The Huntmaster set his bearers to work, while the nobility started the ride back to Crydee Keep.
As they made their way among the boles of the forest, seeking the game trail that would lead them back to the road to Crydee, Bethany said in a falsely sweet tone, ‘Too bad you boys didn’t find a boar.’
Both brothers exchanged looks, and for a rare moment, Brendan’s sour expression matched Martin’s.
Supper was festive despite the furious storm building outside. The mood was abetted by a roaring fire in the great hall, ample wine, and a sense of safety from the fury of the elements. The banter around the table was predictable; the two families were close and the meals shared uncountable.
Formal seating had been abandoned years before, as the two wives, the Duchess Caralin and the Countess Marriann, had quickly become like sisters, and had talked across their two husbands until the Duke had decided that comfort outweighed protocol.
So the Earl Robert sat in the seat tradition gave to the host’s wife, while she sat in his. The two men could chat, as could their wives, and harmony was ensured.
The Duke’s two sons sat to the right of the Earl, while Lady Bethany sat to her mother’s left. After most of the meal had been consumed, Brendan elbowed his brother lightly. ‘What is it?’
‘What is what?’ said Martin, his brow furrowed as if irritated by the question.
Martin’s dour expression made Brendan’s grin broaden, as if he sensed another opportunity to vex his brother. ‘Either you’re dying to overhear Mother’s conversation with Countess Marriann, or there’s something on the end of Bethany’s nose.’
Martin had indeed been inclining his head in that direction as his brother spoke, but his gaze returned with a snap to his brother. His expression was one Brendan had seen only rarely, a deep and threatening look that warned the youngest brother that this time he had stepped too far over the line. Those previous experiences usually resulted in Brendan running very fast for his mother’s protection when he was very young, or his father’s or his brother Hal’s when older.
But rather than erupt in the rage that followed that particular black look, Martin simply lowered his voice and said, ‘You saw nothing.’
His tone was so filled with controlled anger and menace that Brendan could only nod.
Sensing something between his sons, Duke Harry said, ‘If this storm gets worse, we’ll have a lot of work to do in the town for quite a few days.’ He looked at Martin. ‘I’ll want you to take a patrol to the north and north-east, to see how the villagers fare.’ Then he said to Brendan, ‘And you’re old enough to lead one as well. To the south and south-east.’
‘I can see to those villages on my way home, your grace,’ said Earl Robert.
‘Linger a few days more,’ said Harry. With a warm smile he glanced to where his wife sat in animated conversation with the Countess and added, ‘They do so miss one another.’
‘True,’ said the Earl. ‘We do seem to have less time for visits.’
Leaning over, Harry asked, ‘You have closer ties with kin in the east. What do you hear?’
The Earl knew exactly what the Duke referred to. ‘Little. It is as if people are suddenly cautious to the point of silence.’
Almost since the creation of the Western Realm of the Kingdom there had been rivalry between West and East. Everything east of the small city of Malac’s Cross was viewed as ‘the real Kingdom of the Isles’ to the majority of citizens and the ruling Congress of Lords. The West was often seen as a drain on national resources, since much of it was empty and mountainous or, worse, inhabited by non-humans, dwarves, elves, trolls, goblins, and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path. Administration costs were high relative to the amount of revenue generated for the Crown, and there was almost no political advantage to be had from serving in the West. Real military and political advancement came from serving in the Eastern Realm. Hunting down raiding bands of goblins or trolls was not a path to promotion; fighting against Keshian raiders or border skirmishes against the Eastern Kingdoms was.
‘I count on you for something more dependable than what comes through Krondor,’ said the Duke. ‘Your family is new to the Far Coast, while my house . . .’ He let the sentence trail off.
The history of House conDoin in Crydee was well known. A brother to the King had conquered the Far Coast, once Great Kesh’s most far-flung frontier, and annexed it to the Kingdom, almost doubling the breadth of the nation in less than five years. Liking the area where he had ended up after his struggles, he had persuaded his brother to give him the Far Coast and built the very keep in which they now dined, Crydee.
