Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III

by Richard Baker

  “Excuse me. The law is unclear about whether the eldest Hulmaster or the eldest male Hulmaster is to be preferred,” Quillon said. “Of course, by chance those have happened to be the same for a number of generations now.”

  “I have no desire to be harmach!” Terena said quickly. “In these circumstances, we need a war leader, someone with courage and vigor. I have little of either. Our friends—and our enemies—need to know that the Hulmasters have not relinquished our claim, but I wouldn’t inspire confidence or fear in anybody.”

  Geran felt the gazes of the other Hulmasters shifting to him. He looked down at the table, considering the question. If he asserted his claim he had no doubt that his family would be content to support him. “I’ll assume the title if I must,” he said slowly, “but I would not be very well suited for it. I know nothing of statecraft.”

  “Geran, knowledge of statecraft is not a requirement,” his mother said. “Leadership is. I think you underestimate yourself. Would Grigor have been content to see you become harmach? And is it something you are willing to do?”

  “I’ve spent most of my adult life avoiding that sort of responsibility,” he said.

  “No one knows that better than I do. I know how restless you’ve always been. Still, you are the only choice if we seek a harmach who could rule today.”

  He shook his head. “I mean to go in harm’s way. A harmach must be more careful than that. Let the throne pass to Isolmar’s children, and appoint a regent. Kara’s far and away the best qualified. She’s commanded the Shieldsworn in battle, and she counseled Harmach Grigor for the better part of the last ten years. And—forgive me for saying so, Kara—her spellscar is no drawback for a regent. In fact, it might be seen as an advantage, since she’ll be understood to have no dynastic ambitions of her own.”

  The room fell silent for a long time. Finally Kara spoke. “I’ll do it if that is the consensus of the family. But there are two things I think we should consider. First, a harmach would be seen as a more powerful figure than a regent. After all, a regent by her nature would be someone whose reign is soon to end, but a harmach might hold the throne for decades. A harmach’s promises carry more weight, as do his threats. Secondly it’s just been demonstrated to us that our enemies are willing to strike at whoever is harmach. I would be very fearful about naming Natali or Kirr harmach now.”

  Erna paled. “Dear gods,” she whispered. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Geran folded his arms in front of his chest and scowled. He hadn’t thought of it, either. Kara’s point about appearances was one thing, but he couldn’t stand the idea of endangering his young cousins simply because he was unwilling to shoulder the title. He looked over to Quillon and asked, “Is there any reason a harmach couldn’t abdicate and appoint a regent for a young successor?”

  The halfling scribe gazed upward in thought, considering the question. “No, Lord Geran. The law is generous about allowing a harmach to step down.”

  “Very well.” He squared his shoulders and turned back to face his family. “Kara’s convinced me; it’s best that I should do it. But I won’t name myself harmach, not until Hulburg is freed, and Marstel and Rhovann have answered for what they’ve done. Claiming a title we have no power to enforce would appear weaker than not claiming it at all. Someone must be the Lord Hulmaster in name, but we’ll show the Moonsea by our actions, not our words, that we haven’t waived our claim on Hulburg.”

  Quillon scribbled on his parchment, then cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, Lord Geran, but in point of fact, you’d be known as the Baron Hulmaster, since that is the precedence accorded your family in other lands.”

  “Lord Hulmaster is good enough.” He looked around the room; his mother nodded in approval, Terena appeared relieved, and Erna frowned but nodded as well. He could already feel their expectations settling around him; in the dark and chaotic days since Grigor’s murder they’d all been caught up in the simple process of grieving and the automatic responses of dealing with a death in the family—something that the Hulmasters knew all too well. Geran’s father, Kara’s father, now Isolmar and Grigor both … he could almost believe that some dark curse had settled upon the Hulmaster line. “I still believe I’m not a very good choice to be harmach, but I’ll do what I can to restore our family’s birthright to the next harmach.”

  “Should you name a successor in case …?” Erna asked.

