I now learned from Kasarian that Gratch, Gurborian’s prime henchman, was one of the few who escaped from Gorm shortly before the Kolder doomed the island. Unlike the Gormfolk I had known and respected, Gratch was evidently a wicked schemer, no doubt attracted to Alizon where his murderous talents would be most fully appreciated. Because of Gorm’s betrayal into the Kolder’s hands, Gratch loathed the Kolder, and thus aligned himself with Gurborian, who, for different reasons, shared that detestation for the foreign instigators of the war with the Dales.
I was startled when Kasarian confided that Lord Baron Mallandor had suspected Gurborian of conspiring against him. I had understood that Mallandor had relied upon Gurborian in their violent overthrow of the previous Lord Baron, Facellian. Kasarian boldly admitted to me, however, that he had not told me the entire truth at Lormt concerning the circumstances of Gurborian’s receipt of Elsenar’s jewel. The wretched baron had actually been awarded the stone on two separate occasions by two different Lords Baron!
I was numbed by Kasarian’s factual recital of the murderous intrigues and betrayals that saturated the Alizonian court. I hoped that he did not notice how my hand shook before I steadied my chalk when I queried him regarding the hideous double execution of a disgraced ruler and his underling who were literally fed to the hounds. It was as well that I could not speak, for I do not know what damaging words I might have blurted out—yet what words could have conveyed the depths of my affronted disbelief? I shuddered inwardly to think that countless generations of Alizonders had preyed upon one another in so cruel a fashion. It was difficult to grasp how Alizon had survived for so long when outright murder was a commended tactic for baronial advancement.
Clearly, Gurborian exemplified the most deplorable Alizonian traits. He had benefited from each major act of treachery, but not all of his schemes had succeeded. The execution of Mallandor’s Hound Master had left vacant that powerful Alizonian office of primary war baron. Gurborian attempted to sway the appointment by means of bribes and intimidation, but the new Lord Baron Norandor had ignored Gurborian’s machinations and installed one of his own men as Hound Master.
Kasarian warned me that Volorian had long been aware of the extent of Gurborian’s ambitious plotting. When I posed as Volorian, I should have to reflect his enduring animosity toward the murderer of his brother; Gurborian would expect it. Both Kasarian and I, in fact, would have to strive to convey a plausible change in our established attitudes, from entrenched opposition to grudging acceptance of Gurborian’s proposals. When . . . if we did obtain Elsenar’s jewel as a necessary bribe to secure Krevonel’s backing, Kasarian admonished me to disengage as quickly as possible, so that the jewel could be carried safely to Lormt, out of danger of discovery by the Dark forces of Escore.
As if struck by a sudden thought, Kasarian fell silent. He observed that he was not appropriately dressed to confer with Gurborian and Gratch, and invited me into the adjoining bedchamber. I had an initial fleeting impression of sober elegance. Dark blue wall hangings softened the expanses of bare stone, and I glimpsed a canopied bed draped with a matching blue brocade occupying a raised dais against the far wall. Before I could fully survey the room’s furnishings, however, my attention was exclusively engaged by one of the most terrifying sights I had ever beheld. When I half-turned as I passed a shadowed alcove, I found myself at the mercy of an enormous golden-eyed monster rearing up to attack me. I nearly fell, lurching backward and to one side in what I expected to be a futile effort to evade the nightmare’s fangs and claws. Had I possessed a voice, I should have cried out in despair . . . then I abruptly realized that the beast had not moved.
Doubtless alerted by his sensitive ears as well as his swordsman’s eye for movement behind him, Kasarian spun on his heel, one of his belt daggers ready in his hand. When I gestured at the monster, he laughed aloud. “I should have warned you in advance about Krevonel’s most noteworthy trophy,” he said, sheathing his dagger as rapidly as he had drawn it.
Plucking a torch from a nearby stone embrasure, Kasarian raised it to illuminate what I could now see was a gigantic wolf-like creature whose thick-furred hide had been preserved and mounted upon a hidden framework to mimic the effects of a living, lunging predator. Kasarian was a tall man, but the rampant creature’s outstretched front paws loomed above his shoulders. He regarded the horror with an expression that I had seen only once before, when he had brought me his hound pup. It seemed impossible to believe, but he was genuinely proud, even . . . fond of this monster.
