Legends of the Riftwar

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘Which could, of course, be just what the Tsurani want us to do,’ Kethol said, quietly, speaking more than a monosyllable for the first time since he had sat down. ‘And then they just redouble their efforts against a less well-defended Crydee, and go through the dwarves at Stone Mountain like a toe through a well-worn sock, and–’

  ‘“Us”, you say?’ Kelly raised an eyebrow. ‘Us? Since when is there an us? From what I hear, you and your friends are still southbound, the moment that it’s thawed enough, with most of the mercenaries with you.’

  Durine didn’t know about most of the mercenaries–he thought some would stay, as long as there was pay to be had, and that some would go, as he and Kethol and Pirojil surely would. These rank tabs were a temporary breveting, and if this news presaged some new major Tsurani movement into Yabon, the idea of getting out of LaMut had even more appeal than it had before.

  Not that it needed much more appeal.

  Kethol just blinked. ‘I’m just saying that it might be a bad idea to make too much of this one incident, as surprising as it is.’ He shrugged. ‘Grodan of Natal said that he and the other two Rangers would be back in a few days, and I doubt even the most talented Tsurani scout could make his way through LaMut without leaving some tracks that a Natalese Ranger would notice.’

  There was general agreement and widespread nods at that.

  The abilities of the Rangers were widely respected–although Durine wondered how even they would be able to make any progress across the land right now. Kethol at least seemed sure that they would, but that was probably just Kethol having bought into their legend; Durine was more sceptical by nature.

  ‘Rangers?’ Durine started at the way that Morray spoke up: he hadn’t heard the Baron approach. ‘What’s this about the Rangers?’

  Tom Garnett pointed his pipe-stem at Kethol. ‘Captain Kethol was just explaining that the Rangers are scouting the surrounding area. He was urging calm, and suggesting that we wait to see what their report is before leaping to conclusions about Tsurani late-winter campaigns and such.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Morray nodded. ‘Sound counsel, that.’ He looked from face to face, and the side conversations cut off abruptly. ‘I’m just but a lowly land-baron, and all,’ he said, his voice tinged with bitterness, then quickly went on, ‘but it seems to me that there’ll be time aplenty to panic later on, if there’s anything to panic about.’

  His voice and even his posture were soothing, too soothing and relaxed to be natural, but that was the only clue as to how tightly the Baron was keeping himself under control.

  Morray beckoned to Kethol. ‘Might I have a private word with you, Captain Kethol?’ he more asked than commanded. ‘There’s a matter or two we need to discuss.’

  Kethol gave a quick glance at Durine, then rose and left the Great Hall with the Baron.

  Durine wondered what that was all about, and from the looks at him from the other soldiers it seemed he wasn’t the only one wondering; however, he kept his face carefully blank, and Kelly went on, after a few awkward moments of silence: ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘panic won’t serve us at all, but there’s more than enough to worry about. It gets worse all the time, as it is. Each year, the Tsurani are more secure in the Grey Towers and the surrounding areas. Each spring, they have the choice whether or where to strike out–west to Crydee, or south to the Bitter Sea, or south and west through the fringes of the Green Heart to Carse and Jonril. Or east to LaMut, for that matter. They picked their entry point cleverly–if they had entered this world at Crydee, we’d have them bottled up against the Far Coast, or if they had chosen the High Wold, we could bring the forces of both the East and West realms together against them, and smash them flat.’ He punctuated the words by clapping his hands together, as though smashing a fly.

  That would, of course, have been easier said than done; the Tsurani would have made an awfully large fly, and Durine wasn’t at all sure that even collectively the Realms had enough force to smash them flat. But he was more than a little amused by the notion that the only places deemed useful for the Tsurani to have invaded through were in the Kingdom, although the fact of the invasion happening through some sort of rift near the Grey Towers spoke of good planning or better luck on their part.

  It would have been nice, say, if the rift to Midkemia had been created a few feet below the Bitter Sea, and drowned every cursed Tsurani and his kin on Kelewan. That was a fine wish, but then again, Durine had always felt that if you put a pile of wishes in your left hand, and the hilt of a sword in your right, it was what was in your right hand that was likely to affect what happened around you.

