Murder in LaMut (9 page)

‘I think you’ve worked out that that’s unlikely, at this point.’ The Baron shook his head. ‘Old Father Kelly says that I’m unlikely to survive an overland trip as far as LaMut, or even to survive many more days simply lying here,’ he said, as though commenting on a minor problem. ‘Duty compels me, yes, but it can not compel the flesh to be stronger than it is.’

Then why haul the lady out here and back? Kethol didn’t understand, but the Baron’s manner, while certainly unusually friendly, didn’t seem to invite that kind of familiar inquisitiveness.

Kethol hadn’t picked up the pouch. The Baron pushed it towards him with trembling fingers. ‘I’ll expect you to watch out for my wife on the trip back, as well.’

Pirojil would have said something to the effect that they would try to do it as well as they had done it on the trip out, but there was something about the Baron’s manner that made it hard for Kethol to lie to him, even by indirection.

Damn.

There was nothing for it, so he picked up the pouch and looked inside–it was heavier than it looked; gold, not just silver–and stashed it inside his tunic.

The Baron smiled.

What was this really all about? Kethol was busy trying to work out a way to ask around the question–damn it all, why hadn’t the Baron called for Pirojil? Pirojil was good at this sort of thing–when the door opened, and Lady Mondegreen entered, two steaming mugs on a tray. She set the tray down on the bedside table, and then sat down on the bed next to her husband, helping him prop up his head so that he could sip at his tea.

‘I see that the carriage is being readied,’ she said. ‘But I know that I most clearly heard Father Kelly say that you’re too ill to travel.’

The Baron seemed to draw himself straighter. ‘Obligations, my dear. It’s important that Mondegreen be represented at Council, and–’

‘And–’ she stopped herself with a look at Kethol. ‘If you would excuse us for a moment, I would–’

‘Please, be still, my dear. It would be ungracious to ask someone who has done us such a service to leave as if he were merely a servant.’ He gestured at the mug of tea. ‘He hasn’t even finished his tea yet.’

Her lips pursed stubbornly. ‘Very well, then. Embarrass me in front of this man, if you will.’

‘Embarrass you? How could I do such a thing?’

‘Very well: I want you to let me represent you at the Council. There’s precedent, rare precedent…’

‘I couldn’t ask that of you, my dear,’ the Baron said. ‘You’re tired from your trip.’

Kethol sat motionless. At least if they didn’t notice him he wouldn’t be getting involved in an argument between a baron and his wife. What the argument was really about Kethol wasn’t sure–the Baron had just as much as said that she was going back to LaMut–

‘If you don’t trust me, then so be it,’ she said. ‘Who would you have speak for Mondegreen at the Council? Lord Venten? Benteen?’

Kethol didn’t recognize the names–staying out of local politics was always a good idea–but the Baron frowned and tried to shake his head. ‘Well, I suppose that my cousin Alfon could–’

‘Alfon is an idiot, with an eye on the barony.’

The Baron reached out and patted her belly. ‘I’d hoped that that would not come to pass,’ he said. ‘But…’ he sighed.

‘I’ll ask this of you one more time, my husband,’ she said. ‘Send me to LaMut, to the Council, to represent your interests, our interests.’

The Baron sighed, and nodded. ‘Very well, my dear. As you wish.’ He turned to Kethol. ‘I’ve great faith in my own troops, but I will expect that you will keep an eye on my wife, as well.’

Kethol was beginning to understand why the purse was so heavy.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he said.

‘He wants us to
what?
’ Durine shook his head.

‘Bodyguard his wife.’

‘And Morray?’

‘He didn’t say. I don’t think, though, that he much cares one way or another.’

Durine snorted. ‘Yeah, but Tom Garnett and Steven Argent do. We don’t need another noble to babysit. If we get jumped by some more Tsurani, we’ll have enough trouble trying to keep Morray alive, and we’ll have the Captain and the Swordmaster to answer to if we don’t.’

‘I’m not telling you what we
should
do. I’m just telling you what he
asked
.’ Kethol balanced the pouch on the palm of his hand. ‘And what he paid good gold for.’

‘Gold is a fine thing, but it doesn’t make a sword any sharper or a wrist any faster,’ Durine said. ‘If it all goes to shit, I say we protect the Baron, and let Lady Mondegreen fend for herself.’

Pirojil stood silently for a moment, watching the carriage being loaded. The crates of messenger pigeons being loaded on the top of the carriage and the troop of relief soldiers would have been required in any event. The wagons would have had to be loaded with the sacks of grain for the horses; the canvas bags and oaken hogsheads containing supplies for the troops would have been necessary, as well.

