Serpentine (The Beggar's Ride Book 1)

by Tim Stead

  “The dukes will not permit it,” Biali said. “There will be war.”

  “There will be war anyway. Neither Falini nor Derali will stand idly by while the other consolidates his position as king, and that is to our advantage. You can see that, I am sure.”

  Biali nodded. It made sense. The dukes would weaken each other, and if his colonel kept them out of the heat of the war they would be in a position to influence events.

  “Do you have others?” he asked.

  “You will understand that I am not prepared to name names, but you are not alone in fearing for our nation.”

  He nodded. He would get no more than that from this man at this time. Their coalition must be built of secrets if it was to be built at all. If the king or either of the dukes discovered through their spies who was involved then what had already happened in Afael would seem trivial compared to the bloodbath that would follow. It might follow anyway. Some of his friends believed that a bitter and divisive civil war was now inevitable, but Biali dared to believe that it could be controlled, and that Afael could emerge from the turmoil a better place.

  “I am inclined to your way of thinking,” he said. “We will meet again and discuss this further. Send a message the same way when you have something more to tell us.”

  “I will sign all messages with the letter J,” the man in the boat said. “So that you know they are from me and not a trap.” He tapped the oarsman on the shoulder, and the man unhooked the boat from the pier. It quickly passed downstream into the darkness, and the last thing Biali saw was the man who had named himself ‘J’ raising his hand in a gesture of farewell.

  So it had begun.

  9 The King

  Golt was still beautiful. Beyond the walls of the castle in the streets of the city the towers still stood in gilded glory and the banners still fluttered in the colourful wind. Within the walls of the king’s citadel there was no shortage of food, no sign of dissent, and the gloriously attired guards still patrolled the walls and stood in the hallways like statues.

  King Degoran was not in the least deceived.

  Like all men of power in Avilian he had spies, and men who swore their oaths to him, loyal men. He knew that his kingdom was troubled, and it worried him.

  Degoran’s problem, if he could be said to have one in the luxurious world of Golt, was that he was little more than a ceremonial figurehead. The real power in the land dwelled at Bas Erinor, and that city’s duke was an imbecile.

  The king had his own regiment, but it was a mere thousand men, and in the context of Avilian military might it was a very small regiment indeed. Bas Erinor could summon twenty thousand men at a week’s notice.

  How this situation had come about was lost in history, but Avilian had been fortunate with its soldier dukes. For centuries the right men had been in that seat when trouble beset the kingdom. But this time it seemed that luck had deserted them.

  Duke Alwain was a fool, and his son no more than a child. Even his father, the late and unlamented Duke Sarain, had been more of a follower than a leader, pushed and pulled by the currents of political fashion.

  Degoran had power. In theory. If he used it, it might prove to be no more than an illusion. All he needed to do was degrade Alwain’s blood and choose a new duke and the problem would be half solved. Unfortunately the other half might be a civil war. Degoran did not think that Alwain was a man likely to accept demotion. The man might be a fool, but he was proud and greedy. So the king had done the only thing he could think of to ease his burden. He had written a letter to the Wolf.

  It was a desperate measure. He could not be certain that his messenger had reached Col Boran and no idea how his message would be received. He had never met Narak. Nobody that he knew had so much as set eyes on the Wolf. All Avilian power concentrated at Bas Erinor, and the servant’s of the god mage would be found there if anywhere in his kingdom. As far as he knew Narak had not been in Avilian during his lifetime.

  Even so the word had been passed down the generations that the Wolf was a friend of peace and justice, a terrible enemy, and a legendary sage who dispensed wisdom with sharp steel.

  It was a measure of Degoran’s state of mind that he was willing to plead with such a figure. Narak could tear his kingdom apart.

  “Lord King?”

  Degoran roused himself from his reverie. Sanisse, his high steward, had entered the room.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “A delegation from Berash, Lord King. We were expecting them, but they are early. Will you see them today or tomorrow?”

  “What hour is it?”

  “Three past midday,” Sanisse replied.

  “And will they be tedious, Sanisse?”

  The steward smiled. In truth Degoran thought of the man more as a friend and advisor than a servant. Sanisse had earned his trust. “It is possible, Lord King, but I think you will find them refreshing. The Berashi’s are a straightforward people, and these have the look of military men.”

  “Then I shall see them today.”

  “I will send in your dressers, Lord King. The Berashis will be waiting in the Swan Room.”

  Sanisse left and Degoran took the moment of peace, before the dressers arrived, to look out of the window. He could see the ocean, a thin sliver of endless blue below the sky, broken here and there by the line of trees in the garden and the few towers that lay to the castle’s south. He took a deep breath.

  It would be so easy to do nothing. The kingdom would probably hold together for another twenty years, and then he would probably be dead and it would be someone else’s problem. His son’s, actually.

  Degoran had been a late breeder by royal standards. He had married a younger woman and fathered a child in his forty-first year, and now that child was seventeen, a fine young man, he thought, with a weakness for heroics. Chillarin was the same age that the hero Tilian Henn had been when he went to war, a year younger than the legendary Duke Quinnial when he had assumed his rank. It seemed impossible that men so young could do so much.