  ‘What we need to do is to carry the battle to them,’ Karris said. He drank deeply from his goblet–he had quickly switched to wine after draining his mug of coffee–and reflexively wiped his wine-soaked moustache on the back of his hand.

  Tom Garnett nodded. ‘A sound enough idea, but how?’

  ‘If I had some real idea as to how,’ Karris said, glaring, ‘I can swear I’d be doing something more useful than sitting around the fire drinking and smoking with you lot.’ He pulled his pipe out of his pocket and began to puff on it, careless of the fact that it wasn’t lit.

  ‘I like the idea, myself, but it’s the how that matters.’ Karris sighed. ‘And as to how to carry the war to the Tsurani, rather than letting them deliver it to us, I’ve no useful notion, but some hope that those at Yabon will have better than an inkling. We could try to plan out the whole war here, I guess, over our pipes and coffee, but we don’t know what Duke Brucal and his advisers know.’

  The rest let that go by with nods and mutters of agreement, although Durine doubted that, say, a captain serving Duke Borric of Crydee would have considered the general staff meeting at Yabon City to be simply Duke Brucal and his advisers, nor would a dwarf fealty-bound to Dolgan of the Grey Towers or to Harthorn of Stone Mountain, or whomever Queen Aglaranna of Elvandar had dispatched to represent her and elfkind, for that matter.

  Just a matter of perspective, he supposed.

  He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It had been a long day, but tomorrow would likely be easier, and, he hoped, better.

  What was going on with Kethol and Morray, though?

  ELEVEN

  Suspicion

  Kethol followed silently.

  Morray led Kethol up the stairs and down the hall to his suite of rooms. Once through the door, he gestured for Kethol to take a seat. They were in the room called ‘the sitting room’ for some reason, although every room in the baron’s suite had chairs suitable for sitting. Morray seated himself across the table from Kethol before pulling on the bell-rope at his right hand.

  ‘I find myself in need of a glass of wine,’ he said. ‘Or several, perhaps.’

  Emma, the daughter of Ereven, the housecarl, was in the doorway almost before Morray had let go of the bell rope.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘A bottle of good red, please, and two glasses–unless you find yourself hungry, as well, Captain Kethol?’

  Kethol shook his head. ‘I ate earlier,’ he said. The pounds of horsemeat were still weighing heavy on his belly; just as trying to work out how to tell Pirojil and Durine what he had done to distract the feuding factions was weighing on his mind, and whether to just keep his mouth shut was weighing on his conscience, or what there was of it.

  ‘Then just the wine, please,’ Morray said, smiling gently at the girl.

  ‘At once, my lord.’ She departed the room as quickly as she could. As usual, the nobility got far better service than the common ruck. Prettier service, at that, despite the fact that the serving girl was far enough along in her pregnancy that her walk out of the room was more of a fast waddle.

  Morray looked at Kethol carefully, as though searching for something in his face, though Kethol didn’t know what that something could be.

  He hoped that the Baron wasn’t searching for some hint that Kethol had created this whole T
surani scout rumour out of some captured armour, a dead horse, a set of brezeneden and a need to distract the local factions. Kethol was starting to wonder if that had been, after all, such a clever idea, all things considered, with open talk about the Tsurani having dramatically changed their habits, and the necessity of Kingdom strategy adapting to that change.

  Surely, one nonexistent-but-believed-in wintertime Tsurani scout in LaMut couldn’t cause the nobles in Yabon City seriously to revise their strategy, could it?

  He hoped not, and thought not, but…

  But, it wasn’t really his problem. When the thaw came, he and Durine and Pirojil would be gone for quieter places and times somewhere else–anywhere else that there weren’t Tsurani and Bugs–and what happened in the Kingdom in general or even in LaMut in particular would no longer be any of their concern. And even if he felt a little guilty–although he wasn’t really familiar with that emotion–he was enough of a gambler not to let that show in his face.

  ‘There’s a matter that I need to discuss with you,’ the Baron said. His expression was sombre as he produced a small piece of paper from his pouch.

