Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (22 page)

“What of Chohrab’s brother-in-law, Duke Rahim, he who has ever appeared distrustful of Slievmordhu? Has he yet been lulled?”

“I believe so,” the king replied, absentmindedly cleaning his fingernails with an ivory toothpick. “Chohrab seems to know little about his own agents, but from all reports our operatives have been successful in feeding false information to Ashqalêth’s spies in Narngalis. After much effort, the canny duke is being duped at last. Our operatives have proved to be most diligent and steadfast—I daresay they remain mindful of the rewards promised for success, and the penalties to be dealt to their close kindred if they disappoint me. They are resourceful spies, those men you selected, Mac Brádaigh. ‘Tis pity they must be dispatched after their tasks are completed, but the risk of secrets slipping out must at all times be avoided.” The soldier responded to the compliment with a bow. “Gearnach’s Knights of the Brand are in fine fettle,” the king continued, by way of deflating the soldier’s conceit and infusing him with a dose of jealousy. “What of the warriors under your authority, eh Mac Brádaigh? Is Slievmordhu’s army equipped for action at short notice?”

“Thanks be to the Fates, my Liege, our troops have never been feater or more ready for the field.” Smug in the knowledge that he himself had been priming Slievmordhu’s military host for several months, the High Commander ignored the reference to Gearnach, whom he considered to be one of his greatest rivals for the king’s favorable regard.

Uabhar nodded approvingly, then turned to address the primoris. “Let us hope Ashqalêth’s military forces are as well prepared to prove themselves my allies as your operatives at the Jhallavad Sanctorum would have us believe, Virosus.”

Mac Brádaigh grinned into his mustache at this jibe against the competence of the druid. The old man’s extraordinary influence was, in his opinion, ill-deserved, for he held office by puppeting the fear in men’s hearts, not by means of hard thews, military discipline, the courage to fight on in the face of agony, and red-blooded prowess with sword and mace. He could have knocked the papery old sage to the floor with a blow from his little finger if given the chance, like brushing off a gadfly, and relished the accomplishment.

“I have no reason to suspect they would mislead us,” the druid replied to his king. “Jhallavad Sanctorum is as eager as you and I to see Narngalis and Grïmnørsland brought to their knees. The northerners’ slide from proper humility is beyond endurance; with every passing day they lose more respect for the brotherhood. As for the fishmongers in the west, they are so barbaric they have
never
appropriately honored the Sanctorum.
United under one ruler, they will soon answer correctly to the Tongue of the Fates.”

“Ah yes, the fishmongers,” said Uabhar. “When I, as High King, place a loyal son on every throne in Tir, the Grïmnørslanders will hardly be able to argue, for their new ruler will be wedded to Thorgild’s daughter. Besides, if they
do
rise against me, the wench will become my hostage.”

“Your most royal sons, my Liege—have they yet been informed of the great plan?” asked Mac Brádaigh.

“Of course not. They know naught of any of this. I do not judge them ready, thus far. When all is assuredly under way and there can be no turning back, then I will apprise them of it; perhaps young Fergus will be first to know. They will all obey me, oh yes, but sometimes their qualms can provoke me to impatience. Gearnach, too—he shall not be told until the last moment, lest he become confused, to the detriment of his prowess on the battlefield.”

Triumphant at this reminder of his special status in the king’s eyes, Mac Brádaigh inclined his head reverentially and murmured, “I am honored my lord condescends to admit his humble servant into his confidence.” Deeming this to be an opportune moment to broach an equally complicated matter of politics, he said, “Your Majesty, it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that your subjects continue to vent their dissatisfaction about the increased frequency of Marauder attacks.”

Uabhar’s brows shot up. “But how appalling!” he barked. Then he broke into guffaws, saying, “You have done well, my man, you and that stealthy lieutenant of yours. The bandits eat out of our hands like tame dogs, striking where and when we tell them. Let the peasants be afraid! We shall be forced to raise taxes again, if they beg for armed protectors.”

