Homage and Honour (19 page)

“That might be
possible,” admitted Raoul van Buren, “does such a one exist?”

“Sam Baker
thinks so,” interjected Henri Cocteau, “and I must admit it might
just be the case, at least enough proof exists to warrant further
investigation.”

Charles
nodded.

“I have found
some evidence but not proof positive.”

“Go on.”

“When I
realised Duke Sam was taking an untoward interest in, shall we say,
the marriage histories of our ancestors, I couldn’t at first think
why. Then, well, I’ve always wondered why he married his Daughter
Heir Natalie to Kellen Ian Karovitz. I mean, a Kellen, when there
were plenty of Duke’s sons eager for the chance, James Graham was
after her I know for a fact. Your own brother Wolfram my Lord Duke,
I believe your father had opened negotiations. Then we hear that
Contessa Natalie is to be married to the son of Kellen Ian
Karovitz, I know he had been the Lord Marshall but you know the
Bakers, so very proud of their bloodline. There are two children,
Richard and his younger sister Michaela; she must be around seven
years old by now. Richard is fourteen, he is at Court.”

“I remember,”
said Raoul van Buren, “the marriage caused a bit of a stir at the
time. I always felt that it was a love match on his side. He was
besotted, much older than her too.”

“Ian Karovitz
was born in AL109,” said Charles in an impressive voice.

The Duke of
Buren looked confused.

“Don’t you see
man?” exclaimed Charles’s father Henri, “he was born in 109, some
six months after Elliot Three was deposed.”

“But what am I
supposed to see?”

“The Lord
Marshall, during the unrest of AL108, was Ian Karovitz’s father.
Two months after the coup he married Elliot’s final mistress Louise
Senot. When the boy was born Ian Karovitz recognised him as his own
and until now I don’t think anyone has bothered themselves overmuch
with the veracity of Ian Karovitz’s blood and birth.”

Raoul van Buren
gasped and sat back in his chair.

“They only had
one more child,” continued Charles, Danielle and she born eleven
years later.”

“There was some
gossip at the time of her birth,” William Duchesne interrupted,
“she was packed off to a convent whilst she was still a child.”

“Louise Senot
always was a flighty one,” mused Henri Cocteau, “I remember her,
beautiful, but man-mad.”

“So Sam Baker
believes that he can prove that his son-in-law was the illegitimate
offspring of Elliot Three and that is why he made the
marriage?”

“Or his father
did. He was a bad old bastard. He also had an eye for any
opportunities that might be to his advantage. He was, I am sure,
also well aware of the terms of our alliance with the Larg. He was
in the thick of it all in 108. The Bakers are always plotting and
manipulating. His aunt was married to King Elliot the Third though
that didn’t stop him. He wasn’t slow to offer his sister to the
king as his concubine. Of course, his own father was quite gaga by
then, he was running the dukedom and held Conclave Seat and voting
rights.”

“You think he
holds proof in his possession? I don’t like the sound of this at
all. I most definitely don’t want the Bakers in power, they have an
unsavoury reputation, always have had,” said Raoul van Buren.

“None of us
do,” said William Duchesne.

“I wouldn’t put
it past him to kill Princess Susan and put his grandson on the
throne,” said Raoul van Buren, roused out of his lethargy by the
recent observations and who was beginning to think hard about the
ramifications.

“He would still
have to prove the claim,” protested William Duchesne. “I will not
sanction one not of the bloodline on the throne, Larg or no
Larg.”

“True,” said
Charles, “I’m looking for proof but no luck so far. All we can do
for the nonce is to keep an eye on him and to guard Susan. Remember
too, that if we find the proof, enough to convince us and the Larg,
if we cannot find the heirs of Ruth, we might well have to accept
Richard Baker as our king.”

“Never,”
declared the three Dukes and in unison.

* * * * *

Crisis (2)

The man’s name
was Tom. He had middling brown hair, was of middling build and had
a nondescript face. In fact, he was so unremarkably unremarkable in
looks and character he was the perfect choice for the task ahead of
him.

