The Redemption of Althalus

by Eddings, Leigh;Eddings, David

  “That’s not funny, Leitha,” Andine snapped.

  “I sort of liked it,” Gher said, grinning impudently at Andine.

  “Things might be a little chaotic in Perquaine at the moment,” Duke Nitral cautioned Olkar. “Most of the invaders to the west of the River Osthos fled over into Perquaine after Kreuter and Dreigon raised the siege at Mawor, plus there’s some peculiar religious turmoil over there.”

  “They’re arguing about religion?” Twengor demanded incredulously. “Isn’t that sort of like arguing about the weather?”

  “The Perquaines get peculiar every so often,” Nitral said, shrugging. “Sitting around listening to wheat grow gives them too much time for idle thought.”

  “The grain merchants in Maghu worship money,” Olkar said. “I speak the same language, so we’ll get along all right.”

  “I think this situation all boils down to short rations,” Sergeant Khalor observed. “I know it’s not customary, and it goes against most of what we’ve been taught, but I think we’d all better saddle up and move on Kanthon right now.”

  “A war in wintertime?” Koleika Iron Jaw said dubiously. “That’s the wrong time of year, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not going to be much of a war, Koleika,” Twengor told him. “All the mercenaries who were working for the Kanthons ran away after Kreuter and Dreigon mauled them, and the Aryo of Kanthon himself turned up mysteriously dead one morning last week. All we really have to do is swing by Kanthon on our way back home to Arum and invite them to surrender. I don’t think they’re going to argue with us, do you?”

  “Twengor’s got a good point, gentlemen,” Chief Albron said. “Let’s get out of Treborea as soon as we can.” He smiled faintly. “I’m sure the mother of Treborea will miss us terribly, but if we start rummaging around in her pantry, she might get a little grumpy with us.”

  Lady Astarell, who sat at Albron’s side, nudged him with her elbow.

  “Yes?” he said, smiling fondly at her.

  “Ask my uncle,” she said shortly. “Do it now.”

  “This isn’t really the proper time, dear.”

  “Do it, Albron, before you forget.”

  “Shouldn’t we do that in private?”

  “Did you plan to keep it a secret?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Just do it, Albron.”

  “Yes, dear.” Albron cleared his throat. “Chief Kreuter,” he said rather formally.

  “Yes, Chief Albron,” Kreuter replied. “What can I do for you?” The blond-bearded Plakander had a faint smile hovering about his lips.

  “This is serious, Uncle,” Astarell scolded him.

  “Sorry, dear. I take it that you have a request of some kind, Chief Albron?”

  “I beseech you, mighty Chief, to grant me the hand of your niece, Astarell, in marriage,” Albron declared.

  “What an amazing notion!” Kreuter said. “That idea never would have occurred to me in a thousand years.”

  “Will you stop that, Uncle?” Astarell flared.

  “Just teasing, child.” Kreuter grinned broadly at her. “What’s your opinion in this matter? You could do worse, you know. Chief Albron doesn’t know very much about horses, but otherwise, he’s not bad.”

  “Oh,” Astarell said with a mischievous little smile, “I guess he’ll do.”

  “Astarell!” Albron objected.

  “All right, Astarell,” Kreuter said, “if this is what you really want, I’ll be happy to oblige. Chief Albron, you have my permission to marry my niece. Does that make everybody happy?”

  “A thousand horses, I think,” Astarell said thoughtfully.

  “I didn’t quite follow that, dear,” Kreuter confessed.

  “My dowry, Uncle. A thousand horses seems about right to me—along with my wedding dress, of course.”

  “A thousand?” Kreuter almost screamed. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “You do love me, don’t you, Uncle? You’re not just getting rid of me, are you?”

  “Of course I love you, Astarell, but a thousand horses?”

  “It lets everybody in Plakand know how much you value me, dear Uncle Kreuter,” she said sweetly.

  “Did you put her up to this, Albron?” Kreuter demanded.

  “Actually, it’s the first I’ve heard about it.” Albron looked at Astarell in total bafflement. “What in the world am I supposed to do with a thousand horses?” he demanded.

  “I don’t really care, Albron. The number establishes my value. I’m not some beggar girl at the side of the road.”

