“Now is the time to take Defalk, then, and you can reap the riches of its rebirth,” suggested Slevn.
“Poetry now? Riches of its rebirth? Your master is known for his turn of phrase. Did he suggest you use that phrase?”
“No, Lord Ehara.”
“You coined it? Then, coin no more phrases in the hearing of Lord Dencer. He might not take it well.” Ehara glances from the table to Slevn. “I must think about what you have suggested. Tell your lord I am strongly considering his proposal and I will inform him shortly after your return to Stromwer. You may go.” The lord pauses. “Who knows of this?”
“Only my lord and you, sire.”
“That is for the best.” Ehara nods, then extends his hand, which bears both a golden coin and a small sealed scroll. “These may speed your passage.”
“Thank you, Lord Ehara.”
Ehara waits until Slevn has left the study before he beckons to the officer waiting outside.
When the door shuts again, the Lord of Dumar turns to the lancer in the red uniform of Dumar. “The man in gray will be set upon by brigands or thieves when he reaches the Sudbergs—or if he talks to anyone who seems of import. Then the thieves will slay them both. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Good.”
The red-clad lancer departs, and Lord Ehara beholds the rain and clouds once more.
12
Anna pushed away the plate that contained but one scrap of meat and a crust of bread. She felt totally gorged, and yet she knew she’d be ravenous in another few hours—another few glasses, she mentally corrected herself, still trying to adjust to Erdean terms. Glasses instead of hours, deks instead of miles, except a dek was much closer to a kilometer.
Across the cleared space of the receiving-room work-table, Jecks took a sip of wine from his goblet, then spoke. “Were I to eat half what you do, Lady Anna, in a few weeks they could stuff me and serve me to all Elhi, and there would be leavings for the dogs.”
Hanfor, seated beside Jecks, finished a last scrap of cheese, and nodded in agreement with the older man.
“If I ate half what I’m eating, I’d die of starvation in two weeks,” Anna said dryly.
“I know. Your cheeks are still too thin.”
“I’m still paying for rebuilding that bridge, but it’s a good thing I did. The Fal is rising. No one would be able to ford it now, and probably not for the rest of the year, if ever.”
Jecks looked to the window and the gray clouds outside, then back to the table. His eyes did not quite meet hers when he spoke. “Lady Anna, much as you wish to help all, you cannot. You did rebuild the bridge, and it has taken half a season for you to recover. As you told the fosterlings, not even the most powerful sorceress in Liedwahr can do everything that needs to be done. Not even you can do all that needs must be done in Defalk or even in Falcor itself.”
Then who will? Anna wanted to ask, even as she answered, “That’s the problem.”
“All rulers have that difficulty, lady.” Jecks laughed, a short but warm sound. “That is why I grow increasingly glad that I am not a regent or a ruler.”
“Careful, I might just resign in your favor. After all, you are the grandsire of the heir.”
“No one would let you. They trust you more than they do me. They will let you kill yourself on their thoughtless behalf, but that is another kind of sheep.”
That’s always the way people treat the willing horse . . . or regent—flog her to death with overwork.
“We’re nearing spring, and I’m even more worried about the liedgeld, and especially about this lord Arkad.” Anna decided to change the subject slightly. “All the others have either made an effort or faced extraordinary difficulties.” She laughed. “The difficulties may or may not be real, but a prudent ruler should move cautiously in those cases, I think.” She turned to the handsome Jecks. “What do you think?”
“I doubt both Lord Arkad and Lord Gylaron of Lerona,” Jecks said slowly, “and Lord Dencer, as you know. The troubles of the others seem real enough, and all have made some effort except for Lord Vlassa’s heirs.” A wry smile crossed his face. “A regent should avoid conflicts between heirs unless you mean to kill all but one.”
Anna winced. “I’m not up for that.” Yet. “Gylaron’s effectively Dencer’s northern neighbor, isn’t he? I don’t care much for that. There seems to be a disproportionate number of southern lords who are reluctant to pay.”
