‘Yes, I do,’ Kethol said.
‘Well, out with them, man.’
Kethol stopped scratching the firedrake so that he could open his pouch and handed both of the letters over. That one was addressed to the Earl rather than to the Swordmaster was something that the Swordmaster and the Earl could work out by themselves, after Kethol, Pirojil and Durine were gone, he thought.
Steven Argent spent a suspiciously short time reading them. Either he was a very fast reader, or he already knew the letters’ contents or, most probably, both.
He set the letters down in his lap, patted them, then nodded. ‘It appears Baron Mondegreen has taken a liking to the three of you–and you in particular.’ He smiled slightly. ‘I can’t say quite the same thing for the Military Bursar, though, although this letter from Baron Mondegreen puts some perspective on Baron Morray’s complaints about the three of you interrupting his sleep.’
‘I–’
‘We’ll just let that matter drop.’ Steven Argent smiled. ‘I’ll tell Baron Morray the same if he brings it up again. Likely he won’t–’
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. Steven Argent waited, as though he expected it to open, then said, ‘Well, come in then, Ereven.’
The housecarl had a tray heavily laden with small loaves of bread and a huge wedge of blue-veined cheese balanced on one hand, a bottle of wine and two glasses in the other, and a glum expression on his face.
‘I thought you might want some refreshment, sir.’
The Swordmaster nodded. ‘I’d rather be working up a sweat on the training floor, but I should eat something.’ He gestured at the low table between the two chairs. ‘And if Kethol here will turn down an offer of good food and wine, he’ll be a unique one.’
Ereven set the tray down and poured wine for both of them, while Steven Argent, disdaining the plate, set his papers in his lap, tore off a hunk of bread and took a bite before cutting a piece of cheese to go with it, beckoning at Kethol to do the same.
Kethol did so, tearing into the still-warm, thick crust. It had been too long since he had eaten. He knew that the fresh bread served to his betters in the castle was of a higher quality than the plain, thick brown loaves that were issued to the troops, but this was absolutely marvellous, beyond what he could have imagined. As his father had often said, hunger was by far the most pungent and effective of sauces.
The housecarl stood patiently, his hands folded in front of him.
‘Ereven,’ the Swordmaster said, ‘we can manage to feed ourselves–there’s no need for you to linger.’
The servitor almost smiled. ‘As you wish, Swordmaster,’ he said, bowing. ‘Will there be anything else that you need before supper?’
‘I think I can manage. Please give my best to Becka, and to your daughter, as well,’ Steven Argent said, dismissing the servitor.
He turned to Kethol and shook his head after the door had closed. ‘His daughter, Emma, is starting to show,’ Argent said softly, as if the housecarl might overhear. ‘The father must be one of the guard, as young men of the household staff are in fear of Ereven and a nobleman would already have stepped forward to make arrangements for the bastard. Which will make it my problem when the soldier is named.’ He sighed. ‘The girl won’t talk about it, but I’m not inclined to press her, just yet. The Earl will know how to do that better than I can. When he tells me what he wants done, then I’ll find out who the brainless lout is and see he does the Earl’s will.’ He scowled, then took another bite of his bread and cheese, and then drained his wine glass with one long draught. ‘Well, that hits the spot on such a day, eh?’ He looked at the door again, like a man who couldn’t help himself from rubbing at an insect bite. ‘The rumour is that I am the father.’ He sat back and let out a slight sigh, and it occurred to Kethol he was in the unusual position of being told things he’d rather not hear by someone whose only reason for telling him was that he was inconsequential to the Swordmaster–much as soldiers talk to barmen, barbers and the stranger sitting next to them moments before they go over the wall. Depending on time and circumstance, Kethol would be inclined to tell the man to take his story elsewhere, or to pretend to listen politely while completely ignoring the fool, but given his present company, Kethol decided the best course was to nod occasionally and keep his mouth full of bread and cheese so that he couldn’t make an inopportune remark.
Argent continued, ‘And that irritates me more than a little. You’d think even these Westerners would know that an Eastern gentleman would take responsibility for the girl and his bastard.’ He shook his head.
