Grand Conspiracy (37 page)

‘He's alone up there?'

Talvish tapped his fingers in staccato tattoo over the studs of his bracer. ‘What, you haven't been listening?'

Dakar harkened. Through a lull in the gusts, amid the white hiss of spray, he belatedly detected a snatched fragment of song. The notes were an exquisite rendition in minor, and the phrases of lyric Paravian.

‘That's no one's grief for a fallen comrade,' Vhandon observed, his brute manner sharpened to an astuteness the Mad Prophet found more disturbing.

Talvish said, impatient, ‘Man, if your prince is heart torn for any one thing, it's the fact he can't break his self-imposed exile without bringing dire ruin upon everyone that he cares about. If he turns back from here, I'd stake my own neck, his decision won't be made willingly.'

Nor was the assessment of character inaccurate. By then, Dakar had absorbed the raw gist; Arithon bled off his anguish in song, his haunting, sweet tribute for the Koriani enchantress who had irrevocably captured his heart. All the salt sea would not be enough to close the wound of that sorrow. Each mile the
Khetienn
logged widened a separation that remained a living torment to them both.

In a gossamer fabric raised soaring over the complaint of the ship's timbers, his melody described a suffering as lucid as etched glass. Arithon sang, in the absence of choice. His bitterness for the years that must lie ahead, filled with the hard forces of water and wind: the vistas of a ship's lonely passage, far removed from the sweet summer smell of earth's greenery, poured into expression in clean sound. His art became his inadequate solace. The vulnerability, the pain, the sheer longing of spirit that cried out for its exquisite, paired match shaped an agony beyond all wounding.

Dakar's resolve crumbled. He found that he lacked the ice-cold nerve, after all, to invade the quarterdeck and badger the singer's snatched solitude. His sigh commingled with the next risen gust, while spray flung chill runnels down his moon face, and sorrow pressed lead through his heartstrings.

‘Ath, but who is she?' Talvish burst out, his throat wrung to tightness. Against his turned face, wind-lashed strands of blond hair wicked the salt tears from his cheeks.

‘Her name is Elaira,' the Mad Prophet revealed, equally helpless in sympathy. ‘And Vhandon is right, the point's moot. Conjecture or delusion, it scarcely matters whether Cattrick and his men are among the dead or the living. I presume we agree? Arithon s'Ffalenn can never be permitted to risk another entanglement with Desh-thiere's curse.'

Through the shudder as the vessel slapped spume off the next crashing wavecrest, neither one of the s'Brydion retainers delivered a word in agreement. Against that spiraling spell of wrought song, gestures came sooner than speech. The older, more taciturn Vhandon stirred first and snapped his sword back in its sheath. ‘His Grace won't go back. Not since we've sworn our oath to protect him.'

But the younger, dancer-slight Talvish delivered the most punishing insight of all. ‘If there was ever a crime against nature, it occurred on the hour your Teir's'Ffalenn was compelled to lay hand on a sword.'

‘That's what Caolle once said,' the Mad Prophet conceded, struck through by undying grief. He did not add that the
caithdein
's late war captain had taken hard knocks and hot argument before he ever reached that understanding of the torn thread in Arithon's character. These retainers charged to guard the s'Ffalenn prince's safety possessed a fearfully well honed perception. Through the long years ahead, to the ominous event that would one day match Sethvir's forecast, Dakar could but hope this pair owned wit and strength enough to offset the Shadow Master's fiendish cleverness.

Ath help them all if his first fears were truth, and the two men proved to be the duke's spies, with s'Brydion loyalty turned to murder in support of Lysaer's powerful Alliance.

Spring 5654

The frank fascination which first drew Raiett Raven aboard Avenor's royal galley did not fade, but attached him to the side of his nephew, the Alliance Lord Commander, when Prince Lysaer examined the fire-torn ruin of his shipyard. Rain had fallen since the blaze. The huddle of officials and guarding men-at-arms reviewed the grim scene, while the tang of wet ash and carbon spiked the mud-sour miasma of ebb tide off the flats down the estuary. Of the sheds and the timbers, the steam boxes and sail loft, nothing remained but charred beams, tumbled in heaps, or stuck skyward like arthritic fingers. If the drizzle had stopped, the sky remained clouded. The cobbled entry wore a slippery sheen of condensation that made the most careful step treacherous.

