“I might regret asking this, but if all you’re looking for is a physical relationship, why have you waited so long?”
“An excellent question.” She nodded her head. “I’m nearly eighteen. I’ve been having sex with my girlfriends for the past two years and I’m satisfied with them. I’m not even sure I like men—all those bulging muscles, and that extra part between their legs seem rather daunting. Also, the body hair.” She wrinkled her nose. “Women are smooth and dainty. We bathe frequently. We have breasts. I know what to do with breasts. You rub them gently, give them little squeezes, blow lightly on the tips, lick them, nibble on them, maybe use your teeth, just a little, depending on how your partner reacts…I can play a nice pair of breasts like a musical instrument. I know just what to do.” She shrugged. “Men are a whole new world. Men are intimidating.
“Also, in very practical terms, I am, as you pointed out, my father’s daughter. I don’t know that I can trust a man not to abuse his position. Not one from around here, at least.”
She smiled again at Blake. “Like I said, you’re perfect.”
Blake had seen enough of the world and mankind to suspect that, in the end, Blake Pierce would fall somewhat short of Davida Montoya’s definition of ‘perfect.’ Still, he was tempted. Clinical, functional and dispassionate. A generous offer, in its way. He wasn’t entirely certain what bothered him about it. “If you’re satisfied with your girlfriends and you’re not even certain you like men, then why go to the bother?”
She frowned. “I feel like I should know what I’m missing. My girlfriends are adamant that I give it a try.”
“Girlfriends,” he muttered.
“One of them says she’s met you. Stephanie Valandraud?”
He stared at her. “Oh,” he said.
After seven days, they set off for town. This was normally a journey of only a few hours, but with a caravan of servants and attendants, Emilio Montoya’s pregnant wife, one son and two daughters, horses, provisions and men at arms in tow, they were in no hurry to be on the road. They planned on breaking their journey and staying overnight at one of the Primate’s inns.
It was a fine, crisp day, the sun shining overhead and a cool breeze gently blowing. They passed a few travelling mendicants, three men on swift horses in the uniform of the Primate’s messenger service and two families in horse drawn carts. Nothing unusual.
They reached the inn two hours before nightfall. This close to the capital, the roads were rarely empty. The inn was a large one, with three wings, each having its own dining room served by a central kitchen. Emilio Montoya had reserved one entire wing for his party.
The inn had its own staff, including its own Security, but neither Blake nor Lord Montoya knew any of these people, and had no reason to trust them. They posted their own guards and settled into their rooms. An hour later, the family and senior retainers assembled in the dining room. It was an elegant but comfortable room, with dark wood floors, cushioned chairs, and tables covered in white linen. Candles cast light from sconces on the walls.
A contingent of waiters took their orders and quietly withdrew. A few minutes later, the food began to arrive.
Lord Montoya, Blake noted, seemed tense.
The first course, a choice between various salads and iced seafoods, was excellent. The second course, either wild boar, a loin of beef or gamebirds in a sauce of berries and red wine, was excellent, as well.
There seemed to be some sort of commotion in the kitchen, voices raised in annoyance. The commotion, whatever it was, lasted less than a minute. A man, tall, slender, clean shaven, dressed like a courtier, with a rapier at his side, stepped into the dining room. He approached the head table, cleared his throat and bowed to Lord and Lady Montoya.
Lord Montoya sat back in his seat and sighed. Lady Montoya blinked at the newcomer, curious.
“Sir,” he said. “Madame. I must apologize for interrupting your meal, but it is my duty to inform you that you and your party have been taken prisoner. Consider yourselves the guests of Lord Benedict Valandraud.”
Lord Montoya mopped up a bit of sauce with a piece of bread and laughed under his breath. “And who might you be, young man?”
“My name is Michael Civarisi.” He grinned and his eyes flicked toward Blake. “I am the Captain of Lord Valandraud’s guard.”
“You do know that the High Table is about to meet? This is an awkward time for Lord Valandraud to be playing games.”
