I turned to Ring for the last time. "If I gave up, if I became just like you, I'd still not be a Justice."
Chapter Fifteen
Talion: Entente
The journey to the Hamisian capital, Seir, took two days. We set a deliberately slow pace expressly for the people along the route. Word spread quickly that the mountain leopard had been taken, and the peasants wanted to see the nobles returning triumphant to the capital.
We stopped at every village on the Kings' Road and gratefully accepted the simple gifts of bread and wine offered to us. I was more than pleased to see the King take only one symbolic loaf and a solitary cup of wine from the peasants, then offer the thanks of his whole company for their generosity. His action forestalled his entourage from descending on each village like a plague of locusts and eating everything in sight.
The people's devotion to their monarch was painfully plain to see on their faces when they saw him or reached out to touch him. More than one daub-and-wattle house had been painted to resemble the mountain leopard's pelt, and legion were the children held high by parents so the King could touch a hand or forehead. Everywhere we traveled the adoring crowds shouted prayers to Shudath for the health, prosperity, and longevity of the King and his children.
At one time such displays would have revolted me. These were the people who swelled the ranks of his army when Hamisian troops marched into Sinjaria. I should have hated them, but I found my enmity directed more to the shadowy nobles who plotted to kill the King and, once they'd martyred him, use his memory to incite the people and lead them on another war of conquest.
I turned in my saddle to watch noble faces and tried to imagine who wanted the King dead, but before I could select a likely culprit, Grand Duke Fordel edged his horse in beside me and cleared his throat. "Lord Nolan, a moment of your time, if I might?"
I nodded easily. I liked the older man, and respected him for shaming the other nobles into assaulting the warren. I'd been told by the Grand Duke's personal body servant that after I disappeared into the hole the Grand Duke reviled the nobles for their cowardice. "And what will you answer when asked, 'Where were you when our King was in peril!?' " the servant reported his master as shouting. Then the Grand Duke drew his own dagger and leaped into the hole. Slowly the nobles followed him and came to our rescue.
"Lord Nolan," he began timidly, "the accounts are unclear as to what part my son played in my nephew's rescue. If I could trouble you to recount it from your point of view..."
I read the desire in his eyes to know his son was indeed brave and courageous. His love for Patrick, offered freely even though he did not fully understand his son, was more than obvious. Gladly I assured him that without Patrick's quick thinking and sword skill the King would now be in the Mother-Queen's belly.
At tale's end the Grand Duke slipped back in the procession, and only approached me once more for clarification on a few points. By the time I answered all his questions the caravan reached a perfect spot to camp. Again Fordel thanked me, then took his leave to organize the camp.
I quickly found Count Patrick and helped him and his servants erect his pavilion. Earlier Patrick learned I had no servants or tent, and despite my assurances that I was quite content to sleep beneath the stars between some blankets, he insisted I share his tent. He read my reluctance and suggested it would be best for "my" leopard, so I surrendered and accepted his offer.
I tossed my blankets on a wood and canvas cot, then turned to Patrick. "By the way, I've forgotten to return this to you." I reached into the pouch of slingstones on my belt and fished out the gold ring that led me in the right direction within the warren. I held it out and dropped it into his hand.
Count Patrick beamed, wiped it on his tunic, and worked it onto his right ring finger. "You must know, Nolan, I thought dropping this ring was the last act I would ever perform in this life." He sat on his cot, reached over to lift the kitten into his lap, and scratched him behind an ear.
I lay back on my cot and laughed. "Imagine my surprise at finding jewelry in a Dhesiri tunnel. Using your spurs to make tracks was brilliant."
The Count's reply was cut off by a servant bringing in a bowl of mare's milk. He set it down and Patrick dipped a finger into it. He raised the finger to the cat's mouth and the kitten licked. Patrick then set the kitten down and let him lap the milk up. His hands free, he pulled a dulcimer into his lap and hammered out a few chords.
"Has my father been after you to tell him everything about the battle?" He played a martial tune with a proper marching rhythm to it. He devoted more concentration to his song than to my reply.
