by Dave Duncan
openly smirking, while his Chivian uncle--the
one in the cockpit--was aghast, his normally
florid face pale as a fish belly. The
clash of the fat uncles!
Being more aware of the background than most people,
Radgar soon realized that King Aeled
must have taken Swetmann and his supporters into the
plot and given them the pleasure of making the enemy
bleed. But if the Bloods had accepted that
enjoyable task, they must have agreed to support the
treaty that would result. It would be sufficiently
lopsided to satisfy even them.
For a long time it did seem that the Chivians
would balk. Proceedings became exceedingly
boring, an endless drone of speeches. The
limits the ambassador had been given were
fallback positions; he was not supposed
to retreat that far on every point. Lord Candlefen's
diplomatic career was in ruins. Several times the
moot was adjourned to let him consult his
advisors. Radgar daydreamed, wondering if his
bruises would permit him to take Isgicel out.
Dad just sat and listened patiently, revealing
nothing.
Hour by hour, clause by clause, the
Chivians conceded. They tried a desperate last
stand on Clause One, which dealt with the end
to hostilities and the return of prisoners. Many
captured Baels languished in Chivian
jails or labored in Chivian mines.
Baelmark was demanding that they all be sent home
at once, no matter what they had done or were
accused of, yet it absolutely refused to give
up its far more numerous collection of Chivians.
Most of them had been sold into slavery in distant
lands and those still available had been enthralled--so
what use would their families have for them anyway?
Nothing could have been more unfair or one-sided, but
if Dad was going to insist on his position, then he
must know that the other side had authority to grant
it.
As the light began to fade, a haggard Lord
Candlefen rose and mumbled almost inaudibly,
"We could probably accept something resembling
those conditions if a satisfactory text for the
Preamble can be negotiated."
Some of the spectators started a cheer, but it
soon faded into puzzled silence. Uncle
Cynewulf ordered the two conflicting Preambles
to be read out in both languages. Radgar, for
one, knew that these innocent-seeming introductions
contained what Dad had warned would be the most
deadly sting of all, the admission of guilt. Had
Lady Charlotte's marriage to King Aeled
been legal under the laws of Chivial? If so,
then the late King Taisson should not have
implied otherwise and launched a war. If not,
then Baelmark should have returned the lady and handed
over her abductor. What was Lord Candlefen's
fallback position on that?
A hard one, apparently, because for the next hour
he fought like a cornered badger to have his nephew
Radgar declared a bastard. Baelish speakers by the
dozen insisted that the lady had consented. As the sun
drew close to setting, it became clear to everyone
that the ambassador's instructions on that point
left him no room to yield. Earl Swetmann
and his cronies brightened considerably.
King Aeled rose to be recognized. He had
not spoken since he made the first speech the
previous day.
"Your Excellency," Dad said--his voice
was soft, forcing silence on the hall--"clearly we
can never agree on this matter. It is a vital
point in honor and yet in practice a very
small one. Why prolong the bloodshed and suffering
because of something that happened almost a generation ago?
Everything else has been agreed. Your
Excellency, let us just omit the Preamble
altogether. Say yes and we can end this war now, this
minute."
Ambassador Candlefen did not consult his
advisors, he just sat, hunched over, thinking
awhile. Then he struggled wearily to his feet
and said resignedly, "I have repeatedly explained
that my instructions require me to see that the
Preamble includes those assertions of fact that I
previously--"
"Then ignore your instructions!" King Aeled
roared. "Because I will not negotiate shame on my
wife and son. I will waive confession by the
guilty, but farther I cannot go. Take what I
offer now, or I declare this witenagemot dissolved
and give you until noon tomorrow to quit my realm!"
For a dozen breaths nobody breathed. Then
Uncle Rodney sighed and nodded. Even when the
King strode forward to clasp his hand and Stanhof
erupted in thunder, the ambassador continued to hang
his head morosely, as if he was expecting
to lose it when he got home. No matter, the
war was over.
The peace could now begin.
Even in Twigeport, that hotbed of hotheads
as Dad had called it, the treaty was greeted with
exaltation. This was not merely peace, it was
victory, and the bloodiest of Bloods could not
quibble over the terms. The feast in Stanhof that
night was stupendously raucous. The Chivian
delegation dined with Dad and the earls at the high
table, leaving no room there for wives, so Mom
and the earls' ladies had to sit at another.
Radgar, to his bottomless disgust, was put with
them, which was unutterably dull and humiliating.