  No, he must act. If his son was to be a king of Avilian he would endeavour to make it a kingdom worth inheriting.

  The dressers came, and for a while he was their vassal, did as he was told until his splendid robes were fitted, tied, buttoned and bowed into place.

  He dismissed them and made his way, escorted by a trio of door guards, to the Swan room.

  It was one of three audience chambers, and nominally the most intimate of the three. Only a few dozen people could gather there in any comfort, but it was more than equal to this gathering.

  Degoran paused outside the door while a guard stepped through and whispered a word to Sanisse. The steward announced him and he stepped through the door, ignoring the small band of men gathered in the body of the hall while he took his seat and settled his robes around him. When he was satisfied he turned and looked at them.

  There were four of them – a small delegation by royal standards – and Sanisse had been correct, as usual. They looked like soldiers.

  “Lord King,” Sanisse said. “May I present Count Leon Tragil, Colonel Advisor to the King of Berash.”

  “Tragil,” Degoran said. “I know the name. Are you related to the man who fought with Cain Arbak at Fal Verdan?”

  Tragil stepped forwards and bowed respectfully. He was a thick set man, grey haired and square jawed with bright blue eyes. His bulk was only thinly disguised by an ornate padded tunic of silver and green worked with dragon patterns.

  “He was my grandfather, Lord King,” Tragil said.

  “Worthy blood indeed. What do you want from me, Count Tragil?”

  “It is a delicate matter, Lord King,” Tragil said.

  “Am I to assume offence before you give it, count?”

  “Very well, I shall be blunt. Your people are fleeing your kingdom. In the last month alone we have had five hundred men women and children cross the borders into Berash, give or take a dozen, and we would like it to stop.”

&nbs
p; There had been some whisper of this, but Degoran had hardly been able to believe it. Avilians were fleeing to their poorer neighbour in search of justice and a better life. He glanced at Sanisse, whose face had assumed a stony stillness.

  “Five hundred, you say?” And what could he say to that? The Berashi before him knew that he was no more than a figurehead, that he wielded no authority over the eastern nobles.

  “As near as we can count it,” the man replied.

  “Have you raised the matter with Bas Erinor?”

  “By letter and envoy, more than once, Lord King.”

  So he was the last resort, though he did not think they would have high expectations.

  “And?”

  “The duke has ignored our approaches.”

  Degoran sighed. It was just as he had thought. They would have gone to the eastern nobility first and been rebuffed, then to the duke, and now to him, hoping for nothing, but in their Berashi way it was just for the sake of thoroughness.

  The king leaned back in his chair and shared another look with Sanisse. The steward raised an eyebrow, but his face was grim. Degoran turned back to the Berashis.

  “These are hard times for the people of Avilian,” he said. “Harvests have not provided as much as is needed. My people are hungry. I cannot stop them from seeking a more comfortable life elsewhere, nor would I wish to.”

  Count Tragil took a step towards the throne, and the guards either side of the king rustled slightly, muscles tensing inside armour at the perceived hint of a threat.

  “May I be frank?” the count asked.

  Now we come to it, Degoran thought. I am to be berated by a minor nobleman from a foreign power for the poor management of my nation. He should really end the audience now, deny the man his chance to speak, but he was curious. Perhaps he could glean another phrase from the man’s invective to add to his next letter to Bas Erinor.

  “It is in your nature,” he told the Berashi. “As it is in mine to dissemble and pretend that nothing is amiss. Speak on.”

  Tragil seemed pleased by his words. “Lord King,” he began. “Your kingdom is afflicted by the same disease that has taken hold of Afael. Your dukes steal from your lesser nobles and they in turn steal from the poor. A man cannot plough and sow enough land to feed his family if his lord takes nine tenths of the harvest.”

  Degoran wondered at the restraint of the man. He himself would have used hotter words, but in essence the count spoke the truth. The kingdom was no poorer than it had been a hundred years ago, but the people suffered.

  He allowed the silence to stretch out. To be true to form he should now snarl back at the Berashis – how dare they insult his kingdom, his noble dukes, his fine people – but he was weary of the game.

  “You speak the truth,” he said. “But I am powerless to intervene. I have a few men, but the dukes have many more. If I act I will risk civil war, and how much more then will my people suffer?”

  The Berashi seemed taken aback by his honesty, but he smiled.

  “Lord King, I do not know if it is in your heart to trust your brother monarch, King Liral of Berash, but he has sent me with an offer, and a plan. If you would hear it in the presence of those in whom your trust is absolute, I shall speak it.”

  Well, well, Degoran thought, a plot. Was it possible for the king to commit treason, he wondered? He was sure that Bas Erinor would think so.

  10 The Messengers

  Cain stepped through onto the high terrace at Col Boran. It was instantly colder, and the sky was a paler blue, dressed with thin white clouds that rushed high above, shredded by the winds that scoured the peaks of the Dragon’s Back. There was no other sensation of change. It was exactly like stepping through a door.

  Cain bowed. Pascha and Narak were both here, sitting in comfortable chairs, the remains of a meal on a table between them. He was aware of Sheyani stepping through after him and the slight change in light and atmosphere as the doorway vanished.

