by Andre Norton
Kasarian shifted Moonbeam into the other man’s eagerly extended arms. “They shall be parted soon enough when he joins the training pack,” Kasarian said.
I followed close behind the pair of them through a narrow passage that opened out into a spacious courtyard. The Alizonder carrying Moonbeam darted aside beneath an archway leading back into the Kennels.
“Wolkor has served me as Hound Master for many years,” Kasarian observed to me. “I had to bribe his former master to secure his release, but I have found none better at tending whelping bitches. You can judge his prowess by the excellent condition of my pack.”
I do not know how I endured the next hour. Like most nursling animals, Moonbeam had possessed—to some limited extent—the attraction of vulnerable helplessness. To be forced now to survey the grown hounds with every appearance of approval made my flesh crawl.
Having restored Moonbeam to his mother’s custody, Wolkor paraded before me individuals, braces, triples, and surging packs of hounds. My worst memories from the Dales war rushed back into my mind as the thin-flanked, ghostly white bodies strained against their leashes, weaving their snake-like heads from side to side, snapping and snarling. Whenever Kasarian bellowed some encomium above the din, I nodded appreciatively. I had to believe that the hounds accepted me as an authentic Alizonder, for their vicious exuberance was not directed in any corporate attacks on me.
Finally, as I was beginning to feel giddy from the dust, noise, and peculiar odor of the hounds, Kasarian called to Wolkor, “We shall distract you from your duties no further. I look forward to the whelping!”
Taking my arm, Kasarian led me back through the twisting passageways into the castle. “You did very well, lady,” he murmured, when we were safely alone in one of the castle’s endless corridors. “Volorian himself could have looked no wiser—except he would have forcefully evaluated every hound. I had to explain your lack of voice. Wolkor is convinced that you are a famed hound breeder.” That obviously ridiculous assumption made Kasarian smile. “You may yet deceive Gurborian, lady—I begin to think that you may!”
Gennard was waiting for us outside an intricately carved door in one of the upper halls. The bedchamber within was regally appointed. On a wide table beside the canopied bed, Gennard had laid out a profusion of elegant cloaks, tunics, breeches, and soft leather boots.
With a low cry of recognition, Kasarian picked up a tunic of vivid green velvet, closely embroidered with gold thread. “I remember this,” he said slowly.
“Baron Oralian preferred that color,” Gennard remarked. “I thought that perhaps the Worthy Baron. . . .”
“Just so,” Kasarian interrupted. “We shall consider your selections. You may retire.”
Once Gennard had shut the door, Kasarian held out the tunic to me. “I was five when my sire last wore this, just before his murder,” he mused. “It is unlikely that Gurborian would recall it. Try it on, together with these proper boots.”
I was relieved that only outer garments had to be exchanged, since Kasarian showed no intention of leaving the room. The genuine Alizonian clothing and boots fit me passably well.
While I dressed, Kasarian had paced back and forth. When my outfitting was complete, he surveyed me critically and nodded. “I commend you,” he said. “No man could deny that in such garb, you present the appearance of a true baron.” Suddenly he tensed, motionless except for a deliberate inclination of his head. Had he been one of his appalling hounds, I thought, his ears would have pricked up, he was listening so intently. From immobility, he erupted into a blur of motion, snatching a knife from his belt with a horrid facility, and throwing it with the sureness of a striking snake toward a shadowy corner where the brocaded bedskirt brushed the carpet.
I flinched inadvertently at the thud of the knife’s impact, which coincided with a shrill animal cry of pain.
Kasarian bent to retrieve his knife, jerking it free from a fold of fabric, and disclosing the body of a large brown rat he had impaled against the wooden bedstead.
As he walked toward the door, Kasarian drew a strip of cloth from his tunic pocket to wipe his knife blade before resheathing it. Opening the door, he called Gennard, who appeared so quickly that he must have been waiting nearby. Kasarian gestured at the carcass and said, “An extra morsel for Wolkor’s evening feeding.” Gennard tidily grasped the dead rat by its tail, bowed to us, and withdrew.
Kasarian must have sensed my disquiet, for he surveyed me speculatively. “Have you no rats?” he asked.
I countered on my slate, “Have you no cats?”