“This may be so, my Lord, but such issues are far above my station. I am a simple soldier in the service of my patron, and I must follow the orders that I have been given.”
“And so, what exactly are your orders?” Lord Montoya asked. “Are we to be marched back to Valandraud and confined to a dungeon?”
Michael Civarisi winced. “I hardly think that necessary. If you give me your parole and agree to pay the assigned ransom upon your return to Miramar, then my men and I will consider our mission complete. We shall bother you no more, and you may proceed upon your way.”
Lord Montoya barely smiled. “Blake?” he said.
“How many men did you bring with you?” Blake asked, buttering a roll.
Michael Civarisi looked at Blake, impassive. “Twenty,” he said.
A sudden shout came from the lobby of the dining room, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Michael Civarisi frowned and peered toward the lobby. The sudden silence seemed overwhelming. Civarisi turned back toward Lord Montoya, his face suddenly apprehensive.
“Twenty is not nearly enough,” Blake said. “We brought ten men with us, who I presume your guards have captured, and forty more were sent on ahead, in civilian clothing. They were instructed to stay hidden, keep watch and to act appropriately in the event of any trouble.”
A knife suddenly rose from the table, then another, and then six more. All eight knives moved silently toward Michael Civarisi’s head and stopped about half a meter away. Michael Civarisi eyed the knives uncertainly. Blake raised his voice. “Graham,” he called out.
A wide smile on his face, Graham swaggered into the dining room.
“Report,” Blake said.
“Lord Valandraud’s men have been subdued.”
“Any resistance?”
“Three tried to fight. We enlisted some additional manpower from the inn’s staff. The three have been captured. One is unconscious.” Graham shrugged. “We expect him to survive.”
“So, then, Captain,” Lord Montoya said. “Lord Valandraud’s plot has failed. I must say, his lack of judgment is getting expensive for him.” Lord Montoya toyed with his wine glass and smiled. “But enough of such minor unpleasantries. Would you care to join us for dinner?”
Michael Civarisi sighed. “I might as well. No reason to miss dinner.” He grinned wanly. “The best laid plans, and all that.”
Blake shrugged. “And all that.”
Chapter 16
A Child’s Third Lesson Upon Entering Scholium:
The ultimate goal of a rational society, it has been said, is to maximize the potential of each of its members. In practical terms, such a goal remains elusive, even impossible, since the first necessity of every society remains survival, and survival for the society at large often requires the regrettable sacrifice of at least a few of its members.
We can honor this sacrifice. We can enshrine the memories of those who have given the last full measure of devotion and we can honor, and even reward, their survivors, but it cannot be denied that those who have been sacrificed in the service of the State have had their lives—and their potential—cut short, and all too often, unwillingly.
In practical terms, the greatest good for the greatest number is often the most that can be achieved, and the implications of this simple fact are daunting, indeed. For who is to decide where the greatest good might lie? Who is to decide who and what must be sacrificed? And, who is to enforce these decisions?
And when does necessity devolve into mere expedience, and expedience, into mere convenie
nce?
To maximize one’s potential requires freedom, but ultimate freedom will ultimately result in anarchy and anarchy inevitably results in chaos, and in chaos, there can be no freedom whatsoever…but sacrifice, as often as not, requires compulsion.
All of us, in our own way, are called upon to serve the greater good.
And to rule is the province of the wise.
They arrived at Montrez, Lord Montoya’s house in the city, in the early afternoon, and settled in. The house was large and rambling, with stone walls and high windows. The property covered three acres and was surrounded by a stout brick wall with razor wire on top. Blake did not need to issue instructions. Lord Montoya’s men knew exactly what to do. They established a guard rotation and took up appropriate spots, both outside and within the house.
Despite this, Blake was worried. Lord Valandraud had been embarrassed, and now, he had been embarrassed again, and each embarrassment had cost him a significant loss of funds. Both Montoya and Valandraud had ambitions. There was nothing wrong with ambition. Both the Primate and the Viceroy approved of ambition. Valandraud and Montoya, despite their relative status and wealth, were Houses Minor.
