Isak turned in his saddle to look down at Tila. ‘You know, when I made you my political advisor, I didn’t give you licence to run the rest of my life.’
‘I know,’ Tila said with her most glittering smile, the one she normally reserved for Count Vesna. ‘But I’m far better at it than you are.’
‘Huh!’ Isak muttered. ‘I think that man’s having a bad influence on you.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ Tila replied, fooling no one. Her so-called chaperone, Mistress Daran, was fully aware that the count was smitten with Tila, but opted for a quiet life, as long as they were discreet. Isak was beginning to realise that behind the rigid veneer of Farlan custom, the rules could be surprisingly flexible at times.
‘Count Vesna’s the only other person I know who thinks they can get their way just with a smile,’ Isak said, laughing in spite of himself. ‘You’re becoming quite a match for him; he’d best be careful - he is getting old, after all, and his charms are fading.’
‘Oh hush, leave him alone. A few grey hairs are distinguished, ask any woman! It’s certainly more attractive than a spotty oversized teenager, no matter what his title is!’
Tila’s retort provoked a snort and Isak inclined his head, conceding the point. ‘The countess certainly seems to agree with you,’ he said, jabbing a thumb past his dragon-emblazoned guards to the column behind them. Suzerain Saroc, with his hurscals all dressed in red and white, was followed by Countess Saroc and Count Vesna, the countess sitting high and proud in her saddle. Vesna was apparently regaling her with a comic poem, told with every ounce of theatrical flamboyance he could muster.
Tila tilted her nose and pointedly ignored him.
Bringing up the rear of Isak’s cavalcade was a column of light cavalry, which included men from Lomin and Tildek, who had surrendered as soon as they could. They had had little choice but to follow Duke Certinse’s orders, so instead of sending them home, where they would once again be under the influence of the Certinse family, Isak had decided to keep them close. Just in case their new-found loyalty to the Lord of the Farlan proved weaker than he hoped, a regiment of Saroc troops rode alongside them.
Looking ahead, Isak spotted Crosswind Fortress, coming into view through the trees. The castle, one of several guarding the approach to Tirah, was a compact, square building with a lone tower at the corner nearest to them.
‘It’s not as big as Nerlos Castle,’ Tila commented.
‘It doesn’t have to be. Look at the way it dominates this whole area.’ Isak waved a hand in a chopping motion, and explained, ‘This is an open floodplain; the castle has unrestricted views from east to west, and this is the only road good enough for an army to move north through Saroc. It runs so close to the castle you could lose thousands to just a few companies of archers stationed on the wall.’
‘Thousands? Surely not?’
Isak nodded. ‘Trust me, and if not me, then Vesna. There would be huge casualties, even if you just tried to go past the castle, and more if you tried to take it. The ground around here is so soft and waterlogged from the flooding rivers that it’s useless most of the year round.’
Passing the last of the alders they trotted out into the killing ground before the castle, a thousand yards of open space between them and the stone walls. The road took a circuitous route to keep to the highest and driest ground. The road was built up slightly from the ground and studded with stones on each side, while the rest of the plain ground was flat and featureless. The size of the plain made it look like a minor road, though it was as wide and well-made as one might expect of such an important route.
Feeling exposed, Tila shivered and pulled her shawl over her shoulders. She didn’t speak as they made their way towards the castle, the evening shadows slowly lengthening behind them.
‘Looks like Suzerain Foleh has guests,’ Isak commented when they were no more than a hundred yards from the castle. Not a scrap of wind stirred the flags on the tower or above the gate. Isak couldn’t make out the devices, so he was forced to guess from their colours alone. Foleh’s -a raven’s wing impaled on a barbed spear, if he could see it - would be the flag on the tower, placed higher than those of his guests. The tradition of bearing flags was introduced to cut down the number of disputes caused by armed noblemen going unannounced through a suzerainty. The Farlan were a proud people, and the sort of men willing to back down from a fight didn’t often ascend to the nobility.
‘It’s strange to think that I’ve come this way so many times before, and he’ll have never known, but today he’ll welcome me in like a conquering hero.’
