‘How the hell do you know it’s just one incident?’ Argent snapped, then held up a palm in an instant apology at the harshness of his words. ‘I’m sorry, Tom; it seems that holding down the Earl’s chair under these absurd conditions has tightened me like a bow string.’ Steven Argent had never believed in the old saw, ‘never apologize, never explain.’ When you made a mistake, you apologized, lest the men who served under you thought you were an idiot who never noticed that he had erred.
Tom Garnett nodded, accepting both the correction and the apology. ‘I don’t know it’s only one incident, at that. How quickly can we get a message to Yabon?’
Relaying the intelligence to their superior was the obvious thing to do, but Steven Argent shook his head. ‘I’ll check with the birder, but I doubt that we have any Yabon-homing messenger pigeons - the Earl is due to bring some back with him.’ He shrugged. ‘I did receive one, a few days ago, announcing his safe arrival there, but I can hardly tell it to turn around and fly back, eh?’
Earl Vandros had always gently mocked Steven Argent’s concern about the paucity of messenger pigeons in LaMut, and it gave Steven Argent no joy at all to have been proven right. With dozens of messages quite literally flying back and forth in advance of the general staff meeting in Yabon and the Baronial Council in LaMut, the stock of pigeons was far too low for his taste.
‘So, what do we do?’ Tom Garnett frowned and drew himself up straight. ‘My apologies, sir - what I meant is: what are your orders?’
Steven Argent forced a smile. ‘Well, my first order is to give me the evening to think about what to do next, and let’s keep this matter to ourselves for the -’
‘Er.’ Tom Garnett blinked. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that. The only way I could have stopped my men from talking was to lock them all in the barracks, with guards outside, and even then I’m not sure that the secret would have held.’
And, he didn’t have to add, I wasn’t under any orders to lock up the very men you need out and among the rest, trying to keep the peace.
Steven Argent nodded, accepting the explanation. ‘Well, it’s out, and I suppose word will have reached the barons soon, if it hasn’t already. I’d better go answer their questions before they tear the Great Hall apart, eh?’ He forced himself to chuckle. ‘That last was just a figure of speech, and an ill-chosen one, under the circumstances.’
He rose, and the Captain set his glass down and quickly got to his feet as well, but he gestured at Tom Garnett to sit back down. ‘Oh, don’t get up. Stay and finish your wine, man; you certainly deserve it, and it’s a shame to waste even half a glass of such a fine Rillanon red. I can’t imagine when we’ll be getting more in.’
The Captain reseated himself, and gave the Swordmaster a quick salute with his wine glass. ‘Thank you, sir; I’m no judge of wine, but I’ve rarely had better. But as to the barons having heard, I’m sure that’s so. I’ve found that gossip always travels faster than the most speedy crossbow bolt.’
‘So I’d best get out and about,’ the Swordmaster said. ‘You wouldn’t have any good news for me, would you?’
‘My apologies; no, I don’t.’ Tom Garnett shook his head. ‘Good news seems to be in as short supply as fresh produce, right about now. Although. . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, when we were coming back in to the city, the air definitely did seem to be warming a little, and I don’t think that’s just from all the exercise and the way that finding this armour had my heart pounding in my chest. I suppose any change in the weather is good news.’ He reached over and scratched at the firedrake’s eye-ridges, and smiled as the lizardlike creature preened himself. ‘And I think that Fantus likes me.’
Steven Argent laughed. It wasn’t much of a laugh - the times didn’t seem to be terribly funny, all things considered - but it was real enough.
Pirojil, with Durine in tow, intercepted the Swordmaster coming down the stairs, just as they were walking up the winding staircase to the Aerie to report to him.
From their own discussion, it was clear that their reports to the Swordmaster would be similar, and would inevitably lead Argent to the same conclusion that both of them had independently drawn: things were barely holding together in the city, and with the way that the regulars, the Watch and the baronial captains were keeping a lid on the pot, it would likely continue to simmer a little while longer before, sooner or later, it boiled over.
