The Path to Power

by Karen Miller

  He yelped as Greyne helped him out of his battered leathers and mail. Yelped again as the leech poked strong fingers into his shoulderblade. “Shite, man! Are you trying to finish what that cockshite sell-sword started?”

  Ignoring him, Greyne turned aside to his leeching bag. “The flesh is a little pulped, my lord, but not badly pierced. The bruising goes down to the bone, however. As for your nicks and cuts, none of them need stitching. This time. You’ll be sore some goodly days.” A scolding frown. “You should take better care.”

  “By that you mean send my men-at-arms where I fear to go myself?” He snorted in disgust. “Pizzle. Stick to your leeching.”

  “Courage oft survives beyond a man’s strength to support it,” Greyne said, undaunted. “It’s no shame to admit you’re not a young bear any more.”

  “I know my years and what’s to be done with them, Greyne. I am my duke’s Marcher lord. When the law’s broken, and wicked men draw swords, I must fight.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Greyne murmured, and busied himself with slopping together a stinking poultice.

  Waiting for him, stripped to his hose, Humbert spooned down the rest of his pottage then brooded into the dayroom’s warming fire. Five months, just gone, since that deadly skirmish in Bell Wood and hardly a day without some kind of strife in it to give him a megrim. When he wasn’t confronting that arrogant shite Waymon for chivvying Clemen merchants, or trading barbs afterwards with Balfre–who’d never kick that shite in the balls when he should–he was breaking up taunt-fests between his men and Harcia’s and settling pizzling disputes among Clemen’s Marcher-folk, all of them on needle-point and looking daggers at each other. He’d not had to hang anyone yet but he feared that was only a matter of time. Not a soul in the Marches, it seemed, who wasn’t eggshell-close to cracking.

  And now he had sell-swords to deal with. Fuck. Because where there were four there’d be more. He’d wager his best doublet on that.

  “Lord Humbert?”

  Blinking, he looked at Greyne. “What?”

  The leech held up his slop-filled mortar. “The poultice is ready.”

  He cursed when the stinking slop woke his wounded shoulderblade to fresh burning. As it dried, Greyne dabbed ointment on his small wounds and bruises then trussed him in a linen bandage to hold the poultice in place.

  “And if I thought you’d heed me, my lord,” he said, when he was done, “I’d say rest that arm and shoulder in a sling.” He held up a stoppered glass bottle. “Here are comfrey and poppy pills. You know how to take them. Leave the poultice a full day. I’ll look at you again on the morrow.”

  “My thanks, Greyne. Be warned, the men who fought with me will be back at the barracks by-and-by. Pay special heed to Egann. He took a dagger to the face.”

  Greyne raised an eyebrow. “And yet I do not see him here, seeking my help. But then–did I tell you I was shocked, my lord, I’d be telling you a lie.”

  “Ha,” he said sourly. “Think yourself a jongler, do you? Help me into my clothes.”

  Dressed again, and Greyne departed, Humbert poured himself a goblet of strong porter. The ruby-red wine bit his throat and seared his gullet. Beyond the dayroom’s window the sky was bright, but he could feel a melancholy descending, damp and dismal as a cloud. He could have lost his life skirmishing with those cockshite sell-swords. To fall in Clemen’s service, that was a noble death. But to fall so far from Eaglerock, unreconciled with Roric, with his beloved duchy floundering… that, he couldn’t bear.

  The dayroom door opened. “Ffolliot, are you ramshackle? Did you not hear me—”

  “I told your steward to stand aside, Humbert.”

  Stunned, Humbert turned. “Ercole?”

  Closing the dayroom door, Argante’s wilted pizzle of a half-brother offered him a perfunctory smile. “My lord.”

  Ercole. Well, well. Since last they’d met, the little shite had gained flesh and an air of unctuous superiority. What he lacked of his dead half-sister’s extravagant good looks he more than made up for with the richness of his clothing. Pink Khafuri diamonds winked on his fingers, in his ears, and his gold-stitched violet doublet was brocaded silk.

  Humbert put down his goblet, then pretended it wasn’t there. Be curs’t if he offered a grubby mankworm like Ercole a single drop of his wine.

  “I don’t know why you’re here,” he said, “but as it happens—”

  Wandering the dayroom as though he owned it, the arrogant pizzle, Ercole fluttered fingers crusted with jewelled rings. “I’ve come at Roric’s request, Humbert. There are disturbing matters he’d have explained.”