‘And the others?’ Tila asked, squinting up at the limp pennants. One was white with a small black design that Isak couldn’t make out, beside it one of green and white, and a white flag speckled with red furthest to the right. ‘The right-hand one must be Suzerain Lehm’s rose petals crest. That means he came as soon as he received your summons. And that means the middle one must be Suzerain Nerlos’ thistles and quills - but whose is the one beside it?’
‘General Lahk,’ Isak realised all of a sudden. ‘He rarely wears it, but I saw his colours once. Lesarl told me that Lahk was made a marshal twenty summers ago, though he prefers “general”, for obvious reasons. His crest is a black falcon holding a ducal circlet in its claws.’
Tila smiled. ‘It can’t have taxed the Keymaster’s gifts too much to produce that one.’
‘And he’s come to meet me,’ Isak mused. ‘Interesting.’
‘Hardly surprising though,’ Tila said. ‘The new Duke of Tirah should parade into his city, not slip back in the night accompanied only by a dozen guards!’
The drawbridge was down, the gate open. As they approached, Isak saw a handful of men emerge. From their colours he could guess who was who, but it was the oversized figure of General Lahk who advanced to greet Isak first at the lip of the drawbridge. Lahk, dressed as formally as Isak had ever seen him, greeted Isak with open palms, in his own livery and with an empty scabbard swinging from his hip.
Oh Lahk,
Isak thought to himself,
what foolish ancient tradition does that come from?
‘Welcome back, your Grace.’ The white-eye general leaned to one side and looked down the column of soldiers behind. ‘I had thought to provide you with an escort, but I see you’ve already found one.’
Isak smiled. From Lahk, that was as close to humour as you could hope for, and he appreciated the effort. He knew full well it would be hard for the general to treat a young man of barely eighteen summers the same way he had the lord he had revered and served for more than half a century. Isak remembered his harsh words to Lahk on the road to Lomin the previous year and felt a pang of shame, but he knew there was no going back. The best he could do was start afresh, and if the man once found unworthy of Isak’s previous title could manage it, Isak would too.
‘I have,’ Isak replied in a bright voice, ‘but I’ll never complain about having the Ghosts or you at my side.’
Carel raised a hand to signal the halt down the line and Isak slipped from his horse. He returned the general’s formal greeting, then stepped closer and grasped Lahk’s forearm. Lahk was still a very large man, but Isak was taller now. For a brief moment Isak thought he saw something like gratification in Lahk’s eyes, relief that the new Lord of the Farlan might yet measure up.
‘This is the first time I’ve seen you in your own colours.’
‘It didn’t seem appropriate to use any other’s, and I did not wait to have a replacement made. I hope you don’t take offence that the regiments I brought had no alternatives to wear.’
‘Replacements?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ Lahk looked puzzled for a moment. ‘The Palace Guard will need a new uniform now, in your own colours.’
‘What? No!’ Isak exclaimed in dismay. ‘Don’t change their uniforms!’
‘But they are your personal legion, my Lord, not independent; they can’t wear another man’s colours in your service. It would be unseemly -quite aside from what the rest of our people might think. We must never give the impression that the Ghosts are not completely loyal to you.’
‘I don’t give a damn how it would look. I’ve spent most of my life dreaming of wearing that uniform. I know the pride they take in it -as does the rest of the tribe -and I don’t care what anyone else thinks; I won’t insult the men who died for that banner by making it redundant. The Ghosts wear the colours they’ve had for the last two centuries. Tell them I never got my chance to pass the trials for the Guard and I’ve got to have something to aspire to. Whenever I need a close guard, then they will have to wear my colours -but that will just be a company of men drawn from the Ghosts.’
Lahk’s face was a blank mask, but Isak guessed at the conflict going on under the surface. Eventually, he cleared his throat and bowed. ‘A company, yes, my Lord. I’m sure they will appreciate the gesture.’
‘The regiments are camped in the meadows behind the castle? Send someone to direct the cavalry there and get them camped.’
He turned towards the noblemen waiting patiently behind the general. Their host was a half-pace ahead of the others, a grey-haired man slightly stooped by advancing age. ‘Suzerain Foleh, would you do me the honour of showing me to your most unpleasant cell? You have an unexpected guest.’
