Deconniy came up beside him. Through a cleft in the hills, the province spread out below them. The city looked clean and tidy in miniature. The greater part of it nestled back into the hills like a spring fawn cuddling back against its mother. A long scattering of farms and outlying villages stretched off to the east. The forest, of course, ranged to either side: oaks russet and tawny in this season and the lingering green of pines, which in turn gave way, far above, to the stripped rock of the peaks.
“I used to come here as a child,” Innisth said, and paused. He was not ordinarily given to impulsive confidences. Deconniy, wisely, said nothing at all. The duke dismounted, tossed him the reins, and walked away. He stood for a moment, regarding the view, and then stepped lightly up onto an outreaching spur of granite that struck boldly out over the gulf. A branch, ready to grip, just here, a foothold, just there, and he was up. His father had stood here beside him once. Briefly. Setting the memory aside, Innisth glanced back at Deconniy.
The captain had dismounted and was holding the reins of both horses in one hand. He stood facing slightly away from the duke, looking at nothing in particular. Innisth was suddenly unable to bear the sight of him intruding on this spot. The young captain, as if guessing this, stood perfectly still.
Innisth turned away, stepping around a spur of granite, and lowered himself down to a seat on the bare stone. The cold of it struck even through his heavy cloak. He rested one hand, lightly gloved, in the place that had always seemed made for an armrest. The cold was there too, clean and knife-sharp through the glove.
He used to come here, indeed. After some brutal punishment from his father. Or worse, one of the exquisitely savage, derisive, unbearable tongue-lashings that flayed more than skin, of which his father had been so perfectly a master. Innisth caught his breath with the force of memory and sat still, still as the granite of these mountains and cold as the wind that sang so piercingly at their peaks. After a time, he found himself able to think of other things.
He had used to look down at Eäneté and think, This will be mine. When he dies, this will be mine, and it will have been worth everything. And so it had been, when the old duke had fallen from this very cliff to his death far below. Seven years on, and the memory of the old man was still so strong that at times it stopped his breath. He had made a vow once, sitting here, red blood on the cold stone, long before his father’s death, that he would rule the Eänetén Power and never be ruled by it. That under his rule, the town and province of Eäneté would prosper. That his passions would be his own, and never corrupted by those of the Power.
He had kept the first two parts of this vow. He’d had no idea then, of the impossibility of keeping the other. What could a child know of the deep tie? He’d had no idea how his own passions and those of the Power would blur until there was no way to say, This, out of everything, this is mine.
Even so, he had kept the more important vow. The years of his rule had seen his city and his province and his Power prosper and grow strong. Too strong, perhaps, if Methmeir Irekaì guessed that the Immanent Power of Eäneté might come to rival even the Great Power of his own Irekay. He must not permit the king to realize this was so.
He got to his feet, hand on the shallow ledge to take his weight, and walked back along the granite spur of the mountain. Deconniy was still—or again—assiduously studying the air. No doubt he did not realize how the light picked out the strong line of his jaw, the vulnerable length of his throat. . . . Innisth took his mare’s reins without a word and mounted. He turned her back down the narrow path and headed for the lower trails without glancing over his shoulder. Deconniy stayed at his back, wordless as before.
They came out of the narrow trails into a private little clearing. A tiny stream came down alongside the path and spilled across a granite face at one end of the glen, where boulders had been tumbled together in the past by the careless hand of some great flood. The stream deepened and broadened into a quick brook as it came into the meadow, curved through the clearing, and vanished again at the far side. The babble of the water and the wind through the barren branches of the trees were the only sounds that disturbed the quiet of the hills.
Innisth dismounted again in the little clearing, walking slowly, leading his mare on a long rein. She dropped her head to nibble half-heartedly at the yellowed grasses. He was aware of Deconniy, who stayed mounted, eyes warily on the trees, mindful of the possibility of brigands in these woods.
“Dismount,” he called, not quite on impulse. “Leave the horse and come here.”
Deconniy opened his mouth, shut it again, and swung down from his gelding. He twisted the horse’s reins about a low branch and walked over, slowly, to stand before the duke.
