Master of the Cauldron (8 page)

One of Lord Waldron's aides was speaking to Liane. She'd turned her head sideways but continued to take notes in the tablet in front of her. Liane's expression showed mild interest, but her stylus scored quick, brutal marks in the wax.

Lord Waldron was still missing. He'd gone off with the courier, his head bobbing in angry argument. He'd given no explanation, just snarled over his shoulder that his staff should remain under the marquee. Sharina'd seen Waldron in circumstances where he reasonably expected to die in a short time, but his expression had never before been so bleakly miserable.

“I'm sorry, Marshal Renold,” Garric said in the same calmly reasonable voice he'd have used on a merchant who was sure he could get a private room during the Sheep Fair if only he kept saying so long enough. “Three regiments is the minimum that Sandrakkan must supply to the royal army and provide the upkeep for.”

Lord Tadai leaned forward with a stern expression, and added, “I'll tell you frankly that according to my estimate of Earl Wildulf's potential revenue and manpower, Sandrakkan should be providing four regiments. It's only King Valence's unwillingness to insult the Count of Blaise, who's supplying three regiments, that decided him to reduce the Sandrakkan levy.”

In her fatigued discomfort, Sharina took a moment to parse exactly what Tadai had just said. Because of that delay, she managed not to chortle in amusement.
You couldn't even call Tadai's words a lie because nobody was expected to believe them. He'd been polite, but he'd made it perfectly clear to the Sandrakkan delegation the direction in which the royal position would move if they kept belaboring the point
.

Lord Morchan thumped his fist on the table, making the Sandrakkan side bounce wildly. “Curse it, we shouldn't be here!” he blurted. “Everybody knows Volita's cursed. That's why none of this makes any sense!”

It seemed to Sharina that the negotiations, though tedious, had been very productive. They'd involved the Sandrakkan envoys giving way on one point after another, of course, but that was primarily because Garric's position—the royal position—had been reasonable to begin with.

Admiral Zettin drew himself up straight and said in the drawl affected by the Valles nobility, “Quite the contrary, my good man. We've made great headway, and we'll make more. That's surely better than sweeping all
Sandrakkan commerce from the Inner Sea and burning the estates within five miles of the shore. Not so?”

“Look, I'm just saying that we ought to get off Volita,” Morchan insisted truculently. “It's an uncanny place, that's all. Everybody knows that if you go up to the top of the Demon—”

He bobbed his head, presumably indicating the granite spike that wasn't visible from under the marquee.

“—you'll see a wonder—but you may never come down again!”

“Morchan,” said Lady Lelor in a poisonously calm voice, “if you'd give us just a little help, we'd all pretend to ignore the fact you're a superstitious ninny. Do you know a soul who's climbed—”

“Everybody knows what I say is the truth, milady!” Morchan snapped. Marshal Renold, seated between them, leaned back from the table with a sour look and his eyes unfocused.

“Everybody isn't such a fool!” the priestess said. “Do you know even a
sheep
who's climbed the Demon, Lord Morchan?”

Morchan stood up, his face white. His mouth opened and closed silently. He repeated the process, then sat—collapsed into his seat like a pricked bladder—again, blushing furiously.

Sharina looked at the embarrassed nobleman with a rush of sympathy that surprised her. Morchan was superstitious, and he was a ninny—which he'd proved amply in the course of the negotiations. But he was also more right than wrong in what he'd said about Volita.

Sharina would've known that even without Tenoctris' warning as the fleet landed. Volita was a center of power. Sitting there was like being in a wind blowing sand too fine to see but which prickled through your tunics. Her eyes felt scratchy no matter how often she blinked.

Tenoctris had said that some people were more affected than others. Sharina supposed that she herself might be one of the sensitive ones, if only because of the things she'd been a part of in the year since she left Barca's Hamlet. Everyone on the island must feel it to a degree, but…

Sharina smiled. She'd learned a great deal about politics in the past year. Her brother was uncomfortable also, but by smiling and holding his position with bland insistence, he had an advantage over the less-disciplined Sandrakkan envoys. Their present loud squabble was an example of that, and their irritable fidgeting throughout had been made worse by an atmosphere charged with wizardry.

