Hawkwood and the Kings: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume One) (67 page)

"Abeleyn's bodyguard?" Mercado asked abruptly.

"Almost all lost. Most were in the
nefs
. They gave a good account of themselves, though. Abeleyn has barely a hundred men left to him."

"They were good men," Mercado murmured. "The best of the Abrusio garrison."

"Where has he beached? How long will he take to get here?" Admiral Rovero asked, his eyes as narrow as the edge of a blade.

"That I don't know for sure, alas, and neither did the King when... when I communicated with him last. He is in the coastal marshes, close to the border with Imerdon, south-west of the mouth of the Habrir river. That is all I know."

The admiral and the general were silent, conflicting emotions flitting across their faces. "Is Abeleyn still your liege-lord, gentlemen?" Golophin asked. "He needs you now as he never has before."

Rovero grimaced as though he had bitten into a lemon. "God forgive me if I do wrong, but I am the King's man, Golophin. The lad is a fighter, always has been. He is a worthy successor to his father, whatever the Ravens might say."

Only someone watching Golophin with particular care could have seen the tiny whistle of breath that escaped his lips, the imperceptible sag of relief which relaxed his hitherto rigid shoulder blades.

"General," he said quietly to Mercado, "it would seem that Admiral Rovero still has a king. What say you in this matter?"

Mercado turned his face from Golophin so that the mage could see only the expressionless metal side.

"Abeleyn is my king too, Golophin, God knows. But can a king rule if his soul is damned? Who would gainsay the word of the Pontiff, the successor to Ramusio? Maybe the Inceptines are right. The Merduk War is God's punishment. We all have a penance to do before the world can be set to rights."

"The innocent are burning, Albio," Golophin said, using the general's first name. "A heretic sits on the throne of the Pontiff whilst its true occupant is in the east. Macrobius lives, and he is aiding the Torunnans in their battles to maintain the frontier. He helped them save Ormann Dyke when the world thought it irredeemably lost. The faith is with him. He is our spiritual head, not this usurper who sits in Charibon."

Mercado twisted to meet Golophin's eyes. "Are you so sure?"

Golophin raised an eyebrow. "I have my ways. How else do you think I stay abreast of Abeleyn's adventures?"

The fire cracked and spat. A gun began to boom out the evening salute somewhere on the battlements beyond. They would be lighting the ship beacons along the harbours of the city. The men of the ships would be changing watch, half of them trooping into the messes for the evening meal.

Faint and far-off amid the nearer noises, Golophin thought he could hear the cathedral bells tolling Vespers up on Abrusio Hill, nearly two miles away. He knew that if he stepped outside and looked that way he would be able to make out the dying glow of the pyres, finally fading. The dwindling reminder of another day's genocide. He stifled the bitter fury which always arose when he thought of it.

"We must play for time," Mercado said at last. "Rovero and I must not see this bull of theirs. We must hold them off as long as we are able, and get Abeleyn into the city safely. Once he is back in Abrusio, the task is simpler."

Golophin rose and gripped the general's hand. "Thank you, Albio. You have done the right thing. With you and Rovero behind him, Abeleyn can retake Abrusio with ease."

Mercado did not seem to share Golophin's happiness.

"There is something else," he said. He sounded troubled, almost embarrassed.

"What?"

"I cannot be sure of all my men."

Golophin was shocked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that my adjutant, Colonel Jochen Freiss, has been conducting secret negotiations with a member of the council, Sastro di Carrera. I believe he has suborned a significant number of the garrison."

"Can you not relieve him of his post?" Golophin demanded.

"That would be tipping our hand too soon. I have yet to plumb the depths of his support, but I believe some of the junior officers may have joined him in conspiracy."

"It will mean war," Admiral Rovero said ominously. His voice sounded like the rumble of surf on a far-off strand.

"How can you sound out the loyalty of your men?" Golophin asked sharply.

"I have my ways and means, even as you have, Mage," Mercado retorted. "But I need time. For now we will continue to hold the Lower City. Some of the lesser guilds are on our side, though the Merchants' Guild is waiting to see which way the wind blows before committing itself."

"Merchants," Rovero said with all the contempt of the nobility for those in trade.

"We need the merchants on our side," Golophin told them. "The council is sitting on the treasury. If we are to finance a war then the merchants are our best source of money. Abeleyn will grant them any concessions they wish, within reason, in return for a regular flow of gold."

"No doubt the council will be putting the same proposition to them," Mercado said.

"Then we must be sure it is our proposition they accept!" Golophin snapped. He stared into the ashen bowl of his pipe. "My apologies, gentlemen. I am a little tired."

"No matter," Rovero assured him. "My ships may tip the scales. If the worst comes to the worst I can threaten them with a naval blockade of the city. That'll soon loosen their purse-strings."

Golophin nodded. He tucked his pipe back into a pocket which was scorched from similar use. "I must be going. I have some people to see."

"Tell the King, when next you speak to him, that we are his men - that we always have been, Golophin," Mercado said haltingly.

"I will, though he has always known it," the wizard replied with a smile.

Six

T
HE CHAMBER WAS
small and circular. Its roof was domed and in the dome was a bewildering array of small beams, too slender to provide any architectural support. Corfe could not guess at their purpose, unless it were mere ornamentation. They were hung with cobwebs.

Large windows covered half the circumference of the walls, some of stained glass, predominantly Torunnan scarlet which lent a rosy hue to the place despite the greyness of the weather outside. Inside, the furnishings were rich and comfortable. Velvet-upholstered divans whose lines curved with the walls. Intricately embroidered cushions. A miniature library, the shelves untidy with added scrolls and papers. A tiny desk with a quill springing out of an inkwell. A bronze figurine of a young woman, nude, the face laughing exquisitely. An embroidery stand with rolls of thread tumbled about its foot. The room of an educated, affluent woman.