Innisth regarded him, his gaze carefully ironic. The captain was commendably steady. He had the dark hair of the south, the wide brow more common in men from eastern Pohorir. He said nothing, as seemed his habit when uncertain. Innisth approved. He preferred men who did not open their mouths only to fill an uncomfortable silence with foolish babble.
“It was right and proper for you to ask for a larger escort,” said the duke, “but unnecessary. You are thinking of threats a man such as Geif, with a tie to only a very minor Immanent Power, might face. Draw your sword.”
After a second, Deconniy did so. He held it awkwardly, blade pointed down and across his body, trying to pretend that he was not holding it. It was clear he had noticed that Innisth himself was unarmed.
“Now,” said the duke softly, “raise your sword and strike at me.”
Deconniy looked at him helplessly. He shifted his grip on the sword hilt. Innisth could see him trying to figure out what he should do.
“Go on,” commanded the duke. “I order you—raise up your sword and strike at me. Strike hard.” He stood still, empty hands at his sides, smiling a little as he stared at the other man.
The captain met his eyes, took a smooth, long breath, lifted his sword, and struck at the duke. Innisth had just time to see that he struck with the flat: a hard blow, one to cause a bruise, but not one that might kill.
The sword did not touch Innisth. It rebounded in Deconniy’s hand, twisted out of his grip, and fell to the ground. It cut a long furrow in the damp earth, laying bare the rocky soil beneath the dying winter grasses. Deconniy looked at it for a long moment, rubbing his sword hand slowly with the fingers of his other hand. After a moment he lifted his eyes again to meet the duke’s gaze.
“Well done,” Innisth commended him sardonically. “Pick it up, my captain, and put it away.”
The officer stepped away, bent, and picked up his sword delicately, as though he were not quite sure whether it might twist around of itself and cut at him. He cleaned the earth off the blade against his cloak and sheathed it, gaze studiously on the task as though it required all his attention.
“That will work throughout a large part of the province,” the duke told him. Once, that had been all that had prevented him from killing his father. That protection had not, of course, saved the old duke in the end. He said blandly, setting all those memories firmly behind him, “I prefer not to advertise the fact unduly, lest the knowledge inspire an enemy toward . . . creativity.”
Deconniy cleared his throat. “Indeed, Your Grace.”
“I notice you did not strike with the edge of the blade.”
Deconniy met his eyes uneasily. “You didn’t order me to strike a killing blow, Your Grace.”
Innisth laughed briefly, but with real, unexpected pleasure and amusement. He did like this young man. He thought he did. Above and beyond the urging of the Eänetén Power. He liked the unease—but he liked still more that the man met his eyes. “What would you have done, my captain, had I ordered you to strike to kill?”
The man did not answer at once. He said finally, “Faked it, Your Grace.”
The duke laughed again. Then, sobering, he examined the captain with care. Deconniy waited, stoic. “You’ll do,” Innisth told him. “I think you will do.”
Yes. The man did not lack courage, plainly. Nor good sense. A stroke of good fortune that this man of Tisain had come to Eäneté at this moment. He might prove very useful. Innisth did think he might.
Unless he was a spy, of course. Though Geif would have had to be uncharacteristically subtle, to send this man.
“We shall see,” the duke said aloud, and watched with amusement as the young captain’s brow creased just a little in worry.
“Get your horse,” Innisth ordered. He tossed the reins back over his mare’s neck and mounted, waiting impatiently while the other man strode across the clearing to fetch his gelding. But he made himself take a plain, easy path down toward the city.
He sent for Captain Etar the moment they passed back through the gate into the courtyard of the house, and for Gereth, and as the boys ran to take those messages, he indicated with a curt gesture that Deconniy should come with him as well. He had to stop himself from taking the stairs two at a time, but still Gereth met them at the outer door of his suite.
“A profitable ride, Your Grace?” the older man said, smooth and a little bit amused—only Gereth would have the temerity to be amused at anything the duke did—and only very slightly worried.
“I trust so,” Innisth told him. Then Etar arrived, and Innisth signaled Deconniy to wait in the outer chamber while he swept the other men through two interior doors and into the main room of his suite. Windowless and spare, with one narrow couch and two angular chairs drawn up by the fireplace, and beyond that only paintings of the winter forest on all four walls, the room offered no chance for any lingering servant to overhear anything said. Innisth said without preamble, “You are certain the young man is not a spy for Lord Geif.”