Kethol didn’t say anything. Noble responsibilities were the problems of nobles, not his; besides, his mouth was full of bread and a particularly pungent and delicious cheese. Seeing that the Swordmaster was now expecting some sort of comment, Kethol quickly chewed and swallowed. Gulping the last bit, he said, ‘You were speaking of Baron Mondegreen when the housecarl interrupted.’
‘I was.’ Noting that Kethol had almost hurt himself gulping his food so that he could answer, Argent softly said, ‘Drink your wine. It’s not as good as you’d find in Ravensburgh or Rillanon, but it’s a fair enough companion to that cheese.’
Kethol forced himself to sip at his wine, rather than gulping it down, as he would have liked. It was worth the tasting, certainly, but to Kethol’s way of thinking, the purpose of drinking wine in the middle of a cold day was to warm him from the inside, and the quicker it went down, the quicker it would start getting to work.
Steven Argent was still waiting for Kethol to speak.
‘I…liked Baron Mondegreen,’ Kethol said. ‘He seems a kind man.’
Steven Argent nodded. ‘True enough. Though those who failed to notice the steel behind his smile have regretted the oversight. How did he appear?’
‘Dying, my lord,’ Kethol said.
Steven Argent sighed. ‘Yes, he is.’ He tapped at the letters in his lap. ‘These are hardly the only letters brought back from Mondegreen, as you’ve undoubtedly concluded. Father Kelly is of the opinion that he’ll be dead within a few weeks, even if he remains in his bed, and that if he had been fool enough to travel in this weather, you would have only delivered a body to LaMut.’ He didn’t wait for a comment. ‘You managed to keep Morray alive, and that’s what you were told to do.’
Kethol nodded.
‘Other than the Tsurani attack, did you see any evidence of anybody trying to harm him?’
Kethol shook his head. ‘None at all. He and Baron Verheyen seemed almost, well, chummy, and–’
‘They despise one another. Just because they are both vying for the earldom doesn’t make them fools.’ Argent paused, then softly added, ‘Quite the contrary, in fact.’
‘The earldom, my lord?’ he asked. ‘Has something happened to the Earl?’ Surely he would have heard about that.
‘No.’ Steven Argent shook his head. ‘Earl Vandros is fine. It’s an open secret, though, that he’s certain to marry the Duke’s daughter, Felina–although I wouldn’t bring it up with him; he’s unaccountably touchy on the subject. As the Duke of Yabon is without a son and heir, Vandros will end up being Duke of Yabon. The King will name his successor, here, but Vandros will have quite a say in the matter. Morray is Bursar, he enjoys that advantage, but Verheyen has distinguished himself in the war–there’s no more deadly blade in the West–so as a military leader, he enjoys another edge. So, Morray and Verheyen are desperate for the Earl’s favour. Starting trouble is not the way to earn Vandros’s favour.’ His brow furrowed. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t know that.’
Kethol forced himself not to shrug. ‘I’ve never been much for barracks gossip.’ Which wasn’t quite true; you could learn a lot from barracks gossip, but Kethol had always been far more interested in everyday issues of, say, how eager a given captain was to expend men, or which serving girl was especially friendly, than he was in more lofty matters of noble succession.
Yes, everybody heard rumours about the court, about f
euds between Guy du Bas-Tyra and Duke Borric, whispered stories about the King being stone crazy, or about Prince Erland being at death’s door, or dead already at Guy’s hands–but that didn’t have much effect on you when your real concern was whether or not the Bugs were going to come over the next ridge and cut you into tiny bits. It was enough to know that those who were deciding things were meeting at Yabon. As serpentine as the politics were here in LaMut, it was probably worse there, and Kethol had always thought that the distinction between bad and worse was far sharper–and much more likely to get him killed–than that between good and better.
‘And I assume,’ Steven Argent said, ‘that you’d like to be returned to Tom Garnett’s service?’
‘My lord?’
‘Tom Garnett–I take it you want to go back to his company?’
To Kethol’s way of thinking, the three of them had never quite left Tom Garnett’s company; they had just been given a particular assignment, much like the time when Tom Garnett had sent them out to scout ahead during a lull in the fighting with the god-cursed Bugs. Come to think if it, that was probably the time when Tom Garnett had concluded that Kethol was the leader of the three of them–and actually, on that sort of thing, he was, by virtue of having been raised a forester’s son.
