by Glenda Larke
“Yes, what is it, Perie?”
“You said that we should look for mention of Dire Sweepers. Well, I found this. It’s about a hundred years old, a collection of reports to the Regal. All signed by a Yan Dyer. Spelled D-Y-E-R. They’re all dated and the first date is about fifty years before the last one.”
“He must have been a long-lived man.”
“They weren’t written by the same man. Different handwriting. Might as well compare a cat and a hog.”
“Ah. Now that is interesting. What are the reports about?”
“Mainly Horned Death outbreaks. Many years there were none at all. Then all of a sudden there were. All sort of hard to understand ’cause whoever was writing the reports, he didn’t want anyone to know what he’s talking about, ’cept the Regal. I reckon they be killing sick folk, but it doesn’t actually say that. Just that ‘their misery was brought to an end’, or ‘their illness terminated mercifully in a quick death’.
“Some reports have other stuff too,” he continued. “About twins dying of the Death. Why would they make special reports about twins? As if being a twin was important somehow. Then every now and then, they warn about midwives and clergy, ’specially witans of the Way of the Flow, warning the Regal about them, as if witans were encouraging the spread of the Horned Death. Doesn’t seem to make sense to me. Why would any of the clergy promote a plague?”
Gerelda’s spirits sank. It was beginning to make too much sense to her, and she didn’t like it one little bit. She said, “I don’t think they would. They might, however, try to stop Dire Sweepers from killing people who weren’t sick at all, and pretending it was because they had the plague.”
“The Sweepers did that? That’s… putrid.”
She smiled faintly. “What makes you think these reports have something to do with the Sweepers–other than the name Dyer?”
“One was written by a fellow who mentioned how proud he was to be a dire broom, sweeping away the rot for his liege lord just as his ancestors had done since the days of Aben and Bengorth.”
She sat back in her chair. Her heart started to pound. At last. Someone had made a mistake. This was the first indication she’d seen that the Sweepers dated back to the time of Bengorth’s Law. She began to smile.
“Is that important?” Perie asked.
“Bless you, Perie! It is indeed. Just the day before yesterday I came across a historian’s account of Bengorth’s ascent to the throne and his early reign. I’ve been struggling with it ever since because it’s written in old Lowmian. The writer mentions the names of two families who supported Bengorth Vollendorn of Grundorp in his seizure of the throne. One was a family called Voss from Grundorp. Voss is an ancient Lowmian word for a fox. One of the Fox family’s largest estates today is just outside Grundorp. And the other family name mentioned is one I’ve heard before too: Deremer. But do you know what this man’s first name was? Aben! Aben Deremer was Bengorth’s closest friend. There’s a noble family with the surname Deremer living in Grundorp today.”
He frowned, trying to follow the connection she was making.
“Perie,” she said, “you’ve placed the Dire Sweepers back in the same time period as the beginnings of the Fox, Deremer and Vollendorn family fortunes. If Bengorth Vollendorn wanted someone to do his dirty work, who would he turn to?”
“His best friend, Aben Deremer.”
“Exactly. There’s another and better connection to the Deremers, too. Not so long ago, a witan saw a man leading a band of Dire Sweepers and recognised him as a patron of Grundorp University. The Deremers are patrons of the university. It’s all coming together.”
“So Bengorth became the Regal. Aben Deremer founded the Dire Sweepers. And his other friend, Voss, or Fox, became a pitch-man? An ancestor of the Ardronese Prime? But how is that possible? Prime Valerian Fox is Ardronese Shenat!”
“Well, he says he is when it suits him, but his actions don’t support that. In the past family history, their personal names are neither Ardronese nor Shenat. Then they changed Voss into Fox and said they were Shenat, probably to further their ambition in Ardrone. Possibly they kept their respectable side to the fore in Ardrone, while their sorcerous activities were confined to Lowmeer. Until recently anyway.”
