Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 3

by Joel Shepherd

  Past the courtyard, they rode between buildings of stone foundation, with wood-beamed walls and small, multipaned windows. The crowds were oppressive, housewives carrying food from the market, tradesmen hauling loads on donkeys, busy cityfolk of every description going about their daily lives, and clogging up the streets. Soldiers too, though they seemed more well dressed than most, and none were Lenay. Again, more stares at the two Lenays ahorse. Jaryd did not resist the impulse to ride straight and proud, and stare down at such men with disdain.

  Damon’s man led Jaryd around so many corners, and down enough crowded lanes that Jaryd soon found himself utterly lost, and without clear sight of Sherdaine’s walls or towers. Eventually they stopped before a wide wooden gate, and the man rapped on a metal panel that slid aside. A brief conversation, then the gates were opened and they dismounted to lead both horses into a private courtyard surrounded by the facing windows of a wealthy residence. Here, it was peaceful.

  Jaryd left the horse in the care of a servant and followed his guide beneath a small archway and into a second, more intimate courtyard. Here he found Lenays, nobility all to look at them, seated to catch the sun though shaded by the courtyard’s central tree, eating good food and wine. None paid the new arrival particular mind, laughing and conversing with animation as Jaryd followed his guide to an open door. Within, he found Prince Damon, sitting with his back to an open window, reading.

  “Ah,” said Damon, looking up with a smile, and got up to embrace Jaryd. Jaryd was surprised, but returned it gladly. Damon had saved his life, in the hallways of Baen-Tar Palace, when the Tyree nobles had been about to kill him where he’d fallen. They had ridden together to northern Taneryn with Damon’s sister Sashandra and Kessligh Cronenverdt, and Jaryd knew the prince to be no friend of his own enemies. He wondered what had inspired this invitation.

  “You look well,” Damon told him, seeming genuinely pleased at that. “And beringed.” Touching the several rings in Jaryd’s ear, with some amusement. “When your hair grows a little longer, you’ll be a true Goeren-yai.”

  “You look well too,” said Jaryd, not entirely truthfully. Damon looked well in that he seemed older than in Jaryd’s memory, and there was a look to his lean face that was more manly than Jaryd recalled. Yet much of that new age was worry.

  “We grow older,” he admitted. “Koenyg assured me that it would happen, and I did not believe him. Please, sit.”

  Jaryd drew up a chair. The quarters seemed pleasant, far from princely, but they were comfortable.

  “Why are you not at the palace?” Jaryd asked.

  “Actually it’s not a palace, just a castle.” Damon shrugged. “Sofy prepares. I’m little use to her, she accuses me of brooding.201C; His face fell, revealing a deep, troubled sobriety. “I’d thought as much beforehand. I sent men ahead to find me separate quarters. Being away from courtly intrigues can have its advantages, and Koenyg has tasked me with things that require a staff of my own.”

  “That man,” Jaryd asked, gesturing to the door his guide had departed through. “Who was he?”

  “Best you don’t ask,” said Damon. “He needs to go places and talk to people. If he is no one, that becomes easier.” Jaryd frowned. “One of Koenyg’s tasks was to help prepare the army for battle. He is concerned that for all our new equipment of shields and armour, our tactics vary from region to region, even from town to town. He warns that we need to introduce some uniformity to our battle plans, and I agree. The nobility are not such a problem, since most of them are cavalry, and cavalry tactics are more or less similar throughout Lenayin. It’s the Goeren-yai and the villagers, as always, who make the problems.”

  Jaryd nodded. “I’ve been working with men of eastern Valhanan to improve our shieldwork and formations. I’ve tracked down any number of Bacosh men with experience of fighting the Steel. I think we’ve made improvements, but some men insist they don’t see the point. Luckily the headmen of Baerlyn have influence with the other villages, so they don’t argue too much, but not all regions are so lucky.”

  “I know,” said Damon. “I need good men from amongst the Goeren-yai, men who know different styles of warfare. I need men I can trust, Jaryd, and who will be respected by those beneath them. I’d like you to be one of them.”

