“I have heard you all; you each favor the match, and all of your reasons are good ones. You even urge me to agree to the wedding and see it consummated within the next few months. Very well; I can agree with every one of your arguments, and I am more than willing to return Alessandar’s envoy with word that we will be considering his offer with all due gravity. But one thing I cannot and will not do—I will never agree to anything that will interrupt Elspeth’s training. That, above all other considerations, must be continued! Lady forbid it, but should I die, we cannot risk the throne of Valdemar in the keeping of an untrained Monarch! Therefore, I will do no more than indicate to Alessandar that his suit is welcome—and inform him in no uncertain terms that serious negotiations cannot begin until the Heir has passed her internship.”
“Majesty!” Gartheser jumped to his feet as several more Councilors started speaking at once; one or two growing angry. Talia stood then, and rapped the table, and the babble ceased. The argumentative ones stared at her as though they had forgotten her presence.
“My lords, my ladies—forgive me, but any arguments you may have are moot. My vote goes with the Queen’s decision. I have so advised her.”
It was fairly evident from their dumbfounded expressions that they had forgotten that Talia now carried voting rights. If the situation had not been so serious, Talia would have derived a great deal of amusement from some of the dumbfounded expressions—Orthallen’s in particular.
“If that is the advice of the Queen’s Own, then my vote must follow,” Kyril said quickly, although Talia could almost hear him wondering if she really knew what she was doing.
“And mine,” Elcarth seconded, looking and sounding much more confident of Talia’s judgment than Kyril.
There was silence then, a silence so deep one could almost hear the dust motes that danced in the light from the clerestory windows falling to the floor.
“It seems,” said Lord Gartheser, the apparent leader of those dissenting, “that we are outvoted.”
Faint grumbling followed his words.
At the farthest end of the table, a white-haired lord rose; the faint grumbling ceased. This gentleman was the one Talia had been watching so closely, and the only one who had not spoken. Orthallen; Lord of Wyvern’s Reach, and Kris’ uncle. He was the most senior Councilor, for he had served Selenay’s father. He had served Selenay as well, throughout her entire reign. Selenay often called him “Lord Uncle,” and he had been something of a father-figure to Elspeth. He was highly regarded and respected.
But Talia had never been able to warm to him. Part of the reason was because of what he had attempted to do to Skif. While he did not have the authority to remove any Chosen from the Collegium, he had tried to have the boy sent away for two years’ punishment duty with the Army. His ostensible reason was the number of infractions of the Collegium rules Skif had managed to acquire, culminating with catching him red-handed in the office of the Provost-Marshal late one night. Orthallen had claimed Skif was there to alter the Misdemeanor Book. Talia, who had asked him to go there, was the only one who knew he had broken into the office to investigate Hulda’s records. He was going to try to see who, exactly, had sponsored her into the Kingdom, in an attempt to ferret out the identity of her co-conspirator.
Talia had saved her friend at the cost of a lie, saying that she had asked him to find out whether her Holderkin relatives were claiming the Privilege Tax allowed those who had produced a child Chosen.
Since that time she had been subtly, but constantly, at loggerheads with Orthallen; when she first began sitting on the Council it seemed as if he had constantly moved to negate what little authority she had. He had openly belittled so many of her observations (on the grounds of her youth and inexperience) that she had very seldom spoken up when he was present. He always seemed to her to be just a little too careful and controlled. When he smiled, when he frowned, the expression never seemed to go any deeper than the skin.
At first she had chided herself for her negative reaction to him, putting it down to her irrational fear of males; handsome males in particular, for even though past his prime, he was a strikingly handsome man—there was no doubt which side of Kris’ family had blessed him with his own angelic face. And there was no sin in being a trifle cold, emotionally speaking, yet for some reason, she was always reminded of the wyvern that formed his crest when she saw him. Like the wyvern, he seemed to her to be thin-blooded, calculating, and quite ruthless—and hiding it all beneath an attractively bejeweled skin.