“What do they want?” Perie asked, puzzled. “All of them! The Prime, the Dire Sweepers? I don’t understand. They are already rich and powerful.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how to stop them, either. Let alone how to prove that Regal Vilmar supports the Dire Sweepers. Or what the present relationship is between Fox and the Regal.”
Perie held up a hand to stop her. “Someone’s coming,” he hissed.
“I wish I had your hearing,” she said, and she wasn’t at all surprised when the library door opened and a servant stepped in to tell Gerelda that the Regala desired her presence.
It’s the same every time I speak to her, Mathilda thought. She never actually tells me anything.
It was like a stately court dance they performed, just the two of them. She would probe and Gerelda Brantheld would gracefully avoid answering. She would try to trick the woman into being indiscreet, but Gerelda deftly deflected her questions, leaving her none the wiser.
The only difference this time was that Gerelda told her she and Peregrine Clary would soon be leaving.
“We’re going to Grundorp University,” she said, “where we have every hope there might be more written resources to help us solve your problem, your grace.”
Mathilda clutched her shawl around her shoulders. “I don’t know how long I can keep up the pretence of being a happy mother and attentive wife when I am so anxious, so sick with worry!” She shivered delicately. “I can’t sleep properly. I lie awake, night after night, imagining the worst–imagining my lovely beautiful boy growing into a monster…” Her shiver became an involuntary shudder, and she was aware of the irony: her pretence was not far from the reality of her feelings.
“It is so long since I had a good night’s sleep,” she whispered.
“Why don’t you ask a healer for a sleeping draught? I believe there are drops which—”
“How can I? I am the Regala! No one must suspect that there is anything wrong. If they know I can’t sleep they might wonder why. I am supposed to be a happy new mother of an heir.”
“I’ve heard there’s an apothecary in the castle. If you like, I’ll buy something from her and tell her it’s for me.”
“Would you?” She reached out to clasp her hand. “I would be so grateful.”
“I can do that today. I’ll bring it to you the same time tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”
She quelled the smile of triumph that hovered on her lips. “As much as you can persuade her to part with. If you are going away, I may have to make it last for months.”
A flash of concern passed across Gerelda’s face. “You will be careful, won’t you, Your Grace? I mean, don’t take too much at any one time.”
“No, of course not,” she said, with imperious indignation; then, when she guessed that Gerelda was sufficiently contrite, she added, “I have something else you could do for me. My Ardronese handmaiden, Sorrel Redwing. She was a friend, and then she left with–well, you know. I used to have a maid as well, whom I loved dearly and brought with me from Throssel, but she killed herself a while ago. Since then…” She sniffed. “I need someone I can trust. Someone I can ask to send a message for me to the Pontifect, for example. Or just someone who is not spying on me all the time! Could you perhaps ask the Pontifect if she could find me someone? Another handmaiden. If the Pontifect sent someone, then my horrible old ward’s-dame, the Regal’s cousin, would have to allow me to have her.”
“I can ask, certainly. I think it would be an excellent idea.”
A few minutes later, when Gerelda had gone, Mathilda relaxed and allowed herself a triumphant smile. Even a lawyer wasn’t a match for her when it came to manipulation.
23
A Prince Goes Hunting
Prince Ryce, only son of King Edwayn of Ardrone of the House of Betany, moaned in his sleep and kicked off the last of his blankets. In his dream, he’d been unable to build the King’s fleet in time for a summer sailing, but the ships left port anyway, possessing only one sail apiece. Even worse, their hulls had no protection against ship’s worm. In his dream, the fleet sank, not from ship’s worm but because spice beetles in the cargoes ate holes through all the hulls–and everyone turned on him with their blame and their fury. He tried to explain that the lack of copper on the outside hull would not have protected the ship from nasty little things burrowing through from inside, but no one listened.