I nodded and laughed silently when he shook his head with resignation. "He asked, I told him you saved the King."
The song shifted to the Hamisian anthem and he shrugged. "I had no choice. Until Zaria is crowned, I am in line for the throne."
I frowned sat forward and propped myself up on my elbows. "You sound as if that is a problem. You do not want the throne?"
The music collapsed into a sour clash of notes. Patrick looked up in surprise at me and rested a hand on the dulcimer's strings to quiet them. "Take the throne and have to deal with people at court?" He shook his head vehemently. "Not if I can avoid it! I'd rather serve as Ambassador to the Dhesiri Mother-Queen than sit on the throne." Then he paused and looked at me with narrowed eyes. "Of course you do not really know what life at court is like, do you? I mean to say I understand you have not long been acknowledged a noble."
I shook my head and sighed. "I have been called a bastard many times, but that has to be the most polite phrasing I've ever heard." We both laughed. "However, your observation is correct. I have not spent a great deal of time at court."
Count Patrick settled back, picked up the hammers, and began to play again. "There are two types of people at court." A high and low note echoed from the dulcimer to represent each type. "The first comes to ask the King for favors," high note, "the second comes to demand them." He punctuated the second point in his lesson with a low, ominous note. "And both types form alliances or conspiracies to get what they want when they want it." Again the dulcimer produced a harsh din of contrasting notes.
The leopard kitten rolled over on his back, snarled at the sound, and batted at a thread hanging from Patrick's pants. We both laughed.
"So, Count Patrick, I take it you try to avoid both sets of people?" The Count's remarks, and my personal impression of him, removed him from my list of possible masterminds plotting to kill the King. In addition to his disgust with courtiers, if he desired the throne he'd have arranged his cousin's death well before the coronation to avoid any regency he could not control. But, while not a suspect, he had knowledge of the court and individuals that could help me narrow the field, and would increase my chances for success. The Count nodded his head and concentrated on a simple tune that carried different lyrics in a half-dozen nations. "You have it right, I avoid court as much as possible. Avoiding the conspiracies, on the other hand, is more difficult." He looked up at me with a serious expression on his face. "Conspirators assume that if you are not with them, you are a sworn enemy."
I paused and reached down for the kitten. The beast snarled and curled up in my hands. He sank sharp teeth into my thumb and tried to gnaw it off, but I felt no pain—actually it tickled. "So are there so many conspiracies that you can't avoid them all?"
The Count smiled. "You will find out for yourself, Lord Nolan. Of course, it is possible that you already belong to the Sinjarian group that wants to see Duke Vidor wed Princess Zaria and win freedom for his nation."
"Not me. You must remember I'm newly come to my station."
"Nolan, that will make no difference to the schemers." He thought for a moment, then smiled. "You saved the King's life so you have a certain influence with him. You could be advanced by the Sinjarian faction so the King would repay his debt to you with your homeland's sovereignty. Or"—he stopped playing and rubbed his chin with his left hand—"Keane could win your suppor
t and use you as an example of a loyal Sinjarian subject to the Crown."
I stroked the kitten's fur and he slowly dropped off to sleep. I could feel his heart beating beneath my hand and I smiled unconsciously.
"Have I found you out, Nolan?"
Patrick's question brought me back to reality. "No, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not part of anything. And," I added sincerely, "I'd like to void any entanglements."
The flame-haired noble smiled. "If you want to do that, seriously, I would be more than glad to have you as company. A day or two being seen wandering about with me and everyone will know you are beyond their ability to manipulate." He started to play again as I nodded in agreement. "It will not make the plotters happy, but they will live despite their discomfort."
"Joining them is the only thing that pleases them?"
The Count wrinkled his nose with distaste. "No, you could do what Duke Vidor does, if you had his position."
I frowned and shook my head. "What is his method for dealing with the courtiers?"
