The Sword of the South - eARC (12 page)

He glanced doubtfully at his heavy riding boots. They were scarcely new, but they were still serviceable—with a little mending, at any rate—yet they seemed out of place on a ship. Nor did he wish to trudge too many leagues wearing them.

“Don’t be worrying,” Bahzell said, following his gaze and thoughts. “It might be they’re not much for walking, but once we reach Man Home it’s horses we’ll need.”

“Ah, yes. Horses.” Kenhodan’s tone was noncommittal, and Bahzell grinned at him.

“Don’t you be fretting about a thing, Kenhodan. It’s years ago Leeana’s folk taught me as how they’re a sight better under a man’s seat than in his belly.”

“I wondered about that,” Kenhodan admitted.

“Aye, I thought as how you might.” Bahzell slapped him on the shoulder. “Mind you, I’m thinking Walsharno and Gayrfressa’d’ve had a sharp word or three for me if I’d not gotten that straight! But now, if you’ll excuse me?”

The hradani swept his wife and daughter into a universal hug. Gwynna brushed away a few tears and hugged him strangulation tight, yet she seemed confident her father could deal with anything he encountered. Leeana was less tearful, but her strained eyes showed a clearer appreciation of the risks.

“Only small pieces of hide this time, now!” she admonished him.

“Not enough to patch a shoe,” he promised. “I’m after needing what I have—I’ve big bones to wrap it around.”

“See you remember!” She tugged his ears fiercely, her eyes bright.

“And how should I forget, with you so ready to tan it for me if I should?” He gave her a final kiss and set her on her feet, then turned to his daughter. “Gwynna, you be minding your mother.”

“Like always, Poppa,” she promised demurely.

“Don’t you ‘Like always’ me, wretch! I said to be
minding
her!”

“Yes, Poppa.”

She giggled, and Bahzell frowned at her. She only grinned back, cheeks dimpled and ears twitching gently in amusement. He sighed and closed his eyes in mock exasperation, then smiled back and touched her cheek.

“All right, then,” he said more gently, and turned back to his companions. “Let’s be off—if we’re after missing the tide, Brandark’ll tan my hide before Leeana does!”

The trio set out briskly. The rain-fresh air was cool about their ears and the sun was bright. Workmen labored to replace the shattered windows and broken door, their sober expressions eloquent of their opinion of the night’s events. It was a common Belhadan belief that offering any sort of violence to
anyone
on Bahzell’s premises went far beyond foolishness. An attack on his own
family
was as near to suicidal as anyone was likely to come. Yet their sobriety stemmed less from the fact that someone had been mad enough to attempt it than from the fact that, for all the damage, only a single body had been delivered to the Guard. But when they set eyes on Wencit, a fresh mutter went up. They all respected Bahzell, and Wencit’s reputation was known throughout Norfressa, but they were understandably eager to have such a chancy citizen as far from their city as possible.

Bahzell exchanged words with their foreman before leading off down the street, and Kenhodan was amused by the way the man’s eyes followed Wencit in passing. He could almost feel the foreman’s fingers itch to sketch a sign against evil, but the man’s awe of the wizard clearly held him in check.

Kenhodan was unhappy to leave the Iron Axe. In a sense, it was the only home he’d ever known, and Bahzell and Leeana—and Gwynna—had made him truly welcome. He laid a hand on the dagger hilt at his belt, and a warm awareness of acceptance wrapped itself about the ice of his missing memory. But he noticed that Bahzell never looked back. The hradani’s spine was pikestaff straight as he stepped out down the street, yet his ears—expressive as always—were half-turned, as if to catch any sound from behind as he strode away.

Kenhodan wished he remembered having loved someone that much.

* * *

The busy streets were a waking dream for Kenhodan.

Every sight was new, as fresh as the air he breathed, yet none of them were completely out of context. It was as though he’d read bits and pieces about a hundred subjects, not as if he’d actually seen or experienced them. He knew Belhadan was one of the great cities of Norfressa, but the wide, clean street was totally new to him, and the neat buildings with their bright roofs, mingled with the shops and houses burrowed into the mountains’ bones, delighted him. The cool air of the northern spring was like wine, and the vitality humming about him gave him a pleasure he couldn’t describe. It was almost…possessive, as if Belhadan were his and his alone, the product of his own labors.

The absurdity of that thought appealed to him somehow, and he chuckled as he contemplated it.