  Albron and Kreuter exchanged a helpless took. “Yes, Astarell,” they both said almost in perfect unison.

  Winter had settled over central Treborea as the royal party rode north out of Osthos, and dirty clouds scudded chill and somber across the warravaged region.

  They stopped briefly in Mawor, then rounded the lake to the city of Kadon. “I’ll leave you now, my Arya,” Duke Olkar said. “I’ll negotiate as best I can with the grain merchants in Maghu, but I’m certain they’ll try to skin me.”

  “I’m afraid that can’t be helped, Olkar,” she said. “I must have bread for my people.”

  “I think you both might be overlooking something,” Althalus said. “There are granaries in Kanthon, and there hasn’t been a war there—yet. When we take the city, the granaries become our property. You might want to mention that when you’re negotiating with the bloodsuckers in Maghu, Duke Olkar. I wouldn’t throw words like ‘emergency’ or ‘starvation’ around, if I were you. Try ‘contingency’ or ‘possible spoilage’ instead.”

  “You’ve done this sort of thing yourself, haven’t you, Lord Althalus?” Olkar suggested.

  “I’ve pulled off a few fairly elaborate flimflams on occasion, your Grace, yes,” Althalus admitted, “and there’s not really much difference between what you do and what I used to do, now is there?”

  Olkar suddenly grinned at him. “That’s supposed to be a secret, Lord Althalus,” he chided.

  He’ll do just fine, Andine, Althalus assured the Arya of Osthos. Then he looked back at Olkar. “You might want to keep the negotiations sort of tenuous, your Grace,” he suggested. “After we take Kanthon, I’ll have a quick look at their granaries, and then I’ll join you in Maghu. Let’s find out where we really stand before we start throwing money away.”

  “My thought exactly, Lord Althalus,” Olkar agreed.

  When they reached the palace of Duke Olkar, they found Captains Gelun and Wendan waiting for them. “It grieves us to report that the Chieftains of our mighty clans fell heroically in the recent war,” the tall Captain Wendan announced with no hint whatsoever of a smile.

  “All of Arum grieves with you, noble Captain,” Albron intoned.

  “Does that more or less cover the formalities?” Captain Gelun asked.

  “I’d say so,” Twengor advised. “We wouldn’t want our grief to overwhelm us, would we?”

  “I’m bearing up fairly well,” Gelun replied.

  “Who’s going to replace them?” Koleika Iron Jaw demanded abruptly.

  “That’s just a bit murky right now, I’m afraid,” Wendan reported. “There’s no clear and direct line of succession—some second cousins and a few nephews is about all.”

  “Is anybody any good at making speeches?” Koleika asked, looking around at the other Clan Chiefs.

  “Albron’s about the best,” Laiwon suggested. “At least he knows how to read, so maybe he could quote some poetry.”

  “Am I missing something here?” Andine asked with a puzzled expression. “Here in Treborea, succession’s determined by bloodline—consanguinity, I think it’s called.”

  “We’re a bit more relaxed in Arum, little mother,” Twengor said with a faint smile. “In situations like this one, the other Clan Chiefs can serve in an advisory capacity. We have to be able to get along with the new Chiefs, so our ‘suggestions’ carry quite bit of weight.” He looked at his fellow Chiefs. “Would I be oversteppin
g any rules to suggest Gelun and Wendan as the best candidates?” he asked.

  “I think I could live with them,” Laiwon agreed.

  “I thought we’d already made that decision,” Koleika said. “Are we all agreed, then?”

  The other Chiefs nodded.

  “I’ll start working on my speech,” Albron said. He looked at Captain Wendan. “Just exactly how did Smeugor and Tauri die?” he asked. “Maybe I should work that into my oration.”

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Wendan replied. “It wasn’t particularly pleasant. There was fire involved, and some long iron skewers.” The Captain glanced at Andine, Leitha, and Astarell. “I don’t think the ladies would want to hear the details,” he added.

  “Ah . . . no,” Albron agreed, “probably not. I’ll gloss over what happened and let it go as ‘heroic.’ ”

  “That might be best,” Captain Gelun agreed.

  “Where are your clansmen currently?” Twengor asked.