It hadn’t been much of a coincidence that they had encountered each other on the way back up the hill to the castle. They both knew that the Swordmaster dined early, by himself; and because they both had understood that when he said he wanted to get their report ‘at table’, he had meant that they were to join him in his rooms and report privately, rather than later, when he joined the nobility in the Great Hall.
Pirojil hoped that they wouldn’t have to persuade Steven Argent that they hadn’t disobeyed his very explicit orders to split up when they went down into the city, although he found himself worrying about having to do just that, and gathering names of witnesses in his mind.
At least it gave him something minor to worry about - what could Steven Argent do, after all? Take away all three sets of their captains’ tabs and simultaneously relieve them of the responsibility of trying to keep a lid on things? A full-scale bloodbath would be a relief after the tension he experienced trying to act like an officer. This leader-of-men stuff was nerve-wracking, to say the least.
No, getting relieved of duty was the least of their worries. Where, for example, was Kethol?
Kethol had, it seemed, understood Steven Argent’s instructions differently - Kethol wasn’t always the brightest of men, in Pirojil’s studied opinion, particularly when he was out of his element, and a snowed-in city was most assuredly not Kethol’s element. On the other hand, perhaps he was just a few minutes behind them.
Or perhaps Kethol was just lying dead in some back alley, having tried too hard to break up a fight, and finally run into either too good a swordsman, or too many of them.
Steven Argent paused a few steps above them, looked down, and nodded. ‘There you are. It’s always been my policy to dine with newly-made captains, but there’s been a sighting of a possible Tsurani scout, and -’ he stopped himself. ‘No, what’s happening in the city is likely to be more important, at least at the moment.’
Pirojil suppressed a derisive sniff. Yes, it was very bloody likely to be more important. Whatever this ‘interesting development’ was, it couldn’t be more important than open warfare being one shoving match away from breaking out among the factions in the city.
‘I’d better hear your report now, and we will dine later,’ Steven Argent said, ‘but quickly, if you please.’
From what snatches of conversation Durine could hear, from across the barrier of the table and most of the width of the Great Hall, the after-dinner concerns of the assembled nobles were more about the Tsurani scout than they were about problems of taxes and succession, and were decidedly more friendly.
Even Morray and Verheyen were too busy listening to the Swordmaster holding forth, as he had been through the nobles’ dinner and for the past hour after, to spend time glaring at each other, although Edwin of Viztria couldn’t keep the usual alternating sneer and scowl from his face, or avoid dropping an occasional comment that Durine was just as glad he couldn’t entirely make out. Baron Edwin was one of the few men Durine had met that he felt deserved to be throttled merely for being annoying.
Whoever this Tsurani scout was, he had provided a useful distraction. Durine was inclined to lift a glass in toast to him, as long as his presence this far south didn’t presage some sort of huge Tsurani troop movement. Looking at the other captains gathered around the hearth, Durine judged he wasn’t the only one of the captains who would have been happy to buy the poor freezing sod the drink of his choice. Those who had taken a turn through the suddenly peaceful barracks reported that the men were now anticipating combat with the Tsurani, not one ano
ther. Yes, he’d gladly buy that Tsurani scout a drink.
Before cutting his throat, of course. Gratitude could only go so far.
Durine was finishing his second glass of wine, and deciding whether he had better switch to coffee or tea, when Haskell the Birdmaster came down the steps from the loft above the Aerie, and handed something - a message, presumably - to the Swordmaster, who accepted it with a quick, dismissive nod, then finished what he was saying to Edwin of Viztria before stepping under a lantern to read the note.
If the message had any effect on the Swordmaster at all, it didn’t show on Steven Argent’s increasingly-lined face; and it didn’t show in his actions, either, for he just tucked the message into his belt pouch and resumed his conversation with Viztria.
Probably nothing important, even though, a few minutes later, when Durine looked over towards where the nobles were, Steven Argent, Lady Mondegreen and Baron Morray were gone, leaving Barons Folson and Langahan to rejoin the other nobles on the far side of the room.
The talk was mainly of the scout, and what that portended for the spring, and if Durine hadn’t switched to coffee after a couple of glasses of wine, he would have been thoroughly drunk by the time Kethol had staggered in, well after dark, and joined the rest of the small cluster of soldiers around the smaller hearth in the Great Hall.
