The Briar King

by Greg Keyes

  “It's the chronicle of the spread of the faith, its battles with heresy and black warlockery. I am also much interested in the early languages of these regions, spoken before Vitellian was imposed.”

  “I see. Then you are conversant with Allotersian dialects and script?”

  Stephen nodded excitedly. “It was my major course of study.”

  “And Vadhiian?”

  “That's more difficult. There are only three lines written in that tongue, though it's much like Old Plath, from what I can see. I—”

  “We have ten scrifti in Vadhiian here. None are completely deciphered.”

  “What!” In his excitement, Stephen upset his mazer. It flew from the table and broke into pieces at the brother's feet.

  “Oh!” Stephen said, as Brother Pell bent to gather the shards. “Oh, I'm sorry, Brother Pell. I was just so—”

  “It's no matter, Brother Darige. You see?”

  Stephen did see, and his mouth dropped wide. Brother Pell had gathered pieces, but what he set on the table was a whole mazer. A faint steam rose from it.

  “You—” Stephen looked back and forth between the old man and the mended cup and felt his face pricked from within by a thousand needles.

  “Y-you did a sacaum of mending. Only a—” The implications crystallized. “You must be the r-reverend fratrex,” he stammered.

  “Indeed, yes. You see? I do have better things to do than to stare out of a window all day.” His thick brows lowered dangerously. “And now, we must consider what to do with such a prideful young man. Indeed, we must.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  RUMORS OF WAR

  “WE ARE NOT AT WAR WITH YOU,” The archgreft Valamhar af Aradal explained to William II and his court, stroking his yellow mustache. “Indeed, Hansa is not at war with anyone.”

  William counted slowly to seven, a trick his father had taught him.

  A king should not answer too quickly. A king should appear calm.

  The old man had been full of advice, most of which, William had discovered later, came from a book written centuries ago by the prime minister of Ter Eslief—a country that no longer even existed.

  He shifted on the simple throne of white Hadam ash and gazed around the lesser throne chamber. It was “lesser” only in that it wasn't as ornate as the room where coronations and high court were held. In size, it was just as grand, its ceiling rising high in a series of vaults, its ruddy marble floor expansive enough to make even a fat, haughty fool like Aradal look small. Which was quite the point.

  Aradal's guards stood well behind him, armored but un-weaponed, wearing garish black-and-sanguine surcoats. Ten Craftsmen more than doubled their four. On William's right hand stood Praifec Marché Hespero, in somber black robes and square hat. On his left, where a prime minister ought to stand, stood Robert, clad in bright yellow and green velvets. The only other persons in the room were Baron Sir Fail de Liery, in his dun-colored surcoat, and his young charge Neil MeqVren.

  Seven.

  And now he could speak mildly, rather than in a burst of fury. “Those weren't Hanzish troops on those Hanzish ships that sacked four towns in the Sorrow Isles? That seems dangerously close to war, so far as I am concerned.”

  “The war,” Aradal said, “if you can call this sort of minor skirmishing that, is between the Sorrows and Saltmark. Salt-mark, I'm sure you know, is a longtime ally of Hansa. They asked for our help, and we gave them what we could spare; our ships and troops are under their command. The Sorrows, after all, were the aggressors. And may I further point out, Your Majesty, that the Sorrow Isles are not part of the Crothanic empire.”

  William leaned his elbow on the armrest of his throne and propped his chin on his fist, regarding the Hanzish ambassador. Aradal had a fat, pink face above a corpulent body overdressed in a black sealskin doublet trimmed in martin and red kidskin buskins glittering with diamonds—hardly a sterling example of Hanzish manhood. Yet that was deceptive, as William knew from bitter experience. The man was as clever as a raven.

  “The Sorrows are under our protection,” William said, “as Saltmark is under yours, as well you know. What evidence have you that King Donech was the aggressor in this matter?”

  Aradal smiled. “It began as a conflict over fishing grounds, Majesty. The west shoals are rich and, by treaty, neutral territory. In the last year, ten defenseless fishing ships from Salt-mark have gone down to the draugs, sent there by Sorrovian privateers. Three more were sunk in Saltmark's own waters. Who could tolerate such a breach of treaty? And what sort of protector would Hansa be, to rest and watch while our ally faced the Sorrovian navy? A navy, I might add, equipped and supplemented by both Liery and Crothany.”

