Ironcrown Moon (12 page)

Gavlok made some unintelligible reply. Snudge muttered to the novice, “Wha—what’s the hour?

And where are we?”

“This is Axebridge, a village along the River Blen some fifteen leagues above the capital. I have relatives here. It’s about the ninth hour of morning. We’ll stop soon for brief refreshment.”

“Never have I had a worse hangover,” Snudge whimpered. “I’m nearly blind with headache and perishing of thirst.”

“I’ll make a remedy for you soon,” Mat said cheerfully. “Alchymical studies have a practical side, thanks be to Saint Zeth. A concoction of strong ale, raw egg, garum, and ground pepper will quickly banish your blue devils, sir.”

The party turned off the high street into a lane and proceeded to a prosperous-looking cottage where a large chestnut tree gave welcome shade from the hot sun. There Gavlok assisted Snudge to dismount while Vra-Mattis helped the three moaning armigers.

“This is Mat’s cousin’s house,” Gavlok said. “I’ll pay the goodwife well to prepare food for us, which we can eat when we’re back in the saddle. But first, we’ll fetch you and the lads that healing draft.”

Leaving the stricken men sitting on the grass and drinking from skin water bottles, the tall skinny knight and the bandy-legged little novice went to the cottage door and spoke at length to
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someone inside.

Valdos Grimstane, who at sixteen years of age was Snudge’s senior squire, said faintly, “I think I may die, Sir Deveron.”

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He was a grandson of Duke Tanaby Vanguard, and it was a mark of Con-rig’s esteem that such a highborn youth had been assigned as armiger to the newly belted Royal Intelligencer. Valdos was pleasantly ugly and usually of a ruddy complexion, but at the moment his face was cheese-green and his eyes so bloodshot that their true color could hardly be discerned.

“No, you won’t die, Val,” Snudge assured him. “You’ll gather your wits as speedily as you can, for something has caused the High King to cancel our country holiday and summon us all back to the palace posthaste. I know not why.”

“Bazekoy’s Biceps! You have no hint at all of what’s up?”

“None. But I suspect it’s no trivial business.”

“What a disappointment for you, sir, not to see your new manor house after all,” said the junior armiger. A year younger than Valdos, his name was Wiltorig Baysdale. He was a native of the Southern Shore, a distant cousin of the Lord Treasurer, Duke Feribor Blackhorse, and uncommonly good-looking and tall for his age. He had curly blond hair, grey eyes, and an ingratiating manner that Snudge had found to be a bit cloying. But perhaps the lad was only overeager to please.

“I daresay Buttonoaks will wait, Wil.” Snudge sighed. “I’ve been assured that my steward is a very competent fellow… How do you feel?”

“Seedy, sir. I’ve never been drunk before. It seemed great fun last night, but I’ve never had such a headache. I could swear that nails are being pounded into my skull.”

“Ah, ye poor mite,” came the mocking voice of Gavlok’s squire, Hanan Caprock, a burly youth who came from the wild mountain lands above Beorbrook Hold. “Imagine that—your first hangover! Must be a quiet life down in Blackhorse Duchy… when the local peers aren’t murdering each other or plotting treason against the Sovereign. I suppose you’ll be a virgin, too, eh?”

Wil’s face went crimson. His retort was surprisingly cool. “That’s none of your business. And I advise you to stifle your crude remarks in future, or you’ll regret it.”

Hanan’s hooded dark eyes narrowed. “Oh, I will, will I, pretty one?”

“That’s enough!” Snudge said testily. “Hanan, you’ve a mouth on you like a potboy. Apologize at once, or Sir Gavlok will hear about this. I won’t have my men baited.”

The older squire climbed to his feet and bowed elaborately to Wiltorig. “I ask your pardon, Baysdale. And I apologize to you, also, Sir

Deveron. I’m a highland ass who never learned fine manners! So why don’t I trot off and see if my master can use me for donkey-work?”

He slouched toward the rear of the cottage, where Gavlok and Vra-Mattis had disappeared along with the woman of the house.

“I’m surprised Sir Gavlok tolerates such a lout,” Wiltorig remarked with disdain.