  ‘This just arrived tonight, by messenger pigeon from Mondegreen City. Baron Mondegreen died late last night,’ he said, his words flat and level, as though commenting on the weather. ‘Which was expected, although…’he shook his head, as if finding words was a task. He paused, then repeated, ‘Which was expected.’

  Kethol nodded. ‘I know that he was expecting it, and he seemed to face it with courage and good grace.’ It seemed like the thing to say; that it was true was almost irrelevant. ‘I only met him the once, but he seemed to be a kindly man.’

  Morray nodded. ‘That he was. He and I had our differences, but he was always a gentleman about them, and I have no doubt he would have been the same had Carla married me, rather than him.’

  Kethol controlled his own shock. As far as Kethol had been aware, Lady Mondegreen had always been Lady Mondegreen. The thought of her as a young girl engaged in a romance with even one man beside her husband seemed…both obviously reasonable and utterly preposterous, at the same time, although, looking back, he had seen hints of it. Morray wasn’t a recent conquest, a comfort to a lady robbed of her husband’s vigour by illness; rather, he was an old suitor, perhaps one who had claimed her heart even while her father gave her hand to Mondegreen.

  ‘His lady knows,’ Morray said. ‘She’s taken to her rooms, and Father Finty has given her a draught which may help her sleep, although she resisted it.’ His jaw clenched for a moment, then he went on: ‘Father Kelly’s note was short.’

  Kethol understood the brevity of what a pigeon could carry.

  ‘But the note says that a long letter, dictated by the Baron himself, is to follow, and I have my expectations as to what the letter will say, given the last letters that he sent to LaMut.’

  Emma came back with a bottle of wine and a set of glasses on a tray that she held clumsily in front of her belly. She set the tray down on the table. ‘Shall I serve, my lord?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No. I’ll take care of it.’ He looked up at her, and after a moment she forced a smile and nodded.

  ‘Just ring if you want me, my lord.’

  ‘I shall,’ he said, dismissing her. He uncorked the bottle and poured a glass of wine first for himself, and then for Kethol.

  ‘I give you George, Baron Mondegreen,’ Morray said, raising his glass. ‘May he long be remembered for his kindness, wisdom and honour, with gratitude and appreciation.’

  He waited.

  The toasts that Kethol, Pirojil and Durine gave their own dead comrades were shorter and not at all suited for polite company. Kethol struggled for the right words, as the usual ones quite likely wouldn’t have gone over very well. ‘The poor sod,’ didn’t seem right, and neither did ‘And we’ve got his pouch!’ nor ‘And if nobody else buries him, he can rot where he lies.’

  ‘Baron Mondegreen,’ he said, finally.

  They drank.

  ‘Now…on to other matters, which may or may not concern you.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘I have to ask: what did you say to Baron Mondegreen when you met him?’

  Kethol shrugged. ‘Nothing terribly much, my lord. It was most “yes, my lord”, and “of course, my lord”, and the usual sort of thing one says to a noble.’

  ‘Strange.’ The Baron seemed puzzled, even if the puzzle didn’t seem terribly urgent. ‘You clearly impressed him, and he is…was not easily impressed. Wasn’t there some conversation about a stand of oaks? About hoping to meet him or his son there, some twenty years from now?’

  Oaks? The only conversation Kethol had had about a stand of oaks had been with–

  Oh.

  ‘Not that I could say, sir.’ His conversation about a stand of oaks had been with Lady Mondegreen, not her husband or her child. How and why that story had been changed he couldn’t imagine, although he did have more than a good guess as to one of the people who had been involved in that.

  Morray scowled. ‘I’m not sure whether to be impressed with your honour or angry with you for keeping a secret when there’s obviously no need.’ He shrugged. ‘But be that as it may I’d like you, the three of you, or any of you, to take service with me, and see to it that Baron Mondegreen’s son–if it is a son–lives to see that stand of oaks, some twenty years from now.’

  Kethol didn’t understand. He said as much.

