“I will be careful.” Lanae assured him, but Bansher still looked nervous as the coach rattled down the cobbled way. Light rain began to patter on the roof. The palace was on a level with the eyrie, but several streets over, prompting Lanae to ask a question. “Why is the king not in his castle?”
“The castle?” Bansher said, blinking in surprise. “The castle is a keep, girl. It’s a fortification, and all stone and cold floors. They don’t conduct business in it except for high court or if the city is under attack. There’s a dungeon underneath the castle, and the whole place usually stinks in summer. Otherwise it’s got a garrison in it and not much else. The king’s day to day business is done in his palace, unless he’s holding formal court. Figured you knew all that.”
“Like I said before,” Lanae replied with dignity. “I don’t pay much attention to politics. I’m just a farmer’s daughter from Walcox.”
Bansher laughed. “Wearing a king’s eye dress and carrying missives to the royal palace. Oh no, Lanae, you aren’t political at all.” He laughed again.
The coach came to a rocking halt and a footman opened the door. Lanae stepped out into a lightly falling rain and before her stood the royal palace of Mortentia. Tall white pillars framed a great gilded door carved in fantastical scenes of hunting and dragons and other things Lanae had no familiarity with. To the sides of the door were large windows of real glass with arches at the top and heavy red curtains within, looking out over a thick low hedge of dark shiny leaves dotted with small red flowers. Two armored guards in heavy plate and crimson cloaks stood beside the doors, armed with both swords and polished halberds. An usher in a tall conical hat and silk jacket and trousers directed the footmen to allow the two of them to enter.
Inside the palace Lanae paused a moment to gape. The floor was carpeted in tightly woven wool with many strange symmetrical patterns of black and white. The walls, too, were white, decorated with hanging paintings and tapestries, most of which appeared to depict battle scenes or ships. A large stone fireplace dominated the entry hall, and Lanae thought her entire farmhouse and barn could have fit inside it. Servants and clerks on busy errands walked the hallways, looking overworked and worried.
A uniformed footman directed them to a large open staircase, also carpeted, and Lanae asked if she should remove her boots. Bansher laughed again.
“It’s a palace, not a church.” He said, but Lanae could see that he, too, was nervous to face the king.
Up the stairs they went, and then turned down another long hallway festooned with tapestries and portraits, to a tall door beside which two guards stood. Another usher opened the door for them, and they found themselves in the king’s waiting room. Bansher bowed deeply when they crossed the threshold, and Lanae, unsure whether to bow or curtsy, did something that was like both but really was neither, bobbing awkwardly into the room with her hands wrapped in the lower folds of her tabard. A servant shot her a disapproving look, but she wasn’t looking at him.
The king of Mortentia and his queen sat together at the far end of a room full of fine furnishings, including a high-sided crib next to the carved and gilded chairs in which the monarchs sat. Rich and thick crimson carpets lay on the floor, and the walls were covered with portraits that looked almost lifelike. The portraits were of all of the kings of Mortentia that had gone before, including even those from the times of the hundred kingdoms. King Falante apparently wanted the people coming into this room to feel a sense of continuity and stability built on the past. Large glass windows speckled with rain let in the dull light from outside, and brass oil lamps hung from chains on the ceiling, bathing the room in warm golden light.
King Falante rose from his gilded chair and Lanae saw that it was cushioned and carved elaborately, like a miniature throne. Three guards in the king’s colors stood in the room, two beside the monarchs and one beside Bansher and her. They wore longswords in their tooled leather scabbards.
“Greetings, Lanae Brookhouse.” The king said, and Lanae did not know if she should kneel or what, so she took his proffered hand and gave it a weak shake. He was not as tall as she thought he would be, not much taller than an average man, but his face was aquiline and handsome. His shoulders were wide and looked fit to carry great burdens. King Falante smiled and beckoned to the queen. “Come and meet my Queen Eleinel. She would rise to greet you, but she’s only recently out of the birthing bed. The tiny prince is sleeping, or I am sure he would want to meet you also.”
Lanae stumbled over her words. “Thank you, your majesties. I am very pleased to meet you.”
