by Widowmaker
“Of course. I was forgetting. But go on…”
“Bayrd said that he would have done it anyway. An honourable sacrifice, he called it. Something any Bannerman Companion should be willing to do for his lord, and a long way short of laying down his life.” Marc grinned and held up his own left hand, wiggling the fingers. “I call it a fair exchange. He wasn’t risking his sword-hand; and he got the domain of Dunrath out of it, no matter what happened.”
“And could Eskra have cured such an injury?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. I’ve never seen her do it.”
“But she’s still a better sorcerer than Bayrd? You’re sure of that?”
“Kurek-eir, I’d rather not talk too much more about such things, if you don’t mind.”
“Why?” said Kurek, his voice briefly sharp and suspicious. “Are you afraid of giving away too many secrets? Don’t forget that they’re the secrets of a lord who wasn’t too concerned about you giving away your honour.”
Marc blushed; it was the first time that anyone in Erdanor had reminded him of that, but perhaps because of their courteous restraint, it still smarted. “No!” he snapped. “No… It’s just that, well, magic isn’t, isn’t nice.”
It was a clumsy choice of words when there were so many others, but it described almost exactly how he felt; hot and embarrassed, as though he had been caught talking about something sleazy.
Kurek patted him on the arm. “I know exactly what you mean,” he murmured sympathetically, getting to his feet and shoving the replenished wine-flagon towards Marc. “It makes you want to go and wash your hands, doesn’t it?”
Not waiting for a reply and looking very pleased about something, he strode quickly from the room. Marc nodded agreement, even though he knew what Kurek had said wasn’t completely right. He poured himself a brimming cup of wine and gulped down half of it, swirling the chilly sourness of it around his teeth and tongue as though to rinse away another, fouler taste. Talking about magic didn’t make him just want to wash his hands, or even his mouth.
It made him want to go and wash his mind.
“Cerdor and the southern lords know little enough about what’s going on here,” said Askelin ar’Goel, the castellan of Dunrath, “and they care still less. They have their own concerns, and anyway, has anyone even told them?”
“Who would you tell?” Eskra asked no one in particular. She glanced at the questioning faces up and down the table. “There isn’t an Overlord; there isn’t a High Council—”
“But lady, there is!” Iskar ar’Joren insisted. Eskra shot him a glare at the interruption.
“—that anyone will trust,” she finished. “The lords of that council would normally advise the Overlord. In the absence of an Overlord,” she shrugged, dismissing the High Council and all its works, “each one of them has his own agenda, to benefit himself and his own faction. No-one else. And certainly no-one up here in the wild north, where nothing of significance ever happens. So…”
She seemed to be daring Iskar, or Askelin, or anyone else – including Bayrd – to take exception to the way she had all but usurped control of the meeting. For his part, Bayrd sat quietly off to one side, arms folded, listening carefully to what was being said, but far more interested in the way expressions on faces shifted as the discussion swung back and forth.
“So we deal with this ourselves,” said one of the others. “And answer to Cerdor afterwards. If at all.”
“Alone?” said Iskar.
“There are alliances enough, of one sort and another,” said Eskra. “Between this clan and its supporters. There are a number of Houses and Families who’ve gained benefits from Clan Talvalin. Use them. It’s time to – what is it you Albans say? – call in your markers. So do it.”
That was the problem. After the incident with Vanek ar’Kelayr, and then the denunciation by Marc ar’Dru directly afterwards, Clan Talvalin weren’t as well thought-of, or as well supported, as they had been just five weeks before. Bayrd knew the accusations well enough: how it was all his fault, at least to a certain extent. How he had gone too much on his dignity, distanced himself too much from the whole ugly business – and uttered not a word to formally deny even the ugly rumours that followed his Bannerman’s departure.
And then there were the hostages. After that sudden spate of kidnapping, nobody was willing to trust anyone, anywhere, any more. Trust had become equated with vulnerability. Vulnerability meant weakness.
And weakness meant defeat.
