The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle)

by Miles Cameron

  Ser John leaned back. “We are all king’s men here,” he said. “We will be the Royal Army.”

  Ser Alcaeus looked as if he was going to choke.

  Ser Gabriel frowned. “We will be an allied army of the north. If the Emperor contributes troops, he will not want to be seen as a vassal of the King of Alba.”

  The Duchess of Westwall nodded. “Well said, my son. We are allies, not feudatories. Let that be clear.” She looked around—more like the griffon than was quite right. “Consider this, gentles—if the Royal Army cannot help us, and if we must raise our own army to hold back this petty sorcerer, what will we do when a serious threat comes? Why pay our taxes to a distant king who cannot defend us? Why not have our own king?”

  Ser John sat up straighter, and looked at the duchess. “I beg your pardon, your grace, but are you contending that the Earl of Westwall is not the vassal of the King? Are you suggesting…”

  The duchess smiled. It was the sort of smile one might imagine on a particularly subtle fox just before he eats the chicken. “I am a poor weak woman with no great head for politics, Ser John. I speak no treason when I say that my brother cannot defend us. His writ does not run here.” She smiled, and her smile narrowed. “I merely tell you, brave knights, that neither my husband, nor I, will be bound by a document or an agreement that decribes us as the king’s vassals or requires our knight service. On the other hand, if such an agreement is worded as an alliance, we will eagerly contribute to both the field army and to the total effort and the costs.”

  The Bishop of Albinkirk narrowed his eyes. “You see the Adnacrags as a sovereign county?” he asked.

  The smile that the duchess wore grew, if anything, a little wider. “I have said no such thing,” she said. “Yet, I imagine that were we to make ourselves sovereign, we would only aid our own defence.”

  “This is treason,” the bishop said.

  “Make the most of it,” the duchess snapped.

  “We owe our service to the king—” Ser John began.

  “Why?” Ghause asked. “He’s just a man—and a feckless one. The way I hear it, my son and Sophie saved you all last spring. The way I hear it, the King almost lost his army in the woods and had to be saved by his slut of a Queen and the river fleet. And now he’s let in an army of Galles who are running rough-shod over the south. I’m here to tell you that we will not allow them into the north.” She sat back.

  Lord Wayland’s eye went to hers. He said nothing, but his cautious expression betrayed his interest.

  The young Master of Dorling shook his head like a man shaking off sleep. “My da holds our place from the Wyrm,” he said. “I am not the king’s man, and saving your grace, I’m not your man, either.” He looked around. “I like the notion of alliance, but I have nothing to say about any new kingdom except a word of advice: only a fool changes horses in mid-stream.”

  The duchess’s head went back like that of an angry horse.

  Ser Alcaeus nodded. “I think I might speak,” he said quietly, “for all of us who are not Albans—and say that this talk of a kingdom in the north is immoderate. I think that if it continues, my Emperor would require that I withdraw. I must say on his behalf that Thrake is a province in the Empire, and that Ser Gabriel’s possession of it is at the Emperor’s pleasure. The Empire does not function as a set of infeudations, nor are our lands inheritable without the Emperor’s permission, my lords. The Emperor owns everything. He can grant or remove any title at any time.”

  Ghause smiled poisonously. “Does that include the Emperor’s throne, ser knight? Is it not held by right of inheritance?”

  Ser Alcaeus looked surprised. “The Emperor is chosen by God,” he said.

  “Usually after a lot of poisoning and knife fights,” Ser Gabriel said. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, your grace, but the north is not ready to have a sovereign kingdom.”

  “Then the north is full of fools,” Ghause said. “Ask your imperial riding officers—ask anyone who lives on the wall! There’s as many people north of the wall as south. There’s towns north of the wall. All of them could be ours!”

  Her son shook his head. “Yours, you mean. I’m sorry, your grace, but our intention is the protection of our estates—not the raising of a new banner in the Game of Kings.”

  Ghause sat back and sniffed. “Well,” she said. She smiled. “We’ll see, then, won’t we?”

