Читать книгу Conqueror’s Moon: Part One of the Boreal Moon Tale - Julian May - Страница 7

They entered in an untidy crowd, the Virago and seven other great barons, three viscounts, three counts, and Parlian Beorbrook, the kingdom’s chief military officer, all of them caring nothing for the niceties of precedence as was the way of easygoing northerners. Last came the host of the clandestine gathering, who slammed the tall double doors firmly behind him and shot its twin bolts into place.

‘His Grace will join us in a moment,’ Tanaby Vanguard said, nodding towards another closed door that gave onto the inner chamber. He wore a simple houserobe of russet velvet, a thin man with finely drawn, unreadable features whose nose jutted like an axe-blade. Chestnut hair thickly streaked with grey fell to his shoulders. Unlike most of the other men, he was clean-shaven.

Beorbrook spotted the table of drinks by the window and strode to it purposefully, hauling his dented old silver cup out of his belt-wallet. ‘Is that a Snapevale Stillery flagon that I spy?’

‘Leave be for a moment, Parli,’ said Tanaby, ‘until the Prince Heritor arrives.’

‘How sober do we have to be for this bloody mystery confab anyhow?’ the earl marshal muttered. He was a hale man in early middle age, broad rather than tall, with muscular legs grown bandy from horseback riding, and enormous gnarled hands. Blue eyes cold as an Ice Moon sky were sunk deep beneath shaggy black brows. His beard was also black, although his hair had gone snow-white. He wore a doublet of dark blue leather, intricately worked, having stiff sleeve-wings that emphasized his extraordinary shoulders. His chain of office was conspicuously absent.

‘You must decide the need for a clear head yourself,’ Tanaby told his longtime friend. ‘As for blood, there may be quantities of it in the offing if we here decide so.’

The marshal gave a grunt and some of the others exchanged wary glances or small grim smiles. Except for Vanguard, none of those present were intimates of the prince. They knew only that he favored some sort of retaliatory strike against Didion, and as Lord Constable of the Realm had the power to lead one even if the Privy Council balked — provided that the king himself did not expressly forbid it. Tanaby’s carefully worded messages bringing these northern nobles to a secret meeting had sparked battle-fever in some and skepticism in others, but all had agreed to listen to the prince and decide whether or not to support him in the undertaking.

A fire burned in the broad greystone hearth, before which were sixteen common stools, arranged in a semicircle. In the middle was a single collapsible field-chair fashioned of carved walnut and faded brocade, fronted by a small table. All of the usual furnishings of the solar, save for the sideboard with the liquor, had been removed.

‘I realize we aren’t here for a cozy chat, my lord duke,’ drawled Lady Zeandrise, eyeing the comfortless seats. She still had spurs on her booted feet. ‘But is it necessary for us to perch like a gang of tomtits on fenceposts during this conference?’

There were a few chuckles. Tanaby said, ‘The unusual arrangement, dear Zea, was meant to evoke the lack of coziness we may expect to experience if we agree to participate in the prince’s venture.’

‘I see.’ The baroness kept a straight face. ‘Well, it’s been a dull year in Marley. The harvest’s safely in and ample enough in spite of the Wolf’s Breath, and my knights and thanes are restless and in need of distraction.’ She glanced out the window at the spectacular sky. ‘A pity we only get these magnificent sunsets when the volcanos belch.’

Old Baron Toborgil Silverside said, ‘King Achardus of Didion and his starving people must take faint comfort in such beauty.’

‘Famine smite the lot of them dead,’ growled Beorbrook, ‘and may a hundred thousand vultures shite their bones!’

‘And so let it be forever,’ Count Ramscrest added, in a voice hard as granite.

