by Dave Duncan
Radgar's. Mutual dislike was going to become
deadly rivalry in a very few years.
"Is he the best choice, lord?" Radgar said,
trying to keep his voice matter-of-fact.
Dad frowned. He disliked family disputes,
even when they were kept private. "I think so.
He's a surly brute, but he's not stupid, and
he's worth six other men in a fight."
"I mean can you trust him not to cut my
throat?"
Mom said, "Radgar!" He hadn't realized
she was listening.
Dad shrugged. "He's being realistic,
Charlotte, and that's good. Yes I can, Son.
I know that one day your ambitions and his are going
to clash. I just hope the two of you can come to an
amicable agreement, as your uncle and I did, and
don't have to resort to steel. Kin slaying is a
crime most foul, even when it's legal. That's
why I not only charged Wulfwer with keeping you
safe, but I also made sure many people heard me
doing so. If anything happens to you in
Twigeport this week, he will never clear himself of
suspicion. Even if he isn't suspected of
having had a hand in the crime, it will always be
whispered that he did not try hard enough. Or
took a bribe. He knows that, so he knows that
whatever ambitions he has to succeed his father or me
depend on bringing you home safe this time.
Understand?"
Radgar nodded. Then he grinned.
"What's so funny?"
"I have a very clever dad."
Surprisingly, Dad did not return the
smile. He shrugged. "I hope you do, Son."
Just before the long fiord opened to the sea, an
ancient lava flow blocked it from side to side
to form a plain now occupied by the city whose name meant
"two harbors." To the south it had access
to Swi@thaefen, while the north side provided
the only anchorage in all Baelmark that foreign
ships dared approach without a local pilot
aboard. Twigeport was both a major port
and a logical site for invasion, and thus the site
of many historic battles.
When the King's fleet approached the
shore, Radgar reluctantly yielded the steering
oar to To`edbeorht and began putting on his
clothes again. He judged the timing perfectly, so
that he finished just as the gangplank was being run out.
Mother frowned at the state of his hair and the
cross-gartering on his leggings, but she had no time
to do anything about them--which would have been an unbearable
humiliation in front of the crew. He wondered
if being continuously nagged was an affliction common
to all athelings.
Earl Swetmann was on the quay to greet his
king, accompanied by eight other earls who had
arrived early for the moot--in time to do a little
preliminary conspiring, no doubt. Swetmann was
astonishingly boyish, with an easy, infectious
laugh and a guileless smile that did not match his
gruesome reputation. He knelt to Father to take the
oath of loyalty; presented Mother with a luxurious
sable cloak as a memento of her arrival in his
earldom; and when Radgar was introduced,
returned his bow with a lower one.
"Atheling, you are indeed welcome, and your
reputation as a horseman has long preceded
you!" He beckoned without turning and a groom led
forward a snow-white stallion of at least
sixteen hands. "I know you will find our talk
boring, so pray accept Isgicel now to amuse
you while you are our guest. He will be shipped
to Waro`edburh when you depart, of course."
Radgar had become blas`e about formal gift
giving. Anything of any real value he received--
gold-hilted daggers or jewel-encrusted belt
buckles--he had to surrender to the royal
treasury as soon as he went home or the
guests departed, whichever the case might be. But
a horse he might well be allowed to keep, and
he saw at a glance that if there was a steed in the
whole world to match his beloved Cwealm, this
Isgicel could be the one. He had no trouble
putting enthusiasm into his voice as he thanked
his host, however disloyal that made him feel.
At this point in the speeches, smiles, and
embraces, fat Uncle Cynewulf rolled in
on a wave of hypocrisy, congratulating the
new earl on the support his fyrd had given him
and stopping just short of commiserating with him on his
sad bereavements. Radgar, fighting a strong
urge to leap onto Isgicel's back, found
himself suddenly shadowed by the looming shapes of
Cousin Wulfwer and his two closest
cronies, Frecful and Hengest, who were almost as
large as he was. Radgar could not look any of
them straight in the nipple. They closed in around
him, scowling and fingering their sword hilts.
"I'm supposed to play nursemaid to you,
brat," Wulfwer growled. "Give me any
trouble and I'll beat you black and blue."
"If you have trouble," Radgar retorted,
anxious to establish their new relationship on a
sound footing right away, "it's because you don't have enough
brains for the job."
"That's one!" said Hengest. His name meant
"stallion," which was not what his parents had named
him at birth, of course. It was his nose and
teeth. ...
"One what?"
"Smart-ass remark," snarled Frecful.