“So few sightings are reported nowadays,” Kasarian mused. “My sire’s sire killed this dire wolf many years ago during a hunt in our northern mountains. The craftsman who mounted the skin achieved a splendid effect with the eyes, don’t you think?” He waved the torch from side to side. I tried not to shudder as the glittering eyes appeared to shift within the massive skull. “Pure gold orbs with black stones inset for the pupils,” Kasarian explained. “They provide a most lifelike impression.” He sighed regretfully. “I have never had the fortune to sight a dire wolf myself,” he said. “My sire once told me that he had encountered unmistakable tracks, but the winter weather was too severe for his hunting party to pursue them. Still, we cherish this excellent specimen which not even Gurborian can match, for all his wealth and power.”
I welcomed the goblet of fortifying wine that Kasarian poured from a silver ewer on a side table, and was equally grateful when he offered me a cushioned chair. He then strode to the door to shout for Gennard to attend him in his robing chamber.
My pounding heart had slowed to a more reasonable pace by the time Kasarian returned. I had to admit that he made a striking figure in midnight blue velvet tunic and hose, white leather belt and boots, and with an even more elaborate gold baronial chain suspended across his chest.
He had scarcely seated himself when Gennard thrust open the door. “Master,” he called urgently. “Bodrik has been wounded.”
Jumping to his feet, Kasarian demanded, “Where is he? Was he able to return to Krevonel?” Before Gennard could answer, we heard an approaching clamor in the outer corridor, and suddenly Bodrik himself reeled into the room, closely pursued by several liveried servants scrambling to assist him. Krevonel’s castellan had been sorely battered. A blood-soaked rag had been wound around his neck, and his formerly spotless livery was torn and streaked with more blood. He fell to his knees at Kasarian’s feet, and tried unsuccessfully to raise his right hand to his chest where his House badge had been nearly ripped away. “Arm slashed,” he muttered.
Kasarian immediately knelt, steadying Bodrik with a firm hand to each shoulder. “Gennard,” he ordered, “Send for Wolkor, then fetch a basin of water and bandages. The rest of you, away to your duties.”
The other servants hastily withdrew, Gennard close on their heels.
Bodrik shook his head slowly, as if dazed. He fumbled with his left hand inside his disheveled tunic. “Lursk is dead, Master,” he said hoarsely.
I snatched up the wine ewer and filled a goblet to hand to Kasarian, who held it to Bodrik’s lips.
“Rest a moment,” Kasarian advised. “Wolkor is coming to attend to your wounds.”
The wine seemed to revive Bodrik. As he drank the full measure, some color returned to his blanched face. Kasarian set aside the emptied goblet and lifted his castellan into a chair. Bodrik’s labored breathing eased. He managed at last to extract the message packet with his left hand, and held it out to me. “Baron Gurborian entrusted me with this reply to be given only into your hands, Worthy Baron,” he said, his voice clearer and stronger than before.
Accepting the bloodstained packet, I peered questioningly at Kasarian, who drew one of his belt knives and reached across to cut the packet’s binding straps. “How came Lursk to die?” he asked.
There was no mistaking Bodrik’s reaction—he showed his Alizonian fangs in a triumphant grin. “Whilst we waited for Baron Gurborian to compose his reply, Master, Lursk and I fell to arguing in the courty
ard.”
Kasarian nodded gravely. “I trust,” he said, “that you promoted the duel to facilitate my orders?”
“Aye, Master. I thought an open clash with Lursk would guarantee a direct audience for me with Baron Gurborian.” Bordrik looked at me. “Before I entered the Master’s service,” he said, “Lursk killed my younger littermate in Canisport. I thank the Worthy Baron for this opportunity to settle my Line’s account with Lursk.”
I acknowledged his statement with what I hoped he would view as a nod of approval. I had been in Alizon for only a matter of hours, and already one death had resulted. What a dreadful place this was—filled with violent hounds, legendary monsters, and murderous barons.
