Conqueror’s Moon (26 page)

The space beneath the bed was clean; his manservant knew better than to let dust accumulate on the floor. Vra-Kilian knelt, peered closely at the wooden parquet-blocks for a moment, extended his arms, and simultaneously pressed two blocks spaced almost four feet apart. The bits of wood seemed identical to the others except for two minute protuberances, but as the wizard depressed them there was a loud clack. A section of the floor began to sink, hinged like a trapdoor, revealing an opening and a flight of stone steps.

They led to a musty crypt that held two roughly hewn tombs—one containing the skeleton of a woman, the other the remains of a small child. The names JOVALA and CHALLO were chiseled crudely on the lids, and on the wall above them was the date C.Y. 413. Vra-Kilian suspected that the long-dead Darasilo had something to do with the tomb occupants. After all, they had been interred beneath chambers that had traditionally belonged to the Royal Alchymists of Cathra since a century after Bazekoy’s conquest. The existence of the crypt was another of the secrets passed on to him by his late predecessor. Kilian had never thought to make use of it before, but now it seemed predestined by some higher power to be the perfect hiding place for the sigils and books, until he should find a way to retrieve them.

He pointed the quartz prism at the cabinet and said, “Follow.”

It hopped the bedframe and wafted down into the hole in the floor, dogging his footsteps. He led it behind the tombs, retrieved the four small quartz crystals from its top, then went up and closed the crypt’s trapdoor.

By the time he had restored his bed to its former state, he felt exhausted and irritated. There was brandy in the sitting room, so he decided to return there and sit by the fire to await the inevitable. But first he abolished the enchantment that protected his rooms from assault. He kept the windwatching shield in place. They’d think it odd if he left himself completely vulnerable.

He settled back in the soft chair. Outside, the palace chimes sounded the seventh hour of morning.

There’d be a trial, of course. But what could Conrig really prove? The sigils and the forbidden tomes were safely hidden now, impossible to windwatch. It was Kilian’s word against that of an upstart former servant-boy that the things existed at all, and the little book could be explained away.

For treason, the evidence was even flimsier. No one could prove he’d intercepted and read the letter from Conrig to Duke Tanaby that convened the council of war. No one—save possibly the wretched Deveron—could connect him to Beynor of Moss and the sorcerer-spy slain at Castle Vanguard. Would a tribunal of Royal Justices deign to accept the hearsay evidence of a wild talent, even one employed by Prince Conrig? Would Conrig even permit his secret snudge to testify, knowing that thereby his anonymity would be lost and his value forfeit?

No.

But there was another peril Kilian might not be able to evade. False witnesses, alas, were always procurable. Kilian had used them himself to dispose of certain enemies. But even if he were found guilty, his loving sister, Queen Cataldise, would never permit the Royal Executioner to lop off his head. He would whisper to her the penalty he had decided would best suit his purpose: confinement in Zeth Abbey at the king’s pleasure.

Zeth Abbey, so close to the Didionite frontier.

Zeth Abbey, whose ruler, Abbas Noachil, was in his ninety-first year of life.

Zeth Abbey, where so many of his loyal old comrades still lived and worked, numbers of them the beneficiaries of his personal generosity.

For the first time on that disastrous morning, Vra-Kilian smiled. His eyes closed and in another moment he was fast asleep, and remained so until he heard a loud pounding on his door.

He rose, unlocked it, and pulled it wide open. Vra-Stergos stood there white-faced, holding high a golden reliquary that held one of Emperor Bazekoy’s blue pearls. Behind him knelt three ranks of red-robed Brethren with arms folded on their breasts.

Stergos intoned: “All harmful spells avaunt!”

There was a bright flash and a sound of clumping mailed feet. When Kilian’s bedazzled vision cleared, he saw that Conrig’s ten Heart Companions had taken a stand in front of the magickers. They wore full armor, and their two-handed broadswords were pointed straight at him.

“Good morning,” said the Royal Alchymist, nodding austerely. He was now helpless to attack the others with magic.

Prince Conrig stepped forward, unarmored, hatless, and wearing his usual black clothing. His sword was sheathed. “Vra-Kilian Blackhorse, you are under arrest. The charge—for the moment—is disrupting the King’s Peace.” He proffered the warrant.