  While every leader present was willing enough in principle, every side room in the citadel seemed to have two or three great lords discussing, debating, and often enough, shouting. If Ghause had intended to divide the council of the northern lords, she had succeeded to perfection.

  “Your lady mother cannot imagine that we’d sign away the king’s rights to the whole of the north country!” Ser John said to the Red Knight. Now that he knew the boy was the Earl of Westwall’s son, he found his infernal arrogance easier to stomach—the more because the boy seemed to have grown a little more human in the past year.

  The new Duke of Thrake sat with his back against the oak panelling of Ser John’s private study. “Neither the earl nor the duchess has ever had much time for the king,” he said slowly. “And it hasn’t troubled you before. Or has it?”

  Ser John was pacing up and down. “I will share my thoughts, my lord. Last year—during the siege—we received no succor but yours and, in the end, the Royal Army. We had no help of your parents. I confess I am less than pleased—indeed, I’m bitter.” He pointed at the great hall. “At least the King came. The earl was five days away, and he never twitched.”

  Ser Gabriel rolled some good Etruscan wine over his tongue and looked out the window, where sheets of rain were filling the creeks and making the task of the field army more difficult and vastly more uncomfortable.

  “But you have asked me to command,” Ser Gabriel said.

  “You are the most famous commander in Nova Terra just now,” Ser John said.

  “And the Westwall heir,” Ser Gabriel added, a nasty note in his voice.

  Ser John swirled wine in his silver cup and then turned to face the younger knight. “Yes. Why hide it? Surely your mother will sign and your father will commit if you are to have the command?”

  Ser Gabriel shook his head. “I truly doubt it. I’m sorry, Ser John. I’m still under contract to the Emperor. As the Emperor’s man—I have no feudal obligations at all in Alba—I would be willing to command your field force after I return from the tournament, but it is not vital to me. In fact, to me it looks like a summer of brutally hard work for no money and little thanks.”

  Ser John managed a smile. “You describe my whole tenure as Captain of Albinkirk.”

  Gabriel rose. “Ser John, I agree that having a mobile force to face the Wild is a necessary evil. I will command it for a summer—and pay my own wages from my tithe as Duke of Thrake. I will do this whatever the Earl of Westwall chooses to do. I will leave most of my people here with you. But I will not make the least effort to convince the earl or my mother to join this alliance, and can offer you no counsel about them.”

  Ser John stood, too.

  “Where do you think Thorn will strike?” he asked.

  Ser Gabriel shook his head. “Middleburg would have been weak had I lost in the east. But I didn’t, and now it is very strong. Albinkirk—let us be realistic. Albinkirk has a solid captain and a small army—and is close to Lissen Carak and a magnificent array of magisters who have, since last spring’s near disaster, come into their own.”

  “The nuns?” Ser John asked.

  “Yes. I’d be very surprised indeed if Thorn tried again there. Were he to re-invest Albinkirk and Lissen Carak he would have to do both together, would he not?”

  Ser John had not considered this. “Ah—yes. Because leaving either one would leave a force operating behind his siege lines. Bah—you are the right man to command.”

  “I have read some very good books. The Archaics thought deeply about war, Ser John. At any rate, he would have to divide his e
fforts, whatever solution he chose, and the morale consequence of a second failure in the same place would probably be disastrous for his forces.”

  Ser John smiled. “I just make war. I see you think about it.”

  Ser Gabriel shrugged. “That leaves Ticondaga—it’s the most exposed. Or he might strike west, into the upper lakes country, and spend the summer gathering allies. There is a rumour that he and the Faery Knight quarrelled over the winter. Do not imagine that the Wild is a unified force. And luckily for us, the more puissant he grows, the more likely it is that other Powers in the Wild will try to drag him down.”

  “Try to drag him down?” John said. “You are leaving something unsaid, I think.”

  Ser Gabriel leaned close. “I think perhaps he has… help.”

  “Saints alive!” Ser John said. “Saint Maurice and Saint George, my lord. You speak of the Enemy?”

  Somehow, that old name for Satan made Ser Gabriel smile. “Perhaps I do. The sorcerer is, at least, more dangerous than the sum of his parts.” He leaned back. “This is not something to be discussed aloud.”

