The coast road does not always run within sight of the coast, but when it did, I saw the corsairs’ dark chebecs on the sea, cruising for new captures. I wondered if they were laying ambushes along the road, and whether I might actually need to use my ridiculous sword.
More likely my legs. I have run from the reivers once, and I could do it again.
Because the astrologer had insisted on the Embassy leaving in the afternoon rather than morning, we didn’t reach the first posting inn until after midnight, & found the gates locked against corsairs. Eventually the landlord was roused, & the gates unlocked. There was no food. The Immodest Apothecary informed me I was not entitled to a bed, & so I rolled myself into my overcoat on a bench in the bathhouse, which at least was clean.
On the second day of our long, wrenching journey we climbed a series of stony hills and came out above a lovely bay called Gannet Cove. D’you know it? The water is deep, & protected from southeast storms by a pine-fletched peninsula, & from the west by a skerry crowned with a perfect hemisphere of darting sea birds. There is a village of fisher-folk there, but when they saw the chebecs of the reivers offshore, they fled above the cliffs behind the beach & built themselves drystone shelters, like the shepherd people do. Gannet Cove would make a fine port if those cliffs did not cut it off from the commerce of the country, & if there were a broad river like the Ostra or the Saelle to bring in the produce of the hinterland. But because the cliffs wall them off from commerce, the fishers live in driftwood huts & marry their cousins.
That night the Great Embassy got to the posting inn after dark, but there was some kind of village meeting going on, & the place was full, & the spits charged with meat. The August Personage was distressed that he shared the dining room with common folk so ignorant they knew not to worship him, & he wanted manchet-loaves of white flour instead of the cheat & raveled bread served by the landlord. (Milord Utterback, as if he were a Person & not an Eminence, ate the cheat with what an objective eye might have deemed pleasure.)
I was not deemed worthy of sharing a table with the Personage, but making friends with a serving-girl, Lucy of the bright eyes & scarlet hair, I had the better meal, to-wit, a fine pottage of onions, peas, and carrots, with bits of bacon and firm whitefish; and after, a roast quail, followed by a joint of venison which I carved myself, and lastly a cheese. Plus a jack of spiced wine that had grown steamy by the hearth. That great-gutted luxurious gastrologist the Emperor Philippus had no better, I vow, for all his bustards stuffed with ortolans. (Do you like “gastrologist?” I just made it up.)
Again I was not allowed a bed, but told to sleep in the stable with the other servants; but my new friend Lucy had a little cottage nearby, and there we kept warm all night long, with a little help from the mulled wine. I arrived at breakfast happy & refreshed, but the two Ambassadors had spent a v. uncomfortable night, having less pleasing bed partners than I—they came downstairs fleabit & lousy. I was very pleased not to share their carriage and their scratching, & I felt v. righteous in that pleasure.
The next three days’ journey to Amberstone was a wearisome repetition: the wretchedness of the road, the poverty of the inhabitants, the dreariness of the company + clouds & rain to snuff out all remaining joy. No Lucy appeared to assuage my boredom, & no beds, with or without vermin. Yet straw in the stables has its simple country virtues, & is warm enough I believe.
And now we will spend our third night in the city, guests of Count Older, cousin-german of my lord Utterback. I sleep beneath the eaves, in neither the best nor the worst bed I have enjoyed this journey. The Ambassadors spoke with the Lord Warden in hopes that he would send some of his soldiers to help secure Ethlebight & the New Castle, & I believe progress has been made there, so our travel has not been a complete waste. And the grand abbot said he would send monks!—so you will not be without your philosophical comforts, be ye ever so poor and hungry.
The Ambassadors are also taking a great many baths & being deloused generally. I and the monks shall pray for their success.
Now that we have reached the city, I have abandoned the coaches and bought a horse. It is a chestnut gelding & is agèd but not completely dilapidated, or so the dealer informs me. It is a palfrey & on the little ride I took yesterday ambles with a v. easy gait. Its name is Toast, after its favorite food.