The wizard began to laugh. “Well, that’ll serve your purpose tidily enough! Do you intend to lock me in fetters?”

“No,” said Conrig, beckoning to one of the Brothers, who held a small wooden box. He opened it and took out a perforated piece of iron, like a bit of unsharpened knife-blade hung on a string. The voided cross of Saint Zeth’s gammadion had been scratched on it. It was a crude replica of the gold amulet worn by every member of the Mystical Order, including Vra-Kilian. At the sight of the thing, the Royal Alchymist tensed.

“You know what this is,” Conrig said, holding it out. “Take off your own gammadion and replace it with this, or we will slay you as you stand there.”

Kilian obeyed. As the iron touched his breast, a red radiance flared from it. He groaned, staggered, and would have collapsed if Count Sividian and Count Feribor had not stepped forward to support him.

“You are now bound to your Order’s will,” Conrig said, “and your talent quenched until it pleases Abbas Noachil to restore it. We take you into custody with his permission. Now give me the keys to your chambers.”

With some difficulty, Kilian detached them from his belt and handed them over. “These… will open everything within. Search without fear. I have prepared no magical man-traps.”

“We’ll make certain of that.” Conrig turned to the knights. “Bring the former Royal Alchymist to the council chamber, and his three cronies as well. I’ll follow as soon as Vra-Stergos and I perform a quick search of his rooms.”

Sividian and Feribor still held Kilian’s arms. He suffered them to lead him through the library, flanked by the other Companions, past the ranks of wide-eyed Brethren. Kilian noted that poor Butterball, Squinty, and Vinegar-Face were already in the custody of the Palace Guard. Well, he’d see that they joined him in exile.

Count Sividian stepped ahead to unlock and inspect the room where the three of them would wait until summoned, leaving Feribor alone at Kilian’s side. He asked softly, “Nephew, am I to be put on trial at once?”

A sardonic smile. “I believe so, Uncle. The King’s Grace has himself summoned the tribunal, and he will preside. You will be allowed a single advocate to help plead your case. Perhaps you might think on whom we might summon, as we await our summons to the council chamber.”

Vra-Kilian smiled. “Oh, I’ve decided that already.” He regarded Feribor Blackhorse with new interest. Unlike his indolent elder brother, he was a valiant warrior and a man of action. He was as yet unmarried; too many potential brides knew his reputation. He was not a man to be easily beguiled, but one who was reputedly ambitious and single-minded.

He might just do.

“Nephew,” the alchymist said in a low voice, “after many years of wielding power, I am about to go into eclipse. These things happen to the best of us. But the day will come when my sun shines again, and when it does, I’ll be in a position to reward those who are my friends. Reward them most generously.”

Feribor said, “I’ll not help you escape. Such is impossible.”

“I’m aware of that. I intend to call upon my friends some time in the future. Perhaps several years from now. Maybe I count upon you?”

The young man shrugged in disdain. “Probably not. I don’t need gold, Uncle.”

“Neither do I offer it,” said Vra-Kilian. “But what would you say to the throne of Cathra?”

Feribor stared at him, his face without expression. He said nothing.

“In time, it may be yours,” said the wizard. “Listen carefully, for we have little time. The first thing you should know is that Conrig’s new armiger, Deveron Austrey, is a strong wild talent…”

sixteen

When the tumultuous day ended, and Kilian and his henchmen had been sent on their way to Zeth Abbey in a prison-coach guarded by a detachment of the Palace Guard and three highly talented Brethren vouched for by Stergos, Conrig sequestered himself in his own apartment. Attended only by Lord Telifar, the prince ate a small supper then dismissed the lord-in-waiting and occupied himself reading the replies to the urgent letters sent out that morning. Earlier, Red Ansel had reported that Tarnian mercenary sealords would come to Cathra’s defense only if they were paid in corn, not gold, so Conrig had had the royal scribes draft appeals to Cala’s grain merchants and shipowners.

The responses were predictably bleak.

With profound regret, the merchants informed the Crown that they were unable to donate wheat and barley from their reserve stores. What little grain they had was already promised to certain high-ranking lords of Cathra (at a pretty price, quoted in the letters), and surely the prospects of an imminent attack from the south were vanishingly small and no mercenaries were needed. Why, Lord Admiral Dundry had said so himself!

