Allegiance, page 10
part #3 of River of Souls Series
Armand gasped and struck out at the ghostly face.
His fist met flesh.
A voice cried out. A woman’s voice.
Armand recoiled. Yseulte. Not his father or grandfather. His wife.
Above the roar inside his skull, he heard the echo of many voices. His guards. Others. Then, Yseulte shouting them all down, saying that it was nothing but a dream. An unfortunate dream was all. They were to leave the bedchamber at once.
I hate them, Armand thought, twisting the pillow between his fists. They would not say anything of the king’s nightmares for fear of execution. But they knew.
Yseulte returned to their bed and knelt beside him. “They are gone,” she said softly. “No one else is here. No one. You are safe.”
She brushed the sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. Her hands were cool and soft. Just like his father’s. He shuddered, remembering those other nights. It bothered him that he could remember almost nothing of his mother, except for the scent of lavender and a single image of her sitting by the window, a silhouette of dark blue robes against the brilliant sky. He allowed Yseulte to stroke his cheek and hair, to soothe him into the semblance of calm. She understood. Above all the reasons of state, above all other political considerations, he had married her because she understood and still loved him.
“Sleep, my love,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes and breathed in rhythm with his wife. He told himself his father and grandfather were dead. He was alone with Yseulte. Their three children were several rooms distant from this dreadful huge bedchamber. They would never, he swore, never dream of monsters as he had.
Yseulte cradled him in her arms, rocking him as though he were one of the children. Armand gratefully leaned against her, breathing in the strange conflicting scents that were hers alone. Rose and linden flower. The milky scent from nursing their youngest child, which she had insisted upon, even though a queen might summon any number of wet nurses. Her skin was warm and soft—silk touched with magic—and her pulse beat steady against his temple.
“I love you,” she said.
Yseulte was not his mother. He was not his father.
He told himself that was enough.
* * *
BY LATE MORNING the nightmares had receded to trembling shadows. Those he was used to. Memories of the dreams and their aftermath lingered at the edge of awareness, however, like the dark oily waves he had witnessed in the south, the remnants of a storm.
Like the smothering darkness in your bedchamber, the one your mother decreed safe against your father’s sickness, your grandfather’s madness. You screamed until they lit an oil lamp. You screamed even louder at the wriggling shadows. Nothing worked until Lord Khandarr lit a steady flame, powered by magic, that swept away the darkness.
He decided he was fit to conduct the day’s business, starting with his usual public audience. It was an unexceptional day. Minor nobles from outlying provinces, hoping to insinuate themselves into Duenne’s Court. An envoy from Versterlant, here on behalf of her nation’s council. Representatives from certain banking guilds in Ysterien, which required higher fees before they lent money to the crown, and another from Fortezzien, with their perpetual demands for lower taxes. Toward the end of the hour, a trade delegation from Melnek City, in the northeast province of Morauvín.
He spoke with great politeness with his Ysterien visitors. He needed funds unattached to any obligations. The Fortezzien delegates he dismissed with a vague promise to consider their petition. When the trade delegation presented itself, he greeted them politely, but was glad when the other members withdrew bowing, leaving their leader to address the king.
“Your name?” Armand inquired, though his steward had already provided a synopsis of the man’s title, holdings, and his history within the guild.
“Maester Theodr Galt, your Majesty.”
“And your demands?”
Galt hesitated, clearly taken aback at Armand’s blunt phrasing.
“Your Majesty, I make no demands—”
“You do, Maester Galt, however softly you phrase them.”
He deliberately narrowed his eyes and stared at Galt. The man was wealthy, he could determine that even without his steward’s report. Dressed in sober black linen, trimmed in silk, the style the latest fashion in Duenne, which meant he had ordered a new wardrobe after his arrival. That same report named Galt as the chief of the shipping guild for Melnek and the surrounding territories. Galt could not be even forty years old—young for the post. Ruthless and ambitious, then.