The beautiful queen looked scarcely older than Lanae despite her elaborate make up and a silvery dress that was amazing in cut and style and decorated with a bright tracery of green lace and white silk. Her hair was what they called crow’s wing black, and it hung to her neck. “Hello, Lanae.” She said familiarly. “We are so happy you’ve been found. We had half of the kingdom searching high and low. When we announce it the people will be full of joy.” Her voice was rich and somehow regal, but she sounded tired to Lanae.
“And such tidings you bring.” Falante added. “A great victory in Walcox, despite the tragic loss of Dunwater’s duke. At least he died heroically.”
“Yes, your honor.” Lanae replied. “The Privy Lord told me that.”
“I beg your pardon?” Said the queen. “Did you say the ‘Privy Lord’ told you?”
“I am very sorry, your honor, but that is what everyone called him.”
King Falante laughed, looking at the confusion on Eleinel’s face. “My darling, I just read the report this man Aelfric D’root has made, and it explains all. Apparently the man constructed a latrine before the battle, and then fortified it. It was instrumental in the victory, and so they have taken to calling him the Privy Lord.”
“D’root, did you say? Do you mean the general Maldiver’s been looking for?”
“No, dear.” Falante’s face took on an unexpected hardness at the mention of the Duke of Elderest’s name. “His son apparently. A man I should very much like to meet. But we are talking to each other and not our guests.” Then he turned to Lanae again. “I am sorry, dear. Apologies.”
“Your majesty.” Bansher said, addressing the king and reminding Lanae of the proper form of address at the same time. “I’ve taken the report from Madam King’s Eye, and I have a report from the eyrie as well.” Falante’s eyes narrowed again, and he glanced at his wife.
“Yes. Thank you Bansher. Let’s retire to the library and we can talk about it. Let’s not bore the ladies with it, I am sure they have things to discuss.”
To Lanae’s horror Bansher then left the room at the king’s side, leaving her alone with the queen of Mortentia!
“Come and sit by me, Lanae.” The queen ordered, and Lanae walked over and sat in a gilded chair that was probably worth more than her family’s entire farm. “I’m sorry I can’t get up yet, but Kaelen came only two days ago, and I am very tired still.” She cast a fond gaze at the crib nearby.
“May I look at him?” Lanae asked, then blushed crimson at her own effrontery.
Eleinel smiled. “Of course you may. Bring him to me, if you like.”
Under the watchful eye of the guard, Lanae went to the crib and picked up the baby. Swaddled in fine linen so that only his tiny face could be seen, the prince weighed less than a loaf of bread, it seemed. Gently and very carefully she picked up the tiny prince and brought him over to Eleinel, who put him in her lap and gazed down on his face like one entranced. Lanae smiled and watched.
“He’s a fine boy.” Eleinel said. “He cost me much pain, but I am so glad he has come to join us.”
Lanae nodded, still feeling the warmth of the baby on her skin. “He’s very beautiful.”
“Tell me, Lanae.” The queen said. “At Walcox, was it very bad?”
Lanae looked in Eleinel’s face and saw a sharp intelligence there, something she might have missed had her mother not possessed the same keen eyes. The queen’s face
was young and pretty, but the eyes were brown and wise, indeed, up close she seemed both older and wiser than she had before. “It was bad.” Lanae replied simply.
“I’ve never seen that.” Eleinel said. “I’ve seen the wounded in hospitals, and I’ve seen what the soldiers look like when they return, and I know it must be very terrible, this war. I am sorry that your duty takes you to it.”
“It’s all right.” Lanae replied. “I’ve seen worse things than Walcox. When I arrived there the worst was already over, and they were cleaning up. But on the ship…”
“The ship?”
“I’m sorry. I suppose the king will tell you. When I was captured they put me on a ship, and the Thimenians attacked it. The men were killing each other, and that was very bad. The Thimenians were …” Lanae found she could not say anything else to describe what she had seen on the Brizaki ship, but she remembered severed limbs, gutted corpses and blood pouring into the hold in a stream.
