“Alfric. You’re here,” Corin greeted him, with blunt displeasure.
Since when the fuck are we on first name terms? Deciding, however, not to be petty, Lycon ignored the disrespect, although it was impossible to imbue his reply with anything like good humour.
“Indeed, Milord,” he answered, coldly. “Do you intend to be a coward and ask why I am late, or do you admit that you never intended to summon me?”
“Call me a coward again, old man, and I’ll–” Corin began to rage, making a grab for one of his axes, but Lord Staakys reached out to stay his hand. Lycon – a hale fifty-seven and looking ten years younger – was unperturbed by both the insult and the threat as he interrupted, calmly:
“I didn’t call you a coward, Milord. I asked if you intended to be one. Do you deny leaving me in the dark?”
“And why in the Abysm should I deny it? I don’t trust you and I don’t want you here, so why don’t you turn that fucking horse around and– ?”
“Lord Lycon is Commander of the Third Fleet, and Eorl of Skuburgh, Maelswyk, and the South Skerries,” pointed out Staakys, patiently. “It is only right and fitting, Milord, that he should attend. To decide upon anything in his absence would only weaken the force of the resolution.” Defeated for the nonce, Corin scowled viciously and stormed away. Thank Thalassa for two-faced hypocrites, thought Lycon, as he led his horse into the stables. He remembered ten years ago when he had been the new hotshot on the Convocation, Lord Staakys had been overly attentive towards him, but in recent years Lycon had acquired the reputation of being morose, cagey, and worst of all an arch-moderniser. Accordingly, Staakys had leapt at the opportunity to transfer his affections to more popular meat, which was absolutely fine by Lycon. As long as he fears me enough not to slight me openly, I’ll be more than content, he reflected, while tethering his horse.
Inside the lodge, he found the other sealords seated around a square table, still wearing their outer clothes, while a pair of thralls tended a woefully inadequate blaze in a pathetically small stone fireplace. Alvere did not feel the cold much, and their indoor amenities unfortunately reflected that fact. Lord Olfrud sat nearest to the fireplace, his shrunken frame lost within thick, multiple layers of quilted robes and furs, topped off with a huge velvet nightcap. So that’s what they’re all wearing for hunting this season, thought Lycon, but kept the sarcasm to himself as he approached the First Sealord and bowed respectfully.
“Milord,” he addressed him, in a louder and slower register than usual. “I hope today finds you well.”
“What? Oh … Yes, fighting fit, m’boy,” said Olfrud, heartily if slightly confused. After squinting a little harder at the new arrival, recognition suddenly dawned. “Ah. Young Alfric, of course. How nice to see you, and … that lovely young wife of yours. Is she … ?”
“Still dead, Milord,” replied Lycon, his casual tone hiding the pain he still felt upon hearing this question, although it never came unexpected.
“Oh … Such a pity … And what about that young rascal, eh? That, err, ensign of yours?” asked Olfrud, in one of his more unwelcome flashes of lucidity. “Found the scallywag yet, have you?”
“Not yet, Milord,” Lycon answered, keeping his tone very level indeed. “We think he must have deserted and taken to piracy somewhere along the Lucinian coast. With no prospects to speak of, he might have considered that a more appealing option than returning home, although if I ever catch him …” Notwithstanding Lycon’s last, threatening note of silence, Olfrud seemed to find the whole business highly entertaining, wheezy bouts of laughter shaking him within his furry cocoon.
“Ah … the youngsters … must have their glory … their adventures … I remember when I was … Would have jumped at the chance … crack a few skulls open … ravish their daughters … Such days.”
“Speaking of ravishing, or perhaps not so much, I actually heard rather an amusing rumour about your ensign, Lord Lycon,” said Staakys, with a knowing air. “Would the Convocation care to hear the funny version, though I daren’t vouch for its accuracy?” Lycon gave a polite bow of assent; Corin gave a short, gruff exhalation that might have indicated assent; and Olfrud was happily lost in his grisly reminiscences. “Well now, the way I heard it, our esteemed Queen of Alvenheim had a little thing for the dashing young ensign. I gather she was seen making eyes at him on various … Well, making eye at him, at any rate,” he corrected himself, with a smirk. The joke managed to wring a harsh guffaw out of Corin, while Lycon forced a brief, nasal laugh and fought the urge to clench his fists. “Anyway, or so the rumour says, the lad was summoned to her chambers the day before he absconded. Summoned to hear a very special proposition, wink wink … Are you well, Milord?”