“Lady Lelor,” Garric said in a voice raised enough to end the bickering across the table.

When everybody looked at him he went on, “Milords. We've decided the general form of Sandrakkan's future place in the kingdom. The details can be worked out over the next days or if necessary months. The only outstanding point is the fashion in which I enter Erdin.”

“What—” Marshal Renold said, then stopped.

“My preferred option is to cross the strait tomorrow”—he nodded toward the beach and the mainland visible beyond it—“with my bodyguard regiment, the Blood Eagles, and a single line regiment, one of Blaise infantry under their own officers. The remainder of the army will camp here on Volita until after—”

“Your highness, that's not safe!” Lord Attaper said, standing at the right of the table. Till he spoke, he'd been only another of the guards. “You need—”

Garric turned without rising from his seat. “Lord Attaper!” he said.
“Be silent!”

One of the Blood Eagles dropped his spear with a clatter. He grabbed for it, fumbled, and finally picked it up in both hands.

“Right,” said Garric in a quiet, shaky voice.
The atmosphere worked on everybody, whether or not they were generally able to control their reactions
. “That's my preferred option, as I say. The other choice, milady and lordships, is for me to march in at the head of the entire royal army.”

He licked his lips, forced a smile that Sharina could just see from where she sat, and continued, “In the first case I'll crown Earl Wildulf on the steps of the temple in two days' time.”

“Your highness…,” said Lady Lelor carefully. “Earl Wildulf will be persuaded of the reasonableness of your arguments, I'm sure. But it may take some time—”

Garric rose to his feet. “I hope Earl Wildulf will be able to send me an answer before the second hour tomorrow, milady,” he said, “because that's when I'll begin making preparations for the next stage of the proceedings. There must be extensive planning, as you can imagine. Whichever choice the earl makes.”

Liane got to her feet. “All rise!” she said, putting a close to the negotiations on Garric's behalf. Sharina stood gratefully in the coughs and shuffling of all the others under the marquee.

The Sandrakkan envoys rose and started toward their waiting barge. The priestess paused, leaning over the conference table. “Your highness,” she said, “there was a foolish rumor that you weren't really a member of the royal house. I can't imagine who started it, but I'll assure you that nobody who's met you in person will credit it.”

Garric watched the delegates leave. His back was straight, but Sharina could see tension in the way the muscles of her brother's neck and shoulders bunched.

Admiral Zettin was talking at Garric about plans and options. His tone was professional, but he was obviously exulting at the fact he'd been chosen to fill the seat that Lord Waldron vacated.

Triumph had blinded Zettin, ordinarily a very intelligent man, to the obvious: Prince Garric was lost in his own thoughts. He wasn't listening to a word of his admiral's self-satisfied babble.

Liane hovered at Garric's left side, afraid to touch him or even speak. Sharina stepped up to the table, brushing her brother with one shoulder and forcing Admiral Zettin back with the other. Garric's fists were clenched against the front of his thighs. She covered his right fist with her left hand.

“Do they know how many people will die if Wildulf doesn't listen to reason?” Garric said in a shaky voice. “Do
you
know, Sharina?”

“I know that not as many will die as would if the kingdom fell apart again,” she said calmly, turning toward her brother. “We'd start with the islands fighting one another. Then there'd be something else that'd sweep us all away, sweep away everything human. You know there would, Garric!”

Liane touched Garric's left fist. Many members of Garric's entourage wanted to speak with him, but they were giving space to the two women. “This is the millennium,” Liane said. “It requires the united strength of the Isles to prevent the powers from tearing everything apart when they reach their peak, as they did a thousand years ago.”