But there was more to her mistrust of him now—because she had more than one reason to suspect that he was the source of those rumors about her misusing her Gift, and she was certain that he had started them because he knew how such vile rumors would affect an Empath who was well-known to have a low sense of self-esteem. She was equally certain that he had deliberately planted doubts in Kris’ mind—knowing that she would feel those doubts and respond.
But this time she had cause to be grateful to him; when Orthallen spoke, the rest of the Councilors paid heed, and he spoke now in favor of the Queen’s decision.
“My lords, my ladies—the Queen is entirely correct,” he said, surprising Talia somewhat, for he had been one of those most in favor of marrying Elspeth off with no further ado. “We have only one Heir, and no other candidates in the direct line. We should not take such a risk. The Heir must be trained; I see the wisdom of that, now. I withdraw my earlier plea for an immediate betrothal. Alessandar is a wise monarch, and will surely be more than willing to make preliminary agreements on the strength of a betrothal promised for the future. In such ways, we shall have all the benefits of both plans.”
Talia was not the only member of the Council surprised by Orthallen’s apparent about-face. Hyron stared as if he could not believe what he had heard. The members of his faction and those opposed to him seemed equally taken aback.
The result of this speech was the somewhat reluctant—though unanimous—vote of the Council to deal with the envoy just as Selenay had outlined. The vote was, frankly, little more than a gesture, since together Selenay and Talia could overrule the entire Council. But though the unanimous backing of her stance gave Selenay a position of strong moral advantage, Talia wondered what private conversations would be taking place when the Council session concluded—and who would be involved.
The remaining items on the Council’s agenda were routine and mundane; rescinding tax for several villages hard hit by spring floods, the deployment and provisioning of extra troops at Lake Evendim in the hope of making life difficult enough this year that the pirates and raiders would decide to turn to easier prey, the fining of a merchant-clan that had been involved in the slave trade. The arguments about just how many troops should be moved to Lake Evendim and who would fund the deployment went on for hours. The Lord Marshal and Lady Kester (who ruled the district of the fisherfolk of the lake) were unyielding in their demands for the extra troops; Lord Gildas and Lady Cathan, whose rich grainlands and merchant-guilds would supply the taxes for the primary support of the effort, were frantic in their attempts to cut down the numbers.
Talia’s sympathy lay with the fisherfolk, yet she could find it in her heart to feel for those who were being asked to delve into their pockets for the pay and provisioning of extra troops who would mostly remain idle. It seemed that there was no way to compromise, and that the arguments would continue with no conclusion. That would be no solution for the fisherfolk, either!
Finally, as the Lord Marshal thundered out figures concerning the numbers needed to keep watch along the winding coastlines, a glimmering of an idea came to her.
“Forgive me,” she spoke into one of the sullen silences “I know little of warfare, but I know something of the fisherfolk. Only the young, healthy, and whole go out on the boats in season; unless my memory is incorrect, the old, the very young, pregnant women, those minding the young children for the rest of the family, and the crippled remain in the temporary work-villages. Am I right
?”
“Aye—and that’s what makes these people so damned hard to defend!” the Lord Marshal growled. “There isn’t a one left behind with the ability to take arms!”
“Well, according to your figures, a good third of your troopers would be spending all their time on coastwatch. Since you’re going to have to be feeding that many people anyway, why not provision the dependents instead, and have them doing the watching? Once they’re freed from having to see to their day-to-day food supplies, they’ll have the time for it, and what does a watcher need besides a pair of good eyes and the means to set an alert?”
“You mean use children as coastwatchers?” Gartheser exclaimed. “That—that’s plainly daft!”
“Just you wait one moment, Gartheser,” Myrim interjected. “I fail to see what’s daft about it. It seems rare good sense to me.”
“But—how are they to defend themselves?”
“Against what? Who’s going to see them? They’ll be hidden, man, in blinds, the way coastwatchers are always hidden. And I see the girl’s drift. Puttin’ them up would let us cut down the deployment by a third, just as Gildas and Cathan want,” Lady Kester exclaimed, looking up like an old gray warhorse hearing the bugles. “Ye’d still have to provision the full number, though, ye old tightfists!”