"Two more and the pounding starts."
"When did you learn to count that high,
Freckles?"
Frecful did have freckles and was
notoriously touchy about them, being as boyishly
beautiful as Hengest was horse-faced. No
warrior should be so pretty or blush so easily.
He raised a threatening fist, but then Mother turned
and loosed a glare that cowed even Wulfwer's
private army.
Being confined between two waterfronts and two
cliffs, Twigeport had necessarily grown
taller than other Baelish towns. Radgar
enjoyed exploring its cramped and narrow streets,
but it seemed unlikely that he would get the chance this
time.
The procession to the hall was led by Dad and the
earls on horseback, followed by Mother and
Uncle Cynewulf in a carriage. Radgar
had been scheduled to sit with them, but Isgicel
provided a wonderful excuse not to. Even
better, his bodyguards had to hurry along on
foot beside his stirrup, sweating like pigs in the
heat.
"Hold your heads up, lads!" he said.
"Smile at the nice people. Remember you're an
atheling's escort now. You can't help being ugly
but try to look worthy." And so on. The streets
were very narrow and although Isgicel was responsive,
he did not like strangers close to him. With very little
encouragement from Radgar, he managed to nip
Frecful, kick Hengest, and twice
slam Wulfwer against a wall. It
all helped
improve the afternoon.
Although built of stone and very large, the earl's
hall was otherwise a traditional one-story
barn, concealed by a forest of living quarters and other
outbuildings that had sprung up all around it.
Radgar wanted to see Isgicel stabled and then go
exploring on foot--preferably without his
unwilling guardians--but as soon as they reached the
palace he had to escort his mother to an
important preliminary meeting.
A cniht led them to a small room two
stairs up. It was stuffy in the heat and stank as
if it had been used as a thralls' dormitory
for centuries, although at the moment it was furnished
with only a faded carpet and two chairs. The
paneling was old, split in places. Overhead
it was open to the roof of the building--rafters and the
undersides of the shingles. Mother surveyed the place
with great distaste.
"I did ask for somewhere private. I can't
imagine anyone coming here voluntarily, so we
shouldn't be disturbed." She sat down and arranged
her skirts, trying to appear composed, but he
knew her too well to be fooled. He went
over to the poky little dormer window. It was
unglazed and the shutters stood as wide as they would
go, so it was doing the best it could to provide fresh
air. He leaned out, feeling a hint of breeze
on his face and smelling the sea. He could see
over many shingled roofs to the fortified north harbor.
There were dozens of ships and boats tied up at the
quay or anchored offshore.
"Just remember, Radgar, that Chivians are
taught to expect all Baels to be barbarian
brutes. Try and behave like a gentleman."
She had said this a hundred times in the last two
weeks. "Yes, Mother."
They were awaiting the arrival of His
Excellency the Chivian ambassador, who was
Mom's brother Rodney, now Lord Candlefen,
an uncle he had never met. What Father had said
--just once--was, "Be polite and
respectful if he is. Be considerate of your
Mother, because this will be difficult for her. You need not
tolerate insults to you or your family."
"Family" in that case meant Dad himself, of
course.
Most of the craft out in the bay were longships, but
some were cogs with two or even three
masts--decked craft that could carry a lot of
cargo but would roll abominably in the slightest
sea. They would be slow, too.
"Remember this is a family meeting, dear.
We'll have no nonsense about princes taking
precedence. You are a boy meeting his uncle,
that's all."
"Baelmark doesn't have princes, Mother," he
said patiently. "I'm just an atheling." Not all
of those merchantmen need be Chivian or even
non-Baelish, of course.
"As far as your Chivian family is concerned,
you are a prince." She was not being very logical.
"Very well, I'm a prince." But he could not
hope to become Dad's successor until he
had proved himself throne-worthy, and that would be much
harder to do if the war ended. So many roofs packed
together! No wonder Twigeport had bad
fires.
"This is a very moving moment for me, dear.
Please don't do anything to spoil it! I can
trust you, can't I?"
He turned. "Trust me with what?"
"Trust you to be polite!"
"Have you ever known me be anything else, Your
Grace?"
She gasped. "Once or twice!" Then she
laughed. "You get more like your father every day!"
He bowed. "You flatter me, mistress."
She smiled approvingly. "Just keep that up
and--" She stiffened at a tap on the door.
"Come!"