They turned into the Street of Merchants, a wide avenue of shops and counting houses. The crowds were thicker, and the mingled scents of cargoes from half a hundred ports blended with the morning. Kenhodan shook his head, about to laugh in pure delight, and then they turned another corner.

Blue and silver flashed before him in a wrinkled blanket. They stood high on a steep hillside, the paved street falling away to Hirahim’s Wharf and the vast Bay of Belhadan, where the sea thrust deep into the land. The sight hit Kenhodan like a hammer, and his pulse leapt, his eyes glistened, and his throat filled with an indefinable ache of longing that struck him motionless.

He stopped so suddenly that Bahzell walked straight into him. Kenhodan stumbled at the impact—a hradani well over seven feet tall took some stopping—and would have fallen if Bahzell hadn’t caught him. The hradani held him upright as he gasped for breath, the wind knocked out of him, then chuckled gently and set him on his feet.

“Well, now,” Bahzell said softly. “I’m thinking you’re a man might love the sea—and she’s enough to strike anyone dumb on a morning like this.”

“I never dreamed—” Kenhodan said softly, then chopped off. How could he say what he’d known in dreams? He was a man-shaped emptiness…yet not even the bitterness of that thought could quench his wonder and an awe that was almost reverence.

“Aye,” Bahzell said, drawing him into motion once more. “I know. She takes some learning, the sea, and there’s some as curse her when they know her, but even they can’t leave her. Not and live happy.”

Kenhodan glanced up and surprised a look in the brown eyes which humbled him. The hradani looked back down at him and grinned suddenly, driving the longing from his own face, and shook Kenhodan gently.

“Well, now! If it’s your feet you’ve found again, I’m thinking I offered to tell you a mite about Angthyr. Would it happen you’re still minded to hear it?”

Kenhodan nodded, grateful for the change of subject. He’d felt as if too much of Bahzell’s soul had shown itself when he looked at the sea.

“Now Angthyr, that’s after being a tangled subject,” Bahzell mused, tapping gently on his sword belt and humming for a moment as he ordered his thoughts.

“Aye, then,” he said finally. “Angthyr’s after being one of the Border Kingdoms, as folk call them—one of the smaller states on the King Emperor’s borders. Angthyr’s the largest of the lot, and one of the most important, I’m thinking, for it’s a buffer twixt South Province and the Empire of the Spear. And Emperor Soldan, as took the throne some fifteen years back, is after being as expansionist as old Phrobus himself. Not that he’s the first Spearman as thought such as that, you understand. Truth to tell, most of the King Emperor’s treaties with the Border Kingdoms are aimed at keeping Soldan at home, if you take my meaning.”

“And since Angthyr’s the biggest Border Kingdom, it’s also the one Soldan wants worst, right?”

“Aye.” Bahzell pulled out his pipe and packed it with coarsely cut black tobacco as he went on. “There’s naught but two ways to Angthyr from here: the sea and the South Road. The sea route’s after taking you to Coast Guard, the capital of Angthyr’s West Barony. It’s a tall city, that is, strong enough to make armies weep, but we daren’t go so far by sea, so I’m thinking we’ll take the South Road from Man Home. It’s after crossing the East Walls at South Wall Pass, the King Emperor’s southernmost fortress.”

Bahzell thrust the pipe stem into his mouth, and Kenhodan kindled a light with his fire striker, then sneezed as the strong smoke burned his nose.

“I can see how a journey that long offers plenty of room for attacks,” he said, maneuvering to stay upwind. “But just what’s going on
inside
Angthyr?”

“Ah, you’ve set your hand on the meat of the problem,” Bahzell agreed, his eyes gleaming as Kenhodan dodged to smoke. “Angthyr’s after having an internal crisis of its own just this minute, you see. King Faltho took and died unexpectedly four years back, and there’s some as question the illness that took him off so sudden, as you might be saying. But what’s after worrying folk most is that his only heir was a daughter, Fallona.”

“Really? Was she crowned?”

Kenhodan found a position which let the wind carry the smoke away and hid a sigh of relief. It wasn’t that it smelled all that foul, but simply that it was so
strong
. He wondered what Bahzell was smoking. Condemned cordage came to mind.

“Aye, that she was. But, you see, while there’s no law in Angthyr as says a woman can’t hold the crown, there’s no law as says she
can
, either, and Fallona’s succession has the nobles all a-twitter. There’s some of them only accepted her to avoid civil war, and even the most of those were none too happy when she wed Prince Altho—or Duke Altho, as he was then. He’s after being young, and they’d no mind to see one of their own raised above them. Besides, he’s no man to stand for foolishness, and he’s a name as a soldier troublemakers aren’t so very likely to find comforting.”

