What the Caladhrian warriors had experienced was destruction beyond imagining.
Now Corrain would play his part, as agreed in ciphered letters exchanged long before he arrived in Duryea.
‘...I propose one further amendment to our new law. We must recognise that dire circumstances can drive any man to truly desperate measures. We must all admit, in our heart of hearts, that even the most honest among us would steal before seeing his children starve.’
He looked around, uncompromising.
‘My own true lord, the former Baron Halferan, was driven to seek wizardly aid for lack of any other hope for his people. I followed his example because I had no other recourse. Even after the Archmage’s wizardry swept away the ground beneath my feet, as the southern seas swept over my head—’
Cold recollection slid down Corrain’s spine to shrivel his manhood. He steeled himself not to shiver
‘—I would follow that same path again, if so vile and murderous a foe threatened Halferan. If I still lacked any other ally.’
He noted the eyes drawn to his wrist now bare of that slave manacle. He knew the taverns would be rife with speculation as to why he had cut his hair. Reven and young Linset and Halferan’s other troopers were ready with answers for Duryea’s taprooms.
Archipelagan corsairs denied their galley slaves any blade, not merely to stop them taking their own lives or some captor’s. Matted hairiness marked out such slaves on any shore, even when they were released from their chains to undertake some task.
Corrain had maintained his unbarbered state, since making his unprecedented escape, in memory of those Halferan men captured with him. Those whose bones now lay unburied and unburned on some Aldabreshin isle, to leave their innocent shades trapped between death and Saedrin’s threshold, tormented by Poldrion’s demons alongside the vilest, unrepentant evildoers.
Reven and Linset’s explanation would be carried back to these noble lords by their own loyal retainers. If Corrain no longer believed in the gods, he assuredly believed in guilt. Let every baron remember their cowardice in successive parliaments as the former Lord Halferan had begged for their men and swords to drive the corsairs from his own and his neighbours’ shores.
But now, so Reven and Linset would confide over their ale, Corrain had given up any hope of rescuing any surviving Halferans after the utter destruction of the corsairs’ isle. Now these noble lordships could consider the terrifying rumours of Hadrumal’s cataclysmic power whenever his raggedly shorn head caught their attention.
They didn’t need to know that the Archmage’s sole concern had been destroying the renegade Mandarkin mage whom Corrain had so foolishly offered the pick of the raiders’ plunder, only for that thrice-cursed villain to turn traitor and threaten Caladhria with still more lethal malice as he discovered unsuspected mageborn and still more unexpected magic among the corsairs’ treasures.
The barons didn’t need to know that Corrain had wept bitter tears in Halferan’s silent muniment room as he had worked through those lonely nights to free himself from that manacle. He would never forgive himself for failing those lost men. All he could do to honour their memory was ensure that no Caladhrian barony was ever left so shamefully undefended again, their honest troopers abandoned to fight such hopeless battles alone.
He swept the room with a searching gaze. ‘Let us agree on a duty in law, to be laid on our heirs in perpetuity. If a barony is attacked, we must join forces in that lord’s defence, whether that attack comes from beyond Caladhria’s borders or from malevolence within. Then no barony need ever seek wizardly aid to drive off their foes.’
He took care not to catch Lord Saldiray’s eye. The noble lord had assured Corrain that he would remind selected barons of Baron Karpis’s humiliation at the lady wizard Jilseth’s hands.
The story of a mild-faced maiden reducing the Karpis troops’ armour and weapons to rust and warped scraps of leather had passed through the previous year’s parliaments quicker than counterfeit coin. That had been a fine joke but an Archipelagan island being so comprehensively ravaged that not a rock remained above water wasn’t nearly so amusing.
However tempting these noble lords might find the prospect of calling on wizardly assistance, to inflict Baron Karpis’s mortification on some rival of their own, let them imagine their fiefdom facing a hostile mage capable of wreaking such utter destruction.
As soon as he had recovered from his ordeal in the Archipelago, Corrain had begun writing to the barons of Saldiray, Myrist, Taine and Blancass, erstwhile allies of the true Baron Halferan. Reading his chilling testimony they had agreed with him that such magic must never be loosed on Caladhrian soil.