That was Kalarr’s intention. To divide and to conquer, in the best traditions of strategy. The division was already happening, clear enough even to the untrained eye. As for the conquest, that would happen when he was ready. Today. Or tomorrow. In a month. Or not for half a year…
Eskra had her suspicions already, and after rapping with her knuckles on the table loudly enough that she was the focus of everyone’s attention, she began to outline them. It would happen, she said, within the month, or within the half-year. At the summer solstice or the winter, Fire or Darkness, on one of the cusps of the year when Kalarr could rely on more that just the power of swords and spears and arrows.
And still Bayrd sat quietly and studied the faces of his chief retainers, gaining more information from an unguarded frown, smile, or grimace than from a hundred words.
The other kailinin were starting to look uneasy at all the talk of sorcery and the Art Magic. It was a shifty, furtive look that he had come to recognize all too well, a poorly disguised wish to be somewhere else while such subjects were being discussed. Eskra’s mouth quirked in a contemptuous sneer, and Bayrd caught the expression just in time, because he knew what would follow: another of her notorious ‘you’re trying to pretend that what you don’t like doesn’t exist’ lectures.
“Like it or not, eirin, gentlemen,” he said, “these are matters which have to be accepted. And dealt with. Now, unless you have constructive comments, please sit quiet and pay attention.”
“Lord, I am a man of honour!” Kian ar’Terel – it would have to be Kian, of course – was neither quiet nor sitting. He surged up out of his seat; and then he froze halfway to upright as he met Bayrd’s cold glare and realized what his next words might have been. And you are not… “I, er, I don’t have to listen to this,” he finished lamely.
“That’s exactly why you have to listen,” said Bayrd. “Or do you want to renounce your fealty as well…?”
There was no threat in his voice, no intimidation. Just a calm acceptance that made it sound far worse. The kailin hadn’t been given any reason to take refuge behind anger or pride, which was just as well. Bayrd knew his man, knew the way his mind worked, and knew that would have been the last push over the edge, not just for Kian ar’Terel, but for the several others whose vacillation wasn’t quite so obvious. Yet.
Lose one, lose them all. Keep one…and who knows?
Ar’Terel was a good man, in the sense that Reth ar’Gyart had been good: decent, honest, honourable – if a little inclined to harp on the subject – but not overly endowed with the crookedness of mind that had become so necessary nowadays. He saw things in stark black and white, with no blend of grey at the borders. That was what had made him such a loyal retainer for so long: an inability to see that anything his lord might do could be wrong.
It was also why his view could swing to the other side so radically. There would be no pause while he tried to understand why that same lord should suddenly prove himself devious and lacking in honour. But the others respected him. That was why Bayrd spoke softly, instead of grabbing Kian by the front of the tunic and shaking some sense into him. It would be a waste of time. Men like that never saw sense.
The moment stretched taut as a bowstring, the tension in the air almost audible. Then it relaxed as Kian straightened his clothing with an unnecessarily violent tug and settled back, almost ashamed of himself and determined not to show it. Bayrd thought he could hear the release of held breath – and then heard an indrawn breath
from somewhere a good deal closer.
It was Eskra, and the expression on her face told him everything that she was about to say. He promptly kicked her, hard, and that breath came out not in accusing words but in a single sharp yelp of pain. All apologies for his clumsiness, he reached out for her hand, squeezing it. But for all the tenderness of the gesture, his grip as anything but gentle.
Not now, said the look in his eyes. It was that cold stare again, a reminder that he wasn’t playing any game now – except perhaps the Great Game – and that he would hurt her if he had to. Eskra was breathing hard, surprise mixed with anger, but he knew she had more practical common sense than any three of the honour-besotted kailinin sitting at the table. Even then, it was several seconds before she subsided, rubbing hurt ankle with hurt hand and glowering at him.
