“Yes.” The Earl rose to his own unimpressive height and said, “The boundary between our two lands has been set as the River Sone. That has been the boundary for over five hundred years.”
“But the River has changed course,” the Baron said. “Why then, should the boundary stay the same?”
The Earl shrugged and took his seat.
“Anybody?” the Primate said.
“Has the river ever changed course before?” Lord Montoya said. “And if it has, did the boundary change as well?”
“An excellent question,” the Primate said. “Well?”
The Earl gave Montoya a sour look. “The river has changed course twice in the past five hundred years, once after an earthquake and once after a cataclysmic storm. The first time, the boundary was declared by Primate Paulinus to be unchanged. The second time, Primate Everard the Seventh declared that the boundary would remain with the river.”
“That’s not much help,” the Primate said.
The Earl shrugged. The Baron shook his head, looking peevish.
“Flip a coin,” the Primate said.
Both the Earl and the Baron stared at him. “Excuse me?” the Earl said.
“I will not allow the nobility of this nation to go to war over a few hundred meters of farmland. Not now.” There was a sudden, palpable increase in the level of interest among the audience. A few leaned forward in their seats, like dogs on point.
The Primate grinned. “Flip a coin,” he said again.
The Earl sniffed. “I wouldn’t trust one of his coins.”
The smile abruptly vanished from the Primate’s face. He gave the Earl a long look, at which the Earl grimaced and cleared his throat.
“Lord Montoya,” the Primate said.
Lord Montoya rose to his feet. “Yes, Majesty?”
“Flip a coin.” The Primate pointed to the Baron. “You call it.”
Lord Montoya inclined his head, reached into a pocket and pulled out a gold coin. He flipped it into the air. The coin rose, spinning, then fell on Lord Montoya’s open palm. An instant before it landed, the Baron called out, “Heads.”
“Heads it is,” Lord Montoya said. He displayed the coin to his neighbors, who were craning to see it.
The Baron looked relieved. The Earl’s face grew red. He seemed about to say something, then visibly swallowed his words. He sank back into his seat, glowering at the table.
“I trust that this morning’s foolishness is ended,” the Primate said. “Any other business? No? Then we are adjourned until the day after tomorrow.” The Primate smiled. “At that time, I hope to have an important announcement to make.”
The Primate swept from the room, leaving a startled silence in his wake.
Two more days, Blake thought.
Chapter 17
“By evening,” Blake said, “the rumor will be circulating that you and the Baron conspired to cheat Earl Lester out of his property.”
Montoya shrugged. “I displayed the coin to everybody who wished to see it. I can’t help what people choose to say.”
Blake tried his best to repress a frown. He did not think that he succeeded.
“What’s worrying you, Blake? You seem more glum than usual.”
Where to begin? His recent sighting of Irina Archer had somehow lingered in his mind, returning to him at odd hours. He had not expected this to be so, and yet it was. Irina had left him. They had been young, and it was long over. He had often, in the years since, gone weeks and months without thinking of Irina at all, and yet that one glimpse, riding at Thierry Jorge Garcia’s side…it still grated.
And Davida Montoya…he had hardly spoken to her since coming to the city. When they passed, she would smile, a speculative smile, as if she was sizing him up for something he would rather not be a part of. He had seen smiles like that before, on his mother and on Irina Archer, back when they were young and together. He had learned to be wary of such smiles, though in the case of Davida Montoya, he was fairly certain that whatever she was planning, he would not find unpleasant. The fact that Lord Montoya had as much as given his blessing should have reassured him. It didn’t.
And Garcia, himself. Strange, that when he looked at Thierry Jorge Garcia, he had felt so little. Thierry Jorge Garcia had changed his life in ways that Terence Sergei Allen could never have imagined. He had not enjoyed those changes. He should have hated Garcia, and he should have hated him even more for taking Irina away from him…and yet, he knew that the fault had lain at least as much in himself, and if he were being entirely truthful, Irina Archer (he could see this with the perspective of years) had been and presumably still was imperious, self-absorbed and avaricious. She had been beautiful (she was still beautiful) and enticing and an enthusiastic partner in bed, but Blake (Terence, rather) suspected that if he had married her, he would have long since come to regret it.
