[Hurog 01] - Dragon Bones (13 page)

“Mmm,” she said. “That feels good. Where did you learn how to do that?”

He half hesitated, losing his own mask for a moment of startled recognition. “From my cousin, Ward.” He said at last. “I was twelve, and my favorite horse had twisted its leg.”

No, she thought. She didn't want to know about his family. She didn't want him to be a person. But it was too late, his face was serious, somber almost.

“My brother wants to be a farmer,” he said.

“Oh?” Erdrick might be a safe topic. There weren't many people more safe than Erdrick, she thought.

“And if I inherit my father's estates, we've divided up the duties. He shall farm the land, and I shall do the fighting and what politics are necessary.” Beckram squinted against the bright sunlight. He looked so at home outdoors, she thought helplessly. He is a child of sunlight, and I am the black widow who has caught him. She made a neutral noise.

“The thing is, that's ruined now.”

He didn't sound upset about it, so she expected some blithe comment on how her beauty would trap him here so he'd be no good at warfare. She made a more encouraging sound.

“The king's declared my cousin Ward unfit to be Hurogmeten. When they find him, he's to be incarcerated in the asylum.”

“They can't find him?” She remembered Ward. He was simple but kind, a trait she found rare in men. He always
danced with the ugliest girls. She couldn't imagine him in the dungeon her husband had created to house the people too important to kill—like the king's youngest brother.
Horrible, horrible,
she thought. She'd always been afraid that was where she would end up, too. But she'd had a long time to practice her public mask. Her smile never faltered, and her question had carried only polite interest.

“No. But he'll turn up.” Beckram hesitated and looked up at her earnestly, all young man, not flirtatious lover. “Could you ask the king to reinstate him? He's stupid but not insane. That was my uncle.”

She found herself nodding in agreement, remembering the infamous rages. She fancied her husband had been more than a little afraid of the Hurogmeten.

Beckram continued. “Neither my father nor I want Hurog. It's a nice curiosity to have in the family, but it's damned uncomfortable. I'd rather have my father's current estate, and Erdrick would rather be my manager.”

She felt her maid's hands falter in her hair. A terrified stillness grew inside her. Her husband would be curious about such a request; he would want to know what Beckram stood to gain. Even after all these years at court, she could still take a boy's sincerity at face value. But Jakoven would never do that.

“Come now,” she said smiling flirtatiously, trying to help him save himself. “There has to be a better reason. You must stand to gain something.” She could do it for him, she thought, if he just came up with a better reason. The king had always seen to it that her lovers were well paid for their services.

Beckram shook his head. “I just can't stand to think of him confined to a room. He belongs at Hurog.” He gave her a shy smile that made him look half his age. “He's big and slow—but tough.” He touched his eye lightly, for no reason she could see. “He knows every rock on Hurog land, the breeding of every animal on the place. It's his
home. After living with Uncle Fenwick, I think he deserves it.”

Oh, poor boy,
she thought, touching his hair gently.
The king will never believe that—not giving up personal gain for love of a cousin. He'll suspect you of some plan to overthrow him.
Hurog had political power if not wealth, and if she remembered that, Jakoven was sure to as well. If Shavig still had a king of its own, it would have been a man of the Hurog family, something the Shavig lords were very aware of.

But she had been Jakoven's wife for many years. She smiled. “I'll ask him, of course. But don't get your hopes up too high. He seldom changes his mind because of any request I make. Now, go find me something to drink.”

He jumped up and bowed low. “Queen of my heart, it will be done.”

Sheira, her maid, continued grooming her after he left, and Tehedra fought not to flinch away. It wasn't the girl's fault that she had to report everything to the king. Damn the boy for being stupid and getting himself killed.

 

GARRANON
FOUGHT TO KEEP
from rolling his eyes. If the Oranstone contingent at court had looked all year, they couldn't have found a worse person to plead their case than old Haverness. Morning hearings were seldom pleasant for Garranon, but this was more painful than usual.

