Legends of the Riftwar (61 page)

You do what you can
, the long-dead Kami had said.

When you don't know quite what to do, you do what you can do.

Not a bad philosophy.

Kethol didn't know how to prevent a fight from starting, much less how to end one without leaving everybody on the other side dead or dying–at least, everybody who hadn't fled. And the Swordmaster's ordering him to do it hadn't magically conferred upon him that ability.

Like Pirojil and Durine, he could have settled for going out into the city and looking and trying, but it didn't take any more than two eyes to see that there were problems, and that things were only going to get worse while a dozen feuding factions were trapped in the city.

What to do about that was beyond Kethol.

It wasn't beyond precedent for Kingdom nobility to yank subordinate incompetent nobles from their estates. Or even less than incompetent, no matter how lofty their station; as Guy du Bas-Tyra had apparently been able to do to Prince Erland in Krondor, using Prince Erland's supposed failing health as an excuse, if not a reason.

If the Earl had been here, the obvious solution would be for the Earl to explain to the feuding barons that he viewed the present situation as a test of their own leadership abilities, and that he would remove any who flunked that test. And the question of who the next Earl of LaMut was going to be could also be touched on.

But if the Swordmaster took that approach he could easily touch off the very situation he was trying to prevent. As he kept
truthfully pointing out, he was not the Earl, after all, and nobles often would listen to one thing and agree when the point was being made by their betters, yet bristle when told it by an inferior, even if it was the same damn thing.

The winners would write the history, as usual, and the history would say that the losers had started the fight, and had been put down by a combination of loyal baronial troops and a few regulars, and anybody who could swear otherwise would be rotting in the ground somewhere, unable to make their dead voices heard.

Blame the war, as usual; if it wasn't for the war, the bulk of the LaMutian regulars wouldn't have been off fighting Tsurani: they would be here in LaMut, and barons at a council in LaMut would have had only their own personal guard, so any hostility between the various elements would have been a minor problem, rather than a serious threat. At worse, a duel might be called out, most likely it would have come down to nothing more troubling than a couple of lackeys getting into a scuffle in the stabling yard.

Now, it could be a full-scale riot, or worse, city fighting between armed men with years of battle experience and less sense than the gods gave a salamander. At the moment it looked as if even a scuffle between lackeys might trigger a battle between the barons.

Kethol didn't know how to handle that.

But Kethol did know how to do a few things.

He knew how to make his way across the land without drawing attention to himself. He knew how to field-dress an animal–or quickly hack off a leg in the absence of time to do a proper job–and he knew how to let the other players in a game distract themselves while he kept his eye on the main chance.

It would look for all the world as though some Tsurani scout had been hiding in that clump of trees, and had observed the LaMutian patrol passing by, leaving behind the dead horse. The Tsurani had been unable to resist supplementing whatever meagre
rations he had with some fresh horsemeat, then made his escape, avoiding leaving footprints by hiding his tracks among those of the patrol's horses. Who knows: the man might even be a trail-breaker for a raiding party. The Tsurani were clever when it came to war, and might be clever enough to attack when the Kingdom least expected, in the dead of winter.

It might not work, but the thought of some Tsurani lurking about might well give the baronial troops something else to think about besides killing one another.

One could always hope.

Steven Argent didn't like it.

He forced himself to sit back in his chair in the Aerie, ignoring the glass of wine on the side table at his elbow, the better to glare at the fragment of blue ceramic in his hand–if only to avoid glaring at Tom Garnett, who sat across from him, petting Fantus, and waiting for the Swordmaster's response to his report.

Why everybody
else
–even that freebooter, Kethol–seemed to be taking to the firedrake was a recurring, if relatively minor, irritation. Steven Argent was still frustrated at his ongoing inability to keep Fantus out of the Aerie, and momentarily, from time to time, used that minor frustration as a welcome distraction from more important and far more frustrating matters.

Like this bit of sharp blue ceramic that he held in his hand, the other armour piled next to his chair, and Tom Garnett's report about how and where it had been found.

Steven Argent had not been surprised that snowdrifts from the storm had made it impossible for Garnett's patrol to make even a complete circuit of the city, even on the closest roads. That was expected, but the effort had had to be made, if only to confirm
how thoroughly they were all snowed in. His only surprise was that the patrol had cost only two horses–one slipping on ice, and another gone lame on the return leg of the patrol–he had anticipated losing as many as four. And any surprise irritated him. There was a rule about soldiering and warfare that he had learned long ago: all surprises are bad.

Another rule: all rules were broken, upon occasion.

But he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that he had had anything resembling a good surprise during the years of this war with the Tsurani, and the more than a dozen years soldiering before them. Surprises were always things like the relief column being a day late and of half the strength that you were counting on, rather than arriving a day early or at twice the strength. Or the enemy over the next ridge was an army instead of a company, never a patrol instead of a company.

