“Ideal,” said Innisth without emphasis. “Well done, my captain.”
“Yes,” said Deconniy, and then added, his tone flattening, “Lord Laören . . . Unlike Your Grace, Lord Laören does not permit refusal.”
“Of course not.” Anger built in Innisth, anger on Deconniy’s behalf, yes, but also a surge of outraged possessiveness at Laören’s trespass, to touch what belonged to him; and beyond even that, outrage that Irekaì’s pet had dared take a pleasure Innisth had denied himself. Tamping down his rising temper, he said flatly, “I regret to hear so.”
“Yes,” said the young officer. Color rose in his face and subsided again, leaving him paler than before. “I assure Your Grace, I would have refused. But Laören—” He cut that off. After a moment, he said instead, “I would not have told you, except he said he will return to Eäneté before he turns again toward Irekay. And that he will ask you to give me to him when he goes. And that you will not be able to refuse. He will take me, because if you balk, he will order you to accompany him yourself. He knows I will tell you that, and he knows you would yield me up to him to avoid that command—”
“Enough,” said Innisth. “Get out.” A moment before, he had thought himself angry. Now he was angry. It was as though the very stone of the mountains had cracked to let forth fire, a dark and heavy fire that rose against the lowering sky. He wanted violence and blood and death; he wanted to tear down wounded prey. Deconniy hesitated, perhaps began to speak, but Gereth gripped the younger man’s arm and drew him away.
His own anger, the anger of the Eänetén Power, Innisth could hardly tell where one ended and the other began. But it did not matter. At the heart, they were the same. He moved from room to room in his apartment, but found solace in none of them, and went at last up to the high gallery. He paced there, back and forth through the white wind, until his anger at last burned out its first violence. Then he stood for some time, his hands gripping the icy railing, refusing to flinch from the bitter violence of the wind, gazing out at the snow and the glimpses of the mountains beyond until the muted light began to fail and the early darkness of the storm closed itself down around the tower.
At last, having mastered himself, he turned back into the house. He believed he had mastered himself. Until he walked through his outermost reception room and through the audience chamber beyond and turned without thinking into his private sitting room, and found Eöté there, tucked into his favorite chair. The chair had been drawn close by the fire, the heavy table shifted to one side to make room for it, though the girl still looked cold. She was all but lost behind its high arms. A bundle of dark blue cloth and silver thread lay across her knees, but she was not setting stitches into the cloth. She was still as a mouse, gazing up at Captain Deconniy, who stood with his hands tucked into his belt, his head bent a little, his own gaze not on the girl but on the leaping fire. The air in the room was fragrant with burning cedar.
The anger he had put aside rose again in a violent rush. Innisth clenched his teeth, took tight hold of his temper, and asked, his tone measured, “Well, Captain? You thought of some other detail I must know?”
The girl seemed to shrink into the chair, but Deconniy, visibly bracing himself, faced the duke. “I’ll go with him. I’ll go with him, and once we’re well away, out of Eäneté, I’ll get clear and cut around north. I won’t double back; there’ll be no reason for him to think you’ve set me to it. I’ll head for Enchar; let his people track me that way. It’ll be none of your doing. Then he’ll have no reason to blame you—especially not if he’s got Geif to content his malice—”
“Did you share this clever plan with Etar?” Innisth asked. “What advice did he give you? That you would not escape, that Laören is well versed in malice and would not be so careless?”
Captain Deconniy began to speak, but hesitated.
“You would go bound and under guard and you would not escape,” said the duke. “No. Bravely offered, but no.”
“There’s no other way!” Deconniy said. There was expression in his voice now. He sounded desperate.
“There is always a way,” Innisth told him. The beginnings of an idea touched the back of his mind, but the remnants of anger were too much in the way and he could not make it out. He shook his head, but . . . no. It would take time. He said curtly, “Attend me tomorrow. For tonight, you may retire.”
“But—” Deconniy protested.
“You may retire,” repeated the duke. He stepped to the side and lifted a hand to indicate the door.
