The Warlord's Domain (21 page)

Power came roaring from the spellstave in a flare of light and noise, and when it faded he was gone.

Voord found Tagen waiting for him in the corridor outside, with another bundle of reports. “The riots,” he said, saluting, “have been suppressed.” Then he glanced at the interrogation room door as it swung shut, catching the muffled sounds of sawing and of running water. “What about them?”

“Suppressed as well. But useful enough beforehand.” Voord exchanged the interrogation data for the riot reports, glanced at the topmost page and rolled them into a tight, disregarded cylinder. “Tagen, get that lot to the appropriate people and resurrect Talvalin’s picture and description. It should go out at Gold-One priority to the Chief of Constables, the Captains of city guards and of the urban militia, and to the
Eldheisart Kagh Ernvakh
. Mark it Distribution Code Prime.”

Tagen digested the jargon reluctantly. He had small patience with this new efficiency that was no more effective than the old method of doing things. From the way all that would have sounded to a layman, the Commander was declaring war on everything and everybody not inside the city walls; but Tagen knew well enough that when all was said and done, the fancy wording and dramatically colored message pouches that went with it meant no more than the traditional routine of delivering a message personally and leaving a threat of dire consequences if the results were any less than perfect. Still, that was the way the Commander liked to do things, and it wasn’t Tagen’s place to quibble. Besides which, he could understand Voord’s desire to get Talvalin down here for a chat; he wanted very much to be there when it happened.

“You really think he’s coming here, sir?”

“Yes, Tagen, I do. Wouldn’t you?”

“Sir!” Tagen’s chest swelled at being asked for an opinion. “Yes, sir, I do think so. He owes you as much as you owe him, if I may make so bold. And he must think he has a chance, or he’d have run for home once he had the opportunity.” Tagen paused as his thought processes ground over another possibility. “But maybe he did run. After all, he ran when we caught up with him, so…” The thought ran out of ideas.

“So, I’ll have put the city on guard for nothing?” Voord finished for him.

“Not for nothing, sir. I spoke to some of my people in the Regiment and they think…” Tagen drew himself up very straight. “May I have the Commander’s permission to speak frankly?”

“You have it.”

“Sir, the Bodyguard Regiment thinks that you should apply yourself with vigor to matters of state in the
Woydek-Hlautan
before all of the domain goes to rack and ruin.” Tagen said it all in a breathless rush and remained rigidly at attention as Voord looked at him with an expression of faint disbelief.

“Most interesting,” he said. “Soldiers with political opinions. And who are these opinionated persons?”

“Sir, you said that I could speak frankly.”

“But not speak treason.”

“It isn’t treason, sir.”

“It certainly sounds like it,
Kortagor
Tagen. But what word would you employ?”

“Concern, sir.”

“Indeed? Explain.”

“Sir, the Bodyguard Regiment exists to protect the Grand Warlord—”

“Except when they kill one to replace him with someone they like better, of course.”

“Not you, sir. Since you claimed the Jewel, you’ve been lavish with both gold and honors—none want to see you replaced. And once it’s known who or what we protect you against, the form of protection becomes more obvious. In this instance it begins by my bringing you this warning.”

Voord leaned back against the wall, wincing just a little as one of his wounds strained against the gilt wire holding it shut. “Bringing me a warning,” he repeated. “Of a danger to my life, presumably. Why not simply obliterate it instead?”

“Not even the Bodyguard can kill high-ranking Army officers without permission, sir.”

“Ah,” said Voord. “So it’s that, is it?” The requests that he come out of seclusion and set about being a ruler had increased in volume and vehemence over the past eighteen days or so, during seventeen days of which he had been incapable of coherent thought, never mind ruling the bloody domain. “And what do the Bodyguard’s informants think that these high-rankers are planning, eh?”

“Several things, sir. Rumors are vague, but it seems that several would try to take advantage of the Emperor’s offered amnesty, to turn their coats and join with him. Some others, supported by their troops, are supposed to be planning to set themselves up as Overlords— petty dictators, really—in the outlying areas of the
Woydek-Hlautan
. Maybe twenty men in all.”

“And they really think they can succeed in this?” marveled Voord, smiling slightly.

