by Dave Duncan
course. The final points all deal with matters
of less significance, and some are completely
routine. Why do we not then begin at the end and work
forward, hoping that early agreements on minor
matters will hasten a sense of progress and a spirit
of compromise to aid us when we come to the more
difficult negotiations?" He sat down.
Uncle Cynewulf called for discussion, but
no one was going to argue with the King over a mere
point of procedure, so it was declared agreed that the
provisional agenda would be followed in reverse
order. Witan and diplomats shuffled their
notes rapidly.
"Clause Twenty-eight," the moot reeve
proclaimed, "mutual recognition of
passports."
Standing up was easy; straightening was not, but
eventually Radgar could square his shoulders enough
to let him meet Wulfwer's glower. "Nothing is
going to happen for hours, if not days. Let's
get out of here."
"There are times this brat makes sense," said
Frecful.
Most people had not yet realized that there would be no
interesting shouting until tomorrow at the earliest, and the
throng was still thick enough that Radgar would have made little
progress through it on his own. His escort plowed
it aside like hay for him, but just as they reached the
great doors--
"Radgar the Terrible! All hail!"
Radgar stopped and his bodyguard
reluctantly opened a gap so he could blink at
the speaker. "Huh?"
"What's the matter with you, Youngling?" It was the
Blade, Sir Geste.
"Hangover."
"Oh?" The dapper little swordsman could convey
more disbelief with one eyebrow than most people could with a
complete face. "You look as if a horse
kicked you in the belly."
"It was three mules."
Most people would have taken that remark as a mere
joke. Sir Geste said, "Indeed?" and looked
over the Wulfwer private army. "Any
particular three?"
"No. Just some bad mead."
Amusement shuffled the Blade's narrow
features into a wry sort of grin. His
fingernails drummed a tattoo on his scabbard.
"Sure? If you need your initials written in
scar tissue on anyone's forehead, Youngling, you
have only to ask. Happy to oblige. Antique
scripts a speciality."
Wulfwer and Hengest decided to glare
menacingly, which was one thing they did well. They
did not ripple Sir Geste's sails at
all.
"In hard cases," he added, "I have been
known to include a dedicatory message or
brief poem."
Radgar considered laughing and decided it would
hurt too much. He did manage a smile.
"I'll keep your kind offer in mind, sir.
Shouldn't you be over there defending your ward?"
"Nothing I can do. They're going
to laugh him to death and I can't fight ridicule."
He glanced thoughtfully at the three tame bears.
"Any of these lunks know Chivian?"
Something in his tone sent a tremor of interest
through Radgar's curtain of pain and nausea.
"They can't speak it. They may understand some of what
you say, though."
"Then I'll talk quickly and look innocent.
The moot and the Chivian commissioners will argue
back and forth on every single point, right?
Eventually, they will come to a compromise somewhere between
what your father demanded and what King Ambrose
conceded in his reply, right? Your father can yield as
much as he wants, but Candlefen can only go as far
as his instructions allow him to go. He was given
limits. You with me so far?"
"Er ... yes, sir."
Geste flashed a piratical grin and lowered his
voice to a whisper. "I can tell you what those
limits are, Youngling! I can tell you exactly
what and where and how much, and your dad would give a
private harem for that information. Too young for
harems? A private dragon ship with crew?
Whatever you want. Interested?"
Radgar glanced around him in disbelief, half
expecting the hall and its inhabitants to dissolve
in mist. He was encircled by four swordsmen and
everybody else was intent on the proceedings and not
close enough to listen anyway. "Who're you trying
to sucker, Chivian? A Blade betraying his
ward?"
The strange dark eyes flashed anger.
"Never! Candlefen's no ward of mine, Youngling.
The old king was. I spent five years on
Starkmoor, learning to be the sixth best
swordsman in the known world. Taisson himself bound
me, so I spent another ten years in his Royal
Guard--defending a sick old man who never
went anywhere, bored, bored, bored! A waste
of a life, that's what it was! Then he dies and
his son takes the throne, so it's "Arise,
Sir Geste!" and that's that! Unbound.
Dismissed. Not a single word of thanks. I mean
that--not one! After fifteen years!"
"Doesn't sound fair."
"It wasn't. Even aging swordsmen have
to eat. Your precious uncle ranks no
Blades of his own, so he hired me and one other
to guard his backside on this trip. If I
hadn't been ready to starve, I'd have
spat in his eye for what he's paying me."
Radgar's brain was not working as fast as usual
today, but even so he could sense that there could be vital
information involved here. "You betray your King because you
don't like the master you chose to serve?"