“I had noted that before.”
“Arkad is the closest. Perhaps we should visit him.”
“You wish to remind him personally of his obligations?”
“None of my other reminders have worked, have they?”
Jecks shook his head.
“How many armsmen should I bring?” Her eyes went from Jecks to Hanfor and back again.
“As many as you can spare, I would say,” answered Jecks. “I would have your spells and instrument ready as you ride toward his gate.”
“I would that we had more archers,” added Hanfor.
“You think Arkad is likely to rebel?”
“If he has not paid his liedgeld, he has already rebelled,” said Jecks dryly. “Best you put an end to it quickly.”
“Do you think the other lords will regard any action against Arkad as too high-handed? Or me as the madwoman of Defalk?” asked Anna.
“Better to be thought headstrong and high-handed than weak.” Jecks touched his chin and the hazel eyes twinkled. “And those lords you worry about already say you are headstrong.”
In Defalk, having an opinion meant a woman was headstrong.
Anna took a swallow from her goblet. “Another week, if the roads don’t get worse?” She glanced to Hanfor.
The veteran nodded.
“Lady . . .” Jecks coughed.
Anna turned toward her local equivalent of a movie star.
“I might suggest that Jimbob be with us.” Jecks covered his mouth and coughed.
“To give an impression of friendliness—or to convey that the Regency is acting on his behalf?”
“Both, and to give him a greater understanding of how frail a lord’s loyalty can be.”
“Is it wise to have us all together?”
Jecks laughed. “It matters not. If you fall, so do we all.”
Hanfor nodded. “He must see things as they are, while he is still young enough.”
Anna wanted to wince, even as she recognized the truth of the two men’s observations, even as she wanted to protest that she was scarcely that important. Except, Lord knew how, she had become just that.
The door creaked ajar, and Cens peered inside. “Counselors Dythya and Menares, as you requested, Lady Anna.”
“In a moment,” Anna said. “I’ll ring.”
Cens nodded and closed the door.
“Dythya will never return to Elhi,” Jecks said. “Not since you have made her a counselor.”
“I needed someone to put Menares in his place, and I couldn’t keep ordering him to work with her.” Positions and prestige and titles were almost as bad in Defalk as they had been in academia, except in Defalk a lot more was at stake.
“And will you find someone to do that to me?” Jecks’ tone was somewhere between idle and playful.
“I already have. When I need her, Lady Essan will do quite nicely.”
“Ha! You are a dangerous woman.”
Anna doubted that. In order to stay alive, she’d done what had been necessary, and as a result, got stuck doing a very large job that she didn’t know nearly enough about. The one saving grace was that no one else alive knew the job, either. The bad part was that those who knew the job had died trying to do it.
The sorceress lifted the bell and rang, and the door opened. She waited until Menares and Dythya had seated themselves around the table.
“You sent word that we had gotten an answer from the Ranuan traders, the Exchange or whatever?”
“Yes, Lady Anna,” answered Dythya, half rising
from her seat and extending a scroll.
Anna took it. “What does it say?”
“They will extend credit to the southern lords for this crop year, and they hope that the debt can be resolved after harvest.”
“That means we have to come up with another thousand golds by next year at this time.”
Menares and Dythya nodded. Jecks frowned.
“Has there been any response to our scrolls and messages for artisans and smiths?”
That got two headshakes.
“It is early,” Dythya said.
“Very early,” Menares added. “Those who might seek another situation would not do so until the roads clear.”
Always, it was the roads, the damned roads. Anna shrugged. “Can you two write some messages for my signature to Birfels and the other southern lords noting that I’ve made the necessary arrangements for them to obtain seed grain on credit?”
“Who might the others be?” asked Menares smoothly.
Anna wanted to grin and smack Menares simultaneously. The former counselor to the late and unlamented Lord Behlem still tended to ensure that Anna spelled out anything that might reflect unfavorably on him later—a great tendency for an academic or a bureaucrat, but not exactly what she wanted. Still . . . it made her think.
