Kethol nodded. It seemed to be an interesting idea, and something to think about were he ever stuck in a snowy hell like this again. ‘Birch for the frame?’
‘Any flexible wood will do.’ Grodan shrugged. ‘Moving on these things is slow going, but I should be able to complete my circuit to the north within a few days. Beldan and Short Sam will cover their own areas, as well.’ He cocked his head. ‘Are you sure that you won’t accompany me?’
Kethol shook his head. ‘As I said, my own duties prevent that.’
‘But you would accompany me, if your duties didn’t make that impossible?’
‘Of course.’ Kethol nodded, then forced himself to smile. ‘I’d do so at swordpoint–and it would have to be a very sharp sword.’
Grodan laughed, and patted at his cloak, over where his sword lay hidden, only its dragonhide hilt visible. ‘I happen to have a very sharp sword, but I’d not use it to force my company upon you,’ he said, still smiling.
‘Then I wish you well,’ Kethol said. ‘And if there is an extra pair of these brezeneden available, I’d count it a favour if you would leave those behind for me to try out.’ While Kethol had no desire to try to stamp his way through–no, on top of–the snow, it would be interesting to see how well these things worked. Just another trick to add to his bag, one that probably wouldn’t be of any use.
But you could never tell.
Grodan nodded. ‘I see no harm in that.’
He clapped a comradely hand on Kethol’s shoulder, then drew himself up straight. ‘Well, then, Kethol of wherever-it-is-you-happen-to-be-at-the-moment, I’ll bid you a good day, and look forward to another opportunity, perhaps, to see your performance in the wild. Farewell.’
‘Farewell, Grodan of Natal.’ Kethol watched the Ranger walk away. It would have been nice to know what that all had been about, though it was just possible that it was about just what it seemed.
Maybe.
Durine turned the corner close to the wall of the keep. The overhanging buttresses above had kept the lee side of the fortress relatively free of the huge drifts which made progress anywhere else almost impossible. He walked along the entire side of the keep, attempting to keep snow out of his boots, determined to reach the barracks by the shortest route possible without having to dig his way through shoulder-high drifts.
He was about to turn a corner which would bring him within sight of the marshalling yard and the barracks when a beefy soldier in a heavy cloak came into view, with three others marching single file behind him. Barely enough room for one man to pass meant that someone was going to have to back up.
The soldier stopped and said, ‘Make way, freebooter.’
Durine knew what was coming next, but he thought he should at least make some attempt to resolve this matter without having to risk breaking the man’s head or his own knuckles. ‘You’re but a half-dozen steps from the sally port you just walked through; it would be far less difficult for me if you’d back up to let me pass.’
‘Less difficult for you?’ said the soldier, rubbing his red-bearded chin as if considering the request. ‘But then, I have no concerns for what is more or less difficult for you. There are four of us and only one of you. It would be better for you to turn around and make way for us.’
Durine looked at the other three men, who were watching the big soldier and Durine with some amusement. ‘There is that,’ said Durine as if considering the matter. Then with speed unexpected in so big a man, Durine took one quick step forward and unleashed a thunderous blow at the man’s head. He hit the large soldier so hard he spun around, allowing Durine to catch him under the arms. With a quick lift, Durine picked up the man, and slung him across his shoulders in the same sort of way as Kethol might hoist a stag he had taken in a hunt. Then Durine moved forward till he was looking down at the next soldier in line and said, ‘I think we should get your friend back inside, don’t you?’
This short soldier went pale and nodded. Then he pushed his way past his two companions who quickly seized upon the wisdom of retreating before the huge mercenary. The three of them swiftly made their way back to the sally port and one of them opened the door. Durine dumped the huge soldier unceremoniously at the threshold and turned him over. He rummaged through the man’s belt purse and withdrew a pair of silver coins.
