The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (66 page)

“Let’s see who you are, you shit.” As I yanked at the knotted ribbons holding on the concealing mask, I noticed for the first time that his clothes weren’t the usual masquerader’s shoddy pretence of noble dress. He was wearing the real thing, well-cut silk and expensive broadcloth. The hair I pulled out as it caught in the ribbons of the mask was perfumed with expensive pomade.

“Kreve Tor Bezaemar?” No wonder he had wanted to get away, identity hidden beneath this charade. Temar raised his sword in outrage and moved behind the kneeling man. “Stand clear, Ryshad, and I will have this cur’s head off!”

The last thing I wanted was the bastard going free to launch some new attack some other day, but I couldn’t allow that. “No!” I stepped between Temar and the still wheezing Esquire, eyes shut and tears pouring down his face.

“I have the right.” Temar glared at me.

“Yes, you do,” I agreed. “But let the Emperor sanction his death. Wait until he’s stood his trial in full view of every House in Toremal. That’ll discredit Tor Bezaemar so thoroughly their Name won’t aspire to the throne for fifty generations!”

“And if your advocates and their weasel words find him some excuse, some escape?” Temar challenged hotly.

“It won’t happen,” I caught Temar’s sword hand, speaking with absolute conviction. “He raised open murder against two Sieurs in direct defiance of Imperial decrees given not half a day since. That’s treason against the good order of the Empire and he’ll die for it, trust me.” Ignoring Kreve’s hoarse gasps I shoved the bastard on to his front and rested a heavy foot on his back.

Temar looked unconvinced but lowered his sword.

“If we’re going to cut his head off, I’ll do it,” I offered with savage humour as I released his hands. “The Sieur D’Alsennin shouldn’t soil his hands with such vermin’s blood. And why don’t you see who else Cas caught in his snare?”

“I suppose I may as well,” Temar agreed once a glance convinced him the incapacitated Kreve was going nowhere. Lifting the lolling head of the second man to die, he pulled off his mask with difficulty. “Firon Den Thasnet,” he called back over his shoulder. “I suppose we should have expected that.”

“I don’t see Saedrin calling us to answer for him.” I glanced up as I secured Kreve Tor Bezaemar’s hands behind his back with the ribbons cut from his mask. “Who’s the other one?”

Temar looked up uncertainly at the man hanging some way above him. “My compliments to Master Devoir, but I am not about to try climbing this. Can you bring him down, Casuel?”

“I’m not sure I can.” The mage had come to stand next to me, white-faced at his own achievement.

“You must know how you did that?” I looked curiously at the wizard.

“Of course,” retorted Casuel with frosty dignity. “In general terms, at least.” His poise melted as he stared up at his handiwork. “I suppose we’ll have to tell the Archmage about this, will we?”

The rear door to the Popinjay was opening slowly. After a long moment of hesitation on the threshold Banch advanced reluctantly into the yard, Ezinna urging him on with a savage hiss. He looked appalled at the enchanted forest sprouting from his ancient arch. At least it couldn’t really be seen from the street, I realised with belated relief. Magic as dramatic as this would hardly suit the Emperor’s declared prejudice against wizardry. We’d best get the evidence out of sight before it became a wonder for half the city to gawp at.

“We’ll get it back to how it was,” I shouted to Banch, giving Casuel a dig in the ribs. The wizard was still gazing in some bemusement at the leaves and fruit, now all immobile unyielding stone again.

“You can stuff that where your mother never kissed you,” rejoined Banch shakily. “Take a sledgehammer to it. I want it broken and carted away before the day’s out, and I don’t want so much as the dust from mortar left behind.”

“The magic is quite passed away,” protested Casuel indignantly.

“I want it gone, all of it!” Banch turned on his heel, pushing Ezinna back inside and slamming the door behind him.

I looked at Casuel. “Can you break it down?”

“I suppose so,” he said a trifle sulkily. Scowling he rubbed his hands together, palms flat. Amber light sparked from his fingertips, incandescent shards of magic flying through the air to land on the coiled stone. Hairline cracks began spreading across the yellow stems, golden light darkening to a burning ochre as fractures gaped wider and wider, dust falling first, then small chips, finally pieces of stone as big as a man’s fist. Temar backed away hurriedly and the body of the first man to die fell to the ground in a broken heap.

