All That Glitters (5 page)

 

E
retheria was a patchwork land of petty fiefdoms—­small earldoms and peerages and counties all in a constant game of intricate and ancient diplomacy that stretched back all the way to the fall of the last Warlock Kings and the end of the Second Age of the world. Tyvian had heard it argued that modern day Eretheria was, in essence, a better picture of what the world was like at that time than any other place. Essentially, everywhere
started
with Eretheria's brand of convoluted feudalism, and over the centuries everywhere
else
in the world had refined and improved that system. Eretheria was a throwback, a political relic, a bizarre fossil of the ancient world here in this age of sorcerous enlightenment.

Tyvian found the place delightful.

One of the best things about Eretheria (in Tyvian's opinion) was its complete lack of any kind of unified law. What was legal in one little provincial earldom could be illegal in the next one over and never even addressed in the backwater peerage up in the hills. Officially, of course, there was the High Law, which was decided by the Congress of Peers and was theoretically enforced by the Defenders of the Balance. The High Laws themselves, however, were primarily designed to safeguard the station of the nobility and of their ancestral lands.

That morning, Tyvian and Artus were astride borrowed horses on their way to witness one of the most common ways the High Law was settled between disputing nobility—­a pitched battle on the field of honor. It was another beautiful morning, the sun spilling pink light across the dew-­coated grass as far as the eye could see. There was a soft breeze coming from the south, making the pennants of those in the spectator party display their colors with rampant flair as they all rode together toward the town of Derby.

Yesterday afternoon Tyvian had presented himself to those going to watch the battle with the introduction of his new herald friend, Ronger. There was one peer, Sir Banber Galt of Korthold, and one peeress, Dame Margess Vane of Teller Valley, each from small holdings in the surrounding territories. They had with them a collection of their retainers, ensigns, heralds, and champions who were charged with the pitching of tents, the carrying of flags, and the fighting of duels, should any of those things prove necessary. The two low-­ranking nobles were delighted to have Tyvian along in the same way children were delighted to find a raccoon living under their porch stairs—­he was an entertaining oddity, both fascinating and a bit dangerous, and they couldn't help but wonder about everything he did. Tyvian, conversely, was delighted to have their company in that it meant two things: firstly, that the food he would be eating for the next day or so would be a grand improvement over Hool's roast squirrels, and secondly, that these ­people had the connections he needed to acquire money, favors, and gossip that could prove crucially useful to him in his diminished state.

Tyvian, therefore, was doing his best to appear dashing, heroic, and fascinating. Even in borrowed clothes and astride a Corrissar mare that had a tendency to bite, he felt he cut a dashing figure. Artus, in his stained servant's garb, looked the part of rough-­and-­tumble manservant pretty well while astride a big Benethoran Red that was as mild as the Eretherian summertime and strong as a bull. Together, they looked every bit their reputation. Tyvian only wished his clothes fit better and that Artus were a bit less skinny and had more than patches of scraggly facial hair.

Artus was a surprisingly good rider, and sat so easily in the saddle that Tyvian wondered why they hadn't used horses much before. Then he remembered Hool and Brana, and remembered why. Gnolls and horses didn't get along very well, in the same way that wolves and sheep were disinclined to keep each other's company. Tyvian found himself recalling his gnoll-­free existence rather fondly, even if it seemed only dimly memorable. Gods, had it been so long since he was civilized?

A trumpet sounded on the road ahead, and Tyvian could see a horseman in green livery and mail watching their approach while a fellow on foot in the same livery, minus the armor, was sounding the horn. The fellow on foot was also holding a banner bearing the tree-­and-­sword device of Sir Mardan Pherielle—­one-­half of that day's scheduled military conflict.

Artus sidled up beside Tyvian, causing his horse to skip sideways a pace and snort. Tyvian did his best to make it look like she had done that on purpose. “You sure about that horse?” Artus asked.

Tyvian scowled. “I only need her for the afternoon.”

Artus nodded ahead, where advance riders from their spectating party were heading to meet the Pherielle men. “Is this trouble?”