“Is someone actually disputing the succession, then?”

“In a manner of speaking, but there’s the rub. King Faltho’s brother up and died as a mere lad and his sister’s no child of her own, so there’s not a man at all, at all, as has any blood claim to the throne. If it’s not after being Fallona and Altho, why, then it’s every man for himself, and Phrobus take the hindermost.”

“Messy.”

“It’s a gift for understatement you have,” Bahzell observed. “I’m thinking it’s only the fact no one’s sure he’d be the one as ends up on top as has kept swords sheathed this long, and even that’s not so likely to keep them there much longer. And to be making bad worse, Soldan’s taken an interest. He knows the King Emperor can’t be intervening unless the royal house asks it, but Fallona’s people daren’t ask. One sniff of Axemen in the kingdom and hell wouldn’t hold the trouble as would break loose.”

“I see. And we’re going into
that?
”

“Oh, aye. Wencit’s not one to let a little thing like that natter him, lad. And there’s more to tell. Don’t be blabbing it about in Angthyr unless you’ve a liking for dungeons, but Soldan’s after having his hooks into some of the great nobles. Duke Doral of Korwin’s as deep into it with Soldan as Wulfra or Ranalf of Carchon, and Tomanāk only knows about Earl Wullem. I’ve my doubts as Wullem knows himself! And as for Baron Shaisan—!”

Bahzell removed his pipe from his mouth and spat into the gutter.

“I’ve the Order’s reports about Angthyr, lad, and the way it’s looking, the only help Fallona and Altho can be counting on are her mother’s kinsmen, Darsil of Scarthū and Baron Rochfro of Coast Guard, and probably Baron Ledo. But Ledo’s problems enough of his own for any man along the marshes, and Darsil’s as good as at war with Doral already. The blood’s always been hot betwixt them, and now it’s after starting to flow. And behind it all, Soldan’s after sending in money and advice and generally giving the fire a kick whenever it looks like dying down a bit.”

“I see,” Kenhodan said again. “And Baroness Wulfra?”

“There’s one foul enough for Sharnā,” Bahzell said bluntly. “A sad thing it is, too, for her father was a good enough man. I knew him well, and her family’s one as has served Angthyr well in its time. But she’s a bad one. She’s one of the few rulers as allows sorcery to be practiced in her lands, and that’s after telling you something. Come to that, it’s not so very long ago—no more than a year or two before Faltho’s death—as Wulfra admitted she practiced it herself, although to be hearing her tell it,
her
magic’s white as new fallen snow.”

His tone made his opinion of that particular claim abundantly clear.

“She’s all sugar to Fallona since Faltho died, but I’m thinking she’s only biding her time. They say Fallona trusts her, but Altho’s not one to be fooled by her promises to be ‘helping’ Fallona with sorcery. But what’s he to do? Here’s Fallona, desperate for friends amongst the nobles, and here’s Wulfra, always prating about her loyalty to the throne. Aye, and Phrobus was after being loyal to Orr, too, wasn’t he just?! She’s after being loyal to the throne, right enough, as long as it’s in her mind she can ease her own backside onto it! And Altho knows it, too. He and the Queen had a rare set-to in public when he was after wondering—in a formal audience, mind you!—about Faltho’s illness. It seems he mentioned the fact that the same strange illness carried off Wulfra’s father…that and the matter of her older sister’s mysterious disappearance long before that. I’m thinking it must’ve been a rare set out when Fallona took Wulfra’s side! Phrobus to pay and no pitch hot, and no mistake about it! Altho only said what needed saying, mind you, but there’s no denying as how his timing might’ve been a mite impolitic. And it’s after adding another problem, you see, for Fallona and her consort—who’s also her most powerful vassal—don’t agree on what to do about their worst enemy. Tomanāk! They’re not even after agreeing she
is
an enemy!”

“I begin to question the wisdom of this trip,” Kenhodan sighed.

“Wisdom?” Wencit turned his head and spoke suddenly, though he’d seemed unaware of their conversation. “It was never wise. Only necessary.”

Bahzell grinned and wiggled his ears at Kenhodan as the old man turned back to the street. Kenhodan chuckled at the hradani’s expression, but he couldn’t shake a sense of unease as he considered what he’d just heard. There’d been moments during Bahzell’s explanation when he’d felt as if he were watching a play he’d seen entirely too many times, which was absurd—wasn’t it?—in a man who couldn’t remember even his own name!