He read my words, and smiled. “I have heard of such beasts,” he remarked. “They are kept, I believe, to hunt rats and mice within inhabited structures. Our hounds are superb ratters, but are far too high-spirited and valuable to be allowed to run loose indoors. They must be reserved for hunting truly significant game. For controlling vermin, we find that a ready knife is quite adequate . . . and the sport instructs the young, exercising the agility of both hand and eye.” His smile faded. “We may have scant time left before Bodrik returns with Gurborian’s reply. Pray sit down. You must be informed of certain matters before Gurborian and Gratch arrive—for I cannot believe that they will avoid falling into our trap.”
CHAPTER 19
Kasarian–events at Krevonel Castle (19th Day, Moon of the Knife/ 20th Day, Month of the Ice Dragon)
I was not at all certain how well Mereth would accommodate herself to our Alizonian food and drink, particularly to those singular items which we never allowed beyond our borders. It was vital that her reactions not betray her before Gurborian. I knew that she would have to accustom herself—if that were possible—to our potent bloodwine, which was always served copiously at any baronial meeting. Mereth sipped the portion I poured for her with commendable caution, then wrote that it made her eyes water, and she preferred to avoid drinking much of it. I deemed it prudent to accept her superficial response; she could not be seen by Gurborian to choke upon or swoon from imbibing our primary baronial drink. I suggested that we would ascribe her otherwise inexcusable rejection of the bloodwine to her loss of taste due to the ague.
Mereth appeared to experience no other difficulty with our Alizonian food. In case she might be suspicious of the presence of poison, I tasted some of each dish to allay her fears, then left her briefly to fetch my hound pup Moonbeam, who had been whelped early, between the year’s two regular Whelping Moons. He already showed considerable promise of becoming a pack leader like his sire. When I placed him on Mereth’s lap, she held him acceptably. Even when he nipped her hands through her gloves, she refrained from striking him. She was, of course, incapable of crying out, but I was favorably impressed by her forbearance. To my considerable relief, Moonbeam freely endured Mereth’s presence and attentions—indeed, he actually rumbled in response to her stroking! I trusted that his scent would cling to her sufficiently to assuage the pack when we proceeded to the Kennels.
I was most gratified by the fine display of my pack arranged by Wolker, my Hound Master. When all of my beasts had been shown to their best advantage and we rose to depart, Wolker whispered to me that Krevonel’s Kennels were honored to be inspected by such an experienced visiting authority. His reaction encouraged me to think that Mereth might just possibly deceive even Gurborian.
Upon arriving at the guest’s bed chamber, Mereth dressed herself with admirable dispatch, requiring assistance with only the bestowing of weapons. Arrayed in one of my sire’s complete outfits, she could easily have been mistaken for a genuine baron. I had been carefully weighing in my mind how much to reveal to Mereth. I could not know what Morfew might have told her about Alizon and our ways. Although he claimed to have been cut off from news of Alizon during all his years of exile in Lormt, I was not certain whether that was a deliberate attempt to deceive me. I decided that in order for Mereth to be properly wary of Gurborian and Gratch, she had to be more fully informed about their reputations. Because Volorian was well aware of Gurborian’
s plotting, Mereth dared not appear surprised by facts known to Volorian. It was now therefore vital that I disclose to her Gurborian’s and Gratch’s intentions to depose of Lord Baron Norandor.
“I must warn you first about Gratch,” I began. “He is a shadowy figure, much dreaded due to his mastery of rare poisons. Little is known about his past except that he escaped from his birthsite on Gorm shortly before the island fell to the Kolder thirty years ago. Doubtless his intense hatred for the Kolder stems from that time. Ten years ago, he appeared in Alizon, and after assessing the relative prospects for advancement among the primary barons, allied himself with Gurborian. I had just assumed the mastery of Krevonel Castle when word began to circulate that Gratch had become Gurborian’s principal advisor, contributing to and participating in all of his schemes. A year or so after Lord Baron Mallandor’s accession, both Gratch and Gurborian retreated to the Reptur Line’s estates along the coast. They conducted their plotting in general seclusion there for some five years, allowing Mallandor’s suspicions ample time to cool.”
Mereth held up her hand, and scribbled on her slate. “After war, Mallandor replaced Facellian,” she wrote. “Why would Mallandor suspect Gurborian? Was he not friend?”
“Gurborian had openly supported Mallandor’s overthrow of Facellian,” I confirmed. “That was the chief reason why Mallandor rewarded Gurborian with the jewel we now know to be Elsenar’s.”