Garric shook himself like a dog come in from the rain. He put his arms around Sharina's and Liane's shoulders and gave them a firm squeeze. “Now…,” he said, turning to face those who'd waited under the marquee to advise or simply observe, “We've got our own planning to do. Who's Waldron's deputy? I need to know—”

“I'm here, your highness,” said Lord Waldron, pushing through the crowd of common soldiers who'd been watching the conference from
outside. There was no sign of the courier who'd led him off. “I'm here, but I'm bringing worse news than I ever imagined I'd have to bear.”

“All right,” said Garric. He sounded calm. The tremble was gone from his voice, and his muscles had relaxed into their usual supple readiness. He gestured to the seat across from where he stood, the one Marshal Renold had vacated. “Sit if you like, but
speak.
”

“I'll stand, thank you,” Waldron said with harshly minimal courtesy. He looked around at the crowd—gaping, murmuring, gesturing to friends to come close and hear the revelations—and for a moment flushed with the fury that was so much part of him normally.

The anger vanished like a snuffed candleflame, replaced by an unfamiliar gray misery. “A man who calls himself Valgard, son of Valence Stronghand, has raised a rebellion on Ornifal against what he chooses to call his senile brother Valence the Third and the Haft peasant Garric.”

Waldron shrugged in stiff-faced embarrassment. He was standing as stiffly as if he'd been tied to a stake to be burned.

“Go on, Lord Waldron,” Garric said in the same pleasant tone as before. Sharina, knowing her brother, understood why he was so calm. The Earl of Sandrakkan could choose either war or peace. If he chose war, then thousands would die, and the kingdom might tilt toward collapse, and Garric would never doubt that the fault was his for not handling the negotiations properly.

That
responsibility was terrifying. A usurper in open revolt was a merely a tactical problem, not one in which a mistake would turn peace into war.

“This Valgard—and he has a wizard named Hani with him,
behind
him I shouldn't wonder…,” Waldron continued. “He's gathered a band of fools to support him. I'm very sorry to admit that my cousin Bolor bor-Warriman is one of those fools.”

Waldron took a shuddering breath. There were tears at the corners of his eyes. “My lord prince, I beg you accept my resignation as commander of the royal army. I need to return to Ornifal to deal with a family problem!”

“Request denied, Lord Waldron,” Garric said easily. “At least until you've helped the kingdom deal with a problem that isn't limited to the bor-Warrimans. Now—”

“I'll capture the
Spiteful
and the traitors aboard her, your highness!” Attaper said. “Okkan, sound Assemble on the Standards!”

“No!” said Lord Waldron. “My word is—”

“Okkan, put down that trumpet!” Garric thundered, pointing his whole left arm at the Blood Eagle signaler. Okkan froze, his silver-mounted instrument to his lips. His eyes sought Attaper's.

“Your highness!” said Attaper, “this is the kingdom's business, not—”

“Yes!” said Garric, his voice riding down that of his guard commander. “And if the courier who brought us first news of a rebellion wasn't on the kingdom's business, who is?”

He turned to Waldron. “Now, milord,” he continued mildly, even cheerfully. “Just how dangerous do you judge this affair to be?”

This isn't my brother,
Sharina thought. But that was only partly true, because this self-composed prince was the person her brother could have grown into on his own.

The spirit of King Carus provided Garric with political experience that no nineteen-year-old peasant could have amassed; but much of that experience was of how not to do things, as Carus himself would be the first to say. It was Garric's own quick, disciplined intelligence that had just avoided a crisis by refusing to arrest a rebel under circumstances that would have dishonored his army commander in the eyes of his family, his class, and himself.

“It'd be serious if we let it grow,” Waldron said, “but of course we won't. Bolor thinks the levies he can draw from the northern districts can sweep away the regiments you left in Valles. He might be right.”

Waldron cleared his throat and looked down; the toe of his right boot gouged the ground. He straightened again and glared at Garric, a fierce old man who couldn't understand the concept that honor might
not
be dearer than life.

“Look,” he went on, “I don't want you to misunderstand what just happened. Bolor was giving me warning so that I could run before you learned about the rebellion and had me executed. He was a fool to think that I'd run, but he wasn't so great a fool as to imagine that I'd harm the prince to whom I pledged my loyalty.”