In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

“I’m flush,” Osrith answered. “What do your people tell you?”

  Markus continued to stare across at them in silence until Osrith fished out a silver gryphon and pushed the coin across the table.

  “Burton was on his way to meet Inulf and Willanel. Some troops had come in, late as you like and unannounced, and Burton noticed his larders a bit lighter for it. He didn’t care for that one bit.”

  “What troops?” Osrith asked.

  “I don’t know, and he didn’t say. Showed up sometime before or during Prince’s Bread, from what I could pick up. Knights, I think, for how he carried on about them.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Osrith immediately assumed a more threatening posture, standing and leaning over the table. Markus resumed his look of stately defiance. Calvraign, unsure of what was expected of him in their ruse, settled for appearing bored. An iron kettle, a plate of thick brown bread and a liberal chunk of butter were delivered, along with a trio of stone cups and a dull broad knife. The servant seemed anxious to leave, and Markus gave him no excuse to tarry.

  Osrith resumed his seat when they were alone again. “What about Inulf and Willanel?” he asked, pouring the steaming black drink into their cups. He pushed one to Calvraign with a meaningful look. “Are they purchased goods?”

  Calvraign sniffed at the beverage, frowning back at Osrith as he took a tentative sip. Although aromatic enough, the flavor was distinctly bitter and very unlike the teas he’d grown up with in Craignuuwn. Still, the taste cut through the staleness in his mouth almost instantly.

  “Willanel? No. He leaves behind blue and gold in the privy. Loyalty isn’t his weakness. Besides, he’s accounted for when Burton went flying. Inulf? Well, I would have said the same, but… Bellivue was here in a panic looking for him just before you showed up. He’s disappeared.”

  “Ah, bugger it,” Osrith spat. “Inulf? That can’t be good, either way you cut the deck.”

  Markus nodded, then leaned across the table. “What’s going on, Oz? I normally spot the storms coming when they’re a ways off, but this here’s dumped a gale on my head before I saw a cloud in the sky.” Markus made a point of looking over at Calvraign. “Was a bit of clear sky lightning started it off, I’d say.”

  Calvraign took another drink of his hotblack, waiting for Osrith to answer. But this time the knight said nothing. He stared back at Markus, sipping his own hotblack, his expression neutral.

  “You purse pinching bastard,” complained Markus. He glared at Osrith and clenched his teeth as he pushed the silver gryphon back across the table. “You know,” he said to Calvraign, “we didn’t call him Salty ‘cause of his tastes. He lightened the salt stores of Regent Arx, sold them off to a local bandit, then a day later he raided the bandit camp and fenced the salt right back to the Regent. What made it worse, we were deputized constables of the Regent at the time. Of course, it didn’t bother me then, because I was in on it. Now, it loses some of its charm.”

  “Ah.” Calvraign grinned through the veil of steam rising from his cup. “So, why did they call you Cookie?”

  “I was the cook,” Markus answered, curtly. “Now let’s have it, Oz. The moons aren’t waiting to rise on our account.”

  Osrith rapped his knuckles on the table and stood. “There’s an assassin in King’s Keep, after the royals themselves. Get your hackles up – and watch for sorcery. Everything bad there ever was is waiting to claim the Eastern Realms, and I mean everything. Malagch has the Pale Man and andu’ai under his banner, and there’s shadows in the keep, even now. Big shadows, Cookie. They came after him with hive-spiders.” Osrith tilted his head at Calvraign. “They’re coming after the crown prince on Ebhan-nuád. Tell your people.”

  Calvraign almost choked on his hotblack. We were sworn to secrecy! He flinched as the hot liquid made painful passage down his throat, but managed to drink it rather than spit it out. “Sir Osri–”

  “Shut it!” Osrith’s fist bounced off of the table and then up in front of Calvraign’s startled face, one finger pointing directly at his wide eyes.

  Calvraign sat silent, stunned.

  “Tell your people, Cookie. These half-ass halfwits won’t even be done arguing by the time the attack comes. Ebhan-nuád. Be ready.”

  “I wouldn’t figure you one for faerie stories, Oz,” sniggered Markus. “And it’s a bit early for a New Year’s prank.”