The look on the Blade's face made
Wulfwer and Frecful grab for their sword
hilts, but he ignored them.
"Don't push me too far, Youngling! All
I'm offering to do is to speed things up a little.
Chivial desperately needs peace. It's bled
white. Ambrose has given Candlefen incredible
limits, but that disgraced uncle of yours is
desperate to make a name for himself by driving the
hardest bargain he can. He'll drag this out for
weeks and weeks, and meanwhile the fighting goes
on; men and women are dying."
Dad should know about this offer. "What's your
price?"
Sir Geste grinned and ruffled Radgar's
hair--a move that normally drove him to fury but
this time seemed quite fitting, conspiratorial. "I
like the look of your old man. I think he'd be
fairly generous under the circumstances. And I
trust you to tell him where you got the information."
"It could still be a trick."
"It could. So your father won't believe you." The
Blade sighed. "Well, it was worth a try.
..." He began to turn away.
"Wait! It still is. Tell me."
With all the cnihtas coming and going, nobody
noted Radgar when he shimmied up behind Dad and
tapped his shoulder. One of the silver-haired
witan was on his feet, droning out an
; appraisal of the wording.
"Radgar!" His father looked around and frowned,
then took another look. "What's wrong with you?"
"Hangover. Listen, lord! I've got a
spy in the Chivian camp."
The frown became a royal glare capable of
melting steel. "Radgar!"
"It may be a trap, but you can test it.
Clause Twenty-five: You demanded a waiver
of all import duty on salt fish for ten
years. The envoys will offer one third for five
years, but they can go as far as waiving all of it for
five years and half for the next five." He was
young and his memory was fresh as dew. He could
parrot back what the Blade had told
him word for word, even the bits he did not understand.
"Clause Twenty-three: Chivial will pay an
indemnity of ten thousand gold crowns every year for
eight years and five thousand for another four.
Clause Twenty-two: No prejudicial
treaties with other states for the next fifteen
years without reciprocity." And so on--fishing
rights, harbor fees, consular privileges,
clause after clause.
Dad's eyes grew wider and wider, his face
redder and redder. At the end he said only, "Where
did you get this?"
"Told you--I got a spy! Oh, Dad,
Dad! He says to test it. If you can beat
Uncle Rodney down on Twenty-five and
Twenty-four to the limits I said, then you'll know
the rest is right, won't you?"
"You little fiend! What comes after? You stopped
at Fifteen."
"He says you won't get that far until tomorrow,
and he wants to talk terms before that. I think he
wants land!"
"I bet he does," his father said softly.
"Yes, it could be a trap, but the gamble is worth
it. Go away. Stay away unless I send for you.
Don't talk about this. But tonight I'll either
abdicate in your favor or make your butt so
sore you won't sit down for five years.
Fair enough?"
He grinned so widely that Radgar laughed and
immediately wished he hadn't. Until then, he had
forgotten his aching gut.
"I'll make you my chancellor."
The King beckoned a cniht and sent a
message. In a few minutes, when the meeting
had finished with the trivialities and reached
Clause Twenty-five, the item that was sure
to start serious wrangling, Earl Ae`edelno`ed of
Su`edecg rose to insist that Chivial must waive
all custom duties on imports of Baelish
salt fish for at least the first ten years of the
peace, which was exactly what King Aeled had
originally demanded, giving no ground at all.
Earl Swetmann and the other Bloods cheered and
stamped their feet.
The ambassador protested, but after consulting with
his advisors he stated that he would agree to a
total waiver for five years, with a lesser
reduction of half for the next five, as
a token of his desire to speed the negotiations to a
favorable conclusion, and so on. Those were the numbers
Radgar had prophesied. Dad was already sending more
messages.
His Excellency stopped smiling when he heard
the demands on Clause Twenty-four. This time
he tried to bargain, but the Baels refused
to budge. When he conceded, it was time for
Twenty-three. Several times the talks seemed
about to break down and always it was the Chivians who
yielded. All through a long, hot day, the hapless
ambassador twisted and squirmed in the center of the
triangle, pleading, threatening, sweating, and
progressively retreating, while his nephew
watched from the sidelines with no pity whatsoever.
Radgar had abandoned thoughts of taking his
injuries back to bed, preferring to stay and watch
the results of his meddling, surviving on a diet
of goats' milk fetched on demand by his hulking
nursemaids. Even the agonizing cramps that
tied up his gut periodically had a bright side,
in that they sent his bodyguard into sheer panic. He
did embellish them a little, but not much. The fact
was that Wulfwer, Frecful, and Hengest had almost
killed the King's son and in the sober light of day
they could appreciate that one word from their victim
could ruin them utterly. By afternoon he was feeling much
better.