‘An interesting proposal, though it comes very late in the day.’ Baron Gyrice made the mistake of taking another sip of water.
A baron from the Tresia region sprang to his feet. ‘If Caladhria is to forswear wizardry, we must urge those dominions which border our lands to follow our example.’
‘For our safety as much as their own. Only a fool discards a weapon to leave it where some enemy can pick it up.’ One of his neighbours stood to support him.
Baron Myrist had played his part well in preparing them. Corrain resumed his seat, hiding his satisfaction.
‘Assuming this proposal is passed, we must write first and foremost to Tadriol the Provident, Emperor of Tormalin—’
‘We owe Tormalin no fealty!’ Some backwoods baron was so outraged at the notion he shouted out unbidden.
‘We owe the Imperial throne due respect,’ Baron Gyrice retorted from the lectern.
‘Caladhria has been independent of Tormalin since the first decade of the Chaos, for twenty and more generations!’ A lean nobleman didn’t wait for Lord Gyrice to call on him to stand. ‘Our independence is our most cherished freedom, won by our forefathers driving their Tormalin conquerors back over the river Rel—’
‘Thank you, Lord Torlef, I don’t need a lesson in history from you.’ Baron Gyrice slammed his goblet down on the lectern’s shelf, spilling water over his hand.
Baron Myrist took advantage of his distraction. ‘If his Imperial Majesty proposes a similar law to the Convocation of Princes, explicitly forbidding the use of wizardry in warfare, we can surely hope that the lawmakers of Lescar and Ensaimin will follow Tormalin’s example.’
Corrain made sure not to catch Baron Taine or Baron Saldiray’s eye. Those noble lords had already written to their friends among the sieurs and esquires of Tormalin’s princely Houses to endorse just such a law.
A hand shot up from a knot of barons huddled around a central table. Baron Tulbec rose to his feet at Gyrice’s nod. ‘I propose that we write to the Relshazri Magistracy to apprise them of our new law.’
‘This law hasn’t yet been put the vote,’ Baron Saunor snapped.
‘Anyone voting against it is an arrant fool,’ Baron Tulbec said tightly.
Corrain noted nods of support from every noble with lands within two or three days’ wagon travel of the River Rel. Their wealth in timber and grain customarily filled the barges floating down to Relshaz, where it was turned into good gold coin.
‘Has your trade with the Relshazri been truly so undermined by their new shunning of wizardry?’ A baron with no such concerns thanks to his fiefdom’s border with Ensaimin was openly sceptical.
Baron Tulbec’s tone sharpened. ‘Do not underestimate the Archipelagan’s loathing of magecraft, my lord of Estoel. Since the eruption of wizardry in their islands, for which they blame Caladhria—’
Corrain parried Baron Tulbec’s condemning glare with an expressionless face.
‘—the Aldabreshi have scorned all our goods or wares. They refuse to do business with any Relshazri merchants trading with Caladhria. They look instead to Ensaimin, Dalasor or Gidesta—’
‘Those realms cannot supply our wheat and barley and flax—’
Baron Tulbec rounded on the complacent Baron of Ferl. ‘The Lescari are eager to steal that trade now they have peace to plough their fields.’
Lord Dalthran lurched to his feet. From his high colour on plump cheeks, he’d been paying more attention to a wine flagon than to the debate. ‘This so-called Conclave in Lescar is merely a rabble of rebels! They encompassed the deaths of the Dukes of Parnilesse, Carluse and Sharlac.’ His voice thickened with outrage. ‘Their Graces of Marlier, Draximal and Triolle escaped with their lives through merest chance. If we acknowledge such malcontents and murderers as Lescar’s rightful rulers, what does that tell our own dissenters?’
Corrain narrowed his eyes at the belligerent lord. This was what he and the lords conspiring with him had feared. All too often Caladhria’s parliaments’ debates descended into irrelevant and inconclusive wrangling.