One of the soldiers said, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Durine looked at the man with his brows furrowed and said loudly, ‘I don’t fight for free!’ He pocketed the coins and turned his back on the men, then focused on breasting his way through the snow, across the marshalling yard, to the barracks.
Pirojil had been sleeping in the barracks when the storm had hit, and now it was his turn to guard Baron Morray. Kethol was with the Baron and would head to the kitchen for a meal when Pirojil got there. Durine silently cursed the luck that made him the one to have to plough through heavy, wet snow. He might well be the one best suited for the task, but he didn’t relish it for that fact.
Halfway between the keep and barracks, he encountered two soldiers with broad shovels clearing the way. Feeling lucky to have been spared some of the labour of getting to the barracks door, he crossed the marshalling yard and entered the barracks.
There he found Pirojil dressing, in anticipation of his shift approaching, half-listening to some tale or another being spun by the mad dwarf, Mackin. ‘And then she says, “tall enough where it counts!”’ He exploded into laughter.
Durine saw Pirojil’s brow flicker and realized the ugly man had found the dwarf’s story amusing. ‘Your turn with the Baron,’ he said, moving to his own bunk.
Pirojil nodded and stood up. ‘Any trouble?’
‘None to speak of,’ said Durine, pulling off his boots.
Pirojil nodded and departed without comment.
Mackin asked, ‘Have they cleared the snow down into town?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Too bad. I could use an ale and a woman.’
Durine glanced around the room and saw a lot of men sitting on their bunks, staring at the ceiling or walls, lost in their thoughts. He could smell the tension in the room. To the dwarf he said, ‘You’re not the only one.’
Pirojil leaned back against the wall as the nobles took their places around the table in the Great Hall, with the Swordmaster at the head. Surprisingly, Lady Mondegreen sat at the position of honour to Steven Argent’s right. It was apparently not just a surprise to Pirojil, either: Folson passed a quick comment to Langahan, making a small gesture towards the head of the table.
The rest of the barons and nobles were scattered along both sides of the table according to some plan that Pirojil couldn’t quite work out, but he was sure wasn’t accidental, if only because it put Verheyen at the foot of the table, while Morray, presumably because of his post as Wartime Bursar, sat to the Swordmaster’s left.
The long table was covered with fresh linen tablecloths, overlapping in places, and the only objects on its pristine white surface were the swords and daggers of the assembled nobles, bared and sheathless as though–unlikely as it seemed–they were expecting to have to use them.
Pirojil hoped it was unlikely. He was far too many paces away to get to Morray’s side in what he trusted was the improbable event of Baron Viztria suddenly picking up the sword in front of him and running Morray through. Should that improbability come to pass, the best Pirojil could do was to help pick up the body. After he had killed Viztria, of course; assuming Steven Argent didn’t beat him to it. Pirojil kept his face impassive, but smiled inside remembering how the Swordmaster had embarrassed the pompous little baron in front of his peers.
Plates of food, mugs of coffee, and a few bottles and wineglasses were being served to the guests by a squad of servants from side tables around the room, indicating to Pirojil that the Council would probably be going on for several hours at least, although nobody had explicitly said as much, not in Pirojil’s hearing.
‘By order of the Earl of LaMut,’ the Swordmaster
said, as he rose, while the others remained seated, ‘this Baronial Council in the Earldom of LaMut is now called to assemble. Let any of the assembled who cannot now freely swear their allegiance to Earl Vandros, to Duke Brucal, to Prince Erland, and to the Kingdom itself now either absent themselves without fear of retribution or penalty, or explain to the satisfaction of this noble company why they cannot so swear.’
Pirojil wondered about the omission of the King or the Eastern Realm’s Viceroy, Guy du Bas-Tyra–by name or rank, although Steven Argent had mentioned the Kingdom in the vaguest possible generality–but he didn’t know what that meant, although it was clearly something unpalatable to two men from the way that Baron Langahan and Baron Viztria, both from Krondor, were scowling.