  “Cain, Sheyani, come and sit,” Pascha beckoned them over and they both took seats at the same table. Narak poured wine for them. “You have news?” the god mage asked.

  “Some,” Cain replied. He told them about his summons to Bas Erinor, and handed her the duke’s letter. She accepted it but did not open it at once. She dropped it on the table beside her plate.

  “And how do you judge the duke?”

  Cain had long ago learned not to sugar-coat his words when speaking to the god mage. “He is arrogant,” he said. “And desperate, and not especially competent. He does not seem to understand what is happening in Avilian, nor Afael, but he is afraid of it. I do not think that he will respond well to advice. Things will be worse before they are better.”

  Pascha nodded. She picked up the letter and broke the seal. There was a brief silence while she read it. She then handed it to Narak.

  “He seems to be just as you say,” Pascha said. “He wants us to fix his problem, but does not know how. He thinks that imposing our will on Afael, or his will at any rate, will cure Avilian and force the people back into line.” She shook her head. “I cannot believe that this man is descended from Quinnial. There must be some unfaithful blood in the line.”

  Narak put the letter down. “What do you know of Afael?” he asked. “What is happening there?”

  “I know little, my lord,” Cain said. “We spent our time at Waterhill and Bas Erinor, and have no more than the common rumour when it comes to Casraes kingdom.”

  “Then tell us the common rumour.”

  “The people rose briefly in Afael city and were put down – some other towns as well. The dukes are using it as an excuse to challenge the king and there are incidents everywhere. There have been a few assassinations – minor officials and officers – and many executions. All agree that the trouble has only just begun.”

  “It is none of our affair,” Pascha said. “But I confess that I am interested in how this will play out. We have received a somewhat different letter from the King of Avilian. It also pleads for succour, but seeks to solve a different problem.”

  “How different, Eran?” Cain asked.

  “The Duke of Bas Erinor,” she replied.

  “Really?” Cain was surprised. “He wants to remove the duke?”

  “To degrade him,” Pascha said. “And put another in his place. He thinks it may cause a civil war and wants us to prevent that.”

  “It sounds a better plan,” Cain said. Pascha frowned.

  “Sheyani, you have been quiet. What do you think of all this?” Narak asked.

  Cain looked at his wife. She still wore her dark hair short in the Durander fashion and this, with her small size, made her look very young despite more than a century of marriage. She frowned.

  “I would be inclined to help the king,” she said. “I have not met him, though.” She looked at Pascha. “I understand that you do not wish to rule the kingdoms, nor interfere with them, but it seems to me that this is a case in which a word from you would allow the rightful authority of the king to pull Avilian back from the edge of disaster. Many people’s lives would be saved. It would be a good thing.”

  Pascha shook her head. “One step leads to another,” she said. “What if the duke calls my bluff, leads the army against the king? Should I then destroy the army, kill the duke? If I take one step must I not then take another, and another? Nothing good will come of it.”

  “The future is hidden,” Sheyani agreed. “But sometimes it is as evil to do nothing as it is to act.”

  Narak smiled. “She has a point, Pascha,” he said.

  “I can speak to the king if you wish it,” Cain said. “I will promise him nothing, but I will bring you his true words and character.”

  Pascha looked from one to the other. Cain could see that she did not want to permit him to go, but also that she wanted to know more. The urge to use power once it is possessed was almost irresistible, as Sheyani would no doubt tell him later.

  “I will regret this,” Pascha said w
ith a slightly twisted smile. “But I will send you to the king. Speak with him and measure him. Bring back his words.”

  Narak sipped at his wine. “I think I will go with him,” he said.

  “You?” Pascha stared at him. “Only if you promise not to start a war, and you keep that promise.”

  “No need to fret,” Narak said. “I will go unarmed, and it’s not as though anyone alive knows my face. I’ll play Cain’s servant. Nobody will even know that I was there.”

  Pascha laughed. “Even if you could play a servant, which I doubt, I do not think that Cain could play your master.”

  Cain shrugged. He agreed with Pascha. Narak was not known for his humility, and tended to be frank and open about any offence. Also Cain could not see them reversing the slope of deference between them.

  “Then I will go without a name, without a role – as Cain’s companion. Cain will speak to the king and I will observe.”

  Pascha looked at Narak, stared at him for a few seconds. It was a look that Cain could not read.

  “Go then,” she said. “I will not stop you, but Cain goes in my name. You go in your own.”

  11 A Dark Night

  Francis shipped the oars and waited, one hand on a rope holding fast to the bank. He wasn’t entirely happy that they were using the same trick twice, but there were so few ways in which you could meet potential enemies and be likely to escape if things went badly that it seemed inevitable. He could think of no alternative that would serve as well as this. Even so he was apprehensive.

  Johan sat facing him, looking over his shoulder towards a bridge no more than seventy paces downstream.

  It was midnight.

  Between the two men, resting in the bottom of the boat, was a crossbow. It was already cranked and a bolt rested against the string. Francis had only to pick it up, aim and pull the release. Johan had scorned the idea of taking it, but Francis didn’t like being completely unarmed.