The Crown and the Dragon (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

Alone in the cavernous great hall of Tantillion Castle, Magister Corvus surveyed his evening repast. There was a standing rib roast, accompanied by a small jar of fine-ground mustard. Thin tendrils of steam rose from a loaf of milled white bread laid out with fresh cream butter and slices of candied pear. And best of all, a whole broiled lark set in a bed of greens.

With a happy sigh, Corvus eased into the immense carved chair and cut a slice of red roast beef. The cook had outdone herself. Probably had another niece or cousin she wanted on the staff. Hard to say no to her with results like this, he thought as he wiped away the hot meat juice that dribbled down his chin.

Hearing a polite cough, Corvus looked up to see his portly adjutore standing in the doorway, with head bowed. A frown spread across the Magister’s face as Lugotorix spoke without waiting to be granted permission.

“My lord, the imperator has arrived,” the fat little man said.

Corvus set down his knife. “Why is this the first I am hearing of his visit? I should have been told the moment his advance riders came into view.”

“There were no riders,” said Lugotorix, “to my knowledge.”

“Of course,” muttered Corvus. The man loved surprises. “No matter. We shall give the Imperator a welcome in accordance with his exalted station. Have Guerren ready the servants, and Hostilius summon an honor guard.”

“He desires to see you alone, my lord,” said Lugotorix, bowing even deeper in apology.

“Very well,” said Corvus, with a tight smile. “I shall receive him in my privy chamber.”

Lugotorix grimaced. “He requires your presence in the study.”

Tapping his fingers on the table, Corvus took in a deep breath and slowly released it. “Is there anything else he requires?”

“A plate of food, he said.”

“Have Guerren prepare a plate,” said Corvus, standing, “and bring it to us in the study.”

Lugotorix winced, and sucked in his breath slightly as if in pain. Corvus slapped his palms down on the table, feeling his face growing hot despite the portly adjutore’s courtly deference.

“What now? Out with it, man.”

“Your pardon, my lord,” said Lugotorix, “but the Imperator specifically asked that you bring the plate yourself.”

Corvus narrowed his eyes at the impertinence. Worse than being robbed of the opportunity to display his lavish hospitality, worse than being ordered about in his own castle, the Magister was ordered to perform a servant’s duties—by another servant! He ground his teeth at the insult.

“You may go,” Corvus growled at last.

Lugotorix fled.

Mastering himself, Corvus heaped a plate high with generous portions of his own dinner and marched out with as much dignity as he could muster. As he walked to the study, the halls were, thankfully, empty. Perhaps Lugotorix, or Guerren the steward, had spread the word to the servants so that there would be no witnesses to this latest humiliation.

Still, there would be talk—which was of course Strabus’s intention. Ever since the Senate had sent a new Imperator to Deira, Corvus had tried to receive him graciously, but it was impossible. The man failed to announce his visits with letters, and apparently was no longer even using advance riders.

And of course Corvus was expected to drop whatever he was doing and come running like a lady’s maid. It was intolerable. Everything Strabus did seemed calculated to communicate, in the most offensive way possible, that he was Corvus’s superior.

Still fuming, Corvus reached the heavy oak door to the study—his study!—carrying a heavy plate of food—his food! He took a deep breath. It was a tactic. The Imperator needed him off balance because his own position was precarious. Corvus smiled, and opened the door.

“Theodoricus Aelius,” Corvus said warmly, “I trust your journey from Anondea was a pleasant one?” Corvus spoke Vitalae as well as Deiran. Perhaps better. His father had chosen a Vitalion nursemaid, and instructed her to speak only her native tongue around her charge. Laird Pugh had been a forward-thinking man.

Strabus sat in Corvus’s chair, at Corvus’s desk, looking through a book that Corvus recognized as the castle’s financial ledger. He was a great bear of a man, about fifty years old and powerfully built. He had a bushy moustache and was bald on the top of his head, but covered with thick blond hair everywhere else. His meaty hands and thick fingers seemed ill-suited for turning pages, and the pair of spectacles perched on his nose were almost comical. He did not look up.

“I have told you before to address me as Imperator Strabus,” said Strabus, his voice a low rumble. “Please do not make me remind you again.” Although Strabus had been born a Vitalion citizen, he still spoke the language with the barbarous accent of Baiohaemum.