It was entirely possible, of course, that the lady’s travelling clothes had never been unpacked, and that a fresh set of dumpy maids had instantly been made ready; but the chests being loaded into the carriage boot and the presence of a second wagon suggested some degree of preparation.

Why? The lady was enough of a horsewoman to have preferred to travel on horseback…

He didn’t like it, any of it.

‘I’m with Durine on this,’ Pirojil said, finally. ‘You didn’t swear any oaths, did you?’ Kethol had strange ideas about keeping promises.

‘No, not really. But I didn’t empty the pouch out on his bed, either.’

‘Shit.’

‘Hmmm…’ Durine felt at the hilt of his sword, his index finger idly tapping at it. ‘I’m beginning to think that we might want to see if we can draw our pay as soon as we get to LaMut, and see if we can hole up in Ylith until the ice breaks.’

Pirojil nodded. Politics. The Baron’s obvious heirs were dead, and unless there was another one in Lady Mondegreen’s belly, there was sure to be some contention for the barony, once Mondegreen died.

Damn fool, to have let his last son and heir, presumably the son of a previous wife, ride off to be skewered by a Tsurani spear, but Kingdom nobles were like that. It would be hard to command men once you’d seemed too craven to lead them in battle.

‘So,’ Durine said, ‘what say we get the caravan back to LaMut–keeping an eye on the Baron, not the lady–then draw our pay, and watch the ice floes breaking in Ylith from some seaside tavern?’

Kethol started to say something, then stopped.

‘Go ahead,’ Pirojil said, knowing what he was going to say.

‘I like this baron,’ Kethol said. ‘He didn’t have to intercede for us over last night’s…embarrassment, and he didn’t have to load us up with gold. All he’s asking is that we do our best…’

‘Yes.
Our
best. Which suggests,’ Durine said, ‘that he’s got some reason to worry about the loyalty of at least some of his own men.’

‘Or maybe he has some idea about how good we are at what we do.’

Their survival was proof enough that they were not just lucky, but good. The Tsurani were tough opponents, singly or
en masse
, and there were few soldiers, regulars or mercenaries, who had survived half the fights against them that the three of them had.

Durine shook his head. ‘No. Have you ever met a noble who wouldn’t be happy to tell you that his own troops were the best there ever were? I think that what makes us so attractive to this baron is our political connection–we don’t have any.’

Pirojil nodded. ‘I think you’re right.’ It had been just what he was thinking.

Kethol frowned. ‘I think can we watch out for the lady, too,’ he said.

‘Yeah, and we can–’

‘Shh.’ Pirojil waved the two of them to silence. ‘If you two can shut up for a moment and let me think…’

If the Baron was as near death as Kethol said that he seemed, whoever was next in line for the barony would certainly not mind if, say, Lady Mondegreen broke her neck in a fall from a horse, leaving the succession open.

But that only made sense if……if she was already pregnant, and if the child was Mondegreen’s.

And from what Kethol said, it was unlikely that her husband was up to the task…

Which began to explain that Lady’s reputation.

She wasn’t some insatiable noblewoman, intent on riding every stallion. She had been, perhaps even with the connivance of her husband, trying to get with child. He tried to remember all the men with whom the rumours had associated her. Were they all, like Morray and Steven Argent, dark-haired and grey-eyed like her husband? Perhaps she picked out her paramours for their physical similarity to her husband, hoping for a match.

Wheels within wheels within wheels.

From the Baron’s and his lady’s point of view, it seemed that this trip home had been engineered entirely to place Lady Mondegreen in her husband’s bed, at least one last time before he died, making the child the unquestioned heir, rather than throwing the barony into a succession dispute. That was the last thing that was needed anywhere in the Kingdom, even more so here in the West with the jostling already underway to see who would replace Vandros as Earl in LaMut when he became the next Duke, and of course, all those damn Tsurani running around trying to add to the gaiety.

It all sounded reasonable, if devious, and nobility anywhere was nothing if not devious.

Damn, in just a few minutes, this Baron Mondegreen had won over Kethol, and the last thing that the three of them needed was dissension between themselves.

Pirojil nodded. ‘We protect both of them–but the priority is Morray, understood? He wears that sword for more than just vanity, I’ll wager, so he might be foolish enough to draw it and start flailing about if we’re not close by. So, make sure there are two of us with him, one with the lady, whoever’s closest, if things turn dodgy. And if it’s a choice between them, save the Baron first.