‘Actually, my lord,’ Kethol said, ‘we’ve talked it over among the three of us, and what we’ve decided is, well, we’ve decided that we’d like to be paid off now, and head south for Ylith, to wait for the thaw there.’
The Swordmaster arched an eyebrow. ‘In this weather?’ He frowned. ‘It’s bitter cold, and it’s likely to get even worse. I’ve spoken with Grodan–he says that there’s another storm coming–worse than the last–and Rangers have even more of a feel for such things than magicians. My guess is that it’s not going to be as bad as Grodan suspects, but I’d not like to bet heavily on that. Certainly not enough to be out on the road when it hits.’
‘But–’
‘If Grodan’s right, you might find yourself caught in a blizzard halfway to Ylith, and not thaw out until spring.’
Kethol didn’t wonder how Steven Argent knew they were going south if paid–it was the logical choice if you had finished fighting and were seeking warmer weather.
‘Gold and silver are fine things,’ continued the Swordmaster, ‘but you can’t burn them to keep you warm. Better to have a warm bed and hot food safely inside the city’s walls until spring, right?’ He frowned. ‘Besides, I’m still concerned about Baron Morray, and even if I didn’t have specific instructions from Earl Vandros to see to his safety, I’d still like the idea of having you outsiders watching over him.’
Yes, Pirojil and Durine had pointed out, in great detail, why the Swordmaster would prefer that. But Kethol could hardly go into the politics of that here and now, and it was probably better and safer to act as though he hadn’t noticed.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what with us taking a one-in-three each day, we’re managing to watch over the Baron even now, granted, but–’
‘You didn’t ask Captain Garnett to assign others to watch his rooms while he slept,’ the Swordmaster said, nodding approvingly. ‘So, was that being thorough, or a matter of you three never trusting anybody else?’
Kethol shrugged. ‘You told us to protect the Baron, and we did.’
‘You did a fine job; the Baron is still breathing, and busy at his account books, which is as it should be.’ The Swordmaster nodded in approval. ‘Which is why I want to keep you on that duty, at least until after he’s out of my city, or until the end of the approaching storm, whichever comes last.’ He spread his hands. ‘I’m sure you’re not fool enough to travel in this weather if you didn’t have to, and you don’t have to. Besides, the Earl might have to hire on more mercenaries before this bloody war’s over–and I wouldn’t want word to spread that we’d paid off three men and sent them out into the cold to die. Wouldn’t help recruitment.’
Kethol shook his head. He knew the Swordmaster jested over the last; mercenaries dying for any reason had little bearing on recruitment, unless it was due to overt stupidity on the part of commanders; gold was the thing, first, last and always. Even so, he responded to the jest as if it was serious. ‘We wouldn’t say anything, sir. We wouldn’t be able to.’
Argent kept his smile in place, but it turned cold. ‘The serious concern is when word gets out that you insisted on being paid off, and leaving LaMut now with a storm coming on. Tongues would start to wag, and suspicions could be raised. That could start a whole rush–things could easily get out of hand.’ He shook his head. ‘All in all, I think it would be better for everybody concerned, yourselves included, if you stay on–at least until both the storm and the Council are over.’ He looked over at Kethol. ‘Please don’t make me insist.’
‘You’re not saying that we can’t get our pay and leave, are you, my lord?’
‘No.’ The Swordmaster shook his head. ‘And I’d best not hear that I suggested any such thing.’ His eyes narrowed, and he raised a finger. ‘What I am saying is I’m in no mood to put down some pointless insurrection among the mercenaries, and that’s just what is likely to happen if the three of you were to sit around the fire at a tavern complaining that the Swordmaster won’t pay you off right now.’
‘My lord, I–’
Argent’s upraised hand cut Kethol off. ‘If you get your two friends to go knock on Baron Morray’s door and demand your pay, he would open the account books to see what you’re owed, and then open the strongroom in the dungeon to pay the three of you every real and every copper you’re owed. I’m not saying that you can’t do that. But I am telling you that I think it would be a very bad idea, right now.’
The Swordmaster’s expression was even chillier than the wind leading into the Aerie, despite the fixed smile–or perhaps because of it.