Corfe had no idea why he was here.

A palace flunkey, all lace cuffs and buckled shoes, had shown him the way soon after he had received the summons. He stood alone now in the private tower of the Queen Dowager, utterly at a loss.

There was a click, and a part of the wall opened to admit the Queen Dowager Odelia. It shut behind her and she stood serenely looking Corfe up and down, a slight smile on her face.

Corfe remembered his manners and bowed hurriedly; he was not of sufficient rank to kiss her hand. Odelia inclined her head graciously in response.

"Sit, Colonel."

He found himself a stool, absurdly conscious of the contrast between his appearance and the lady's. He still looked rather as though he had just trudged off a battlefield, though he had been in Torunn for two days. He had no money, no way to improve his wardrobe, and no one had offered him any advice or help in the matter. Macrobius had been borne away on wings of policy and state, and Corfe had had it brought home to him exactly how insignificant he was. He longed to be back at the dyke with his men doing the only job he had ever been fit for, but could not leave until he had the King's permission, and getting to see the King was well-nigh impossible. He was baffled, therefore, by the Queen Dowager's summons; he had thought himself entirely forgotten.

She was watching him patiently, a glint of what might have been humour in the marvellous green eyes. Carnelian pins secured her golden hair in a stately column atop her head, emphasizing the fine line of her neck. Corfe had heard the rumours; the Queen Dowager was a sorceress who preserved her looks through judicious use of thaumaturgy, sacrifices of newborn babes and the like. It was true she looked a good deal younger than her years. She might have been Lofantyr's elder sister rather than his mother, but Corfe could see the blue veins on the backs of her hands, the slightly swollen knuckles, the faint creases at the corners of her eyes and on her brow. She was attractive, but the signs were there.

"Do you believe me a witch, Colonel?" she asked, startling him. It was almost as though she had followed his train of thought.

"No," he said. "At least, not as the rumours have it. I don't believe you slay black cockerels at midnight or some such nonsense... your Majesty." He was not sure of the right way to address her.

Something black scuttled along one of the beams above his head, too quickly for him to catch more than a glimpse of it. So they have rats even in palaces, he thought.

"Lofantyr is 'Majesty,'" the Queen Dowager said. "To you I am just 'lady,' unless there is some other epithet you would prefer." She seemed to be deliberately trying to disconcert him. The realization irritated him. He had no time for the games of the Torunnan court.

"Why did you summon me here?" he asked bluntly.

She cocked her head to one side. "Ah, directness. I like that. You would be amazed how little of it there is in Torunn. Or perhaps you would not. You are a soldier pure and simple, are you not, Colonel? You are not at ease here in the intricacies of the court. You would rather be hip-deep in gore at Ormann Dyke."

"Yes," he said, "I would." There was nothing else he could say. He had never been any use at dissembling, and he sensed it would do him no good here.

"Would you like some wine?"

He nodded, totally at sea.

She clapped her hands and the door through which Corfe had entered opened. A willowy girl with the almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones of the steppe peoples - a household slave - entered bearing a tray. She set out a decanter and two glasses in silence and then left as noiselessly as she had come. The Queen Dowager poured two generous glassfuls of ruby liquid.

"Ronian," she said. "Little known, but as good as Gaderian if it is well cared for. Our southern fiefs have fine vineyards, but they don't export much."

Corfe sipped at the wine. It might have been gun oil for all he tasted it.

"General Pieter Martellus thinks highly of you, Colonel. In his dispatches he says you made an excellent defence of Ormann Dyke's eastern bastion ere it fell. He also adds that you seem to work best as an independent commander."

"The general flatters me," Corfe said. He had not known that the dispatches he carried from the dyke had included a report on himself.

"You are also the only Torunnan officer to have survived Aekir's fall. You must be a man of luck."

Corfe's face became a stiff mask. "I don't much believe in luck, my lady."

"But it exists. It is that indefinable element which in war or peace - but especially in war - sets a man apart from his fellows."

"If you say so."

She smiled. "Aekir has marked you, Corfe. Before the siege you were an ensign, a junior officer. In the months since you have soared to the rank of colonel purely on merit. Aekir's fall may have been the counterweight to your ascent."

"I would give all my rank, and more besides, to have Aekir back again," Corfe said with some heat.
And to have Heria again
, his soul cried out.

"Of course," she said soothingly. "But now you are here in Torunn, friendless and penniless, an officer without a command. Merit is not always enough in this world. You must have something else."

"What?"

"A... sponsor, perhaps. A patron."

Corfe paused, frowning. At last he said: "Is that why I am here? Am I to become your client, lady?"

She sipped her wine. "Loyalty is more precious than gold at court, for if it is to be real it cannot be bought. I want a man whom gold cannot buy."

"Why? For what purpose?"

"For my own purposes, and those of the state. You know that Lofantyr has been excommunicated by the rival Pontiff Himerius. His nobles know Macrobius is alive - they have seen him with their own eyes. But some do not choose to believe what they see, because it suits them. Torunna is boiling with rebellion; men of rank never need much in the way of an excuse to repudiate their liege-lord. If nothing else, Corfe, I think Aekir and Ormann Dyke have burnt loyalty into you, whether you like it or not. That kind of loyalty, when it is accompanied with real ability, is a rare thing."

"There must be some men loyal to the King in the kingdom," Corfe growled.

"Men tend to have families; they put that loyalty first. If they serve the crown well, it is because they want advancement not only for themselves but for their families also. Thus are the great houses of the nobility created. It is a necessary but dangerous exchange."