No one who attended that royal delegation need argue over the aftermath. The enterprise was a total loss.

‘They must have purloined the pitch barrels from the stores to fuel the fires that swept through the buildings. The whole place went up in a whirlwind of flame, just that fast. Bucket brigades formed by the garrison had no chance from the outset.' Riverton's stoop-shouldered mayor flanked the Blessed Prince, morose in quilted gray velvet. ‘The heat and the smoke were too thick. Our siege-trained captains couldn't salvage even the steel tools.' He tugged at the drooping end of his mustache, sad eyed and white muzzled as a tracking hound who had outworn the vigor of the hunt. ‘Your Grace, I am grieved that misfortune has struck down the trust you placed in my city.'

Diamonds shimmered in the pallid air as Lysaer broke his long stillness. ‘Riverton will not shoulder the blame. Nor would I see the craftsmen suffer, stripped of their livelihood.' He snapped his fingers. A liveried secretary delved into a satchel and extricated a sheaf of documents. ‘These are copies,' Lysaer said. ‘The first list includes the men I wish to interview. The second is compiled from the shipyard's last payroll. By nightfall, I need the verified names and numbers of each worker's dependent family. For the loyal ones still in residence here, there will be a crown pension to keep them until my shipworks can be refounded. When that time comes, the laborers will be given the option to resume work or remake their own fortunes elsewhere.'

‘That's wondrously generous.' The mayor dabbed at his rheumy eyes. ‘More than one goodwife will bless your royal name for the children that will not go hungry.'

Lysaer pressed on, brisk, and outlined fair procedure for reimbursements to outside suppliers, for by ruthless design, the ledgers and records in Cattrick's loft had been destroyed along with the incriminating ships' drawings. ‘The wreckage was caused by malefactors acting against the crown interests of Tysan. Therefore, on my word, the regency gives full promise the hardship won't fall on the shoulders of innocents.'

Riverton's overcome mayor bent to one stiffened knee and embarked on effusive words of thanks. The Blessed Prince heard him through, his smile gracious. He then took his leave, together with his guard and his coterie of councilmen, who all looked relieved for the chance to ease their sore feet. By the gate, he acknowledged the cloaked figure of Raiett Raven, watching his effortless dance of diplomacy with experienced sophistication.

Lysaer paused. The train of groomed officials tagged his heels with carefully guarded impatience while he held the wily Hanshire statesman under his waiting regard.

After a moment, the comment he expected was offered in stiletto sharp phrases. ‘Well-done.' Raiett's thin lips flexed, more smirk than smile. ‘A prince who keeps enemies could not hold good craftsmen in service if he left them exposed to predation.'

For a moment, the air seemed to crackle between the two men, the prince white clad and shimmering against the overcast, and Raiett in his black, thin and ascetic, with the piercing gaze of a prophet.

Lysaer spoke at last through a fragile tension. ‘Since you can't
be the dove and accept my act for the charitable welfare of children, then consider the fact I'll outlive them.'

Raiett raised an eyebrow, no whit overawed by the charismatic impact of his adversary's royal presence. ‘They'll grow up in your debt, and become fodder for crows as adults?'

Lysaer accepted that searing riposte with equanimity. ‘It was not the crow I wished to court at this time, but the fox underneath his dark feathers. Would you care to come along and witness the next round of interviews?'

Surprise rearranged the shrewd wrinkles pinched at the corners of Raiett's eyes. ‘I would,' he admitted, and fell into step. The guardsmen, councilmen, and delegate observers moved reluctantly aside and made space for him.

So passed the afternoon, the whitewashed wing where the harbormaster's copyists penned out duplicate records made to serve as the prince's chamber of audience. Two rows of lancet windows let in the light, a sea-damp spring breeze too sluggish to flush the ingrained smells of charcoal and ink, and a pent-up must of candle smoke and winter woolens. Everything echoed, the floors being wood, and the stone walls devoid of woven tapestries. Rank accorded Lysaer the only leather armchair. The copyist's desks and benches were occupied by his councilmen and city ministers, which left the royal secretary use of the lectern, vacated at need by the fussy old man who recited the ledgers and bills of lading for Riverton's half dozen scribes.

