Exile (The Nandor Tales Book 1)

by Martin Owton

  There was a discreet knock at the door.

  “Enter,” called Lord Tirellan.

  A dark-haired pageboy came in carrying a jug and a tray with two goblets. Both men watched him with close interest as the boy glided across the room.

  “There is a messenger outside who would speak with you, my Lord,” the boy said in a near whisper.

  “Pour the wine then send him in, boy,” said Lord Tirellan

  The page poured the wine with trembling hands before leaving the room, and a moment later a man clad in the livery of Lord Tirellan’s personal staff entered. Lord Tirellan looked up expectantly.

  “Did you deliver the letters, Joris?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “And were they all accepted?”

  “Yes, my Lord. Every single one.” As well they should be, thought Lord Tirellan. The seal of Caldon should ensure that they received the most urgent attention of the nobles they were addressed to. “Thank you, Joris. You have done well. You may go now.”

  The messenger marched smartly from the room. When the door had closed Lord Tirellan picked up the goblets and passed one to Cristoff.

  “Now we wait for the replies,” he said with a smile. “I think the next few weeks are going to be most stimulating. Do we know what those Darien scum have been up to recently?”

  “It seems they’ve been very quiet since that most unfortunate fire, my Lord.”

  “Do we know where they’ve moved to?”

  “Not yet,” Cristoff took a sip of wine. “But we will.”

  ***

  “Oh, I’m so excited.” Lady Celaine of Nandor stood by the window looking out onto the street. “Look at all the wonderful clothes.”

  The street was filled with people taking an early evening stroll rather than working people going about their business, and everyone seemed to be wearing their finest. Pairs of young women arm-in-arm, strutting young bloods with a girl on each arm, and married couples all dressed in vivid colours walked slowly by, stopping to greet each other or watch the juggler who stood at the street corner.

  “You know, Mama, I’m going to need some new clothes if Lord Tirellan invites me to a reception as he promised.”

  Lady Alice looked up from her embroidery. “He only said that he would try to arrange such an invitation.”

  “But didn’t you think he was most attentive to me? He isn’t married, is he? I’m sure he’s interested.”

  “He did not say that he is married and, yes, he was attentive, but no more than is polite in elevated circles I’m sure,” said Lady Alice. “Calm yourself, Celaine, and don’t raise your hopes too high.”

  Lady Edith kept her head down over her embroidery and sniffed angrily as her sister chattered away. She had been made to ride with the servants at the back of the party, and Lord Tirellan had not spoken to her, though he had enquired after her health on the first morning after the incident in the tavern. Edith thought this most unfair since her actions had been the cause of them joining up with Lord Tirellan’s group. The inn they were now staying at had been recommended by Lord Tirellan and was perfectly comfortable, although Edith did not like most of the food they served. The meat was always covered with strange-tasting sauces, and she had heard the maids on the stairs laughing at her when she asked to have her meals served plain. The city was huge and so busy; she had never seen even half as many people, and no-one seemed to smile as they rushed about in such a hurry. She wasn’t really interested in clothes in the way Celaine was, so she hadn’t taken much notice of what the city ladies were wearing. Probably the real ladies of quality went about in closed carriages. Indeed in her opinion, the best dressed women she had seen had been standing in the street outside a house, and when she had lingered near them Captain Thalon had hastily hustled her away.

  Edith wondered where Aron was. She knew he hadn’t been captured along with Tancred but that was the last they had heard, though she thought of him often. She had had one dream about him, so strikingly vivid that she was sure it was a true-dream, but nothing had come since. She wished he was here; he knew the Holy City and would surely show her the sights and real wonders. Even the Kingsday fairs had been a disappointment without someone to enjoy them with, and her mother had made sure Edith was kept away from all the most interesting entertainments.

  Edith’s reverie was broken as her father clattered into the room, his boots thumping on the wooden floor.

  “Oh Papa,” trilled Celaine. “Is there any news? Anything from Lord Tirellan?”

  With a smile Earl Baldwin drew out from his tunic a small sealed scroll.