  “No, and for the same reasons that Uncle Grigor didn’t. At least, I won’t make any sort of formal announcement. Privately … well, if a successor is needed, I wouldn’t be around, so you should do what you think best in my absence. But my recommendation would be that if something should happen to me, Natali becomes the next harmach, and Kara should be her regent.” He waited in case anyone else wished to speak, and nodded to Quillon. “Master Quillon, does this all seem in order to you?”

  “It does, my lord har—baron … er, Hulmaster. I’ll have the proper patents and notices drawn up at once.” The old halfling stood and shuffled his papers together. “And I have some correspondence that requires your attention.”

  “I’ll be along shortly, Master Quillon,” Geran replied. He waited for the halfling to let himself out of the room, weighing the iron resolve that was beginning to take shape in his heart. Serise, Terena, Erna, and Kara all watched him, perhaps measuring him against their expectations of what a harmach—in name or not—should do next. I’d better begin to get used to that, he realized. Shieldsworn, servants, clerks, scribes, even my own close family, they’ll all be watching to see how I meet each decision, each development, that comes our way. He found himself shivering at the thought, his stomach growing unsettled, and he closed his eyes to gather himself. I don’t even have a kingdom to rule yet, and Hulburg’s a small realm by any measure. How could someone become the King of Tethyr or the coronal of Myth Drannor and stand it?

  There’s no sense in wishing for this to go away, he told himself. Before he could reconsider the intent growing in his thoughts, he faced the rest of House Hulmaster and spoke. “Tomorrow, we bury Uncle Grigor,” he said. He let the words stand for a moment to let the others think on them. “But the day after, we begin the war to retake Hulburg. Mother, I think it might be a good idea to take Erna and her children into hiding in Selûne’s temple—Aunt Terena too, if she’s willing to go. Too many people know we’re here, and we have enemies who command powerful magic. Natali and Kirr would be safer somewhere else. Kara, your task is to build the Shieldsworn and any exiled Hulburgans willing to join us into an army that can defeat Marstel’s Council Guard. Hire sellswords, recruit adventuring companies, make deals with the merchant costers of the Moonsea, whatever is required. I want to be able to march in the spring.”

  Kara nodded, but a frown creased her brow. “You have some other purpose in mind, don’t you?”

  He met her eyes, and let the anger that had simmered in him for days put steel into his voice. “Vengeance,” he said. “Before I do anything else, those who ordered Grigor’s murder are going to die under my blade.”

  FIVE

  17 Hammer, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)

  Six days after Grigor Hulmaster’s burial, Geran set foot in Hulburg again. He trudged alongside the mud-spattered wagons of a Double Moon caravan, playing the part of a Vastar sellsword. He’d signed on to escort the caravan from Thentia’s crowded merchant yards to Hulburg for a half-dozen gold coins. While the winter ice held in Hulburg’s harbor, the only commerce with the city consisted of a bare handful of overland wagon trains making their way along the windswept coastal road. It was a hard and uncomfortable trek in the depths of winter, but there was money to be made, and so the great trading companies sent their goods creaking along the trails as weather and opportunity permitted.

  Geran’s hair was bleached to a dark blond, and he wore a fringe of yellow-dyed beard on his face. A heavy coat of burgundy-colored leather sewn with steel studs hung down to his knees, and he wore a shapeless, baglike ha
t of the same color. He’d cultivated a relentless pipe habit, marching along from dawn to dusk with a pipestem clamped between his teeth and as often as not a wisp of aromatic smoke ringing his head. It had taken every bit of stubbornness he possessed to keep Kara from sending disguised Shieldsworn along with him. She’d argued that it was beyond foolish for him to venture into Hulburg alone, risking capture—and most likely a swift, unpleasant death—at the hands of Hulburg’s enemies. He’d finally won his way by persuading Kara that a small number of Shieldsworn wouldn’t substantially add to his safety, while a large number following him about would simply make it much more likely that his ruse would be noticed. Even then he’d had to threaten to renounce the lordship altogether if that was what it would take for her to agree that he could set out for Hulburg on his own.