In one more year he would be a cniht and wear a
sword instead of just a stupid dagger.
There were lots of good speeches to listen to,
though, and not the usual militant bragging and
promises, but true tales about past battles
and triumphs. No one would stop talking long enough
to let the scops sing--not, that was, until one of
them started up "Hlaford Fyrlandum," that
rousing marching song about old Catter. At once
everyone joined in and eventually Dad had to stand and
take a bow. Some of the earls hoisted him shoulder
high and bore him around the hall until it seemed
the volcanoes themselves must soon start complaining about
the noise. Radgar was so proud he thought he would
burst. Had any king of Baelmark ever been so
popular? Yet there was even better to come.
Swetmann and another young earl swooped down on
him and lifted him up also and marched him around behind
Dad as the next Cattering. The crowd cheered itself
hoarse. The honor was Dad's not his, of
course, but it felt so good he had to fight back
tears.
He saw even Wulfwer, Hengest, and
Frecful laughing and singing and waving to him. They were
as drunk as any, because Dad had declared their guard
duty ended. No one could gain anything by violence
now. One person he did not see anywhere was
Sir Geste. If the Blade's treachery had
been disco
vered, he was probably at the bottom
of the fiord.
When everyone had tired of "Hlaford
Fyrlandum," when both king and atheling had been
returned to their places, then the young men of the fyrd
began singing the sort of song that Mother would never stay
to hear. She had already endured much more of this feast
than she did of most, and now she announced that she
was ready to retire. Some other women murmured
agreement. She nailed Radgar down with a warning
glare, because he had been known to disappear under tables
at this moment, but in truth he was weary enough to behave
himself for once. After being carried shoulder high around
a mead hall, what more could a man ask
of a day? And so the first ladies of Baelmark--or
most of them--rose and curtseyed to the King and their
lords, indicating that they were departing.
"I hope," Mother said with a disapproving glance
around the hall, "that we can find a sober man or
two to escort us." Most of the earls were past caring
what happened to their wives in the next few
hours, although Dad had noticed her problem and
beckoned for a cniht to carry his orders to someone.
"Indeed the very best." Uncle Cynewulf
strutted out of the throng. "I have a pounding headache
and can stand no more of this. You will permit me the
honor, mistress?"
"The honor is mine, Atheling," Mom said.
Ha! What could he do if some drunken young
thegns got uppity? Knock them down with his
belly? Mom had very little use for her
brother-in-law at any time, but she never
revealed her feelings about him in public. She
accepted his arm with a smile of thanks. Radgar
followed them out of the hall, into the cool night wind
and comparative quiet, although the din in the hall was
still quite audible out in the alleys. He managed a
quiet chuckle when they reached the royal
quarters, seeing that, while Dad had let down his
guard, the ever-cautious Leofric had not. He was
there in person, with two staunch house thegns beside,
both looking very glum at having missed the
festivities.
"You display a commendable dedication to duty,
Marshal," the tanist remarked with barely a hint
of sarcasm, although he and Leofric rarely said
anything good of each other.
"A job worth doing is worth doing right," the
one-eyed man answered sourly. "That treaty is
not signed and sealed yet."
Radgar said a polite goodnight to his uncle
inside the front door. Almost asleep on his
feet, he trudged up the stairs behind Mom and
endured her hug and kiss outside her room.
Then he could escape to his private aerie under
the eaves, too tired to care that the cubbyhole was
still breathlessly hot from the day. Without removing his
tunic or leggings, he hauled off his boots and
flopped down on his mattress, expecting to be
asleep in seconds.
It took longer than that. Too much had
happened. He would have to adjust to the idea of
peace, for he could not guess what changes it
might make to his life. Rowdy
crowds went past the building, celebrating.
Soon he heard women's voices sifting up
through chinks in the floorboards, but that was not
surprising when Mom's ladies-in-waiting were
billeted directly below him. Later a rumble of
male voices joined in, but that, too, must be
expected. The younger thegns could always find better
things to do than drink and sing and quarrel all
night.
He was dragged up from bottomless sleep
by shouting a long way off. He muttered angrily
and turned over. The noise faded. ... Good!
Why did he feel something was wrong? He
resisted, reluctant to waken, but eventually he
sneezed. Smoke, he thought. Smoke drifting
up through the floorboards.