Deconniy said stubbornly, “I would rather—”
Innisth, his patience at last fraying beyond bearing, took the one step necessary, closed a hand on the young captain’s arm, and shoved him back. Deconniy, caught by surprise, stumbled and caught at the tall chair. The girl made a tiny, terrified noise, cowering. Ignoring her with an effort, Innisth threw Deconniy back against the heavy table, using his thigh to block the man’s instinctive twist away and his own weight to pin him. One hand went to control Deconniy’s right wrist; the other closed on his hair, dragging his head back.
Deconniy’s eyes were wide with shock and fear, but he had not made a sound. After his first reflexive struggle, he drew a swift breath, shut his eyes, and gave up all resistance, yielding to the duke’s grip, letting himself be pinned.
Innisth closed his own eyes, battling briefly and savagely with himself and with the Eänetén Power, and somehow managed to find the will to loosen his hold. He stepped away, shaking with the effort of restraint, and turned his back to conceal his expression. His hands were shaking. He closed them into fists to hide the fact. Behind him, he heard Deconniy get unsteadily to his feet. The room was so quiet, he could hear even Eöté’s quick, frightened breaths. He wanted her, suddenly and ferociously—her very terror was seductive; he knew exactly how she would tremble and whimper. In her fear, she would yield to anything. He cut the compelling images off sharply and locked them away, refusing to think of it. Better to take his young captain than the fragile girl—but he was not Laören. He was not Geif. He would not do that, either.
When he thought he would be able speak without his voice shaking, he turned. “Do not defy me,” he said. “Especially not when I am already angry.” Despite all he could do, his voice cracked and broke. He bit off the last word savagely.
Deconniy had also used that brief moment of time to collect himself. He stood very still. His gray uniform shirt was torn where it had been raked along the edge of the table. He drew breath. “Your Grace—I—”
“Don’t speak,” Innisth said curtly. He had disciplined his voice, savagely, to something approximating its customary impassivity. If he moved, he was afraid of what he might do. “Go,” he said briefly. And when the man still hesitated, repeated harshly, “Go!”
Deconniy backed away, eyes still wide with shock, reached the door, and fled. The duke strode away as well, the other way, toward the privacy of his own bedchamber, where no one would dare intrude without a very explicit command.
Caèr Reiöft, who had once received that exact command and had never viewed that order as ceasing, came in only a very few moments later, carrying a decanter of dark wine and two crystal goblets.
“Deconniy?” Innisth asked him.
“I sent him away. Don’t concern yourself,” Reiöft said softly. “You did not harm him, and another time, he will know better.” He set the goblets down on the sideboard with the tiniest click of glass against wood and poured, expertly.
“And the girl?”
“Far too fragile to bear your presence. She has been broken too often, I believe, and never given sufficient peace to heal. Eäneté is better for her than Tisain, but I doubt she will ever feel confident of any Pohorin Immanent. Or any Pohorin lord.” He paused, then shrugged. “It’s a pity Lord Laören ever set eyes on her, but there, it can’t be undone. I told her to make up a pallet in your other sitting room and called another woman to tend her. Ranè. You don’t mind Ranè, my lord, and she’s good with
the damaged ones. She’ll keep the girl entirely out of your way.”
“You think I want her out of my way? Perhaps tonight I want her very much in my way.”
Reiöft lifted one eyebrow. “Well, I don’t think so, my lord. You’re in a rare temper just now, every inch the Wolf Duke, and if you’re going to be in a temper, better you take it out on me.” Leaving the goblets, he moved softly across the room and poured a basin of water for the duke to wash his face and hands.
Innisth had known exactly what the other man would say. The moment was all but scripted. Even so, he gave him a hard look. “Is that yours to decide?”
Reiöft set the basin down and bowed his head. “No, lord. I beg forgiveness, lord.” He glanced up through his eyelashes. “Will you want me to stay with you tonight, lord?”
Innisth reached out, almost involuntarily, to touch the other man’s face. The willing submission satisfied the ferocious possessiveness that drove him, and at last the Eänetén Power began to subside. He murmured, “I should have called for you earlier.”