So why was his mood so glum? Hard to say.
He shook his head. “I worry about the Primate’s announcement.” This, he could say with certainty.
Emilio Montoya nodded. “As do we all. For nearly five years, we have been preparing for war, not in any overt way, but preparing, nonetheless. The Primate’s warehouses are full of provisions and ten brigades have been added to the army. All of us have been encouraged to hire more men. A levy is coming. If the nation is truly at war, we will all be required to do our share.”
A good chance that Lord Montoya’s “share” would include the body and person of Blake Pierce, assigned to lead a contingent of Miramar troopers into whatever bit of kinetic savagery the Primate chose to order. Truthfully, after a decade of fighting his way across the continent, Blake had difficulty caring about the outcome of this or any other minor war. One nation decided to invade another and so the borders of one would shrink while the borders of the other expanded. The people of the area that changed hands would have a new ruler, who differed not at all from the prior ruler. Life, for most of them, would go on. The system had changed little in well over a thousand years.
Blake Pierce, at heart a contemplative and peaceable man, could not have cared less which petty tyrant ruled which collection of self-centered nobility and long-suffering peasants, except, he reminded himself, that he was a wandering mercenary. Warfare was good for his bank account, and the nobility loved nothing better than a good war; that of the winning side, at least. The losing side was never so happy.
There were only two ways in which a lesser house could become a great house. The first was to find a new resource or develop a new product and sell it for a profit, thereby growing its wealth, but since the Inquisitoria regarded almost anything “new” as ungodly and forbidden, this option was rarely tried and even more rarely successful. The more common method was to steal from one’s neighbors. Warfare was a zero-sum game but offered the victors an excellent opportunity to expand their holdings and their position in the world.
And hovering over it all, remote and far-away, was the Viceroy, in fabled, far-off Varanisi, whose declared interests were always best served by maintaining the status quo.
If there were undeclared interests, Blake Pierce was unaware of them.
Once, when he was very young, Terence Sergei Allen and his family had spent a week at the seashore, renting a chalet only yards from the beach. One night, the cook purchased a basket of crabs and steamed them for dinner. Prior to being cooked and eaten, one crab tried to escape by scaling the wall of the basket. Three other crabs grabbed it and hauled it back down. Terence, observing, thought this was rather mean of the crabs, but then, crabs were known to be crabby.
A sad metaphor for society itself, though Terence Allen at the time was too young and too ignorant to make this association. Blake Pierce was not. He thought of those crabs, now and then, always with a shudder.
When a lesser house made a play for greater house status, all the other houses, both the greater and the lesser, tended to resist. It is human nature, after all, not unlike that of a crab, to resent the success of one’s neighbo
rs.
“People fear change,” Lord Montoya said, sitting behind his desk and sipping a glass of wine. “Even when the change improves their lives. Change is uncertain, and uncertainty carries risk.”
Lord Montoya, evidently, was thinking along the same lines as Blake, who gloomily observed his employer. “It might not have been wise,” Blake said, “to come so forcibly to the attention of your peers.”
Lord Montoya smiled. “I should have minded my own business and tended my gardens, you mean? Lived my petty, comfortable little life and been satisfied with what I had?”
“It was an option, and your life was not petty in the slightest.”
“And would Tyrannus, or Tamerlane, or Alexander, or Mao Zedong have been satisfied with such an existence? The thought shames me.”
“I don’t believe that any of these men left the world in better condition than they found it,” Blake said.
“I will concede the point.” Emilio Montoya grinned. “But then, they didn’t do it for the sake of the world.”
“No, of course not. They did it to satisfy the fire that burned in their bellies. They wanted to conquer everything before them. But why? What was the point of conquering the world? Few of these men succeeded, and fewer died in bed, and none of their empires survived for more than a generation.”