A respectful silence fell over the group, for everyone knew that the marshal’s two elder sons and Ramscrest’s youngest brother had been in the ill-fated royal delegation presenting the Edict of Sovereignty to the King of Didion. Ramscrest’s brother had left a widow and three small children. As for Beorbrook, only his third son, Count Olvan Elktor, untried in battle at twenty-one and thick as two oaken planks, was now left to inherit the most strategically important duchy in all of Cathra. There was small hope that Olvan would ever fill his father’s boots as earl marshal, and it seemed likely that the office and its great perquisites would pass out of the Beorbrook family with Parlian’s demise.

All at once the door of the inner chamber was kicked open with a sharp rap and Conrig appeared. The Prince Heritor was dressed all in black, as was his custom, and his wheaten hair and short beard looked almost coppery in the ruddy light, a strange contrast to his dark brown eyes. He had two magnums of wine tucked under each arm and a corkscrew dangling from his right hand.

‘Good evening to you all, my friends, and thank you for coming. Be at ease, and let there be no idle ceremony.’ When they continued to stand motionless and uncertain, he said to Vanguard, ‘Godfather, help me cope with these bottles, which I brought specially from Brent Lodge for this gathering. It’s a brisk new Stippenese vintage from the Niss Valley that will quench our thirst without dulling our wits. Time enough for ardent spirits after you’ve all listened to my proposal and made up your minds about it.’

They relaxed then, and there were low-pitched words of greeting to Conrig from the older nobles and diffident nods from the young ones. Cups were drawn from velvet or leather pouches and held out for filling by the prince himself, who called each person by name and made casual talk. Lady Zeandrise had her weathered hand kissed by the royal winebearer and pursed her lips tightly to forestall a smile.

Finally Conrig poured into Tanaby’s own simple beaker of waxed honeywood and let the duke do the honors for him. The prince’s silver cup was lined with gold; a great amethyst formed part of the stem, a talisman against drunkenness … and poison.

‘A toast,’ he said quietly, lifting his drink. ‘To the good sense of those here present, which must determine whether the plan I propose will be acceptable or die aborning.’

‘To good sense,’ Tanaby echoed, ‘but also to daring.’ He had already been taken into Conrig’s confidence and knew some details of the scheme, but had withheld judgment of its merit pending this consultation with the others.

They took their seats in a poorly concealed aura of excitement, with the Prince Heritor seated on the folding chair and the others spread out on either side. Young Baron Kimbolton put more wood on the fire. The sunset was rapidly fading.

‘Do you like the wine?’ Conrig inquired pleasantly.

Most voiced their approval. Count Munlow Ramscrest grimaced and shifted his great bulk so that his stool creaked ominously. His oversized mantle, trimmed with black wolf fur, spread around him like a sledge robe. ‘I would as lief take honest Cathran mead any day over foreign grape-gargle. Still, it does cut the phlegm.’

The others roared with laughter.

But then bluff Ramscrest asked the prince flat out, ‘Your Grace, does this plan of yours involve mere punitive strikes against Didion, or would you wage open warfare?’

‘I intend to mount an invasion,’ the prince replied, ‘and seize Holt Mallburn, and force Achardus to accept the Edict of Sovereignty or have it stuffed down his gullet.’

Ramscrest’s face, as homely and full of bristles as that of a boar, broke into a beatific smile. He said, ‘Oh, yes. Yes indeed!’

Some of the others began to exclaim and call out questions, but the penetrating voice of Parlian Beorbrook cut through the clamor like a brazen trumpet. ‘And what does the King’s Grace think of this brave notion?’

They all fell silent.

The prince set his cup on the small table before him, rose, and began to pace slowly back and forth in front of the fire. He was five-and-twenty years of age, over six feet tall, well-built, and fine of feature as his father, King Olmigon, had been in his youth; but no one in the room would dispute that Conrig Wincantor far surpassed his sire both in strength of character and in mental acuity. In recent years the king had become capricious and vacillating, prone to following dubious advice from certain favored members of his Privy Council, and shunting important matters aside while he dithered over some triviality.