“I’ve heard of what Thimenians can do.” The queen’s voice was sympathetic.
“They saved me, though.” Lanae added. “There was a Mortentian with them. He cut me loose and freed Sentinel. His name was Levin and he saved me.”
Eleinel nodded. “You were lucky they had a good and honest Mortentian with them. Now tell me, do you have any sisters or brothers?”
Lanae talked about her family with the queen, describing the small doings of a small farm in a faraway place, and she found the queen to be an attentive and thoughtful listener. For her part the queen told her about her own family, D’Tarmans from Pulflover and Brenwater, and growing up in houses that sounded like mansions to Lanae, with servants and footmen and carriages and fine horses. Although Eleinel seemed to think all of these things were quite ordinary, to Lanae’s mind they made her own existence seem frightfully common, and a bit shabby. Still, she liked the queen, and of all the things she might have expected from this meeting, finding a friend had seemed the least likely. The queen echoed her thought in her direct and honest manner.
“I like you, Lanae.” She said. “You have quick wits and you don’t lie or try to butter me up with flattery. I wish I had more women like you in my court. Being a queen means trusting no one, I’m afraid.”
“No one?”
“Well, there’s the king, I suppose. Falante’s a good man and I find I love him, even though our marriage was hardly a matter of choice. And this one.” She smiled and touched the tiny prince’s hair. “Him I think I can trust. The rest of them?” She shook her head, and suddenly Lanae realized how terribly lonely this young queen must be. Without thinking, she leaned forward and gave the queen an awkward hug. Then, realizing what she was doing, she gasped in horror and jumped back into her chair as if stung.
“Forgive me your highness!” She squeaked, but the queen merely laughed.
“There is nothing to forgive, Lanae. Even a queen needs a hug from a new friend now and then. And you needn’t call me your highness, at least not here when we are alone. You must call me Eleinel, and I won’t call you Madam King’s Eye, either. We will just be Lanae and Eleinel, two girls far from their homes.”
That evening Lanae lay on her own bed, with all of her old things around her. Long into the night she gazed at the ceiling, thinking of the palace and the queen and the handsome king. It was long before she finally slept.
In the morning she put on her riding leathers and climbed the long staircase into the eyrie, looking for Bansher. She found him behind the grill in the door, and after he looked into her eyes for a moment, he opened the door and let her in. “Good morning, Lanae.”
“Good morning, sir.” She replied. “Do you have a mission for me today?”
“I do. You won’t need your flying leathers, though. Find yourself a pretty dress and put on your best manners. Your mission is brunch with the queen.”
Chapter 54: The Town of Remic, Elderest Duchy; Forgotten Kingdom, Central Arker
Maldiver D’Cadmouth sat brooding at his supper table in one of the many mansions he possessed, this one in the town of Remic, a picturesque village of two story homes, crafthalls and fine taverns situated above the high western bank of the Dunwater, twenty leagues north of Mortentia City, and a mere two leagues from the northern boundary of the Regency. The table was polished sycamore cut of a single piece from the trunk of a tree he had taken from an ancient grove of gigantic trees and floated down the Dunwater just for this purpose. It had cost more than a cottage. Papers and letters covered all of the space within his reach, all the mess and mire involved in putting together an army.
At the king’s high-handed and outrageous order, Maldiver had called a muster in Remic, and the cost of it was staggering. Maldiver was determined to put together a muster that was larger than any that had previously been called for in this war, and upon investigation he learned that he must assemble no less than twelve thousand men to beat the muster that had been held in Arker during the first three weeks of Indicas. Twelve thousand men at a penny a day would cost him five thousand and four hundred gilders each month. Not too bad, except that he also would have to pay to get them to Nevermind from Elderest. Assuming normal cost of freight and food aboard transport ships, plus one month assembling the army and two months shipping it to Nevermind, the closest port in Northcraven, there went another sixteen thousand gilders. Add to that the cost of hiring officers and some decent knights to lead the army, and another four thousand gilders disappeared. The cost of sending out his taxmen to extort all of that gold and silver from his subjects? Another thousand gilders. A nine month campaign, assuming they won all of the battles and could actually break the siege in the city of Northcraven? Fifty-four thousand gilders.