  Osrith stood. “Bull scat. I wouldn’t sit around waiting for the laughs to come, Cookie. The Pale Man is about – and you should know better than most that I’m not like to jest about that. We’ve got to go check up Seth’s story now. You can throw us out if you want, save some pride.” Osrith spared a bit of his glare for Calvraign. “Drink up, you’ll need it.”

  Calvraign managed to hurry down the rest of his beverage. True to Osrith’s claim, the stuff had seemed to pick him out of his semi-drunken pall. He licked his teeth and tried to swallow away the aftertaste. He had to quickstep to catch up to Osrith as he reached the door.

  “Oz!” Markus called after him. “Oz, wait!”

  “What?”

  “You’re serious?” The steward’s eyes still betrayed his incredulity, one a little too wide, the other a little too narrow.

  “No, it’s a all a cock,” Osrith retorted. “Happy New Year, Cookie.”

  “You are serious,” Markus said softly, “or moon-touched. I’m not sure which.”

  “No reason he can’t be both,” put in Calvraign with a sly smile.

  Markus laughed.

  Osrith’s eyes darted to Calvraign for a moment, but didn’t even linger to glare before fixing again on the chief steward. “Probably not far off the mark,” he agreed, his tone so cold it sucked the warmth of any humor from Calvraign’s jest. “Just keep your eyes open – all of them. And be ready.”

  “I’ll spread word to my folk,” he said, agreeing but still not sounding convinced, “and I’ll get word to the Fat Lady. She’ll be glad to know you’re above dirt again, I’m sure.”

  “No need to mention my name,” balked Osrith.

  “On the contrary. But Oz… another thing you should know. I do a lot of dealings with the Church hereabout, through a second, of course, but his man has been asking a lot of questions about your pup there. Not friendly ones, either.”

  “Hmmm.” Osrith considered. “Agrylon’s prize hound is the Fox’s cur. So?”

  “I said I dealt with the Church, not the Fox. The archbishop may be the least of your worries there. And the same front has been checking up on Inulf a lot lately. Curious that he’s disappeared.”

  Osrith tossed another silver gryphon to Markus. “Thank you.”

  “That bit I give you based on our mutual love of the Church, and for better times. No charge.” He offered up the coin, smiling.

  “Keep it,” dismissed Osrith, turning his back. “I don’t trust courtesy. Better even than beholden.”

  Markus shrugged. “Keep your reasons, and I’ll keep your gryphs. Now,” he said, raising his voice, “get the dirty flaming hells out of my kitchens! Out!”

  Calvraign hurried out behind Osrith, who stalked away down the corridor without another glance. Markus raised his arms in a fairly offensive gesture at their backs. His face was blotted with angry red as he continued to shout.

  “Out! And if you find your gold, I hope you choke on it. Miserable hrummsucker!”

  Eventually, some distance and intervening stone swallowed up his screams. Whether their bit of drama was a diversion or simply an amusement, it was complete. Osrith marched on, his brow knit.

  Calvraign sucked up his nerve before he spoke. If it hadn’t been apparent before, it was very apparent now that conversation with Osrith was not the same sort of back-and-forth he enjoyed with Brohan. But, through different means, he was still being patronized, if not marginalized.

  “If you tell me what you’re doing ahead of time,” Calvraign said, trying to keep his tone firm but devoid of rancor, “then you won’t have to tell me to shut it.�
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  “Hah,” Osrith clapped Calvraign’s shoulder. “You couldn’t have played it better. Hide something if you want people to see the truth in it. Human nature. That rise I got outta you was the grout in my tile, and it held together nice. You couldn’t have mummed your way through it, though. Not with Cookie. He’d have spotted that straight off.”

  “You mean you planned that?” Calvraign exclaimed, realizing too late the implication of his surprised statement.

  Osrith didn’t miss it. “Yeah. I may be an idiot, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  He’s really not as simple as he makes himself out to be, Calvraign thought as they walked along, now climbing several flights of stairs. He is a surly ass, for certain sure, but he plays on that to his advantage.

  “Right then,” Calvraign said, after some consideration, “but why did you sell out to him? I thought you were a king’s man.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Osrith said. “Understand this, boy: they aren’t paying me, so they don’t own me or my loyalty. The only person in this keep has that is Aeolil, and betray her I did not – and would not. But to Guillaume, I owe nothing.”