Patrick sighed and hammered out a complex tune where each hand had a different rhythm and key. "He curries favor with each by promising to be faithful to all their demands. I think he sees it as a game, and it is common knowledge that he plays everyone off against each other. So, while everyone has a plan to work with him if he supports them, most ignore him and treat him like the fop he is."
The mention of Vidor seemed to anger Patrick, and his tune picked up volume and tempo while he spoke, so I let him calm himself before I spoke again. "Duke Vidor plays the weathercock and favors the direction of the strongest storm on the horizon."
Count Patrick nodded and his playing returned to a simpler tune. "I assume you have gathered I do not like the Duke?"
I nodded slightly. "I had noticed something passing between you back in the warren, and I don't think I've seen you speak to him since we won our way back to the surface."
Patrick smiled. "It is not that I hate him, because I do not, really. It is more that I pity him because he believes, or dreams more correctly, of getting more power than he has. He is, in reality, a newer breed of ulSinjaria. He has no power or control, only a title and the desire to have more than that."
"That was not pity I heard when you chided him about wanting to speak with the Dhesiri Queen." I gently lifted the sleeping cat from my lap, placed him on the cot behind me, and leaned forward. I suspected Patrick would tell me the tale behind their rivalry, but I also sensed he wanted the story kept quiet. My shoulder burned in sympathy.
Patrick set the dulcimer aside and leaned toward me. "When Vidor arrived in Seir he was all of fifteen years old, but full of pride and anger. I am four years his senior, but a Count is an inferior rank in peerage. He demanded preferential placement to me in ceremonies of state, and while I did not care, my cousin absolutely forebade it.
"Vidor protested, 'But I am a Duke, my lord,' and my cousin replied, 'You may choose to stand below my cousin by your choice, Duke Vidor, or you will stand below him by my order.'
"The Duke chose to stand below me on his own."
I chuckled and sat back. "I will remember that, my Lord Count."
Patrick fixed me with a more serious look. "Then remember this as well, my Lord Nolan. The difference between the warren and court is that in the warren you know who your enemies are."
* * *
By noon of the next day we rode to within four miles of the capital just as the rain started to pour. The drops came thick and heavy. They reduced the road to a muddy flood and dampened everyone's spirits—except those of the peasants who still lined the road to watch us pass.
Count Patrick rode up alongside me. The leopard kitten peeked out from his cloak. "The rain will be no good for this beastie so I thought you and I should ride ahead to the Castel and get him to drier quarters." He looked back toward the King. "My cousin needed a messenger sent to the Castel to ready your rooms so I volunteered. You get to ride as my guard."
I nodded and we let our horses canter off toward the capital. A mile or two away from the caravan the rain slackened and died, but we saw no reason to slow our ride. We rode over the last rise, the Seir Valley rim, before descending into the valley itself, and there I got my first look at the Hamisian capital.
The valley started narrow where we halted at its western end, and spread out as it sloped down to the Runt Sea. Wooded stands of pine and maple and bright stone or wood buildings formed a patchwork covering the mountainsides that defined the valley. The woodlands divided the city into definite wards and, in that way, served both utilitarian and aesthetic services.
A thin canopy of clouds hung above the valley. Lances of sunlight filtered between dark thunderheads and brilliantly illuminated whole buildings and districts in the city. High on the southern valley wall, pinned in place by a sunbeam, stood Castel Seir.
The Castel walls were larger than the Siegewall in Talianna and built of seven towers with thick granite walls running between them. The keep they enclosed—a tall building built into the mountainside—had a tower in each of the four corners and a slate gray roof. It was built of white marble and reflected the sunlight enough to dazzle my eyes. As if a giant squatting amid a toy village, the Castel rose impressively up from the buildings gathered below it.
Even Patrick paused for a moment before riding into the valley. "It'll take your breath away more than once, my friend."
We descended into the valley and I followed Patrick, riding hard on his heels up the winding causeway to the castel's entrance. He identified himself to the guards and vouched for me. We rode across the cobbled courtyard to the stable and turned our horses over to the stableboys. Outside the stable a balding little man waited for us.
