Legends of the Riftwar (48 page)

‘Fantus, here,' the Swordmaster went on, ‘is quite the opposite
of you; he's far too easy to find, underfoot, in front of my hearth. He keeps contriving to get himself down from the falconry loft where he belongs, and I never seem to manage to keep him out. If he weren't the Duke's wizard's pet, Fantus would find himself out in the forest, and quickly, never mind how cold it is.'

The drake stirred briefly, as if understanding the threat, fixed Argent with a baleful eye for a brief moment, then closed it, obviously contented with his lot. Kethol was now convinced Fantus had been some rich woman's pet cat in a previous life.

Argent allowed himself a rueful smile. ‘Or how he seems to grow on me.' The Swordmaster looked up. ‘You weren't quite so easy to find.'

Kethol didn't quite shrug. ‘I'm sorry that the Swordmaster was put to any inconvenience,' he said.

He hoped it was the right thing to say, and he relaxed a trifle when Steven Argent waved the matter away.

‘Not at all. Just give me a moment,' Steven Argent said, gesturing Kethol to the other chair next to the hearth. ‘I'd better finish signing off on this report before it all flees my mind.' He bent over the papers in his lap again. ‘It's a sad thing when an honest swordmaster has to take up all the bothersome details of running an earldom. I'll be almost as happy to see the Duke and Kulgan return to pick up Fantus as I will to see the Earl is back and I can return to my normal duties.'

Kethol slowly lowered himself into the indicated seat, nervous around the firedrake.

‘He likes it when you scratch at his eye-ridges,' Steven Argent said, not looking up from his papers. ‘You'd think he almost purrs.'

‘If you don't mind,' Kethol said, ‘I'll just keep my hands to myself.'

‘I don't mind,' Argent said, still not looking up, ‘but Fantus may have other ideas.'

As though he had heard and understood the Swordmaster,
Fantus slithered over to Kethol and presented his head for scratching.

Kethol had never been this close to a firedrake before. Once, years before, he had caught sight of a flight of new hatchlings. It had been another war, not as cold, but muddier, and he had enjoyed the moment of bright colours in the sky, if only as an early sign of spring. Dragons, large or small, had always made Kethol nervous, and he had no inclination to get any closer than a long bowshot. Their eyes seemed to see too much: some people claimed dragons could speak like men, but Kethol didn't care to engage one in conversation as an experiment. Even if they couldn't, Kethol was pretty sure they were smart; certainly this one was smart enough to have wormed his way into the Swordmaster's affections and into the Earl's kitchen through a cold winter.

Fantus craned his long neck to give Kethol a quick glance, then went back to spreading his broad wings in front of the raging fire.

Kethol narrowed his gaze at the creature. Then he reached out a tentative hand and scratched where the Swordmaster had indicated. The drake stretched his neck a bit, then relaxed into a satisfied, almost blissful expression, which fitted with Kethol's theory of feline reincarnation.

Steven Argent finally set his stack of papers down on the small table to his right–away from both the firedrake and the fire–and sat back in his chair. ‘Well, I'm told you have a letter for me, and one for the Earl.'

Told? Who would have told–Oh. Lady Mondegreen, of course. He tried not to sniff the air for her signature scent of patchouli and myrrh.

‘Yes, I do,' Kethol said.

‘Well, out with them, man.'

Kethol stopped scratching the firedrake so that he could open
his pouch and handed both of the letters over. That one was addressed to the Earl rather than to the Swordmaster was something that the Swordmaster and the Earl could work out by themselves, after Kethol, Pirojil and Durine were gone, he thought.

Steven Argent spent a suspiciously short time reading them. Either he was a very fast reader, or he already knew the letters' contents or, most probably, both.

He set the letters down in his lap, patted them, then nodded. ‘It appears Baron Mondegreen has taken a liking to the three of you–and you in particular.' He smiled slightly. ‘I can't say quite the same thing for the Military Bursar, though, although this letter from Baron Mondegreen puts some perspective on Baron Morray's complaints about the three of you interrupting his sleep.'

‘I–'

‘We'll just let that matter drop.' Steven Argent smiled. ‘I'll tell Baron Morray the same if he brings it up again. Likely he won't–'

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. Steven Argent waited, as though he expected it to open, then said, ‘Well, come in then, Ereven.'