  Jaryd looked at him for a long moment. It was not a surprise, on the commonsense level of preparing for war. He was certainly qualified, and Damon knew that he was honest and loyal. But for politics…

  “Have you any idea of the number of people who’d like me dead?” Jaryd asked the prince.

  “A mark of honour, in this company,” Damon said drily. Jaryd heard bitterness in his tone. “Northern fanatics, limp-wristed Tyree and Valhanan nobility, I’ve no care for them. Have you?”

  Jaryd blinked, trying to think. Politics was not his strong suit. He had only recently come to learn, somewhat painfully, that direct assault was not always the best solution to his problems. Prince Damon challenged him to do what came naturally, expecting him to follow his instincts. It would be smart of the Dunce of Tyree, however, to consider his options first.

  “Not fear of them, no,” Jaryd said carefully. “But those men have great influence with Prince Koenyg, which shall surely be trouble for you.”

  Damon frowned. “I’m a prince of Lenayin,” he replied, pointedly. “I make my own decisions. Your rank shall be captain. Militia captain, it’s true, but it’s about time we formalised the militia ranks, if only for sake of convenience.”

  “Are you fighting with him?”

  “With who?”

  “Your brother. Koenyg.”

  Damon stared at him. There was a darkness in his gaze. A power that looked uld not recall having been there before.

  “Surely you hear rumours,” Damon said then, gazing away, across the room.

  “Highness, I’ve walked here from Lenayin,” Jaryd replied, with sarcasm. “Blisters are my friends, I carry the tackle of a common soldier, and I’ve been as far from courtly rumours as is possible within this army.”

  “I have no issue with my brother. I have an issue with this war, Jaryd. I lack no courage for a fight, but look around you. Do you see Lenay interests here?”

  Jaryd nodded, and gave a harsh laugh. “The people are truly friendly!” he quipped.

  Damon leaned forward in his chair. “I am a Verenthane, Jaryd, but this faith that we serve is not something I recognise.” His face was intent, his voice harsh. “They fear us, and loathe us, these people. It galls them that their failures against the Saalshen Bacosh have brought them to this—an allegiance with highland barbarians, and by marriage no less! One of those barbarians shall be their queen, once the regent dies. Father and Koenyg may see the greatness of allegiance to the Verenthane powers, but all I see is our own Lenay fanatics hoping to use such allegiance to spread the faith in Lenayin and convert all pagans. To say nothing of your old friends the lords, with dreams of a feudal Lenayin. We are all being fairly buggered for another’s benefit, and I like it not.”

  Suddenly, Jaryd thought he understood. The seclusion of these quarters in Sherdaine. Armed men in the courtyard. A gathering of friendly supporters.

  “Do you feel yourself threatened?” he asked.

  “I do not choose this out of cowardice,” Damon said warningly, and Jaryd held up a hand, shaking his head. Damon seemed placated. He smacked his leg in profound frustration. “Damn him! Koenyg thinks me a worrier, but I fear for my neck every night I sleep in castle quarters without my personal guard from the road. There are many discontents, Jaryd, and if something happened to me, they would have no one to speak for them.”

  Jaryd nodded slowly but he had no idea what to say.

  “I would not choose to abandon Sofy so close to her wedding, but…” Damon grimaced, and glanced over his shoulder at the courtyard beyond the window. “This army may split, Jaryd, truly I fear it. Oh, the provinces are spoiling for a fight at the moment: Lenayin is a land of warriors and has never fought a united battle
as a kingdom…hot-headed men think it’s about damn time, and think nothing for the rightness of it. But when the Goeren-yai are tired of being used as fodder for foreign Verenthanes who care not a jot for them, and see all the rewards heaped upon northern fanatics who hate them worse than those we fight…”

  He shook his head, despairingly. “I chided Sasha, once, for thinking to champion the cause of the Goeren-yai. Now I find myself realising as she did, that if we lose the Goeren-yai, we lose Lenayin.”

  “Ever think,” said Jaryd, “that if we lost the nobility, we’d lose nothing at all?” Damon was silent. “Lenayin needs nobility like a bull needs tits.”

  “Now you sound like Sasha,” Damon muttered. He gave Jaryd a dark look. “My sister. Did you fuck her?”

  Jaryd coughed and managed, somewhat suicidally, a roguish grin. “Which one?”