Temar moved forward with a cautious eye lest any masonry fall on his head. He shook his head when he’d ripped away the attacker’s mask. “I do not know the man.”

“No, nor me.” I stared down at the face now slack in death. “Probably some minor Esquire, promised the sun, the moons and the stars in between by Kreve. Still, at least we’ve got him to face Imperial justice.”

Temar looked towards the prostrate villain. “Not if he dies on us. How hard did you hit him?”

I was horrified to see Tor Bezaemar’s face suffused with blood, his breath little more than a thready gurgle. “Shit, I must have broken his windpipe.” Not checking on him had been a novice’s mistake, for all I’d been distracted by Casuel’s little display.

“Take him to Demoiselle Avila,” suggested Temar.

“At once,” I agreed. “Cas, clear this all up and fast.”

“I hardly think—” he began indignantly.

“Do you want the Emperor asking Planir for an explanation?” I demanded. I held Kreve Tor Bezaemar under the arms while Temar caught up his legs. The bastard was an unwieldy burden and the distance back seemed thrice as far as we’d originally run, but fear for his worthless hide spurred us on.

We stepped out on to the Graceway to find a solid phalanx in Den Janaquel livery surrounding Messire and Camarl, sworn men with staffs levelled and sergeants-at-arms carrying unsheathed swords. More of the Cohort had the road blocked off for some distance in either direction and those caught inside the cordon were only being set free when two other people could vouch for their name and business. Several erstwhile masqueraders and acrobats were face down in the dust, trussed up like roasting fowl.

A number of sworn men moved towards us. I nodded with some difficulty at my armring, sweating freely. “Where’s the Demoiselle Tor Arrial? We need her at once.”

“She’s busy with the injured.” Allin stopped as she went past with a steaming cup in each hand. “Can I get you a tisane?”

“Get Demoiselle Avila,” I told her flatly. “Otherwise this man dies and Tor Bezaemar escapes all punishment.”

Allin thrust the cups at a startled man-at-arms and raced off, hitching up her skirts. Temar and I laid the stricken Kreve down as gently as we could and looked guiltily at each other. Demoiselle Avila appeared and knelt beside the stricken youth without a word. Laying gentle hands on his throat, she began murmuring some rhythmical enchantment that soon had the dark colour fading from his face. As the Esquire’s ribs laboured to draw air into his starved lungs my own breathing eased, along with the apprehension I could see mirrored in Temar’s expression.

“I take it he turned out to be the worm in the apple?” Avila sat back on her heels, heedless of the filth on her gown, lace overdress torn in a handful of places. Her thin face was weary but the gleam in her eyes promised ill for Tor Bezaemar. “I would rather be using my energies to tend the innocent injured.”

“Ryshad tells me it is for the Emperor to judge him,” Temar said, still rather mutinously.

“Quite so, though you seem to have done a fair job in the meanwhile.” Den Janaquel men parted to let Messire D’Olbriot through. He looked down at Kreve, who was still insensible, eyes closed. “I’d say you have your revenge on Dirindal now, D’Alsennin. She’s pinned all the hopes of the House on this lad since he first grew out of soft shoes.”

Temar looked suddenly disconcerted and sudden memories, not my own, assailed me. Temar had carried the burden of his grandsire’s expectation throughout his turbulent youth and that in part is what had driven him to Kellarin.

“Is Esquire Camarl all right?” I asked abruptly.

“Thanks to my lady Tor Arrial.” Messire’s poise was unmarred despite the lavish smears of blood darkening on his elegant clothes. “As soon as Den Janaquel can get us a coach, shall we go back to the residence? We’re hardly dressed for dining out now, and I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening.” He brushed at a swathe of dust on one leg and I saw a faint tremor in his hand.

“What happens to him?” Temar demanded, prodding Kreve with a hostile toe.

“Den Janaquel’s men will take care of him,” the Sieur promised with steely authority. “Their House is no friend to Tor Bezaemar, and they know well enough that the Emperor will have their necks stretched if anything goes awry.”