Carse, the Earl’s home, was actually the more critical trading and commerce centre, being blessed with a far better harbour and sitting squarely at the heart of the coast, with all farming, mining, and foresting materials bound for export eventually finding their way to Carse’s docks.
Earl Robert’s father had been given the office of earl by Henry’s grandfather, with the King’s blessing, when the previous earl had died without issue. As no estate on the Far Coast was considered desirable enough for any Eastern noble, the award went unchallenged. More than once Lord Henry had considered that he, Earl Robert, and Morris, Earl of Tulan, were almost an autonomous little kingdom unto themselves. The taxes paid to the Crown were modest, reduced by half by what the Prince in Krondor took, but the requirements were meagre as well, so for the most part the Far Coast was ignored.
‘One hears rumours,’ said Robert, leaning over. ‘The King’s health is poor, according to one cousin I consider reliable. It’s said that healing priests are required frequently for maladies that would be counted mild in most men his age.’
Henry sighed as he sat back, lifted his goblet of wine and took a sip. ‘Patrick was the last true conDoin king, in my judgment. Those who have come after are like his wife, vindictive and manipulative, always plotting: true Eastern rulers.’ He set down his wine. ‘Mark you well, if the King dies without male issue, we may be sucked into conflict.’
Robert’s expression clouded. ‘Civil war, Harry?’
Henry shook his head. ‘No, but a political struggle in the Congress which could keep the throne vacant for a long time. And if that happens . . .’ He shrugged.
‘A regent. Who do you think the Congress would be likely to appoint?’
‘There’s the rub,’ said Henry. ‘You’d have to ask your Eastern kin. I haven’t the foggiest.’
The Duke retrieved his freshly-filled cup and drank slowly as he reflected. What he had said about the last ‘true’ king was a dangerous remark should any but the most trusted of friends, like Robert of Carse, overhear it.
The conDoins were the longest line of rulers in the history of the Kingdom of the Isles. There had been petty kings on the Island of Rillanon before the rise of this dynasty, but it had been a conDoin who had first planted the banner of the Isles on the mainland and conquered Bas-Tyra. It had been conDoin kings who had forged a nation to rival Great Kesh to the south and kept the pesky Eastern Kingdoms in control and forged a close relationship with the island kingdom of Roldem.
Robert noticed his friend’s thoughtful expression. ‘What?’
‘Roldem.’
‘What of Roldem?
Henry leaned over, as if cautious of being overheard, even here in the heart of his own demesne. ‘Without an acknowledged heir, there are many claimants to the throne.’
Robert waved aside the remark. ‘Your family has more distant cousins than a hive has bees, but there are only a few of royal blood.’
‘There are three princes—’
‘Seven,’ interrupted Robert. ‘You and your three sons are of the blood royal.’
Henry grimaced. ‘By grace of our ancestor, we’ve renounced claim to the inheritance of anything but Crydee.’
‘Martin Longbow may have, to avoid a civil war with his brothers, but that was then. This is now. There are many in the Congress who would consider you a worthy claimant to the thron
e should the need arise. They would rally to you.’
‘You speak boldly, Robert. Many might say you tread the edge of treason, but I have no interest, for myself or my sons. Back to the truths of the moment: there are three nephews who would vie for the crown: Oliver, the King’s nephew is closest in blood, but from the King’s sister’s marriage to Prince Michael of Semrick, and that makes him a foreigner in the eyes of many. Montgomery, Earl of Rillanon, and Duke Chadwick of Ran are both cousins to the King, though distant.’
Robert sat back and let out a long sigh. ‘It’s a shame King Gregory wasn’t the lady’s man his father was. Patrick left a litter of bastards along the way before he married. Still, he has managed to sire one son.’ The Earl paused, then added, ‘Prince Oliver’s a good lad, and you’re right, he has as much conDoin blood in him as any, and he’s betrothed to the Duke of Bas-Tyra’s second daughter, Grace. Since the Tsurani war the houses of Bas-Tyra and conDoin have stood close, more than a hundred years as one.’