For some inexplicable reason, he was on board one of the sinking ships, and he’d ended up being pulled into a rowing boat by Regal Vilmar, who berated him for selling him a wife who wasn’t pure and then beat him with an oak branch. After that, equally inexplicably, Mathilda appeared riding a horse through the waves and yelling that Prime Valerian Fox was an evil fox with horns. Only the horns weren’t like those of a goat or cow; they were the type of horns the heralds blew to signal an important occasion… and they were summoning up an army of soldiers with the plague.
He woke, sweating, breathing hard, into the silence of his bedchamber. No horns. No crash of waves, or an indignant sister. And, thank Va, no blasted Fox looking down his supercilious nose and making cutting remarks for which he could only think of suitable replies hours later.
The nightmare was over, but the fear remained.
He groaned just thinking about the horror of all the things going wrong in his waking life. Despite Lord Juster Dornbeck’s help with obtaining copper cladding, and despite Saker Rampion’s help with sourcing wood for the ships, the Ardronese fleet had not yet sailed. Lowmeer was far ahead of Ardrone in the race for spices. His father was furious and blamed him, which was grossly unfair as in the beginning the King had been the one who wouldn’t listen to advice about the importance of a merchant fleet.
None of that, though, would have mattered so much if only Edwayn had still been the ruler he once was: decisive, far-sighted and a good judge of men. Instead, aged only fifty, his mind seemed to be disintegrating.
The worst thing is the way he turns to Fox, Ryce thought. And I can’t understand why!
He rolled out of bed and considered going into the marital bedroom that adjoined his. But no, he was too agitated for desire, even with Bealina, as pretty as she was. He wished she could be more of… a companion. Someone he could talk to, as well as fuck. But Princess Bealina, so blistering young and over-awed, never had much to say about anything. And he was too tired and stressed to encourage her.
My fault. I should take the time to make her feel more at home.
Still, maybe she’d be more mature and confident now she had a son. He grinned with pleasure. A father! He’d secured the continuity of the Ardronese monarchy, and he was only twenty-two. Prince Garred of Ardrone, as lustily healthy as ever a baby could be. It felt good.
He walked to the window. The garden below was still in darkness, but the first dawn light was tingeing the sky. Outside the garden wall he could hear drunken singing. From their choice of songs, he guessed it was a group of young noblemen on their way home from a night of carousing and lovemaking. Not long ago, he would have been one of them. Now, though, that old life of his offered no enticement. Not even the new chambermaid with her come-hither smiles and her blouse deliberately loosened at the neck could tempt him these days.
He frowned thinking about her. Odd, really. Not long ago, a woman so obviously lascivious and ready to play would never have been allowed on the palace staff, but things were different now. The palace chatelaine had died, and the palace steward had suddenly descended into senility. After that everything had begun to change. The new staff were lax with their underlings.
The distant crying of a baby stirred him. He would have liked to go to his son, but there was no place for him in the nursery. He sighed, and decided to return to his bed.
Later that morning, after talking to the King, he walked down to the stables to enquire after the health and fitness of his hunters, and sent his pageboy to fetch Sergeant Horntail.
Ryce had been only a lad of twelve when the King had made the sergeant head of his son’s personal guard. At the time, Horntail’s duties had been mostly preventing a reckless young prince from breaking his neck doing something stupid. For years, he’d resented having his activities curtailed by the man and resented that Horntail had reported all that his young charge did to the King.
Gradually, over time, their relationship had changed. Horntail had begun to rescue the prince from the worst of his excesses without telling King Edwayn, until now–somewhat to the surprise of both–Ryce was actually asking advice from Horntail before he did something. More often than not, he followed it, too.
The sergeant came to a halt in front of him and, as was proper, bowed. “You wanted to see me, your highness?”
“Have you heard? The King wishes to go hunting tomorrow morning, early.”
“Will you be in attendance?”
“Yes. The master of the hunt will be preparing all that is necessary, but I wanted to inform you that I intend to take you and all your men with me. Please see to it that they are all suitably mounted.”