Etar’s blinked. He was grizzled now, in his fifties, but still powerful; he wore experience and confidence like armor and was seldom surprised. He said, “I would have said not. I did say not. Have you reason to suspect him, Your Grace?”
“I do not. I wish to use him against Geif. It would prove awkward if you were mistaken.” He turned to Gereth, who was shaking his head. “Well?”
“Your Grace, Geif took his sister, his only close family. He got her with child. As he has legitimate sons and did not want the child born, he accused the girl of theft and sentenced her to be publicly flayed. Deconniy spent every coin he had and called in every favor he was owed, but he couldn’t get her away. The best he could do was get someone to slip her poison. Geif was furious. Deconniy got out of Tisain only because his friends in the guard didn’t put much effort into capturing him. I believe he would welcome any plan of yours that would strike against Lord Geif, but he would be recognized in Tisain—though, of course, he must still have friends there.”
“You are confident of this story?”
“I always investigate those who enter your household, Your Grace.”
“Gereth,” the duke said, with real affection. “Of course you do.”
“The tale was all over Tisain. Dealing so with a girl would be characteristic for Lord Geif, but the tale does not flatter him, so it seemed true on its face. More, Deconniy proved to have many friends. So did the girl. No, Your Grace, I’m certain the story is true. That’s why I recommended him to Captain Etar.”
“He’s a straightforward young man,” added Captain Etar. “I imagine you have found him so as well.”
“Indeed,” said Innisth. “Straightforward. Yes. Bring him in, my old friend, and we shall put it to him.”
Verè Deconniy was plainly nervous. He could hardly be otherwise, told to wait while all his seniors held close consultation about some undisclosed topic. But he came into the room with a firm step and stood straight, his eyes on the duke’s face. He said nothing.
“I hear nothing but good reports of you,” Innisth told him. “You did well today. You showed good sense, rarer than obedience—and you are, of course, lately of Tisain. I understand you bear no love for Lord Geif. I have a small task for you. I wish to implicate Geif in some criminal dealing, something large and expensive that will draw the attention of Lord Laören, whom we shall hope finds coin even more riveting than malice—” The idea that had been niggling at the back of his mind all day leaped clear.
Innisth had been thinking of paper evidence, of planting records suggesting tax evasion. But now he said, “I wish to make it seem that Geif has been striking his own coins. That he has been weighting the gold with pewter or lead. Yes. Base coin bearing the king’s own image.” Now he had to work to tamp out a real smile. That would do very well indeed. Making base coin was certainly a significantly greater crime than merely skimming illegally from the top of legitimate trade.
And striking base coins with Methmeir Irekaì’s own image and sign . . . yes. Lord Laören would by no means pass over that insult. Merely extracting a girl or two from his grasping hands was nothing in comparison. Yes.
“Yes,” Innisth said aloud, and focused his gaze once more on this new young captain of his. “You have no fondness for Lord Geif, I think. You would be willing to do this? You would be capable of the task?”
Captain Deconniy’s face had gone blank and still. He said slowly, “Indeed, no, Your Grace. I mean, yes, Your Grace, if you . . . I have friends in Tisain. I could . . . yes.” He looked suddenly at the duke. “I could put anything you wish in that man’s house—but if he found it before Laören—he has a hunting lodge, you know, Your Grace. He loves the hunt, does Geif. He loves the kill. Everyone knows that. It would be—I could—if I may suggest—”
“The hunting lodge sounds ideal,” said Innisth. “An excellent suggestion, my captain.”
Captain Etar said, “You’d be willing to take Laören hunting, make sure he finds the right lodge, the papers, the coins?”
“Yes,” said Deconniy, and turned urgently to the duke. “Let me do this. I would be glad to do this. That will be enough, won’t it? The king will kill Geif. For passing bad coins. Coins stamped with his image. He will flay him alive.”
“This pleases you, my captain?” Innisth was amused.
“Yes,” said Deconniy, and smiled at last, a small, tight smile.