The housecarl had a tray heavily laden with small loaves of bread and a huge wedge of blue-veined cheese balanced on one hand, a bottle of wine and two glasses in the other, and a glum expression on his face.

‘I thought you might want some refreshment, sir.'

The Swordmaster nodded. ‘I'd rather be working up a sweat on the training floor, but I should eat something.' He gestured at the low table between the two chairs. ‘And if Kethol here will turn down an offer of good food and wine, he'll be a unique one.'

Ereven set the tray down and poured wine for both of them, while Steven Argent, disdaining the plate, set his papers in his lap, tore off a hunk of bread and took a bite before cutting a piece of cheese to go with it, beckoning at Kethol to do the same.

Kethol did so, tearing into the still-warm, thick crust. It had been too long since he had eaten. He knew that the fresh bread served to his betters in the castle was of a higher quality than the plain, thick brown loaves that were issued to the troops, but this was absolutely marvellous, beyond what he could have imagined. As his father had often said, hunger was by far the most pungent and effective of sauces.

The housecarl stood patiently, his hands folded in front of him.

‘Ereven,' the Swordmaster said, ‘we can manage to feed ourselves–there's no need for you to linger.'

The servitor almost smiled. ‘As you wish, Swordmaster,' he said, bowing. ‘Will there be anything else that you need before supper?'

‘I think I can manage. Please give my best to Becka, and to your daughter, as well,' Steven Argent said, dismissing the servitor.

He turned to Kethol and shook his head after the door had closed. ‘His daughter, Emma, is starting to show,' Argent said softly, as if the housecarl might overhear. ‘The father must be one of the guard, as young men of the household staff are in fear of Ereven and a nobleman would already have stepped forward to make arrangements for the bastard. Which will make it my problem when the soldier is named.' He sighed. ‘The girl won't talk about it, but I'm not inclined to press her, just yet. The Earl will know how to do that better than I can. When he tells me what he wants done, then I'll find out who the brainless lout is and see he does the Earl's will.' He scowled, then took another bite of his bread and cheese, and then drained his wine glass with one long draught. ‘Well, that hits the spot on such a day, eh?' He looked at the door again, like a man who couldn't help himself from rubbing at an insect bite. ‘The rumour is that I am the father.' He sat back and let out a slight sigh, and it occurred to Kethol he was in the unusual position of being told things he'd rather not hear by someone whose only reason for telling him was that he was inconsequential to the Swordmaster–much as
soldiers talk to barmen, barbers and the stranger sitting next to them moments before they go over the wall. Depending on time and circumstance, Kethol would be inclined to tell the man to take his story elsewhere, or to pretend to listen politely while completely ignoring the fool, but given his present company, Kethol decided the best course was to nod occasionally and keep his mouth full of bread and cheese so that he couldn't make an inopportune remark.

Argent continued, ‘And that irritates me more than a little. You'd think even these Westerners would know that an Eastern gentleman would take responsibility for the girl and his bastard.' He shook his head.

Kethol didn't say anything. Noble responsibilities were the problems of nobles, not his; besides, his mouth was full of bread and a particularly pungent and delicious cheese. Seeing that the Swordmaster was now expecting some sort of comment, Kethol quickly chewed and swallowed. Gulping the last bit, he said, ‘You were speaking of Baron Mondegreen when the housecarl interrupted.'

‘I was.' Noting that Kethol had almost hurt himself gulping his food so that he could answer, Argent softly said, ‘Drink your wine. It's not as good as you'd find in Ravensburgh or Rillanon, but it's a fair enough companion to that cheese.'

Kethol forced himself to sip at his wine, rather than gulping it down, as he would have liked. It was worth the tasting, certainly, but to Kethol's way of thinking, the purpose of drinking wine in the middle of a cold day was to warm him from the inside, and the quicker it went down, the quicker it would start getting to work.

Steven Argent was still waiting for Kethol to speak.

‘I…liked Baron Mondegreen,' Kethol said. ‘He seems a kind man.'

Steven Argent nodded. ‘True enough. Though those who failed
to notice the steel behind his smile have regretted the oversight. How did he appear?'

‘Dying, my lord,' Kethol said.