“Just cold,” lied Lycon, hastily unclenching his fists and making a show of drawing his cloak around himself. “This bloody excuse for a fire …”
“Oh, to be sure. These damn savages don’t know how to live. Anyway as I was …” whereupon, annoyed to discover that he had already delivered and interrupted his own punchline, Staakys irritably concluded. “Well, you get the idea.”
“Proposition, eh?” said Corin, with the sadistic glee that was as close as he ever approached to humour. “No wonder the poor little runt up and scarpered. Only wonder is he didn’t tear his eyes out and leave them on the palace steps.”
“Very droll, Milord, and all too true, I fear. You’ve seen her face, then?”
“No, thank Thalassa. Ugly bitch is welcome to it. Lycon here’s seen it,” he added, jerking his head towards him without making eye contact.
“Of course. It was you who discovered her; who fished our power-hungry little mermaid out of the Sea of Storms,” jested Staakys, as he turned back to Lycon. “So, don’t keep us in suspense then, Milord. Tell us: is her face as spectacularly hideous as they say, or merely a disappointing rumour?”
“It’s … pretty bad, Milord,” was the best Lycon could manage, while his brain, with great ill-timing, pictured Gloriana and Staakys both naked, and I know whose wrinkly old arse I’d be recoiling in horror from. Shaking the disturbing image, he continued. “Left side completely burned, like something on a butcher’s slab.”
“Ugly bitch, like I said … You’d still do her though, wouldn’t you?” sneered Corin, all-too-perceptively. Lycon tended to forget that in spite of being a rabid war dog, the man was not stupid, more’s the pity. He decided to force a change of subject.
“The Alvere is no concern of mine, Milord,” he snapped, “except as regards our business arrangements with her. I assume those are the real subject of this summons, or are we only here to trade gossip?”
“Err, well … Not to put too fine a point on it–” began Staakys, but Corin seemed as impatient as Lycon to cut to the chase as he interrupted venomously:
“What the fuck are we still doing here, Lycon? We’ve put the hag on her throne, and for what? If I wanted to bore myself to death guarding royalty, I’d have sailed to Daevastan and hired myself out to the Autokrator. At least he pays well.”
“And what would you have us do?” asked Lycon, witheringly.
“We repay Queen Ironface for her niggardliness, that’s what. We loot the stinking place bare, and we take as many of these elf-bitches into thraldom as our ships will carry.”
“Interesting plan,” said Lycon, his tone little more than a contemptuous sniff. “I somehow doubt the Queen will be inclined to keep us supplied with superior quality weapons if we do that, or were you forgetting that aspect?”
“My memory’s as sharp as ever, Milord, but one might contend she isn’t exactly doing that for us now,” pointed out Staakys, with annoying shrewdness.
“I have ships scouting the coast for the resources that she will need to make more,” Lycon again lied, but he resolved to dispatch some ships at the earliest opportunity in order to lend weight to the pretence. “May I remind you that constructing the lofdrekkar we already have has damn near depleted our mineral stocks. As far as the rest of Lord Corin�
��s plan goes, may I assume he is joking? It’s well known that the Alvere make appalling thralls, and the loot we have taken to date has been so poor that the thought of having it all over again leaves me decidedly underwhelmed.”
“That’s true, m’boy,” Lord Olfrud contributed, to everyone’s surprise but to Lycon’s heartfelt gratitude: a shadow of a man though he was, his name and reputation still carried weight. “Simply appalling thralls … the women especially … Too hot-blooded by far … They won’t lie still … even if you tie them hand and foot … I knew this boatswain once, tried to take an Alvere … Girl damn near chewed his face off … eye rolling across the deck … Ended up having to shoot them both … out of his misery, anyway … Sad, but true.”
Bless … Such a sweet old fellow, thought Lycon, mildly chilled. Shame we can’t find a way to launch him at our enemies as a form of psychological warfare.