  “We’re not talking just loyalty to one throne or the other,” Calvraign persisted. “You’re playing with the fate of the Eastern Realms.”

  “Sure’s so, boy. Sure’s so. But I’m not the one hiding behind secrets while the fire’s stoking under my arse. Your king is the one needs a lecture, not me, gods save me. Do you think the people of the Iron Coast or the Free Cities don’t deserve a chance to stand and fight? Only the mighty Sons of Empire get a chance to save the world, eh? And conveniently, themselves.”

  “No, no, that’s not… Of course not.” Calvraign stumbled over his words, his thoughts not far behind. “That’s not, I mean, I’m sure that-”

  “If you were sure you wouldn’t be stuttering. No matter. Aeolil trusts me with your life. You’ll have to decide if that’s enough for you to trust me.”

  “No,” Calvraign said, almost to himself. “I would have to trust Aeolil.”

  Osrith stopped short before a narrow door, turning to Calvraign with a startled blink. It was the first time all day that Calvraign had seen him look at all surprised.

  “Well, boy, just because you don’t know what you’re doing, I guess that doesn’t make you an idiot, eh?”

  Osrith chortled at his joke as he threw open the door and let the freezing wind in to whistle in the hallway. Snowflakes swirled and eddied about their feet and against the stone. A narrow stone bridge arched into a cloud before all but disappearing. Presumably, it led to the tower that flickered like a shadowplay through the racing clouds.

  “Careful,” Osrith advised, and stepped onto the bridge.

  Calvraign followed, watching the way Osrith would wrap one hand around the icy guide rope and not disengage until his other hand had crossed over for a similar hold. He mimicked as best he could, and successfully, though he couldn’t manage it at quite the same speed. The wind was not only cold; it buffeted him from left, right, front and back, trying to dislodge him from his slippery purchase.

  By the time they had safely crossed the expanse, Calvraign was trying to stomp the numbness from his feet and shake it from his fingers. Two guards eyed Osrith warily as they entered the South Tower’s antechamber.

  Osrith spoke before a word of challenge could even pass their lips. “Sir Osrith Turlun and Sir Calvraign.” He paused for just a moment before continuing, slowing to a more formal cadence. “Son of Dragonheart. We’re looking for the steward boy. Heard he was along to the Malminnion apartments.”

  “Seth?” responded the older of the two men. “Aye, he’s been about. Back and forth, here and there. Not sure as he’s there now, though.”

  “We’ll just have a look, then. If you do see him, send him down.”

  Osrith strode past the guards and descended the spiral stair. Calvraign felt their eyes on them, but neither man moved to block them. He almost regretted the ease of their passage. The thought of visiting the less-than-admired ruling family of the Crher ne Og set him on edge.

  When he saw who waited at the doorstep, it pushed him over.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  A TASTE OF HOME

  CALLAGH Breigh set the barrel of spiced cider down at the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. For all that she tried to blend in, some instincts simply would not be covered by homespun and manners. She missed the feel of leather and fur against her skin, and the tautness of a bowstring on her fingers. She missed the heart-pounding joy of the wild, and the hunt, and she missed whomever or whatever it was she now remembered as Old Bones.

  For Callagh Breigh, recently indentured servant of Baron Ezriel Malminnion, there was no reason to look or to care who approached. For Callagh Breigh, a huntress of the Crehr ne Og and apparent favorite of old and mostly forgotten powers, there was no helping it. When she turned and saw who was there, instinct and reason both fled to a thrill of something again more powerful. She choked back an empty sob and the embarrassing brimming of tears.

  Are you going to cry? she admonished herself. Stupid, silly girl!

  In part to save herself the indignity of an undammed teardrop, and in part out of some impulse not quite under her control, she rushed past a bearded knight and flung herself into Calvraign’s arms. A look of blank surprise drained any real expression from his face, but he enfolded her in a hug and held her tight.

  Callagh found his lips and kissed him. He smelled faintly of lilacs and tasted of bitter hotblack. When did Cal start drinking hotblack? she wondered, drawing him in for a deeper kiss. She didn’t mind the taste too much, even if it reminded her somewhat less romantically of her father. She knew he would pull away, all flustered and red-faced, so she was going to make the most of his disconcerted fluster.