The royal guards were left standing along those walls and corners uncluttered by aumbries and shelves.

Raiett Raven did not sit, but took station behind the prince's left shoulder, arms folded, his short hair peppered silver against the jet ruffle of his collar. He remained statue patient, while the room filled and heated with the close, nervous sweat of the craftsmen called in to be questioned. He followed the tedious nuance of each inquiry; watched the laborers brought in, fidgeting and embarrassed in their plainspun, workaday clothing. Some trembled. At first, most evaded the direct gaze of their prince, though his mien was not harsh or forbidding. Lysaer asked them to speak, to tell what they knew, without first defining the subject.

The young and the brash began with excuses, or hot denials that they knew of any treason. Prince Lysaer listened. He said nothing to alarm, nor did he imply accusation. His manner most subtly failed to fan the flame of fast-spoken, defensive fear. In time, even the most surly men eased and warmed to
his presence. The true facts emerged then, the small fragments of happenstance linking into seemingly inconsequential strings of detail that gradually shaded into a wider picture.

The older craftsmen, the most sensible and steadfast, volunteered the least. They likely recalled more, but were experienced enough not to trust openly. Yet when presented with the suggestion that Lysaer regarded them as victims of malice whose misfortune now could be shared between friends, even the most reticent set down their guard and admitted that Mearn had a volatile temperament and an untrustworthy, secretive character.

‘Those two traits make damned unlikely bedmates,' one bald-headed fastener observed. He blotted his damp palms on the seat of his breeches, and added in frowning hindsight, ‘'Twas strange now I think on it. Master Cattrick seemed inwardly tormented by something until this past autumn, when s'Brydion became his nightly companion over beer.'

‘No one overheard anything?' Lysaer asked, not for pressure, but to jog loose opinions that by now were six months faded.

The craftsman scraped his profusely stubbled chin. ‘Too much noise in any dockside tavern to hear aught, unless it's shouted straight into your ear. Mearn and Cattrick were cronies, that I can swear, but not even rumor sprang up to fathom the reason.'

‘You're a good man,' said Lysaer. ‘Take my blessing home to your family.' Diamonds flashed at his gesture as he casually granted his royal leave to depart.

The next laborer stepped in, a young apprentice sawyer who could elaborate on the favors of every shanty whore, and who knew which dives brewed the best hops. ‘Only saw Cattrick up close on pay day.' His eyes darted sidewards as he shrugged his gangling shoulders. Too plainly, his knowledge of master craftsmen consisted of jocular quips to evade being dressed down for shirking.

The next man came in, and the next after that, until the chamber grew stale with the penned heat of boredom, and the exhaustive list was completed. No conclusive evidence had been mined from those common southshore accents. By close of day, no craftsman revealed any pact to prove or belie Mearn's allegiance. The council members and dignitaries dragged in to bear witness shifted in their hard seats, grown restive in crushed velvets and silks.

In the end, the florid envoy from Erdane voiced the dismal conclusion, his voice tight with frustration. ‘The proof we could
have examined for veracity was deliberately sunk beyond reach.' Incontestable truth: the executed bodies of the primary culprits now rested fathoms deep in the sea.

A scintillant sparkle of gemstones marked time as Prince Lysaer laced his ringed fingers on the studded arms of his chair. He looked inhumanly fresh. The shimmer of his gold-and-white silk became a disjointed patch of refinement against the lymed stone at his back. ‘No man can be justly arraigned on suspicion. Nor can a trial be held without grounds. Therefore, we shall adjourn until tomorrow, and take the necessary steps to make plans for closer security in the future.'

Hot opinions notwithstanding, Lysaer was firm. He fielded the smattering of vehement protest and quashed outright one guildsman's insistent demand to incarcerate both s'Brydion brothers for additional questioning. The predictable clamor arose over slave oarsmen, and the looming prospect of more forfeited profits with King Eldir's ban backed by sorcery.

‘I will make disposition through policy,' Lysaer assured, his dismissal inarguably final. ‘No guild will lose its prosperity. Enough said. The solution will keep well enough 'til tomorrow.'

The councilmen filed out, grumbling among themselves, the last and most heavyset slowest to go, arising to the creak of overtaxed benches and the sigh of rearranged clothing.