All the courtiers were listening, a detail Armand had not forgotten, though apparently Galt had. The man tilted his face up. His coloring was dark brown, his features strong and stinking of stubbornness—too stubborn for diplomacy, and yet a fine veneer of mildness overlaid everything.
“I wish the best for Veraene,” Galt said. “Let me prove myself, your Majesty. If you find me and my promises adequate, then let us further discuss my guild.”
Stubbornness and desperation, a most interesting—and useful—combination. Melnek was a major trade city, inhabited by many wealthy merchants. That much money could fund a war, Armand thought.
And so he smiled upon Theodr Galt, and offered him the hospitality of the royal palace.
* * *
HE SPENT THE next hour with his ministers, discussing matters of the treasury, then retreated into a private assembly chamber with his senior advisers. This was a quiet wing in the palace, once the library for Erythandra’s emperors and mages, now derelict except for this one room.
Today, however, it was an uncomfortable meeting. Large blue-black thunderclouds massed above the northern hills, turning the air stale and close. Armand’s head ached. It felt as though a dozen fingers pressed against his eyes and temples. The presence of magic—the dozens of spells needed to seal this chamber from any spy—offered no relief.
His senior council appeared equally affected by the close hot room, but no one suggested they open the windows. They knew his preference for discretion. Unlike the usual council sessions, Armand would have no guards present. Even the few servants were a concession, and only because Khandarr had excised their ability to speak or hear.
“Next item,” Armand said harshly. “Austerlant.”
Duke Feltzen shuffled a stack of papers, undoubtedly searching for his notes about the subject. Normally Lord Khandarr acted as chief councillor and spokesman during these meetings, but Khandarr’s absence these past four months had altered the usual order of things. “Austerlant,” Feltzen said. “Yes. We’ve received official complaints about excess fees for goods crossing the border.”
Armand signaled to the steward for water. He drank deeply and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
Austerlant. Yes. The fees were in retaliation for previous taxes imposed on Veraenen caravans. Just as important, according to Markus Khandarr, the fees encouraged stricter laws governing the more casual border crossings between friendly kingdoms. Everyone was taxed, even if they only carried a loaf of bread for the noonday meal.
“The taxes and fees stand,” he said. “If they dislike it, let them send all their trade by ship instead.”
A route open only during the brief summer season.
“But your Majesty—”
“Do it.”
He spoke softly. Even so, the duke flinched. Baron Quint merely smiled, but it was a weak, fluttering smile. The other three men glanced at each other, clearly uneasy.
Cowards, Armand thought. None of them dared to confront him. He had previously liked Feltzen, a man who used to challenge his grandfather. If the rumors were true, Feltzen had flirted with an alliance with Lord Kosenmark. But like his other councillors, Feltzen had turned overly cautious, overly placating. Quint was no different. They were like dogs, begging for treats.
“What comes next?” he asked. “Ournes, wasn’t it?”
His senior secretary had brought him reports from Ournes, whose regional governor had abdicated his post. Feltzen named several candidates. Quint offered objections to three. Armand ended the debate by ordering the two men to provide detailed reports on all candidates by the following week. Fortezzien wanted concessions. Lord Nicol Joannis had vowed his allegiance once again to the crown, but the man could not compel every citizen to obedience. It was a never-ending task, like magical strings that untied themselves as soon as you loosed your hold on them.
We need the taxes and fees from Austerlant. We need funds to pay the soldiers, to quell the unrest before we can do anything about Károví. Even if—
He felt a twitch deep in his gut. He lifted a hand to signal for more water, when a tangible ripple passed through the room. The scent of magic sharpened to a strong green aroma, at once sickening and invigorating, as though the magical guards had suddenly gone alert. Quint’s face turned gray. Feltzen gripped his useless papers in both fists.
Markus Khandarr limped into the room, leaning upon a wooden staff.
One of his councillors hissed in surprise. Armand nearly did himself.