There were six Houses Major in Fomaut: Garcia, Vichy, Estevez, Orleans, Grayson and Croydon, plus House Cornwell, the Primate’s House, related by blood to them all, which after nearly a millennium of rule, could hardly be considered merely a House.
The seventeen Houses Minor had all tried, generation after generation, to reach the status of House Major, the last to do so being Croydon, nearly three hundred years before. In recent generations, Valandraud had been perhaps the most significant of the Houses Minor, considered most likely to attain the next level of influence and wealth.
In challenging Valandraud, Lord Montoya was playing a dangerous game, and doing so publicly.
Counting coup was a pursuit for lesser houses. It whiled away the time, gave their younger members an outlet for their aggressions and provided distraction on a cold Winter’s evening. This was supposedly all in rough, good fun, and it provided evidence for the greater houses to judge the fitness of the minor houses and assign them status. It was a game that the greatest houses, however, did not play. For the Houses Major, jealous of their prerogatives and ever mindful of their place in the world, even the smallest slight was too much to willingly tolerate. The great houses played more serious games, like killing their rivals.
Blake wondered if Lord Montoya might be coming to regret the incursion into Valandraud Castle and subsequent ransom of Robert Valandraud. Blake suspected that he was. Then again, maybe not.
“An invitation to dinner has been received from Lady Fleming,” Lord Montoya said. He waved a sheet of paper at Blake. “And look, we’ve been invited to a hunting party by Baron Lindon.” Lord Montoya did look pleased with himself. Evidently, the sudden notoriety of House Montoya had opened new opportunities.
It occurred to Blake that Lord Montoya would be expected to reciprocate for all this pomp and hospitality, which would cost money. Not his business, exactly, but he did wonder if the House finances would prove sufficient to support its new status.
“You don’t look pleased, Blake.”
“Hunting is a notoriously unsafe activity. People become separated in the woods. They are sometimes thrown from horses and gored by enraged animals. Arrows fly in every direction, and it is not always apparent who is shooting them. These arrows sometimes strike people instead of bears and boars and deer; all very unfortunate, of course.”
Lord Montoya pursed his lips. “Consider my safety a challenge, then.”
“Of course, my Lord.” Blake smiled frigidly. “A challenge.
Lord Montoya smiled back. “There is something else I wish to discuss.”
“Yes, my Lord?” Blake said cautiously.
“Sit down.”
Lord Montoya’s private office was much like the one at Miramar, a bit smaller, perhaps. It was a comfortable room, with a desk against one wall, a deep, shag rug, comfortable couches arranged around a low table. Blake sat, already dreading what he might be about to hear.
“Brandy?” Lord Montoya asked.
“No, thank you.”
“So…” Lord Montoya gave Blake a thin smile. “I have been informed that my daughter has developed an interest in you.”
Blake winced.
“Nothing to say?”
“It is a delicate subject, my Lord.”
Lord Montoya smiled ruefully. “Indeed, it is, but my daughter is a Montoya, which is to say that she has been raised know her own mind and can be trusted to act in accordance with her own best interests.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Blake said carefully.
“You are strong with soul-stuff. You’re not obvious about it but you show it when you need to.”
A comment that was apropos of nothing at all, Blake thought.
“As a retainer of House Montoya, I will expect you to act with discretion,” Lord Montoya said.
“I am trying to do so, my Lord.”
Montoya barely grinned. “I appreciate that. I don’t doubt it, but perhaps you misunderstand me, so let me be perfectly clear: my daughter will make her own decisions. If she decides to pursue a liaison with you, I will not object. It wouldn’t do me much good. Attempting to control Davida’s behavior has always proven to be a fruitless pursuit.”
Not entirely what Blake had been expecting to hear. Far from it, in fact. “I see,” he said.
Lord Montoya shrugged. “That will be all.”