Strabus continued to read, his lips moving silently as his finger traced its way down the page. Behind him stood Guerren, his thin face impassive as always. When their eyes met, though, Corvus perceived an air of wounded pride. Guerren’s family had been stewards of Tantillion for generations, and he seemed to have a very proprietary feeling about the castle and its grounds, as if he were an innkeeper and the current Laird merely a temporary guest. Winning his loyalty had been one of Corvus’s first tasks after taking residence at Tantillion.

Corvus gave Guerren a polite nod, and Guerren bowed slightly in return.

“You may set that plate down anywhere you like,” said Strabus. “I find I am not hungry after all.”

Corvus maintained his smile with difficulty. “Of course, Imperator. As you wish.”

He stepped forward, but before he could set the plate on the desk, Strabus held up his hand.

“One moment,” said Strabus. He looked up at Guerren. “You. Are you hungry?”

Guerren, surprised to be so addressed, shook his head.

“Of course you are,” said Strabus. “I interrupted your dinner. Don’t be shy.” He waved his hand at Corvus. “Go on, give it to him.”

The gaunt castle steward shrank back from the plate, his eyes downcast. There was nothing wrong with the food, of course, but to take it from the hand of the Laird of the castle was unthinkable.

Seeing Guerren so completely aghast, Corvus smiled. Strabus had miscalculated and discomfited the steward, which gave the Magister an opportunity to further cement the man’s allegiance. Stepping around the desk, he put the plate in the thin man’s hands.

“My lord?” said Guerren hesitantly.

“Go ahead,” said Corvus gently. “You heard the Imperator.” He smiled. “And I know you love larks.”

“That I do, my lord,” said Guerren. He took the proffered plate. “Thank you, my lords.” He tore a wing from the broiled lark and took a small, crunchy bite.

Corvus nodded magnanimously. “Not at all.” He smiled.

Strabus shut the ledger and dropped it on the desk. “Well, I think this place will do,” he said, stroking his moustache. “Corvus, we’ll have to put you somewhere, of course.”

“Imperator?” said Corvus.

“I’ve decided to make this castle my center of admin-istration,” said Strabus. “I’ve named Manius Puponius Procurator and left him in Anondea to keep an eye on things while I get this place properly ordered.” He glanced up at Guerren, who froze with the other lark’s wing halfway to his mouth. “You can go now,” said Strabus. “I’ve got all I need from you.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Guerren, bowing low. As he did, Strabus relieved him of the plate of food. The steward hurried from the room.

“Properly ordered?” asked Corvus. “What do you mean?”

“Suddenly I’m starving,” said Strabus, ignoring him. He rolled up a slice of roast beef and dipped it in the mustard. “Mmm. Excellent.”

“Imperator?”

“We’ll have to put you in the steward’s chamber,” said Strabus. “Which means we’ll need a place for him.”

“Imperator Strabus,” said Corvus carefully, “Guerren is the castle steward. He may be a commoner, but his position is vital to the—”

Strabus held up his hand. “Do not presume to educate me,” he said, his moustache bristling. “I have been a colonial administrator for twenty years. I know how important these functionaries can be, and how difficult they can make things when they are unhappy.”

“Of course,” said Corvus.

“You can be sure that it is not my idea to remove him from his quarters,” said Strabus, leaning back in the high-backed chair that Corvus had chosen because of its imposing, regal qualities. He smiled, cruelly. “It is yours.”

“My lord?”

“You heard me,” said Strabus. “You will present this idea as your own.” He leaned forward. “I need to know where your loyalties are,
Magister
Corvus.” His lips twisted as he spoke the title, as if he found the word unpleasant to the taste.

“My loyalties are with the Empire,” said Corvus quickly.

“We shall see,” said Strabus. “You may leave me now. Deliver the news to the steward however you like. But by tomorrow noon, I want you in his chambers, and him somewhere else. I would suggest displacing the adjutores, but I’m curious to hear your ideas.”

Corvus frowned. “As you say, unhappy functionaries can make everything difficult. My preference would be to disrupt as few men as possible.”

“Then perhaps the culverhouse,” said Strabus lightly. “No men there. Just ravens.”