Olmigon had agreed to Conrig’s Edict of Sovereignty proposal only after months of dispute. It was the king who had made the disastrous decision that the royal delegation bearing the Edict to the court of Didion should be small and accompanied only by a token force of warriors; and it was the king, a fine naval tactician in his prime, who had decided that Cathra’s response to the delegation’s slaughter should be a sea blockade rather than a land invasion of the northern kingdom.

Conrig said, ‘Before answering that question, Earl Marshal, I must impart to you melancholy tidings. Since you’ve been busy for the past months keeping Great Pass secure from bandits and Didionite incursions, you may not know that King Olmigon has lately experienced a worsening of that abdominal rupture which has so long afflicted him. The royal alchymists are zealously applying both natural science and sorcery, but the latterday weight-gain of my father makes treatment more difficult than in past years.’ He took a poker and pulled the smoldering logs together so that they might burn better. ‘King Olmigon is in great pain much of the time. He continues to conduct important state business from his bed, however, refusing medicine that he fears might dull his mind, even as the suffering itself prevents him from straight thinking. Queen Cataldise is at his side day and night.’

Dying! They all had the identical thought.

The prince turned about and let his eyes rove slowly over those seated. ‘However, my lady Maudrayne has sent to Tarn for a healer of special talent, and if God wills, the King’s Grace will be restored to health. I command you not to broadcast tidings of his sad disability beyond this room. Only keep him in your prayers.’

And remember who it is that will succeed to the throne of Cathra when Olmigon does sing his Deathsong.

Nods and murmurs.

‘It was my personal decision,’ Conrig continued, ‘as well as that of a certain other high-ranking member of the Privy Council, not to trouble the king with this new matter until I have consulted with you all and determined whether or not the invasion proposal is practicable. As Lord Constable of the Realm, acting with the covert approval of Chancellor Falmire, who is the only one of my father’s advisors with the brains to understand the situation, I have the power to summon this extraordinary council of war. The persons I chose to invite are those in a unique position to render service to Cathra — to redress the atrocious insult done to our kingdom by Didion, and assure the security of the entire island.’

Whisperings. None of them were fools. Unlike the intrepid northerners, who had always borne the brunt of defending Cathra’s border, the lords of the south had grown complacent and soft from long years of martial inactivity. They were businessmen, tending to their varied commercial ventures, not fighters. With the coming of the Wolf’s Breath, worried by the decline in their private fortunes and too shortsighted to understand the potential danger from the Continent, the southerners were in no mood to spend money re-equipping and training their knights and thanes as an invasion host.

‘As you all know,’ Conrig continued, after a pause, ‘the impetus for the Edict of Sovereignty came originally from me. From my youth I have idolized Emperor Bazekoy the Great, who unified the nations of the mainland, brought civilization to our own island, and chose to die here for love of it. It has long been my dream to bring all of Blenholme together and return it to the glory of Bazekoy’s time.’

‘The Emperor,’ Munlow Ramscrest grumbled, ‘has been dead for over a thousand years … most of him, at any rate! And the Blenholme of his day no more resembles our own than children’s fables resemble the sacred Chronicle.’

‘Count Ramscrest speaks the unwelcome truth, as usual,’ the prince conceded, to universal amusement. ‘Our world is more densely populated and our politics more complex. Nevertheless, even the marble-domes on my father’s Privy Council eventually agreed that the time was ripe for a move to Sovereignty. Three years of the Woff’s Breath have brought tragedy to Blenholme — but also an unprecedented opportunity. Didion is at the brink of civil war. The gold-coffers of the Sealords of Tarn are near empty with the closing of the mines. Even in Moss—’

‘Who cares about Moss?’ Baron Wanstantil Cloudfell sneered. He was a haughty beanpole who dressed with great elegance and affected a foppish manner. ‘Let the Conjure-King use sorcery to make the sun shine on his stinking swamps, and may he have much joy in the fulfillment. My prince, don’t tell me you’d bother taking that soggy nest of magical mountebanks into the Sovereignty!’

