to have her carried off by raiders?"

  "No, of course not!"

  "What is she to you, then?"

  "Nothing!" Gerard insisted. "Just a pretty

  girl. I've only known her a few days,

  ealdor, truly. I pity her having to marry that

  stinking old goat, that's all."

  Aeled said, "Hmm? Well, I swear to you

  I will make her my wife and queen and then any

  other man who as much as catches her eye will wish

  he had never been born. You do understand that part of

  it, don't you?"

  "And I swear to you, ealdor, that no

  such thought--"

  "Of course. Now there is much to plan, and a

  myriad things that could go wrong." He looked up

  at the cliffs ahead. "I am on my way

  to visit a man who is something of a soothsayer.

  Whether he will agree to see you or not, I cannot

  tell, but he can give wise roed on this. I

  don't think we can pull this off without some spiritual

  assistance. If anyone can solve the problems for

  us, it is Healfwer."

  Some nights later, just before moonrise, a

  dory containing three men passed under the bridge

  at the mouth of the Wartle and headed inland. By dawn

  it had scouted upriver as far as Candlefen Park

  and returned to the sea. There Aeled ordered that

  preparations for the foering proceed. He and

  Leofric then sailed away to their rendezvous with

  Groeggos and their voyage back to Baelmark,

  but Gerard walked along the shore to Wosham and

  purchased a horse, telling tall tales about his

  own having gone lame and being left with a farmer.

  Three days later he reached Grandon

  by stagecoach, having encountered no problems

  except a tendency to speak and think in Baelish.

  An ealdormannes wita ... er, earl's

  counselor ... certainly need never worry about

  sceatt ... money. ...

  Gentleman scholars were not expected to toil

  by the clock like artisans' apprentices, so no

  one in the college commented on his reappearance or

  how long he had been gone, certainly not Eagle

  King of Arms, a kindly octogenarian whose thoughts

  were permanently several centuries behind the times.

  Lord Thyme, the ancient archivist who actually

  kept the college moving at its glacial pace

  mumbled that Lord Candlefen's latest letter had been

  most complimentary about Gerard and regretful that he

  would not be able to return for the wedding itself.

  "My other plans have fallen through," Gerard

  said. "I'll take the assignment if you want."

  With turbulent feelings, he watched his name being

  written in the appointment book. For almost anyone

  over the age of thirteen, marriage was a simple

  matter of a declaration before two witnesses, but

  families holding lands or titles usually had

  their children's unions registered by the heralds. This

  duty was unpopular in the college because

  fathers of brides were commonly so close

  to destitute by the time the celebration arrived that they

  notoriously failed to reward the registrar,

  sometimes not even reimbursing his travel

  expenses.

  Gerard had promised Charlotte he would not be

  the one to marry her to the Duke of
Drain Mud.

  Well, he wasn't going to, was he? Oh,

  spirits! Don't even think about it. He was

  sleeping badly.

  The next few weeks were a prolonged agony

  of deception. He visited his parents but dared not

  tell them they would probably never see him again.

  When he hinted that he might have found a rich

  patron, they became very excited and peppered him

  with questions he could not answer--his mother, especially,

  lived in dread that her son might ultimately

  sink to the level of trade. He made discreet

  inquiries of Greymere Palace, and received the

  standard response that the Prince's travel

  plans were never announced in advance. There was no

  news from Candlefen and would be none unless the wedding

  were canceled and perhaps not even then. He dared not trust

  himself to write to Charlotte. He shied at

  shadows. He shunned his friends. He lost his

  appetite.

  He found consolation in work. A certain rich

  merchant had discovered traces of blue blood in

  his veins and wanted the College to provide him

  with a complete family tree back to the mists of

  antiquity. Surprisingly, Gerard identified

  a couple of quite interesting branches. He prepared

  a multicolored vellum scroll festooned with

  armorial crests and blazons, one of the best things

  he had ever done. It was finished by the start of

  Seventhmoon and he still had some days to kill, so his

  fevered imagination began running wild, and he

  filled in gaps with fictitious links to memorable

  Chivian traitors and ancient Baelish

  monsters like Smeawine and Bearskinboots. On the

  evening of the ninth he left the completed and ruined

  project on Eagle King of Arms' desk--

  hoping it would not make the old gentleman die of

  shock in the morning--and left the College for the

  last time. The next day he packed a few

  souvenirs and caught the western stage.

  At sunset on the thirteenth, he came

  riding along the beach under Candlefen

  Castle. Most of the walls had been quarried

  away by local builders and sand had drifted

  into what remained. He could see no signs that

  anyone had visited it in years, which would mean that

  Aeled had abandoned the foering. The wild

  surge of hope that almost choked him was proof, had

  he needed any, that he was not cut out to be a spy,

  traitor, or conspirator. Nevertheless he must

  make sure of that change of plans, so he rode

  up the slope, taking care to stay on loose sand

 

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