by Widowmaker
“Of course…” That sound of uncertainty shouldn’t have been in his voice, or at least it should have been far better hidden. A high-clan lord was speaking to him as an equal, and it wasn’t just lacking in respect, it was downright insulting, for a kailin with hopes of soon being in that lord’s service to doubt what he had been told. But the doubt was there, all the same. “You were in Cerdor?” he repeated.
Kurek’s brows shifted again, this time they drew together in the merest suggestion of a frown, and for an instant Marc felt that the young lord’s concentration was focusing solely on him. “I was about my father’s business,” Kurek said, his voice flat and toneless.
And though Kurek ar’Kelayr had yet to utter a single word of sorrow about his father’s death, that terse explanation seemed to make a sort of perfect sense.
7. - Tactics
The ghost of a savoury scent still haunted the air when Bayrd Talvalin turned from the window and resumed his seat at the table. He sniffed, and smiled in fond recollection of meals past, and this last one in particular.
The previous week, he had swallowed his pride at last – along with a last platter of chicken, the taste of which meat was beginning to stick in his throat – and had ridden with Dunrath’s steward to Redmer village to spend an educational afternoon with Youenn Kloatr, the headman there. Behaving like a lord rather than a warlord had served, at least for those few hours, to take his mind off other matters. It had even managed to turn the clock back, to a time when the acquisition of a given quantity of food and drink and fodder was a concern not complicated by the feigned treachery of friends and the feigned friendship of enemies.
Bayrd had seen no action during his military service in Drosul, at least nothing involving the flashing of heroic swords in the sunlight. There had only been the small, scuffling combats of pen and parchment and requisition, as a kailin tleir’ek, a Captain-of-one Hundred – himself – tried to get any one of a number of Quartermasters to part with the supplies that from their behaviour they had paid for out of their own pockets.
Pigs, had been his thought then.
Oddly enough, pigs had been part of Youenn’s answer as well, and pigs it had been. There had been rabbits mentioned, and pigeons, but mostly pigs. Bayrd had left his steward to deal with the logistics of the business – he was a clan-lord and a kailin-eir, not a farmer – and had celebrated his own cleverness with roast pork. Or it might have been ham, or bacon. Some part of a pig, anyway.
There was a dish of small pieces of tender piggy on the table right now, toasted crisp for eating with the fingers, after dipping each one in a dull-red sauce whose innocent oily surface hid a fragrant pungency hot enough to bring tears to the eyes of a genuine dragon. Beside it was a glazed pottery jug of ale, drawn from the cellars in the deep caverns far below Dunrath, still so cold that moisture was beading attractively on its glazed surface.
And next to that was the dart which a man had used to kill his companion.
Bayrd picked up the lead-shod telek dart and rested it on the tip of his index finger, watching thoughtfully as the wicked little missile pivoted on its point of balance. It tipped off eventually, falling onto the table heavily enough that its sharpened point embedded in the wood.
“Nasty,” said Eskra, looking up at the sound of impact. She reached out and rocked the dart free, weighing it thoughtfully in the palm of her hand. “Very nasty.”
“But effective,” Bayrd corrected. “A useful weapon. We should adopt them.” Eskra made a face at him.
“You would say that. It could have killed you.”
“A lot of things could have done that. Including you. But none of them did.”
“Not for want of trying.”
“The talathen didn’t want to kill me. They didn’t want to kill anybody. What they wanted—”
“Is something I know well enough. Drop the subject.”
Bayrd did as he was told. That had been a grim, frightening night, and its events were still too recent for Eskra Talvalin’s peace of mind. When she was feeling out of sorts or ill at ease about something, she had few scruples about spreading her discomfort in all directions, on the off-chance that dilution might relieve the bad taste such feelings left in her mouth. “All right,” he said. “Dropped.”