“Lord Geansor, out of courtesy, although he probably won’t need it. Lord Dencer, Lord Sargol, and Lord Gylaron. Maybe, the other lord down there—Arien . . .”
“Tybel,” supplied Dythya.
“Thank you. That should do it.” Anna pursed her lips. “And in the scrolls to Sargol, Dencer, and Gylaron, add a few words about how this should help in ensuring that they pay the remainder of the liedgeld they owe.”
Jecks smiled. Hanfor grinned.
“Is that all, Lady Anna?” asked Dythya.
“For now,” Anna answered. “Thank you.”
“By your leave?”
The sorceress and regent nodded.
After the two had left, Jecks spoke. “The reminder to the three lords will be helpful. You are telling them that you’ve done them a service and suggesting that they’ve failed in their obligations without quite directly saying so. You would not be disturbed if I sent out a few scrolls to some of those more friendly to the Regency, pointing this out along with some other news?”
“Heavens no.” Anna wished she’d thought of that.
Hanfor shifted his weight in his chair, and Anna suppressed a smile. The senior armsman still wasn’t much for meetings.
“I don’t think that there’s anything else right now.” She rose with a bright smile. “Thank you both.”
“My pleasure,” said Jecks, warmly enough to have meant it.
“Thank you, lady,” said Hanfor.
After they left, Anna shook her head. The sparks were there with Jecks, but the situation wasn’t exactly wonderful. Not when he was the grandsire of the underage Lord of Defalk for whom she was regent. And, more important to her, there were so many differences between their backgrounds. He wasn’t the chauvinist that most of the lords of Defalk were. He actually respected women of talent—or seemed to—but Defalk was still a macho culture.
Before long, once again, the door to the receiving room opened, and Barat gingerly eased his head around the heavy oak. “There is a messenger with a scroll from Lord Hryding, Lady Anna. He insists he must deliver it personally.”
“I’ll see him. Have Giellum and Blaz accompany him in.” Much as she disliked it, there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks, even with a messenger from Hryding, who had supported her when she had been recovering from her first battle.
A dark-haired young man dressed in leathers and a pale green sash with an empty sheath at his belt entered the receiving room and bowed. “A scroll from Lord Hryding, lady.”
Blaz and Giellum stood behind him, hands on blade hilts.
“Thank you.” Anna struggled to remember his name. Why did she have so much trouble with names? She’d ridden all the way from Synope to Falcor with the young man, and the name, on the tip of her tongue, still escaped her.
“How has it gone with you since our ride?” she asked. “And the others?”
“Well enough, thank you, Lady Anna.” The young armsman smiled. “Stepan is in charge of the levies, and Markan is over all the armsmen now that Gestatr has returned to Ebra.”
“Returned to Ebra?” Anna puzzled through the names, then almost nodded. Fridric had to be the younger armsman before her. Stepan and Markan had been the two others who had escorted her to Falcor when she had pledged her support to the Prophet—before he had turned on her.
“His family served the Lord of Synek before the Dark Ones, and the youngest son has returned. Synek was Gestatr’s home,” Fridric explained.
“I see.” Anna nodded and lifted the scroll slightly. “If you would wait, Fridric, while I read this?”
The young armsman nodded.
Anna broke the seal and began to read silently. “Regent Anna, Lady and Sorceress, and Protector of Defalk . . .”
Anna paused. She definitely didn’t like messages that opened with flowery titles. They generally meant bad news of some sort, like memoranda from Dieshr had, with all the flowery praise at the beginning and lousy course assignments or forced moves from a desirable voice studio to a less desirable one.
It is with deep concern that I am writing you at the behest of my consort, the Lord Hryding. He has fallen gravely ill, and beseeches that, should he not recover, you will continue to honor his requests regarding Secca and the preservation of Flossbend and the lands of Synope. . . .