“It will be done, your highness.” If Horntail was surprised, he didn’t show it.
Ryce looked around to make sure no one was in a position to overhear their conversation. “I want you and your men to be especially vigilant during the hunt.”
Horntail nodded. “Of course. Is there a particular reason?”
At one time, he would have considered that question an imper tinence. Not now. “The King has not hunted for a year and barely rides a horse any more. But that’s not the only reason for my concern. Many of the King’s personal guard are not men of… experience. There have been so many deaths lately, and those who replaced them…” He let the words trail away because he had nothing specific to say. You couldn’t level accusations when the only reason you had was something as nebulous as “I don’t like them”.
“As you say, your highness. After the number of unexpected deaths among the King’s guard, it was hard to find local men of experience.”
Horntail packed a wealth of meaning into those few words, enough to make Ryce feel sick. He asked, attempting to sound unconcerned, “Do you know anything about the new men?”
“They don’t talk to us. Keep to themselves, they do. I did hear a… whisper that at least one came from a Fox manor.”
Ryce’s stomach turned over. “Ah. Horntail, whispers interest me. For example, I can’t help wondering what prompted the King’s desire to hunt tomorrow. A whisper that ended my curiosity on that matter would be welcome.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, your highness.”
When Horntail strode away sometime later, after they’d discussed the specifics of the hunt, Ryce was tempted to call him back, to tell him to take care of his own hide. He resisted the temptation, but when he thought of Horntail suffering an accident his fear burgeoned.
Returning to the barracks where his men were busy with their morning duties, Horntail drew one of them aside. “Orlo, am I right in thinking your sister’s son is the King’s cupbearer?”
“Aye, captain.” He snorted. “Right proud the family is of the lad, too.”
“And so they should be. Just as we are proud to serve the Prince. Not everyone has the right set of innards to be a soldier, Orlo! But listen carefully. I have an interest in what–or rather, in who influenced the King’s decision to go hunting. Find out if the lad heard aught on that matter.”
“Aye, sergeant.”
“Good. And remember, Orlo, watch your back.”
The man nodded soberly. They all knew there had been too many deaths among the King’s men, and Horntail’s ruling for the Prince’s men was strict: no one went anywhere alone. Ever. When one of the Prince’s guard went home to visit his wife, two guards
loitered at his door.
For the first time in his life, Ryce did not enjoy a hunt. The drumming of the hoofs around him, his mount rising to jump a fallen log, the blare of the horns, the yipping of the fellhounds scenting prey, the musty stink of a fox den: all the sights and sounds and smells and action that had once made his blood rush with the intense joy of living–suddenly they meant something different. Danger to his father. Fear for his King. Horror at the thought of how his life would change if his father died now, here, this day, in this place.
He didn’t know how to make sure King Edwayn lived through the day and his fear lurked behind his every action, in every word he spoke, with every thought he had. So many things could go wrong. Edwayn and the huntmaster would be in the lead, vulnerable. Everyone knew where the King’s favourite hunting route was; everyone knew which part of the woods they would enter. The forest was thick. An assassin could throw a spear or loose an arrow and never even be seen. Riders split up and scattered through trees pursuing different prey; a skilful huntsman among them could kill more than a pig and remain undetected in the resulting confusion.
And what about an unfortunate accident? A boar could turn on a rider without warning; a horse could put its foot in a hole or fall at a jump; some idiot could do something stupid that resulted in another coming to grief. Once King Edwayn had been able to look after himself; now he was ageing, slow, sometimes confused.
Ryce tried to stay with him throughout the hunt, but the King’s guards prevented his approach. He could never decide if it was done deliberately, but when some of them lagged behind, they slowed him down until several times he lost sight of Edwayn completely. To his unspoken relief, when he did catch up halfway through the morning, it was to find his father in fine fettle, speckled with blood, surrounded by his hounds, and boasting of the first major kill of the day, a half-grown boar.