There had been news from Cerdor two days ago, and that news had answered some of the questions lurking at the back of Bayrd’s mind since the night of the Shadowthieves. One of them gave only a crooked sort of comfort. The blame for the raid could not be laid at Gerin ar’Diskan’s door. Clan Talvalin had not been the only ones paid a visit by the talathen. There had been others, and they had been less fortunate.
Lord ar’Lerutz’s youngest daughter had been taken, and the lord’s own sister. Two of Lord ar’Dakkur’s sons, and a daughter. All but one of Lord ar’Sanen’s children, and his wife as well. Children, wives, brothers and sisters of half a dozen other clans and Families; more than thirty in all. And that number didn’t begin to include the retainers and servants, guards and lord’s-men and faithful kailinin, killed or wounded during the abductions.
All of the victims were being held somewhere in Cerdor. But nothing more than that: somewhere. No-one yet knew exactly where, or why, or by whose orders. That the Overlord’s clan were involved was certain – otherwise, why Cerdor at all? – but not which one of the two rivals had decided to put pressure on their wavering supporters.
Or on the other’s supporters…
That was the problem. The parents and other relatives of some of the hostages had not yet made their positions clear on the matter of the Overlord’s succession. Bayrd had been one of those. As for the others, they were evenly enough divided in their support for either Yraine or Erhal ar’Albanak that nothing could be deduced from the evidence at hand.
It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that whoever had done this was acting in a backhanded manner, capturing the children of their own allies so as to alienate their rival by assumption of dishonourable behaviour. Such pressure to change a political stance wasn’t uncommon in Drosul. But it wasn’t approved of even there, and the Albans, who had long considered themselves above such dishonourable machinations, actively despised it.
Until now.
And there was always a chance that the pressure was intended to force one side or the other not to change. It was typical of such a situation, to answer one question and create a dozen more. Once the first demands were made, matters would become clearer. At least it would be obvious who was behind all this.
In the meanwhile there was the growing threat in the north, where Kalarr cu Ruruc exercised his own brand of persuasion on sons who had been stolen in a manner as complete, but far more subtle, than the hostages in Cerdor. Their henchmen were joining them already, some willingly by the demands of honour, others at the command of their own lords. The end result was the same.
And there was an irregular but steady trickle of eijin, dismissed retainers, passed-over lord’s-men and other such unsavoury people making their way northward. All of them bore arms, and all of them were trained in the use of what they bore. Erdanor was becoming a barracks for the largest private army in Alba; and sooner or later, in the manner of such armies, it would be put to use.
Bayrd retrieved the dart and laid it on the table, spinning it and watching the rotation slow and waver to a halt with the point aimed at him, the butt towards Eskra. He spun it again. This time it stopped in the other direction – at least until Eskra reached out one long finger and delicately directed it away from her.
“Avert,” she said, though what her stare said was don’t do that again. Bayrd lifted the dart, turned it over in his fingers and then very deliberately stuck it back into the table-top, pointing at nobody now, and harmless. Better, said Eskra’s eyes, hooding behind their lids a little.
“And Reth ar’Gyart?” asked Bayrd. “What about him?”
“He died. I saw him die.”
“Through Marc’s eyes.”
“Don�
��t think that made it any easier. It didn’t.”
“But it can’t have been that much of a surprise. You said it might happen. You were expecting it to happen. And you still haven’t told me why.”
Either Eskra was a better actress, playing a better part, than at any other time Bayrd had encountered during all the years of their marriage – or her expression of surprise was entirely genuine. “I thought you knew,” she said. “I was sure…”
“With Gemmel ar’Ekren turning out to be a good deal more than he seemed, and stars falling out of the sky, terrifying people—”
“It was just one star.”
“That’s still one too many. And call it foolish if you like, but I can’t shift from my mind the thought that Gemmel had something to do with it. The thing happened just after he left. It fell towards Meneth Taran in the Blue Mountains, where he told us he was heading. And then there was—”
“You’re right, loved,” said Eskra, smiling slightly. “I do call it foolish.”
“Then no matter. But with that on top of all else, and somebody in Cerdor playing their own version of the Great Game with my children—”
“Our children!”