‘You win on us watching out for Lady Mondegreen, Kethol, but Durine wins on us taking our pay and getting out of LaMut as soon as we can. No more waiting for this thaw–we settle them in at the Earl’s castle in LaMut, and then we head south to Ylith. Are we all agreed?’

Kethol nodded and Durine, after a moment’s hesitation, did, too.

It was a plan he could live with. Yes, garrison duty paid, but getting involved in local politics didn’t, and it seemed that the three of them were up to their entirely-severable necks in local politics. Besides, the extra gold from Mondegreen would more than compensate them for the few extra bits of copper they’d earn freezing on the ramparts in LaMut during the next storm. The worst of the winter storms was likely over, and they could make their way south and enjoy the renewal that spring brought.

He shivered.

Kethol shook his head. ‘I tell you, there’s a storm coming.’

‘When?’

‘Not today, and not tomorrow, but soon. Too soon.’

Pirojil shook his head. With any luck, they would be out of LaMut with their pay warm in their pockets, but he had the feeling that luck wasn’t going to be with them.

Not this time.

Shit.

FOUR

Cold

The sky was clear again.

The air seemed to have warmed a little–Durine could no longer quite feel the snot freezing in his nose–but it was still far too damned cold as they rode away, accompanied by both the Morray and Mondegreen relief troops destined for service in LaMut.

Maybe this ‘thaw’ was actually coming. That would be a good thing.

It was a much larger party than the one that had ridden out to Mondegreen, and would have been even without the Morray contingent: half again as many Mondegreen troops were being sent into the earldom’s capital as had been rotated home, although why that was, Durine didn’t know.

None of his business, really.

His business was to keep an eye out for Baron Morray, and prevent Kethol’s and Pirojil’s intention of guarding Lady Mondegreen from screwing that up, if they ran into trouble.

At a fork in the road they met up with Lord Verheyen and a company of his own soldiers, accompanied by a trio of Natalese Rangers, several hours out from Verheyen’s keep.

The Rangers were, as always, dressed in their traditional dark grey tunics, dark grey trousers, and equally dark grey cloaks. Durine never quite understood how legendary woodsmen would not want to adapt their clothing–their cloaks, in particular–to their surroundings. While he and Pirojil and Kethol travelled light by necessity, he had always accepted Kethol’s notion that a cloak was more than just protection from the cold, more than something to sleep in, more than the basis for a stretcher to carry a wounded comrade, if you had that inclination and luxury: the three of them always made it a point to procure cloaks that were suited to the season. Even somebody as big as Durine was practically invisible in wooded country, if he was standing motionless and wearing the right cloak.

On the other hand, since it was almost impossible to see a Ranger unless he wished you to, they must know something Durine didn’t. He turned his attention back to the approaching noble.

Luke Verheyen drew his horse to a halt. ‘Hail, Ernest, Baron Morray,’ he said formally.

Verheyen was a powerfully-built man, his hair and beard blond almost to the point of unhealthy whiteness, in stark contrast to his sun-darkened skin. His lips were twisted in a smile, and the creases along the side of his mouth and around his eyes suggested that he smiled often and much. He and his soldiers had thrown back their cloaks to reveal brown tabards quartered by a red cross, the only other device visible being a golden falcon on the upper left quarter, over the heart. Durine noticed the sword at his side was well cared for and well used, the hilt more suited for fighting than being a decoration. This was in keeping with his reputation as one of the deadliest blades in the West.

Morray nodded back. ‘Hail, Luke, Baron Verheyen,’ he returned. ‘A cold day for travelling.’

‘That it is.’

You might have thought that the two men were, at worst, friendly acquaintances from the amiable way they were chatting, but only if you didn’t watch their eyes. Durine was carefully watching their eyes, until the leader of the three Rangers rode to the front and attracted his attention. The Ranger was a tall, slender man, who cut an almost absurd figure on his small pony, which from the easy way it moved under him, was surely sturdier than it seemed.

The Ranger greeted the Baron, then let his eyes slide past the soldiers in Morray, Mondegreen and LaMutian livery and settled on the three men who weren’t in uniform.

‘Hail, stranger,’ he said, his eyes fixing on Kethol: as usual, there was something about the way Kethol looked that had made the Ranger think he was in charge. ‘I am Grodan of Natal. I recognize the livery of the others, but I don’t recognize yours.’ His eyes indicated that ‘yours’ meant all three of them.