It was widely known that ever since the war had started the Tsurani, come winter, retreated behind their lines to await the coming of spring and the resumption of the war, and from what Steven Argent thought he knew about the number and quality of soldiers that they had fielded, their fear or religious avoidance of combat during winter was one of the few reasons that they hadn't swept across Midkemia from north to the Great Northern Mountains, south to the Bitter Sea. All reports indicated that the Tsurani homeworld harboured armies many times greater than what they were throwing at the Kingdom. A report to the Earl from Prince Arutha at Crydee on what they had been told by a Tsurani captive indicated that this war was merely an aspect of some massive political struggle on the Tsurani homeworld.

Argent found politics even more irritating than surprises.

He had never heard of the Tsurani deliberately leaving scouts behind Kingdom lines during their winter retreat, or about stranded Tsurani turning scout, rather than turning tail for their own lines. If that had happened now, that would be a surprise.
And not a good one. And if it happened because of Tsurani politics, it would be a doubly irritating surprise.

‘So?' he asked. ‘What do you think? Just another straggler?'

‘No.' Tom Garnett shook his head. ‘Unlikely. Not that it's impossible–but living off the land well enough to survive in winter isn't something that I'd expect a lot of the Tsurani to be good at, and those few, desperate ones who jumped us last week were in the worst state I've ever seen any of them in.

‘This one was in good enough shape, apparently, even after having survived outside in the storm–he picked himself a very good spot for that, and from how suddenly and hard that blizzard hit, that he survived at all tells me that he's both good and lucky. He had probably been hiding out in that very stand of trees, watching the comings and goings of the city.

‘Watching and waiting from a stand of trees, then quickly taking advantage of the situation to provide himself not only with a quick meal, but as much meat as he could carry–that speaks more of skill than desperation. And he was smart enough not to return to that spot.'

The Swordmaster half-seriously believed that the test of a man's intelligence was how much that man agreed with the views of one Steven Argent, and he had always considered Tom Garnett to be particularly intelligent, although no doubt he had certain disagreements with him, but kept them to himself. Loyalty and sycophancy were two entirely different things, in Argent's estimation.

‘Yes,' he said at last. ‘It's bad enough to think of Tsurani scouts helping to prepare the way for their spring offensive, but if that means the Tsurani have changed their ways of avoiding combat over the winter, that's a very bad sign.'

Tom Garnett nodded. ‘Wouldn't be the first time they've learned a new trick.'

‘There are a few they seem reluctant to learn, though,' said Argent.

‘Cavalry.' Tom Garnett nodded, agreeing. ‘By all reports, they seem to have some odd sense of honour about not riding, for which I'm grateful. They've certainly captured enough of our horses to have taken it up, should they be so inclined. And I can't imagine too many things a Tsurani isn't brave enough to try.'

Argent nodded in agreement. No man who had faced the Tsurani would gainsay their bravery.

‘But they do seem to have learned a few things from us. Still, even concluding that they've adopted winter scouting ahead of the spring re-engagement is a lot to read from this one incident, and it wouldn't necessarily mean that–'

‘How the hell do you
know
it's just one incident?' Argent snapped, then held up a palm in an instant apology at the harshness of his words. ‘I'm sorry, Tom; it seems that holding down the Earl's chair under these absurd conditions has tightened me like a bow string.' Steven Argent had never believed in the old saw, ‘never apologize, never explain'. When you made a mistake, you apologized, lest the men who served under you thought you were an idiot who never noticed that he had erred.

Tom Garnett nodded, accepting both the correction and the apology. ‘I don't know it's only one incident, at that. How quickly can we get a message to Yabon?'

Relaying the intelligence to their superior was the obvious thing to do, but Steven Argent shook his head. ‘I'll check with the birder, but I doubt that we have any Yabon-homing messenger pigeons–the Earl is due to bring some back with him.' He shrugged. ‘I did receive one, a few days ago, announcing his safe arrival there, but I can hardly tell it to turn around and fly back, eh?'

Earl Vandros had always gently mocked Steven Argent's concern about the paucity of messenger pigeons in LaMut, and it gave Steven Argent no joy at all to have been proven right. With dozens of messages quite literally flying back and forth in advance
of the general staff meeting in Yabon and the Baronial Council in LaMut, the stock of pigeons was far too low for his taste.

‘So, what do we do?' Tom Garnett frowned and drew himself up straight. ‘My apologies, sir–what I meant is: what are your orders?'

Steven Argent forced a smile. ‘Well, my first order is to give me the evening to think about what to do next, and let's keep this matter to ourselves for the–'

‘Er.' Tom Garnett blinked. ‘I'm afraid it's too late for that. The only way I could have stopped my men from talking was to lock them all in the barracks, with guards outside, and even then I'm not sure that the secret would have held.'

And,
he didn't have to add,
I wasn't under any orders to lock up the very men you need out and among the rest, trying to keep the peace.

Steven Argent nodded, accepting the explanation. ‘Well, it's out, and I suppose word will have reached the barons soon, if it hasn't already. I'd better go answer their questions before they tear the Great Hall apart, eh?' He forced himself to chuckle. ‘That last was just a figure of speech, and an ill-chosen one, under the circumstances.'