“Very good,” Innisth said, satisfied. “Yes, very good. Base coins cannot be created instantly. But I believe—Gereth?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I believe some are already available in your own treasury. Carefully set aside, of course.”
“Of course,” Innisth said. “Now. Coins. And appropriate papers . . . accounts and so forth.”
“A coin stamp?”
“That, we don’t have,” said Gereth regretfully.
“Well, it is not necessary. Geif has his stamp hidden elsewhere. Naturally it is well hidden. No doubt Lord Laören will ask many close questions regarding that stamp, but Geif will prove surprisingly recalcitrant in providing accurate information. Or perhaps one of his own people betrayed him and took it. There are many possible reasons it might not be found.”
“Yes,” Gereth agreed. “That should work, particularly as Lord Laören will want very much to cast his find at Irekaì’s feet. He’ll want Geif to be guilty; he’ll probably think of his own reasons why that stamp can’t be found. Yes, this should work.”
“Yours is the dangerous part,” Innisth said to his young captain.
“I will do it,” Deconniy declared fiercely. “I won’t fail you.”
“Very good,” Innisth murmured, and rose, smiling.
6
On the fifth day of the Month of Frost, Tirovay arrin Elin Raëhema stood on the river wall of Leiör, watching one of the giant ferries as it prepared to undock from the Leiör side of the river. Despite the bite in the air, he found this a spectacle well worth watching, though he could see that the folk of Leiör were too accustomed to the sight to even glance toward the river. There were at least fifty people on the deck of the ferry, lining the rails or settled under awnings. Fawn-colored Emmeran cattle crowded together in pens along one side of the ferry, lowing unhappily. Spotted goats occupied a pen along the other side. Two horses had bee
n led to the rear of the ferry, while more delicate poultry were crated and carried below. The massive cables that were strung across the whole width of the river sang with tension as the signal flags signed for the casting off and the long line of coupled heavy draft horses leaned into their harness. Tiro watched the powerful gray horses stride slowly past, their drover calling encouragement and gesturing with his long whip, and the ferry moved slowly out into the river.
Leiör was a prosperous town, sited as it was at the confluence of the great Imhar that here came down from the north and the smaller Diöllay that curved its way from the east. It wasn’t only a confluence of rivers; here at Leiör three of the four kingdoms met as well. The Imhar, of course, marked the border between southern Harivir and northern Emmer; but just there where the river turned north, the boundary it demarcated was between Emmer to the west and Kosir to the east. And the Diöllay, of course, showed the boundary between Harivir and Kosir. The ferry that was now crossing the Diöllay would draw up to the quay of Leiör’s sister-town of Sariy in Kosir. There it would take on iron and copper and whatever passengers wished to make the return crossing to Harivir. The larger Emmeran town of Sariy was also visible to the north across the wide confluence, and in gentler days perhaps some of those cattle would be destined to cross the Imhar at the narrower width above the confluence. During these unsettled days, though, Tiro knew that very little traffic would be making that crossing. But a scattering of small river craft slid down the rivers to the west, or made their more laborious way up one river or the other.
The source of the Diöllay lay in the high mountains of Kosir; if one followed the river upstream, one would find the town of Lind, and from there the long, winding Anha Pass, which led along the edge of Mora Bay on the eastern coast. Anha Pass came out above Enchar, which had belonged to Kosir until Meriön temè Heriduïn Irekaì, King of Pohorir in Tiro’s great-grandmother’s day, had taken all the land around Mora Bay for his own and forced the Immanent Power of Enchar to yield to the Great Power of Irekay. Even today, Enchar’s Immanent and its people and the very stone of its land remained restive in Pohorir’s grip; tremors were still felt now and then as far away as Eilin, on Harivir’s side of the mountains. Tiro honestly didn’t understand why Meriön Irekaì had wanted to subdue a land so opposed to his rule. . . . Well, he understood it in theory. No doubt Meriön had been glad enough to bind another lesser Immanent to the Great Power of Irekay; no doubt he had been glad to steal Enchar’s virtue and strength for Pohorir and for Irekay, glad to use that virtue and strength to extend his own life. Tiro supposed Meriön’s descendants had been just the same, right down to the current King of Pohorir, Methmeir Irekaì himself.
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