“But they’d not have to pay ’em,” one of the others chuckled.
“But—children?” Hyron said doubtfully. “How can we put children in that kind of vital position? What’s to keep them from running off to play?”
“Border children are not very childlike,” Talia said quietly, looking to Kester, and the Speaker for the West nodded emphatic agreement.
“Silverhair, lad, the only thing keepin’ these children off the boats is size,” Kester snorted, though not unkindly. “They’re not your soft highborns; they’ve been working since their hands were big enough to knot a net.”
“Aye, I must agree.” Lady Wyrist entered this argument for the first time. “I suspect your fisherfolk are not unlike my Holderkin—as Herald Talia can attest, Border-bred children have little time for childish pursuits.”
“All the more chance that they’ll run off, then,” Hyron insisted.
“Not when they’ve seen whole families burned out by the selfsame pirates they’re supposed to be watching for,” said Myrim. “I served out there. I’d trust the sense of any of those ‘children’ before I’d trust the sense of some highborn graybeards I could name.”
“Well said, lady!” Kester applauded, and turned sharp eyes on the Lord Marshal. “Tell ye what else, ye old wardog—an ye can persuade these troopers of yours to turn to and lend a hand to a bit of honest work now and again—”
“Such as?” The Lord Marshal almost cracked a smile.
“Taking the landwork; drying the fish and the sponge, mending the nets and lines, packing and crating, readying the longhouses for winter.”
“It might be possible; what were you planning to offer?”
“War-pay; with the landwork off my people’s hands, and knowing their folk on land are safe, we should be able to cover the extra bonus ourselves, and still bring in a proper profit.”
“With careful phrasing, I think I could manage it.”
“Done, then. How say you, Cathan, Gildas?”
They were only too happy to agree. The Council adjourned on this most positive note. Selenay and Talia stood as one, and preceded the rest out; Kyril a pace behind them.
“You have been learning, haven’t you?” Kyril said in Talia’s ear.
“Me?”
“Yes, you; and don’t play the innocent,” Elcarth joined his colleague as they stood in a white-clad knot outside the Council Chamber door, waiting for Selenay to finish conferring with the Seneschal on the agenda for the afternoon’s audiences. He pushed a lock of gray hair out of his eyes and smiled. “That was cleverly done, getting the Border Lords on your side.”
“It was the only way to get a compromise going. Cathan and Gildas would have agreed to anything that saved them money. With the Borderers and those two, we had a majority, and everybody benefited.” Talia smiled back. “It was just a matter of invoking Borderer pride, really; we’re proud of how tough we are, even as littles.”
“Lovely. Truly lovely.” Selenay joined them. “All those sessions of dealing with hardheaded Borderers in the middle of feuds taught you more than a little! Now tell me this; what would you have done if you hadn’t absorbed all that fisherfolk lore from Keren, Teren, and Sherrill? Sat dumb?”
“I don’t think so, not when it was obvious that there’d never be agreement.” Talia thought for a moment. “I think… if one of you hadn’t done so first… I would have suggested an adjournment until we could dig up an expert on the people of the area, preferably a Herald who has done several circuits there.”
“Fine—that’s what I was about to do when you spoke up; we are beginning to think as a team. Now I have a working lunch with Kyril and the Seneschal. I don’t need you for it, so you can go find something to gulp down at the Collegium. At one I have formal audiences, and you have to be there. Those will last about three hours; you’re free then until seven and Court dinner. After dinner, unless something comes up, you’re free again.”
“But Alberich is expecting you at four—” Elcarth grinned at Talia’s groan. “—and Devan at five. Welcome home, Talia!”
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “It’s better than shoveling snow, I guess! But I never thought I’d begin missing field work so soon!”
“Missing field work already?”
Talia turned to find Kris standing behind her, an insolent grin on his face. “I thought you told me you’d never miss field work!”
She grinned back. “I lied.”