“We are yours, my king. Sworn to you by our life's blood,” said Haverness.

That oath you take much more seriously than the king,
thought Garranon sadly. Haverness had to know what he was letting himself in for. Garranon had explained to the Oranstonians that the king would not help them. He'd tried to warn them that they would only make things worse by pressing. But they'd ignored him.

Havernness of Callis looked like the old warrior he was. He was the only Oranstonian at court with the courage to keep his hair in the fashion of the Oranstone nobles: shaved from temple to ear and cut short everywhere else. Garranon knew Jakoven regarded Haverness as a beaten man, a failure. If Garranon saw instead a hero, it was something he would keep to himself.

Resolutely, Garranon turned his attention elsewhere. The king held morning business in one of the larger antechambers. The Tamerlain was here this morning as she often was; she said that it relieved her boredom now that Menague was deserted. Her yellow and gold mottled body was almost shocking in comparison to all of the somberly clad nobles. She was bearlike in size and shape, but more gracile, like a giant forest cat. Her head was more catlike, too, with mobile features and sharp, white fangs. Impressive and predatory as the guardian of a god's temple should be, the only discordant note was the extra-long fluffy tail. He wondered why no one stepped on her in the crowded room, as she'd assured him years ago that he was the only one who could see her.

Her imperious yellow eyes met his over the crowd.

“Callis is besieged, your majesty. Surely you must know that these are no raiders. If they take Oranstone, Tallven and Seaford are next.” There was a passionate intensity in Haverness's voice that forced Garranon to turn his attention briefly to the old general. When he looked back, the Tamerlain was gone.

“We are acquainted with the events to the south,” agreed the king mildly. “But we are also acquainted with the marvelous abilities of Oranstone fighters. Why, I bet—” The ingeniousness of the king's voice made ice crawl down Garranon's neck. He kept his face blank, for there were too many people watching the king's pet Oranstonian for a reaction. “I bet that with a hundred men you could drive the raiders off yourself.”

Haverness knew the king. He bowed low and started to say something, when he was interrupted.

“I'll take that bet,” said a voice Garranon knew well, though he hadn't seen the king's bastard half brother in the room. Alizon Tallven sauntered to Haverness and patted his back. “Though I'd rather bet on Haverness's side. Fought against him in the last war, you know.” Alizon might look the fop, but he'd been his father's general and military advisor when he was twenty-two.

The king settled back in his chair. The contrast between the two men was startling, especially since their mothers had been sisters. The king looked like all rulers should: strong-faced, gray eyes cool and measuring. He wasn't handsome, nothing so plebeian. His nose was narrow and aristocratic, with a knot where it had been broken once. His curly hair—entirely gray now, though Garranon could remember when it had been chocolate-brown—Jakoven kept cut in a short, military fashion.

Alizon, oldest of the last king's three sons, dyed his hair. Today it was a rich chestnut that spread to his shoulders. He was tall and wolf-lean, moving with comical grace. It was hard to imagine him leading an army. He had stepped down from his official post when his half brother ascended the throne. Personally, Garranon thought that was the reason Alizon had escaped the fate of Jakoven's youngest brother who was in the King's Asylum.

“You would like to bet that Haverness and a hundred can drive the raiders out?” asked Jakoven, amused.

“With the help of the Oranstone natives,” agreed Alizon. “I think, too, that the choice of the hundred should be his alone.”

The king chuckled, and Garranon leaned toward the belief that Jakoven was honestly amused. “What's the bet?”

“My war stallion against grandfather's sword.”

Garranon saw the king tense with his first real interest. Jakoven had coveted Alizon's horse.

“Done,” agreed the king. “Callis may choose any hundred men he wishes; if they can drive the Vorsagian raiders back behind their borders in the next six months, I will give you grandfather's sword. If not, you will give me the warhorse, Trueblood.”

“Upon Haverness's acceptance, of course,” murmured Alizon.

They had managed to turn the old warrior's plea to farce, thought Garranon, playing games with a man's honor.

