by Tim Stretton
‘Eilla,’ he said eventually. ‘You must trust Lord Thaume. He is a good man, and a just lord. He will not allow the Wheel to be persecuted.’
Eilla gave a half-smile. ‘I only hope you are right, Arren. There are times of change ahead.’
Arren looked back into her eyes. He could feel the cool sweetness of her breath on his face. ‘Some changes are good, Eilla. Don’t fear for Jandille, and don’t fear for me.’
Eilla jerked her head away. ‘You are a boy, Arren. You know nothing and you control nothing!’
‘Eilla! I am trying to—’
‘What are you trying to do? Impress me with your mature wisdom? You are skipping in delight in going to war to get yourself killed, telling me of Lord Thaume’s plans as if you are his closest counsellor, explaining his policies of religious tolerance, and you know nothing about anything!’
Arren was taken aback by Eilla’s vehemence. ‘I didn’t have to tell you anything. I thought you’d be happy that I’d got my chance for glory and I thought you’d want to know that the northmen were on their way. I should be at the Viatory, but I’ve come to see you instead.’
‘How noble of you to spare a few minutes for the peasant girl Eilla and her ignorance. Well, you needn’t have concerned yourself. You are puffed up with your own importance now that you associate with Lord Thaume and his children and learn your swordplay with that sot Sir Langlan. Your opinion is of no interest to me. I once had a friend called Arren but he went to the castle and never came back.’
She jumped on the couch and ran from the room, tears gleaming on her cheeks. Arren looked after her in bafflement. If he had ever doubted that she had become a woman, this would have confirmed it.
The next weeks were packed with preparations for war, and he was involved at all levels: Arren had no scope to reflect on his quarrel with Eilla. One morning he sat on Lord Thaume’s war counsels; in the afternoon he was measured for his own suit of mail. And he, Oricien and Guigot drilled, drilled, drilled. Sir Langlan was a hard taskmaster.
‘Oricien!’ he called late one afternoon. ‘Do you think the northmen will give you quarter because you are tired?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then why do you sit on your arse while Guigot and Arren continue to fence? We must work hard now to make war easier.’ Oricien nodded and rose to his feet. ‘Good! Now let’s see you use the broadsword as if you mean it!’
Lord Thaume had been watching the practice from the walls; now he came down to the courtyard. ‘Take a rest, lads. I must confer with Sir Langlan.’
Arren gratefully set his sword down and sat with his back against the wall. It was a warm spring day and the combination of armour and exertion was making him sweat profusely. The ballads Lady Cerisa made them learn had not painted the practice of valour as so coarse. Idly he listened to the snatches of conversation from Lord Thaume and Sir Langlan.
‘Are they ready?’
Sir Langlan looked over his shoulder to ensure he was not being overheard. Arren feigned stupor.
‘Some are readier than others,’ said Sir Langlan. ‘Guigot is if anything too ready. He is strong and fast for his age, and he practises like a demon. His basic skills are excellent, and he needs only the seasoning of real warfare. You know the darkness in his soul; my fear is that on the battlefield he will prove cruel. You will need to use him carefully.’
‘Oricien? Arren?’
‘Arren has not the ferocity of Guigot, but he learns fast. I only have to tell him things once, and he makes good decisions. He is his father’s son, and he is never beaten. He will be a credit to you and Darrien, I think.’
‘What of my own son, Langlan?’
Sir Langlan flicked a twig aside with his foot. ‘I wish we fought in a year’s time. Every lad outgrows his strength at some point, and Oricien’s height outstrips his muscle. He lacks force, but I do not doubt his courage.’
‘I cannot leave him at home while I take the other two. He is my only son, but I must take the risk. Unless I leave all three at home . . .’
Sir Langlan shook his head. ‘You cannot leave Guigot behind. He already feels that you do not do justice to his birth. I could not answer for his conduct if he were left behind while your army marches north. They must all go, my lord.’
Lord Thaume scratched his chin. ‘You are right, of course. All three are green: I will put them in the flanks.’
‘Have you decided your dispositions?’ asked Sir Langlan after a pause.