  “I asked for evidence, not sailor's stories,” William exploded, forgetting to count this time. “What evidence have I that any of Saltmark's ships were ever sunk? And if they were, that they were sunk by any ship from the Sorrows?”

  Aradal fiddled with his mustache. Were his lips moving? Was he counting? Damned book.

  “The evidence can be presented,” the ambassador finally said. “We have witnesses in plenty. But the real proof is that Your Majesty has doubled the number of his ships in the Sorrows.”

  “As you've more than doubled your own in Saltmark.”

  “Ah, yes, but it appears you sent your ships before we sent ours,” Aradal replied. “Doesn't that suggest Your Majesty was well aware of a conflict developing between the Sorrows and our protectorate? And before you would take such action, would you not be aware of the cause of the conflict?”

  William kept his face impassive. He'd moved the ships in secret, at night, to hidden harbors. How had Hansa learned of it?

  “What are you saying?” he asked. “That we sank your fishing ships?”

  “No, Sire. Only that you knew the Sorrows were due a just revenge. That the Sorrows are like your children, and even when they go astray you would protect them.” His eyes hardened. “That such would be a mistake, just as it would be a mistake to commit a single knight, soldier, or sea captain from the army of Crotheny to join in this conflict.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It is a simple statement. If you go to war with Saltmark, you must go to war with Hansa. And that, Majesty, would benefit no one.”

  Sir Fail de Liery, up until now sitting quietly, suddenly pounced up from his bench.

  “You fop! Do you think Liery will stand by while you conquer our cousins on this ridiculous pretext?”

  “If Liery joins with the Sorrows, we will have no choice but to assume that we are at war with you,” the ambassador replied.

  “And, no doubt,” William said softly, waving de Liery back to his seat, “you will counsel me to not join with Liery? And when both the Sorrows and Liery are in your hands, and some excuse allows you to turn your attention to Andemeur, you will still insist that it isn't my affair? What, then, when you've camped on the Sleeve? Or in my own sitting room?”

  “That is not the situation we are discussing, Majesty,” Aradal said smoothly. “When Saltmark has a new treaty with the Sorrows, this sad little affair will be at an end. We have had thirty years of peace, Majesty. Do not risk that, I beg you.”

  “I'll show you risk, you damned popinjay—” Fail began, but William cut him off.

  “This is our court, Sir Fail. We will consider what Liery has to say, but later. Lord Aradal is here to treat with Crotheny.”

  The old knight glared but took his seat. William sat back, then glanced to Marché Hespero.

  “Praifec, do you have anything to add to this … discussion?”

  Hespero pursed his lips, pausing a few breaths before speaking.

  “I am grieved,” he said, “that the church was not entrusted with our traditional role as peacekeepers. I fail to understand why I've had no word from my counterpart in Hansa, though I'm certain any delay was unintentional. Nevertheless, it seems that the church is consulted on fewer decisions of note with each passing day, and that is, as I said
, a grievous thing.”

  His black-eyed gaze wandered over each man in the room. He clasped his hands behind his back.

  “The church Senaz and His Holiness the Fratrex Prismo have been quite outspoken about their desire for peace, particularly between Hansa and Crotheny. War between them could lay waste the world. I urge both of you to set aside any further hostilities until I've had a chance to speak with Praifec Topan and to consult with the Senaz.”

  Neil watched the Hanzish ambassador as he left the chamber. He didn't like the man's smile.

  “You see what I mean?” Fail grunted. “We've been fighting a slow war with Hansa for years. Your father was a casualty of it. But when it comes here, it's suddenly all talk of fishing rights and who should have been consulted.”

  “You disapprove of our governance, Sir Fail?” William asked mildly.

  “I disapprove of catfooting around what all of us know,” Sir Fail replied. “But I think Your Majesty was forceful, today. Still, what does it mean? That's what I want to know. Will you help us drive them from the Sorrows?”

  “I would rather they retired,” William replied. “And I will certainly wait until the praifec has made his inquiries.”