“Hmm. The looting is wretched, I must admit,” said Staakys, after a pause no doubt spent in exorcising the same ghastly images that had afflicted Lycon. “A few scraps of silver, worthless native trinkets, and reams and reams of useless black silk. Unless we want to go into trade selling bloody mourning-veils, we might as well–”
“Silk … very valuable,” interrupted Olfrud, nostalgically as usual. “I raided a silk trader out of Seraquin once … Worth a fortune.”
“Yes, well I’m sorry to say that this Alvere stuff isn’t, Milord. You can’t bleach it, you can’t dye it, and unless you heat your scissors in a forge you’re more likely to blunt them than get a clean cut … err, according to my orderly,” he hastily added, perhaps realising that this was a little more knowledge on the subject of noctys silk than was necessarily desirable for a Brython sealord to know.
“Never mind the damn silk, Staakys,” fumed Corin, to Lycon’s delight: being disrespectful to his ‘patron’ was no way to build a consensus. “What about the Alvere, eh? If they make such useless thralls, then explain to me why thousands of them are enslaved in Lucinian cities right at this moment.”
“Ah, that’s different,” replied Lycon, sagaciously. “Those poor suckers don’t know that they’re thralls, Milord. That’s typical of the Lucinians: so cunning that they’ve persuaded people that their slavery is freedom. To emulate their cunning, we should have to become more like them. Is that what anyone here wants?” There was a gratifying, awkward silence. Lycon allowed himself a smile, and resumed. “While we’re on the subject of Lucinia, I would also remind you that their new ambassador is on his way, and that gives us a unique opportunity to coerce some real gains out of the arrogant bastards. I realise patience is not your strong point, Lord Corin, but all the nations know that our reputation for bravery is matched only by our reputation for pissing away our best opportunities to grab at short-term gains. As soon as we start to challenge that reputation, we will start to be seen as a force to be reckoned with again, rather than a ragtag bunch of aimless bandits and guns-for-hire.”
“You think like a Lucinian, you do,” remarked Corin, scornfully. “My Lords, are we to listen to this craven counsel, or are we men?” Staakys replied only with a displeased frown. Yes, by all means. Question Lord Staakys’ manhood. That’ll really endear you to him. Seizing the initiative again, Lycon continued:
“One last thing to consider, My Lords: whatever you or I may think of ‘Queen Ironface,’ this Convocation did unanimously decide to honour her with the rank of fleet captain, and she has kept faith with us according to our agreements. She is, in effect, our sister-in-arms. Will it now be said that the Brythons are kin-slayers?”
“Sister-in-arms?” repeated Corin, with incredulous contempt. “The fuck … You are sweet on that elf-bitch, aren’t you? Pity she obviously despises your ugly old face as much as–”
“Alfric is right,” interrupted Lord Olfrud, in an unusually strong and solemn tone, much to Lycon’s relief. “That must never be said of us … My Lords … No man is more justly hated than the kin-slayer … This Convocation must honour its word.”
“I … have to agree,” said Lord Staakys, with an air of deep consideration, although Lycon knew better. The day he votes against Lord Olfrud is the day the Brimiric Ocean freezes over. “There’s little enough to be gained in hasty deeds, and we must preserve the honour of this august body. Since we have nothing of substance to actually accuse the, err, the lady of, I suggest, My Lords, that we take no action against her for the present. Of course, should she prove false to us in the future–”
“I’ll be first in line to slit her throat,” interrupted Lycon, with such icy conviction that Staakys was momentarily taken aback. Lycon himself was disturbed at how satisfyingly cathartic he had found it to say those words, and was then immediately ashamed of himself. So, emotionally scarred by Corin’s taunts … If this isn’t a new low for me, I don’t know what would be.
“Well … huzzah to that, Milord,” Staakys replied, approvingly if slightly nervously. “In that case, gentlemen, I believe we are all of one mind,” he remarked, with a rising intonation and an aside glance at Lord Corin, who took the hint, albeit with nothing that could have been mistaken for good grace.
“Whatever,” he curtly replied, kicking his chair back from the table. “If that’s what you all want, so be it.” This surly acquiescence was not entirely to Lycon’s pleasure, as he had half-dared to hope that Corin might have pointlessly held out in opposition, thus weakening his status and maybe even inspiring him to take his ships and men back to Brythenedd. Lycon would not have missed them any more than he would miss Lord Corin himself, who was now heading for the door.