‘As to the Baron,’ he went on, ‘I’ll have Captain Perlen assign guards to watch over his rooms in the castle, so the three of you can have some time off, at least while he’s sleeping. He shouldn’t be in any danger in his bed–but I do want the three of you to stay on to guard him against any mishap the rest of the time. At least until both the Council and the storm have ended.’
Argent poured them each another full glass of wine, and then raised his own in a salute. ‘Of course, should we get through this without any mishaps, I’m certain the Earl will not object if I show his appreciation with a significant bonus on top of your agreed pay. Just as I’m sure you’ll be inclined to show your loyalty by keeping this entire conversation between you three and myself.’ His smile turned especially wicked. ‘Do you have a problem with that, Kethol?’
‘You said what?’ Pirojil closed his eyes and shook his head.
‘I said yes, we’d stay on, at least until the end of the Council or the end of the storm,’ Kethol said. ‘Whichever comes last. I tried to get him to agree to whichever comes first, but he insisted.’
Durine rolled his eyes. ‘Which means that we’re stuck babysitting his baronship, and ready to be blamed if he and Luke Verheyen manage to stick swords in each other.’
Pirojil shook his head. ‘It’s only for a while longer–’
‘You like this?’ Durine frowned.
‘No. I don’t like it. I say we can live with it, at least for now. I don’t even blame Kethol, although I’m tempted to.’ Durine fixed Pirojil with a questioning expression. ‘Sounds to me like Steven Argent didn’t give him much choice.’
Kethol said, ‘That’s true.’
Pirojil shook his head. ‘After all, somebody had to go to the Swordmaster and ask for our pay. It could have been any of the three of us. I should have reckoned that Argent wouldn’t go for that.’
Durine looked confused. ‘So even though we have no choice, it’s all right because it’s only a while longer?’
Pirojil said, ‘No.’
Now Durine was obviously confused. ‘What is the problem?’
‘The problem is that things are going well, that’s the p
roblem.’
‘The problem is that there’s no problem?’
Pirojil nodded. ‘Yeah. As long as things are going well, he’s not going to want to make any changes. He’s just temporarily sitting in the Earl’s chair, after all. It’s not like Steven Argent’s been made the Earl of LaMut. He just wants Earl Vandros to return to a city in the same condition it was when he left it–and if the time has come to dispense with the mercenaries, Argent is going to want to let the Earl do it, not do it himself.’ He shrugged. ‘For all he knows–for all we know–the general staff meeting at Yabon will decide to send the body of LaMutian forces north to Stone Mountain, west to Caldara, or to Tith-Onaka only knows where. Be pretty damn embarrassing–for both the Earl and the Swordmaster–if the Duke decides to use the Earl’s troops and Vandros then comes back to find that the Swordmaster has paid off all the mercenaries that the Earl of LaMut has just promised to the Duke.’
Pirojil shook his head. ‘Don’t underestimate the Swordmaster, and don’t buy into his I’m-just-a-swordsman talk. He’s not just a soldier or duellist, but a politician, as well, and he has to think like one. That’s why Vandros left him in charge.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Durine said. ‘I’m not sure I believe in any of this assassin stuff, but–’
‘But that’s not the point.’ Pirojil shrugged. ‘From what the Swordmaster said, it sounds to me like it was just a load of accidents that didn’t quite happen, and I think he and the Earl are finding conspiracies where there aren’t any–just as Kethol mistook Baron Morray’s little roll in the hay with that serving girl for something else.’
The tips of Kethol’s ears burned. That had been embarrassing.
‘So what do we do?’ Kethol asked. ‘We can’t leave…’
‘Not since you said we wouldn’t? This whole nobility thing isn’t rubbing off on you, is it?’
‘No, but…’
‘Shhh.’ Pirojil thought it over for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Promises have nothing to do with it. If we decide to leave, we had better quietly take what we have on us and just ride out–bracing the Baron for our full pay wouldn’t be wise, not after the Swordmaster’s warning. We could probably draw some spending money through Captain Garnett–and we probably should, regardless, or he might start to wonder why we haven’t–but that’s about all. If we go to the Baron, and if anything bad happens, we get blamed. Either of you like that idea? You want to leave without our money?’