His drinking
companions in the
Blue Lind
tavern not far from the docks at
Port Lutterell took him for what he appeared to be, an itinerant
trader, come to the mainland to make a crown or two before
returning to his island home.

But Tom was not
what he seemed; he didn’t originate in the islands. His home was in
Murdoch to whence, mission complete, he would return and be well
rewarded for his trouble. His accent appeared to originate from the
islands. The drawl was so good that only a native would notice and
Tom took great pains to distance himself from anyone with island
origins, hence the ‘Blue Lind’, which was the preferred watering
hole of the native merchant class.

“What goods?”
asked one of his drinking partners.

“Little bit of
this, little bit of that,” answered Tom evasively, knowing such an
answer not unusual and quite in character with his assumed persona.
Itinerant traders kept themselves to themselves for the most part,
it was sound business practice, they never knew when a competitor
was listening in and would try to undercut or swindle.

The man looked
at Tom in a wary manner and Tom decided to expand a little.

“Farm goods,
knives mostly. You?”

“Silks and
kerchiefs.”

“So I’m not in
competition with you then,” said Tom with a friendly grin of
satisfaction, “what direction are you heading?”

“Up towards
Lake Stewart.”

“How do I get
there?” asked Tom, playing the part of the ignorant islander, his
false accent passing muster. The Argyll trader suspected nothing
and made his offer.

“Care to join
me? Bit of company what?”

The journey to
Stewarton was likely to take a while and by then his new persona
would be well established especially as, to his delight, the trader
then offered him passage with his pack train for the reasonable
price of two silver florins. And even better, offered him an
introduction to a man who might be interested in the goods Tom had
to sell. If the trader became suspicious, well, Stewarton was a
long way away; there would be plenty of opportunities to rid
himself of his host. Dead men told no tales.

Tom was well
content with his work that evening. He had been right to go to one
of the better class of inns and, as dusk fell, he retired to the
slip of a room he had rented secure in the knowledge that he was on
his way. He placed his money belt under his pillow for safekeeping
and slept the sleep of the just and weary.

The Duke of
Duchesne would be very pleased.

* * * * *

Vadthed (Second Month of Winter) –
AL156

Crisis (3)

His name was
Artur Bernardson and he was in despair. The audit of his
department’s accounts was scheduled for a tenday hence and he knew
that, once the irregularities were found, he would be a broken man
and likely an inhabitant of the city jail.

He was a pale,
rather colourless man in his fifties with a young, beautiful and
expensive wife. He was unable to refuse her anything, money, pretty
clothes and baubles, anything to hold on to her.

To pay for the
lifestyle to which she was accustomed he had been speculating on
the offshore trading market using departmental funds. He had
invested the ‘borrowed’ money into the co-ownership of a trading
vessel that plied to and fro between some of the larger islands and
the mainland.

The vessel was
overdue by some tendays. She had, Artur feared, either foundered or
been overtaken by pirates. There was no way he would be able to put
the money back before the auditors arrived. If his venture had come
up to expectations he would have put it back with plenty to
spare.

Tom, Duchesne’s
spy, was looking for just such a person. It had taken time to make
the contacts and much coin to persuade these contacts to talk, but
as Tom had realised early on in life, everybody had his price.

His
investigations and contacts within the merchant community had led
him to Artur.

Tonight Tom had
a proposition to place before the official, one which he was sure
Artur would not refuse, could not refuse, however distasteful.

Tom would give
him the money in return for information, rather specific
information.

They met in a
small, out of the way tavern in the back streets of Stewarton. The
beer was indifferent, the food worse, but the tavern had one
advantage; for a fee the landlord would make a small room
available, no questions asked and more importantly, a room well
away from inquisitive ears and eyes.