“But you said at Lormt you did not know details about gift of jewel,” Mereth objected on her slate. “You said you were only pup at time.”
I could not entirely suppress my amusement at the gullibility of the Lormt folk. “When you first inquired,” I said, “it was not advisable to divulge the full extent of my knowledge. We Alizonders learn early that information can be as precious as gold, and should be as closely guarded. It is now necessary that you be thoroughly informed about the foes we must vanquish.
“At Lormt, I spoke the truth to you—a limited portion of it. As a twelve year old whelp-of-age, I had been presented to Lord Baron Facellian. Volorian accompanied me to that New Year’s Assembly to stand in my murdered sire’s stead, then we returned to his manor where I had been fostered. Shortly after we left Alizon City, Facellian was overthrown and executed for losing the Dales war. Mallandor bestowed the jewel upon Gurborian as partial payment for his support, but soon realized that Gurborian’s loyalty to him as Lord Baron might be no more trustworthy than it had previously been to Facellian. Gurborian prudently withdrew to his coastal estates to allow Mallandor’s doubts to subside. Even after Gurborian returned to Alizon City five years ago, he deliberately shunned the Lord Baron’s close scrutiny. To disguise the true intentions of his travels, he occasionally pleaded for leave from court to attend to various matters at his estates.
“When I established my residence here at Krevonel about ten years ago, I had heard about the initial awarding of the jewel to Gurborian, but I had not seen the gem until it was for the second time bestowed upon him by Norandor at this New Year’s Assembly just past. To my knowledge, Gurborian had never publicly displayed the jewel after he first received it from Mallandor. I had wondered why he had refrained from wearing such a rumored prize, since he is famed for his lavish show of baubles, but I concluded that during those intervening years, Gurborian likely dared not remind Mallandor of the reason for his possessing it. After all, one successful overthrow of a Lord Baron might lead to thoughts of another such removal . . . and indeed, we now know that Gurborian was already scheming to depose Mallandor.
“Three years ago, when Estcarp’s Witches forestalled Karsten’s impending invasion by their horrendous magical assault upon their southern border’s mountains, Mallandor longed to attack Estcarp while it was distracted and vulnerable. The Witch-spells sealing their northern border with us held firm, however, preventing any incursions from Alizon. Mallandor then witlessly acceded to the pro-Kolder faction’s arguments, resulting in last spring’s bungled raid into Estcarp led by Esguir, his trusted Hound Master. When all the remaining Kolder were killed and the Witchlings had escaped back into Estcarp, Gurborian recognized his opportunity. He united Mallandor’s enemies in a plot to elevate Norandor, Mallandor’s littermate—brother, as you say—to the throne. To recompense Gurborian for his essential aid, Norandor then officially conferred the jewel upon him for the second time—although only for his lifetime’s use. Esguir and Mallandor were, of course, fed to the hounds.”
I was interrupted by the sudden grating of Mereth’s chalk. She held up her slate for me to read her scrawled query, “Fed to the hounds?”
“Surely Morfew has described to you our traditional method of disposing of failed Lords Baron and traitors to Alizon,” I replied. “Obviously,” I hastened to add, “the bodies are never given to the better hounds because of the poison residues.”
Mereth’s hand faltered slightly as she wrote, “Poison?”
“All prominent barons and their primary retainers must guard themselves against being poisoned by regularly consuming small amounts of the more usual poisons,” I explained. “The practice naturally renders the human bodies unfit for houndmeat. Traitors’ bodies are fed to only the less able hounds, so that their illness or death would not diminish the effectiveness of the pack.”
I regarded Mereth closely for any other signs of deplorable weakness, but aside from her initial hand tremor, she seemed to have recovered her resoluteness. “One of Norandor’s men, Sherek, has been lately named the new Hound Master,” I resumed, “to Gurborian’s bitter disappointment. Gurborian had mistakenly assumed that he could influence Norandor by bribery and coercion. Soon after Norandor’s elevation to the throne, Gratch came forward with the cursed notion of seeking an alliance for Alizon with the Dark mages of Escore to replace our former, failed alliance with the Kolder. With Gurborian’s approval, Gratch probed about in the mountains near Volorian’s estate this past summer, occasioning those letters from Volorian that first alerted me to the Escorian threat.