I had hoped we might be able to sail from here to Selford, but the Aekoi blockade extends even this far. Captures have been made within sight of the town, one so close that the forts fired their great guns, but managed not to hit anything. But I see Irresistible, a great high-charged galleon, is being fitted out in the town, a private vessel owned by the Marquess of Stayne. It has four masts, with demicannon on the lower deck, culverins on the upper, & an array of sakers, minions, falconets, and such other mankillers on the castles fore and aft. Soon it shall be “busked and boun,” as the saying is, & I cannot imagine the corsairs could stand against it, even their whole fleet together, so long as there was enough wind to keep steerage-way & prevent the chebecs from rowing up under the stern to rake her.
There are also some royal vessels being brought out of ordinary, & they should cross their yards within the week. So possibly it will be the reivers who are blockaded on Cow Island, so may it please the gods.
But I have forgot to tell you the good news! Your ship Meteor hath come into Amberstone, laden with olives, figs, pickled fish, & pipes of wine from Varcellos! I know you were worried that the corsairs would take her, but she came in just before the chebecs appeared off the port, & is quite safe. You may rejoice, & may this be the restoration of your fortune.
There is now discord among the Ambassadors concerning our next step: should we continue along the coast road four or five days to Newton Linn, & there hope for a boat to take us the three days’ journey to Selford, or should we go overland direct for Selford by way of Mavors’ Road, which is the shorter way but goeth over the Toppings, which is said to be “all hill and no broad,” & will be difficult for the big carriage to traverse & take at least twelve days. I spoke for Newton Linn & the sea-route, and my lord Utterback agreed in his barely audible way; but the Personage has not yet given up his vision of a grand entrance into Selford, with all falling on their awestruck knees at the sight of a coach worthy of a god, & so I fear it we will be swaying up and down hills ere long. But what care I?—I will be on my honest palfrey! The coach may sink into a bog for aught I care, and the Personage with it.
You do not mind that I look at other women, I hope. I desire to be honorable in my conduct toward women, and part of that honorable conduct is to speak frankly.
My dalliances are harmless, and indeed are more the matter of comedy than of romance. As you shall discover in due course.
I looked up from my letter at the sound of shoes clacking on the paving stones of the quay, and saw a dark-haired, striking young woman walking along with a basket of turnips slung over her shoulder. The brilliant leafy greens bobbed behind her head like a soldier’s plume. Her eyes met mine, and held them pleasantly for a moment, and then the woman looked away and kept on walking. I felt it unjust that a young woman of such pleasing aspect should be obliged to shoulder her own turnips, and gathered my writing material between cardboard covers with the intention of carrying the turnips on her behalf—and then I saw, pacing along behind, Lord Utterback.
Utterback was dressed as befit his station, in brilliant blues and yellows, with swags and purfles, pinks and braid, and a doublet slashed to reveal the satin shirt beneath. A brass-hilted rapier glowed at his side, and he wore a tall hat with a plume and a diamond pin. I had become used to the plainer clothing Utterback wore on the journey, and seeing him in his role as lord caught me a little by surprise.
But Utterback was not reveling in his status, or strutting in his finery, but frowning down at the pavement with his hands folded behind his back, beneath a cape trimmed with black crow feathers.
Utterback paused, as if working at a thought that had just occurred to him, and then loo
ked up with an air of faint surprise, as if he only now realized where he stood. Then he saw me, and gave a start of recognition.
I approached and put on my respectful-courtier face. “My lord.”
Utterback blinked. “Do you bear a message for me?”
“No, my lord. I was at the tavern, writing a letter, when I saw you walk past.”
Lord Utterback seemed to consider this for longer than the information deserved, but then asked a question which showed his mind was far from the quay, letters, or taverns.
“Goodman Quillifer, do you agree with Eidrich the Pilgrim that human purpose is to be found only in the mind’s acceptance of Necessity?”