‘That’s a powerful faction,’ agreed the Duke. ‘But Gregory has yet to name Oliver as his heir. The lad is approaching his twentieth year and Gregory is not likely to produce another son, no matter how hard he and that girl he married try.’ Both men chuckled. After the unexpected death of the Queen, the King had chosen to marry a girl barely a year older than his son. She was the daughter of a minor court noble, who had been raised up in rank by the auspicious marriage. The girl’s only grace was her stunning beauty, and it was reported she kept the king very happy, but other than that, she seemed a simple soul.
Rumours abounded that the King’s health was not as it should be. Given his age, barely fifty years, and his short rule, only five years since the death of his father, the potential for instability in the Kingdom was higher than it had been in a century.
‘Montgomery is not a factor,’ Robert continued. ‘He’s a creature of the court and is likely to emerge as a candidate only as a compromise short of war, but he has no standing, no factions behind him, nothing. He’s just there.’
‘But he is the King’s sister’s second son, and as close by blood as anyone after Oliver.’
‘It is regrettable that his older brother didn’t live. Now, he was a young man of talent.’
Henry nodded and said nothing. The death of Montgomery’s elder brother Alexander had always been something viewed with suspicion. No one gave voice to the thought, but his death in a raid by Ceresian pirates had seemed both pointless and convenient. The pirates had raided an estate which was heavily fortified yet containing little of worth. Some trinkets had been looted, but the only notable thing had been the death of the King’s nephew, who was at that time the leading contender for the title of heir to the throne. Fortunately, Oliver had been born soon after and the question of inheritance seemed to subside.
‘Do you think Edward is a factor?’ asked Robert.
‘No. He’s a prince in name only.’ Henry laughed. ‘And he might make a good king, because he desperately does not want the position. He rules in Krondor only as a favour to the King’s late father. Patrick and Edward were as brothers. He looks upon Gregory as a nephew and he’ll stay there until relieved. He will certainly retire to his estates in the East when Oliver comes west.’
‘So if no heir is named by the King, and the King passes, who will the Congress support?’ asked Henry. ‘That is the question.’
Robert let out a long breath as if in exasperation. ‘Only the gods know, I suspect. And Sir William Alcorn.’
Henry gave a wry chuckle. ‘Our oddly mysterious Sir William.’
Both men fell silent as they considered the man just named. A common soldier by all accounts, from the city of Rillanon, an islander born, he had risen quickly to the rank of Knight-Captain and had been promoted to the King’s personal guard.
But when the King was a young man and sent by his father to study at the University of Roldem, Knight-Captain William had been named head of the then Prince Gregory’s personal retinue and had returned two years later as Sir William Alcorn, newly appointed personal advisor to the heir to the throne. Now five years later he was advisor to the King of the Isles.
‘He seems to favour no faction.’
‘Or he plays off one side against the other, securing his own position.’
Robert sighed. ‘It is rumoured he is now the most powerful man in the Kingdom, despite his overt displays of modesty and humility. The King hangs upon his every word, which means no few of the Lords of the Congress do as well.’
‘How the truth is seen often defines the truth,’ observed Henry. ‘If he is feared for power, how much power he truly has to wield is immaterial, for the fear is still real. And how does Lord Jamison take his position as First Advisor being usurped?’
Robert shrugged. ‘He’s still a power, but he’s ageing. His son James the third is able, but it’s his grandson, yet another James . . . Jim’s the one to keep an eye on.’
The Earl nodded. Both men had met Jim Dasher in his guise as Lord Jamison, grandson to the Duke of Rillanon.
‘What is known about Alcorn?’ posed Earl Robert. ‘He rose through the ranks, hardly the first man of common birth to do that – Duke James’s grandfather was a common street lad, a thief even by some recounting. But this Sir William holds no specific title – it is said he refuses them, though even the office of Duke of Rillanon might be his for the asking once Lord James steps down.’
Henry shook his head ruefully. ‘The current Duke might object; I think he sees the office going to his son or grandson. And Lord James is still a man with whom to reckon. He holds together the Congress of Lords, truth to tell.’