  “You'd rather they retired? As well await a she-wolf to suckle a fawn!”

  “Enough, Sir Fail. We will discuss this matter at length, I assure you. I did not send for you so that we might argue today.”

  “Why then?”

  “Two reasons. The one, so you would hear Ambassador Aradal and know, from his own lips, what he told me and what I said to him, so you can take it back to Liery when you go. The second—I wanted to see your young apprentice. It's been ten days since he saved my queen's life, and I have not properly thanked him.”

  Neil dropped to his knee. “Your Majesty, I require no thanks.”

  “I think you do, especially after the beating you took at the hands of my Craftsmen. You understand, of course, that they did not at first understand why you attacked Sir Argom.”

  Neil glanced briefly at Vargus Farre, one of the knights who stood in the room. He owed Vargus a cracked rib.

  “I understand, Your Majesty. Had I been in their place, and known only what they knew, I would have done the same.”

  William leaned forward intently. “How did you know? That Argom was attacking the queen?”

  “I didn't, at first. I thought he had seen some danger to her and was rushing to intercept it. But there was no one threatening the queen, and Sir Argom was preparing the reaper— that's what we call a low, flat stroke of the blade. It's for dealing with unarmed rabble, and well-bred knights do not care for it. If the queen were threatened by someone nearby her, he wouldn't have dared used that stroke. The chance of hurting her in the bargain would be too great. So I reckoned that he wasn't truly a Craftsman, rather some pretender who had donned the livery.”

  “All that, and in only a few heartbeats.”

  “He's very quick about such things,” Sir Fail put in.

  William leaned back on his throne. “Here is my problem, Neil, son of Fren. There was a day when your reward for saving the queen of Crotheny might well have been a small barony. Unfortunately, with things as they are, I shall require the good will of all my nobles, and to be frank, I cannot afford to anger any of them by giving lands to a man of mean birth.”

  “I understand, Majesty,” Neil said. He had been preparing for this, but it still hurt an amazing amount. Much more so than the beating.

  “Understand? I don't understand!” Fail bellowed.

  “Come, Sir Fail,” Robert, the king's brother, said. “I know you are fond of theatrics, but allow the king to finish, will you?”

  William himself remained unperturbed. His lips seemed to be moving slightly. Was he praying?

  “On the other hand, we were all greatly impressed by you. My wife in particular, as might be expected. You are from her homeland, you have Sir Fail's trust and good word, which means oceans in itself, and you proved better at keeping her from harm than her own bodyguard. Indeed, since we do not yet know why such a seemingly loyal knight as the late Sir Argom would so violently go renegade, all of our Craftsmen are suspect.

  “And so here is what we will do. We will give you the rose, and you will become the captain of the queen's personal guard, which will henceforth be named the Lier Guard. Like the Craftsmen, you must renounce your lands and possessions. Since you have none to renounce, the matter is already settled. This will make the queen happy, it will make me happy, and will only slightly annoy my more extreme nobles.

  “The question is, will it make you happy?”

  “Your Majesty?” Neil's head seemed full of a white-hot light.

  “Come here, and kneel.”

  Dumbly, Neil did so.

  “Praifec, do you bless this young man to be a knight in my service?”

  “I do,” the cleric said, “and bless him to the service of the saints. By Saint Michael, Saint Mamres, Saint Anne, and Saint Nod.”

  “Very well.” William drew his broadsword, and two of the Craftsmen brought a large wooden block.

  “Place your right hand on the block.”

  Neil put his palm on the wood, noticing as he did so the deep cuts there.

  William lowered his sword until the edge was resting on the bare flesh of Neil's wrist.

  “Do you swear yourself to the kingdom of Crotheny?”

  “I do, Your Majesty.”

  “And to the protection of its king and castle?”

  “I do.”

  “Most especially, and above all, to the protection of the queen, Muriele Dare née de Liery?”

  “I do, Majesty.”

  “Do you swear yourself to obedience and to poverty?”

  “I do, Sire.”

  “Saint Nod gave his hand in sacrifice, so his people might live. Will you do the same?”

  “My hand, my head, my life,” Neil answered. “It is all the same to me.”

