by Ari Marmell
Whatever espionage or intrigue had occurred here, King Hasyan and his advisors clearly took it seriously. Nycos increased his pace, sweeping toward the throne room, and if his speed and his bulk weren’t sufficient to clear his path, the intensity writ large across his features certainly did the job.
When he finally stepped into the great hall, beneath the watchful gaze of several guards, he realized he would have to move aside, stand with the bulk of the gathered nobles and await his turn to speak—although Marshal Laszlan did acknowledge his arrival with a quick nod from beside the throne. Many waited to address the king, including Dame Zirresca, who must have only just returned from her own patrols along the northern border with Ktho Delios, but it was not to any of them that his Majesty currently spoke. No, the king and his advisors atop the dais were engaged in conversation with two figures Nycos knew by appearance and by name, though he was only passingly familiar with either.
One, an old and dark-skinned man in a flowing robe of purple and gold, could almost have been a male version of the physician, Lady Ilkya. He had the same gaunt, spindly limbs and age-roughened features. The other, a round-faced, sandy-haired woman of middle years, wore a blue gown, silver-trimmed, of an almost but not quite Kirresci cut.
Ambassadors, both—Aadesh Kidil of Suunim, and Leomyn Guldoell of Quindacra.
Nycos had entered in the midst of Leomyn’s response to whatever the king had just asked her.
“…official response,” the ambassador was saying, cooling herself with a folding fan that perfectly matched her gown, “would have to be that Quindacra would never stoop to spying on, or infiltrating the palace of, our neighbors and good friends of Kirresc. I might even have to go so far as to take offense that you would even suggest such a thing, Your Majesty.”
“I see,” Hasyan replied with surprising good humor. “And if I were to utter a royal command that you provide your unofficial response, Ambassador Guldoell?”
She returned a sad smile and as much of a shrug as her formalwear allowed. “Then I would tell you, Your Majesty, that I’d be the last person to know if we were spying on you. They don’t tell me anything that might cause conflict between my loyalty to King Boruden and my duties as envoy to your court. Frankly, they don’t trust me that much.”
Was Ambassador Guldoell always this open, this dismissive of her own position? Nycos had been present in court for very few meetings with the emissaries of other nations, as he’d remained focused on learning what he needed to know of Kirresc itself. He’d have to ask Smim if the goblin knew more about this than he did.
“And you, Ambassador Kidil?” Hasyan asked. “What have you to say if I ask whether the spy we unearthed recently was Suunimi?”
“I say,” the old man replied with a friendly grin, in a voice even deeper than the king’s own baritone, “that if we truly needed to learn something from Kirresci you wished not to tell us, we have far more efficient and subtle ways to go about it.”
From many, it would have been a grossly disrespectful remark, but Aadesh had been Suunim’s ambassador to Oztyerva Palace for decades. He and King Hasyan knew one another well, were even friends so far as their positions and political duties would permit. Thus, his Majesty simply laughed.
Nor was it an idle boast. Even before he’d become human or cared much for their borders, Nycos—Tzavalantzaval—had known of Suunim’s importance. It was there, so history and legend would have it, that the Cennuen people first landed on Galadras after sailing across the treacherous Arrendic Ocean. Suunim was the womb of today’s civilization on the continent, the birthplace of philosophy and modern government. They boasted the greatest archives, libraries, schools—if it could be known, people said, it could be learned in Suunim, and travelers came from all over not only to study, but to share new discoveries.
It meant that Suunim had people loyal to it—to what it stood for and to its institutions and history, if not its government—all over southern Galadras. Further, the archivists there were said to have mastered some of the greatest divination magics known to humanity. The astrologies that Balmorra Zas and people like her practiced had been born and developed within that nation’s borders.
So when Aadesh Kidil claimed that Suunim need not rely on clumsy methods of espionage to learn what they wished, he might have exaggerated, but his words contained some measure of truth.