  At the Double Moon tradeyard, Geran stood in line with the other caravan guards to be paid off, complained a little about how little coin he’d actually earned, and asked whether he might be needed for a return trip any time soon, all the things a poor sellsword might be expected to do. Then he left the Double Moon yard and lost himself in the bustle of wagons and passersby moving through Hulburg’s streets. After a few minor errands—purchasing more pipeweed, a new cloak, new stockings, and the like—to make sure that no one was following him or paying too much attention, he decided that it was safe to head to Erstenwold’s.

  He saw the first of the gray, helmed warriors at the foot of the Lower Bridge, where Bay Street crossed the mouth of the Winterspear. The creatures were tall, a good half a head taller than his own six feet and two inches, and they stood motionless without paying any attention to the bitter cold or the folk passing by. Their faces were hidden behind their blank metal visors, and he could glimpse strange runic markings on the claylike flesh that showed beneath their black breastplates and helms.

  “What in the world are these?” he muttered to himself as he drew near. For a moment he considered reversing his course and retreating, but realized that might appear suspicious when other folk simply carried on right past the things. The people going by on the bridge eyed the things nervously and gave them a wide berth; Geran followed their example. If the gray warriors were aware of the stares and dark mutters they provoked from the people who passed by, they gave no sign of it. Some sort of conjured guardians? Constructs built to serve as warriors, supplementing the numbers of the Council Guard? He remembered hearing rumors about creatures such as these in Griffonwatch. Had Rhovann created or conjured more of the gray warriors in the last few tendays, enough to station them around the city? If so, what was their purpose? Protecting the city and castle from attack? Or were they simply intended to intimidate the greatest number of common folk possible?

  At the far end of the bridge, he spied a driver waiting with his wagon by a cobbler’s shop. On the spur of the moment he wandered over to the fellow, an old dwarf in a heavy hood of fur. Leaning close to the wagon seat, he said, “I’m new in town. Who are the gray warriors in the helms? What do they do? Should I mind myself around them?”

  The dwarf scowled. “They’re servants o’ the harmach’s wizard. For th’ most part, they do naught but stand an’ watch. But ye mind yer step ’round them nonetheless. I’ve heard it said they take note o’ every soul that walks past and remember him or her. And if that’s a person that the harmach’s wizard suspects of something, they lay hold of him and drag the poor bastard on up to Griffonwatch, where the wizard steals their souls. It’s no’ right, but that’s the way of it.” He shook his head, muttering darkly. Geran took that as his opportunity to continue on his way, wondering how much of the old dwarf’s story was idle rumor and how much was based in truth.

  He came to Plank Street, and noticed another pair of the helmed constructs watching the crowds at the intersection of Cart Street—as busy as any corner in Hulburg. It would be a good place to set unsleeping eyes to watch over the people who came and went in town. There’s probably nothing but empty speculation to the rumors, he told himself. Most folk knew little of magic or creatures made with magic, after all, and therefore assumed all sorts of things might be possible that weren’t all that likely. But the old dwarf’s story had planted a dark little seed of doubt in his mind. He paused, feigning interest in a tavern’s bill of fare as he surreptitiously watched the gray-skinned creatures towering over most of the crowd. If the creatures really were made to remember all that they had seen, then Rhovann might know enchantments that called upon those memories to quickly find or follow any person in whom he took an interest. The anonymity of Hulburg’s crowds could be much less protection than he’d assumed. How could you plot against a foe who might be aware of your every move?

  “There’s no need for that,” he murmured to himself. If Rhovann was truly that capable, then his efforts would be doomed from the first. He might as well assume that Rhovann’s creatures couldn’t see what wasn’t there to be seen, or he’d go mad from worry and suspicion. Still, it couldn’t hurt to avoid the creatures as much as possible. With that in mind, he decided against moving in the open. Marstel—or more likely, Rhovann—would be sure to have Erstenwold’s watched, just in case he showed up. He was confident enough in his simple disguise, but Rhovann was a patient and meticulous adversary; even if the elf mage hadn’t placed his gray sentries by Mirya’s door, he might have woven alarm spells in places where he was likely to make an appearance. Magical measures might easily see through a little hair coloring and spirit gum if he simply walked up to the front door.