  “Up near the frontier,” Wendan replied. “I doubt the Kanthons are going to try anything, but it doesn’t hurt to be on the safe side.”

  “Good thinking,” Twengor said approvingly. “Why don’t we go up there and take care of the formalities? Then we can march on Kanthon so that we can get the coronation out of the way before we all go home.”

  “Which coronation was that, Chief Twengor?” Andine asked with a puzzled frown.

  “Yours, little mother,” he said with a fond smile. “I thought it might be sort of nice to crown you Empress of Treborea—right after we’ve sacked and burned the city of Kanthon.”

  “Empress?” Andine’s eyes went very wide.

  “It has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?” Twengor suggested with a sly look.

  “All hail her Imperial Majesty, Andine of Treborea,” Leitha intoned.

  “Well, now,” Andine said. “Isn’t that an interesting idea?”

  “Don’t bite your nails, dear,” Leitha told her. “It makes them look terrible.”

  Chief Albron’s funeral oration was suitably sad and flowery, and it glossed over the character defects of the departed Smeugor and Tauri. Then each Clan Chief and Sergeant of the armies of Arum rose to recommend Gelun and Wendan as interim Chiefs—until after things settled down a bit.

  “Interim?” Leitha murmured to Althalus.

  “A few centuries or so,” Althalus explained. “It’s a fairly common sort of thing in Arum. Distant relatives usually don’t take offense when a new Chief has ‘interim’ tacked onto his title. It tends to be dropped after a few generations.”

  “Do men ever grow up?” she asked.

  “Not if we can avoid it, no.”

  There were some conferences among the now-leaderless clansmen of south Arum, and some heated arguments about terminology. “Interim” ultimately won out over “temporary,” and the entire matter was settled with hardly any bloodshed.

  Then Chief Albron once again rose to address the assembled clans. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “our gracious employer has a few thoughts she’d like to share with us.”

  “What’s this?” Althalus demanded of Leitha.

  “Andine’s going to make a speech, Daddy,” Leitha replied. “Doesn’t that just thrill you all to pieces?”

  “Do you have to do that, Leitha?”

  “Every now and then, yes. It’s one of those things I just can’t seem to keep bottled up.”

  Tiny Andine climbed up into an abandoned farm cart so that the towering men of Arum could see her. “My dear friends,” she said in her soaring voice, “the warriors of the fair mountains of Arum are without peers in the known world, and I am quite overwhelmed by the magnificent victory you have presented to me. My enemies have been crushed, and now we march on Kanthon. I had thought to lay waste that city, but your demonstration of sweet reason here today has caused me to reconsider that course. My enemy, the Aryo of Kanthon, now lies dead. The stones of Kanthon did nothing to offend me, and spanking stones wouldn’t really accomplish very much, now would it?”

  They laughed at that.

  “With all of Arum at my back, I could ride roughshod over Kanthon and impose my will upon her citizens, but what would that accomplish—except to arouse eternal enmity? I watched with astonishment this day when the most warlike people on earth bowed to reason and averted a return to the clan wars of antiquity. I am but a foolish girl, but the lesson you have presented this day has impressed itself upon me indelibly. Therefore, I go to Kanthon not as a conqueror, but as a liberator. We will not burn Kanthon, nor will we slaughter the citizens, nor loot the city. Sweet reason shall be our guide—even as it was your guide in your discussions this day. I will follow your example, my brave warriors—braver still in that you chose not to fight this day.”

  The laughter had faded by now, and there was a stony silence as Andine left her impromptu platform.

  Then Chief Twengor rose. “She’s the one who’s paying us,” he announced bluntly, “so we’ll all do things her way, won’t we? If anybody has any problems with that, come and see me. I’ll explain it—in detail, if that’s the way you want it.”

  “Nice speech,” Leitha murmured.

  “Which one?” Althalus asked her.

  “Take your pick, Daddy dear,” she suggested. “If I know Andine—and I do— she wrote both of them. Twengor’s epilogue fit onto the end of her speech just a little too neatly to be a pure accident, don’t you think?”

  Late that evening Althalus reached out to Dweia. We need to talk, Em, he sent.

  Problems? her voice responded.