Returning from the privy, Isak turned down the brightly lit corridor back to the castle’s main hall and stopped. On his left he spotted a small, unassuming arch leading to a spiral stair. Half-covering it was a flag, suspended from a rail fixed at the very top of the stone wall. Isak was sure it hadn’t been like that when he’d come this way. His need had been pressing, admittedly, thanks to rather a lot of Suzerain Foleh’s excellent ale, but his mind wasn’t fuddled yet. One of the servants must have just gone through and forgotten to pull the flag back after him.
Never one to ignore his curiosity once piqued, Isak leaned through the gap and peered upwards. A single torch at the top illuminated the way, but aside from well-worn flagstones and a musty scent there was nothing to see. With his customary stealth, the Duke of Tirah padded up the stair, which wound round a full circle before opening out on a dim, square room.
The beams in the ceiling were low compared to the rest of the castle, a finger-width from his hair. A banister ran around a wide square hole in the floor that made the room more of a gallery than anything else. Leaning on the banister were two men, one Isak recognised as Suzerain Foleh’s steward, and another liveried man. Both were staring intently down to the hall beneath, pointing at the table and the folk below. The steward said something, and his companion nodded and straightened up. He gave a cough of alarm when he saw Isak.
The steward’s eyes widened as he followed his companion’s gaze, but Isak motioned for them to be calm. The servant hovered uncertainly, glancing to his left, where two pitchers of wine stood on a small table, and Isak suddenly realised where the man had been going. There were no servants in the room below, yet the goblets had remained full the entire evening. Isak stepped away from the stair and gestured for the servant to continue, which he did with a hasty bow. He looked relieved to be leaving.
Isak leaned on the rail as the men had and looked down to see his dinner companions. There were twenty-three people around the table, settled into an easy informality after a decorous start. He could see three or four conversations around the table. Catching the steward’s eye, Isak grinned and hunkered down to enjoy the show. The steward visibly relaxed and fetched a goblet of wine, which he pressed it into Isak’s hand.
‘Thank you,’ Isak whispered.
The steward bowed and, when Isak gestured at the rail next to him, hesitated for a moment, then resumed his position beside the lord of his people. Isak had to stifle a smile; he’d never seen a man lounge in quite so formal a way, but he was beginning to recognise the effect of his title. He’d have to get used to it.
‘What’s your name? You’ve been in Suzerain Foleh’s service a long time?’ Isak asked, too quietly to be heard by those below.
‘Dupres, your Grace, my name is Dupres. I have spent my life working in this castle, and I have been steward to the suzerain for six summers.’
Dupres was a man not long past forty, Isak judged, with a widow’s peak and worry-lines around his eyes. He had seen the man earlier, constantly at his master’s elbow, discreet, but anticipating his every need.
‘You serve him well; I have seen few servants so attentive.’
‘Thank you, my Lord.’
From below, the voice of the Countess of Lehm caught Isak’s attention. He leaned further over the banister to hear the conversation better.
‘Count Vesna, has Lord Isak said what he intends to do with Duke Certinse?’
‘He’s going to put the man on trial, of course.’ Vesna’s response was curt. He hadn’t liked her tone any more than Isak had. She was treading a careful line, for speaking about Isak while he was absent was a discourtesy most nobles wouldn’t dare. Isak knew the customs of the nobility were still largely a mystery to him, but he had begun to recognise the formal ways in which a person of noble birth would couch a completely opposite request.
‘And you have not counselled him against this?’
‘Against it? Let the traitor hang, that’s what I say.’
Isak couldn’t yet work out if the countess was either stupid and insulting, or if she was carefully positioning herself to make some point, that Vesna would later tell him in private.
‘But is that wise in the long term?’ The other voices around the table had fallen away; every face was watching the exchange as intently as Isak.
‘How would it not be wise, my Lady?’ enquired Tila. ‘Duke Certinse is undoubtedly a traitor. He ambushed us and tried to kill the Lord of the Farlan. For that, execution is the only response.’
‘It’s a merciful one,’ growled Lahk, more to himself than anyone else.