I, more than a little surprised, took a moment to compose my answer. “I think perhaps that depends strongly on the definition of Necessity—and, I suppose, its opposite.”
“Some do call that opposite Freedom.”
“My lord,” said I, “I should find it hard to despise Freedom.”
“Walk with me,” said Utterback. I fell into step with him, and the count’s son returned to the troublesome matter of doctrine.
“The Compassionate Pilgrim said that Freedom was an illusion. That the first motion brought the world into being, and that this creation itself created more motion, and yet more motion, until in time that motion created us, and created also our compulsions and desires, and created as well the world about us with its people, and their appetites and so on, and that to win free of all this is impossible.”
“And yet,” said I, “should I stoop to pick up a rock, and throw the rock into the water, the rock then flies into the water. The rock has no will in the matter, but it seems to obey my will, as do my arm and hand.”
Utterback stopped in mid-stride, took my arm, and brought me close. His level brown eyes gazed into mine from mere inches away.
“Do you desire women?” he asked.
At this surprising intimacy, I found unwanted speculation flew through my mind on agitated wings. I resisted the urge to take a step away.
“I do, my lord,” I said.
“So do I,” said Utterback, to my relief. “Yet do we desire women through choice, or by Necessity, compelled by our natures? And do we somehow achieve Freedom by enslaving the desires that are natural to us?”
I adopted my innocent-choirboy face. “For myself,” I said, “I follow the Pilgrim’s advice, and act in accord with the dictates of Nature.”
Utterback smiled and released my arm. He continued his progress down the quay, and I again fell into step beside him. My mind whirled with the strangeness of it all. Utterback had spoken scarcely a dozen sentences to me on this entire journey, and now it seemed that he wished to debate philosophy. Were these the sorts of questions that occupied Lord Utterback’s thoughts on the long journey? Was philosophy how he endured Gribbins’s company?
“Necessity made me a lord,” Utterback said. “It is due to no special virtue of mine that I am my father’s son. But are lords themselves a Necessity? And it is Necessity that I behave as a lord behaves?”
I began cautiously. “Do you not have more Freedom than most men? You have wealth, you have access at court, you have liegemen and noble kinsmen to support you, you have your privileges . . .”
“And yet in some ways I have less Freedom than most men. I will marry a woman of my father’s choosing. I may go to court, but only to labor on my father’s behalf. If I go to war, it will be because my father sends me, or brings me to war with him. I will enlist in the cause of other nobles, as my father chooses, and conspire against cliques of nobles who oppose him. Even my friends and enemies are chosen for me.”
“It is no disgrace to obey your father’s will. All custom commends it. And of course you will inherit, and then need obey no will but your own.”
“Ah, but then it will be worse!” Utterback offered a laugh. “I myself will be creating these allies and enemies. I myself will be conspiring for power, marrying my children for advantage, trying to send my enemies to prison or to the hangman.”
“I cannot believe those are your only choices,” said I.
“Then we return to my question. Is it Necessity that great lords behave as great lords behave?”
Utterback had come to the end of the quay, where a great wooden jetty sagged on ancient pilings. The great galleon Irresistible moored there, its forecastle and steeply pitched poop shadowing the pier, its gangplanks filled with men bringing aboard stores.
“Hast seen Stayne’s ship?” Utterback asked.
“I was just writing of it to my friend. I should think it might drive the corsairs from our shores all on its own.”
“If it fights the corsairs at all.”
I was surprised. “What else should it do?”
Utterback fingered his dark pointed beard and narrowed his eyes as he looked down the quay. “Irresistible returned a fortnight ago from a voyage to the north, with a cargo of lumber, pitch, and turpentine. Eight days ago, a rider arrived from the marquess ordering the ship to prepare for war. Most of the great guns had been struck into the hold to make room for cargo, so these were brought up to fill the ports—sixty-two guns on three decks. Powder, shot, and other supplies are brought aboard, and they are recruiting a fighting crew—over six hundred men. Stayne himself is expected within the week, to sail aboard her.”