Emilio Montoya gave him a quizzical look. “Strange, to hear such words from you, Blake. You’re a mercenary. Mercenaries make their living by waging war upon their fellows. I would not have expected you to be in favor of a peaceful life.”
Blake looked away. “We all have a role to play, sometimes a role that we wouldn’t have chosen, and we all have to live with the consequences of our actions. I sometimes wish that things were different.”
“My, you are morose, tonight.” Lord Montoya gave the other man a quizzical frown. “There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”
Blake considered this. “From what I recall, the character who speaks those words comes to a bad end. He is drawn into a conspiracy to assassinate his friend and benefactor and is then forced to commit suicide. History does not remember Brutus as a hero.”
Lord Montoya laughed softly. “True. Perhaps not the most appropriate quote. It is, however, in the nature of mankind to strive against adversity, to pursue a goal, and once successful in obtaining our goal, it is again in the nature of mankind, to find another goal, to go further, to want more.”
“The fault, dear Brutus, does not lie in our stars, but within ourselves,” Blake said.
“Really?” Lord Montoya grinned. “Do you remember how that line ends?”
Blake frowned. “Not exactly.”
“The fault, dear Brutus, does not lie in our stars, but within ourselves, that we are underlings.”
“Oh,” Blake said. “I had forgotten that.”
“Be careful with your quotes, Blake.” Lord Montoya raised his wine glass. “They sometimes don’t mean what you think they mean.”
Lord Montoya was correct, Blake thought. Some of us are content to live in peace and cherish what we have, but the “great” men and women of the world are decidedly not. It’s what makes them great, after all, depending upon what one means by great. Certainly, their ambition is what makes such men wealthy and notorious. Blake shrugged. Or dead. Lord Montoya understood exactly what he was doing. He also understood that playing the game carried risks.
“Read this,” Lord Montoya said. He leaned over the desk and handed Blake a sheet of paper.
Blake turned the paper back and forth in his hand. Another invitation, this one for an evening party, to be hosted by one Lady Chiara Randisi. Blake had heard of her: a widow, and very wealthy.
“You’re going to accept, I assume?”
Lord Montoya smiled. “Of course. It’s just a dinner party. What could happen?”
Blake sighed.
The Randisi estate reminded Blake of Miramar. The house itself was enormous, obviously constructed over many generations in a hodgepodge of styles. One wing was made of hulking stone, with battlements on top, another resembled a wooden chalet, soaring and airy. The estate’s overall theme conveyed grandeur. It was not always elegant, but it did impress. The grounds were spacious, comprising over five hundred acres of open fields and forest. A maze of carefully tended gardens surrounded the house. A small river wound through the property, connecting to a lake, at the edge of which sat a dock and a series of rowing craft.
The field next to the great house was full of carriages when Lord and Lady Montoya arrived. Lord Montoya assisted his wife from the carriage. They walked in, were greeted by a footman, conducted to the grand hall and announced.
There had seemed no point in bringing more than a few retainers. A large-scale attack in a gathering such as this was unlikely to happen. There were far too many witnesses. One could never rule out a silent assassin, though; a stab in the dark, the murderer quickly melting back into the crowd, or perhaps a poisoned needle, barely felt, that would take effect only hours later.
Blake sighed. Such a thing would reflect poorly on Lady Randisi, but there was no reason to think that an assassin intent on harming Lord Montoya would care in the slightest about embarrassing Lady Randisi. Depending on the political winds, such an outcome might even be a secondary goal.
Lord Montoya frowned at him. “Go get a drink, Blake. We’ll be alright.”
“This is an easy thing to say but not so easy to guarantee.”
Lady Montoya lifted an eyebrow in the direction of her husband and barely shrugged.
“Go,” Lord Montoya said.