In a similarly apologetic fashion, the shipowners told the Crown that even though they would gladly cooperate, no Cathran master mariner would be willing to set sail for Tarn at the present time, since the season of storms was due to strike the Western Ocean any day now. Several of the letters gave assurance that the weather would certainly keep Continental invaders in port as well. Besides, Lord Admiral Dundry had declared that there was no evidence that the southern nations were contemplating a sea war.

Conrig muttered imprecations under his breath. The damned trader-lords were confident they could ignore his appeals to patriotism with impunity. There was no helping it: he’d have to pay the inflated reserve price for the grain and do whatever was necessary to hire ships to carry it.

He worked for nearly an hour, drafting responses to the least venal-appearing of the prospects, inviting them to confer with him at the palace. Then there came a scratching at his door. He hastened to throw it open, expecting Snudge. But it was his wife, Princess Maudrayne.

“My lord husband,” she said by way of greeting, and sailed into the room as boldly as always. He had not yet bade her welcome home, since she had kept to her chambers during the day’s commotion.

Conrig nodded graciously to her. “My lady, I trust you’ve begun to recover from the rigors of the pilgrimage. I apologize for not presenting myself to you earlier. As you probably know, there’s been hell to pay. This morning I received evidence that Vra-Kilian was guilty of treason—”

“The Queen’s Grace told me everything. Including the fact that suborned witnesses testified against the Royal Alchymist and his associates. She also said that it was only through her personal plea for clemency that Kilian was banished rather than having his head chopped off. The poor woman was beside herself when she told me the story, but I have the impression that she bore up rather stoutly while bargaining for her brother’s life.”

Conrig smiled. “She did indeed. Please be seated. May I offer you refreshment? I was going to have some malt myself.” He gestured at the table covered with papers. “I’m still hard at work, you see.”

“My poor beleaguered love. Yes, I’ll have a drink. Don’t be stingy pouring.”

She took the chair at the table opposite his, arranging her loose robe of tawny velvet trimmed with dark mink. Conrig handed her a crystal goblet, which she drank from liberally and then set down. He resumed his seat and sipped his own drink, keeping his eyes on her. She was two-and-twenty years of age and looked more beautiful than ever, her unbound auburn hair flowing down her back like liquid fire and her fair skin luminous in the candlelight. Bazekoy’s Brisket! If only she’d given him an heir…

“It’s true enough,” he said offhandedly, “that Kilian was convicted of treason through perjury. It’s also true that he was guilty as the devil himself. The evidence came to me through one of my most trusted men, who gathers intelligence for me secretly. I couldn’t possibly have let him testify before the tribunal and reveal himself, so the dissembling was necessary.”

She took up her cup again and stared into the amber depths. “You needn’t justify yourself to me, Con. I’m no friend of the Royal Alchymist. His evil influence on King Olmigon was deplorable. I’m quite sure Kilian got what he deserved.”

“No,” the prince said starkly. “Not yet. But one day he will, when I’m king. You see, we’re going to war against Didion. Kilian found out and informed Beynor of Moss, who has allied himself with the Didionite princes. The gang of them hatched a plot to foil our military operation and assassinate me after Father passed away. With that pudding-head Shiantil Blackhorse on the throne of Cathra, Kilian would rule the realm absolutely.” He gave a vulpine grin. “Until Beynor’s confederates in Stippen and Foraile launched an attack on our southern seaboard and Didion hammered us in the north. Presumably, Cathra was to be carved up like a roast ox, and I doubt Kilian would have been invited to the feast. Plots within plots, my lady! I’ve been hard put to keep up with them, but all’s well for the moment.”

She inclined her head without comment. Then: “Tell me about Ullanoth of Moss.”

Conrig’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, he kept silent, wondering how much she knew. Finally, he said, “She’s our secret ally in the war against Didion—the press for Sovereignty. Months ago, she came to Stergos and me at Brent Lodge and told us of a scheme by which we might invade Didion over Breakneck Pass at the end of the Boreal Moon.”

“Ah!”

“I must ask you to swear to keep this information secret.”

She said, “Do you really think I’d betray Cathra and send you to your death?”

He only stared at her evenly.

“Of course I swear.” Her tone was clipped.