Smoke? He sat up, coughing. Spirits! He
was on the top floor of a wooden building and his
room was full of eye-stinging smoke. The night was
very dark, with nothing visible except vague
outlines of the two slit windows and not even his
slender form could squeeze through those. He could hear
voices a long way off, but whether inside or
out, he could not tell. He scrambled to his
feet, banged his head on the gable roof, lunged
for the door. It was bolted. He screamed and tried
to kick. Bare feet. Dropping to hands and knees
--and yelling as loud as he could between coughing fits--
he found his boots. Then he was back at the
door, kicking it, pounding fists, screaming.
Fire was his bane.
"Wulfwer! Hengest! Frecful!" Why bolt
the door? They had not done that the last two
nights, even when they'd had girls out there. Part
of his education, they'd said, laughing; come and watch.
"Wulfwer!" Why not answer? "Frecful!"
Kick, kick, kick! Had they all drunk and
forlicgen themselves into stupors--or had they gone
off somewhere with their women and left him? He
realized with a shudder of terror that there might be no
one out there. They might have all gone away and
left him. "Hengest!" The shouting that had
wakened him had stopped. The house was horribly
quiet. Had it already been evacuated? "Mom!
Dad!" He was sobbing now.
The smoke was worse; the room was getting
warmer. Fortunately the door was not a
close fit, so he could locate the bolt with the
point of his dagger. Then he began attacking the
jamb. He dug and pried and cut, flaking away
wood. Slow, so slow! Chinks of light were showing
through the floor; the distant noises were growing louder
but no closer. He knew how fast a house could
explode--trickles of smoke one minute and a
ball of flames the next. His eyes were streaming
tears, every breath was a cough. Healfwer had
fireproofed him, but if the house collapsed in a
heap of red-hot coals, he might well be
buried under the ruins or break his back, and his
body wouldn't burn until he was dead. ...
Dad! Oh, Dad, please come! Dad was
fireproofed, too. Why didn't he come?
Chip, pry, dig ... so slow! He was too
late already, because he could see light around the
door, the fire had reached the outer room, but he
had to keep going. Working by touch, he uncovered the
bolt until he could push it back with the dagger
point and throw the door open. He plunged out
into worse smoke and a heat that would have blistered other
people. The light was coming from the stairwell beyond the outer
door. There were no drunks asleep there and the
bedding was neatly stacked where the thralls had left
it. Wulfwer and the others had never returned from the
feast.
The stairs were ablaze. He was fireproofed.
It would hurt, but he had no choice. If he
ran fast he should make it. He discovered his
error at the top step, too late to turn back
--pain! He toppled into the inferno and rolled
down with a scream that emptied his lungs. Clothes
blazing, he thumped into the wall at the bottom,
right beside the entrance to his parents' rooms, whose
door had already collapsed in glowing embers.
Painpainpain! Everything was so bright that it was hard
to see anything. In an ocean of light he was almost
blind, and there was nothing but fire agony in the whole
world. Even his boots had disintegrated but it hurt
no more to run naked and barefoot over the burning
floor into the room.
Where everything was blazing yellow, his father's body
seemed almost dark. All his clothes had gone, of
course. Framed in flame, he lay on his
back amid the crumbled remains of the bed. He was
unburned, although his hair was starting to smolder and the
tips of his ears and fingers to turn black. The
blood covering his chest was still shockingly red. He
was obviously dead, because his throat had
been cut across to make a ghastly parody of a
grinning mouth. Surprise! it said. Burning
is not the only way to die.
Radgar never really remembered what happened
next, although the accounts of others formed a reasonable
pattern. Details of his escape were driven out
of his mind by extreme agony and the shock of what
he had seen. He may have fallen through the floor
when it collapsed, but he suffered no broken
bones or even major bruising, so it is more
likely that he simply found the stairs and ran
or slid down them. He retained no
recollection of that, or of how and when he left the
inferno. Long as his ordeal had seemed to him, it
is likely that very few minutes elapsed between the
first alarm being raised and the collapse of the floors
and roof. Men were still pouring out of Stanhof.
With its narrow streets, Twigeport was more
prone to disastrous fires than any other city in
Baelmark. It did have procedures for dealing with
them, although they were seldom effective. The night
watch sounded the tocsin, summoning all
able-bodied men to assemble with axes, ropes, and
buckets. A building already burning could almost
never be saved, so priorities were to rescue
residents and keep the blaze from spreading. If
the site was near one of the harbors, a bucket
chain would try to wet down adjoining roofs, but that