  Ser John nodded. “I thank you for your confidence,” he growled.

  “His help will not keep other Powers in the Wild from contesting with him,” Ser Gabriel said.

  “So you think we might get through this summer untouched!” Ser John said.

  Ser Gabriel gave a thin smile with no mirth whatsoever. “If we do, it will only be because he has chosen to make himself far more powerful for next spring. And if he does, I have no idea where he might strike.” Gabriel settled back against the wood panelling. If he had intended to leave, he had changed his mind.

  “You think Ticondaga then?” Ser John asked.

  “I think it is the most exposed fortress we have; its lord and lady do not really desire to cooperate with the rest of us, it is the strategic key to the lakes and the inner sea, and despite its reputation for invulnerability, it is overlooked by Mount Grace.” Ser Gabriel shrugged. “And—do you really want to face an army of the Wild in the deep woods?”

  Ser John nodded. “You are very persuasive. And the Galles?”

  Ser Gabriel frowned. “I confess I cannot fathom what they are about. But with a Galle knight at the king’s court and another leading an army in the far north—” he waved a hand. “Jean de Vrailly is…”

  “Insane?” Ser John asked.

  The Red Knight raised an eyebrow. “Your words, my lord captain.”

  Ser John nodded emphatically. “I mislike the man, and Ser Ricar detests him.”

  Ser Gabriel nodded. “You understand that if Alba is indeed tipped towards civil war, Thorn”—he seemed to savour the name—“might be our salvation.”

  It was Ser John’s turn to frown. “Why?”

  “Because if he strikes into a civil war, every baron will unite against him under the king, and that will be the end of it.” Ser Gabriel spoke with all the arrogant satisfaction that made him so easy to loathe. He made it sound as if he’d planned the whole thing.

  Ser John put his wine cup down.

  “Come, Ser John,” Ser Gabriel said. “Let’s put our crooked dice away and speak like honest men. It is civil war that you fear, and not the sorcerer in the north. And you want to know where I stand, where the Westwalls stand, where the Brogat barons stand.”

  Ser John’s eyes narrowed. “If the King were to send de Vrailly north to collect taxes as he did in Jarsay last summer, we’d have a war right here.” He frowned. “Your lady mother said as much.”

  Ser Gabriel nodded. “I thought that’s what you feared. It is certainly what the duchess fears—she’s more interested in laying the claims to her own sovereignty than in facing the sorcerer.”

  “Where do you stand?” Ser John asked.

  Ser Gabriel met his eyes. “As the Duke of Thrake? Or as a sell-sword?” He smiled. “Nay—I’ll answer honestly. I despise de Vrailly. But there’s no reason behind it. I met him, and I know him.” The Red Knight leaned back and sipped wine. “So are you really assembling a northern army to face de Vrailly?”

  “God between us and evil!” Ser John spat. “I would never fight against the king, no matter how misguided he might be. But if I can build a force in the north, I’ll tell the King that the northern army is his taxes ‘in kind’ and give de Vrailly no excuse to march here.”

  The Red Knight raised his goblet and toasted his companion. “Well thought out. I missed it—a fine gambit.” He sat back, savouring the wine and the idea together. “On that understanding, perhaps I’ll modify my course and approach my mother.” He smiled, clearly pleased. “For everyone’s benefit.”

  “I can see through a brick wall in time,” Ser John grumbled, but he was pleased. “Now—when you go south, will you take my writ and gain the king’s appointment? And you see why I must have your lady mother’s agreement as a vassal and not as an ally?”

  Ser Gabriel closed his eyes and frowned. “Damn,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”

  A day later—the hour after dawn, and the spring sun was the warm, golden colour that men remembered in mid-winter. It sparkled on the muddy puddles that lay at the corners of fields, where snow had lain just a few days before. Ser Ricar’s messengers brought word—a day of constant fighting, but no organized foe, and the roads both north and south of the fords were clear.

