“What is this?” the Jannarsk sergeant snarled, reaching for the sword at his belt.
“You’re not welcome here,” Mirya spat.
The other armsmen started to turn, reaching for their own weapons. They were too slow. In a dark, furious tide, the Hulburgans swarmed over them with their cudgels rising and falling. The sergeant managed to draw his sword, and stayed on his feet long enough to line up a thrust at Rost as the carpenter bludgeoned one of the other sellswords to the ground. Mirya raised her crossbow, sighting for a shot—but Brun Osting stepped close and neatly rapped the sergeant’s sword from his hand with a sharp blow of his club that likely broke the man’s thumb. Then all three of the sellswords were on the ground, and the Hulburgans fell to beating and kicking them furiously.
Mirya winced at the violent assault, but she refused to look away. There’d be worse than this if she meant to see things all the way through. “Leave them alive!” she hissed to her neighbors. “We’ll not spill blood until we have to.” She had no particular concern for sparing Hulburg’s enemies, but she hoped that leaving the Jannarsks alive would bring less of a reprisal than cold-blooded murder.
In the space of ten heartbeats, it was over. Mirya motioned for Brun and Therndon to drag the mercenaries back into the alleyway, pausing for one more look up and down the street. No one was close enough to pay them any attention; the fog was their friend tonight, or so it seemed. She stooped by the battered mercenaries, searching for signs of life. All of them were breathing, but if she was any judge, they’d be in slings or casts for tendays. Well, it wasn’t anything more than they’d inflicted on poor Perremon. “Take their weapons,” she told Therndon. The carpenter quickly gathered up their swords and daggers in a sack, throwing it over his shoulder.
“Anything else for these villains?” Vannarshel asked.
“Leave them for their friends to find,” Mirya answered. “We’ll see if the lesson takes or not. Now, let’s be on our way before the Council Guard or their gray guardians come by. We’ll have more work soon enough.” There was a Veruna supply train bound for their mining camps in a day or two; Mirya was already thinking of how she and her small company might waylay it.
“Not a word to anyone,” Lodharrun grunted. The dwarf held out his thick fist; Mirya set her hand on top of his. The others joined them.
“Not a word,” she repeated. “Now, away with all of you!” Briefly, the Hulburgans clasped hands before parting ways and silently vanishing into the night fog.
FOUR
10 Hammer, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
Geran’s mother arrived at Lasparhall the morning of the day before Grigor’s funeral. A Hulmaster chamberlain summoned Geran from the garden where he’d been practicing his forms, a refuge of exercise that he’d used more than once over the last few days to lose himself for an hour without thought. Quickly toweling off, he drew on a dove gray doublet and hurried down to the manor’s front hall, where two footmen waited to help Serise Hulmaster out of her heavy winter cloak and hood. Serise was a tall, sparely built woman of fifty-five years, graceful and reserved; Geran had gained much of his height and quickness from her. Beneath the furs she wore the rich blue gown and ivory corset of a Selûnite initiate, and a pearl-studded comb of silver to keep her long hair—still more black than gray—in its elegant coiffure. She’d retired to Moonsilver Hall, a temple of Selûne a few miles west of Thentia, several years earlier, having grown weary of Hulburg after Bernov Hulmaster’s death and Geran’s departure on his long travels.
“Mother!” Geran hurried over to clasp her hands in his and kiss her on the cheek. “How was your journey?”
“Fair enough, but colder than I would have liked,” Serise answered with a shiver. The carriage ride from Moonsilver Hall was the better part of six or seven miles, and usually took well over an hour. With the bitter temperatures the roads were frozen hard and Geran knew from experience that a carriage ride on a hard-frozen road was likely a ride full of sharp jolts and painful bounces. “The high priestess insisted that I should use her coach, for which I’m grateful, since it was well supplied with blankets. I would have been much more uncomfortable if I’d had to hire a coach from town.”
Geran extended his arm. “Well, come on inside. There’s a fine fire in the great room, and I’m sure that Mistress Laren will be happy to find something warm for you to drink.”