“No, Artus, just a formality. The fellow up there is just informing our party of the battle that will be taking place nearby, while our friends' retainers are telling
him
that we're here to watch and not participate. The rest of their conversation, I imagine, is going to be a discussion of where we can pitch our tents.”

Artus cocked an eyebrow. “Are you
sure
we aren't going to be fighting?”

Tyvian nodded. “Of course. Eretherian warfare is the most civilized example of the art in the world. We're neutral parties of good breeding, and so long as we don't go charging off to support one side or the other—­which would be an unpardonable breach of etiquette, mind you—­we've nothing to worry about from either side.”

Artus mulled this over for a second. “Are ­people going to get hurt?”

“Obviously. It's a battle, Artus, not an equestrian competition. I expect that the Lord Pherielle and His Grace the Earl of Derby have consented to all the standard rules of combat. ­People will die, but probably not as many as you would expect.”

“And why are they fighting?”

Tyvian shrugged. “Money, ultimately—­everything's about money. Evidently there's a natural spring a few miles from here that once was part of the Pherielle fief but was annexed by the current Earl of Derby's grandfather in a dispute over debt. The current Lord Pherielle has declared the current earl's claim over the spring to be expired, citing some law dating back forty years, but the earl has refused to relinquish his rights.”

Artus scratched his head. “Is fresh water rare around here or something?”

“Hardly. This is more an issue of family credit history than it is of necessity.”

“Why don't they settle it with a duel?”

Tyvian sighed. “The Earl of Derby is an old man. Lord Pherielle can't very well challenge him to a duel without looking quite the cad at court, which means the next time the earl petitions the congress for a law pertaining to . . .” Tyvian shook his head. “Look, it's complicated, all right?”

Artus was frowning. “So these two rich guys are gonna get a bunch of peasants killed for no reason and . . . and then they're going to shake hands and that's
it
?”

Tyvian nudged his mount away from a retainer's horse that was drawing too close. “You'd rather they fought an
actual
war, then? Should the Earl of Derby sack Pherielle's castle and murder all his servants? Should Pherielle set fire to Derby, pillage the elderly earl's granaries, and then poison his wells? Would that be better?”

“I think they should just leave the small folk out of it,” Artus countered. “Don't seem fair to die for some lord who don't give a care about you over some stupid spring you don't even need.”

Tyvian was about to open his mouth to respond but thought better of it. Artus was still angry with him for . . . for whatever reason—­existing, apparently. It wouldn't do to have an argument here. A peasant boy snarling at his betters would
not
be well-­received among the peerage.

Truth be told, Tyvian didn't especially approve of the comparatively recent inclusion of peasant levies in Eretheria's little squabbles either. In the pre-­Illini War age, it had all been handled by professional mercenaries.
It's not why I'm here
, he reminded himself. Well, perhaps not himself—­perhaps he was simply reminding the ring to mind its manners.

T
he observation area was the flat top of a hill that stood a quarter mile from where the forces of Pherielle and of Derby were arrayed. The pavilions and tents of the spectators were erected in a matter of minutes, and Tyvian found himself sitting on a folding chair beside Sir Banber and Dame Margess, plus an array of their servants and Dame Margess's champion, Sir Denoux Collierre. They had a viewing glass—­a simple crystal set with a modest enchantment designed to magnify distant objects—­that was passed back and forth as the group remarked upon the look of certain men-­at-­arms and speculated as to the maneuvers each side might employ to secure victory.

“Mardan has more light and medium cavalry,” Sir Banber said, popping a cherry in his mouth and spitting the pit. He had been dropping Pherielle's familiar name consistently since they sat down, and Tyvian imagined it was because Banber expected Pherielle to win and wanted to appear close to him. “I expect he'll flank Derby's infantry blocks and send the whole column into disarray.”

“Pardon me, milord.” Collierre nodded his deference to Banber even while squinting through the viewing glass. He had a face that did squinting well, Tyvian thought—­it complemented his unusually long nose. “I do not mean to disagree, but it appears as though Derby has employed several blocks of mercenary pikemen. A charge of cavalry against that would be very costly and likely unsuccessful.”