At times like these, almost unconsciously, Blake Pierce tended to revert to the aristocratic young man he had once been. His clothing was plain but made of the finest material. The filigreed metal disk with the glowing blue stone in the center was pinned to his chest. He carried a sword and a dagger. Looking out at the crowd, he thought that he looked almost like one of them. The conceit alternately amused and depressed him.
He wandered over to a table and selected a few small delicacies, which he sat down to eat, then he snagged a glass of wine from a passing servant. Despite Lord Montoya’s order, he kept his charges carefully in sight. Graham and Devin, he was pleased to note, were doing the same.
The crowd ebbed and flowed. Introductions were made, words exchanged, perhaps a bit of business discussed. The mood of the gathering seemed light. An orchestra played in one corner of the room. A handful of couples danced across the floor. Lord and Lady Montoya ate at a table by themselves, comfortable in each other’s company. A few other couples came by, spent a few minutes in conversation with them, then wandered away.
All very sedate, if not boring, which suited Blake just fine. After an hour or two, the crowd seemed to thin. This was an illusion. Most had eaten and then spread out through the house, seeking other amusements.
“You look familiar,” a voice said. “Do I know you?”
Blake looked up. Thierry Jorge Garcia stood looming over him. Irina Archer, Blake was grateful to see, was nowhere in sight. Blake rose. The two shook hands. “Blake Pierce,” Blake said. “I’m a retainer of Lord Emilio Montoya.”
“You do look familiar,” Thierry Garcia said again.
“One of those faces,” Blake said. “Everybody thinks they know me. I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”
Thierry Garcia looked at him closely, then shook his head. “I’ve heard your name. Lord Valandraud is not pleased with you, nor your employer.”
“Lord Valandraud’s opinion is not one of my major concerns.”
Thierry grinned. “It should be. Lord Montoya has chosen to play a dangerous game.”
By now, Blake had heard this observation so often it seemed almost a cliché. Blake sighed. “I know that. So, does he. Apparently, climbing the social ladder in your country is a form of public entertainment.”
Thierry Garcia nodded. “There are representatives of many houses here tonight, both lesser and greater. All of these,
sometime in the past, have played the same game, and won. Those who have played and lost are now mostly forgotten. If the game goes against Lord Montoya, and you need to seek new employment, look me up.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Blake said. “I hope that won’t be necessary, but I will keep it in mind.”
A footman approached Lord and Lady Montoya and said something to them both. They were too far away for Blake to hear. Lady Montoya looked at the man quizzically, then arched a brow at her husband, whose lips twitched upward.
Thierry Garcia, noting Blake’s distraction, glanced at the Montoyas and grinned. “At the moment, if I were Lord Montoya, I would think twice about accepting random invitations from those who might not be his friends.”
Blake frowned. “As you say, Lord Montoya is playing a dangerous game. Such a game contains many moves: feints, gambits, traps for the unwary… It is much too late for him to back out, not unless he is willing to sacrifice all that he has gained.”
“Good luck, then,” Thierry said. “To both of you.” He inclined his head to Blake and walked away without another word.
Lord Montoya rose to his feet and offered an arm to his wife. They strolled from the room, with Blake, Graham and Devin following at a discreet distance. They wandered down a corridor lined with paintings of distinguished Randisi ancestors and soon arrived at a large room with mirrors on all four walls. Three tables stood in the center of the room, with two rows of chairs against the wall opposite the doorway. Two of the three tables were empty. Five large chandeliers, each holding twenty or more candles hung from the ceiling, throwing a low but steady light throughout the room. Five men sat around the third table, playing cards. Blake recognized none of these men, though Lord Montoya seemed to be acquainted with at least some of them.
Lady Montoya took a seat against the wall, extracted a small book from her reticule and began to read. Lord Montoya walked over to the table, where he was cordially greeted. He sat down. A servant handed Lord Montoya three stacks of round wooden chips, red, green and blue. One man, tall and thin, with long, nimble fingers, shuffled the cards and dealt five to each of the players.
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