“Father?” It was Princess Firillia, standing along the opposite wall with her brother Elias and several royal cousins and favored servants, who spoke. “I understand that we must consider all possibilities, but are we not dancing around the most obvious culprit?”
It didn’t require Nycos’s enhanced hearing to pick up the name “Ktho Delios” among the many mutters and whispers sparked by her comment.
“In fact, we are not,” Hasyan told her. “Ambassadors? Thank you for your time. Should I learn anything regarding this incident that I believe has bearing on either of your nations, I will of course inform you immediately.”
Aadesh and Leomyn bowed and made their departures. Only when the courtroom doors had thudded shut once more did his Majesty continue.
“We have just summoned Dame Zirresca back from patrolling the Ktho Delian border, where she was—among other duties—assigned to watch for any evidence of buildup or other military activity. Zirresca?”
“Your Majesty.” She advanced, knelt briefly, then spoke. “Unfortunately, I can only report that my observations in that regard are inconclusive. I witnessed a great deal of troop movement, border patrols, and military exercises—but that’s normal for Ktho Delios in any but the coldest winter months. I cannot say I saw anything to suggest they’re any more active than normal.
“Nor did my patrols discover any hint of the spy escaping over the northern border, though of course with so many leagues of wilderness to cover, the odds were ever against us locating him.”
“You wouldn’t have caught him anyway,” Nycos announced. “He didn’t go north.” Then, with sudden realization as every gaze turned his way, he knelt. “Apologies, Your Majesty. May I—?”
“Of course, Sir Nycolos. Rise, and speak.”
He did so, advancing to the center of the room. “I have reason to believe,” he began, “that the fugitive you sought actually fled northwest, across the Mahdreshan border.”
“And you let him go?” Zirresca demanded. “You let him escape you? What sort of—”
“I did not ‘let him go,’ because I never encountered him. As you pointed out, finding one man in that much wilderness? Nigh impossible—especially since I was not even aware we were hunting for him.”
“You weren’t—?”
“Sir Nycolos,” Orban Laszlan interrupted, “please tell us why it is you believe our spy fled that way, if you didn’t see him for yourself?”
So Nycos offered his report, leaving nothing out: the raiders, the outsider among them, the silver zlatka, and the peculiar failure of the runners to find his company on patrol, to deliver the news of the escaping spy, when they managed to contact all the others.
“It’s not hard proof,” he acknowledged as he wound down. “The outsider could have been paying the bandits for some other purpose. But it certainly all fits.”
“It does,” Orban mused. “A pity you found no evidence on the man to suggest who he served, whether this operation was Ktho Delian or… well, anyone else’s.”
“No, Marshal. But I did bring the body and all his belongings back with me. Perhaps others, with a more thorough examination, might find something I missed.”
“Very good thinking, Sir Nycolos!” Hasyan said. “And well done, reporting this to us so swiftly. We are well pleased. We’re about done here for the nonce anyway—my advisors and I need to discuss all we’ve learned today—so go take your ease, clean off the dust of your travels. We hope to see you at supper tonight.”
Nycos bowed, offered Orban a friendly smile—and a second one to the faintly scowling Zirresca, for good measure—and made his way toward the e
xit through the slowly dispersing crowd.
___
“I’m not a man frequently given to prayer.” Margrave Andarjin sounded steady as ever, but his hand shook just enough that filling his goblet was proving difficult. “But I could see my way to offering multiple paeans to Neras if she’d be willing to turn her attentions to Nycolos damned Anvarri!”
“Bit of an overreaction, isn’t that?” Zirresca, lounging back on the sofa, sipped her own drink. “He discovered that someone might have been using the Mahdreshans to cover the spy’s escape. It’s good for us to know that.”
“And it’s another victory in the eyes of Laszlan and his Majesty. He was supposed to be out of the way and wasting his time on a meaningless patrol!”
“It’s a victory,” Zirresca acknowledged. “Hardly the end of the contest, though. It’s unfortunate he was the one to make the discovery, yes. I’ll manage.”