  “I believe this bears his seal,” he said, and passed it to his wife.

  Lady Alice broke the seal and unrolled the message.

  “Lord Tirellan requests the company of the Earl and Countess of Nandor for dinner at his residence two days hence,” she read. “And Lady Celaine of Nandor is also invited.”

  “Oh Mama, how wonderful.” Celaine turned to her father. “Papa, I shall need a new dress.”

  Earl Baldwin frowned. “I’m sure what you’ve brought with you will be good enough.”

  “Baldwin,” said Lady Alice sharply. “Lord Tirellan is a very sophisticated man, and he’ll expect to see Celaine at her best.” She turned to Celaine. “You will certainly have a new dress. I’ll go with you to choose one tomorrow, and perhaps get one myself.”

  “What about me?” said Edith.

  Lady Alice looked again at the scroll. “It doesn’t say anything about you, dear.”

  “That means you’re not invited,” said Celaine.

  “That’s not fair,” cried Edith. She threw her embroidery across the room and stamped out, slamming the door behind her.

  ***

  Nicoras and the squad of Sarazan guardsmen, accompanied by Ezrin and Tancred, rode into the Holy City in the late afternoon and headed directly for the Duke’s residence, located in the most select area of the city, adjacent to the Palace. They dismounted when they arrived at the gatehouse which was the only way through the high wall that protected the Duke from the rest of the city. The guardsman on the gate recognised Nicoras and saluted smartly before opening the heavy wooden gate. Nicoras left the party in the courtyard and made his way to the office of Theobald, the commander of the Duke’s guard.

  Theobald was sitting beneath a large map of the city, a ledger open on the desk before him. When Nicoras entered the room he closed the ledger with a thump and sprang to his feet, a broad smile on his face.

  “Nicoras, the last man I expected to see.” He clapped Nicoras on the back in greeting. “What brings you here? Will you have a drink?”

  He tugged a cord that hung on the wall to summon his orderly and waved Nicoras to a chair. Nicoras sat down glad that he had caught Theobald when the commander had time to relax. He counted Theobald a friend, but he was well aware that if duty and friendship collided, Theobald would unhesitatingly choose duty. The soft-footed orderly entered the room, Theobald ordered a jug of cooled wine and then turned his attention to Nicoras.

  “I bear a letter from Lord Hercival to His Grace which will explain all.”

  Nicoras opened his belt pouch and produced a roll of paper that was sealed with a fat blob of red wax bearing the Sarazan crest.

  The orderly returned with a jug and two glasses that he filled with straw-coloured wine before silently withdrawing. Theobald picked up the glasses and passed one to Nicoras.

  “His Grace is not here. At present he is hunting with his Majesty, and it is uncertain when he will return. Lord Reginal accompanies him,” said Theobald.

  Nicoras nodded slowly at this information, took a sip of wine and then replaced the letter in his pouch.

  “We lost a prisoner,” Nicoras said gruffly. “We’re here to get him back at Lord Hercival’s command.”

  “Lost a prisoner? How did that happen then? He must be someone of importance for his Lordship to be bothered with him.”

&n
bsp; “Maldwyn of Nandor,” replied Nicoras wearily. “Got out over the back wall in the middle of the night and swam the lake. We lost six men.”

  “Six men? How could you lose six men?” Theobald’s grey eyes fixed intently on Nicoras.

  “The boat capsized. We only found two bodies.”

  “How did he get over the back wall? Where was the sentry? Asleep, I suppose,” snorted Theobald. “I hope you had him flogged.”

  “ No. He was found unconscious under a wagon with a lump the size of an egg on the side of his head.”

  “Hmm,” grunted Theobald and took a mouthful of wine. “Why on earth were we holding Maldwyn of Nandor?”

  “We captured him along with a couple of soldiers up in the Tymion valley that Nandor claims belongs to them. He attacked a hunting party, wounded one man quite badly.”

  “Martis’s balls! We’ve lost six men over that worthless bit of scrub. I thought the Duke had forbidden anyone from going up there, so what were they doing? There’s not even any decent game up there.”