“Taxes to pay the costs of future war,” the primoris commented dryly, “and worth many times more than it cost in lives and trouble to strike deals with the monsters. Let no man say King Uabhar does not plan with foresight.”

Mac Brádaigh said, “My lords, some of the villagers are saying they would rather arm themselves and protect their own domiciles than be subject to higher taxes.”

“Discover their names.” The king smiled again. Under his breath, so softly that his words were barely audible to his advisors, he murmured, “There will be no complaints when I am High King of Tir.” Louder he said, “Virosus, do your druids continue to search for interesting simples? I remain
favorably struck by the galenical mixture you call
shapemind.
It seems to be having the desired effect on our guest.”

“Ah, yes, a blend of powdered seed of thorn-apple, mawseed and dwale,” the old man said, as if reciting a favorite poem, “lythcorn and hennebelle, feltwyrt and pipeneale. A pinch of wolfsbane, the same of hemlock and hellebore; two measures of sowthistle and dried celandine . . .”

Mac Brádaigh said chattily, “Thorn-apple, eh my lord Virosus? I have heard that robbers spike the beer of their intended victims with thorn-apple, reducing them to witless idiots, unable to defend themselves.”

“Well, well,” was the druid’s only response. He turned his shoulder to the High Commander and addressed his king. “The search for useful medicines proceeds apace. Of late the Sanctorum has interviewed a young apothecary from the Lake District. He has discovered a certain plant, the leaves of which produce a particularly potent effect when smoked or otherwise inhaled.”

“A lethal effect perhaps?” Uabhar asked.

“Nay, not lethal. The fumes cause irresistible drowsiness. This herb might be used to numb the pain of soldiers hurt in battle and facilitate the healing of their injuries, so that wounded fighting-men might sooner be returned to the fray.”

“If such substances fell into the wrong hands they might be used against us,” said the king, fidgeting. “We must ensure all newfound wisdom is kept secret!”

“You may be sure of that,” replied the druid, lacing his hands in front of his thin chest. A chill draught moaned at the windows and sent currents to flutter the tapestries. The aged man pulled his robes closer about his coat-hanger shoulders. “Curse the north wind!” he muttered in septic tones.

“I do not curse it,” said Uabhar, jumping up and striding across the room to stare out of the window. “I care so little about it that when I rule Tir I shall take King’s Winterbourne as my abode. Though the bitter north wind blows through its streets, the capital of Narngalis is well constructed. I like it better than this red city. From Warwick’s castle I shall found a dynasty.”

“Many will oppose you for a long while after the war is won,” the druid said.

“Those who stand against me,” Uabhar replied, turning to face him, “shall be cruelly punished. Oh, depend upon it, I can be quite inventive.”

Even the pitiless and unimaginative druid winced at the recollection of some of Uabhar’s punitive inventions. “Speaking of wind and weather,” he
said, changing the subject, “never forget that Ellenhall stands in the way of your annexing Narngalis. The weathermasters are a power to be reckoned with, and loyal to their sovereign. When war begins they will stand against us, alongside Warwick. Their weapons are formidable indeed—we cannot match their bolts and gales and fires. You know you could never win in outright battle against them.”

“Fortunately the air-blowers are sworn never to wield the brí directly against their fellow mortals,” said the soldier.

“Unless in defense of lives,” the druid appended smoothly. “In any event, doubtless they would soon be forsworn, like many a man before them.”

“Of course they will break their oath, or claim it is in defense of lives that they throw storms at us,” Uabhar said with irritation, “for they are duplicitous scoundrels.” Toying with a silver candle-snuffer he had picked up from a sideboard, he went on, “The puddlemakers, with their independence and considerable influence, have always posed a threat to the stability of government. Some fools amongst the common populace view them as challengers to the Sanctorum; indeed, even as rivals to the Crown. We are all agreed that they block our path to success. Virosus, your secundi are having success with their new assignment, I presume? They are swiftly learning to predict and control the weather so that
we
may take over when we have put the puddlers out of the picture?”