Kasarian held the message packet stationary for a moment. “How came you to survive once Lursk was dead?” he inquired in a dangerously calm voice. “Surely there were others present in Reptur’s courtyard.”
“Lursk’s men would have killed me,” Bodrik replied with earnest conviction, “had it not been for Lord Gratch. The noise of our struggle attracted his attention. He came out of the balcony, quill in hand, just as Lursk foolishly overbalanced and I ran him through. The others were set to attack me, but Lord Gratch ordered them to seize me and bring me before Baron Gurborian at once. The Baron was not pleased to hear of Lursk’s death, but he said to Lord Gratch that the opportunity provided by Krevonel’s message could not be lost due to misdeeds by underlings. I spoke up then, Master. I told him that I had settled a private score with Lursk—our duel had naught to do with Krevonel or Reptur. He said I had best stay out of Reptur’s reach henceforth, then ordered me to deliver his reply before he changed his mind and killed me himself.”
Kasarian smiled unpleasantly. “Should the occasion arise that I must dispatch another message to Gurborian,” he remarked, “I shall take care to send a different messenger.”
Gennard returned with bandages and a basin of water just as Wolkor arrived carrying a well-worn satchel bulging with ointment jars and herbs that I presumed he kept to treat injured hounds—or Alizonders. Fortunately, in one sense, this was far from my first experience with severe battle injuries. I had helped our Wise Women during the harrowing years of the Dales war, so I was not outwardly shaken by the sight of blood and mangled flesh. I took the bandages from Gennard and spread them out on a nearby table ready to be folded to the required dimensions.
Wolkor and Gennard swiftly removed Bodrik’s tunic and the remnants of his undergarment. Besides the still undisclosed wounds on his neck, he had suffered a jagged sword cut down his right forearm. To my surprise, Wolkor threaded a delicately curved needle with what appeared to be a length of waxed thread. While Gennard pressed together the edges of the slash, Wolkor sewed the torn skin as neatly as any seamstress, then sponged the area with wine before bandaging it.
Leaving them to examine Bodrik’s neck, Kasarian pulled Gurborian’s reply from the packet. He held the document out deferentially for me to read, but I could make scant sense of the elaborately swirled Alizonian script.
“I vow, Worthy Baron,” Kasarian observed to me, “that Gratch’s hand has become more decorative since the last time I saw it. Let us seek a better light by which you can advise me of your response.” Taking my arm, Kasarian firmly steered me to a table near the looming dire wolf, well out of listening range of the other Alizonders.
“Gurborian, through Gratch’s quill, expresses himself with his usual pretense,” Kasarian said, fetching an extra candle to illuminate the writing. “ ‘Volorian,’ ” he read in a low, sarcastic voice, “ ‘I rejoice that you honor Alizon City with your presence. We have sorely missed your counsel these many years—I have often thought what valuable contributions you could make to advance Alizon’s interests. Now you grace me with your most noble invitation to attend you. I shall be delighted to arrive at the time and place you specified, accompanied solely by Gratch and a minimal party of guards. Your suggestion truly stirs my interest. I dare to hope that both our Lines may benefit greatly from our meeting. Pray extend my most cordial greetings to Kasarian, whose loyal service I have long admired. I eagerly await the set hour. Gurborian.’” Kasarian paused, then bared his teeth in a feral smile. “Morfew has earned a large medallion to attach to his baronial chain,” he said. “Our quarry has taken his well-worded bait. Come, let us set our arrangements in order.”
At our approach, Bodrik insisted upon rising to his feet. He appeared to be fully recovered from his ordeal.
“Wolkor,” Kasarian said, “you may return to the Kennels. Tell the steward you may draw a flask of bloodwine.”
Grinning, Wolkor bobbed his head and slapped his House badge with enthusiasm. As soon as he had closed the door, Kasarian turned to Bodrik and Gennard. “We shall be receiving Baron Gurborian this midnight,” he informed them. “The Worthy Baron and I shall confer with him and Lord Gratch in the green audience chamber. Since this is to be a secret meeting, they will be accompanied by only a few bodyguards. Bodrik, are you fit to serve as my Armsmaster?”