‘As it happens, Lord Cloudfell, the kingdom of Moss would play a crucial role in unifying Blenholme.’

‘The hell you say!’ Beorbrook exclaimed. ‘Does this scheme of yours depend on vile Mossback enchantments, then?’

The prince fixed the earl marshal with a level look, saying nothing, until the veteran general looked away, his jaw clenched and his brow like thunder.

‘Hear His Grace out, Parli,’ urged Vanguard. ‘It’s true there are arcane elements in his plan, but no invoking of the Beaconfolk or anything else an honest warrior could scruple at. Carry on, Godson.’

‘Very well,’ said the prince. ‘As you know, the three Wolf’s Breath years have by no means left our own land of Cathra untouched. Our fields have produced significantly less grain. Our exports to Tarn, our favored — and wealthy — trading partner, left almost nothing for Didion. That nation has been forced to import foodstuffs from the Continent.’

‘And the required coin of payment,’ said Count Norval Swanwick impatiently, ‘is Didionite warships. Yes, yes, and all of us know what use Foraile and Stippen might make of them. Your Grace isn’t the only prince harking back to Bazekoy’s days of glorious conquest. The emperor was, after all, a Forailian by birth.’

‘It was to squelch such harkings,’ Conrig said, ‘that I pressed for the Edict of Sovereignty.’ And he quoted from memory. ‘ “For the benefit and security of all Blenholme, and to thwart those Continental opportunists who might think to take advantage of the current natural disaster afflicting our island, the Kingdom of Blencathra extends its merciful hand to the suffering people of its neighbor, Blendidion, and vouchsafes it prompt paternal succor and relief, as Blendidion acknowledges vassalage in the new, benevolent Sovereignty of High Blenholme, and accepts Olmigon Wincantor as its Liege Lord.”’

‘But they didn’t, did they?’ Viscount Skellhaven pointed out, with sour satisfaction. ‘Not without a Cathran army and a train of grain wagons coming at them over Great Pass along with your precious Edict.’

Even though he had ridden into Castle Vanguard on horseback like all the others, he wore salt-stained seaboots, the wide pantaloons favored by sailors, and a silk scarf tying back his long hair. His attire was of good quality but shabby, as if to reinforce his perennial pose of being ill-used and unappreciated by the Crown.

Beorbrook said, ‘We all know how the King of Didion responded to Cathra’s declaration of Sovereignty. He killed our people and stuck their heads on pikes above Mallmouth Bridge for the crows and seagulls to eat, and fed their poor bodies to the crabs.’ The earl marshal tossed off the remainder of his wine, and his son Olvan hastened to bring more, then served the few others who lifted their cups with all that was left in the last bottle.

‘It was six months ago that my sons and the others died,’ Beorbrook went on. ‘The Crown’s blockade of Didion isn’t working — no offense, Skellhaven! — because there’s too much water to cover and the bastards are better sailors than we are. Now that Achardus knows for sure we’re out to topple him, you can be sure that he’ll be on the lookout for a land invasion as well. I can assure Your Grace that the Didionite mountain fortresses beyond Great Pass are manned and alert, in spite of the terrible conditions prevailing in their lowlands. If need be, King Achardus will rally the timberlords from Firedrake Water. Their thanes and stump-jumpers fill their bellies with venison and wildfowl rather than dearly priced bread, and they’re in fighting trim despite the Wolf’s Breath. It’s only in the valley of the River Malle and in the large coastal cities that folk are starving. Now, it seems to me that we’ve already missed our best opportunity to strike at Didion. We should have been poised to come at them from both sea and land if they refused to accept the Edict of Sovereignty.’

‘The King’s Grace deemed such a course too expensive,’ Conrig said, smiling without humor.

‘Of course he did,’ Skellhaven said bitterly. ‘Same reason Ingo and me never get the brass we need to do a proper job patrolling the northern sealanes! The king won’t raise taxes on the rich merchants and trader-lords who curry his favor.’