“Of course,” agreed Reiöft. “You should always call for me. Though it’s a little cold on the gallery. But exciting, when the winds are high and wolf-fierce.” He was smiling, a tender expression with only a trace of fear in it—just enough to be seductive.
But Innisth dropped his hand. “No,” he said. “I would be cruel tonight, Caèr. No”—as Reiöft made to speak—“I know you are willing, but I should not like the memory tomorrow.” He stepped back decisively, mastering himself, the anger settling to the back of his heart. “You may retire,” he said. “Tomorrow—” He paused.
“Yes, Your Grace?” Reiöft asked respectfully.
The idea had leaped clear at last. Innisth turned it over in his mind. A steady hand, and a steady will, and courage. And loyalty. He did not doubt three of the four. The fourth, he seldom trusted. Now, after the past hour, less still. But fear of Laören and hatred of Geif . . . yes. Leaving aside any questions of trustworthiness and loyalty, Verè Deconniy of all men would have reason to want this plan to work. More, to work perfectly. “Well, we shall see,” said the duke aloud. “We shall see. I think perhaps I shall not retire just yet. I think perhaps I must call for Captain Deconniy after all.”
“Lord?” Reiöft asked, his tone faintly reproving.
Innisth almost laughed. “Not for that reason! No. However, do not reassure him. Let him assume—let all the household assume—that is exactly why I want him. Inform him I have sent for him, Caèr. And collect two practice swords and bring them here. But quietly. Quietly.”
“Your Grace is always wise and clever,” Reiöft murmured, which was his way of asking if the duke was quite sure. But when Innisth only gave him a brief nod in return, he smiled and bowed and went quietly away to do as he had been ordered.
It took some time for Deconniy to present himself. Innisth was not surprised. He would not have been entirely surprised if the man, driven beyond endurance by the lords of Pohorir one and all, had simply fled. North toward Enchar, if he were wise, rather than risk the pass. It would not have been an unreasonable choice.
But the young captain did come, in the end. He came very quietly. He had put aside his sword and carried not so much as a knife at his belt—that was a statement, of sorts, along with his very presence.
Innisth was now clad in a light short-sleeved shirt and hose, and over this only a long robe. Deconniy’s eyes went to his face, dropped lower, and flicked away at once. Color rose in his face.
“Sit down,” Innisth said, gesturing to a chair close by the fire. He took a facing chair and waited.
Deconniy sank down as ordered. His hands shifted restlessly across the arms of the chair until he finally folded them in his lap like a polite child. Innisth saw his throat move as he swallowed.
“Regardless of any other impression you might have gathered, I actually sent for you,” said Innisth, somewhat regretfully, “in your professional capacity. Please compose yourself.”
Color came and went in the captain’s face. “I thought—but you said—I—” He stopped and took a breath, then said more firmly, “I did not mean to defy you. Forgive my insolence.”
Innisth nodded slightly. “You were afraid. I understood that. But I was angry, and the Eänetén Power was pressing me. You must learn to recognize such moments. But that danger is past, and the other you need not fear. Now. Your professional opinion, if you please. Rate your skill with the sword for me, my captain, in comparison with all other soldiers in my service.”
Deconniy closed his eyes, visibly disciplined his mind to the task, opened them, and said, “Captain Etar can beat me four times out of five. Mattin Periyr is better, at least with sword alone. Hetgaiy Simil is better . . . in some ways.”
“Vaì Tejef?”
“I would rate myself . . . about equal to Lieutenant Tejef, Your Grace, or a little better.”
“But it would be safe to say that you rate your skill quite highly.”
The captain flushed a little again. He said simply, “I’m very good, Your Grace, yes.”
Innisth stood up and walked across the room. He poured a goblet of water from a carafe on the sideboard and raised an interrogative eyebrow at Deconniy. The captain started to shake his head, reconsidered, and said, “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The duke poured a second goblet and brought it to him. Deconniy took it gingerly, sipped, and cleared his throat.