His mother took his arm and allowed him to guide her from the foyer. She looked around the hall with interest. “Lasparhall was empty for fifteen years or more,” she said. “Strange to see the place with so many people keeping busy! Your father and I used to bring you here when you were just a lad, usually when your father was restless and took it into his head to get away from Hulburg for a few tendays.”
“I remember.”
“I’m sure you do. We never had more than a dozen people in this whole great house in those days. Now … so many people, so much going on!”
They came to the study, and Geran asked the first footman he saw to fetch some warm cider or mulled wine for his mother. They took seats in the chairs by the hearth, as close to the roaring fire as they could stand. “I’m glad you came,” he said. “It’s good to see you, Mother.”
“And you, Geran. I only wish it was a happier occasion.” Serise sighed, and leaned forward to peer critically at him. “Your neck is scored! Were you hurt in the fighting? Are you all right?”
He waved away her concern, glad that she couldn’t see the mess of scabs and bandages under his shirt. “Scratched and cut in quite a few places, but nothing serious. Ilmater knows I’ve had worse. And I survived, which is more than many of the Shieldsworn can say. We lost eleven, not counting Uncle Grigor.”
She paled. “That’s terrible! I only heard that there’d been an attack, and that poor Grigor was dead. What happened, Geran?”
“A Cyricist priestess hired sellswords and conjured devils to attack Lasparhall,” he answered. He recounted the awful events of the evening, making an effort to downplay the exact amount of danger he’d been in—Serise Hulmaster was no shrinking violet, but there was no point in giving her more cause to worry than she doubtless already had. “When we searched her body, we found correspondence from Valdarsel, the high prelate in Hulburg,” he concluded. Of course, that could have been planted, but Geran doubted it; he’d seen the hateful fanaticism in the woman’s eyes. “It seems that he directed the priestess to strike at us.”
“I haven’t heard much of this Valdarsel. Who is he?”
“A priest of Cyric. A few months earlier Mirya discovered that he was leading the Cinderfists—gangs of poor foreign folk who’ve fetched up in Hulburg over the last few years. Many of those are decent people simply trying to get by, but there are all too many criminals and slavers mixed up with them.” He made a sour face. “Valdarsel’s been stirring up the foreign folk and their gangs for months, although we didn’t know it at the time. They backed Marstel when he overthrew Uncle Grigor. Marstel rewarded him by giving him a seat on the Harmach’s Council.”
Serise glanced toward the window, painted white by the heavy frost. “It’s been six days now,” she murmured, thinking aloud. “Counting three days to Hulburg for the hard weather, it seems likely that this Valdarsel—and Marstel, too, I suppose—knows by now that poor Grigor is dead, but he also knows that his attack was not completely successful. You’ll have to be careful, Geran. They very well may try again.”
“I know it. Kara and I have done everything we can think of to safeguard the house and protect the rest of the family.”
“Good.” Serise sipped at her cider. “Your uncle was a gentle soul, perhaps too gentle to rule a realm like Hulburg. He didn’t deserve such an end.”
Geran stood up to pace in front of the hearth. “It’s my fault,” he said bitterly. “Marstel never could have seized Griffonwatch without Rhovann’s magic or his guile, and the only reason Rhovann came to Hulburg was to cause harm to me and those dear to me. And when I might have p
ut a stop to it all by staying in Hulburg after the Black Moon raid, I took Seadrake and sailed off to rescue Mirya. I was warned about what would happen if I left Hulburg, but I chose not to listen. I’ve brought ruin on our House.”
“Nonsense, Geran,” Serise said sharply. “Perhaps Marstel’s wizard followed you from Myth Drannor—you would know better than I. But I recall that last spring Sergen attempted to kill Grigor and all the rest of the family, and it was you who prevented him from succeeding. If you hadn’t come back to Hulburg at all, none of the Hulmasters would be left today.” She fixed a stern look on him. “You didn’t murder your uncle, by action or inaction. The enemies of House Hulmaster did. All you did was to make the best choices you could at the time, and no one—not even the gods—can foresee all outcomes. To think you should have done so is simply indulging in self-pity.”