  I’m starting to lose my grip on Leitha. She’s getting more erratic every day. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s desperately concerned about Bheid. How’s he doing?

  About the same. I’ve been letting him sleep—well, forcing him, actually. Every time I bring him back, he starts off again.

  How long has it been there?

  A month at least.

  And he still hasn’t come around?

  Not noticeably. He’s overwhelmed with guilt, Althalus. He’s blaming himself for Salkan’s death, and he’s horrified by what he did to Yakhag. I’m having trouble getting around his early training.

  He has to be able to function, Em. Perquaine’s right on the verge of boiling over, and we’ll be going there before very long, won’t we?

  Probably, yes.

  The Perquaines are getting involved in a religious controversy, and something like that has “Argan” written all over it. Bheid’s the one who’s supposed to deal with Argan, isn’t he?

  Probably so, yes.

  Then he has to get over this—soon. If we lose Bheid, we’ll lose Leitha as well. She’s the most fragile one in the group, and without Bheid, she’ll come apart.

  You’re more perceptive than I’d thought, love.

  It’s no big thing, Em. I used to make my living by reading people, remember? Give it a few more days, and a loud noise will shatter Leitha like a pane of glass.

  I’m working on it, pet. Bheid may be quite a bit older the next time you see him, but that won’t matter as long as he’s here. If he needs years to get over this, I’ll see to it that he has those years.

  The gates of Kanthon stood open and unguarded, and the streets were deserted as Andine rode at the head of her escort to the palace. Sergeant Gebhel ran his hand over his bald head with a regretful sigh. “We could have picked up a fortune here,” he lamented.

  “And continued a war we’re sick of fighting in the process,” Khalor reminded him.

  “Chief Gweti isn’t going to be too happy when peace breaks out here in Treborea.”

  “Into each life some rain must fall, Sergeant,” Leitha told him solemnly.

  “I’ve noticed that,” Gebhel replied, “and Gweti’s likely to cloud up and rain all over me when I tell him that the Treborean wars have ended.”

  Sergeant Khalor dispatched several platoons of soldiers to search the palace thoroughly for any hidden pockets of armed men and to summ
on any remaining officials to the throne room, “to confer with the Liberatress.”

  “Ah, Lord Aidhru.” Dhakan greeted an elderly official who was standing rather apprehensively off to one side as Imperial Andine entered the throne room with her entourage. “I see you managed to survive the recent unpleasantness.”

  “Barely,” the old man replied. “What are you doing here, Dhakan? I’d have thought you’d be in your dotage by now.”

  “You’re at least as old as I am, Aidhru,” Dhakan reminded him. “Why on earth did you let Pelghat push this stupid war as far as he did?”

  The old Kanthonese statesman spread his hands helplessly. “I lost control of him, Dhakan. He wriggled out from under my thumb.” Aidhru blinked suddenly. “Is that you, Sergeant Khalor?” he asked with some astonishment. “I thought you’d gotten yourself killed in the last war down here.”

  “I’m fairly hard to kill, Lord Aidhru.”

  “You’ve changed sides, I see.”

  “Better pay, my Lord,” Khalor explained.

  “You’ve not met our divine Arya, have you, Aidhru?” Dhakan said.

  Aidhru looked at Andine. “She’s only a child,” he observed. “I’d heard that she was thirty feet tall.”

  “That’s her voice, my friend,” Dhakan said. “Andine herself is quite tiny, but she does manage to make herself heard on occasion.”

  “Be nice,” Andine chided gently.

  “Yes, Mother,” Dhakan replied with a slight bow.

  “I do wish you’d all stop that,” Andine complained

  “Sorry, your Majesty,” Dhakan apologized. “It’s Leitha’s doing, you know.” Then his tone turned formal. “Lord Aidhru, I have the honor to present my Arya, her Majesty, Andine of Osthos.”

  Aidhru bowed deeply.

  “And this, my Arya, is Chamberlain Aidhru of Kanthon, who was chief advisor to Aryo Pelghat until that ruler’s recent demise.”

  “You might want to add ‘ignored’ in there someplace, Dhakan,” Aidhru suggested. “Toward the end there, Pelghat refused even to see me. There were some foreigners who’d set up camp here in the throne room, and Pelghat only listened to them.”