Authors: Paul Kearney
“Perhaps literally,” Rusio muttered. “Fournier, tell me, will they reopen the investigation into that assassination attempt?”
Fournier coloured. “I think not.”
“It was you and the King, wasn’t it?”
“What a monstrous accusation! Do you think I would stoop to—?”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Willem interjected testily, “enough. We are allies here. There are to be no accusations or recriminations. We must answer this stark question: how do we rid Torunna of this parvenu?”
“Do we want to be rid of him at the moment?” Aras asked nervously. “After all, he is doing a good job of winning the war.”
“Good Lord, Colonel!” Rusio snapped. “I do believe you’ve fallen under this fellow’s spell. What are you thinking? Winning the war? We left eight thousand dead on the field a few days ago, including our King. Winning the war indeed!”
Aras did not reply. His face was white as bone.
“It must be legal, whatever else it is,” Fournier said smoothly, gliding over the awkward little silence that followed. “And it must not jeopardise the security of the kingdom. We are, after all, in a fight for our very survival at the moment. It may be that Aras is right. This fellow Corfe has his uses—that cannot be denied. And if truth be told, I am not sure the troops would follow anyone else at the moment.”
Rusio stirred at this but said nothing.
“So it behoves us to work with him for now. As long as he has the confidence of the Queen he is well-nigh untouchable, but no man is without his weak spots. Aras, you told us he lost his wife in Aekir.”
“Yes. He never talks about it, but I have heard his friend Andruw mention it.”
“Indeed. That is an avenue worth exploring. There is guilt there, obviously, hence his largesse to the scum of Aekir that we harbour in the capital. And you, Aras, you must work to get closer to him. You obviously admire him, so that is a start. Remember, we are not out to destroy this fellow—we simply feel that he has been elevated beyond his station.”
Aras nodded.
“And make sure you recall whose side you are on,” Rusio growled. “It’s one thing to admire the man, another to let him ride roughshod over the very institutions which bind this kingdom together.” A murmur of agreement ran down the table. Willem spoke up.
“Another six hundred tribesmen from the Cimbrics arrived outside the city this evening, wanting to fight under him. Quartermaster Passifal is equipping them as we speak. I tell you, gentlemen, if we do not curb this young fellow he will set himself up as some form of military dictator. He does not even have to rely on the support of his countrymen. What with those savages and his tame Fimbrians at his back, he has a power base completely outside the normal chain of command. They won’t serve under anyone else—we saw that at the last planning conference the King chaired, here in the capital. And now he’s stirring up the rabble who fled from Aekir when he should be shipping them south, dispersing them. There’s a pattern to it all. It’s my belief he aims at the throne itself.”
“It is disturbing,” Fournier agreed. “Perhaps—and this is only a vague suggestion, nothing more—perhaps we should be looking for allies of our own outside the kingdom, a counterweight to this growing army of mercenaries he leads.”
“Who?” Rusio asked bluntly.
Fournier paused and looked intently at the faces of the men around the table. Below them they could hear the buzz and hubbub of the tavern proper, but in this room the loudest sound was the crackling of the fire.
“I have received in the last sennight a message brought by courier from Almark, gentlemen. That kingdom is, as you know, now on the frontier. The Merduks have sent exploratory columns to the Torrin Gap. Reconnaissances, nothing more, but Almark is understandably alarmed.”
“Almark is Himerian,” Rusio pointed out. “And ruled directly by the Himerian Church, I hear.”
“True. The Prelate Marat is regent of the kingdom, but Marat is a practical man—and a powerful one. If we agreed to certain… conditions, he would be willing to send us a host of Almarkan heavy cavalry in our hour of need.”
“What conditions?” Willem asked.
“A recognition that there are grounds for doubting the true identity of the man who claims to be Macrobius.”
Rusio barked with bitter laughter. “Is that all? Not possible, my dear Count. I know. I met Macrobius while he still dwelled in Aekir. The Pontiff we harbour here in Torunn is a travesty of that man, admittedly, but he is Macrobius. The Himerians are looking for a way to get their foot in the door, that’s all. They failed with war and insurrection and now they’ll try diplomacy. Priests! I’d get rid of the whole scheming crew if I had my way.”