  Roric. How greasily the name slipped from Ercole’s meddling tongue. “Disturbing?” He scowled, feeling his temper leap like an oil-fed flame. “I’ll tell you what’s disturbing, Ercole. Being set upon by sell-swords from Sassanine, that’s disturbing!”

  Taken aback, Ercole halted. “Sell-swords? Why were—”

  “Clap tongue and I’ll tell you. Harcian spice-merchants did hire four of the murderous cockshites in Eaglerock harbour, then doddled with them all the length of Clemen and into the Marches. I was riding out with Egann and some of our men-at-arms. We crossed paths with the merchants and their escort, my hackles went up, and when I challenged them—” He spread his hands wide, then clapped them sharply. “The cockshite sell-swords attacked.”

  “But how did they—”

  “How? ’Twas a simple matter, Ercole. Because not a man of yours in the harbour, not a man-at-arms anywhere in the duchy, did notice three cockshite Harcian merchants with Sassanine sell-swords trailing behind them like farts.”

  “Humbert, you—”

  He crashed a fist to the sideboard. The flagon of porter leapt and wobbled, splashing wine like blood. “What are Roric and the council playing at down in Eaglerock? How did you let this slip under your noses? Sell-swords roaming free on Clemen soil. Do you know what Balfre will do with this? Do you know the trouble he’ll cause here now? Because it was Harcian merchants who hired those sell-swords, and Harcian merchants we pointed our swords at, and Harcian merchants who’ll run to Aimery’s son shrieking that Humbert of Clemen did threaten their lives!”

  “That is not His Grace’s fault, or mine!” Ercole protested. “You are the Marcher lord here, Humbert. ’Tis your task to keep the peace. Which you have not done as well as you ought, and if you think Roric hasn’t noticed that, you’re sadly out of touch. Now moderate your tone, my lord, for I’ll not be spoken to in such fashion!”

  “I’ll talk to you any pizzling way I please! By a wonder none of my men was killed putting down those Sassanine fucks. But Egann near had his face sliced right off his skull!”

  Ercole blanched. Mincing little pizzle. Never on his best day did he do himself credit with a sword. The sight of blood was known to send him swooning, like a maid.

  Breathing heavily, feeling every cut and bruise and the pulped flesh beneath his poultice, Humbert tugged at his beard. “You’d best tell Roric of this the moment you get back to Eaglerock. Tell him to keep a closer eye on merchants coming through the harbour. And any merchants already prancing their merry way about the duchy. There’ll be sell-swords with a mort of them, I’ll stake my good name on it.”

  “Certainly I shall inform His Grace of this unfortunate confrontation,” Ercole said stiffly. “But first you will listen to what I have come to say. Roric is—”

  Humbert held up his hand. “Wait.”

  Something was tugging at him, something important. A niggling itch at the back of his mind. Sell-swords. Spice-merchants. Everyone knows Clemen’s unsafe these days. And something about the pirate Baldassare… and grain ships…

  Ercole drew in a sharp breath. “Humbert! I will not—”

  “You will if you care what happens to Clemen,” he retorted. “Harcia’s been bartering grain from Sassanine. You recall?”

  “Grain?” Ercole stared. “Humbert, I’ve not ridden all the way from Eaglerock to be shouted at and—”

&
nbsp; “Clap tongue, you pizzle! Roric needs to hear this! Or is it that you remember me as a man who flaps his tongue to no good purpose?”

  Pinch-lipped, Ercole grasped the back of a nearby chair. “My lord, you are unwise to speak to me as to a servant. I stand most high in His Grace’s esteem.”

  And if that was true, then shame and woe upon Roric. For should a man like Ercole be so highly placed in his confidence then surely the boy had lost his way.

  “Perhaps,” he said softly, a terrible ache in his chest. “But I advise you to listen nonetheless. I have this from one of those cockshite Harcian merchants. Baldassare’s taken to plundering the grain ships running from Sassanine to Harcia. Let Harcia’s people grow hungry and where do you think Aimery will look to find bread for their empty bellies?”

  Ercole let go of the chair. “Oh.”