  ‘I’ll make it simple for you, then: Lady Mondegreen is with child. It is her late husband’s child–is that clearly understood?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘If it’s a boy, as I hope it is, that child will need a legal guardian until he reaches his majority and can become Baron Mondegreen in practice, as well as in law.’ He tapped his chest with a thumb, then gulped down the rest of his wine and poured himself some more. ‘That guardian will be me.’ He stopped himself, then shrugged and went on: ‘And there’s no point in trying to keep secret what will be apparent to all, sooner than later: I’ll be withdrawing myself from consideration as Earl of LaMut, once Vandros becomes Duke of Yabon, and I’ll support the choice of Luke Verheyen as Earl.

  ‘While it will still be Duke Vandros’s choice, of course, as to who to appoint as his successor, with Verheyen having my support along with the support from his faction, Vandros would be a fool to choose anybody but Verheyen, and he is no fool.’ His jaw clenched for a moment. ‘In return, Verheyen has agreed, as Baron or Earl, to support my guardianship of Barony Mondegreen–both to and as the Earl–and to…other matters.’

  ‘Your marriage to the lady?’

  ‘Yes.’ Morray nodded. ‘Of course, we’ll wait a decent interval, but…yes. Baron Mondegreen’s boy, if it is a boy, will come into his estate in difficult times, and I want his son–his son, do you hear?–I want his son to be able to handle whatever comes his way. Baron Mondegreen was impressed with the three of you, and you’re to be the boy’s tutors in martial matters, as well as his bodyguards. He’s to be able to fight like an angry bear–and, if necessary, slit a enemy’s throat without a moment’s hesitation or regret, then spit in his face in anger for the way that the blood dirties his boots.’ His expression softened. ‘And, truth to tell, if it’s a girl, it will do her no harm to know how to fight, as well, in these times.’ Morray studied Kethol’s blank expression. ‘A traditional swordmaster, like Steven Argent, can train a noble son to be an officer, to fight duels and to command men in the field. The boy will have that. But I also want someone with the child who’ll teach him how to deal with a blade in an alley or…treachery from a friend.

  ‘You’ve no other local loyalties.’ He paused to consider his words. ‘The men of Mondegreen will be loyal to the child, because he will be the next Baron Mondegreen. I want more. If you swore to protect the child’s life–not just with your skills and your bodies, but your forethought–and vowed to kill anybody who would harm that child, it would be a different thing. Do you see?’

  Ketho
l didn’t understand all of what was going on, but he knew he didn’t like either idea: signing himself up for a lifetime of service or flatly turning the Baron down, not to mention that he couldn’t speak for Durine and Pirojil, no matter what Morray thought.

  There was only one thing to do: stall, until he could get Pirojil to work it out.

  ‘I’m flattered, and honoured, my lord.’

  ‘So you accept?’

  ‘I’ll have to speak to the others before I can commit them–or even myself. We long ago agreed that we’d decide matters of where we go and what we do together, and I can’t bind them by my promise, nor make it without at least giving them fair notice.’

  What I really want to do, my lord, he thought, is to make utterly sure that I never spend another minute I don’t have to around the twisted, flowing politics of LaMut, much less embedded in it, up to my nostrils, with the tide coming in.

  But there was another side to it.

  Yes, this whole offer suggested a conspiracy–not just between Barons Morray and Verheyen, trading off Morray’s chance at the earldom for Verheyen’s support in his marriage to Mondegreen’s widow–but it also suggested that something strange had gone on between Baron Mondegreen and his lady, and Kethol would leave it to Pirojil to work it out, as trying just made Kethol’s head ache.

  He was a simpler man, all in all.

  And Kethol remembered a kind-eyed, dying man, gasping in his deathbed in his stinking room. He could never forget the way the dying man had put his wife’s safety in Kethol’s hands. Kethol wasn’t sure that he could decline the request that came not just from Baron Morray, but from that kind-eyed dying man who had–and this was such a minor thing that he didn’t understand quite why it seemed to mean so much to him–offered him a cup of tea and looked up at Kethol with trust.

  Trust–except from Durine and Pirojil–wasn’t something Kethol was any more used to than guilt. He didn’t quite know how to deal with it. It was there, lodged in his chest, or up in his throat, or maybe the pit of his stomach. It lingered and reminded him of that old man every minute. No matter how much he wished it wasn’t there, he couldn’t pretend that trust hadn’t passed between them, any more than he could just privately dismiss it as indigestion.