The little by-play hadn’t gone unnoticed, and they both knew it. For a few seconds Eskra had been on the verge of changing from being their Lord’s wife, an acceptable advisor on the unacceptable, to an Elthanek wizard no more deserving of respect than any other potential enemy. Once that respect was lost it would have been almost impossible to regain. And with it would have gone any hope Bayrd might have had of explaining Kalarr cu Ruruc for what he truly was, a far more dangerous threat than just one more man with more troops under his command than seemed reasonable. With the country in its present state of unrest, all those soldiers seemed very reasonable indeed.
They were also still reasonable in another way, at least for the present. Though there were almost three thousand of them – neither Bayrd nor Eskra revealed how they could be so certain about the numbers – that was still few enough to deal with, if the dealing happened quickly.
Not by Clan Talvalin, at least not alone.
There was only one lord in the province of Elthan who had enough household troops under arms to do it. And that was the problem. Bayrd could have wished that it was somebody else, anybody else at all. Because that lord was Gerin ar’Diskan. They all knew it, even though nobody mentioned the name aloud. There was no need.
“Are you suggesting that I go cap in hand to Gerin ar’Diskan – Gerin, of all people! – and ask for his help?”
This time Bayrd didn’t have to watch for unguarded changes of expression. The way none of his lord’s-men would meet his gaze told him more than enough about how they felt. A swirl of conflicting emotions came seething up inside him, each so different that he didn’t know whether to let the laughter or the anger out first. But they combined, more or less, each moderating the other, and showed at last as a bitter sort of smile and a glint in his eye that was very far from a twinkle of amusement.
“Yes,” said Eskra. “Even if these other gentlemen don’t dare.” She glanced at them. “Whether from good manners or for some other reason… But I’d rather you went up to Hold ar’Diskan of your own free will, even with your cap in hand – and when did you last wear a cap? You’ll have to buy one specially – than have your head carried there on the point of someone’s spear.”
There was a soft murmur of discontent from the other kailinin of the council; all, Bayrd noticed, except for Iskar ar’Joren. The one-handed man was sitting very still, in the stiff, immobile posture that usually covered a nod of approval. Bayrd hushed the rest of them to silence with a gesture of one hand. “Do you think that so very likely?” he asked.
It was Eskra who nodded. “Likely enough,” she said. “That’s why affairs like this are conducted through envoys. Not face to face. And especially not with a man who’s let all the North know that he can’t stand the sight of you.”
“Quite…” said Bayrd, not at all sure how to take that.
“Cu Ruruc outnumbers us already, lord,” said Iskar. “Three thousand men, you said. We have less than five hundred.”
“And the walls of the fortress,” Askelin ar’Goel pointed out.
“And the walls,” echoed Bayrd. “Yes. I hadn’t forgotten.” He could see Iskar shaking his head, dismissing the proposal.
“You’re the castellan of this fortress, Askelin-eir,” Iskar said. “The Captain of the Walls. But walls can be a trap to catch you in, if you don’t have enough men to keep the enemy outside them.”
“Five hundred against three thousand,” said Bayrd. “Is it enough?”
“No, lord.” Iskar’s human hand and iron hook moved together on the table-top, describing an encircling manoeuvre. “That many men could attack even Dunrath at more points along the fortifications than we could defend. They would come over in four, five different places at once, catch us between themselves, the walls and the others outside.” His hand became a fist. “Finish. There’d be no need for a siege. It would all be over in a day.”
“I was once told,” – Eskra didn’t say by whom, but her sharp glance at Bayrd spoke volumes – “that this was a place that could be defended by fifty well-armed men. But now you say five hundred aren’t enough.”
“Lady,” said Iskar, “I speak as Dunrath’s Captain of Artillery. This fortress is unfinished. The walls aren’t high enough, the towers aren’t complete, we haven’t enough engines to keep an enemy away from the walls, nor enough men to keep that enemy from coming over. Gerin ar’Diskan has both…”
“But no inclination to listen,” said Kian. “Certainly not to you, lord.”
“What makes you so sure?” If Bayrd sounded a little sharp, it was hardly surprising. No lord cared to hear his own men make such judgments in that disparaging tone, even if everyone present knew them for the truth.