  “It might not come to anything,” he added. “The cockshite merchant might’ve been lying. Or wrong. But Roric must be told. Aimery’s duchy is more precarious than it was. What if in the end Grefin fails to hold the Green Isle against those northern raiders? You’ve seen horses panicked by wolves, Ercole. They’ll run and they’ll run and they don’t care what they trample.” He tugged his beard. “Now. What was it you came to say?”

  Waspish, Ercole smoothed the front of his doublet. “So I’m to be permitted to speak at last, am I?”

  Abruptly weary, he sank onto a padded settle. “By all means, Ercole. For the sooner you’ve flapped your tongue, the sooner you can leave.”

  A nasty light glittered in Ercole’s pouched eyes. He reached within his doublet, retrieved a small folded, wax-sealed letter, and held it out.

  “Read this first.”

  He had no choice. He was forced to rise and take the letter. It made of him a supplicant. Resentment curdled his blood. He cracked the wax seal and unfolded the paper.

  Ercole speaks with my authority. Answer his questions. Roric.

  He tossed the letter on the settle. “What’s this about, Ercole?”

  “Roric wants to know why you’ve failed to quash the ugly rumours flooding out of these Marches like stale piss from a brothel.”

  “What rumours? I know nothing of—”

  Everyone knows Clemen’s unsafe these days.

  Ercole smirked. “You know nothing? The look on your face says otherwise, my lord.”

  “Wind,” he said, glowering. “Ercole, what shite are you stirring now?”

  “I doubt Roric would care to hear you dismiss his grave concerns as shite. I can tell you, Humbert, he is already most distressed. These lies spreading from the Pig Whistle are being whispered so far afield as Maletti.”

  “The Pig Whistle? What’s the Pig Whistle to do with this?”

  “The Pig Whistle lies at the heart of Roric’s dismay. As do you, Humbert. His Grace can’t understand why you’ve not pursued this invidious matter as I asked.”

  Humbert stared at the little cockshite, dumbfounded. He’d not hit his head fighting those sell-swords, had he? Or perhaps he was tiddly, his one goblet of porter rushed straight to his noddle.

  “You’ve asked me for nothing, Ercole. As for these so-called rumours, this is the first I’ve heard of them. One of those Harcian spice-merchants said something, but aside from that? You’re full of piss.”

  “Humbert.” Ercole sighed. “I did indeed instruct you to investigate the rumours, and the Pig Whistle. Why you chose to ignore that, I can hardly say. It’s not me you’ll answer to for your derelection, but Roric.”

  The mankworm was lying. There might well be rumours spreading, harmful to Clemen, but this fucking little pizzle had never written of them to him. Worse, the malicious glint in Ercole’s eyes said the shite knew there was no way to prove his claim false. Here was base treachery. An attempt to topple him into disgrace in revenge for past slights. His heart thudded with a sick swiftness that stole his breath. Roric. The name was like a bruise. All the old pain rewoken, the old resentment made new. Everything he’d ever done had been for love of Clemen, and that boy. Always, always, he’d acted out of love. And in return…

  “You little turd,” he said, and couldn’t keep the tremor from his voice. “I was shedding blood for Clemen when you were shitting in your nappy. If Roric wants an accounting from me then Roric can fucking well come here and ask for it himself! And you can scuttle back to Eaglerock and tell him I said so!”

  “I am here for an accounting on Roric’s behalf!” Ercole retorted. “Or did your ageing eyes misread the letter he sent? Your duke wants the truth of this matter, my lord. Should I scuttle back to Eaglerock and tell him Humbert pisses on truth? How long before you exchange this manor for a dungeon, d’you think, did I tell Roric that?”

  “Isn’t a dungeon where you want me?”

  “Humbert, I want you dead!” Ercole spat. “My sister was slaughtered because of you, her child burned alive in the castle that should’ve kept him safe. Every day since Heartsong I have dreamed of your destruction. But I won’t destroy Clemen to have it. I don’t need to. I have wealth and family and Roric’s trusting ear. You’re old and alone and cooped up in these Marches. That’s vengeance enough.”

  Turning aside, Humbert battled his own fury, that urged him to plunge a dagger between the cockshite’s ribs. If only he could disbelieve Ercole’s concern for Clemen. But if his hatred was honest, so was the rest.

  “You’ve no doubt these rumours against Clemen spring from the Pig Whistle?”