  “Surely not Sasha?” said Damon. Jaryd shrugged. Then shook his head, reluctantly, beneath that hard stare.

  “Not Sasha,” he admitted. “Though she did make very friendly with one of those serrin who came to help in the rebellion. Errollyn, that was his name.”

  “Sasha can fuck who she likes,” Damon snorted, “it makes naught of an issue for anyone. Sofy is another matter.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “She was very different after she returned from her little adventure to Baerlyn. Only she didn’t just travel to Baerlyn, did she? Or she tells me she didn’t.”

  Jaryd blinked. “She told you?”

  “I’m her friend, Jaryd. Not merely her brother. We tell each other things. It makes us a formidable pairing, one that some would love to see broken. I know she rode with you to Algery. What she would not tell me was if anything happened between the two of you. But I suspect. I may not have women’s intuition, but I know my sister.”

  Jaryd felt a surge of anger. “Look, either state your accusation or don’t!” he snapped. “Good gods, what do you want from me, an admission to something that should by law cost me my head?”

  “‘Good spirits,’” Damon corrected. Jaryd stared, not understanding. “You are supposed to be Goeren-yai now, you say ‘Good spirits,’ else someone take you for a fraud.” Pointedly. Jaryd felt his face redden with anger. “Furthermore, I do not wish you to lose either honour or head. I merely wish to ask if you’d like to see Sofy once more. Before she weds, in private. I can make that happen.”

  “For the last time, I am not wearing that dress!” Princess Sofy Lenayin was not happy. She stood in the middle of a grand Larosan hall already decked out for the wedding, with great banners lining its walls. About her were Larosan priests, women of the Merciful Sisters, palace officials, numerous servants and an awful lot of dresses. The servants stood in a circle about her, each holding a dress, and struggling beneath their weight.

  “Well then perhaps Your Highness could indicate precisely which wedding dress she would choose?” asked Master Hern, a portly, white-bearded man in an official’s cloak and hat.

  “None of them!” Sofy said angrily. “There must be something in this wedding that shall be Lenay!”

  “There shall be yourself, my dear,” the Princess Elora remarked, examining her nails on her seat nearby. “Surely that is adequate?”

  Sofy struggled to control her temper. Princess Elora was soon to be her sister-in-law. She was a lean girl in her early twenties, and wore several times the jewellery that Sofy considered decent for a person of any station. Sofy thought she looked a little horsey. Perhaps she was overcompensating.

  The Maris Tere, or “First Matron” of the Merciful Sisters was no longer present. On the first day, she had insisted that Sofy wear the white of Larosan maidenhood and that she cover her hair in the torhes foud, the pious shroud, of a girl to be wed. She had demanded that Sofy spend the next two days in the Sherdaine Temple “cleansing” herself in ritual prayer, presumably to remove the stain of a lifetime of barbarian practices.

  When Sofy had refused, the First Matron had become angry, and slapped her. Yasmyn had struck her back, hard enough to drop the old woman to the ground, and drew her darak on the others who sought to retaliate. Blood had nearly been spilt, and Yasmyn plus Sofy’s four-strong contingent of elite Royal Guards had escorted the bride-to-be to a deserted chambers and kept her there under guard until Koenyg, Princess Elora, and numerous lords and other importances had settled the misunderstanding.

  Many of the Larosan court still demanded that Yasmyn be executed for her impudence, but were no longer demanding it so loudly after Koenyg had explained that executing the daughter of Isfayen’s Great Lord Faras would be taken by the Isfayen as declaration of war, upon which event there was nothing any man of Lenayin could say to hold them. Now, Sofy caught Yasmyn staring at her. Her dark, slanted eyes beheld more knowledge of her princess than any other in the room.

  “Your Highness is a nice girl,” Yasmyn had said when they were alone, in the sarcastic tone of an Isfayen delivering a calculated insult. “She does not like to fight. People who do like to fight will see this, and challenge her with their blades until they back her up against a wall and there is nowhere left to run. Your Highness must realise that she cannot win a sword fight with a pretty smile and a silver tongue.”