As Tom settled
down to wait he noticed the shabby furnishings with distaste and
eyed the dirty bedlinen stacked against the wall and yet more laid
atop the bare mattress-bed in the corner, for sure left there by a
slovenly maidservant who couldn’t be bothered carting it down to
the washhouse. The room stank of stale sweat and sex.

It made no
difference to him; he was not here to entertain a lady friend.

He waited at
the scratched table, knife at the ready … just in case. The man he
was expecting might not come alone. Tom was always ready for
trouble.

There was a
knock at the door, four taps, a pause then another two.

It was the
signal.

“Enter.”

The man who
entered was nervous. He licked his lips, “Jayvees sent me.”

“You are Artur
Bernardson?”

His visitor
nodded and glanced at the knife.

“Please sit
down,” said a courteous Tom, sheathing his knife in his belt.

Artur shuffled
into the seat opposite Tom who noted the shabby clothes; they had
been of good quality once but now the mended fabric on cuffs and
buttonholes was more than noticeable.

“I am glad you
have decided to come,” said Tom at last. “My contact said that you
might be, shall we say, amenable to a well paid business
proposition?”

“If the price
is right,” Artur answered, gathering his wits, “I have need of a
sum of money.”

Tom mentioned a
sum and Artur began to relax.

“In
advance?”

“Half in
advance.”

“Two thirds,”
Artur countered.

“Done.”

Artur started
to breathe more easily. The sum agreed would be more than enough to
repay the departmental funds with a little over. The final third
was a bonus.

“What
information?”

“Nothing too
difficult,” answered Tom, “you work in the area of the main records
office?”

“I work inside
the records office.”

Even better
thought Tom; his contact hadn’t told him this, maybe he hadn’t
known.

“I need you to
look up some records, old records, from the first century.”

“May I ask
why?”

“It’s a matter
of inheritance,” was Tom’s suave answer. It was not quite a lie he
reasoned, it was to do with an inheritance, just not the sort of
inheritance Artur imagined. He expanded his story.

“It concerns an
ancestor of mine,” he lied, “her name was Ruth. She was a thief. I
want to find out what happened to her. Family tradition has it that
she may have changed her surname after she stole my grandfather’s
half of the family fortune. Jewels, from old Earth.”

“You want to
find these jewels? You might be better inquiring of the Jewellers’
Guild, see if any have come on the market.”

“Believe me
I’ve tried and they have never come to light. I believe they’ll
still be with her descendants.”

“When was this
ancestress of yours born? I can search the birth records and the
Land Registry and also the birth and death records.”

“She was born
shortly after landing.”

“As far back as
that?”

Tom nodded.

“Any idea
where? In Argyll?”

Tom shook his
head.

“Vadath
then?”

Tom nodded,
secure in the knowledge that Vadath did not keep central birth
records.

“I do know she
got married and I have a little more information, mostly from some
old aunties and uncles who are just as angry about the theft as I
am.”

He slipped a
scrap of paper towards Artur.

Artur read the
words;
‘Ruth - Howard – Russell – Kushner – Jessica -
Xavier’.

“I will pay a
bonus for any information on these names.”

“Where did you
get these names? They’re not usual here. Was your original ancestor
a southerner?”

“She might have
been, my grandfather didn’t say.”

“Perhaps he
didn’t know,” mused Artur, “there were quite a number of people
from the South settled in the North during the early days. Most of
them settled in Vadath though and they don’t keep the same records
we do. They’d only come up if they or their descendants
subsequently moved to Argyll.”

“If they did,
can you trace them?” pressed Tom.

“Naturally,”
promised Artur, “birth, marriage, death records, they always state
the year and place of birth. It is the law. Very strict controls
were implemented in the earliest years because the gene stock was
so small. That law is still on the statute books. You think the one
you’re looking for ended up in Argyll?”

Tom nodded, “so
my grandfather said. There is no need for you to speculate on my
antecedents. I’m paying you good money, more than the information’s
worth if I don’t get the jewels at the end of it and remember, not
a word to anyone.”