  “It was Lord Hercival and a group of his friends.”

  “Ah. That kind of hunting party. So six men died because Lord Hercival chose to disobey his father and show off to his friends?”

  “It’s worse than that. We lost another four in trying to seize a party of Nandorans in a tavern in Sarazan city.”

  “Did you get them?”

  “Not the ones we were after, but we caught another lot.” Nicoras took another sip of wine. “We caught Maldwyn’s cousin Tancred. I’ve got him here with us.”

  “We’ve lost ten men and we hold Tancred of Nandor.” Theobald looked at Nicoras over the rim of his glass, his expression sympathetic. “I can just imagine what his Grace will say about this.”

  “Fifteen men. We lost another five in a fight in a tavern on the river trying to pick up Maldwyn and his two companions.”

  “Fifteen men. Is that the final total? What on earth is happening? Is Maldwyn of Nandor some kind of god?”

  “Far from it, from what I know of him. He seems as great a fool as his father, but one of his companions, some Darien exile, is reputed to be from the Academy.”

  “He must be one of the real ones then. But still, we shouldn’t have lost fifteen men. How many more will it take? You know I don’t hold with putting men at risk unnecessarily.”

  “Lord Hercival was most insistent upon the point. My task is to recapture Maldwyn and dispose of Aron of Darien. I have Ezrin with me to assist in finding them.”

  Theobald took a mouthful of wine and looked at the floor thoughtfully.

  “I can see why his Lordship is so insistent, but I think his father will see things differently. You have explicit orders from Lord Hercival and you have to follow them, but I’m bound to say that the Duke will countermand them the instant he returns. That is only my opinion though and, of course, you must follow your orders until told otherwise.” Theobald studied his glass, which was nearly empty, and then continued. “There’s plenty of room for your men here, and if you need any further resource then I’ll do what I can. I’ll have that letter sent up to his Grace by courier; you have a few days before his reply in my estimation. Pass your glass over and have another drop of wine. I think it’s rather good, don’t you?”

  Nicoras offered his glass and Theobald poured the wine.

  “Are you certain that Maldwyn is here?” asked Theobald.

  “Ezrin is able to locate him and has tracked him ever since they left Sarazan. If he isn’t yet here then he is coming here. Lord Hercival had word that Earl Baldwin and his family were on the road to the Holy City too. It seemed unlikely to be a coincidence.”

  “Our people can find out about Baldwin for you. The city is alive with spies and watchers of all kinds. You’ll know within an hour of his arrival.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Aron and his companions approached the Holy City along one of the smaller roads that led to the capital. On either side the fields of farms and market gardens flourished on the rich soil, supplying the needs of the population. Despite the traffic of farm carts of every size the surface of the road was in good condition; even minor streams were bridged rather than forded, and the ditches had evidently been dug out since the turn of the year. As they reached the crest of a small hill the prospect of the Holy City unrolled before them. The sun reflected from the white walls of the citadel of the High King as it rose above the haze of ten thousand hearthfires. Hidden in the haze, Aron knew, were the richest houses in the kingdom and the blackest hearts.

  The Holy City was similar to Sarazan in that it had long ago outgrown its defensive wall; beyond that it had all the characteristics of other cities, but on a much grander scale. The ambitious and the poor, the desperate and the dissolute of the kingdom had come to build their lives drawn by the legend of its prosperity. The result was an unplanned sprawl of shanty towns and fine villas, crowded tenements and airy mansions all jostling for position around the court of the High King.

  “Beware in crowds. If you are jostled, even by children, especially children, look straightaway to your purse,” Aron said to Davo and Maldwyn. “And be careful how you return a stare; there are professional duellists on the streets who will provoke a fight to create a spectacle.”

  “I remember you told me,” said Maldwyn. “But I’m still amazed the High King allows it.”

  “Duelling is a great public entertainment; it would be a lot of trouble to suppress it. And then there’s the money. The oddsmakers make a fat living from the gambling on the fight. They pay their taxes and pay a swordsman or two to keep business brisk.”