Lord Thaume stood straight. ‘I have. Darrien will command the right flank; Artingaume the left. You will command the centre and the cavalry, and I will command the reserve. I will put the lads in Artingaume’s wing.’
Even through half-closed eyes Arren could see the gleam in Sir Langlan’s. ‘You really mean to give me the cavalry?’
‘You are a knight of Emmen, Langlan. If I trust you to teach my son to fight, I trust you with my cavalry. King Arren may not value your merits, but be assured that I do.’
‘Thank you, my lord. We shall sweep Tardolio from the field.’
11
The date for departure was set; Lord Thaume announced that Lady Jilka would be his Regent in his absence, an aspect of the war which did not meet with universal approval. The viators regarded events with equanimity, for Lady Jilka was a strong patroness. Arren thought of Jandille and his fears, and resolved to find Eilla before he departed.
They had been accustomed to meet after supper on Kabbelsday, each waiting in the house of Foulque for the other to appear. Arren had missed the two previous weeks since their quarrel, and he wondered whether Eilla would be there this time. By the time the next Kabbelsday came around, the army would have marched. He realized that he had to see her before he left. Who knew what could happen on the battlefield? Sometimes a life could be both Harmonious and brief.
That Kabbelsday, however, supper was extended beyond its normal span. The housemistress Eulalia often invited one or more of the tutors to eat with their pupils to improve their deportment and conversation, and tonight not only had Master Pinch been invited but tedious Viator Sleech and, even worse, Master Guiles, whose attention to the minutiae of etiquette was unrivalled.
‘Lord Guigot,’ he called in a fluting voice. ‘Do I see your elbows grazing the table linen?’
Guigot grimaced and drew his arms into his side. Arren had heard Oricien hint to him last week that Lord Thaume considered leaving him at home. Since that moment Guigot had shown unusual deference to his tutors, even the detested Sleech and Guiles.
Arren was usually able to deal with their prolixity with composure, but tonight he was impatient to be gone. What if Eilla thought he was not coming, and chose not to wait? What if she had not come at all?
‘Arren,’ said Viator Sleech, ‘I was speaking to you.’
‘My apologies, Viator. My mind was occupied.’
‘Understandable enough,’ said Pinch with a twinkle. ‘The lad is off to war next week. Who knows, perhaps he is contemplating his progress along the Way of Harmony.’
‘He would learn more from listening to a viator,’ said Sleech. ‘Such introspection smacks of the Wheel.’
‘Really, Sleech,’ said Pinch, setting his bread down on the cloth. ‘Can the boy not show some apprehension over his first battle without you accusing him of heresy?’
‘With all due respect,’ said Arren, ‘I have displayed no apprehension. I welcome battle, as do all men of true heart.’
‘Well said!’ declared Oricien. ‘We are all true subjects of King Arren and look to acquit ourselves with honour.’
‘We are not men until we have the blood of a foe on our swords,’ said Guigot.
‘Hmm,’ said Master Guiles. ‘The true knight does not dwell with relish on the gory aspects of battle. When occasion demands, he slays his foe with courage and vigour, but also with regret. He most certainly does not brag and boast of his prowess with the blade, or dwell on the crude mechanics of the act.’
Guigot managed to l
ook angry and crestfallen at once. Pinch interjected:
‘Have you ever fought a battle, Master Guiles? Have you slain a foe with regret?’
Master Guiles dabbed at his lips with his napkin. ‘One need not be a fish to appreciate the sea, Master Pinch, and in any event I am unclear as to your own martial history.’
Pinch smiled. ‘I freely admit that I have never participated in a battle, nor did I ever intend to. Nonetheless, Lord Thaume has requested my presence and I shall travel north, even if only as a spectator. Perhaps you might be prevailed upon to accompany us?’
Guiles blinked his watery pale eyes slowly. ‘That would not be seemly. I have duties here in Croad, particularly in regard to Lady Siedra’s education.’