“Yes, sir. Because first they plan to assassinate you.”

Only three weeks previously Voord would have laughed aloud at the thought of the surprise awaiting anyone who tried to kill him. He didn’t laugh now. Instead his mind curdled at the prospect of maybe twenty blades ripping into him… and neither dying nor healing afterward.

“Congratulate your informants for me, Tagen,” Voord said in a slightly unsteady voice. “Tell them there will be gold and high favor for the first man to bring me confirmation of all this… intrigue.” He cleared his throat. “Tell them straight away. Everything else can wait.”

It was full dark and snowing hard by the time they dismounted in the covered stable-yard built behind The Two Towers. A glance from side to side as their horses were taken in hand by the liveried ostlers was enough to give an indication of the clientele the place attracted. Aldric whistled thinly through his teeth at the several town carriages drawn up in a neat row under the sheltering roof of the yard. Some were sedate closed coaches, two others were the sort of transport merchants hired to convey—and impress—business colleagues, but it was the gleaming low-slung two-seater at the end of the line which attracted his attention.

Built as much for ostentatious speed as for comfort, it was a young man’s vehicle of the kind only ever built to order, and only ever ordered to demonstrate the style, the taste and above all the wealth of its owner. The coach-building and lacquerwork alone would have taken a craftsman half a year, and the thoroughbred horsepower which drew such elegance was bound to be equally worthy of admiration. More so, to Aldric’s mind.

It was inevitable that he would head straight for the stable-block itself, claiming a concern for Lyard’s and K’schei’s comfort that was in truth no more than one young man’s curiosity about another’s high-powered horseflesh. He wasn’t disappointed, because there was an eight-legged king’s ransom munching hay in the wide stalls. Aldric fussed and petted over the pair of softly questing noses for a moment, then let them get back to their eating.

“Content again?” asked Kyrin, watching him rub the hay between his palms and smell it.

Aldric glanced at her. “Good hay,” he said.

“Yes, I’m sure it is. And you’ve checked to make sure there’s nothing in here that matches Lyard.”

He grinned at her. “That obvious?”

“Every time. At least you’re feeling better.”

Aldric dusted the hay from his fingers and smiled. “I’m getting my appetite back, at least. But I’ll still hold you to that drink. Let’s get in.”

There was some sort of clerk seated inside a booth under the sweeping curve of the main staircase who sniffed disdainfully at the sight of
-4Mb
Inn’s latest guests. Certainly they looked disreputable enough: the big gilt-framed mirror that formed the entire side wall of the entrance lobby reflected a couple wearing long furred and hooded overrobes, black with soaked-in meltwater except for the places where there were still solid snow. There was slush-mud on their boots. The battered saddlebags slung over their shoulders—money had changed hands and the stuff from the pack-horses was being carried for them—weren’t exactly the richest or most stylish form of luggage, and both they and their bags smelt faintly of wet horse.

“Yes, can I help you?” the clerk said, not troubling to stand up and at the same time conveying the fervent hope that he wouldn’t be able to do anything of the sort.

“A room, a private bath and hot food and drink, all for two,” said Aldric, pushing back his hood with his free hand. The clerk said nothing straight away; instead he looked pointedly at the heap of snow which had slithered to the floor and now sat there, melting fast. Aldric cleared his throat equally pointedly. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“I really think that you should read our list of charges, sir,” said the clerk, staring hard at the state of their clothing. He pulled a board from beneath his counter and held it out, not quite between finger and thumb but managing to convey that impression successfully enough. “And… these are fixed charges, sir. That means no haggling; The Two Towers does not encourage haggling.”

“Oh.” Aldric took the board and looked at it, then said, “Oh,” again.

“The tavern on the corner of Bridge and Central will probably be more to your liking,” said the clerk with an air of finality.

“Why?”

“Well, sir, the prices are—”

“Higher? I doubt that.”

“No sir, quite the rever—”

“Don’t assume, my son,” said Aldric, feeling suddenly very much older than the puppy snapping from behind the safety of his desk. “It can affect your health and job prospects.” Reaching inside his overrobe, Aldric pulled out the Guild Freyjan money-purse and held it for a moment with the Guild’s unmistakable crest an inch from the end of the clerk’s nose, then dropped it with a crude but highly satisfying slam and a puff of chalk-dust into the middle of the charge-board. “Hard cash,” said Aldric, his face expressionless. “Want to find out just how hard?”