While we all pray and trust in my lord’s return to health, in the interim, I am administering the holding in his interests, and request, in deepest admiration, your support in this endeavor. Both Jeron and I stand ready to do your bidding and that of our lord.
The seal, on maroon wax, was that of Lord Hryding, but the signature read, “Anientta, his consort and servant.”
Anna let the scroll close and glanced to Fridric. Too many things, far too many, were making a sense she didn’t like. Markan, while intelligent and honest, was still young for a lord’s senior armsman, and probably those older had been among the ones who had perished at the Sand Pass. Fridric had been sent because he knew Anna, but also because he was loyal to Hryding. She hoped that Stepan and Markan didn’t meet with some form of “illness” or “accident.” And Anna had never trusted or liked Lord Hryding’s consort, especially the way Anientta had spoiled her sons while almost turning out poor Secca in rags. That had been one reason why Anna had invited the little redhead to Falcor as a fosterling, at an age far younger than Anna herself thought generally advisable.
Anna lifted the bell and waited for a page. This time the sandy-haired Barat peered into the receiving room.
“Barat, would you find the young lady Secca? I believe she should be at lessons with Tirsik in the stable.”
“You wish to see her now?”
“Yes.”
Barat bowed and vanished.
“And how has the past year treated you, Fridric?” Anna looked back to the young armsman.
“It has been quiet, Lady Anna. Most quiet until Lord Hryding’s illness.”
“Do you have a consort?” Anna had an idea.
“Oh, no, lady. I am much too young for that.”
“And what about Stepan and Markan?”
“They don’t, either. Calmut does. He has not forgotten you, lady.” A smile played across Fridric’s face.
“I imagine not.” Anna had been forced to soak the sour young armsman with buckets of cold water applied through sorcery in order to get access to Lord Hryding—and now it sounded like Hryding was dying. “What about young Jeron?” Anna watched Fridric’s face closely.
“Jeron? He is Lord Hryding’s heir.”
The tightness of Fridric’s face and words told Anna enough. The armsman didn’t much care for Jeron.
“Young Secca has been here, you know,” Anna added.
“
She was a sweet child,” Fridric said, his voice even, but without an edge.
“She has been sweet here, as well, and she seems very bright.”
The door opened, and Barat peered in.
“Fridric? Would you wait outside for a moment?” asked Anna, before turning to Barat and standing. “After the armsmen leave, please have Secca come in.”
Fridric nodded and bowed. “Of course, lady.”
Anna waited as the armsman stepped out, followed by her guards, and, after a moment, the petite redhead stepped gingerly into the receiving room.
“You sent for me, Lady Anna. Have I displeased you?” Secca looked almost ready to cry, and Anna was reminded that the child was barely ten, and that Secca wouldn’t have been at Falcor except for Lord Hryding’s plea, and the debt Anna owed him for his early support.
“No, Secca, you haven’t displeased me or anyone. You have been very good, and I’ve enjoyed your being here.” Anna paused, wondering how she should break the news. “I’ve just received a scroll from your mother.”
“I saw Fridric. He didn’t come for me, did he?” The redhead went to her knees. “Please don’t send me home, Lady Anna.”
Anna stepped around the table. “You may stay at Falcor so long as you wish. At least while I’m regent,” she added. “But that was not the message. Your father is sick. He’s very sick.”
For a moment, Secca stared at Anna, silently. After a moment, the girl’s eyes misted. Then tears welled up and oozed down her cheeks, and she began to shiver.
“I’m sorry.” Anna stepped forward and hugged the child. “I’m sorry, Secca.”
“Poor Papa . . . poor Papa . . .” Secca kept repeating the words.
“Poor Papa”? Does she suspect what I suspect? Of her mother? Anna managed to keep from shaking her head. After a time of holding the redhead, she finally asked, “Do you want to go home?”
Secca shivered more violently, shaking her head against Anna’s shirt and sash. “Papa . . . he said I should stay with you. I should stay even if times are bad. Will you let me stay?”
The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle Page 9