Steven Argent sighed. ‘Yes, he is.' He tapped at the letters in his lap. ‘These are hardly the only letters brought back from Mondegreen, as you've undoubtedly concluded. Father Kelly is of the opinion that he'll be dead within a few weeks, even if he remains in his bed, and that if he had been fool enough to travel in this weather, you would have only delivered a body to LaMut.' He didn't wait for a comment. ‘You managed to keep Morray alive, and that's what you were told to do.'

Kethol nodded.

‘Other than the Tsurani attack, did you see any evidence of anybody trying to harm him?'

Kethol shook his head. ‘None at all. He and Baron Verheyen seemed almost, well, chummy, and–'

‘They despise one another. Just because they are both vying for the earldom doesn't make them fools.' Argent paused, then softly added, ‘Quite the contrary, in fact.'

‘The earldom, my lord?' he asked. ‘Has something happened to the Earl?' Surely he would have heard about that.

‘No.' Steven Argent shook his head. ‘Earl Vandros is fine. It's an open secret, though, that he's certain to marry the Duke's daughter, Felina–although I wouldn't bring it up with him; he's unaccountably touchy on the subject. As the Duke of Yabon is without a son and heir, Vandros will end up being Duke of Yabon. The King will name his successor, here, but Vandros will have quite a say in the matter. Morray is Bursar, he enjoys that advantage, but Verheyen has distinguished himself in the war–there's no more deadly blade in the West–so as a military leader, he enjoys another edge. So, Morray and Verheyen are desperate for the Earl's favour. Starting trouble is not the way to earn Vandros's favour.' His brow furrowed. ‘I'm surprised you didn't know that.'

Kethol forced himself not to shrug. ‘I've never been much for barracks gossip.' Which wasn't quite true; you could learn a lot from barracks gossip, but Kethol had always been far more interested in everyday issues of, say, how eager a given captain was to expend men, or which serving girl was especially friendly, than he was in more lofty matters of noble succession.

Yes, everybody heard rumours about the court, about feuds between Guy du Bas-Tyra and Duke Borric, whispered stories about the King being stone crazy, or about Prince Erland being at death's door, or dead already at Guy's hands–but that didn't have much effect on you when your real concern was whether or not the Bugs were going to come over the next ridge and cut you into tiny bits. It was enough to know that those who were deciding things were meeting at Yabon. As serpentine as the politics were here in LaMut, it was probably worse there, and Kethol had always thought that the distinction between bad and worse was far sharper–and much more likely to get him killed–than that between good and better.

‘And I assume,' Steven Argent said, ‘that you'd like to be returned to Tom Garnett's service?'

‘My lord?'

‘Tom Garnett–I take it you want to go back to his company?'

To Kethol's way of thinking, the three of them had never quite left Tom Garnett's company; they had just been given a particular assignment, much like the time when Tom Garnett had sent them out to scout ahead during a lull in the fighting with the god-cursed Bugs. Come to think if it, that was probably the time when Tom Garnett had concluded that Kethol was the leader of the three of them–and actually, on that sort of thing, he was, by virtue of having been raised a forester's son.

‘Actually, my lord,' Kethol said, ‘we've talked it over among the three of us, and what we've decided is, well, we've decided that we'd like to be paid off now, and head south for Ylith, to wait for the thaw there.'

The Swordmaster arched an eyebrow. ‘In this weather?' He frowned. ‘It's bitter cold, and it's likely to get even worse. I've spoken with Grodan–he says that there's another storm coming–worse than the last–and Rangers have even more of a feel for such things than magicians. My guess is that it's not going to be as bad as Grodan suspects, but I'd not like to bet heavily on that. Certainly not enough to be out on the road when it hits.'

‘But–'

‘If Grodan's right, you might find yourself caught in a blizzard halfway to Ylith, and not thaw out until spring.'

Kethol didn't wonder how Steven Argent knew they were going south if paid–it was the logical choice if you had finished fighting and were seeking warmer weather.

‘Gold and silver are fine things,' continued the Swordmaster, ‘but you can't burn them to keep you warm. Better to have a warm bed and hot food safely inside the city's walls until spring, right?' He frowned. ‘Besides, I'm still concerned about Baron Morray, and even if I didn't have specific instructions from Earl Vandros to see to his safety, I'd still like the idea of having you outsiders watching over him.'