“I must tell you that I have private reasons I may not discuss which convince me that Gurborian and Gratch intend to depose Norandor, if they can secure sufficient backing from other disaffected barons. Volorian suspects as much—ever since the murder of my sire, he has harbored boundless enmity for Gurborian. You must bear that enmity constantly in mind during your impersonation. Despite the fair words of Morfew’s message, Gurborian will not be easily persuaded of Krevonel’s willingness to ally with him. You and I must appear to be both outwardly cold—as he will expect—and yet plausibly prevailed upon by the strength of his arguments to accept his proposals.”
Looking bleakly determined, Mereth nodded, then wrote yet another query on her slate. “If Volorian known for rejection of all magic, how can I in his place . . .” She hesitated, groping for a usable Alizonion word, I presumed. After a pause, she finished the query, “bend to endorse any alliance with Escore?”
“The potential for irresistible gain should overwhelm our objections, or so Gurborian will likely insist,” I predicted. “If I appear to press you forcefully on behalf of the younger whelps of the Line of Krevonel, then your skillfully timed change of attitude may satisfy them. Your initial revulsion toward Gurborian’s suggestions can moderate into reluctant acquiescence. Under the circumstances, we are compelled to risk all—we must say anything necessary to pry Elsenar’s jewel away from Gurborian. As soon as the stone is within our grasp, we must withdraw as rapidly as we can, to convey the jewel through the postern to Lormt, where it will be safely beyond the control of Gurborian or the Dark mages.”
Bodrik should have returned by this time, I thought, unless he had encountered difficulties in delivering our message. I chastised myself for my impatience. Gurborian would weigh each word Morfew had written, and surely take equal pains—and time—in composing his reply.
I glanced at Mereth. She did not appear to be unsettled or visibly nervous, but it might be well to keep her occupied so that she would not have time to brood or indulge in f
retful female imaginings. “You are suitably garbed for our baronial meeting,” I said, “but I am not. Come through into my quarters and refresh yourself with another . . . feebler wine while I array myself.”
CHAPTER 20
Mereth–events at Krevonel Castle (19th and 20th Days, Month of the Ice Dragon/ 20th and 21st Days, Moon of the Knife)
As Kasarian described to me the two enemies we were likely to confront, I blessed my long years of trading experience that enabled me to listen without exhibiting any outward signs of my true feelings. My beloved Doubt had often accused me of cultivating a facial expression of bland indifference. He was forced to concede that at times, I could extract better prices than he because the other merchants could not discern which particular goods I especially desired.
Listening now to Kasarian, I was appalled by the history of repeated intrigue and murder that he recounted. It was all the more chilling in its impact because of his matter-of-course style of speaking. I found it horrid to contemplate that for him and all the other Alizonder barons, their chosen way of life had grown out of such a bloody tradition.
When Kasarian mentioned Gorm, I felt a surge of painful memories. We Dalesfolk had once conducted a lively commerce with that island stronghold offshore from Estcarp. In my early years of trading, I had established fruitful ties with many merchants based in the warehouses crowding Gorm’s ports. Moored like a great vessel of rock in Estcarp’s coastal bay, Gorm was sheltered from all but the rare north-westerly storms by the peninsular arm crowned by Sulcarkeep, the Sulcar fleet’s home port. During my first overseas voyage with Uncle Parand so many years before, our ship had anchored for a time at Sippar, Gorm’s primary city, which also served then as Estcarp’s main port.
Thirty years ago, all the golden days of prosperity had come to a shattering end. While Hilder, Gorm’s Lord Defender, languished near death, his second wife, anxious to secure her regency on behalf of their young son, secretly summoned the hideous Kolder to back her rule. The very night that Hilder died, the Kolder swept in from the sea, not as allies, but as merciless invaders. Most of Gorm’s inhabitants suffered an unspeakable fate, forced to fight as mindless slaves for the Kolder until they were killed by their own grieving former friends from Estcarp and Sulcar-keep. Following Sulcarkeep’s tragic, deliberate destruction by its own defenders to prevent its seizure by the Kolder’s forces, Estcarp’s Witches, aided by the famed Simon Tregarth, used their magic to launch a successful invasion of Gorm, exterminating all the Kolder lairing there. Ever since, the haunted island had been abandoned, mourned by all who remembered its fair past.