Count Norval Swanwick climbed to his feet. Vanguard’s son and heir was an experienced battle-leader who had often fought at the side of the earl marshal, defending both Great Pass and the Wold Road to Tarn. ‘May I speak, my prince?’

‘Please do, my Lord Swanwick. All of us know that you and your valiant brothers have fought many a skirmish against Didionite robber-barons and Green Men. I have great respect for your opinion.’

‘Here’s what I’m afraid will happen if we invade Didion by land: At the first hint that we’re on the move, their arcane talents as well as their best fighters will rush to meet us at Castlemont beyond Great Pass. Even if we’re aided by the magical flummery of Mossland’s Conjure-King, we can’t hope for any element of surprise. The country in that region is so open, they’ll see us coming from leagues away. And there are no strongpoints between the frontier and their Castlemont fortress where our forces might safely encamp to beseige the place.’

Many spoke up in agreement.

‘Furthermore,’ Swanwick went on, ‘the earliest we could launch an invasion is in spring — late next Wind Moon, when the mountain snows will have melted and the mud dried. But by then our granaries will be sore depleted after winter. I’m sure Your Grace realizes that there will be no chance of foraging in the faminelands of Didion as we march eastward toward Holt Mallburn. Even if we’re victorious at Castlemont, enemy forces could easily sever our supply line over the mountains while we engage the main host of Achardus.’

There were gloomy comments from the others. But the prince cut them off with a ringing voice. ‘We can take them by surprise!’

‘How?’ asked Swanwick.

‘I would not lead a large army but a smaller, swift-moving force of some five hundred picked warriors. We would penetrate Holt Mallburn in a lightning raid and seize Achardus, his entire family, the court officials, and the merchant-lords who control the nation’s commerce. And we would not invade Didion in spring … but within five weeks, when they have no reason to expect us. My plan is not to march through Great Pass and then battle our way two hundred and sixty leagues through the enemy heartland. I plan to invade through Breakneck Pass, above this very Castle Vanguard, along a route less than one-third of the distance to the Didionite capital. The road is admittedly more rugged, but also more meagerly defended.’

‘Over Breakneck?’ the earl marshal exclaimed in disbelief. ‘There is no road — only a poor track that is often little more than a goat-path! And in late Boreal Moon we would risk fierce rains and washouts, snowstorms driven by hurricane winds, or — God help us — those sudden ice-mists that freeze a man and beast to glazed statues before they realize their mortal peril.’

The pass in the eastern reaches of the Dextral Range was indeed a shortcut to Holt Mallburn, but so steep and hazardous that only couriers, smugglers, and the bravest of legitimate traders made use of it. Almost all land commerce between Cathra and and its northern neighbors was through Great Pass, north of Beorbrook Hold.

The prince said, ‘The Wolf’s Breath has upset the seasons of our island in many ways, significantly delaying the onset of winter in the high country. Favorable weather will prevail over Breakneck Pass at least until Leap Day of the Boreal Moon. I have been assured of it.’

‘By the Conjure-King of Moss?’ Lady Zeandrise inquired softly.

Conrig continued without responding to her. ‘Our fighting force will consist only of mounted warriors, lightly armored for the sake of speedy travel. We’ll have no foot soldiers. Strong mules and ponies will carry supplies in the rear. We’ll move very quickly once we cross the frontier and strike without warning. There is only one small mountain outpost between Breakneck Pass and Castle Redfern, and the fortress itself is poorly sited, vulnerable to a surprise attack during fog.’

‘Fog!’ Beorbrook’s eyes narrowed. ‘And we can count upon fog?’

‘Oh, yes,’ the prince reassured him. ‘And not the dreaded freezing mists, but a warm concealing shroud, through which our army will ride on muffled hooves, led by friendly guides. We’ll seize Castle Redfern and use it as a staging area for the main assault upon Holt Mallburn, after we have briefly rested.’

