‘Hardly.’ Grodan’s mouth twitched. ‘I’ve heard that you went out into it, to rescue Baron Morray.’
Kethol shrugged. ‘It wasn’t much of a rescue, really.’ Why he was coming to Morray’s defence he didn’t quite know, but it would have seemed disloyal to let the Ranger’s implication stand unanswered, despite the fact that Kethol himself thought Morray an idiot to have willingly ventured out into the belly of the storm.
Grodan was idly watching the city below, when a man, huddled deeply in a cloak, climbed out of a second-storey window from a half-buried row house on High Street, just the other side of the north gate. The man lost his grip on the windowsill and slid down the snowdrift, tumbling and rolling until he reached the bottom.
Kethol could imagine the curses being uttered as the man got to his feet and tried to slap the snow from himself, but he was too far off for the sound to carry, despite the still air.
The Ranger laughed. ‘Well, that’s quicker than digging himself out, eh?’ He sobered as he watched the people moving about on the streets below, making their way through the deep snow. ‘I hope there’s enough meat stored in the city; it’ll be weeks before there are any animals brought in to market.’
That wasn’t one of Kethol’s worries. Any castle had to have enough preserved food in its storehouses not just to weather a winter, but to weather a siege, and Father Winter’s siege could not possibly go on long enough for him to be missing any meals, although he might quickly grow tired of a diet of pickled beef, if it took too long for livestock to reach LaMut from neighbouring farms and ranches. And given the severity of this last storm, it probably would take a while.
‘So where were you? During the storm, that is. If you don’t mind me asking,’ Kethol said.
It was unlikely that the Ranger had sought him out just to make conversation, but Kethol was willing to wait until Grodan got to the point. The Baron was up and about, with Pirojil at his side, and Kethol wasn’t due to take over bodyguard duties until noon.
‘Don’t mind.’ The Ranger shrugged. ‘My father used to tell me, when there’s nothing to do, it’s best to do nothing. Beldan and Short Sam and I were simply holed up in our rooms, with some food and wine to keep us company, and just caught up on some much-needed sleep.’ He gave a thin smile, and then yawned broadly. ‘And the three of us have had so much of that, in fact, that we find ourselves tired of sleep and eager not to be so rested, if that makes any sense to you.’
‘It does, at that.’ Kethol nodded. ‘I’m feeling the same way, although I don’t mind missing the daily patrol –’ he let his gaze sweep the white snowscape below as the patrol mounted up and the horses stamped their hooves ‘– if truth be told, it bothers me not a bit that my own duties keep me right here.’
Grodan’s mouth twitched. ‘Perhaps that could be changed?’
‘Oh?’
‘The other day, Captain Garnett boasted of your tracking abilities. I was going to invite you to accompany me on my own sweep to the north. I’d welcome the company.’ Grodan frowned at the assembling patrol below. ‘Somebody needs to go and see what’s out there. That lot will be lucky to get a mile.’ His expression remained impassive, but Kethol detected a slight change around the mouth that he took to be disdain.
‘I was thinking the same thing. I doubt anybody could get far.’
‘On that, I disagree.’ Grodan produced a piece of jerky and took a thoughtful bite. ‘I thought to see if there’s anything interesting stirring between here and Mondegreen – perhaps some more of those Tsurani you ran into last week.’ He eyed the unmarked snow. ‘Not that tracking is as much of a challenge as moving is, at the moment.’
‘You think your ponies can move any faster than those horses can?’
Grodan shook his head. ‘No, I’d not try to ride out. I thought we’d go on foot.’
‘Walking?’
From the castle walls, Kethol could see drifts of snow that had reached the second storey of some of the houses along High Street, and the small, dark tunnels through the bases of the drifts that the occupants, had, dwarflike, dug to get themselves out of the snowy prison.
And into a somewhat larger snowy prison.
It was no more likely that the Ranger could make his way any significant distance on foot than Tom Garnett’s company would be able to on horseback, and Kethol wouldn’t have been surprised if the patrol found itself unable to make its way out of LaMut, much less push out into the countryside.
‘Yes, walking.’ Grodan nodded. ‘Rangers have their ways, Kethol.’
Kethol had heard legends about the Natalese Rangers, about their almost supernatural ability to move through the forest quickly and silently, leaving no trace. He’d heard the same of the Royal Krondorian Pathfinders down south, too, and of the Imperial Keshian Guides even farther south, and rumour had it they all were somehow related, by blood or magic or some such. But Kethol was by nature and disposition suspicious of legends, and aware that his own abilities seemed magical to those who hadn’t been raised in the wild.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you expect to make it to Mondegreen I guess you must have your ways, indeed.’
‘You sound doubtful.’
‘A little, perhaps.’ Kethol nodded. ‘No offence meant, but I don’t see how you’d be able to do much more than anybody else, not in this. I can’t imagine you’ve tried to make your away across such ground before.’
‘You’d be wrong.’ Grodan smiled slightly. ‘It gets fairly… interesting around the Grey Tower come winter, particularly in the high meadows.’ He shrugged. ‘And it’s a matter of some pride to my people to be able to scout anywhere, no matter what the conditions. Not that I’d have wished to be scouting last night in the storm. But I’d have managed.’
Calling the Ranger a liar or braggart didn’t seem to be the thing to do, so Kethol just asked, ‘So how do you do it? Move across the snow, that is. Some sort of magic, is it?’
‘No magic involved.’ Grodan seemed vaguely amused at the suggestion. The Ranger thought it over for a moment. ‘Well, I guess there’s no harm in telling you, since you’ll be able to see, if you just watch.
‘Travelling across deep snow is just a matter of spreading your weight across enough of the snow that it will bear you. We make large shoes by bending a hoop of birch into a oval frame, and cover that hoop with a latticework of leather thongs, then strap it to our boots. We call them brezeneden, from a phrase for “clumsy walking” in the Old Tongue. It takes some practice. It can be pretty amusing watching someone get around on them the first time.’ He looked out across the castle wall. ‘Making a set of brezeneden is just a matter of an hour’s work or so, and Short Sam has probably finished making several sets – he’s quicker with his fingers than Beldan and I, and I’ve left that to him.’
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 befor
e 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.’