“His choice of squire is not your concern.” Snudge stood up and eased his sore joints. “And so long as Sir Gavlok rides with us, you’ll be civil to Hanan, even under provocation. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snudge was weary of the armigers’ callow chatter and felt a need to organize his own befuddled thoughts. “I’m going to stretch my legs in yonder orchard. There’s probably a well behind the house. You two water the horses. They’re very thirsty.”

“How do you know that, sir?” Wiltorig asked with studied innocence.

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Snudge was taken aback. The lad’s tone seemed oddly pointed. “Any competent horseman can tell!” he snapped. “Obey me.”

He cursed himself for the possibly revealing slip of the tongue as he moved away into a grove of cherry trees that were already setting

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May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon fruit. One of his lesser gifts was the ability to coerce and control horses, and he was also uncannily aware of the animals’ physical needs and afflictions. When he was a young boy, the talent had brought him special treatment in the royal stables from grateful grooms.

Eventually, it resulted in his first fateful encounter with Conrig Wincantor, which had forever changed his life.

But why had the armiger Wiltorig posed his question so oddly? Was Snudge being overly imaginative—or had someone primed the boy to watch for evidence of wild talent?

Duke Feribor Blackhorse?…

Snudge felt a queasy stirring in his belly that had nothing to do with his hangover. The formidable Lord Treasurer was a childhood friend of King Con-rig, one of his closest advisers, and in a perfect position to have put forward his young relative as an armiger candidate.

Snudge, wrapped up in the excitement of his investiture and the unexpected holiday, had thought nothing of the coincidence until this moment.

His physical discomfort forgotten, he thought about it now. And berated himself for never having put together certain facts about the duke.

Feribor, accused by persistent rumor—which the king flatly refused to countenance—of having poisoned his first wife, as well as orchestrating the death of his feckless older brother Shiantil so that he might inherit the Black-horse dukedom…

Feribor, who now stood first in the line of succession to the Crown of Sovereignty, should Conrig’s offspring be debarred…

Feribor, suspected of colluding with the scheming Lords of the Southern Shore, and completely exonerated of any wrongdoing after a too-hasty investigation in which the Royal Intelligencer played no part…

Feribor, Lord Treasurer, whose tax-gathering irregularities came under scrutiny when other members of the Privy Council pressed the issue, only to be forgiven his “mistakes” by a Sovereign who refused to believe his old Heart Companion would cheat the Crown…

Feribor, nephew to the deposed Royal Alchymist and convicted traitor Kilian Blackhorse, who might have been told by his uncle of the hidden Trove of Darasilo—and Snudge’s role in revealing its existence to Conrig…

Feribor, who might have long suspected that the shadowy young royal henchman Deveron Austrey was a wild talent dangerous to his own ambitions, whose late armiger Mero Elwick had murdered three of Snudge’s companions and narrowly missed killing him

—

probably following his master’s orders…

Did the devious duke still want Snudge dead? Had Feribor assigned young Wil Baysdale to complete the job botched by Mero? The latter had failed because he coveted the sigil named Concealer, Snudge’s secret possession. Mero had been a greedy fool, and his vain attempt to seize the moonstone had brought about his own death.

If Wil was newly cast in the role of assassin, there was almost nothing to be done about it—at least for the present.

If I tell King Conrig my suspicions, Snudge thought, he won’t believe me. Even worse, he might mention my mistrust to Feribor—which could provoke the duke into taking immediate action
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against me. And what if Wil hasn’t been ordered to kill me at all? What if he’s under orders to report my activities to Feribor?

Spying on the king’s spy!

I must discuss this matter with Lord Stergos as soon as possible, Snudge decided. The Royal Alchymist had always been a sympathetic mentor to him. If anyone could overcome Conrig’s misjudgment of the Lord Treasurer, it was his beloved older brother…

The cherry orchard was bounded by a wooden fence, which Snudge climbed, now painfully aware of an overfull bladder. Beyond was a strip of stony ground that ended at a bluff overlooking the River Blen and the broad valley leading to the sea and the sprawling city that had been renamed Gala Blenholme by the Sovereign. After relieving himself against a boulder, Snudge stood shading his still-bleary eyes against the blazing sun. A rampart of towering white clouds loomed on the southwestern horizon, no doubt the advance guard of a thunderstorm that was certain to disrupt the Solstice festivities in the capital. It was a moment before Snudge realized that a narrow pillar of jet-black smoke was also rising from the skyline.