It galled me to leave Kreve in someone else’s custody, but as a proven man in Den Janaquel’s colours arrived with a carriage for the Sieur I had no choice. At least the grim expressions on the faces all around the unconscious Tor Bezaemar reassured me that these men would be as good as their sworn word.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Sieur Endris D’Olbriot has caused this annal to be recorded and charges all who come after him to continue this work, in the sacred Name of Saedrin, Keeper of the Keys to the Otherworld, whose judgement every man must face

As Winter Solstice brings this year to a close, I do not know how to record a date, since all calendars are meaningless in the chaos that overwhelms us. The best I can offer is my recollection that this is the twenty-eighth year since the final solstice of Nemith the Last, also known as the Reckless. After the trials of this last generation I wonder if my father and uncles would have so rudely pulled even so wretched a ruler from his throne if they had suspected the calamities that would befall us. Should our once respected forebears be condemned as reckless in their turn? Do we suffer as a result of their impiety or does Raeponin weigh our own transgressions and finding us wanting, give Poldrion the nod to loose misfortune upon us?

The direst news I can attest to this Mid-Winter is that deaths of those bearing our Name have outnumbered births in this past year and who knows how many to those infants will succumb to the privations of hunger and disease in the seasons to come. Spurred by this, I have charged my scribes and Esquires to list each property remaining in the D’Olbriot Name, with a full list of every tenant, their claims upon us, the charges they have made on our coffers these five years past and the benefits we have gained from their loyalty. Raeponin be my judge, I have not seen the results as yet, but I predict a sorry tale of an ever shrinking fiefdom and who dares hope that there is not yet worse to come.

Let these words and the parchments appended thereto act as my defence down the generations, to whatever sons of D’Olbriot might survive to carry forward our Name, for the actions I am about to take.

We can no longer stand alone, on the dignity of our inveterate independence. The lone sheep is wolves’ meat and we are beset with marauders on every side. I purpose therefore to join with those following the Den Modrical pennant, trading what force of arms we may muster for aid in defending our lands under direction of the Sieur Laenthal. I have watched over the seasons as this youth has risen to rule his House through proven skill as a warrior and by virtue of a character more forceful than any I have seen, even in men twice his age. Minor Names, cast adrift with the breaking of every tie to their earliest loyalties, have been flocking to his banner. Inside a year he has raised a formidable force, winning notable victories against the predations of brigands from the Dalasor grasslands.

Why must I seek to justify my course when Laenthal is so clearly an effective leader of action and resolve? Because I have reservations about both Den Modrical ambitions and practices and wish to make these known under the seal of our Name, lest I die before I can nominate a Designate in proper form and confide such vital matters in person.

I can forgive a young man the conceit that prompts him to invent spurious claims to a legendary lineage but I wonder why Laenthal encourages his fellows to swear so fervently that Den Modrical descends from so many ancient Houses. Whether this is truth or lie, the facts are lost in the mists of time. How do such fictions serve, when any man of my generation recalls full well the lowly status of the Name in the Nemith era? Are we supposed to be impressed with his array of pennants and badges of yore purloined from a miscellany of Houses? Still, such trifles are largely harmless compared to the daily perils we face.

Less harmless is the youth’s assertion that anyone not with him will be deemed against him. Demanding allegiance at sword point can never be but folly. Nor can I approve Laenthal’s subsequent tactics to ensure continued loyalty. True enough, service as a page to a companion noble House has always been part of an Esquire’s education, but in these uncertain times the custom has been in abeyance for nigh on a generation. For my part, I see the gang of youths now travelling between the Modrical possessions under ostensible guard against bandits as little better than hostages for their families’ good conduct. Yet I must nominate an Esquire from every branch of D’Olbriot, senior and cadet, and deliver them into Laenthal’s custody before I can expect him to bring his lances and swords to drive the northern reivers and masterless men from our lands. That they will certainly learn their letters and reckoning at another’s expense is scant consolation when I foresee they will also be inculcated with Laenthal’s peculiarly ruthless philosophies.

But what other path is open to me? The gods have all but abandoned us, with every Artifice that priests were wont to use in our service found wanting. Shall I resort to these unsanctified sorceries that some can wield without blessing of god or man? Laenthal makes no secret of his loathing of such fell arts, putting any showing such skills to the sword without fear or favour. I might suspect some self-seeking in his ready condemnation but I cannot deny it gives any Sieur desperate enough to consider using a wizard pause for thought.