To demonstrate his restored capacity, Bodrik flexed his right hand and sketched a vigorous swordsman’s flourish. “Aye, Master,” he asserted. “Krevonel’s prime troop can overmatch any of Reptur’s lot.”
“See that they do,” Kasarian ordered. “It is possible that some . . . disagreement may arise between our two parties. Your picked troop will deal with Gurborian’s guard. The Worthy Baron and I will attend to Gurborian and Gratch.”
“Shall I bring your sire’s sword from the Armory, Master?” Gennard inquired.
“Yes, take it to the audience chamber,” Kasarian replied, “along with proper refreshments for the four of us. The Worthy Baron and I will take a light supper here. You will fetch our repast before you attend to the arrangements in the green room.”
Bodrik had not been gone long when Gennard duly delivered yet more trays of rich Alizonian food, which he was prepared to serve, but again Kasarian dismissed him to “see to your more important duties below.”
Kasarian shut the door behind him, observing briskly to me, “Your imposture would be revealed if Gennard saw you eating. Your flat Dale’s teeth betray you. You must therefore guard against showing your teeth to Gurborian and Gratch. It is as well that Volorian’s supposed ague prevents you from consuming the prepared refreshments.”
I choked down a bit more of the Alizonian food, vowing to keep my mouth shut tight throughout the baronial meeting.
At last, Kasarian led me downstairs to a wide hall. He stopped before towering double doors that opened inward upon a spacious room whose walls were draped with vibrant green tapestries glistening with gold-threaded patterns. Three substantial iron cressets set in floor mounts provided illumination in addition to the candles flaring on the large table at the room’s center. Gennard had arranged a lavish cold supper on a long trestle table against a side wall. He had also placed a sheathed silver-hilted sword on the conference table.
Kasarian at once grasped the sword, drew it with his left hand, and executed a sudden flurry of lunges and mock parries. As I had suspected, he handled the weapon with expert ease. Evidently satisfied with the blade, he sheathed it, then peered keenly at the wall hangings. Behind one of the great carved chairs, vertical folds of fabric covered a niche in the stone wall. Kasarian concealed the sword in the narrow space. After rearranging the tapestry, he turned to address me. “I warn you to avoid being scratched by any baronial blades—it is customary for all such to be dipped in poison. You did say you could wield your staff; can you also use a sword or dagger?”
I shook my head, and wrote on my slate, “Dart gun and staff—not sword. I could stab, if close.” I touched the hilt of one of the daggers at my belt, but Kasarian frowned.
“It is likely best if you attempt to stay out of dagger range,” he said “Besides, all of us will be obliged to disarm—ostensibly—before our meeting begins. I have no doubt that both Gurborian and Gratch will carry hidden weapons, just as they will suspect the same of us, but custom
is custom. They will not consider your staff to be a weapon, of course. Alizonder barons do not fight with staffs.”
“Dalesfolk do,” I wrote firmly.
Kasarian grinned. “So I have heard.” Instantly, he resumed his serious mien. “When Gurborian addresses you,” he said, “you must write on your slate as rapidly as you can, but in such a way that neither Gurborian nor Gratch can clearly see the results. I alone will interpret for you. That way, I can answer concerning matters which you might not know. Do not be fearful of Gorborian’s or Gratch’s lordly manner—you are Baron Volorian of the Line of Krevonel, and as such, you defer to no man save the Lord Baron himself.”
Bodrik appeared at the open door. He had donned a high-collared tunic to cover the bandage at his neck, and seemed fully alert and able to fight, should such action be necessary. “The Reptur party has arrived, Master,” he announced.
“We shall meet them in the hall,” Kasarian replied.
As I followed him toward the double doors, I noticed a heavy wooden beam lying along the interior wall beside the theshold. I had no opportunity to query Kasarian about it.
Just outside the doors, four of Kasarian’s armed retainers were rigidly drawn up in a line behind Bodrik. They faced four equally well-equipped Alizonders garbed in gaudy ocher livery piped with black. A sense of mutual hostility hung in the air as strongly as if a bottle of rank scent had been spilled on the stone paving between the two groups. Kasarian coldy ignored the underling intruders, striding out into the middle of the hall to intercept their approaching masters.