“But—”
“Did you find anything on his housebroken goblin while I was away?”
Andarjin sighed, pulled out a chair, sat, stood again almost immediately and wandered to the far wall. There he leaned an arm against the stone, peering into his wine as though seeking answers there. “Nothing. He actually had the creature managing his estates while he was away, and so far as my people can tell, it didn’t make a single error! It’s been polite, it’s kept out of the way. Many people are still unhappy having it around at all, but it’s given us no excuse to violate Nycolos’s protection. I understand it’s even become friends with a few of the servants.”
“Hmm.” Zirresca seemed equally fascinated with her own beverage, swirling it about in the goblet. They’d hoped to somehow use the goblin to weaken her rival’s position, to indicate that he was unsuited to the office, but… “I suppose we’ll have to drop that line of attack, then.”
“We’re having to drop a lot of those. He’s recovering much faster than I anticipated, Zirresca.”
“He’s still behind. Anything on Lord Kortlaus?”
“No, he’s not returned from his own patrol yet.”
“Nothing regarding his… relationship with his subordinate?”
“No,” the margrave repeated. “If there was anything to those rumors, the baron kept it from influencing his behavior in any way his soldiers noticed. Nothing but positive reports, if uninspired. I can handle the baron politically, if it comes to that. I’m telling you, Nycolos is the greater threat. He’s the one we need to worry about.”
“I never argued it,” Zirresca said.
Silence again, as Andarjin returned once more to his chair. “It could have been worse for us, I suppose,” he acknowledged. “At least Nycolos didn’t capture the actual spy. That would have been a feat impossible to downplay.”
“Yes, but as we both mentioned in court, the odds of finding one man along an entire…” The knight froze at a sudden, horrid thought. She sat upright, pulling herself from the deep embrace of the cushions. “Andarjin? Please tell me you’re not the reason the runners failed to find Nycolos’s company!”
She took his instant of hesitation before opening his lips to respond as answer enough.
“For the gods’ sake, Arj! That’s practically treason!”
“Oh, nonsense. Maybe a messenger simply got a little bit lost while tracking a patrol route. Even if such a thing were to happen deliberately, what difference would it make? You said yourself Nycolos had precious little chance of actually finding the man. Besides, nations spy on each other all the time. I’m quite sure this one particular operative learned nothing that his government—and we have no reason to believe it’s Ktho Delios, as opposed to one of our ostensible allies—couldn’t acquire some other way.”
“I am not remotely satisfied with that answer,” she said, “and I don’t believe her Highness Firillia would be, either.”
“Zirresca, what are you thinking of—?”
“I’m not going to tell her anything. This time.”
“Thank—”
“But you’re going too far, Andarjin. It needs to stop. I will be Crown Marshal, and I will support you and Princess Firillia over Prince Elias, when the time comes. But I will not dishonor myself, and I certainly will not endanger Kirresc, to do it!”
“But of course, Zirresca. Nor would I.”
“So long as we understand each other.”
Oh, yes, Smim noted silently from his by now familiar spot in the alcove above, lying flat to avoid casting a visible shadow in the last rays of the setting sun. I think we all understand each other very well.
___
“Well,” Nycos said, voice echoing from the depths of the bath, “isn’t that a fascinating tale?”
“I thought you might think so, Master,” Smim replied from the adjoining chamber, where he currently straightened up after the knight’s breakfast—a task that appeared to consist, for the most part, of gulping down every scrap of leftovers like a starving hyena. “The question,” he continued around a mouthful of breaded and spiced liver sausage, “is what you wish for us to do about it.”