Despite their formal use of language, Natalese Rangers had, during his few encounters with them, always reminded Durine of constables–they watched everybody sceptically and pried for details that were, in any reasonable sense, none of their business.

‘My name is Kethol,’ Kethol said, pulling back his cloak to reveal his plain green tabard. ‘I’m in the employ of the Earl of LaMut, as are my companions, Pirojil and Durine.’

Grodan nodded. ‘Strange times make strange acquaintances.’

‘So I hear,’ Morray put in. ‘As for us, we’re accompanying the Lady Mondegreen to LaMut, for the same baronial council that Baron Verheyen is going to attend. Conduct of the war is important, but the earldom still has its own needs, and we’re required–’

‘Really?’ Verheyen’s smile broadened. ‘I thought, perhaps, that I’d be of more use at the general staff meeting in Yabon City, but…’ He trailed off with a shrug.

‘Well, if you feel that you’d be welcome in Yabon City,’ Morray said flatly, ‘then you should point your horse north and west, rather than south. With these Rangers here to guide you, I’m sure you’ll only be a few days late, if you ride hard.’

‘I think not.’ Verheyen spread his hands. ‘I’ve always found that when my opinion differs from the Earl’s as to what is best, it’s better to do as he wishes.’

‘Excuse me.’ Grodan arched an eyebrow and leaned forward. ‘Did I correctly hear you say it’s the Lady Mondegreen in the coach? Not the Baron?’

Kethol shook his head. ‘The Baron–’

‘The Baron,’ Morray interrupted, shutting Kethol up with a quick glare, ‘is indisposed, and unable to travel at the moment. I’m not entirely sure why that’s any concern of yours, Ranger.’

Durine didn’t see any point in trying to keep Baron Mondegreen’s fatal condition a secret. The old man would probably be dead within weeks, if not days. But nobody was asking him.

‘No offence is intended,’ Grodan said. ‘As I said, strange times make for strange alliances.’

The Rangers were eyeing the LaMutian soldiers with expressions that were not particularly friendly, despite the fact that they were allies. Granted, it was a necessary alliance, not one born of brotherly love; after all, it had been the present Duke of Crydee’s grandfather who had sacked Walinor and laid siege to Natal while attempting to conquer what had once been the Keshian province of Bosonia. Many in the Free Cities viewed the Duchy of Crydee as lands lost in that war. Durine knew that memories were long and people who felt a grievance normally could not be counted on to make distinctions between one duke or another, or one generation and the next. A curse of history, he judged. Sometimes it was better not to know things.

Durine could see there wasn’t going to be a fight, grudging or otherwise, but if there were, it would be interesting to see how many of the locals the Rangers took down before they were overwhelmed. However, as the Ranger had said, war made strange alliances. This one would probably hold at least until a solid two or maybe three days after the last of the Tsurani were eliminated–if that ever happened. Or maybe for an entire week; Durine liked to look on the bright side of things.

‘Well, then,’ Grodan said, ‘I think we had best accompany you all the way to LaMut.’

Morray nodded. ‘I’ll be grateful for your company, of course, and more grateful if the three of you will scout ahead. We had some minor trouble with Tsurani stragglers on the way out to Mondegreen, and it would be good to have some warning if there are any more such about.’

Good for him, thought Durine.

Kethol had never seen LaMut so full of soldiers–or nobles, or just plain people, for that matter. Everywhere he went, there seemed to be a plethora of baronial tabards, each bearing a different crest, although he knew that there were only a dozen or so barons that were fealty-bound to the Earl of LaMut. And everywhere you went, there seemed to be some noble or his lady, each with his or her own personal guard. For every landed baron, there appeared to be a couple of court barons, which meant there were dozens of squires, pages and other servants hurrying from one place to another, each wearing a mark or badge which he considered worthy of deference, but which was summarily ignored by everyone around him. He saw one scuffle between two young men who should have known better over who got to walk through the door of an inn first. The LaMutian constables walking by were more amused than annoyed and took evil delight in cuffing and kicking the two young ‘nobles’ to their feet, if not their senses.

Kethol made a point of staying out of their way; he had already had more than enough exposure to the nobility and their self-important servants for a lifetime, and all in a single week.

Just to complicate matters, Second-day was a full market day in LaMut, and the lull in the war had filled the markets, despite the bitter cold. The lower city was crowded with merchants selling everything Kethol could have imagined–except for mercenary services and fresh produce. The latter would have to wait for spring and if there were any good LaMutian citizens who needed to hire people like Kethol, Pirojil and Durine, the city markets were hardly the place to find them.