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Rising from the exact location of Gala Palace.

Lord Stergos

! his mind screamed on the wind.

What’s happened

?

There was no reply.

==========

Before knighthood was conferred on him, Snudge had been accustomed to conceal his secret activities by posing as one of the anonymous young armigers or footmen attached to the retinue of some trusted noble, who would be under royal orders to visit the place or person under investigation. The cooperating peer was of course aware that Snudge was the king’s spy; but he had no notion that the young agent possessed arcane abilities exceeding those of most Brothers of Zeth. In this situation, it had been relatively easy for Snudge to slip away from his fellow-retainers, perform his clandestine duties, and bespeak his findings directly to Lord Stergos, who would pass the information on to the High King.

Once Snudge was dubbed Sir Deveron, however, a new arrangement became necessary. A Knight Banneret had far more authority and status than a mere squire or even an ordinary knight, and was potentially more useful to his royal master. But he was also more conspicuous.

Snudge rated two armigers of his own, and soon would employ servants who would expect to attend him closely. In time, he would command other knights and men-at-arms. His privacy was diminished, and he was bound to find it more difficult to exercise his wild talents secretly.

Conrig did not intend for his intelligencer’s arcane gifts to become com-mon knowledge, but neither did he wish to be constrained in his ability to stay in close contact with him. The solution was to assign a personal windvoice to Sir Deveron Austrey, who would act as official liaison between him and the throne.

This was by no means an unusual privilege: many senior royal officers had ordained Brothers of Zeth in their retinues, and so did other important personages. Sir Deveron’s apprentice windvoice Vra-Mattis Temebrook was a more modest symbol of privilege, but he was bright, highly talented, and at eighteen years of age eager to escape the gimlet eye of the Palace Novicemaster. In time, if Mat proved loyal, Snudge thought he might consider sharing his great secret with him. But for now he intended to use the young Brother cautiously, and urge Lord Stergos to do the same—

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Unless some evil thing had happened to the Royal Alchymist. Why hadn’t he responded to Snudge’s call? It was up to the apprentice windvoice to find out.

==========

Back at the cottage, Snudge found Gavlok and the others preparing to depart.

Vra-Mattis held out a cup to him. “You still look unwell, sir. Drink down this hangover cure.

It’ll do you a world of good.”

Snudge quaffed the dose with a shudder. “More ails me than a thick head.” He called the others to gather around him. “During my stroll I

came upon a vantage point overlooking the Blen Valley and the distant capital. I regret to tell you that a great fire seems to be raging in the vicinity of the palace.”

The armigers cried out horrified queries, but Snudge shook his head. “Be silent!… Vra-Mattis, withdraw from us and attempt to bespeak

Lord Stergos for information. If you can’t attract his attention, call upon his assistant, Vra-Sulkorig, or any other of the ranking Brethren who may be able to reply.”

The novice wasted no time in speech. He moved behind the trunk of the big chestnut tree, seated himself on a root, and covered his head with the hood of his robe in order to concentrate.

Snudge issued more orders. “Valdos, see if the goodwife has such a thing as a tall clothes-pole.

We’re going to ride at speed from here on, with you bearing the royal banner, and we have no lance to tie it to… Wiltorig, unpack our mail shirts and helmets and lash them to the saddles where they may be easily donned if needed. Hanan, do the same for Sir Gavlok and yourself.”

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The armigers rushed to obey.

Gavlok said, “We should be able to reach Gala in an hour. These horses I bought at Swallowmere may not be handsome, but they’re tough as flint. Is there aught that I can do?”

Snudge replied in a low voice. “I may ask a great boon of you later. For now, only stand by me as a friend.”