“It is no small task as of course Your Magniloquence knows,” the druid said, pursing his lips primly, “but they and their subordinates are directing all effort towards developing the necessary solutions.”

Mac Brádaigh, who was once again standing to attention beside his chair, said, “My Lord Primoris, the fog-gatherers have been thorns in the side of the Sanctorum for years, have they not? You would fain see their power diminished in Tir, would you not?”

“They undermine the teachings of the Fates,” replied the old druid, “with their worship of the elements.”

“Worship?” echoed Mac Brádaigh. “I had not heard that they actually
venerate
water and the other constituents of weather.”

“Near enough.”

“But their appreciation of water is not a creed.”

The Tongue of the Fates fastened his heavy-lidded stare upon the soldier. “Of course not, Mac Brádaigh. Even
they
know that there is only one true creed.”

The druid and the soldier eyed one another with mutual dislike. Both
smiled politely, and the latter dipped his head in a perfunctory bow, ostensibly of respect to the supreme hierophant of the Sanctorum.

“My Liege, if I may venture to say so,” Mac Brádaigh said to the king, “they ought to be rendered powerless before we make our first move.”

“Yet to do so without public approval would turn the populace against our cause,” said Uabhar, “which risks insurrection, or even some attempt at a military coup. The status of the weathermasters must first be abrogated, their authority invalidated! I have already sowed the first seeds of a venture to topple the weathermasters from their pedestal of public esteem. My assistants Gobetween and the Scandalmaster have been busy. No doubt you have both been audience to the first whispered fruitings of the crop.”

“Indeed, my Liege!” Mac Brádaigh answered briskly, saluting his king.

The druid imperius lengthened his mouth like a well-fed cat, and inclined his tonsured head. “Indeed.”

“And after the mighty have fallen,” said Uabhar, “they shall be swept away like dung before a rake.”

Shortly thereafter, the three men vacated the conference chamber. Uabhar strode along one of the lofty galleries of his palace, flanked by Virosus to his right and Mac Brádaigh to his left, the sage matching the pace of his younger companions with surprising ease. This trio swung around a corner and continued down a second arcade, at right angles to the first. Courtiers scurried in their wake, keeping at a respectful distance so that they would not be accused of eavesdropping, the penalty for which was execution.

From beyond the walls of the palace, the breeze brought the high, thin jangle of a bell, and a far-off voice: one of the town criers shouting the latest news. Uabhar cocked his head to one side and skidded to a halt, as if listening. Stopping in their tracks, the druid and the soldier observed the king. A kind of radiance, as of revealed knowledge, appeared to dawn on their lord’s broad brow.

“You have been inspired, perhaps?” the primoris said sourly, his bald pate shining in the illumination from the arched window by which the three dignitaries stood.

“I believe so,” the king said smugly. “I believe so! Never fear, Virosus, there will be no need for outright battle against the weathermasters. There is more than one way to vanquish an enemy. Soon the wheels will be set in motion!”

“Perhaps you will enlighten me as we walk on.”

“And perhaps not. You have enough of your own business to mind,
Primoris, without minding mine.” When the druid scowled, Uabhar bridled, adding, “I am only being considerate for your comfort.”

The three continued on their way, their plotting temporarily abated.

At the conclusion of his three-week sojourn at Cathair Rua, King Chohrab Shechem II departed for his palace in the south, accompanied by Queen Parvaneh and their six daughters. High Commander Mac Brádaigh and several other high-ranking officers made the journey with the royal family, to provide assistance—as a token of friendship and alliance between the two realms—in readying the army of Ashqalêth for future conflict. An emissary from the druid primoris would follow the same route within seven days, bearing lavish gifts and even more lavish words of advice, selective truth and exaggerations to the Sanctorum of Jhallavad.