He had, uncharacteristically, been almost entirely silent, which was very unusual for Kethol, who habitually talked in crowds enough to blend in, and didn’t like drawing attention to himself by silence any more than by loquaciousness.
Durine shrugged. He could ask about it later, and probably would.
Captain Karris came in out of the cold, stamping his boots on the marble floor to clear the snow from them, apparently disdaining the idea of doing so out in the cold of the mud-room.
‘Hail, Karl Karris,’ Tom Garnett said. ‘Any word?’
‘Word?’ Karris sniffed, scooping up a mug. He squatted in front of the coffee pot next to the hearth, wrapping his hand with his cloak to grip the handle, disdaining the nearby leather glove.
‘There are plenty of words - but they’re fairly quiet words at the moment, at least out in the barracks. Lots of men getting some sleep, even though a few have had to drink themselves to sleep, and the rest seem to be spending an unusual amount of time seeing to their gear.’ He chuckled to himself as he plopped down into the empty chair between Durine and Garnett. ‘There’re some swords out there that are now more than sharp enough to shave with.’
Kelly nodded. ‘But those that aren’t asleep seem to be spending their time looking at the windows, rather than at each others’ throats, as though they can see Tsurani storming over the castle walls through the bloody shutters.’ He grinned. ‘Lousy day when the best thing that happens is a rumour of a Tsurani winter troop movement.’
‘You don’t think it’s so?’
‘Me, I hope it’s so -’ hope that there’s a legion of them frozen out in some fields, ten miles to the west, but I don’t believe it. Not that it would matter much if it was so - they seem to be in endless supply, like sewage flowing through a pipe, and that pipe pours out in the Grey Towers. They could afford to lose a legion to a bone-headed move like trying to marshal an army in a blizzard. But they’re not stupid enough to try that. No, my guess is that the Tsurani have just added another string to their bow-‘
‘Winter scouting?’ Karris scowled. ‘I don’t much like that thought, but . . .’
‘Yes, if it’s just that, that’s bad enough, certainly, but it’s not the end of the world. Still, if I were at the general staff in Yabon City, I’d be carefully rethinking how early things are going to heat up, come spring.’
‘In more ways than one, eh?’ Tom Garnett grimaced at his own weak joke.
‘Yes.’ Karris thought it over for a moment. ‘LaMut - Yabon itself, for that matter - has been, thankfully, more of a sideshow these days, with the real action at Crydee and Stone Mountain, and I’m pretty glad of that, but if that’s about to change, I hope our betters will stop stripping the defences in Yabon down to a bare minimum, to reinforce the West.’
‘Which could, of course, be just what the Tsurani want us to do,’ Kethol said, quietly, speaking more than a monosyllable for the first time since he had sat down. ‘And then they just redouble their efforts against a less well-defended Crydee, and go through the dwarves at Stone Mountain like a toe through a well-worn sock, and -’
‘“Us”, you say?’ Kelly raised an eyebrow. ‘Us? Since when is there an us? From what I hear, you and your friends are still southbound, the moment that it’s thawed enough, with most of the mercenaries with you.’
Durine didn’t know about most of the mercenaries - he thought some would stay, as long as there was pay to be had, and that some would go, as he and Kethol and Pirojil surely would. These rank tabs were a temporary brevetting, and if this news presaged some new major Tsurani movement into Yabon, the idea of getting out of LaMut had even more appeal than it had before.
Not that it needed much more appeal.
Kethol just blinked. ‘I’m just saying that it might be a bad idea to make too much of this one incident, as surprising as it is.’ He shrugged. ‘Grodan of Natal said that he and the other two Rangers would be back in a few days, and I doubt even the most talented Tsurani scout could make his way through LaMut without leaving some tracks that a Natalese Ranger would notice.’
There was general agreement and widespread nods at that.
The abilities of the Rangers were widely respected - although Durine wondered how even they would be able to make any progress across the land right now. Kethol at least seemed sure that they would, but that was probably just Kethol having bought into their legend; Durine was more sceptical by nature.