At one point Queen Charlotte appeared with a
small flock of noble wives and daughters in
attendance. "Are you all right?" she demanded
suspiciously.
"Of course I'm all right. I'm all right,
aren't I, lads?"
Yes, yes, they said, Radgar was all right.
"You enjoy watching over me, don't you?"
They agreed they did. They admitted it was an
honor to guard the atheling. They even conceded there was
nothing they would rather be doing. He considered this more fun
than watching them being flogged. He still had that option
in hand.
An hour or so later, during one of the brief
adjournments, a pock-faced cniht summoned
the atheling to his father, who had gone outside for some
air and was now lurking in a shadowy corner near the
kitchens. He grabbed his son in his arms and gave
him an almighty hug. Caught by surprise and
forcibly straightened, Radgar cried out.
"What's wrong?"
"Bit my tongue." That was true.
Fortunately the King was too exultant to question.
He set his son down and thumped his shoulder. "It
worked! Everything you said was right! Magnificent.
Who told you?"
Radgar peered around, but there was no one close
enough to eavesdrop except his faithful minions,
who were staying well back. He switched
to Chivian anyway. "The ambassador's
bodyguard, Sir Geste."
Dad frowned. "A Blade? I didn't
know he'd brought a-- You're saying a Blade
betrayed his ward?"
"A retired Blade--he's not bound
anymore. He doesn't care much for Uncle
Rodney. Or King Ambrose. He says he
trusts you to reward him. He ... What's
wrong?"
"Nothing, nothing. Just seems odd that ...
I'll be glad to reward him. You'd better
keep away from him. He may be in danger, because
the Chivians must be on a traitor hunt by now.
We need to talk terms so he'll tell us the
rest of the secrets. How do I get in touch with
him?"
"He said he'll be at the Blaec Hors
Tavern for an hour after the ambassador
returns to his ship." Radgar sniggered. "I
told him I'd send Hengest to fetch him. He
agreed that he couldn't mistake that face."
The King did not seem as amused as Radgar
expected him to be at the implications of sending
Stallion to the Blaec Hors. He beckoned
Wulfwer forward. "I'm about to have your father adjourn
the moot for the day. I want Hengest to report
to me then. Meanwhile, don't
let your guard
down. The Bloods can see where this is heading.
If there's going to be trouble, it will come tonight."
Wulfwer growled, "All right."
"What?"
"Lord, I mean! Yea, lord!"
"You're on duty, thegn," Dad said icily.
"That means you and your men stay sober until I
say otherwise. There will be one of you awake at
all times, and no women! You will not be warned
again."
An expression of pure agony twisted
Wulfwer's brutish face grotesquely.
"Yea, lord. Happy to serve, lord." As soon
as Dad had gone, he added, "Now I
really want to kill you, brat. No drink, no
girls? Oh, by the eight, do I want to wring
your neck!"
"You should address me as Your Royal
Highness," Radgar said.
Many things must have happened that night unbeknownst
to the impudent atheling--secret meetings in which the
various factions bargained, conspired, and betrayed.
One illicit act that the King had expressly
forbidden happened right outside Radgar's
cubbyhole and, although he was aware of it, he was not
old enough for the thegns' lechery to disturb him unduly.
It gave him one more hold over them, in fact.
He certainly wouldn't let girls make a
fool of him like that when he grew up! He
pulled a pillow over his head and went to sleep
while the absurd nonsense was still in progress.
He awoke at dawn feeling almost his old
self. The witenagemot did not convene until
noon and several earls appeared much later. The
mood was grim. Lord Candlefen was clearly
determined to refuse the sort of humiliating
concessions he had made the previous day, while
the Baels had the smell of blood in their
nostrils. Numerous thumping headaches did not
improve the prospects for compromise or
reasoned debate.
When the moot reeve called for discussion of the
next clause, it was Earl Swetmann who
rose to speak. The spectators murmured in
surprise, for none of the Bloods had
participated in the debate the previous day. From
the Chivians' point of view the change was no
improvement. The baby-faced thegn bargained like a
blacksmith's hammer, ignoring all arguments and
leaving the envoys no choice except to take it
or leave it. Reluctantly they took it.
Swetmann smiled contemptuously and sat down.
On the next clause another Blood took
over and did the same thing. Radgar noticed that his
Baelish uncle--the one on the throne--was