I had been calculating ever since I heard that eight days. “Where is Lord Stayne’s seat?”
“Allingham. Over the Toppings, then four or five days’ journey northwest.”
“So,” I said slowly, “he ordered the ship made ready for war before he could have known of the attack on Ethlebight.”
A smile twitched across Utterback’s lips. “Just so.”
“Could he have foreknown that the reivers were coming?”
Utterback gave a shrug. “I doubt they would have sent him notice of their intentions.”
“He could have employed a scryer, perhaps?”
“And told him to scry the whole wide ocean on the chance that a fleet of corsairs might be bound for our shores for the first time in over a generation? I think Stayne, in his highland home, is not so concerned with the safety of the coasts.”
“So, he intends to attack someone,” I said. “But who? We are at peace.”
“Perhaps we should ponder what a great nobleman might consider Necessity.”
I duly pondered, and was able to reach no conclusion. I spoke cautiously. “You have not described a noble’s behavior in flattering terms. You have said that the great nobles form cliques that conspire against one another, and I believe history supports this—but I don’t recall history supporting a naval attack from one clique against another, at least not in peacetime.”
Utterback’s answer was quick. “And is Duisland at peace?”
“Not with the corsairs.”
“But within its own borders?”
I hesitated. “The King is dead,” I said.
“Stilwell is dead. Leaving behind?”
“The two princesses.” A startling idea gripped me. “Do the princesses war with one another?”
“There’s more in the world than the two princesses, Goodman Quillifer.” Utterback raised a slinkskin-clad hand and began to count off the gloved fingers. “The princesses. Young Queen Laurel. Three former Queens, all still alive, and all with their noble relatives and their affinity. There are three or four bastard daughters; I know not how many, but they do not matter because their families do not matter. Then there is the bastard son, Clayborne, raised at court, whose mother is Countess of Tern confirmed in her own right, and who has but lately married the Duke of Andrian and all his land and wealth in Bonille. Clayborne is popular at court—a pleasing young man, quick of wit, handsome and charming, and resembling his father in many ways, save that he is lazy. He has always denied any ambition, but there are many who say he would make a good King. The princesses have been raised by their mothers, in exile from court, and are not well-known, and are not popular.”
T
he tally of this list had taken all fingers of both hands. I looked at the gloved hands for a moment. “You imply that Clayborne may try to seize the throne?”
“He may, or may be pushed into rebellion by his mother, who was deprived of a throne by that inconvenient first husband of hers, who would not oblige her with a divorce even when the King himself asked it of him. My Lady of Tern has deeply felt the lack of a throne ever since.”
My eyes turned again to the high-charged galleon waiting at the wharf. “So, Lord Stayne readies for a civil war. On which side?”
“He is a friend of the Countess, and a sometime ally of the duke. A companion in the bastard’s revels. I know nothing of his relationship with our new Queen, if he has one.”
I contemplated barrels of supplies rising in a net, and floating over the galleon’s hold at the end of a yardarm. “If Stayne wished to pledge his loyalty to Queen Berlauda,” I pointed out, “he needn’t ride all this way to board a warship; he could ride from his home to Selford in three or four days. And neither would he sail if Clayborne were anywhere that could be reached by road.”
“A telling point,” Utterback said. “I had not considered that. The bastard must be in Bonille, or abroad.”
“Have you spoken to the Lord Lieutenant? He could close the port and prevent Stayne from leaving.”
Utterback waved a hand. “Of what party is the Lord Lieutenant? I know not—Stayne might be permitted to sail free, while I am tossed in a dungeon.” He frowned. “Would that I knew my father’s mind. He is well disposed to Clayborne, I know, and has been one of his mother’s lovers, but I cannot say whether any such sentimental attachment will lead him to rebellion.” He looked again at the galleon. “Would he wish me to go aboard with Stayne, I wonder?”
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