Well, Langahan’s scowl probably meant something. As to Viztria, the fox-faced little court baron always seemed to have either a scowl or a sneer pasted on his face, and neither expression necessarily meant anything more than that his face was in the room with him.
Several pairs of eyes turned to Berrel Langahan, the improbably sun-browned, improbably common-looking balding court baron, who frowned and quickly shuffled to his feet, waiting until Steven Argent sat before he spoke.
‘As you all know,’ Langahan said, ‘I am from the court in Krondor, and am not fealty-bound to the Earldom of LaMut, nor to the Duchy of Yabon; the same is true of my friend, Baron Viztria. While I hold Duke Brucal of Yabon and Earl Vandros of LaMut in the highest esteem, I cannot swear my allegiance to either the earldom or the duchy.’ His expression grew stern. ‘Although I can and do freely swear my allegiance to the King, and obedience to his chosen Viceroy, may the gods grant him great health and deep wisdom in these most difficult of times.’
It was probably not the most politically delicate thing to say, given the feud between Guy du Bas-Tyra and Borric of Crydee. Duke Brucal of Yabon was probably too closely allied to Borric for the taste of Guy du Bas-Tyra’s supporters–which surely included any court barons who were permitted out of Krondor without a short leash, much less dispatched to a council of any kind in Yabon.
‘Health and wisdom to the Viceroy–and to the Prince,’ Steven Argent said, as though agreeing. His face was set in a friendly mask, but his eyes showed a darkness Pirojil would not particularly have liked to have seen directed at him.
‘Health and wisdom to the Prince!’ the rest repeated, some more quickly than others.
‘Health and wisdom to the Prince,’ Verheyen said, the last of the barons to repeat the words, in a voice that was just a trifle louder than necessary.
‘Yes, of course–health and wisdom to the Prince,’ Langahan said, almost immediately, and was echoed by the rest of the table.
Langahan had a long look at Verheyen, then blinked and went on: ‘I cannot, as I have said, in good conscience, by word or silence, claim allegiance to the Earl or the earldom, save as part of this realm, this kingdom.’ He looked from face to face. ‘I think it best to have that out in the open at the beginning, and if there is any man–if there is any man among you, who feels that I should absent myself from these deliberations because of that, I beg of him–or her–’ he said, bowing towards Lady Mondegreen as he corrected himself, ‘to speak now, and I’ll sadly absent myself from these proceedings, and swear to hold no grudge or grievance against any here for that.’
And, probably, count on Baron Viztria to report every word to him, or at least to Guy of Bas-Tyra.
There was silence at the table, and after looking from face to face, Steven Argent nodded. ‘Your presence here is welcome, Baron Langahan.’
Langahan bowed, more gracefully than Pirojil would have thought such a stocky man could, and seated himself.
Viztria rose. ‘I’m not a man who claims to be of few words,’ he said, with a snort, ‘as is my friend Baron Langahan, but I’ll try to make an exception. I fully confess that my fealty is to the realm as a whole, and the Kingdom beyond that, and not to some muddy pit of–’ He paused, then forced a pained smile as he continued. ‘To some important barony that itself is a part of an equally important duchy. If anybody objects to my presence here, let him–or her, my lady–let him speak now, and I’ll repair to my room and catch up on some correspondence.’
He might as well have come out and said that if he was excluded, a messenger would be quickly making his way to Guy du Bas-Tyra, but Steven Argent nodded gently, as though accepting his words at face value.
The declaration of what amounted to a tentative alliance if not quite allegiance was received with a silent assent and nods by the rest, as well.
Pirojil read that as a good sign. The estrangement if not hostility between the East and the West, represented here by the LaMutian barons on one side and by these two court barons on the other, was not going to be mended here, but it would be ignored for the time being, at least publicly.