“—as unscheduled pieces on the board, I’m surprised I can still remember to eat when I’m hungry.” He selected another piece of meat, dunked it in sauce, chewed – then coughed as the spices bit his throat, and put the fire out with a hasty swallow of ale. “You see?” Eskra smiled, as he’d hoped she might; but the matter remained unresolved. “As for Reth, no. I don’t know. So tell me…”
Eskra did, and it made unsettling listening. Kalarr cu Ruruc was behind both killings, they both knew that much already, but where Vanek ar’Kelayr’s death by sorcery was meant to clear the way for Kalarr to become the new ar’Kelayr Clan-Lord – and conveniently discredit Bayrd at the same time – Reth ar’Gyart’s death was a straightforward hired murder. Not an accident, not an act of war, not even an act of rebellion by a peasant against the only representative of his lord that he could reach. Just a murder, committed to order and probably for money.
“Another tulath?” Bayrd said softly, not so much a question as simply speculating aloud. Eskra broke off and glanced at him, then shrugged.
“You know more about the Shadowthieves than I. But perhaps. One man’s gold is as good as another. For all we know, Kalarr’s is better than most. And we’re already aware that there are talathen loose in Alba.”
No matter who had carried it out, the attack had been intended for a single purpose: to kill Bannerman ar’Gyart before he could return to Hold ar’Kelayr at Erdanor and see what had been happening there. And it had succeeded.
“Why ar’Gyart especially?”
“You saw him. The man had an aversion to magic stronger than any I’ve ever seen before. He wasn’t as susceptible as other people.” Bayrd still looked blank, and Eskra groaned inwardly. “You know how some people can never learn to read, no matter how hard they try? As if the letters and the words just don’t make sense?” This time Bayrd nodded, frowning slightly, wondering where all this was leading. “That’s like Reth ar’Gyart. He and the Art would have been like oil and water.” Eskra considered her own words for a second, then allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. “Oil and water. Yes. It’s a better image than I thought. They’ll mix, but never completely, and once you stop mixing they separate again.”
“But what’s it a better image for?”
“I told you. Ar’Gyart and magic. And since what cu Ruruc has done to his own appearance and to Erdanor involves so much of the Art, it was better for him that ar’Gyart not live to see it.”
“But the glamour…?”
“Wouldn’t work on Reth. I told you: oil and water. It might work, but it would need to be renewed. Constantly, from minute to minute, maybe even from second to second. And it wouldn’t start to work even then, without cu Ruruc shifting the entire focus of the spell – and all of his own concentration – onto that one man. And as soon as he did that, he’d lose his control over all the rest.”
Bayrd whistled thinly. That made a sort of sense. “A nice balancing-act. Not one I’d like to try when murder is so much simpler. But what made ar’Gyart so different from the others?
His inability with magic? This oil and water business you’re so proud of?”
“Partly. But also desire.” Bayrd’s eyebrows shot up. “Or more correctly, the lack of it.”
“That’s a peculiar choice of words where Reth’s concerned.” They both knew what he meant. “Desire” might have been an odd word to use in such a context at all, but it was odder still with reference to ar’Gyart, who lived for the observation of his Honour and for very little else. The man had never married, and even to a people who loved salacious gossip, it was common knowledge that it wasn’t for lack of a suitable match or even because his interests didn’t tend that way.
Reth ar’Gyart simply had no inclination to change the habits of a lifetime. He could be faithful to his lord, or to a lady – but not to both. And because it involved that Honour of his, the lord came first. It was an attitude which had made him a figure of fun among the younger Albans, but it was a mockery tinged at the same time with reluctant respect.
“All the others in Erdanor,” said Eskra, “low-clan, high-clan, all of them, and Ivern ar’Diskan just as much as all the rest, want to believe in this Kurek ar’Kelayr.” She snorted derisively. “Though he might have taken the trouble to adopt a less obvious name. Whatever. He offers them a chance of more than they have. More than faith. More than fealty. More than the restrictions laid down by your Alban Code of Honour. You heard him.”