“Well, lord, for this long time you and he are…Rather, you once were… That is, I mean—”
“You don’t know what you mean, Kian-eir ar’Terel,” said Bayrd in a voice like the beginnings of severity. Then he laughed, a short, sharp bark, but real mirth for all that. “No. You know what you mean all too well, but you can’t say it without insult to your lord and thus to your own honour. So, like the gentleman you are, you can’t say it at all. Let be. I’ll say it for you.”
He looked at the kailinin sitting at the table, hard men all, and none of them harder than his own lady wife, whose icily practical mind sometimes chilled even him. “We all know this: Gerin ar’Diskan has no cause to love me and mine, for any number of reasons, and he’s as likely to give me my head in my hands as any help against Kalarr. If Gerin won’t hear me, then we’ll be in no worse case than we are now. But if he does listen, even just a little…”
“Joking aside, lord,” said Iskar anxiously, “if you went anywhere near Lord ar’Diskan, he might indeed try to kill you.”
“He might. But I doubt it. He made threats like that six, no, nearly seven years ago. And for all the times that I’ve suspected him, nothing ever came of it. When I was his Bannerman, he was an honourable lord…” Bayrd’s voice trailed off and he drummed his fingers on the table. He had never liked being wrong, and liked admitting it even less. “And he may still be. If that’s so, then I’ve been doing the man an injustice all these years. There’s only one way to find out.”
“Lord?”
“As the Lady Eskra reminded us all, the custom in such situations is to send an envoy. And if the matter involves rival clan-lords, then that envoy should hold the rank at least of Bannerman.” Bayrd smiled grimly. “Well, I don’t have a Bannerman any more. So… If someone can find me a cap to hold, I’ll go myself.”
8. - Players
For all the wealth so blatantly displayed in Hold ar’Kelayr at Erdanor, there were some passageways and corridors within the walls of the fortress that were dark and crowded with shadows, as if no-one cared to waste the price of a lamp, or even a candle, to light them. Marc ar’Dru always used one of them to get from the citadel to his chambers. It was a quicker route than the usual one of descending three flights of stairs, crossing the inner and then the outer courtyard, and finally climbing yet another flight of stairs. He had stumbled once or twice in the early days, before his feet had learned the uneven lie of the rough-paved floor and his eyes were no longer deceived
by the gloom.
But no amount of practice was any protection against a man hiding in those shadows with a club.
He heard the scuff of footsteps behind him and started to turn, but he moved far too late to do anything – including duck or dodge. His hand was no more than halfway to the hilt of his taipan shortsword when the club hit him.
The blow was precisely aimed, by someone who knew his business – and who also knew that his victim was right-handed – because it landed square on the nerve cluster of Marc’s elbow. The impact didn’t cause pain so much as a tingling chill, but immediately the entire arm went numb. Even if he had managed to get the taipan from its scabbard, his limp and useless fingers wouldn’t have closed around the hilt.
An irrational part of Marc’s mind tried to identify the weapon rather than the man: it had to be something like leather stuffed with sand, solid enough to stun nerve and muscle but not so much that it would break the bone beneath if it was wielded properly.
The realization was more frightening than facing a spiked mace, because it meant that whoever had sent the man with the club wanted him intact and as undamaged as could be managed. The obvious reason for that was so that he could be asked questions.
Marc had seen enough during his service in Kalitzim to know some of the ways he might be persuaded to answer them. That was most frightening of all.
He took three frantic backward steps away from his attacker, still unable to see him as anything but one more shadow among so many others, and somehow managed to draw the shortsword with his left hand. His only reward was a blurring second strike on the other elbow, and another icy shock running down through the marrow of his bones to his very fingertips. The taipan dropped with a clang to the floor and was immediately kicked down the passage and out of reach.
From beginning to end, from armed to helpless, the action had taken less than ten seconds.
There wasn’t even a pause before a third blow, delivered with nicely-judged force just above the ear, filled Marc’s vision with more stars than he had ever seen in the night sky and sent him after his sword to the ground. The stars flared more brightly still, and then, drowned in the deepening shadows, they winked out one by one.