Lord of the Rose (7 page)

“Have the collections suffered?” interrupted the lord regent curtly.

“No, my lord. If anything, the donations have increased slightly since Issel’s arrival two months ago.”

“Then tell these complaining priests that I am satisfied with the new patriarch. Furthermore, tell them that, if they continue to complain, I shall require you to share their names with me.”

“My lord!” gasped the priest. “That would confound the sanctity of our order’s sacred bond!”

“Nevertheless, do as I say. Tell them.”

“Very well, my lord,” replied the chubby patriarch, deflated in his gilded robe. He withdrew swiftly and silently, while the aide de camp returned to introduce more business.

“It is regarding the duke’s conference to be convened in Caergoth next week. Princess Selinda is due to arrive in the next few days, depending on the vagaries of wind and tide, of course—”

“Yes, I know, I know. I fret for her, but she insisted upon going. The matter was out of my hands, and of course, there are a thousand—no, a million—things I need to attend to here! Matters of commerce, of taxation—of income and debt! Besides, my daughter will serve well as my representative at the conference.”

“Er, I understand that, lord. I am certain the Lady Selinda will do a more than creditable job in your stead. No, my lord, the problem is the other two dukes. Both Thelgaard and Solanthus have sent missives in the last few hours, begging your lordship’s
pardon and pleading that they have been detained. Each will be several days late in arriving for the conference.”

“By the gods!” The lord mayor’s face flushed, his voice cracked. “This is an insult to my station, my very self! How dare they?”

“Begging my lord’s pardon, since you sent your daughter to the conference to represent you, the insult—a potent one, to be sure—is directed at your delegated representative and is therefore
not
, technically, a wrong directed at your own august personage.”

“Bah,” he said, stroking his beardless double chin, blinking. “Are they acting in concert, conspiring against me?”

“No, rather I suspect that neither of them cares to arrive first, but both are equally concerned about arriving second. The second would have to honor the first by being present at the moment of his arrival,” the baron suggested. “The Duke of Thelgaard claims that his wife is ill and will not be ready to travel for several days. You recall her, lord … she is rather elderly, and in poor health.”

“That sick cow!” snapped du Chagne loudly. He felt a little better after the outburst. “Why doesn’t he come without her? What about Solanthus? Sure he’s not complaining of a sick wife! Why, if that slut were any healthier, Rathskell wouldn’t be able to walk!”

“Er, yes, lord, and no.” The aide de camp couldn’t help but blush—the wedding of the Duke of Solanthus to a much younger woman had been a scandal in Solamnia just the year before. “No, he claims that he cannot afford to leave his holdings, just now. A matter of revenues uncollected, I believe. I suspect it is his attempt to influence trade in Garnet.”

“Failures of revenue?” The lord mayor was outraged. “Why, he’s a rich as any three gods! He has the Stones of Garnet in his treasury, by Shinare’s sake! Well, never mind. I know how to hit him where it hurts!”

Du Chagne paced back and forth before his great windows, his heart pounding, his face flushed from his agitation.

“So the whole conference is delayed, for days, perhaps a fortnight, because of these stuffed up gamecocks?” he fumed. “I know just the thing to take them down a few pegs! Thwart my conference, will they? Dekage, take a letter.”

“Aye, my lord.” The baron hastened to the writing desk, drew out scrolls, quills, an inkwell and blotter. “I am ready, my lord.”

“Address two sheets, identical letters. The first: To His Excellency, Duke Jarrod of Thelgaard, Lord of the Crown, Keeper of the Great Plain, Heir to the Throne of the White Swan, etcetera, etcetera. Good, got that? The other copy should be addressed to His Excellency, Duke Rathskell of Solanthus, Lord of the Sword, Master of the Garnet Spur, Inheritor of the Silver Blade, Guardian of the Solamnic Code, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Write this: ‘Regarding the disposition of the disputed citystate, Garnet, recently liberated from the Dark Knights by forces under my overall command. Each of you claims it by historical precedent. Let it be known that it is my sincere wish that the place shall remain independent of any sovereign lord, as pledged in the Compact of Freedom.’ Yes.” He chuckled. “A free-market center to compete with each of those greedy bastards!” The lord mayor waved away the baron’s intention to copy these last words into the letter. “A little competition, taxes going to Palanthas of course, ought to make them sit up and take notice of their lord!”

“Quite, my lord,” the baron answered. “However—most unfortunately—I must remind you that the Compact of Freedom is currently … uh, missing. It was, you recall, in Lord Lorimar’s safe keeping at the time of his death. If it were the case that you could rule the plains from Palanthas by decree, Solamnia would surely be a greater realm, a place of loftier ideals and nobler accomplishments. Alas, this is a matter that can only be resolved by the council.”

“Blast their eyes—and damn that old charter! Bah, you’re right, I know. Very well, let us recast the letter.”

With a shrug, Baron Dekage crumbled the first letters and painstakingly set out fresh pages. The lord mayor paced and
muttered as he tried to figure out what to say, while his aide surreptitiously—and anxiously—glanced across the table.

He was relieved to see he had brought plenty of blank paper.

The Duke of Caergoth stood at a table, glaring irritably. The surface before him was large and layered in green velvet. A stripe of blue silk twisted through the middle of the table like a river, and several heaps of cloth looked like miniature hills. Across the table were spread hundreds of tiny figures carved to look like knights, footmen, dwarven infantry, goblin hordes—all of them commanded by a few gloriously decorated lords mounted on horseback. The most resplendent of these, in silver armor and mounted upon a rearing black stallion, held the banner of Caergoth, a red rose on a field of blue, aloft on a standard.