  Instead of turning up Plank Street toward Erstenwold’s, he walked past Plank to Fish Street and turned north there. He could think of a few ways to get into Erstenwold’s without being seen. If he remembered the neighborhood, the tinsmith’s shop might have exactly what he needed. He hurried up a half block to the building where old Kettar had his workshop and house, only to find the place closed up with its windows dark.

  “Now what?” he muttered, peering in the window. He could see empty worktables, a cold furnace, a few furnishings that had evidently been left behind. What happened to Kettar? he wondered. The tinsmith had been puttering away in his workshop on Fish Street since Geran had been a young boy. Had the tinsmith simply packed up and abandoned town? Had his store been seized through one of Marstel’s newly enacted taxes? Or had some gang of Chainsmen or Cinderfists run him out of his own shop? He scowled into the dirty window, and took a couple of steps back to see if the private rooms behind the shop were occupied or not. A single slat of wood had been nailed across the door, and a tattered leather scroll tube hung by it; he looked inside and found a notice of confiscation from the Tower. Taxes, then, he thought to himself. Hopefully Kettar and his family had a roof over their heads and a little money to get by on, wherever they were.

  He glanced up and down the street, decided that no one was paying him any special attention, and pried the slat loose enough to let himself inside. Kettar’s misfortune provided him with a very handy bit of cover for what he had in mind next. It might look a little suspicious for an ordinary caravan guard to be skulking about in an empty property, but if anyone troubled him, he could just claim that he was looking for a place to set up shop and had a mind to buy the tinsmith’s store if it came up for auction. He crossed to the rear of the store and peeked out a window that looked down the alleyway.

  Thirty yards away stood the back of Erstenwold’s. Fixing his eye on a small window in the rear of the Erstenwold’s building, he built a mental picture of the storeroom beyond. Closing his eyes, he summoned the arcane sigils of the spell to his mind and said softly, “Sieroch!” An instant of darkness—

  —and he stood in a dim, cluttered pantry. Hoping that Rhovann hadn’t thought to ward the entirety of the storehouse, he let himself out into the hall beyond. From a short distance away he could hear the clatter and murmuring voices of the clerks and customers by the store’s front counter. He smiled a little, and started down the hall.

  Mirya suddenly bustled around the corner in one of the prac
tical wool dresses she favored in the wintertime, this one a light blue in color. Her arms were full of blankets, and her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid. An absent frown shadowed her wide blue eyes. Geran’s heart lifted at the sight of her familiar features; he hadn’t realized how much he missed her. Then Mirya caught sight of him and let out a startled gasp, dropping her armload as she suddenly recoiled. “What—you shouldn’t be back here!” she spluttered. Then, before Geran could even get a word out, her eyes flew open wide in recognition. “Wait a moment—Geran?”

  He motioned for her to lower her voice. “Yes, it’s me,” he said. “Forgive me for sneaking in, but I thought it better to avoid being seen.”

  “By the Dark Lady, but you gave me a fright! Never do that again!” She stooped to pick up the blankets; he kneeled beside her and helped her scoop them up. When they stood again, she scowled at him and said, “It’s no help at all that you’re dressed like an outlander and your hair’s that awful color. I thought some Cinderfist ruffian had broken in to rob me.”

  “I am sorry, Mirya. Truly I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Hmmph. Well, you can wait back in the counting room. I’ll be along as soon as I tell Ferin to mind the counter for a time.” She brushed past him with her blankets, carrying them out to whatever customer had asked for them. Geran suppressed a smile and ducked back into the store’s back room, where Mirya kept her ledgers among a clutter of merchandise and knickknacks that had likely been moved from room to room in Erstenwold’s for years. The store had been in her family for almost fifty years, beginning as a ramshackle chandlery and storehouse built by her grandfather. Geran made himself comfortable in an old leather armchair and waited. A few minutes later Mirya returned and took a seat on the edge of a small couch across from him with her mouth settled in its customary frown.