‘Rangers?’ Durine started at the way that Morray spoke up: he hadn’t heard the Baron approach. ‘What’s this about the Rangers?’
Tom Garnett pointed his pipe-stem at Kethol. ‘Captain Kethol was just explaining that the Rangers are scouting the surrounding area. He was urging calm, and suggesting that we wait to see what their report is before leaping to conclusions about Tsurani late-winter campaigns and such.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Morray nodded. ‘Sound counsel, that.’ He looked from face to face, and the side conversations cut off abruptly.
‘I’m just but a lowly land-baron, and all,’ he said, his voice tinged with bitterness, then quickly went on, ‘but it seems to me that there’ll be time aplenty to panic later on, if there’s anything to panic about.’
His voice and even his posture were soothing, too soothing and relaxed to be natural, but that was the only clue as to how tightly the Baron was keeping himself under control.
Morray beckoned to Kethol. ‘Might I have a private word with you, Captain Kethol?’ he more asked than commanded. ‘There’s a matter or two we need to discuss.’
Kethol gave a quick glance at Durine, then rose and left the Great Hall with the Baron.
Durine wondered what that was all about, and from the looks at him from the other soldiers it seemed he wasn’t the only one wondering; however, he kept his face carefully blank, and Kelly went on, after a few awkward moments of silence: ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘panic won’t serve us at all, but there’s more than enough to worry about. It gets worse all the time, as it is. Each year, the Tsurani are more secure in the Grey Towers and the surrounding areas. Each spring, they have the choice whether or where to strike out - west to Crydee, or south to the Bitter Sea, or south and west through the fringes of the Green Heart to Carse and Jonril. Or east to LaMut, for that matter. They picked their entry point cleverly - if they had entered this world at Crydee, we’d have them bottled up against the Far Coast, or if they had chosen the High Wold, we could bring the forces of both the Eastern and Western realms together against them, and smash them flat.’ He punctuated the words by clapping his hands together, as though smashing a fly.
That would, of course, have been easier said than done; the
Tsurani would have made an awfully large fly, and Durine wasn’t at all sure that even collectively the Realms had enough force to smash them flat. But he was more than a little amused by the notion that the only places deemed useful for the Tsurani to have invaded through were in the Kingdom, although the fact of the invasion happening through some sort of rift near the Grey Towers spoke of good planning or better luck on their part.
It would have been nice, say, if the rift to Midkemia had been created a few feet below the Bitter Sea, and drowned every cursed Tsurani and his kin on Kelewan. That was a fine wish, but then again, Durine had always felt that if you put a pile of wishes in your left hand, and the hilt of a sword in your right, it was what was in your right hand that was likely to affect what happened around you.
‘What we need to do is to carry the battle to them,’ Karris said. He drank deeply from his goblet - he had quickly switched to wine after draining his mug of coffee - and reflexively wiped his wine-soaked moustache on the back of his hand.
Tom Garnett nodded. ‘A sound enough idea, but how?’
‘If I had some real idea as to how,’ Karris said, glaring, ‘I can swear I’d be doing something more useful than sitting around the fire drinking and smoking with you lot.’ He pulled his pipe out of his pocket and began to puff on it, careless of the fact that it wasn’t lit.
‘I like the idea, myself, but it’s the how that matters.’ Karris sighed. ‘And as to how to carry the war to the Tsurani, rather than letting them deliver it to us, I’ve no useful notion, but some hope that those at Yabon will have better than an inkling. We could try to plan out the whole war here, I guess, over our pipes and coffee, but we don’t know what Duke Brucal and his advisers know.’
The rest let that go by with nods and mutters of agreement, although Durine doubted that, say, a captain serving Duke Borric of Crydee would have considered the general staff meeting at Yabon City to be simply Duke Brucal and his advisers, nor would a dwarf fealty-bound to Dolgan of the Grey Towers or to Harthorn of Stone Mountain, or whomever Queen Aglaranna of Elvandar had dispatched to represent her and elfkind, for that matter.
Murder In LaMut Page 22
