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