The clerk looked at the purse, then opened it and peered inside. He blinked twice and swallowed, not daring to try biting one of the coins, if indeed that was what had been meant, and he was inclined to doubt it, then summoned up a sort of smile. “Uh,” he said. “No. I mean yes. I mean thank you, sir, but you can pay when you leave, sir. Enjoy your stay in Drakkesborg, sir…”

Everything the Freyjan Guildsman had said about The Two Towers was true—including his warning about the prices. Kyrin was able to understand more clearly why Aldric had acquired such a quantity of cash, for their accommodation and meals for the next week would take a sizable bite out of it. At least they were getting what they paid for. She had never seen such luxury, not even when they had been hauled into the presence of Alba’s King Rynert that time in Erdhaven. His home-from-liome and part-time palace had been furnished in the classic Alban style of understated elegance, whereas there was nothing understated about The Two Towers. It shouted opulence at the top of its voice.

There seemed to be a competition between the bedroom and the bathroom as to which could shout loudest; the bathroom probably won on grounds of sheer sybaritic exuberance. Kyrin had thought the tavern three nights ago had come close to crossing the border between elegance and excess, but it seemed either that the Towers had never heard of any difference between the two, or had forgotten it superbly. There was no nonsense here about wooden tubs, no matter how fine the wood might be, or water-coppers heated by the same fire that warmed the room. The water for
this
bathroom, they had been informed in proud and enthusiastic detail, came from the cellar furnaces that kept the whole inn warm, and- in unlimited supply. The center of the floor was all bath, sunken into it and ringed with baskets holding sponges and fine soaps in block form and in handsome ceramic jars. Its fittings were either solid gold or some other metal so heavily gilded as to make little difference, and for those who preferred steam-baths in the fashion of the Eastern Empire and--Kyrin grinned and made straight for it--the far North, there was a timber cubicle and an iron rack loaded with sleekly river-polished granite rocks that could be heated in the room’s own fire. Aldric, of course, tried both; and when they emerged from their respective baths they tried the bed as well.

Whether or not it was the brief altercation with the clerk downstairs or any of the various other distractions of the past hour, Aldric was quite recovered from the stomach-flutters born of his first venture into surgery by the time a liveried servant brought the night’s bill of fare for their inspection. There was fish, both fresh and smoked; five meats; two sorts of roasted bird; vegetables fried, boiled, steamed, and baked in a sour-hot sauce; pastries with two savory and three sweet stuffings; four soups; seven cheeses; and a sufficient variety of different wines to leave even Aldric lost for choice.

After making their decisions during a lengthy, amiable wrangle with each other and the servant—who had opinions of his own and was not afraid to share them—they changed from their rakishly-wrapped towels into fresh clothing and sauntered down to the tavern’s dining-room, set comfortably far away from the noise and smoke of the public common-room. Aldric nodded equably to the clerk as they passed him, pausing long enough to make some softly-spoken inquiries before arranging to rent a carriage after dinner.

“What for?” Kyrin asked as they took their places at the quiet corner table Aldric had requested. There was a bottle packed in snow already waiting for them; it seemed that the desk clerk was apparently trying to put right his earlier mistake by being more than just knowledgeable and obliging.

“After-dinner entertainment,” said Aldric, lifting the chilled bottle and pouring wine for each of them. “And behaving entirely as two wealthy people such as we appear
would
behave.” He swirled his own glass thoughtfully under his nose and sipped; then seemed to forget what he was about to say, gazing instead into the middle distance with a dreamy expression on his face. A moment later he shook himself just a little, and gave the shy half-smile that might go with learning all was well with the world after all. “Anyway, we’re visiting the theater. And this is as fine a Seurandec as I’ve ever drunk. If it’s a bribe from that clerk, I think we’ll forgive him.”

Kyrin, amused, had watched his little byplay with the wine, well aware it was for the benefit of various watching eyes. No wine could be that good. Except that this wine was… “Which play—as if I had to ask?
The Prince
, wasn’t it?”