The grand total was a figure so large that Maldiver didn’t want to contemplate it. It was over one hundred thousand gilders, and he would need a separate ship just to carry that much coin and the security to protect it.
On the other hand, several musters had already assembled in Northcraven, and the smaller ones had run into trouble, rumor had it. Not only rumor, but hard facts, like casualty lists and widow’s pay. He wasn’t going to go into battle half-ready.
Maldiver D’Cadmouth fingered the pointed tips of his waxed moustache, and contemplated his army. He also contemplated the latest news out of the Regency, and he found some of it good, and some of it bad.
His reaction was opposite to those of most of the people hearing it, he knew. He learned that the eldest spawn of that pestilential Lord D’root was not only still alive, but winning battles. Everyone said this was good news, but Maldiver found it bad. He learned that a prince had been born. Everyone said this was wonderful news, but Maldiver ground his teeth at the thought that yet another set of balls, tiny as they were, stood between himself and the crown of Mortentia. He learned that the Duke of Dunwater had died in heroic battle in some tiny town called Walcox. Everyone said this was bad, and they hung black wreaths on their doors. He hung a black wreath also, for he had liked and admired his cousin Prosk. Prosk’s manner of dealing with peasants and freemen in Dunwater had been enviable, but this close to the Regency Maldiver knew he couldn’t get away with such things. The soft people of coastal Mortentia would revolt at the mere sight of a starving box, despite its proven virtues.
Nevertheless, he did not see the death of his dear cousin as a bad thing, not at all. It was one less set of balls, big and frightening ones at that, standing between Maldiver and the crown of Mortentia.
In the meantime, there was that writ of the king’s to deal with. Falante had ordered Root’s Bridge and the town of D’rut restored to the aptly named Privy Lord of Walcox, Aelfric D’root. Fortunately, after his last disastrous meeting with the king Maldiver had foreseen this, and made plans.
He penned a brief letter to a man in Ioli. He was a man who had been well-paid for his former service, and with the ridiculous sums he was now expending on this damnable expedition, a few hundred gilders to Malli Adkel was a pittance, especially with the anticipated return on sai
d investment. So long as nothing interfered with the man and Aelfric stayed far away winning wars for his king and the like, it didn’t really matter much who ruled Root’s Bridge in name. Maldiver would continue to rule it in truth. A lot of gold could come out of a place like that, especially if the one taking it had no mind toward its future.
“Who in the seven hells are you?” The voice came out of the shadows ahead of Jahaksi and his four companions, and it took a moment for the Brizaki to see its source. They were riding hard and fast, the hooves of their horses beating the ground mercilessly, running for their lives. He saw a single man standing in the road, wearing clothing that all seemed to be made of stitched animal skins, with a tattooed face and an iron-tipped boar spear in his hand. The haft of the spear was at least nine feet long, with the butt set in the ground, and the crossbar enhanced tip set at an angle to catch their charge and kill a horse. A quick glance told Jahaksi that more spearmen stood behind this one, and archers in the small trees and brush behind.
Jahaksi reined in hard, and all five of their horses danced around, the riders barely stopping them from running into the thicket of boar spears in front of them.
“Your pardon, guardian one.” Jahaksi replied to the man. “Travelers. We are travelers.”
“Heh. Sure you are.” The man replied with an unpleasant laugh. “Travelers who just happen to be galloping down the road fit to break their horses’ legs with nightfall coming on. Travelers who happen to have a score of Dunwater cavalry running a league behind ‘em.” He turned to the men behind him. “Travelers, he says.” Scattered laughter greeted his remark.
“And foreign-like, by the sound of him.” Came another voice, this one from above the man with the spear. A leather-clad man on a small and shaggy pony came forward, carrying an oil lamp. “Let’s have a look at the birdies that got flushed by Dunwater.” He lit the lamp expertly with a bit of flint and oil soaked cloth, lighting it from horseback, which Jahaksi found impressive.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 62