Banber grunted. “Galaspiner riffraff. A rank of Eretherian knights in armor will scatter them, pikes or no. Didn't Perwynnon do as much at Calassa?”

“Those were Dellorans, milord, not Galaspiners,” Tyvian said. “And Perwynnon had the advantage of surprise, not to mention the fact that Finn Cadogan—­a mercenary and a Galaspiner, mind you—­had secured that surprise by his raid the night before.”

Banber and Collierre glared at Tyvian for a moment, and Tyvian let them do the mental arithmetic about his surname on their own. Collierre got there first. “Are you a relation to Lyrelle Reldamar, the archmage present at Calassa?”

“The
Earless
Lyrelle Reldamar is my mother, sir. I've been hearing stories about Perwynnon and Cadogan and the rest of them since I was a child.”

The mention of his mother's rank was sufficient to change the posture of Tyvian's noble companions almost immediately. He found it rather amusing that while they weren't impressed with his mother's status as one of the world's most powerful sorcerers, the fact that she held the title “Earless” was sufficient to make them sit up straighter.

The Dame Margess spoke up next. She was a woman of perhaps his mother's age, maybe a bit older, but she clearly couldn't afford the
cherille
necessary to keep her hair from graying and her hands from looking brittle. Her eyes, though, were sharp and as dexterous as they probably had been in her youth. “How would your lady mother deal with this battle, then, Master Reldamar?”

Tyvian weighed his options and decided to answer truthfully. “My mother has always found battles to be tedious affairs, milady. She would prefer to pepper her enemy's camp with so many spies that her victory would be assured without the need to loose an arrow.”

Sir Banber snorted. “Typical womanly behavior. Give me a good horse and a lance in my hand any day over spies.”

Tyvian shrugged. “I believe Banric Sahand shares a similar opinion, milord.”

Banber's beetle-­black eyebrows lowered, but the knight let the slight pass. Tyvian guessed the fellow wasn't entirely sure whether he had just been insulted or not. “Well, Sahand was quite the general, you have to admit.”

“Why're you talking like Sahand ain't around?” Artus asked, his voice a little too loud. As Tyvian's manservant, he'd been standing behind Tyvian's left shoulder the whole time. Everybody stopped what they were doing to stare at him.

Tyvian gave Artus a private glare. “Artus, would you mind seeing how well our porters are catching up?”

“Porters?”

“You know—­the
porters
we have
following
us carrying a number of our
things
?” Tyvian clenched his teeth and opened his eyes as widely as possible. If the damn fool boy had bothered learning all the nonverbal cues he'd been trying to teach him all these months, gaffes like this could have been completely avoided by now. It was enough to make Tyvian scream, but rather than do so verbally, he did it with his eyes.

Understanding, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, dawned over Artus's face. “Ohhhh . . . right. Porters. Okay—­I'll be right back.”

“Don't rush.” Tyvian smiled as his eyes kept screaming.

After Artus had left, Banber cleared his throat. “A Northron boy, correct?”

Tyvian nodded. “I believe he's from Benethor, sir.”

Banber nodded and grunted as though that explained things.

The sound of drums beating an advance was carried to them on the breeze. One could see the organized ranks of white-­and-­green Pherielle's peasant levies marching at a slow clip toward the massed blue-­and-­yellow ranks of Derby. Tyvian could just barely make out the glitter of arrows in flight raining down on the advancing Pherielle forces; he saw some men fall, and those that had shields raised them.

Banber, peering through the viewing glass, nodded his approval. “Pherielle is looking to test the resolve of the Derby line. Good, good—­nice and straightforward. If the mercenaries hold, they'll be caught up fighting with the ranks and won't be able to stop the flanking maneuver.”

Tyvian nodded, squinting against the sunlight to watch the little shapes of men in ranks marching on each other. He judged it would be another minute or two before the battle was joined and, from the weak showing made by Derby's peasant archers, that battle would be ugly for both sides. His ring began to tingle a bit; it shared Artus's objection to sitting back and watching peasants kill each other over their lords' pride. He pointedly ignored it and held up a silver chalice to one of the various servants standing about. “Wine, if you please.”