A man entered. Radgar was impressed at
once. The newcomer had dark hair and dark
eyes, which seemed bizarre in Baelmark, and so
did his hose, jerkin, and the white lace around his
neck, but something about the way he moved, the way
he scanned the room, suggested that he would be a
dangerous man to cross. The pommel of the sword
at his side was a gleaming golden gem. He
wasn't old enough to be Lord Candlefen, though ...
a bodyguard? He stepped back out of the room
without closing the door.
"Was that a Blade?" Radgar whispered
excitedly. "Will Uncle have Blades guarding
him?"
"Perhaps." She seemed amused, suddenly.
"He probably thinks we have wolves and bears
wandering the streets here. But if the King did
assign Blades to him it would have been just
recently. That man was too old."
Of course! Radgar should have thought of that.
Blades were sort of enchanted house thegns. They
had a special cniht school of their own
somewhere, but then they were spiritually bound to their lords. So
a Blade couldn't transfer from one to another, and
any newly bound Blade would have to be young. It was
extremely annoying that Mother had seen that before he
did.
A tall, very bulky man stumped into the room
and the door closed silently behind him. His hair and
beard were brown streaked with gray, his face was bright
red, and his breath rasped from the climb. On a
hot summer day, he was absurdly overdressed
in multicolored fur-trimmed cloak and padded,
slashed, embroidered jerkin, doublet, and
spirits-knew what else. He looked like a
festival decoration. Someone must have warned him that
Baelmark had a cold climate.
"Rodney!" Mother cried, leaping up.
The Chivian ambassador bowed stiffly.
"Madam!"
She flinched as if he had slapped her.
Losing her balance against the chair she had just
left, she fell back onto it. Her brother
turned fishy eyes on his nephew.
Radgar bowed and said, "My lord," which was less
than he had intended to say.
"Hmm. You look very like your father."
"Thank you, Your Excellency."
Mother rose, more slowly this time. "What way is
this to greet us, Rodney? It has been so
long!" She advanced with hands outstretched.
He ignored them, scowling at Radgar. "I
understood we were to have a private meeting,
Charlotte. That boy will tattle everything we say
to his father."
"And what if he does? His father is my
husband."
The ambassador's scowl made his meaty
face seem sulky. "His father is the pirate
who carried you off. We have never recognized your
abduction as a marriage."
A tremor at the hem of her dress suggested
that Queen Charlotte had started tapping a foot,
which had been a danger signal all through
Radgar's childhood. In this case, for once,
he was neither the cause nor the anticipated
victim. When she spoke it was in her most
baleful tone, which even Father s
hunned.
"I accepted him in front of witnesses!"
"Do not remind me." Uncle Rodney eased
his bulk down on a chair and flapped pudgy
fingers at his sister. "Sit, woman. Those words
you spoke that day were the ruin of your family. We
have been cast out, vilified, impoverished, and
disgraced because you acquiesced in a public
rape." He was a taller man than Uncle
Cynewulf, and probably weighed a lot more, but
his flab seemed to be spread evenly all over
him, muscle gone bad. His Chivian silk
stockings were stretched over enormous calves.
Uncle Cynewulf had very skinny legs and a
belly like a lobster pot, which he followed
everywhere.
Mother took her time sitting, fussily adjusting
her skirts. Radgar went to stand beside her and put
his hands behind his back because they were shaking. It was two
years since he'd thrown one of his mad temper
tantrums and he'd hoped he'd grown out of them.
Now he was not so sure.
"I was merely," Mother said quietly, "making
the best deal I could for myself under the circumstances.
I did not understand that it was my responsibility
to defend the Park against raiders. I do not
recall that you made any effort to come to my aid
when my wedding turned into a public rape, as you
so charmingly describe it, although I am certain you
were wearing a sword. If you made any sort of
protest at all it has slipped my mind. I
do not even remember your expressing regret in
your letters. Of course the first one said little more than,
"Father is dead." And the second much the same:
"Mother has died. Weather continues fine." There
was a third about poor Rose and the cesspool. Just
three brief notes, in fourteen years! But you
did admit that you received mine."
Radgar contributed a quiet snigger to help
the fight along. This Chivian fop didn't have a
chance. Even battle-blooded thegns were lucky
to escape with their balls if his mom went after them.
The ambassador's florid face had turned
almost purple. "Every one of those letters was opened by the
Dark Chamber before we ever saw it. Anything we
wrote in reply was also intercepted, of course.
There was war, woman! We were suspected of
treasonous activities. Do you honestly think
your husband did not have his agents open your
correspondence likewise?"
"Yes!" she snapped. Then,
softly again: "Aeled would never stoop to such a thing.
I freely passed your letters to him to read, else