"Ah, Halsted, this is Lord Nolan ra Yotan." At Patrick's introduction the man bowed his head to me, and I to him. We moved across the courtyard as Patrick spoke and headed directly for the keep. Patrick fished the kitten from beneath his cloak and held him out. "And this is his cat."
Halsted took the kitten gingerly and cradled him snugly to his chest. The kitten immediately bit a finger but Halsted only reacted with a smile.
Patrick continued. "King Tirrell wants Lord Nolan housed in the Wolf Tower suite. Yes, I know the Earl of Cadmar and his brood are there, but this man saved the King's life so the Earl himself insisted upon the change. How could the King show him less courtesy? Send two boys down to get our things and select one of them as Lord Nolan's personal servant because he brought no staff with him."
Patrick stopped inside the vaulted entrance hallway of the keep. Somehow Halsted had managed to understand all the instructions and busily dispatched other servants to complete them. Patrick watched him leave and smiled. "Actually, had my cousin died, I think Halsted could have kept the kingdom running all by himself."
Count Patrick unfastened his cloak and tossed it toward a youth waiting behind him. "There is only one way to get the wet cold out of your bones," the Count announced, "wet heat."
The servant relieved me of my cloak and I followed Patrick back toward the southern corner of the keep. At the base of the Wolf Tower he opened a door; we descended a curved stairway and emerged deep within the castel's foundation. The map I'd seen of Castel Seir noted this level existed, but contained little or no information about it. That puzzled me, because Patrick acted as if he was about to show me a state secret, yet the lack of description on the Talions' map suggested that whatever lay down here had no military value whatsoever.
Patrick yanked open an ironbound oak door and a cloud of steam rolled into the hallway. He pulled me into the room quickly and hastily shut the door behind us. "Behold, Lord Nolan, this is my court."
We stood in a vast cavern that looked, on most of the walls and ceiling, as if it had not been modified by the hand of man. The torches ringing it cast flickering shadows into half-hidden alcoves cut into the walls, but did little to dispel the snug, warm murkiness of the chamber. For the most part sand covered the floor except at the doo
rway, just beyond a trough I guessed was meant for washing feet off, where smooth wood heralded the return to the normal world outside the door.
The steam came from two of the three pools I could see. Heavy curtains cut off two other pools—one hot and one cold—from view. The curtains hung from a rope running the length of the room and provided privacy for the person soaking and splashing beyond them. Patrick indicated we should be quiet and walked to an alcove to remove his clothes. I passed beyond him, sat in the next alcove, and disrobed.
By the time I'd doffed my clothes, Patrick had already sunk himself up to his neck in the nearest steaming pool. I suspected he was used to the heat so I slipped into it carefully, and was glad I did. It was hot at first, but my body quickly got used to it and I settled back against the naturally smooth sides of the basin.
After twenty minutes of peaceful soaking that reminded me of the Shar Chamber in Talianna, I broke the silence. "You were right, the wet heat has soaked the rain chill right out of my bones." I held my hands up and looked around the room. "I envy you your throne room."
Genuinely pleased, Patrick smiled a big grin. "I spend so much time down here my father believes I have boiled any and all sense from my head. That belief was behind his need for you to reassure him I am really a man in the martial context he understands."
"At least, my Lord Count, your father is concerned for you. To mine I was nothing more than a footnote in an autobiography." I lowered myself completely underwater to cut myself off from Patrick's hearty laughter. The warm water enfolded me like a blanket and relaxed saddle-sore muscles. Torchlight sparkled on the water's surface and danced like stars in a summer-night sky. I could have stayed below forever had not my lungs protested and demanded a return to more hospitable an element.
I surfaced to discover Patrick kissing a sheet-swathed woman. Her dusky skin, not quite black enough to mark her a full-blooded Sterlosian, did suggest she had kin from that nation. Her unbound, jet-black hair hung just above her shoulders in a style more common here in the East than in the West. Despite the bulky sheet gathered around her, she appeared slender and attractively proportioned.
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