‘Forgive me, my lord of Dalthran.’ Baron Saldiray didn’t sound in the least apologetic as he stood up and waved a pale parchment, its broken wax seal stark as a clot of blood.
‘The whereabouts of Duke Iruvain formerly of Triolle and Duke Ferdain formerly of Marlier are currently unknown, much to the distress of their creditors in Abray, Adrulle and Relshaz,’ he observed drily. ‘Duke Secaris formerly of Draximal remains in Savorgan in northern Tormalin, still forswearing any desire to return to his former dominion.’
‘My lords, Lescar’s affairs are none of our concern and the evening draws on!’ Baron Gyrice gestured curtly towards the candlesticks on the tables. His servants had brought tapers to light each handful of flames as soon as dusk had drawn its veil across the room’s tall windows. Now the candles were visibly shorter.
‘This of all nights in the year requires reverence rather than argument,’ he continued crossly. ‘It is long past time we adjourned. May I have your assent?’
Hands rose at every table and some were already rising to their feet, taking the vote as given and eager to eat their festival dinner.
Corrain remained in his chair as Baron Gyrice’s lackeys opened the double doors at the far end of the room, to admit a welcome draft to set the candles flickering and the sounds of festival revelry in the market place outside.
He watched the lords of Saldiray, Myrist, Taine and Blancass depart amid the throng, each unobtrusively following a particular lord. They had not secured their new law today but by tomorrow those noblemen would have shared a few choice thoughts on the perils of isolation so vividly demonstrated by Halferan’s fate with the barons most easily persuaded to vote in favour of such mutual support.
Maidservants began straightening the benches and chairs and clearing away flagons and goblets. One gave a silver wine jug a hopeful shake. Opening its lid, her expression brightened and she hurried to add the jug to a handful of others set aside on the table by the door. Other servants carried silver and glassware briskly away.
A pointed cough echoed through the room. Baron Gyrice was conferring with Lord Pertynd and Baron Matase by the lectern beneath the tall north window. Matase in particular glared suspiciously at Corrain.
He rose to his feet and strolled towards the door. Were those barons innocently intent on feasting with families and friends before piously remembering their dead? Or would they go seeking some illicit partner to share a bottle, a wager or a bed? Every parliament offered opportunity for a little wildness away from hearth and home to set the heart racing, blood pumping through noble and humble veins alike, celebrating life’s vigour by defying midwinter’s stillness.
Corrain smiled, recalling one summer parliament in Trebin. The local lords had supplied so much excellent wine on the festival eve that Corrain and his fellow guard captains had spent the following morning carrying apologies from their masters who apparently found themselves belatedly stricken by an excess of sun on the road.
They had also been asked to discreetly discover exactly what had been debated and decided the previous day. Corrain and his friends had amused themselves concocting ever more outrageous possibilities to horrify their wine-sick liege lords. Then they had simply asked the servants who’d fetched and carried the flagons and goblets.
So which of the youthful Halferan guards would have most success wheedling information out of these maidens? Corrain considered Linset’s beguiling manner as he continued unhurried down the broad staircase to the entrance hall. Liveried guardsmen stood by the bottommost steps.
Baron Erbale’s men, crumpled and heavy-eyed after this overlong day on watch, were yielding their duty to a crisply-dressed contingent. Fresh-faced from a day’s rest, Lord Vildare’s men were ready to stand sentry through the night, midwinter feast or not. Corrain acknowledged the troopers with a lordly nod while assessing them with a guard captain’s sharp eye.
A couple looked back, their expressions more knowing than deferential. Had they heard barrack hall stories from guard captains who’d known Corrain of old? Was deliberate malice prompting such stories of his erstwhile taste for festival dalliance? Those nobles still outraged by Corrain’s elevation to their rank would be delighted to wound him with truth rather than lies.
Those runes could roll either way; it made no difference to him. Corrain would return to The Silver Boar, to eat his festival dinner with a modest measure of ale and take to his solitary bed. He’d be rising as early as any guardsman tomorrow, to see the vote on Caladhria’s edict forbidding wizardry formally proposed and carried through this parliament.