Nycos allowed his head to sink beneath the warm water as he pondered. After retiring from court last night, the fatigue of the long, hot patrol had caught up with him. Since neither Kortlaus nor Mariscal were available to talk—the margravine was off visiting her father’s court, though she was expected back any day—he’d bothered with only a quick dunk in tepid water, to wash away the worst of the dust and stink, and then taken to his bed. Fast asleep when Smim returned from his regular bout of eavesdropping, he’d only heard the goblin’s report this morning, first over breakfast and then during a far longer and more luxurious bath. (He had, of course, dismissed the servants after they’d refreshed and heated the water, rather than allowing them to bathe him—in part so that he and Smim could speak in private, but also because he remained uncomfortable with his body’s reaction to their ministrations.)
“We,” he said, upon coming up for air, “are going to do nothing for now.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the audible pause in the goblin’s chewing, followed by a hard swallow. “Pardon, Master? Nothing?”
“It’s useful information, Smim. And we’ll definitely want to keep an ear on Andarjin.”
“Oh, if only I’d thought of that while you were gone, Master.”
Nycos ignored the sarcasm with the ease of long practice. “But for right now, we’ve no proof of any wrongdoing. It’s your word against theirs, and we both know who comes out ahead in that contest. It might even give them the excuse they want to act against you.”
Dishes clattered as Smim began to collect them from the table in the suite’s main chamber. “On that subject, Master?”
“Hmm?”
“We ought to discuss giving me a formal title.”
Nycos paused in the midst of reaching out, fingers brushing the ceramic vial that held the mixture of soaps and oils he’d come to prefer for his beard. “Pardon?”
“There’s a status, a pecking order, even among the servants. It’s based largely on the rank of masters and employers, but our own official positions do enter into it. My impression is that some of them, and even a few of the nobles, would be more comfortable around me if they knew how to categorize me. And that might make them more liable to speak to me.”
“I see. And what shall we call you, then? My palatine?”
“Seeing as how you have neither a royal household for me to oversee, nor a kingdom in which I might serve as your official voice and surrogate, I think not, Master. Besides, I’d rather not give Jarta reason to request my execution. Being without a head might make it more difficult to listen in on conversations.”
“I can understand how it might. ‘Seneschal’ would seem to be out for many of the same reasons. Any suggestions?”
Somehow, despite the goblin being in the other room, Nycos knew that Smim shrugged. “Most of your brethren have squires serving them.”
“Am I training you for the knighthood, now?” Nycos asked in
amusement, running the soap through his facial hair. “Sir Smim, the Goblin Knight?”
“Pah! I’m certain there must be worse ideas, Master, but it might require more than the two of us working together to come up with one. Although,” he added with an audible smirk, “it would be amusing to see everyone’s reaction to the notion.”
“In any case, we’ll figure something out. I don’t see that there’s any rush to—” Nycos fell silent for an instant at the abrupt pounding on the door. “See to that, would you, Smim?”
He listened as the goblin’s footsteps crossed the room, then ducked under the water once more to wash the soap from his face. The lingering scent of breakfast, when he emerged, was for some reason stronger than the bath oils.
Due to the draft from the open door, maybe.
“Sir Nycolos!”
The messenger, a young palace page, stood in the doorway to the bathing chamber, Smim hovering behind. Clearly something of import, then, if the goblin had allowed the boy inside rather than insist he wait for Nycos to dry off, dress, and come to him.
“Yes, what is it?”
“I’m to tell you that runners have reported a foreign delegation approaching Talocsa, sir.”
“Um… All right? And?” Kirresc received envoys and ambassadors from most of the southern nations on a regular basis, and Nycos himself wasn’t much involved with international—
“It’s Ythani, sir.”
The knight was out of the tub like a breaching orca, sending a geyser of water across the ceiling and the floor. “My clothes, Smim. Now!”
“Yes, Master!”
“And Smim?”
The goblin halted in mid-spin. “Master?”
“My sabre, as well.”
___
It would be inaccurate to say Nycos had never seen the throne room so crowded—in fact, a great many of the lower ranking gentry and servants who normally formed the ever-present audience along the right-hand wall were notably absent—but it had certainly been some time since he had observed so many of the land’s highest and most important assembled here all at once.