Duke Crawford examined the position of the Evil Ones—his name for the enemy he faced on this make-believe battlefield. Today his army was challenged by a powerful but undisciplined horde. He had arranged an elaborate feint to draw the heavy infantry, a brigade of ogres, into range of his catapults, and he was preparing to unleash a devastating barrage. His own knights, armored and mounted on powerful chargers, waited behind a hill, ready for a smashing counterattack.

Only then did he feel the humming vibration in his stomach—the magical summons of his lord. He stepped to a small door in the side of his game room, pulled it open, and saw the outline of a pale glow by a small drape on the wall of the alcove. He hastened over and pulled the curtain aside to reveal an ornate crystal mirror—a mirror that was growing bright with magical illumination.

“My Lord Regent!” Crawford said. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

Bakkard du Chagne’s dour image confronted him from the depths of the mirror. “Never mind that,” snapped the lord in Palanthas, his voice transported across the miles through the
medium of magical mirrors in both places. “I have learned that both Solanthus and Thelgaard will be delayed in arriving for the conference.”

Crawford blinked. He—or rather, his staff—had been preparing for the conference for months on end, and he had not been expecting problems. “But … why?” he asked, finally.

“Pride, no doubt. Even arrogance,” snapped du Chagne. “Petty political maneuvering. The important thing is that we do not reward their posturing.”

“Um, yes,” Crawford agreed. “What do you want me to do?”

“My daughter is traveling there by royal galleon—she will be arriving in Caergoth within a matter of days. She will be hosting the conference, so you are to fete her as you would me—and let the tardy lords know when they arrive, that they have missed these signal honors.”

“Certainly, my lord.” The duke was dismayed to hear that the princess would be arriving so soon. He was within a week of having the Evil Ones utterly destroyed—and now the gods only knew how long it would be before he got back to his gaming table.

As if to further mock him, someone knocked firmly on the door.

“Go away! I’m busy with my general staff!” Duke Crawford barked.

“Beg pardon, my lord, but it’s urgent.” It was the stern voice of the duke’s veteran captain, Sir Marckus.

Crawford looked back to the mirror, as the lord regent gestured impatiently. “Go—but remember what I have said.”

“Of course, my Lord,” replied the duke, bowing, then pulling the drapery back across the mirror. He stepped out of the alcove and closed the door. “Very well—come in!” he snapped to his officer outside the room.

Marckus, with his impressive flowing mustache and impeccable uniform, opened the door and stood back so a messenger could enter. The man, smelling of wet horse, dashed into the room with his hat in his hand and bowed, ready to apologize to
the gathered nobles and officers but blinking in surprise as he raised his head and saw only the duke.

“Speak, man!” demanded the lord, as the messenger stared in astonishment at the war game arranged on the table.

“Begging your Excellency’s pardon, but the harbor lookouts report that a convoy from Palanthas is approaching the port, ten stout galleons. They fly the flag of the princess—it must be the Lord Mayor’s daughter and her entourage.”

“By Joli, they’re not expected until the day after tomorrow!” The duke glanced at his tabletop in disappointment. “I had the Evil Ones outmaneuvered—would have annihilated the whole force by tomorrow morning! Now it will be weeks before I get back to such fun!” The duke sniffed, then called out, “Sir Marckus!”

“Yes, Excellency!” The knight captain stepped into the game room, snapping to attention.

“See to an honor guard immediately—to be in attendance on the docks as the Lady of Palanthas disembarks. Get the street sweepers busy—I want the whole avenue between here and the waterfront spotless. Have people turn out in a proper welcome—you know, lining all the walkways, balconies, that sort of thing.”

“Of course, Excellency. May I inquire as to the available time before her arrival?”

“Something less than an hour, so hop to it.”

“As you wish, my lord. If you will excuse me?” Somehow, the knight—a veteran officer of many battle campaigns—maintained his dignity as he marched away.

The ten ships of the Lord Regent’s fleet were lined at the docks of Caergoth, sails furled, gangplanks lowered. The captain of the Palanthian Guards, Sir Powell, led the procession of knights, a score of whom had been transported, with horses, on each vessel. All two hundred of the detachment were formed up, in neat ranks.

Lady Selinda Du Chagne debarked to enthusiastic cheers from the adoring populace of Caergoth. At eighteen, she was a stunningly beautiful young woman, with high cheekbones and hair the color of fine-spun gold. She smiled as she came down the gangplank, waving as she climbed into the waiting carriage.

For the first time in years, the “Princess of Palanthas” had been allowed to leave her native city. Caergoth was, she saw at a glance, a quite different place: solid and down to earth, compared to the elegant but rigid and stifling city to the north.

For eighteen years, Palanthas had stifled Lady Selinda very much indeed.

She was met on the dock by Sir Marckus Haum, captain of the ducal guard. He bowed to her and saluted Captain Powell, the dour but capable knight in charge of Selinda’s escort. Moments later she was ensconced in an open carriage, rolling through the streets while the people lined three or four deep along the entire road from the waterfront to the castle. There was a naive enthusiasm in their uncritical shouts and cheers. Most of them had never heard of her a couple of hours earlier. At home Selinda was lucky if the jaded citizens of Palanthas took the trouble to move out of the way when her noble carriage traversed the streets.