“There will be a sparring accident,” the duke told him. He leaned his hip against the arm of his chair. “A misjudged blow during a practice bout, a failure to block adequately. Such misfortunes are common, I believe. I will be wounded in the leg. The injury will be sufficiently severe as to render me unable to travel for some considerable time, but not, of course, so severe as to permanently deprive me of the use of the leg. Because you dealt such a blow, you will be arrested and held for execution, but naturally the execution will have to be delayed until I have recovered sufficiently to attend. That recovery will take some time. Certainly long enough that Lord Laören will not be able to linger to witness the event.” He paused, lifting one shoulder slightly. “It is possibly a trifle obvious, but we shall be certain the injury is severe enough to put off suspicion.”
The captain said nothing, even though the duke paused to give him a chance to do so.
“You may speak,” Innisth said patiently. “In this matter, I depend upon your judgment, and you may speak freely. Say what you wish to say.”
Meeting his eyes, Deconniy said, “Your Grace, forgive me, but this seems very dangerous to me. Sparring accidents with sharp weapons can be serious. A wound in the leg—I understand your intention, but a slip, a misjudgment, you could be crippled. You could even die, Your Grace.”
“That would indeed be unfortunate. I give you leave to suggest a different plan. One that would protect not only me from Laören’s malice, but also yourself.”
“It’s not plausible. You never spar with us.”
“Does Lord Laören know that? Still, you are correct. There must be a reason I would spar with you in particular. One obvious reason suggests itself. You are not unattractive. Sparring is . . . another form of exercise, perhaps. As an added benefit, Lord Laören should be both offended and jealous, and this should distract him further. You will not, of course, be able to deny that I have taken you to my bed.”
Color had risen in Deconniy’s face. “I see. That’s why—all right. I do see. That will provide time for us to practice, then. Because this will take practice, if it is to look real.” He looked at the duke, waiting for an acknowledging nod, then added, “You intend Laören to witness the accident?”
“Indeed. Which carries dangers of its own. I am, in fact, not a master with the sword. Making it look real will be your task. I will be fighting quite in earnest. Your part will be threefold: to avoid injury to yourself; to avoid injuring me, aside from the necessary blow; and, I fear, to avoid winning so quickly that the match appears obviously thrown.”
“I . . . see.”
“If you know yourself to be incapable of the described procedure, tell me now.”
“I . . . believe I can do it, Your Grace.”
“Practice will, of course, be necessary. As you observed. We will begin tonight. I have two swords here. Practice weapons, of course. No one will hear. These rooms are quite well muffled against sound.”
Deconniy flushed again, but stood hastily and went to examine the swords Reiöft had brought. They were good, plain practice weapons, lead drilled into the wood to mimic the heft of real weapons. Deconniy handed one to the duke, hilt first, laying the blade across his forearm as courteously as though he surrendered an actual sword. Innisth accepted the practice weapon gravely. He set it across the arms of his chair long enough to remove his robe.
Deconniy shifted the chairs and the table out of the way, then turned to collect the other sword. Turning back, the captain started to lift his sword in salute and then paused. He said, “What of your tie to the Eänetén Power? Or . . . as this is not a real weapon . . . but even a wooden sword . . .” He hesitated.
Innisth gave him a cool, ironic stare. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “I will persuade Eänetaìsarè to set its close guard aside for this purpose. Any blow you strike will not be blocked. It will be quite possible for you to kill me . . . even with a wooden sword . . . if you do not take care.”
There was a pause. The quiet room suddenly seemed much quieter. The red light of the fire gilded Deconniy’s cheek and arm and made the sword he held look almost real.
Deconniy took a deep breath. “How can you trust me so much?”
“Are you not trustworthy?” Innisth picked up his sword and lifted it in a slow, careful salute, moving out into the center of the room.
The first exchange was rapid and brief and left the duke with a bruised hip and a worse bruise across his thigh, where Deconniy had pulled a blow not quite in time.
Flinching back, the captain grounded the tip of his sword and lifted his other hand to signal a break. “Your Grace—” he began, and shook his head. “Forgive me. I thought you would block that blow.”
Winter of Ice and Iron Page 17