Trying to hide the reaction which he feared was painted on his face, Corvus bowed. “As you wish, of course, Imperator. But the space is cramped and ill-suited to the steward’s office.” What was Strabus hinting about? Did he know?

“What, then, is it suited to?” Strabus asked. “I have heard some interesting rumors about what you and those ravens do in that old culverhouse.”

It was a poorly kept secret that the culverhouse was where men were sent to be tortured for information. Corvus did nothing about the rumors. They only enhanced his fearsome reputation, paradoxically making it easier to get information without having to resort to violence. Still, it was unseemly for Vitalion nobles to engage in torture.

“Imperator,” said Corvus hastily, “although at times the process of interrogation can become, for lack of a better word, vigorous, let me assure you that I have never myself participated in anything so indecorous as—”

“Enough,” said Strabus. “Torture does not bother me. I am no Vitalion patrician, too delicate to dirty his hands.” He clasped his massive hands together, cracking his knuckles loudly. “Hands at work build the Empire. What bothers me is hands that lie idle, or that squander their effort in trivial labors. What bothers me is eyes not focused on the business of the Empire, but instead engaged in flights of fancy. This is my house now. Do you understand me?”

Corvus nodded. It was the other rumors, then—the rumors of sorcery and witchcraft. Unlike the talk of torture, Corvus did try to keep this quiet. In fact, one of the reasons he tortured prisoners in the culverhouse was to provide an explanation for the other rumors. Torture was unbecoming, but magic was unforgivable.

The Vitalion had once happily allied themselves with the dark arts. But twenty years ago that had changed on Drumney beach, with the appearance of a Dragon that could not be killed, and which menaced Vitalion and Deiran alike. The disastrous backfire of this magical weapon had contributed to the later downfall of Emperor Valerius, who was posthumously named an apostate. His successor, Diovian, declared any study of the unseen world to be anathema—forbidden.

“I understand you completely,” said Corvus.

“Good,” said Strabus. He pulled out a scroll and tossed it on the desk. “Now, do you know what this is?”

Corvus looked at the scroll, seeing his own wax seal broken on the outside. “My request for more soldiers?”

“No!” bellowed Strabus, pounding his fist on the desk. “It’s a waste of my time!” He sat silent for a long moment, glaring at Corvus. Corvus, surprised by his sudden passion, said nothing. The only motion in the room was the heaving of Strabus’s chest and the movement of his moustache, disturbed by his heavy breathing.

“I am sorry to hear you thought it so,” said Corvus eventually. “I based my request on information which I know to be reliable.”

Strabus unclenched his fist, and put his hands in his lap, but made no reply.

“My sources,” Corvus continued, “have revealed the existence of a final member of the house of Barethon—a woman, true, but of the house of the last two men acclaimed king of Deira. My sources further declare she bears the Falarica, an artifact used in coronation ceremonies. As I wrote, the inescapable conclusion is that the rebels will crown Garrick king.” Corvus stopped, seeing the blood rush to Strabus’s face.

“To say that Garrick Kilkarrin is a drunken sheep thief,” said Strabus with barely restrained fury, “is an insult to all the other drunken sheep thieves in this miserable country!”

“I agree,” said Corvus, “but both his mother and his father come from old and respected families. He’s a powerful symbol to the rebellion. If he is crowned, the uprising will spread. And it’s bad enough as it is. Just this morning I learned that they recently burned and looted an outpost near the Teivy.”

“You are Magister,” said Strabus. “You’ve
been
Magister for almost nine years, seven of which you’ve had the imperium here in Deira. And yet in that time the rebellion has done nothing but spread. I think that speaks for the efficacy of your methods.”

“Respectfully, Imperator,” said Corvus, “I disagree with your characterization. At no time in the last nine years have I had the kind of military manpower necessary for my methods to be implemented completely.” He stepped closer to the desk. “I need more soldiers.”

Strabus snorted. “These are your people. This is your country. I would think in nine years, you would figure out something smarter than throwing away increasingly large amounts of the Empire’s blood and treasure.”

Corvus exhaled. “Even a dozen men would be invaluable.”

“Indeed,” said Strabus, clapping his hands together. “Well, do you know where this supposed coronation is being held?”

“No,” said Corvus.

“No?” Strabus said, stroking his moustache. “And do you have any information that could conceivably lead to Garrick’s death or capture?” asked Strabus.