Khandarr had never been young, in Armand’s eyes. He had gained entry into Duenne’s Court when he was forty-two, and Armand a child. He had served in minor positions, always grateful, always happy for whatever duties were handed over to him. Later, after Armand’s father died of drink and suicide, Khandarr had offered his unquestioning attention to the young prince. He had secured Armand’s rooms against all intrusions, even those of the king. To Armand of Angersee, Markus Khandarr was invincible.
But this broken old man was almost a stranger. His face had turned lopsided, one half unnaturally stiff and drawn into an ugly knot of deeply etched lines, the other sagging into pouches. Khandarr stomped onward, each step accompanied by a wince, a barely suppressed groan. His staff clicked loudly over the tiled floor.
Armand watched his slow progress with growing apprehension. And anger.
You told me you had discovered a mage from Morennioù. You never mentioned that mage bested you.
He should have guessed, however, that there was something more. Khandarr had sent only one report from Osterling Keep. It was laden with details about the Károvín ships that foundered offshore, hints of an expedition to faraway islands, about soldiers who died even as Khandarr attempted to question them, and then, almost as an afterthought, the mention of a great discovery.
Weeks of silence had followed, broken only by one brief note from Tiralien. Since then, nothing. Nothing for almost three months.
Khandarr stopped a few steps away from Armand’s chair. He adjusted his grip on his wooden staff and, with obvious effort, lowered himself to one knee. His gray hair was tousled from wind and stiffened with sweat. Dust coated his clothes. He had obviously come here directly from the stables.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “I request … an audience. A private one.”
His voice was faint, his words slurring together.
Of course you want a private audience, Armand thought. You bring news of a failure. One so shameful, you didn’t dare send a report by written word.
His councillors were already on their feet. Feltzen had crumpled his papers together. Quint barely held himself back from scrambling to escape. Armand waited, his stomach drawing into an ever-tighter knot, until he heard the door bolted closed behind them.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
Khandarr jerked his head up. Did he hear an echo of Baerne of Angersee in that command? Another day, Armand might have treasured such a victory. Today was different. He pointed to Feltzen’s chair. “Sit. Speak. If you can,” he added.
It was an unnecessary bit of cruelty. Armand wished he could recall the words. Khandarr grimaced—strange how that twisted face could express such clear emotions—and raised himself to his feet. He stumped over to the chair. Once seated, he poured himself a cup of sweet wine and drank it down.
“Kosenmark,” he said. “News from Tiralien. And more. That I could not entrust to messengers.”
Interesting. So he hoped to convey that this long-overdue report would be the true and complete one. Armand found himself curious how Khandarr’s account would compare with those of his other spies.
“Go on,” he said.
Khandarr nodded briskly, a gesture more like his old self. He poured a second cup of wine, and proceeded to give his report, though still in that strange and garbled voice.
Armand listened with growing surprise and dread as his mage councillor recited the events of the past three months. Károví and its mysterious fleet. Lir’s Veil breached and the jewels recovered—one of them at least, he gathered. Khandarr’s speech had turned almost incomprehensible as he swiftly recounted this interview between himself and a supposed mage from Morennioù.
One part, however, was clear.
“That bitch. Morennioù’s spy. She escaped,” Khandarr said. “I do not know how.”
The unaccustomed vulgarity startled Armand. He wanted to demand particulars about their interview, but knew Khandarr would avoid a direct answer. So he asked the second-most urgent question on that very long list he’d formed over the past few months.
“Where did she go, then? Back to Morennioù? You said she was a member of their court. A noble or emissary.”
Khandarr shook his head. “To Károví. At least. So I believe.”
An interesting equivocation. “And Kosenmark’s lover?”
“Dead. Perhaps.”
“You have doubts about the official reports?”
Armand’s gaze met Khandarr’s. Khandarr smiled grimly. So there was a question whether Ilse Zhalina lived or not. Knowing Raul Kosenmark, and the woman he called beloved, that did not surprise him.