‘What of Redfern’s windvoices?’ asked Baron Bogshaw. He was a hulking presence whose face was disfigured by a livid diagonal scar from a swordcut that had blinded his left eye. His lands, like those of Ramscrest and Cloudfell, lay along the mountainous frontier between Cathra and Didion. ‘And the foe may have talented ones posted at their outpost as well. Once they spot us, they’re sure to windspeak the alarm, even if our covert crossing of the pass is successful.’

‘Any Didionite windvoices along our line of march to Redfern will be silenced before our arrival,’ said Prince Conrig. ‘And so will those at the castle.’

‘Ah …’ A soft sound from many throats.

‘However, it will be up to us to make certain that no ordinary foemen escape and give warning in a commonplace manner. When we leave Redfern, we’ll move like ghosts through the mist, down from the mountains to the Coast Highway leading to the capital. We’ll cross over the great Mallmouth Bridge — its gate will be opened for us by our magical ally — and when we reach the inner city we’ll set selected parts of it afire as a distraction, using tarnblaze bombshells that each one of us will carry. A portion of our force under Lords Skellhaven and Holmrangel will press toward the quay, where they’ll use their nautical expertise to seize or destroy whatever ships are tied up there or moored in the harbor. The rest of us will take the palace, capture King Achardus, his two sons, and the other royal officials, and force Didion to surrender to the Sovereignty.’

‘Great God!’ said old Toborgil Silverside. His sunken eyes were shining. ‘What a glorious feat that would be!’

‘We’re to accomplish all this under cover of fog?’ Munlow Ramscrest was dubious. ‘In a strange city notorious for its twisted maze of streets?’

Conrig inclined his head. ‘As I’ve said, we will have guides. From the summit of Breakneck Pass to the raised portcullises and open barbican gates of Holt Mallburn itself.’

Ramscrest persisted. ‘What manner of guides? Creeping Mosslander wizards bearing magic lanterns?’

‘Nay,’ said the prince. ‘I may not speak of the guides to you yet, but I’m assured of their assistance. They are to meet us at the top of Breakneck Pass, and if their aspect provokes mistrust among you, then I pledge to abandon this enterprise forthwith.’

‘It’s magic, true enough,’ said Lady Zeandrise, her mouth quirked by a roguish smile, ‘but not so outlandish as to put off our knights and thanes, eh, brothers? Fog, eldritch pathfinders and gate-openers, cold steel, and hot tarnblaze! A lightning thrust into Didion, and Holt Mallburn waiting like a sleeping babe … Can we be sure King Achardus will be in residence?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Conrig dryly. ‘He’s there now and he has little incentive to leave his stronghold. At least it’s well-stocked with food and drink.’ There was scattered laughter among the council, for the gigantic Didionite king was an infamous trencherman. ‘As we prepare to sally forth from Castle Redfern, I’ll be kept informed by windspeech of the king’s precise whereabouts, as well as that of the merchant-lords and our other special targets. My brother Vra-Stergos will accompany the expedition, as will Duke Tanaby’s trusted alchymist, Vra-Doman Carmorton.’ He said nothing of Snudge.

‘And will these good Brethren also use windspeech to transmit reports of our daily progress to the Conjure-King?’ Skellhaven inquired archly.

Conrig paused, then spoke with reluctance. ‘King Linndal of Moss has nothing to do with this plan. Most of the time he is raving mad and confined to his rooms. He spends his lucid days voicing Salka sorcerers in the Dawntide Isles, trading arcane secrets. Our Mossland collaborator is another.’

‘Who?’ Beorbrook demanded.

‘His daughter, Princess Ullanoth.’ The prince took up his cup and sipped from it, but his eyes did not waver from the skeptical face of the earl marshal.

‘And what does this benevolent lady ask in exchange for her good offices?’