  “You done it?” asked Davo.

  “It suited my purpose at the time to fight a couple of duels of this sort, yes,” said Aron. “I fought the minions of Caldon in public, and profited handsomely.”

  “We could make a bit of money then,” said Davo brightly.

  “Unlikely,” said Aron with a hard stare at Davo. “Most of the oddsmakers would remember me.” But Davo's comment had brought forward a worry. Araiminta's supplies had lasted them well, but were nearly spent; they were running short of coin and would have barely enough to purchase lodgings. At last resort the horses could be sold, but Aron was most reluctant to lose the flexibility they provided. He needed to make contact with the Darien exiles quickly.

  ***

  The streets of the Holy City were thronged with people of all description and the three travellers were forced to dismount and lead their horses through the crush.

  “Is it always this crowded? I've never seen so many people before,” asked Maldwyn looking around nervously. “It makes me feel uncomfortable.”

  Just then a porter carrying a wooden chest barged him aside and was lost in the crowd before Maldwyn could regain his feet.

  “No, it isn't normally this bad,” said Aron. “But you must keep your wits about you.”

  “Where we goin’ anyway?” said Davo. “I'm hungry.”

  “I'm going to an inn that the Darien exiles used to frequent. It's as good a place to start as any, even though it has been some time since I was last here.”

  ***

  The inn was called the Silver Moon; a long low building roofed with wooden shingles, it stood in a district of workshops, forges and small, ramshackle houses. Despite its rundown appearance, it was as crowded as everywhere else. The three travellers lodged their horses with the stable boy and went into the dingy taproom which was too full for them to get a table. Aron asked a serving man why it was so busy.

  “Where have you been living that you don't know tomorrow to be King's Day?” answered the serving man.

  His derisive laugh was taken up by those around him that had heard Aron's question. Cheeks burning, Aron tried to retreat to a corner, but his way was blocked by a large shaven-headed man in a black leather jerkin with a crest embroidered in silver upon the breast. He held a tankard in his left hand; he reached out until it struck Aron’s shoulder and s
pilled its contents down his arm.

  “You'll pay for that, you clumsy peasant,” snarled the man, his right hand resting on the ornate sword hilt at his hip. The taproom fell silent. Aron looked the man in the face for a long moment. He judged him to be in his mid twenties; the long thin scar across his unshaven cheek proclaimed him a swordsman. The ghost of a smile played across Aron's lips as he too, found his sword hilt.

  “You are making a mistake, my friend; perhaps you would allow me to get you another drink,” he said quietly.

  “Not enough,” sneered the man through a half smile. “Not nearly enough, bumpkin. Let's take this outside.”

  There was a scurry of activity as most of the people in the taproom tried to get out into the tavern yard. Aron caught hold of Davo in the crush.

  “Find the oddsmaker that's running this and get the wager on.”

  He passed over the pouch that contained the last of their coin.

  “’Ow much?” asked Davo, grabbing the pouch with both hands.

  “All of it.”

  Davo slipped away into the crowd. Aron and Maldwyn stepped into the yard to find that a wide oval of onlookers had formed with Aron's opponent at the far end. Several voices were shouting odds over the noise of the excited mob. Aron handed his pack to Maldwyn, drew his sword then unbuckled his sword belt, and handed that to Maldwyn as well.

  “Are you sure you know what you're doing?” whispered Maldwyn.

  “Sure,” replied Aron with a strange distant smile, and then stepped forward raising his blade.

  “Stick it to him, Kovac,” a harsh voice yelled.

  Kovac raised his blade and stepped out to meet Aron. A hush fell on the crowd.

  Kovac moved forward on the balls of his feet as if he was walking on hot sand, his blade moving in a tight circle as he focused on Aron. Aron took two steps forward and awaited Kovac’s first move. There was a moment's silence as the two men looked at each other and, it seemed, everyone held their breath. Then Kovac attacked. The crowd roared with approval and excitement. Aron tried to blot out the noise of the crowd. Be the centre of the storm; focus only on your opponent's hand and blade, move only in response to him.