  Callagh ran a hand down his smooth cheek, tracing his jaw down to his neck and then the collar of his shirt. She hung her fingers there, against his warm skin, feeling his quickened pulse.

  “Well,” said the knight beside them, in a droll baritone, “looks like you’re already familiar with the help.”

  Calvraign tensed against her and pulled away. She wasn’t surprised, but she was done playing a coy second with him in their dance. She kissed him one last time, letting her teeth catch his bottom lip as they finally separated.

  Calvraign coughed and swallowed, shaking his flushed head. “Callagh,” he said. “Gods! What are you doing here?”

  “Hunting after wee little boys who’ve run away from home,” she quipped, looking him over with a more serious eye than her light tone might suggest. “You’ve done well. Tales abound of the young Cythe warrior-bard outsmarting the Duath on the one day and outfighting all sort of nonsense on the next. You’re the Terror of the Crehr ne Og. Little mention of your shepherding.”

  “Callagh, I… You know I had nothing to do with that!” Calvraign protested. “These stories, I don’t even know where they came from!”

  “I don’t care, Cal. I’m just glad I found you in time – that you’re safe.”

  “What are you, his sister?” Osrith questioned, and then made a face, reconsidering. “Maybe a friendly cousin?”

  “Is this your man?” Callagh asked, a little annoyed that her reunion was sullied by his sarcasm.

  “No, no. He’s, um, a knight. Sir Turlun. Sir Osrith Turlun. We’re looking into Burton’s murder, but… Never mind that. By the Swords, what are you doing here?”

  “I told you,” she replied, rather archly. “I came after you. Everyone is on about you being in mortal peril, and Brohan whisked you from Craignuuwn like some prize hog at a woodsmote.” Some anger crept in on Callagh’s relief and excitement. “And you didn’t even wait so long as to say goodbye t’me.” She punched him in the chest, hard – and she was more than a little gratified when he winced in discomfort. “I came back and found your mother gabbing like a loon about dark visions and pale men and all sorts of nonsense. What was I to think
?”

  “Callagh,” Calvraign began, looking askance at a very hard expression developing on Sir Osrith’s face. “It’s all a lot to explain.”

  “Aye, and you’d better. But there’s scarce time, and I’ve some explanations of my own. Where’s Brohan?”

  “Why don’t you two pups cuddle up and have a chat?” Osrith suggested with casual sarcasm. “Catch up on old times. I need to talk to the servants who worked with Mister Briggin. Can you at least point me at them?”

  Callagh glared up at the knight again. His dismissal was businesslike rather than arrogant, but no less annoying. “They won’t talk to you. Even if they’d looked up to see what’s goin’ on around them, they’ve not the stones to speak. They’re like scared little hares. I’m the only one pays any attention to comings and goings, so’s if you want to know anything, it’s me you should be talking to.”

  “You?” Calvraign blurted. “Callagh – what are you talking about?”

  “Never seen a sheep in wolf’s clothing?” she joked. “I’m in his service, so I could come here and find you, and it’s bloody awful. I don’t mind the work so much, but the praying. Gods! He’s on his knees more than a bloody consort and twice as noisy.”

  Osrith chortled. “You’ve a mouth on you, girl. I’m amazed he hasn’t whipped you bloody.”

  Callagh watched Osrith’s tight expression slacken, and his aggressive forward posture eased off just the slightest bit. She found it a little curious that her sharp tongue pacified him where it put most others off.

  “Aye, mostly I keep it shut,” she said. “In fact, I’d best get back with this cider, or I’ll catch it good. He has guests, and he’s not much for patience to begin with.”

  “Guests?” Osrith pressed her.

  “Yes, and they’re on about the same business with Burton as you. Before they sent me out for more drink, seemed they were after someone named Inulf for it. The archbishop and his man, Sir Two Weevils, or summat-like, and the other name I didn’t catch at all.”

  “Tuoerval,” Osrith said, scratching at his beard and looking over at Calvraign. “Between him, Renarre and Ezriel, that’s the killing edge of the Holy Quorum.”