‘That Moss receive First Vassal status in the Sovereignty, with a reasonable guerdon paid annually, and that we support her claim to the throne of Moss above that of her younger brother, Beynor.’

‘It seems a modest enough boon,’ Lady Zeandrise remarked. She frowned, then added, ‘Perhaps too modest.’

Beorbrook addressed Vanguard. ‘Did you know of this, Tanaby? Your royal godson consorting with a Mosslander witch?’

‘I knew,’ the duke replied stolidly. ‘An unlikely ally, perhaps, but the Lady Ullanoth is a powerful sorceress and there seems no good reason for her to contemplate using us treacherously.’

Munlow Ramscrest exploded in a coarse guffaw. ‘Why should we give a mule’s fart who rules that godforsaken corner of our island? Fens and frogs and peddlers of hocus pocus and gimcrack amulets! Let the Conjure-Princess have the poxy place and welcome. As for her bribe, we can wring it out of vanquished Didion.’

Baron Sorril Conistone, a middle-aged peer who was famed for his scholarly bent, had remained quiet as the prince set forth his plan and the others made comments, seated on a stool at the far left of the blazing hearth where he was almost lost in shadow. Now his deep voice rode over the laughter that had greeted Count Ramscrest’s remarks.

‘Your Grace, are you certain that this Ullanoth will require nothing more of us?’

‘She has asked for no other thing, Lord Conistone,’ Conrig said. ‘I swear it on my honor as Prince Heritor of Cathra.’

Zeandrise Marley remarked, ‘Without the lady’s help, we’re flat skinned, my lords, having not a hope in hell. Do any of you know a better plan?’

‘If we’re to venture an invasion at all,’ said Baron Tinnis Catclaw, ‘then it must be in the manner described by His Grace. The scheme is a goodly one, to my mind, although I would wish it not so dependent upon the whims of an alien sorceress.’

Someone sighed.

‘And how are we to pay for this grand enterprise?’ Viscount Skellhaven asked, not bothering to hide his ill will. ‘Certain lords and their knights will loot Mallburn Palace of its treasures, while my fighting sailormen and I merely torch the Diddly waterfront. Are we supposed to be content with the spoils of empty warehouses, worm-eaten scows, and burnt-out hulks?’

‘Our mission is not to pillage the city,’ Conrig declared. ‘It is to seize it and to force the capitulation of Achardus, his state officials, and the powerful Guild of Merchants. This I vow to do. This I will do with the aid of you stalwart northerners, who are familiar with mountain terrain and the battle tactics needed for a swift and stealthy assault against an unsuspecting foe. As for your material reward, it will be more than generous. I’ll not forget those whose bravery helped cement the Sovereignty of High Blenholme. This I also vow, on the head of Emperor Bazekoy the Great.’

Skellhaven’s thin lips stretched in a disagreeable smile. ‘A very impressive oath, Your Grace. Please don’t take me wrong. I’m a poor man, only concerned for the welfare of my followers. All too often the Crown has made fine promises to us, and then …’ He shrugged.

‘I am not King Olmigon,’ Conrig said. A few of them drew breath at his lack of respect, but he turned away from Hartrig Skellhaven and let his gaze sweep them all. ‘The time has come, my friends, for you to decide. Please say — beginning with you, dear Godfather-whether you will join me in an invasion of Didion.’

‘I will come,’ said Tanaby Vanguard, ‘along with one hundred of my knights and thanes.’

‘And I with forty,’ said Norval Swanwick. ‘Plus farriers, cooks, and leeches well able to fight.’

‘Ramscrest pledges sixty mounted warriors, and twenty sumpter-mules well provisioned.’

‘The Virago of Marley will follow you with a force of eighty mounted men,’ Zeandrise declared, ‘plus thirty stout pack-ponies and their armed drivers.’

‘My festering leg precludes my personal participation,’ said Conistone, ‘but I will send my four sons, ten knights of my household, twenty fighting thanes, and five farriers.’