Siedra looked up from her plate, where she had been absentmindedly pursuing some undercooked turnip. ‘Please do not detain yourself on my account, Master Guiles. You have taught us that the first rule of etiquette is consideration for the feelings of others. I hope I have been an apt pupil, and the last thing I should wish would be to deny you the richness of experience,’ she said with an expression of innocent modesty.
Oricien nearly stifled a giggle. ‘Sir, the road north might lie upon the Way of Harmony. As I would expect, my sister does not insist upon her privileges. She has a generous heart, well schooled by you.’
Guiles peered at Oricien through half-closed eyes. ‘My value to Lord Thaume in the field would be negligible at best, while I can never spend too much time helping Lady Siedra to prepare for court.’
‘You underestimate your value,’ said Guigot. ‘You must be on hand to guide Lord Thaume in the gracious acceptance of Tardolio’s surrender.’
‘The matter is settled,’ snapped Guiles. ‘I remain at Croad to continue my duties. Why do you not attempt to persuade Viator Sleech to make the journey?’
Sleech beamed. ‘No such attempt is necessary. I am already resolved to travel north with Lord Thaume’s army. Many folk will need assistance in finding Harmony as they lie on the field of battle.’
Master Guiles’s lessons in deportment must be having some effect, thought Arren, for there were no audible groans at the thought of Sleech’s sermonising accompanying them to, and beyond, battle. Guigot’s cough might charitably have been attributed to gristle stuck in his throat, while Oricien’s expression could have arisen from gastric discomfort.
The time weighed heavily on Arren. Viator Sleech interrupted the dessert course with a homily on the Humble Tailor and the Proud Knight – a person of mean origins might achieve Harmony more easily than a gentleman who denied the intercessory power of the viators – and Master Guiles took Guigot to task for passing wind with unseemly relish. Eventually the meal concluded and Arren was the first to leap from his seat.
Arren!’ called Master Guiles. ‘Is this really the way of the gentleman? Lady Siedra is to your left – how is she to regard your bounding from her company with such haste?’
Arren bowed. ‘My apologies, Siedra.’
Siedra smiled and flicked her hair from her eyes, a gesture she had been practising a great deal of late. ‘I take no offence, Arren. I know how eager you are to visit the Viatory before bed.’
‘Really?’ said Viator Sleech. ‘I myself am stepping across to the Viatory. Perhaps you would care to accompany me through the dark streets.’
Siedra sniggered. Arren said: ‘Ordinarily I would be honoured, but I find an unpleasant griping of the guts which I must attend to on the instant. I would show Viator Sleech no honour in sharing such delicate pangs. I feel sure that Guigot would make a more suitable companion.’
With this he scampered from the room. He could hear Master Guiles saying: ‘Arren’s conduct is worthy of censure. First, he has insulted the good Viator Sleech; second he impugns the capacity of the cook; and third he lies poorly.’
But Arren was out of the room and free. A rebuke on the morrow from Master Guiles was a small price to pay.
12
It was a still night with only a sliver of moon. Arren made his way through the streets of the Old Town. Everyone knew that raiders were on the way, and with faulty if understandable logic, locked their doors and their shutters early.
Arren loved the city when it was deserted. He padded through the market square, normally thronged with people. Tonight even the gallows was empty: the cutpurse Lord Thaume had hanged last week had putrefied with a rapidity which made the credulous whisper of omens and portents, and Thaume had ordered the corpse cut down before more adverse comment was heard.
He slipped down the alleyway between two houses into the communal vegetable garden shared by the several houses on the plot. He looked around for Foulque’s deserted house. It would be embarrassing, and potentially dangerous, to enter the wrong one. At this time of night, all the houses were dark, but his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom and he was able to pick his way past a familiar cluster of thunderberry bushes.
Foulque’s house appeared secure to a casual inspection, particularly in the dark, but Arren knew better. He snaked his arm into a gap between two planks and reached around for the boss he knew was there. On finding it, he pulled his hand back to release the catch. The door swung open a fraction with a creak. Widening the gap as little as possible he slipped inside the house.