Fournier shrugged elegantly. “I merely inform you as to the various options available. I, too, do not wish to see Almarkan troops in Torunna, but the very idea that they could be available is a useful bargaining tool. I shall brief the Queen on the initiative. It is as well for her to be aware of it.” He said nothing of the other, more delicate initiative which had come his way of late. He was still unsure how to handle it himself.
“Do as you please. For myself, I’d sooner we were hauled out of this mess by other Torunnans, not heretical foreigners and plotting clerics.”
“There are not many Torunnans left to do the hauling, Colonel. The once mighty Torunnan armies are a mere shadow of what they once were. If we do not respond in some fashion at least to this overture, then I would not be too sanguine about the safety of our own north-western frontier. Almark might just strike while the Merduks have our attention, and we would have foreign troops on Torunnan soil in any case, except that we would not have invited them.”
“Are you saying we have no choice in the matter?”
“Perhaps. I will see what the Queen thinks. For all that she is a woman, she has as fine a mind as any of us here.”
“We’re getting away from the point of this meeting,” Willem said impatiently.
“No, I don’t think so,” Fournier replied. He steepled his slender fingers and swept the table with hard eyes. “If we are trying to shift this Cear-Inaf from his current eminence it may be best to use many smaller levers instead of one big one. That way the prime movers are more easily kept anonymous. More importantly, Cear-Inaf will find it harder to fight back.”
“He’s not ambitious,” Aras blurted out. “I truly think he fights not for himself but for the country, and for his men.”
“His lack of ambition has taken him far,” Fournier said drily. “Aras, you have met with him more often than any of us. What do you make of him?”
The young colonel hesitated. “He’s—he’s strange. Not like most career soldiers. A bitter man, hard as marble. And yet the troops love him. They say he is John Mogen come again. There is even a rumour that he is Mogen’s bastard son. It started when they saw him wielding Mogen’s sword on the battlefield.”
“Mogen,” Rusio grunted. “Another upstart bedmate of the Queen’s.”
“That’s enough, Colonel,” Fournier snapped. “General Menin, may God be good to his soul, obviously saw something in Cear-Inaf, else he would not have posthumously promoted him.”
“Martin Menin knew his death was near. It clouded his thinking,” Rusio said heavily.
“Perhaps. We will never know. Do we have any inkling of our current commander-in-chief’s plans for the future?”
“It will take time to reorganise and refit the army after the beating it took. The Merduks have withdrawn halfway to the Searil for the moment, so we have a breathing space. There is no word from Berza and the fleet, though. If they succeed in destroying the Merduk supply dumps on the Kardian, we may be left alone until the spring.”
“We have some time to work in then. That’s good. Gentlemen, unless anyone has a further point to raise, I think this meeting is over. Venuzzi, I take it your people are all in place?”
The steward nodded. “You shall know what he has for breakfast before he has it himself.”
“Excellent.” Fournier rose. “Gentlemen, good night. I suggest we do not all depart at once. Such things get noticed.”
In ones and twos they took their leave, until only Aras and Willem were left. The older officer rose and set a hand on Aras’s shoulder. “You have your doubts about our little conspiracy, do you not, Aras?”
“Perhaps. Is it wrong to wish for victory, no matter who leads us to it?”
“No. Not at all. But we are the leaders of our country. We must think beyond the present crisis, look to the future.”
“Then we are becoming politicians rather than soldiers.”
“For the moment. Don’t be too hard on yourself. And do not forget whose side you are on. This Corfe is a shooting star, blazing bright today, forgotten tomorrow. We will be here long after his glory-hunting has taken him to his grave.” Willem slapped the younger man’s shoulder, and left.
Aras remained alone in the empty room, listening to the late-night revellers below, the clatter of carts and waggons in the cobbled streets beyond. He was remembering. Remembering the sight of the Merduk heavy cavalry charging uphill into the maw of cannon, the Fimbrian pikes skewering screaming horses, men shrieking and snarling in a storm of slaughter. That was how the great issues of this world were ultimately decided: in a welter of killing. The man who could impose his own will upon the fuming chaos of battle would ultimately prevail. Before the King’s Battle Aras had thought himself ambitious, a leader of men. He was no longer so sure. The responsibilities of command were too awesome.
“What will it be?” he said aloud to the firelight, the glowing candles.
Either way, he would end up betraying something.