“What brought you to Tiralien?” he asked next.
“Not important. What I learned there … is.”
Khandarr went on to tell the story of a ship, acquired by Lord Kosenmark’s new secretary, for purposes unknown. Khandarr had his spies investigate the secretary, but without much success. The man had appeared six months before with the usual letter of recommendation. An unimportant creature, but someone Kosenmark trusted.
The key point was the ship. It sailed without warning from Tiralien in late spring. A few weeks later, Khandarr’s agents reported an unidentified ship sighted near Hallau Island. When the coastal patrol signaled it, the ship fled north. The patrol had to break off pursuit when the ship entered Károvín waters.
“Proof,” Khandarr said. “Proof of treason.”
“Are you certain? Or do you simply wish to be certain?”
Khandarr flinched. “Certain. Of course.”
“Then you might wish to know the reports I received, just two days ago.”
It was a moment his grandfather had warned him about—when a councillor, once a mentor, discovered they were not the absolute guide behind the throne. Armand braced himself for anger. He ought to have called the guards inside. Better, he ought to have a second mage in council, someone unconnected with Markus Khandarr. Belatedly, he wondered if such a mage existed in Veraene.
Khandarr’s eyes narrowed to thin dark lines. “What report?”
So he did not know. That, too, was an important clue.
“It concerns King Leos,” Armand said. “My agents tell me he died two months ago.”
There was a moment of silence in the audience chamber.
“Then we have … war?” Khandarr said at last.
“So it would seem,” Armand replied, “except that your Lord Kosenmark’s father arrived in court last month to argue against it. He has gathered a sizable faction to his cause, that being the cause for peace with Károví. Furthermore,” he added, “Lord Kosenmark has returned to Tiralien. If he is a traitor, he is a terribly discreet one. Or clumsy.”
Another silence, even more gratifying than the first.
Was this the true test of Armand’s trust in the man, and Khandarr’s loyalty in return?
You cannot trust without need, his grandfather once said. Nor can your men vow allegiance with no promise in return. Both are paid with the same coin.
“I think,” Armand said, “we must plan our next maneuver.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ILSE WAITED THREE days before she decided to confront Miro Karasek alone.
It had taken all her strength of will to refrain from demanding an audience that first night and day. Karasek had evaded her, Bela Sovic had distracted her—an obvious ploy, but with the unexpected glimpse into Sovic’s own history and that of Karasek’s father. Later, when Ilse and Valara walked with Karasek through a series of formal gardens, the air heavy with the scent of ripening fruit and dying leaves, she noted a curious and unsettling reticence on his part. He spoke of their future plans, but only in the vaguest terms, and always with a reference to possible delays. He did not mention that Ilse would not accompany Valara Baussay to Morennioù. Nor had he arranged to speak in private about Ilse’s own concerns.
He was being cautious, she told herself, but when a second day passed without any word, she became anxious. She reluctantly accepted an invitation from Bela Sovic for a tour of the river valley, then submitted to the attentions of seamstresses and shoemakers, who arrived from nearby Duchova to measure Duke Karasek’s cousins for new clothes, boots, and shoes. Valara was similarly occupied. Miro Karasek himself was given over to the business of running his holdings: conferences with secretary and steward, making the rounds of his lands, holding audiences with farmers and village speakers to hear their concerns. It was all quite reasonable, all what anyone might expect of relations between a powerful duke and his cousins from a remote province.
On the third day, she rose at sunrise and sent a message to Karasek, requesting an interview at his convenience. She worded the note politely, obliquely, but the abrupt brushstrokes expressed her true emotions. Even in such a short time, she knew his habits. He rose at first light and drilled with his guards. He broke his fast with bread and cheese and strong tea, then rode a circuit with this patrol or that, or sometimes he visited the surrounding farms and villages. The interval between was her best chance to speak privately with him. If he ignored this request, she would have to assume his promise of aid meant nothing.