He winced. His mother was far from stupid, and she’d never been one to mince words. He knew she was right, but it didn’t mean that he couldn’t have been more vigilant. Of course the harmach’s blood was on the hands of their enemies … but Geran could imagine many things he might have done differently to safeguard his family against an attack. Grigor’s death might not have been his fault, but it was something that he might have stopped, and he sorely regretted that he hadn’t. “I understand,” he finally admitted. “I can’t even say that I truly regret my choice, because the Black Moon Brotherhood is no more, and Mirya and her daughter are alive and safe. But I wish the cost of my choices wasn’t so dear.”
“As do we all from time to time, although it’s true that few people see consequences such as you’ve seen.” Serise sipped again at her warm cider, and set down the cup. “I feel somewhat recovered now, and I’d dearly love to see young Natali and Kirr. Children have a way of raising spirits, you know.”
“Is that a hint, Mother?”
“I wouldn’t dream of wondering aloud when my son of thirty-one years might finally find a wife and present me with grandchildren.”
“I’ve got a lot on my mind these days!” he protested. But he smiled and offered his arm again, escorting her to the family’s living quarters.
They found Geran’s Aunt Terena in the family’s great room, assisting Erna as she tried to keep Natali and Kirr at the day’s lessons, a task that was soon abandoned. Geran’s mother hadn’t seen the young Hulmasters in several years, and they were eager to make the acquaintance of a relation they’d all but forgotten. Geran passed an hour keeping them company and listening to Serise and Terena recall old stories about a younger, haler Grigor and the misadventures of their own departed husbands—in Terena’s case, not Kamoth Kastelmar but instead her first husband, Kara’s father Arvhun—in years when Geran was not much older than Kirr. He would have thought that the stories of happier days would have been too sad to bear with Grigor’s funeral drawing near, but to his surprise he found himself laughing aloud more than once at stories he’d heard a dozen times as a young man.
After a midday meal of venison stew and fresh-baked bread, Geran excused himself with an idea of riding to Thentia to make some inquiries about the sellswords who’d been hired for the attack. But before he could don his riding furs against the weather, he was intercepted by Master Quillon—a halfling scribe who’d served as the harmach’s private secretary for the better part of two decades—and his cousin Kara. “A moment, Geran,” Kara called. “Master Quillon’s brought something to my attention.”
Geran paused and regarded the halfling. Quillon was a balding fellow with long sideburns and a thick pair of spectacles balanced on the end of his nose; he wore a tabard in the blue and white colors of the family Hulmaster with a matching cap. “Go on,” he said.
Quillon held up a sheaf of letters in one inkstained hand. “We’re beginning to receive correspondence addressed to the Harmach of Hulburg,” he said. “Mostly, they’re condolences, letters that simply express sympathy for our loss and outrage at Harmach Grigor’s murder. This sort of thing is commonplace after the passing of a head of state, even a small state such as Hulburg. They come from various nobles and realms around the Moonsea. We’ve only received a handful so far, but there will be more over the next few tendays.”
Geran glanced at Kara, and back to Quillon. “If it’s typical correspondence, I’m not sure I understand what the problem is. How would we normally answer them?”
“Oh, I can see to that, Lord Geran. Answering them is not the difficulty—although there are some that should be read by a member of the family, and not just myself. The difficulty is that, well, I am not exactly certain who should sign them.” The halfling pushed at his spectacles uncomfortably. “You see … well, ah … I am not certain who is to become harmach. I brought these letters to Lady Kara since she assisted Harmach Grigor with such things over the last few years, but she told me that no decision has been made yet.”
“It’s not just the correspondence,” Kara added. “With the funeral tomorrow, there are questions of protocol too. We’ve avoided this discussion as long as we can.”
He stood in silence, looking at the letters in Quillon’s hand. Between the two of them, he and Kara had overseen the household for the last few days. But that was clearly a temporary arrangement. “Is there any decision to be made?” he finally asked. “I assume that Harmach Grigor left instructions for this. Or do the laws of succession simply dictate the answer?”