The others chimed in their assent one by one, some charged with eagerness and others, like Skellhaven and Holmrangel, with an air of having been coerced, until the number of warriors pledged reached well over four hundred, with a wholly adequate supply train and remounts. The last to speak was Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook.

‘Your Grace,’ said he, ‘I am a cautious man, but not an ignorant one. I’ve read the Chronicle from beginning to end, the histories of more than a hundred Cathran rulers. But none of them, I think, will be the match of you if you can pull off this mad stunt. I pledge thirty knights, the same number of fighters mounted on sturdy coursers, and fifty mules loaded with goodly fodder for man and beast … and I pray I’ll live to hail you Sovereign of High Blenholme.’

The council of war surged up from their seats and cheered.

Conrig nodded in ironic acknowledgement of the backhanded compliment. ‘Your agreement to my proposal gladdens my heart, Earl Marshal.’ He opened the ornate black velvet purse that hung from his belt. ‘I have here wafers of the most exquisitely flavored pyligosh, which I will share with you all as a token of our new fellowship.’

Almost solemnly, he handed out the rare small sweetmeats, each of which was wrapped in a green cloth square and tied with golden cord. ‘Please eat them now to symbolize our unified resolve — and then let’s see what manner of liquid cheer Duke Tanaby has set out for us. I, for one, am now in need of refreshment stronger than wine.’

The nobles sprang up from their stools and crowded toward the laden sideboard, leaving only Zeandrise Marley to stand before Conrig, holding her wrapped tidbit. She spoke in a voice that was almost inaudible.

‘My prince, do you know why I am called the Virago?’

He smiled. ‘I was told that when your wealthy young husband died, and you were left childless, a certain uncouth mountain lord came a-wooing. You spurned him, and he returned with an army to press his suit. Whereupon—’

‘I rallied the knights and thanes of my barony and whipped the britches off the whoreson. And I defeated another force led by my late husband’s saucy cousin, who tried to lay claim to my fiefdom through some trivial point of law. After that, Vanguard gave me the warrior’s belt with his own hand, and I’ve held Marley against all comers for the past twenty-two years. I’m a hard woman, Prince Heritor.’

Conrig bowed his head in acknowledgment, still smiling.

‘And I think you’re a hard man.’ She held up the green-wrapped sweetmeat. ‘What would have happened to those who opposed your invasion scheme? Would they have been given wafers wrapped in a different color of cloth — or with cord tied in a special knot?’

He stepped closer to her, and for an instant something flickered in his handsome face. She stood her ground and his ambiguous expression was transformed into a broad grin. He unwrapped his own wafer and bit into it with evident enjoyment. ‘Absolutely delicious. And much more efficacious against noxious substances than drinking-cups with amethyst talismans. That’s just a silly superstition, as any alchymist can tell you. You may ask my brother Stergos, if you doubt me.’

Her eyes widened. ‘So it was the wine.’

‘Which I partook of, along with the rest of you. The effects of the subtle poison would not be obvious for at least two days, when the unfortunate nay-sayers were well on their journey home. Thus no suspicion would fall upon me or Tanaby Vanguard — who, by the way, knew nothing about my precautionary measures. Earlier, I pressed him to take prisoner anyone who opposed my plan, but he wouldn’t agree to it. My godfather is too trusting and chivalrous. But then, he doesn’t aspire to be the Sovereign of High Blenholme.’

And such a one must be ruthless?’

‘Very.’ He rested both hands on her shoulders in a gesture that might have passed for affection. ‘Are you going to tell the others what I did?’

Her worn face remained calm. ‘No … I won’t tell them. But I think it would bode well for our future comradeship — and the Sovereignty — if you did.’

They stared at each other without speaking. Then he took her arm and led her gently toward the waiting table of drinks where the others were gathered. ‘I’ll think about it, my lady. And you won’t forget to eat your wafer, will you?’