‘Well,’ said Earl Robert, ‘it is of little concern for us on the Far Coast, it’s true.’ Then he smiled, ‘Yet it is always interesting.’
‘You’re a more political animal than I, Robert. But to say it is of little concern is to assume things will go forward as they have in the past, and that may not be so. There’s a difference between the Crown ignoring us and abandoning us. It’s when I consider that possible bleak future I’m glad to have friends such as you and Morris here in the West.’
‘Ever your loyal vassal, my friend.’
At that moment a soldier, drenched to the skin, hurried into the Keep, approached the Duke’s table, and bowed. ‘My lord, a ship is making for the harbour.’ He sounded out of breath.
The Duke stood. ‘In this weather?’
‘We have tried to warn them off with red flash powder in the lighthouse, but they’ve ignored us and are coming straight in!’
The Duke looked to Robert. As one they said, ‘Reinman!’
Henry said, ‘Only that madman would run before the gale and think to not end up with his ship a half-mile inland. Let’s go up to the tower.’ He motioned for Robert to follow, but by then the boys and Bethany had also stood up.
‘Father,’ said Martin. ‘You’ll never see anything from up there!’
‘If it’s Reinman and he doesn’t bring that ship to heel in this gale, we’ll have plenty to see,’ Henry answered. He moved out of the great hall towards the stairs that led to the tallest tower in the fore of the keep. It was called the Magician’s Tower, for once the Duke’s ancestor, Lord Borric, had given it over to a magician and his apprentice. Now vacant, it still afforded the best view of the western vista.
Servants hurried to bring oiled cloaks for the Duke’s court. As Henry and Robert reached the top of the tower, a page barely able to catch his breath overtook them and handed each man a heavy hooded cloak of canvas soaked in seal oil. Moments later the two rulers of this land were atop the tower, faces into the biting rain, attempting to see what they could in the darkness.
As the others gathered behind them, Earl Robert shouted over the wind, ‘Can you see anything?’
Henry pointed. ‘Look!’
The town of Crydee was shuttered fast against the storm, but light could be glimpsed leaking around the edges of shutters, cracks in door frames, and from the lanterns o
f those who hurried toward the docks. The alarm was sounding and it carried faintly to those atop Crydee Keep’s tallest tower.
In the distance the glow from Longpoint Lighthouse could barely be seen, faintly red from the powder that had been tossed on the beacon to warn ships off attempting to enter the harbour.
In a severe storm, ships would make for a headland seven miles up the coast and heave to behind the shelter of some tall bluffs. In a storm like this, the wise choice could be to keep sailing along the coast and circle back when the winds lessened, or to drop anchor and turn the bow into the gale.
But this captain was no ordinary seaman; rather, as Lord Henry had observed, he was something of a madman. Considered the finest captain in the King’s Western Fleet, he was always the first to be sent after pirates and on dangerous missions.
‘It must be something important to make Reinman chance coming in tonight!’ shouted Martin from behind his father.
‘The fool!’ replied Robert. ‘He’ll crash into the docks!’
In the rain and gloom, the ship raced past the lighthouse like an eerie shadow, a skeleton thing of grey and black lit by the yellow-and-white reflections of torches along the breakwater leading out to the lighthouse. As the vessel entered the harbour every door and window of every shop along the wharf was thrown open despite the rain, as onlookers gaped in wonder at the mad captain who drove his ship to destruction.
Suddenly, a bloom of light appeared around the ship, expanding bubble-like into a sphere of almost daylight brilliance. Within the dome of brilliance they could easily see the ship’s crew frantically chopping at the rigging with hand axes so the sails quickly fell away.
‘Damn!’ said the Duke quietly.
Chapter Two Warning
THE WIND HOWLED.
Captain Jason Reinman bellowed to be heard above the noise. ‘Cut ’em loose, damn ya!’
The crew had been ordered aloft during the mad dash toward the harbour of Crydee in preparation for this desperate act.
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