He rose, and the Captain set his glass down and quickly got to his feet as well, but he gestured at Tom Garnett to sit back down. ‘Oh, don't get up. Stay and finish your wine, man; you certainly deserve it, and it's a shame to waste even half a glass of such a fine Rillanon red. I can't imagine when we'll be getting more in.'

The Captain reseated himself, and gave the Swordmaster a quick salute with his wine glass. ‘Thank you, sir; I'm no judge of wine, but I've rarely had better. But as to the barons having heard, I'm sure that's so. I've found that gossip always travels faster than the most speedy crossbow bolt.'

‘So I'd best get out and about,' the Swordmaster said. ‘You wouldn't have any good news for me, would you?'

‘My apologies; no, I don't.' Tom Garnett shook his head. ‘Good news seems to be in as short supply as fresh produce, right about now. Although…'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, when we were coming back in to the city, the air definitely did seem to be warming a little, and I don't think that's just from all the exercise and the way that finding this armour had my heart pounding in my chest. I suppose any change in the weather is good news.' He reached over and scratched at the firedrake's eye-ridges, and smiled as the lizardlike creature preened himself. ‘And I think that Fantus likes me.'

Steven Argent laughed. It wasn't much of a laugh–the times didn't seem to be terribly funny, all things considered–but it was real enough.

 

Pirojil, with Durine in tow, intercepted the Swordmaster coming down the stairs, just as they were walking up the winding staircase to the Aerie to report to him.

From their own discussion, it was clear that their reports to the Swordmaster would be similar, and would inevitably lead Argent to the same conclusion that both of them had independently drawn: things were barely holding together in the city, and with the way that the regulars, the Watch and the baronial captains were keeping a lid on the pot, it would likely continue to simmer a little while longer before, sooner or later, it boiled over.

It hadn't been much of a coincidence that they had encountered each other on the way back up the hill to the castle. They both knew that the Swordmaster dined early, by himself; and because they both had understood that when he said he wanted to get their report ‘at table', he had meant that they were to join him in his rooms and report privately, rather than later, when he joined the nobility in the Great Hall.

Pirojil hoped that they wouldn't have to persuade Steven
Argent that they hadn't disobeyed his very explicit orders to split up when they went down into the city, although he found himself worrying about having to do just that, and gathering names of witnesses in his mind.

At least it gave him something minor to worry about–what could Steven Argent do, after all? Take away all three sets of their captains' tabs and simultaneously relieve them of the responsibility of trying to keep a lid on things? A full-scale bloodbath would be a relief after the tension he experienced trying to act like an officer. This leader-of-men stuff was nerve-wracking, to say the least.

No, getting relieved of duty was the least of their worries. Where, for example, was Kethol?

Kethol had, it seemed, understood Steven Argent's instructions differently–Kethol wasn't always the brightest of men, in Pirojil's studied opinion, particularly when he was out of his element, and a snowed-in city was most assuredly not Kethol's element. On the other hand, perhaps he was just a few minutes behind them.

Or perhaps Kethol was just lying dead in some back alley, having tried too hard to break up a fight, and finally run into either too good a swordsman, or too many of them.

Steven Argent paused a few steps above them, looked down, and nodded. ‘There you are. It's always been my policy to dine with newly-made captains, but there's been a sighting of a possible Tsurani scout, and–' he stopped himself. ‘No, what's happening in the city is likely to be more important, at least at the moment.'

Pirojil suppressed a derisive sniff. Yes, it was very bloody likely to be more important. Whatever this ‘interesting development' was, it couldn't be more important than open warfare being one shoving match away from breaking out among the factions in the city.

‘I'd better hear your report now, and we will dine later,' Steven Argent said, ‘but quickly, if you please.'

 

From what snatches of conversation Durine could hear, from across the barrier of the table and most of the width of the Great Hall, the after-dinner concerns of the assembled nobles were more about the Tsurani scout than they were about problems of taxes and succession, and were decidedly more friendly.

Even Morray and Verheyen were too busy listening to the Swordmaster holding forth, as he had been through the nobles' dinner and for the past hour after, to spend time glaring at each other, although Edwin of Viztria couldn't keep the usual alternating sneer and scowl from his face, or avoid dropping an occasional comment that Durine was just as glad he couldn't entirely make out. Baron Edwin was one of the few men Durine had met that he felt deserved to be throttled merely for being annoying.

Whoever this Tsurani scout was, he had provided a useful distraction. Durine was inclined to lift a glass in toast to him, as long as his presence this far south didn't presage some sort of huge Tsurani troop movement. Looking at the other captains gathered around the hearth, Durine judged he wasn't the only one of the captains who would have been happy to buy the poor freezing sod the drink of his choice. Those who had taken a turn through the suddenly peaceful barracks reported that the men were now anticipating combat with the Tsurani, not one another. Yes, he'd gladly buy that Tsurani scout a drink.

Before cutting his throat, of course. Gratitude could only go so far.