  “None. My goodfather and I have spent months seeking the truth of this.”

  Fuck. He was tired. He was aching. He had a stinking poultice bound to his back. But if Molly of the Pig Whistle had thrown her lot in with Balfre–and it had to Balfre behind this, there could be no one else–he must find out for himself. And if it was true then he must make her rue the day she sold herself to Aimery’s son. Yes. Times were hard. But they could always get harder. Something Molly should have thought on before betraying Clemen to Harcia.

  He looked at Ercole. “Wait here. I’ll return shortly.”

  “You go to the Pig Whistle?” Ercole lifted his chin. “Then you’ll not go alone. I speak for Roric in this matter. Not you.”

  “Ercole…” He tugged his beard again, hard. “Molly might be a sly, conniving bitch but they don’t call her queen of the Pig Whistle for naught. You’ll never browbeat her. She could break you in half with one hand.” He looked the shite up and down. “Especially now, when a blind goat could see you’re better pastured than a hog fattened for the high board.”

  Ercole flushed. “Salve your pride by insulting me, if you must. I won’t stay behind, Humbert. And you’d be wise not to test me.”

  He’d be wise to snap the cockshite’s neck, bury his body and pretend to the world they’d parted friends. A pity he was a fool.

  “Fine,” he said. “But if you’re wise, Ercole, you’ll remember this is the Marches, not Eaglerock, and which of us here is the Marcher lord.”

  After five months of careful practice, Liam liked to think he knew which end of a sword was which. And why wouldn’t he? Ever since Bell Wood, twice a week and sometimes thrice, he and Benedikt had managed to sneak free of Molly and Iddo and find somewhere safe to wield a blade. This afternoon they were meant to be wood-fetching. And they were. Or they’d get round to it. Once they’d danced a while with their swords.

  In the early days they’d not dared face each other. How could they explain a sword-cut to Molly? Instead they’d sliced the air to ribbons. Stabbed nettle-stacks. Killed thistles. Then, once their muscles hardened and their wrists toughened and the swords began to feel like their own flesh, not steel sticks, they’d gingerly begun pretend-fighting. That was when they made sure to wrap their blades in strips of burlap sacking pilfered from Gwatkin’s stables. It muffled the sound and kept them safe.

  But ever since he’d opened his eyes that morning, Liam had felt oddly restless. Felt he and Benedikt were somehow cheating with the burlap. He wanted to hear the true steel ringing o
f blade against blade, feel the shock of each blow unmuffled as it thrummed through his bones. Training with a wrapped blade? That was no better than playing with sticks.

  He told Benedikt his plan on the way to fetch Farmer Spurfield’s horse and cart from nearby Tiddy Pond farm. The Pig Whistle’s carting mare was lame in a hindleg. Spurfield was helping out in return for a share of the wood they gathered.

  “I dunt know, Willem,” his brother said, pulling a doubting face. “Swords make a mort of clash. I know the far side of Froggy Bogmarsh hushy, but still. What if someone hears?”

  “We got axes,” he said, hefting his. “For wood-chopping. Who’s going to think it be swords? Benedikt, we got to clash blades proper sooner or later.”

  Benedikt rolled his eyes. “Fine. Only if I cut yer hand off, Willem, don’t ye dare throw a tantrum.”

  And that was that. He’d won. He nearly always won.

  They trundled the horse-and-cart from Tiddy Pond farm out to their swords. Tied the nag’s reins to a stout sapling, then ventured into the nearby woodland with their unwrapped swords and the axes and the familiar, heady excitement of sword-play bubbling in their blood.

  Facing his brother, Liam raised his naked blade and grinned. “Ready?”

  “Iss,” said Benedikt. “No. Willem, be ye sure?”

  “Don’t fret yerself. Ye won’t hurt me.”

  They danced and danced, laughing, like real men-at-arms. But in the end he wasn’t the one who bled.

  “Willem!” Shocked, Benedikt lifted his spoiled, roughspun smock and bared his sword-slit skin to the air. “Ye gormless pizzle!”

  Liam stared at the red trickle down Benedikt’s ribs. Swallowed. “’T’aint so bad.”

  “How would ye know?” Benedikt poked at the wound with the tip of his grubby finger. “It hurts!”

  “Ye b’aint dead, Benedikt,” he said, feeling his knees turn wobbly.