FIVE
H IS wooden heels clicked on the floor like the castanets entertainers danced to. She had tried to make him don shoes, but he seemed fascinated by the sight of his timbre toes tapping on marble. Many times he sagged or slipped and she had to steady him. When she did, the pain speared into her ribs, making her breath come short. He had struck her there with his new knee as she held him down in the midst of Golophin’s magicking. But there was no time for trivialities like that. Hebrion had a king again. With her help he was stalking and staggering up and down the Royal chambers like an unsteady lion pacing its cage.
And I have a husband, the thought came to her unbidden. Or will have. A man half human, and the other half—what?
“Unbelievable,” King Abeleyn of Hebrion muttered. “Golophin has really surpassed himself this time. But why wood? Old Mercado got himself a silver face. Couldn’t I have been given limbs of steel or iron?”
“He was in a hurry,” Isolla told him. “They vote on the regency today. There was nothing else available.”
“Ah, yes. My noble cousins, flapping around me like gore-crows looking for a beakful of the Royal carcase. What a shock it’ll be when I walk in on the dastards! For I will walk in, Isolla. And in full mail too.”
“Don’t overdo things. We don’t want you looking like an apparition.”
Abeleyn grinned, the same grin that had quickened her heart as a girl. He was still boyish when he smiled despite the grey of his hair and the scars on his face. “Golophin may have had to fix my legs, Issy, but the rest of me is still flesh and blood. How do you feel about marrying a carpenter’s bench?”
“I’m not a romantic heroine in some ballad, Abeleyn. Folk with our blood marry out of policy. I’ll wear your ring, and both Astarac and Hebrion will be the better off for it.”
“You haven’t changed. Still the sober little girl with the world on her shoulders. Give us a kiss.”
“Abeleyn!”
He tried to embrace her and pull her face towards his, but his wooden feet slipped on the stone floor and he went down with a clack and crash, pulling her with him. They landed in a billow of her brocade and silks, and Abeleyn roared with laughter. He kept his grip, and kissed her full on the mouth, one hand cradling the hollow of her neck. She felt the colour flame into her face as she pulled away.
“That put the roses into your cheeks!” he chortled. “By God Issy, you grew up well. That’s a fine figure you’ve got lurking under those skirts.”
“That’s enough, my lord. You’ll injure yourself. This is unbecoming.”
“I’m alive, Isolla. Alive. Let me forget Royal dignity for a while and taste the world.” His hand brushed her naked collarbone, drifted lower and caressed the swell of one breast where the stiff robe pushed it upwards. A jolt ran through her that dried up the words in her mouth. No-one had ever touched her in that way. She wanted it to stop. She wanted it to go on.
“Well sire, I see you are feeling better,” a deep, musical voice said.
They disentangled themselves at once and Isolla helped the King to his feet. Golophin stood by the door with his arms folded, a crooked smile on his face.
“Golophin, you old goat!” Abeleyn cried. “Your timing is as inept as ever.”
“My apologies, lad. Isolla, get him to the bed. You’ve excited him enough for one morning.”
Isolla had nothing to say. Abeleyn leaned heavily on her as she helped him back to the large four-poster. Only a two-poster now. The other two were grafted on to the King’s stumps.
“My people have to see me,” Abeleyn said earnestly. “I can’t sit around in here like an ageing spinster. Issy has given me the bare bones of it. Now you tell me, Golophin. It’s written all over your face. What’s been going on?”
On his own visage, as the humour faded, pain and exhaustion added an instant fifteen years to his age.
“You can probably guess.” Golophin poured all three of them wine from the decanter by the King’s bed and drained half his own glass in a single swallow.
“It’s been only a few weeks, but your mistress Jemilla—”
“Ex-mistress,” Abeleyn said quickly, glancing at Isolla. A warmth crept about her heart. She found herself taking the King’s hand in her own. It was dry and hot but it returned her pressure.
“Ex-mistress,” Golophin corrected himself. “She’s proven herself quite the little intriguer. As we speak Hebrion’s nobles gather in the old Inceptine abbey and squabble over the regency of the kingdom.”
Abeleyn said nothing for a moment. He was staring at his wooden legs. Finally he looked up. “Urbino, I’m thinking. The dry old fart. She’ll find it easy to manage him, and he’ll wield the most clout.”