Foulque had inherited the house from a creditor who had become so drunk on Foulque’s fine Garganet wines that he had fallen down a well in the night and drowned before anyone realized he was gone. He had died in debt to Foulque for the very case of wine which had caused his death, and Foulque had wasted no time in claiming the house in settlement. He had never subsequently lived there, having a much smarter residence near the Viatory. Already an air of decrepitude began to hang over it, and a thick film of dust coated the worn furnishings. At night the house was not so much unsettling as cheerless.
‘Eilla!’ he called softly. ‘Are you there?’
There was no reply. Had she come at all? He was later than usual, and even if she had been here, she could not have been confident that he would come. How would he see her before he left for war?
He sat on a knobbly chair to consider his options. He could go to her house and ask for her; he had known her father Jandille since he was a boy. He realized that her good opinion still mattered to him. For all his courtly training and elevated deportment, he had never been happier than when he scampered in the streets with her, Clottie and Matten. If he respected Master Sleech he would have asked him what this meant for his journey towards Harmony.
Upstairs he heard a scraping. Rats were already at work in the house. Eilla would surely not have thought to wait for him upstairs; by unspoken convention they had never gone so far from the exit. He felt a prickling at his neck. He would not be able to rest until he had investigated. He would quickly check around and then return to the castle. He would work out how to find Eilla tomorrow.
Taking the steps two at a time, stumbling in the dark, Arren made his way up the stairs.
5
Mettingloom
1
At King Fanrolio’s command, the musicians around the ballroom set up a leisurely air. These dances were designed to facilitate conversation rather than exercise. Dancing was essentially a foppish activity, not suited to the military temperament, and Beauceron saw General Virnesto scowling as he looked for a chair; but Beauceron had always enjoyed it. He could glide with a slow and easy rhythm and carried himself to advantage. If a suitable partner presented herself he would be happy to step out.
He noticed that Davanzato had swiftly secured Lady Isola’s company. The room was not awash with women who combined youth, beauty and crisp deportment, and Beauceron disdained to dance with inferior materials. He resolved to wait the dance out until a partner like Lady Letteria or Lady Romina became available. He looked around to notice Prince Brissio’s eyes lingering on Lady Cosetta hungrily. Her rich new gown of russet and burgundy set off her blonde hair. Presumably Davanzato, as her ransom agent, had provided it.
Cose
tta was no longer any of his concern, but she could not profit from closer association with the loutish Prince Brissio. ‘Lady Cosetta,’ he called. ‘Would you do me the honour?’
Cosetta turned away from Brissio and inclined her head. ‘Why not?’ she said with an approach to a smile. Brissio shot Beauceron a glance which he ignored: time to worry about his cloddish antagonism later.
‘I trust you are settling in well to your new surroundings, Lady Cosetta,’ he said as they began their stately dance.
‘I cannot believe you are befriending me after all that you have done,’ said Cosetta without heat. Beauceron thought her eyes most becoming.
‘The past is the past, Lady Cosetta. For good or ill, we cannot change it. I am glad to see you embracing your new circumstances.’
She leaned forward and Beauceron caught a whiff of subtle fragrance. He deftly steered them out of the path of a less agile couple. ‘In truth,’ she said, ‘I am not dissatisfied with events. I was travelling to Croad to be a penniless companion in an unfamiliar city. Here, it seems, I am esteemed on my own merits, under the protection of the King. This may not be the life I would have chosen, but I do not expect either my father or Lord Sprang to ransom me. I find myself cast on my wits, and I do not fear the matter as I thought.’
She smiled for the first time in Beauceron’s experience; an expression that transformed her face. Never anything less than comely, now she was beautiful. How had he failed to notice before?
The music drew to its stately conclusion and Beauceron took her hand to lead her to the upholstered chairs at the side of the room. ‘I am not a man to divulge my thoughts lightly,’ he said with a smile. ‘When I have done so in the past, I am invariably described as a monomaniac’
‘I do not claim to understand your thoughts, Beauceron; and indeed I have no particular desire to. You have brought me into captivity, and if that captivity is less oppressive than I had feared, that is no reason to thank you. You have never treated me with anything other than calculation and indifference.’