“I am afraid that Harmach Grigor named no one after Lord Isolmar died,” Quillon replied. “And the laws of succession are unclear. I believe that it is a matter for the family to decide, my lord.”
“I see.” Geran frowned. “Kara, what do you make of this?”
“I think the best thing to do is to bring everyone together and discuss it. The sooner, the better.”
He nodded. “Master Quillon, would you join us in the study at two bells? Your knowledge of the law may be helpful.”
“Of course, Lord Geran. I’ll fetch my pen and paper.” Quillon bowed, and hurried away.
The two Hulmasters watched him go, and Geran allowed himself a grimace of apprehension. He knew he didn’t want the throne—he wanted Grigor to be harmach, just as he’d been throughout the entirety of Geran’s life. But an assassin’s dagger had changed that, and Geran’s wishes had no power to put things back in order. No, the question was not whether he wanted to be harmach. The question was whether he was willing to be harmach if that was the best thing for his family.
Kara watched him as he wrestled with his thoughts. “I know it can’t be me, Geran,” she said in a low voice. “Whatever you decide, I’ll back you.”
He nodded gratefully, even though he had no idea what was the right course. “I suppose we’d better gather everyone.”
A little less than an hour later, the Hulmaster clan assembled in Lasparhall’s study. Natali and Kirr were excused, but Erna was present to speak for her children if need be. Terena and Serise sat near the fire, and Geran stood by the window, paying little attention to the chill radiating from the frost-covered panes. Master Quillon took an unobtrusive place in the room’s corner, his writing materials laid out before him.
Kara dismissed the servants from the room, closing the door behind them as she turned to face the Hulmasters. “I’m afraid there is a question that we must settle today,” she said. “Scores of nobles from Thentia and ambassadors from other cities will be here tomorrow to attend Harmach Grigor’s funeral rites. The question that will be on all their minds is simply this: who is to be the next harmach?”
“You and Geran have been looking after things since—well, over the last few days,” Terena said. “What do the laws of succession say?”
“Very little, I’m afraid,” Kara answered. She looked over to Master Quillon. “Have you found anything more?”
The halfling shook his head. “Regretfully, no. The difficulty is that Hulburg’s laws provide little guidance. By tradition the harmach names his heir. Until four years ago, that was clearly Lord Isolmar, but Harmach Grigor never named a ne
w heir after Isolmar’s death. As far as I can determine, it’s been more than a hundred and fifty years since a harmach died without a son who was ready and willing to take the title, so there is no obvious precedent to follow.”
“Why didn’t he simply choose someone?” Erna said sadly. “Then we would know better what to do now.”
“He was worried that he would endanger whoever he named,” Terena said. The others in the room looked at her in surprise; she shrugged. “We spoke of it once or twice. After all, Isolmar—his own son—had just been murdered, in all likelihood because he was close to the throne. I suspect that Sergen may have influenced his decision as well, either by advising him not to name anyone else, or perhaps by indicating that he wished to be considered as a potential heir. With Geran away on his travels, Isolmar’s children hardly more than babes, and Kara’s condition, there was no one else.”
Geran glanced at Kara, who grimaced quickly but said nothing. The eerie azure of her spellscarred eyes and the blue serpentlike mark on her left hand shimmered in the room’s dim light. She was undoubtedly the most qualified candidate, since she’d sat on the Harmach’s Council and served as Grigor’s right hand for years, but no one would suffer a harmach whose children might turn out to be monsters.
“I doubt that we can divine Grigor’s intent,” said Geran’s mother. “Let us look at this another way. Neither Erna nor I are Hulmasters by blood. That simply leaves Terena, Geran, Natali, and Kirr. Terena is, of course, the eldest Hulmaster remaining, and the daughter of a harmach herself. Geran is the eldest male Hulmaster. If we believe the succession should pass to the oldest child of Grigor’s oldest child, that would be Natali of course, but she’s only a child. She’d need a regent to rule for her.”
Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III Page 5