“Milord? Where are– ?” Staakys began to ask.
“Hunting. I want to see something die,” Corin informatively interrupted, moments before storming out of the lodge and slamming the door so forcefully that the air current nearly extinguished the pathetic fire.
“Sterling command material, as I’ve always said,” remarked Lycon, but even now his deadpan humour did not appeal to Staakys.
“His men respect him, Lord Lycon,” he replied, gravely.
“His men are as bad as he is, or worse. Foreign mercenary trash coupled with the dregs of Brythenedd: press-ganged thieves and murderers, addle-brained shroom-eaters, drunks, dissolutes … My only consolation in having them here is knowing the relief everyone back home must be feeling at their absence.”
“Exactly. Much better to have them here, doing what they’re best at, under a man they can follow. Making the most of our opportunities and our resources, as you’re fond of advocating,” he slyly pointed out. “When all’s said and done, would you rather they were over here, fighting our enemies, or back in Brythenedd fighting our kin?”
Preferably in gibbets, fighting decomposition … and losing, thought Lycon, but saw nothing to gain in expressing it.
“Ah, m’boy. We must be feared to be respected,” said Lord Olfrud, vexingly although not unkindly. “We must have the fierce ones … as well as the wise ones … You and I, Alfric … were bold enough at his age, I remember.” Well-intentioned although it was, the comment only served to make Lycon feel old as well as disappointed. Craving solitude, he bid a hasty though polite farewell to his fellow sealords, retrieved his horse, and set off back down the narrow path.
The descent did not go as smoothly as the ascent had done, his horse proving very recalcitrant to cross some of the treacherous terrain. He suspected it was sensing its master’s moment of weakness and getting its revenge for having been forced up here in the first place. It reminded him of an allegory he had once read in some work of Ancient Lucinian philosophy, likening the human mind to a chariot being pulled along by two argumentative horses, both eager to shoot off in different directions. Within his own mind, he could almost hear the harnesses creak under the strain as his inner horses engaged in a thorough bitch-fest:
Wretched, ungrateful woman. I put everything on the line for her, and for what? To be her second choice after that insipid little lordling Ashbyrn? Who in the Abysm does she t
hink I am?
Boo fucking hoo, someone fetch the viol and play some sad music. Could this be something to do with your gutless insistence upon always keeping her at arm’s length? Just a thought …
It isn’t that simple, you know it’s–
Bullshit. When you courted Marcia, what didn’t you dare? Her father chased you halfway across Drennholm and into the sea with a battle-axe, yet you rowed back at night and scaled the cliff just to steal a kiss through her window. Are you that afraid Gloriana would reject you that a watery grave seems more enticing?
But there’s more to consider. The closer I get to her, the more I put Corin and Staakys on the alert. They’re already suspicious.
Ah, my mistake. So you’re not afraid of the poor, disfigured elf-girl, then? You’re afraid of the bullying braggart and the fawning sycophant. That’s a relief. For a moment there I thought you were turning into a coward into your old age.
At which point Lycon’s inner chariot-driver decided that enough was enough, and cracked the whip. Poor, disfigured elf-girl, indeed … If Gloriana could have heard that thought, she would have given him a swift knee in the nether regions, and deservedly so. She was no such thing. She was the Queen of Alvenheim, and in time would be the greatest ruler ever to bear that name, over the greatest realm ever to bear that name, and had the sealords been aware of that, her life expectancy would have looked even less healthy than it had done today. Keeping her at a discreet distance was still necessary for her own sake, at least until Ashbyrn and his men had completed their mission. In any case, she would draw more strength in her solitude: that was a feeling Lycon knew all too well. A sudden relationship might even risk damaging her resolve, and thus cost them not only their safety but their best shot at attaining supreme power, and that thought was enough to harden Lycon’s determination. The Alvere will have their queen, and Brythenedd will have its king, and the rest of the world … if we deign to be merciful, that is, will bend the knee in vassalage … and Lord Corin can go fuck himself on my coronation sceptre. Then, when they were equals in power, it would make very little sense for Gloriana to contemplate a union with anyone else. She must see the logic of that. But will she?
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