  For an entire day, the duchess hinted that sovereignty was her price for alliance, and most of the other lords refused to discuss what was to some treason, and to others irrelevant.

  In the great hall, for the Red Knight a day that had begun well with Ser John proved trying. His mother refused to discuss vassalage; she was using the council to press her claims to a kingdom, and her pretensions were scaring the Brogat barons. By dinner, she was flirting outrageously with Lord Wayland, whose slow and cautious politics were in danger of being overwhelmed by the main force of a low-cut gown and a pair of flashing eyes.

  After dinner, Ser Gabriel sent a note by means of Nell, and then went in person to his mother’s door. The bronze-eyed girl opened it and bade him welcome, her cool, demure voice oddly at odds with her body and eyes.

  “Your lady mother bids you wait, sir knight,” she said.

  Ser Gabriel bowed distantly and sat in a chair in the solar. He leafed through an illustrated breviary; he picked up a very prettily inlaid lute and started to play an old troubadour song, and found it wildly out of tune.

  He began to tune it.

  Time passed.

  A string broke and Ser Gabriel cursed.

  Bronze-eyes smiled prettily.

  There were noises on the other side of his mother’s door, but none that made any sense, and eventually, having found a set of strings inside the belly of the instrument, having stripped the offending string, which had been the wrong-sized gut all along, having replaced the string and then tuned the instrument to its intended range and not the very odd tuning that his mother had arranged, he played Prende I Garde.

  “You are splendid!” Bronze-eyes said, enthusiastically. She clapped her hands together.

  Ser Gabriel rose. “Please tell my mother I was most pleased to have this opportunity to tune her instrument, and she may call on me at any time.” He handed the lute to the servant girl. She dropped a beautiful curtsey.

  “If there is anything I might do to help you pass the time,” she whispered.

  He paused. And sighed. “Have a pleasant eve,” he bade her, and passed the door.

  He considered going to the great hall and joining the men there. He considered inflicting his anger and his annoyance on strangers.

  He even paused outside the chapel, where he saw a straight-backed nun in the gown of the Order kneeling at the altar. He stood and watched her.

  She didn’t turn her head.

  Eventually, he took his irritation to his own rooms. Toby and Nell stayed out of arm’s reach, and with the assistance of two cups of wine, he managed to get to bed.

  To the ceiling over his bed, he said, “I pref
er fighting.”

  Then he lay and felt the fracture in his leg throb. He lay there with the pain, and thought about life and death and Father Arnaud. And Thorn, and his master, and where it all had to end. He was beginning to see the end. He lay, and imagined it.

  Eventually he began to consider his miraculous survival of the recent ambush. That gave him the opportunity to savour each error he had made in the course of the fight—committing the knights too early, over-powering his emergency shields so that they drained him of power. Allowing an oak tree to fall on him.

  He shook his head in the darkness.

  At some point in the night he began to consider the constant flow of ops that had trickled to him while he lay awaiting death.

  He heard Toby toss on the straw pallet at his feet.

  Ser Gabriel considered many things, and eventually, his annoyance increased by each new thought, he entered into his memory palace and walked along the floor.

  Prudentia nodded coolly. “You remind me of an unruly boy I knew once,” she said.

  “Are you simply magicked to say these things? Did he invest you with some particular ability to assess my thoughts and make suitable witticisms?”

  Prudentia’s blank ivory eyes seemed to glance at him. “I believe my re-creator discovered that a great many of my habits of thought were overlaid on your memories and he retrieved them.”

  “Well,” the Red Knight said. “Well.” He went to the door to Harmodius’s palace. “I need to see something from another angle.” He opened the door and went in.

  It was dustier than before. Now that he thought about it, he realized what the old man must have done. Because somewhere in his memories, he must hold Prudentia’s palace. And that suggested that if he spent too much time here, in Harmodius’s memories, he might—just possibly—be in danger of either becoming the old man or empowering some sort of simulacrum of him.

  “Not what I’m here for,” he said.

  He went and stood in front of the mirror.

  In the reflection, he seemed to be wearing a ring of fire, and around his right ankle was a golden band. The band was joined to a chain.