Steven Argent sat back in his chair. ‘Very well. There are many matters to discuss, from the taxes to be collected and disbursed, and to the rebuilding of what’s been let go in the war, and our brief from the Earl is that we are to come up with recommendations on all matters touching the earldom, save for the conduct of the war, which is the province of the general staff, presently meeting in Yabon.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I am sure that the Earl, and the dukes, would all like our advice on such things, but I see little point in this noble company spending its time and efforts on issues that are being decided by others with greater knowledge and responsibilities for them.’
‘And never mind,’ Baron Viztria added, with his usual sneer under his thin moustache, ‘that giving even good advice that comes too late to take it is about as worthwhile as paying stud fees for the services of a gelding, eh?’
The Swordmaster’s smile was broad, but chilly. ‘Precisely,’ he said, giving a quick, jerky nod. ‘Normally, the Earl would preside over the Council. In his absence, custom dictates he choose a senior baron to sit in his place–the most likely choice would be Baron Mondegreen, as the discussions here will certainly involve matters that involve him as the Hereditary Bursar of the Earldom.’
Pirojil followed him so far. Mondegreen had long been too frail for frequent trips into LaMut during the war, which is why Morray had been appointed by the Earl’s father, and confirmed by Earl Vandros, as the Military Bursar, and from what Pirojil could see, that had meant, in practice, that he was also holding down Mondegreen’s more general bursarial duties on behalf of the earldom, as well.
But if getting along well was going to be the theme of the day, and it clearly was, substituting Morray for Mondegreen to preside over the Council was guaranteed trouble, and there was trouble enough as it was. The castle barracks were filled with soldiers who, in the absence of Tsurani to kill or anywhere to go, were close enough to murdering each other right and left at the best of times, and with the storm having kept everyone penned up inside for days, it wasn’t remotely close to being the best of times.
So Pirojil just leaned back and waited for Steven Argent to announce that he would continue to preside over the Baronial Council.
‘I’m not going to preside over the Council,’ the Swordmaster said.
Eh?
‘It hasn’t passed my notice that some people habitually refer to me as “that Eastern Swordmaster”, or “that ex-captain from Rillanon”, despite my having served the Earl of LaMut these last dozen years. ‘Besides, I’m a soldier and the Swordmaster, and that’s all I want to be. The recommendations here need to be made by the Council, and not be influenced by somebody like me.’
It was all Morray could do not to strut sitting down. He smiled and preened himself, and Verheyen wasn’t the only other baron who glowered at him.
‘Which is why,’ the Swordmaster continued, standing as he spoke, ‘I ask Lady Mondegreen to take this chair, and I shall excuse myself and leave you, my lords and lady, to your deliberations–unless I hear an objection.’ He held up a peremptory hand. ‘Let me say first that I would take any objection to my selection of her as an insul
t not only to the house of Mondegreen, but to my own honour, as well, and a gentleman of Rillanon would know quite well how to deal with that, as would a swordmaster of LaMut,’ he said, his voice threatening in its casualness.
Verheyen was the first to react. He nodded and smiled. ‘I think that Lady Mondegreen is a fine choice, and I can think of none better, and many worse, myself included. Wouldn’t you agree, Baron Morray?’
Morray was caught, and fairly. It was all he could do to nod. ‘Of course I’m happy to let our deliberations be guided by the lady, who is perhaps even more wise than she is fair.’
‘Hear, hear,’ several of the other barons cried out, and Steven Argent walked from the room, beckoning Pirojil to follow him.
SEVEN
Promotions
The Swordmaster opened the door.
Pirojil assumed he had something on his mind, as he didn’t wait upon protocol and let Pirojil open the door for him. Steven Argent had seemed content to keep his thoughts to himself on the walk from the Council chamber to his own quarters, though he did mention he had sent for Durine and Kethol to be waiting for them, just prior to the start of the Council.
Durine was, as he had been instructed by the messenger, already up in the Aerie with Kethol when Pirojil and the Swordmaster strolled in, looking for all the world like a couple of old friends, if you didn’t look too closely at the scowl on Pirojil’s ugly face.