“I accept your wishes as I am sworn to do.” There was dignity in the old man's bearing. Garranon hoped that everyone saw it. Being of Oranstone was something to make him proud when there were Oranstonians like this. His father would have approved of Haverness.

“He's a brave man,” murmured the king, looking at Garranon.

Horror knotted his belly, and a small voice inside started gibbering,
The king knows, the king knows.
But there was nothing for the king to know. He'd done nothing for Oranstone. The only thing the king could know that would harm Garranon was still secret: Only Garranon knew how much he hated the king.

“He has more courage than most.” Garranon let admiration color his voice. “It is too bad that such a man is also a fool. He allows his love of Oranstone to blind him to the needs of the Five Kingdoms. Best to send him to Oranstone; he will never fight as hard for anything but his homeland.”

Gratefully, he saw the king's sharp gaze grow bored, though Haverness flushed at being so described publically. Jakoven turned to his law-bringer. “Record the decision and Alizon's bet. Oh, give the man a week to make his choices and supply. We shall fund the supplies. When you are through, I will hear the next claimant.”

While the king conducted the rest of the morning's
business, Garranon studied the room, wondering if the world had ever been right and fair the way he'd once thought it was.

Where the men of honor gone,

In the fading shadow of the hours.

Where the shield, the sword, the steed,

To fight where coward's hero cowers.

The sorrowful little tune drifted through his mind. Something he'd heard at an inn somewhere in that stupid chase for an elusive slave girl.
Coward's hero.
He liked that; it described him perfectly.

 

“STUPID
OF
J
AKOVEN TO
give the old bastard free rein like that.”

The soft light of the moon only seemed to make the shadowed garden darker. Garranon turned his head, unsurprised to see the Tamerlain lounging on one of the decorative railings that served as support for a variety of climbing vines. The marble railing seemed to bow under the weight of the creature.

If she hadn't spoken, he knew his eyes would have passed her by, though she wasn't concealing herself. The brightly mottled fur, so startling in the daylight, blended perfectly in the junglelike shadows of the garden. A mythological, magical beast who'd showed herself to a frightened boy for reasons he'd never understood. Boredom, she'd told him when he'd asked.

The Tamerlain was the Guardian of Menogue, but no one believed in her anymore, especially since Menogue had been destroyed. She'd once said Menogue's fall had been fated, though her tail had snapped like an angry cat's while she said it. With travelers to Aethervon's broken
temple so few, she interested herself in the doings of the Estian court and the king's Oranstonian lover.

“The king stupid? Why do you say that?” he asked, knowing that they were alone in the gardens by her relaxed manner.

She rolled over on the handspan-wide rail and twisted, rubbing her spine against the hard surface without losing her balance. “Why is it that Oranstone cannot defend herself against the Vorsag, though she's done it before?”

“Because the—” the progression of that thought caused him to hesitate briefly. “—the lords who should be at their seats are stuck here in Estian and have been since the end of the last war. But it's not that easy, Tamerlain. It's been fifteen years. There are no trained men on the estates, because we're not allowed to have armies. Most of the experienced lords were killed—then or by later mysterious means. The only reason Haverness hasn't fallen off his horse or been mistaken for a deer while he rides out in the woods is because there's not a duplicitous bone in his body. Not even a patriotic idiot would recruit him for an underground movement, because he'd tell the king as soon as the words reached his ears.”

“Many men will follow him in war,” she purred soothingly. “He is a hero—and perhaps not as absurdly honorable as you believe. And there are others here: you, for instance.”

“He's not likely to choose me after I embarrassed him in public like that.”

“Perhaps not,” she allowed, flipping herself off the rail and onto her padded feet. Her claws clicked on the brick walk. “But your question was why the king is a fool. Think what will happen if Haverness succeeds with his hundred men. All of the Five Kingdoms will know that it was spite that made the bet. Everyone loves an underdog who triumphs. It might be enough to shake his grip on the throne.
If I had been the king, I would have killed Alizon long ago. Intelligent men are dangerous.”