“No!” He feigned shock. “Well, what of the Council meeting?”
She wanted to tell him everything—then suddenly, remembered who he was—who his uncle was. Anything she told him would quite likely get back to Orthallen, and Kris would be telling Orthallen in all innocence, never dreaming he was handing the man weapons to use against her by doing so.
“Oh—nothing much,” she said reluctantly. “The betrothal’s being held off until Elspeth’s finished training. Look, Kris, I’m sorry, but I’m rather short on time right now. I’ll tell you later, all right?”
And she fled before he could ask anything more.
* * *
Lunch was a few bites snatched on the run between the Palace and her room; audiences required a slightly more formal uniform than the one she’d worn to the Council session. Talia managed to wash, change, and get back in time to discuss the scheduled audiences with the Seneschal. Talia’s role here was as much bodyguard as anything else, although her duties included assessing the emotional state of those coming before the Queen and giving her any information that seemed appropriate.
The audience chamber was long and narrow; the same gray granite and dark wood as the rest of the old Palace. Selenay’s throne was on a raised platform at the far end. Behind the throne the wall had been carved into the Royal arms; there were no curtains for assassins to hide behind. The Queen’s Own spent the entire time positioned behind the throne to the Queen’s right, from which position the Queen could hear her least whisper. Petitioners had to travel the length of the chamber, giving Talia ample time to “read” their emotional state if she thought it necessary to do so.
The audiences were quite unexciting; petitioners ranged from a smallholder seeking permission to establish a Dyer’s Guildhouse on his property to two noblemen who had called challenge on each other and were now trying desperately to find a way out of the situation without either of them losing face. Not once did she deem the situation grave enough to warrant “reading” any of them.
When the audience session concluded, Talia sprinted back to her room to change into something old and worn for her weapons drill with Alberich.
Walking into the salle was like walking into the past; nothing had changed, not the worn, backless benc
hes against the wall, not the clutter of equipment and towels on and beneath the benches, not the light coming from the windows. Not even Alberich had changed so much as a hair; he still wore the same old leathers, or clothing like enough to have been the same. His scar-seamed face still looked as incapable of humor as the walls of the Palace; his long black hair held neither more nor less gray than it had the last time Talia had seen him.
Elspeth was already there, going full out against Jeri under Alberich’s critical eye. Talia held her breath in surprise; Elspeth was (to her judgment, at least) Jeri’s equal. The young weapons instructor was not holding anything back, and more than once only saved herself from a “kill” by frantically wrenching her body out of the way of the wooden blade. Both of them were sodden with sweat when Alberich finally called a halt.
“You do well, children; both of you.” Alberich nodded as he spoke. Both Elspeth and Jeri began walking slowly in little circles to keep their muscles from stiffening, while drying their faces with old towels. “Jeri, it is more work you need on your defense; working with the students has made you sloppy. Elspeth, if it was that you were not far busier than any student should be, I would make you Jeri’s assistant.”
Elspeth raised her head, and Talia could see she was flushed with the praise, her eyes glowing.
“However, you are very far from perfect. Your left side is too weak and you are vulnerable there. From now on you are to work left-handed, using your right only when I tell you, to keep from losing your edge. Enough for today, off to the bath with you—it is like your Companions you smell!”
He turned to Talia, who bit her lip, then said, “I have the feeling I’m in trouble.”
“In trouble? It is possible—” Alberich scowled; then unexpectedly smiled. “No fear, little Talia; it is that I am well aware how few were the chances for you to keep in practice. Today we will start slowly, and I will determine just how much you have lost. Tomorrow you will be in trouble.”
* * *
Talia was thanking the gods an hour later that Kris had insisted they both keep in fighting trim as much as possible. Alberich was reasonably pleased that she had lost so little edge, and kept his cutting remarks to a minimum. Nor was she the recipient of more than one or two bruising thwacks from his practice blade when she’d done something exceptionally stupid. On the whole, she felt as if she’d gotten off very lightly.
Heralds of Valdemar (A Valdemar Omnibus) Page 62