“I heard you.”
“All right. Marc heard him. I heard Marc. You heard me. Happy now?” There was a good-humoured stubbornness in the way Eskra said that which made Bayrd quite sure she was ready to continue until he gave in. So to save time, he gave in at once.
“He was making noises that I’ve heard before,” he said. “In Kalitz. It’s a human enough failing: everyone would like to think they’re more important than they are. Or think so, at least. And be told so. That’s what he’s doing.”
“And they’re believing him. That’s what makes it so dangerous. How long is it going to be before they start trying to prove it?”
“He’d be a poor sort of orator otherwise,” said Bayrd, and laughed. It faltered when Eskra failed to join in. “Oh, come on. If they didn’t believe what he said at least some of the time, and that something good for them might come of it, then they’d be elsewhere. Back in their homes, maybe. Or back in Kalitz, hoping for employment as mercenaries. Most of the sonoble high clans started that way, generations back. The wheel turns, eh?”
“It’s who gets crushed in the turning that concerns me. You’re ignoring him, Bayrd-ain. Ar’Sanen, ar’Dakkur, ar’Lerutz, they’re all ignoring him, because thanks to someone in Cerdor they all have other things to think about. Do you know, I doubt if they’re even aware enough of what’s happening here to ignore it properly!”
Eskra drew little spirals and circles on the table-top, gazing at them as though they were convoluted symbols that held some meaning only she could read. “If enough people ignore him for enough time,” she said, “then there’ll come a time when he can’t be ignored. But he’ll be powerful enough to ignore you. All of you. Except the ones who might be of some use to him. And I don’t know which would be the more unlucky.”
Bayrd didn’t reply, but when he leaned forward and threw another few logs on the fire, that small gesture said more than words. Summer it might be, sunny it might be, warm it certainly was; but there had been something about the quiet assurance of Eskra’s words that had turned the whole room cold and dark.
“Come on,” he said at last. “That council meeting, remember? Iskar and the other kailinin are waiting for us.”
“I’d rather stay here.”
“You’re expected. Needed.”
“Bayrd-ain, I’ve got a feeling that something’s hap
pening in Erdanor. Something to do with Marc. I should—”
“You should live your own life for a while.” Bayrd smiled and took both her hands in both of his. “You can’t spend every hour of the day inside Marc’s head. You can always eavesdrop later.”
“Later may be too late.”
“Loved, if you’re going to start thinking like that, then why bother getting out of bed in the morning?” He hesitated, considering. “You couldn’t activate the spell during—”
“During the council meeting? Hardly. If I’m expected, if they’re going to be asking me the sort of questions that only I can answer, about Kalarr, and about the Art,” she watched Bayrd nod uncomfortably, “then I’ll need all my wits about me. And nobody else’s getting in the way.”
“Then let it be, just for an hour. Please. For me? So that I can have your company. You alone, not some half-and-half fusion of my wife and my best friend.” He grinned quickly. “Though it’s sometimes more like a confusion.”
Eskra sighed. There was no arguing with Bayrd in one of these moods, at least not in any good-humoured way. He could be incredibly stubborn sometimes; not often, but from the sound of it this was one of those times. She nodded, and let him help her from her seat.
Probably nothing would happen in Erdanor except another of those interminable bigoted sermons that Kalarr – she couldn’t think of him by any other name – was so fond of delivering. The man was a typical wizard, in love with words, and especially when they were delivered by that even more beloved instrument, his own voice. If she could be certain that Kalarr would do nothing else but talk, Eskra knew she would sleep more easily at night.
Except for worrying about the talathen and when they might come back, and about what Gerin ar’Diskan might be planning independently of everything that had already happened, and all the other threats and problems of which Kalarr cu Ruruc was only one…
“How many of your fathers shed their blood to win this land?” asked Kurek ar’Kelayr. “And what have you gained from it?”