Unless there was an emergency, the High Table of Fomaut met at leisurely intervals. A declaration of war might be considered an emergency, but if war was indeed on the horizon, the Primate preferred to keep the news to himself. In two days, the High Table would meet, and following a blessing by the Inquisitoria, reports would be read and discussed from the Ministry of the Interior, the Ministry of Commerce and the Ministry of Intelligence and Security. Two days after that, the High Table would convene again. The hunting party would take place tomorrow.
The day dawned bright and clear, with an early Spring snap to the air, a perfect day for a ride in the woods. Lord Montoya was dashing in his finery. He rode a horse that had been bred to the hunt, a strong, patient and gentle gelding. He carried a crossbow slung over his back and a boar spear under his arm. Lady Montoya, heavily pregnant, and the boys, both too young for such an activity, stayed behind. Davida accompanied them. Thankfully, Valandraud had not been invited.
Beaters had headed out before dawn, heavily perfumed with the scents of catamount and dire wolf, and by now, beating on their drums, had herded a mass of restive and ill-tempered animals into a small section of forest.
A horn sounded. Horses and their riders raced across the open fields, following marked trails into clearings in the woods. The shouts of men and the cries of dying prey soon filled the air.
Blake found himself torn between following Lord Montoya and his daughter. Thankfully, the two stayed close together. Blake, and five of his men on light, swift horses rode behind them. Neither Davida nor her father seemed to pay their guardians any heed and charged gaily ahead. Perhaps it was a coincidence that they both took care to stay within sight of their entourage.
Lord Montoya shot a large buck with his crossbow and brought down a charging boar, already maddened by an arrow in its back. He met the boar head on, impaling the enraged beast on his spear, the cross guard keeping him well out of its reach.
Davida seemed content to watch the action, though she kept her cross-bow slung under her arm, ready to use at need.
All-in-all, a fine day. A fine evening, as well, a feast in Baron Lindon’s manor house, with excellent wine from the vineyards of far off Varanisi and ale by the barrel full. The men boasted of their deeds, still covered in the blood of their prey, while the women, mostly ignoring them, chatted together at their own table.
There were members of seven Houses Minor in the party, each with its own retainers. A table had been set for B
lake and the six other officers, while the rest stood guard around the perimeter of the room, most warily watching each other.
Blake, having sampled each dish as it came from the kitchen, was not impressed. It was customary to eat what the hunters killed, but the meat was unaged, unmarinated and much of it tough with gristle. The sauces helped.
No matter. The hunters had worked up an appetite and fell upon each dish with delight. An assortment of desserts was excellent, with a marzipan cake, custard tarts, plum and apple pies slathered with sweet cream and endless glasses of the sweet, spiced wine that the natives of Fomaut so loved.
Finally, the long evening drew to a close and they rode back to Montrez, their way lit by flickering torches and the light of the three moons overhead. Lord Montoya was well pleased with the day’s activities, Blake simply relieved that they were all alive and uninjured.
The High Table met the next day. Lord Montoya, as head of a lesser house, though a rising one, had an assigned seat in the second row, which was reserved for advisory but non-voting members of the Privy Council. Lord Montoya took care to present himself as prudent, moderate and insightful, a man whose voice was worth listening to, never a firebrand. If it bothered him that he could advise but not vote, he never let it show.
“All rise,” the herald intoned.
The Primate entered the chamber, smiled at the assembled dignitaries, and took his chair at the head of the main table. The audience resumed their seats. “Begin,” the Primate said.
There followed routine reports on matters having to do with border fortifications, tax collection and the impact on the lumber and fishing industries of a recent drought in the Northwest part of the country. None required comment. Once these were delivered, the Primate repressed a yawn behind his fist and said, “Any other business?”
A fat Baron rose to his feet and began an impassioned speech regarding a border dispute with his neighbor, a slim Earl who simply sat and glowered. The Baron, perhaps sensing the mood of the table, abruptly finished. The Primate glanced at the Earl, “Anything to say?”
The Towering Flame Page 11