  Sofy looked about at the dresses and took a deep breath. “None of these will do,” she announced. “I shall decide my own attire for the wedding. I shall dress according to Lenay marital custom. I shall keep my own council only. Now thank you,” and she made a dismissive gesture to the dress-wielding servants, “we have other matters to attend to.”

  Master Hern licked his lips nervously. “Your Highness, I do not think that it is wise—”

  “Not wise?” Princess Elora challenged, rising to her feet in indignation. “It’s improper! A wedding of Larosan royalty is not a matter of highland dresses and flower decorations, there is a grand tradition of many centuries—”

  “As there is a grand tradition of millennia in Lenayin,” Sofy said firmly. “I am not a Larosan, Princess Elora, I am a Lenay, and this marriage is a marriage between two peoples, not a subjugation of one to the other.”

  “There is no question of a Larosan bride attending such a wedding in improper attire!” Elora insisted as though she had not heard her. “The offence to the gods and the Larosan peoples, and indeed all the peoples of the free Bacosh, would be incalculable!”

  “Then perhaps we could change these decorations?” Sofy suggested, indicating the feudal heraldry draping the surrounding walls. “To announce the rights of feudal nobility so loudly as this is surely offensive to many in Lenayin; I think some Rayen tapestries, and some flower garlands in the western style, would make a notable improvement…”

  “Your Highness,” Master Hern attempted to intervene, “to remove the feudal heraldry would be a grave insult to the lords of Larosa and beyond….”

  “Then perhaps the timing of the ceremony,” Sofy suggested reasonably, “according to the Lenay star charts instead of the Larosan tradition—”

  “Impossible!”

  “Thus I must again insist,” said Sofy, her tone hardening, “that since so much of this wedding has been arranged without prior consultation, that those few remaining choices to be made must be resolved in favour of Lenayin!”

  Master Hern glanced at Princess Elora. Elora sighed, and dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand.

  “What does Your Highness request?” Master Hern asked.

  “Dress,” said Sofy, ticking a finger. “Music.” Another finger.

  “Not at the ceremony!” Elora protested.

  Sofy smiled thinly. “We have no music at the ceremony,” she said. “No pagan drumming to drown out the recitals, have no fear. But at the feast.” Master Hern bit his lip. “Food,” said Sofy, ticking a third finger.

  “Dear sister,” said Elora, “now would be a good time to ask…exactly what do Lenays like to eat?”

  “Roasts,” said Sofy, with a brightening smile. She could picture it now, the elements coming together
in her head. “We’ll build a great firepit in the centre hall, and roast steer or sheep or whatever you prefer. Great heat and cooking food, it should be quite a sight.”

  Elora and Hern looked at each other. “That does not sound impossible,” Master Hern admitted. “But we should have Larosan dishes too from the kitchens.”

  “Of course!” said Sofy, unable to contain her building enthusiasm. She’d always loved to arrange such events. Now, she could build something of symbolic value. “We should seek to combine the best of Larosan and Lenay cultures together! Think of it as a mutual education in each other’s lands and ways.”

  They made further progress, Sofy giving Master Hern the names of several Lenays whom she thought could help with food and music. Dresses, however, she would have to think on for herself. A servant arrived to inform them of lunch, and Sofy left the hall with Elora, Yasmyn, her Royal Guards, Elora’s four sworn knights, and Elora’s handmaidens. Dear lords, Sofy thought—it was a procession. Would her entire life be like this from now on? Could she never be alone?

  “Dear Sofy,” said Elora as they walked the hall, “it would be most appreciated if you could persuade your father the king to have audience with more of our lords. I hear he rarely stirs from the Sherdaine Temple since his arrival.”

  “Oh you must forgive him,” Sofy sighed. “He’s been like that a while, yet lately he grows worse.” Elora waited, expecting more, but Sofy did not continue. She would not enumerate her suspicions of her father’s doubts about the war, and the alliance with Larosa. She would not let slip her own, dawning frustration of a man who should have been leading his people in this trial, yet instead wallowed in self-indulgent prayer and moral uncertainty. Did he think he was the only one who doubted, or required reassurance? All that he achieved was to give the impression of a poor and uncertain leader. Thank the gods for Koenyg. “But I will speak with him,” she added.