  William nodded and pulled the sword quickly along Neil's flesh. Blood started; Neil did not wince.

  “Keep your hand for now, Sir Neil,” the king told him. “You will have need of it.”

  A servant approached with a pillow. On it lay a red rose.

  “You may add the rose to your standard, as ornament to your armor, sword, and shield. Rise up.”

  Neil did so. His knees were trembling, but his heart was a war drum, loud, fierce, and proud.

  He almost didn't notice when Sir Fail came up and clapped him on the arm.

  “That was well done, son. Shall we find a bandage for your wrist?”

  “To keep the blood from the floor,” Neil murmured. “But I shall not wrap it. Let it bleed as it wants. Am I really a knight?”

  Sir Fail laughed. “You are indeed,” he said, “and in deed.”

  A cough from behind summoned their attention. Neil turned to see Vargus Farre towering over him.

  “Sir Neil,” Vargus said, bending slightly at the waist. “Let me be the first of the Craftsmen to congratulate you. You are deserving. When we were asleep, you were awake.”

  Neil returned the bow. “Thank you, Sir Vargus. I much appreciate it.” From the corner of his eye, Neil saw Sir James Cathmayl approaching.

  “So it really is Sir Bumpkin now,” he said. His voice sounded a bit forced.

  “By Lier, man!” Fail snapped. “What cause have you to insult my charge? I'll have you on the field, for this.”

  Sir James shrugged. “That's fine, sir. But I've a date with your charge first. He swore that when he took the rose, he would put on spurs and kill me.”

  “And I am your charge no longer, Sir Fail,” Neil reminded him. “I can fight my own battles.”

  “James, stop this nonsense,” Vargus snapped. “The lad— er, Sir Neil doesn't know you're joking. He's sworn now to protect the queen; would you put your pride against that? You're a Craftsman! The household guards do not fight in their own ranks.”

  “It was his challenge,” Sir James said. �
�If he wishes to withdraw it, I would not be opposed.”

  “I do withdraw it, if you will withdraw your insults, sir,” Neil replied.

  For a long, icy moment, Sir James regarded him. “Some insults come from haste and poor judgment,” he said at last. “Some come from knowledge and consideration. Mine were spurious, and I apologize. Still, let me state my position. I remain disapproving of your promotion. Knighthood should be reserved for the gentle of birth. But my king has spoken, and my queen has a protector, and I find that I am unable to lay the blame at your feet—Sir Neil.”

  He made a face. “Sir Neil. It gripes my tongue to say that. But I shall.” He looked levelly at Neil. “Do we still have cause to fight, sir?”

  “No, Sir James, we do not. And I'm glad. My duty is to the queen now, and it would be frivolous to engage in combat that would lessen the royal guard by one—however the contest went—especially when nothing more important than my own honor is at stake. You've been truthful in stating your objections, and I find no fault in you.”

  Sir James gave a small, stiff bow. “Very well,” he said. “Another time, then.”

  As he left, Vargus winked at Neil. “You'll be fast friends in no time,” he said. “And now, if you would care, I'll show you where our armory and provisions are. Whilst you're a guard of one, you shall need to share ours, I think.”

  “That is very kind of you, Sir Vargus. Very kind indeed.”

  “Well, that was awfully touching, brother,” Robert said, once they had removed themselves to William's outer chambers.

  “I think it will work well.”

  Robert shrugged. “Some will be incensed, I'm sure. But you keep Fail's good will—the old fart—and anyway, the boy is very popular with the common folk. Never hurts to let 'em know one of their own can occasionally make good, does it? Any more than it hurts to remind the nobles who their king is.”

  “Not at all,” William agreed. He waved the whole matter away with the back of his hand. “This situation with Hansa, though,” he said. “Do you think the praifec will take our side?”

  “Why should he?” Robert said, holding his nails up for his own inspection. “You've spent the last five years making it infinitely clear that you want no interference by him and his church in domestic affairs. Now you want him to commit himself to your cause? No, he will wait, and make you sweat. Withhold his endorsement until you really need it. Then he'll ask you for something. Perhaps he'll ask you to name a male heir.”