Near where a travelling farrier had set up his stall, a chicken-seller hawked his wares, clucking in protest against the cold in their wicker cages, already plucked and gutted and hanging from hooks where they were quickly freezing; or by the piece as they roasted on a hot spit over a fire. He was doing a brisk business with these, for the meaty, garlicky smells pried open pouches as quickly as a good pickpocket, and only iron self-discipline and the certain knowledge that hot food waited for him in the keep kept Kethol himself from parting with a few coppers.

Others weren’t being quite so restrained. One stocky soldier, his cloak thrown back to display the Verheyen crest on his tabard, pushed to the front of the crowd, elbowed aside a pair of Benton men, and if the Watch hadn’t been in the market in full force, it was just the sort of thing that would have degenerated into a brawl, despite the cold.

But the Watch moved quickly, so that the Verheyen man eventually passed on up the street, munching on a chicken leg, while the Benton men went down the street with a pair of roasted breasts and two baskets filled with eggs, suggesting that they had been on an errand for somebody.

Kethol was recognized at the keep’s gate, and after a quick check of a list–mercenary soldiers did not come and go as they pleased within the walls of the Earl of LaMut’s castle, but usually resided in a barracks in the city below. He was conducted into the courtyard surrounding the keep itself, made his way across the parade ground that occupied much of that inner courtyard, through the mud-room and into the foyer of the residence’s west wing.

The sergeant in charge of the guard detachment there blocked his passage. ‘I’ve been waiting for you–you’re late,’ he said.

‘Yes, I know,’ Kethol said. ‘I’m due to relieve the others, at the Bursar’s quarters. But that’s a matter between me and Pirojil and Durine–meaning no offence, but it’s none of your concern, after all.’

Like most of the barons fealty-bound to the Earl of LaMut, Morray maintained a small residence in the earldom’s capital. Even in peacetime, the barons were frequently coming and going, doing whatever they needed to do in the capital besides working out a way to squeeze more taxes out of the peasants and franklins–which Kethol reckoned consumed most of their time and effort, although that probably wasn’t fair. Kethol tried to be fair, at least within the confines of his mind. There were other attractions in LaMut. While two of the three playhouses in the city had been shut down early in the war, LaMut was still the cultural capital of the earldom, as well as the political one, and it was understandable that the nobility would want to spend time in the capital for any number of reasons.

In addition to his house on Black Swan Road, Morray also had been assigned a small suite of rooms in the Earl’s keep itself, probably both because of his status as the Bursar, and because he was one of the few people who knew the secret of the lock on the strongroom door. Gold and silver were sticky things, and if there ever was a noble fool enough to let just anybody have access to either the strongroom or the accounting books, Kethol would definitely have liked to have heard of him. He’d be first in line to stand guard all night at the strongroom door. For one night.

The sergeant shook his head. ‘The other two can sit around with their thumbs up their arses watching the door for a while longer while Baron Morray takes his rest.’ It seemed that the three of them were quickly becoming as popular with the keep’s soldiers as they had become in Mondegreen. ‘The Swordmaster wants to see you,’ the sergeant went on. ‘Weren’t you told that at the gate?’

There were, Kethol decided, many wonderful times in life when it was best to keep your mouth shut.
If I had been told that at the gate, I wouldn’t be here right now, would I?
he didn’t say. You made enough enemies in this business as it was, and Kethol had no wish to add another. ‘No, I wasn’t,’ he finally said.

The sergeant frowned. ‘Hart, you’d better guide the freebooter up to the Aerie,’ he said, turning to a gangly soldier with shifty eyes. ‘He seems to have some trouble finding his way around to where he is supposed to be.’

Kethol followed the soldier down the hallway and up the winding staircase to the Aerie. The three of them couldn’t be in serious trouble, he decided, or a detachment of troops would have met them at the front gate.

The soldier knocked briefly at the door, then opened it without asking.

‘Ah,’ Steven Argent said, glancing up from some paper in his lap, ‘the tardy Kethol is finally here.’ He grinned. ‘I was thinking that I was going to have to send out a search party for you.’

Steven Argent glanced down at Fantus. The firedrake had stretched out in front of the hearth, spreading his wings to absorb what heat he could. The whole castle was probably far too draughty for the creature’s tastes, but he had found himself a comfortable spot, at least for the moment, and a comfortable spot was something that Kethol envied as he stood not quite at attention.

‘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.’