Cary did not bother to yell his approach as he galloped, full rein, down Liandrin’s wide main boulevard. The city was asleep at this predawn hour, and even so, his voice had no chance to rise over or outdistance the ringing of his horse’s hooves. He was fortunate to have arrived when he did. Even a few hours earlier, and the drunks would have been weaving across the streets. More than a few wouldn’t have reacted in time, would have been trampled beneath his horse’s steel-shod hooves. Cary was glad it had not come to that, but he would have done it, would do anything, kill anyone to deliver the red pouch tucked against his back.
In his six years as a royal courier, Cary had never carried a red pouch, had never even heard of a red pouch. But he did not need to be told what it meant. When he’d received it in Ostholm from the hand of a man whose lathered horse was collapsing beneath him, he had stared at it, eyes bulging, until his commander slapped his horse’s flank and sent him on his way. He was on his eighth horse now, and this one was near its end, labored breaths rising even over the thunder of its hoof beats, lather dripping from its sides and spraying from its mane. Cary was equally exhausted. He had ridden at a full gallop for twelve hours. Had not eaten, had not stopped even to piss. From horse to horse, aching legs driving spiked spurs, making the poor beasts run until they were on the verge of death. All for the glory of delivering a red pouch into the hands of his most Exalted Majesty, Elpert Risbourg de Nardees, King of Liandria.
Horse dangerously close to stumbling, Cary bolted from between the last of the great manors and started up the hill to his destination. Before him, poised upon the great city’s lone hill, was Liandrin Palace, a five story circle, marked with six equal towers, surrounded by acres of gardens and a thirty-foot wall. A phalanx of guards waited at the gates, stood in place of the great bronze doors, long spears pointing to the heavens. Cary charged toward them, and four of the men broke ranks, stepped behind their fellows, opening the way for him alone. Obviously, the main gate had sent the signal. The King would know that he was coming, would be ready to receive him.
His heart skipped at the chance he had been given. He had grown up in this palace. His parents had spent their lives in service to the King, Cary had practically lived in His stables, yet he had never been closer than a hundred feet from the King. In a few minutes, he would be standing before him.
He raced between the guards and on through the lavish gardens – the perfume of flowers nearly strong enough to overcome the musk of his dripping horse. He looked up. The palace loomed above him, a veritable mountain of grey stone. Then he heard it, horses hooves out of rhythm with his own. He turned just in time to see the rider closing behind him, passing him.
Impossible! Cary kicked his horse in the flanks, dug his spurs into its already bloody haunches and felt it leap beneath him. He carried a red pouch. No other messenger could be allowed to overtake him. The shame of it would mark him forever.
He caught the other rider, saw the palace steps through the last line of hedges, pulled back on his reins, and leapt to the ground. The horse fell away beneath him. He landed hard, felt the cobblestones all the way to the base of his skull, but did not pause. His hand clutched the red pouches by the leather strip that connected them. He swung the empty end toward his rival. Another red pouch arched toward him. The pouches struck one another. The riders stared at each other, at two sets of crimson satchels shining like blood in the light of the rising moon.
They recovered simultaneously and sprinted like mirror images up the white marble steps. Cary’s knees nearly buckled as his exhausted legs adjusted from riding to running. He stumbled. A servant – Cary barely noticed him beyond the black suit – moved to catch him, but he brushed the man aside and focused on his rival now two steps ahead. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to run, to ignore his aching legs and burning lungs. By the time they reached the engraved doors, Cary was on the other man’s heels. He caught him by the first turn – a servant in a black suit and tall hat pointed the way – and caught an elbow in the gut as he pushed to pass. He lost a step, cursed, and followed. The other messenger was not as fast, but he had twenty pounds on the slight Cary. And his elbows were damned sharp.
Luckily, Cary had grown up in this palace, knew all its secrets. He held back until they arrived at the next intersection. The servant there pointed to the right. Cary’s rival followed his directions. Cary continued straight, hit the latch on the nearly invisible door and was through it without losing a stride. Somewhere behind him, a butler’s voice yelled admonishments.
“Clear the way!” Cary screamed as he sprinted down the corridor of the servant’s quarters. Maids, butlers, couriers, cooks threw themselves against the walls, dispersing their gossiping clusters. Cary flew by the closely spaced wooden doors of the high servants, cut through a dormitory that housed the lowly, and burst into the kitchen, the epicenter of any estate. Dodging bakers, leaping racks of dough, and spinning around the head cook, who was too fat to move, he threw open the server’s door, angled around the long table of the King’s private dining room, and dashed into the King’s private audience room. He came through the side door at the same moment his rival stepped through the main entrance.
This room was small relative to those surrounding it. It was windowless and dark with only the two oil lamps framing the King having been lit. The wood paneled walls, sanded and stained to show every intricacy of the grain, absorbed what little light radiated from the lamps, leaving most of the room in shadow. But Cary could see the king clearly. Lamplight sparkled from the gold circlet on his brow. White hair flowed from it, down his back – undone, barely combed – to an extravagantly embroidered robe of shimmering gold and cobalt blue. His short, square beard looked frazzled. His brow was crumpled in concern, his mouth a stern line, but his clear, blue eyes sparkled, as alive as ever.
Flanking him were his sons, the general and the exchequer. Each fit his template – one hard as a statue, the other soft as the dough being formed in the kitchens. The final man in the room – beyond the half-dozen guards – stood at the base of the dais, hands folded before him, face indifferent. The chamberlain was a young man for his position, a contemporary of the princes, but he had been raised to his position, and he lived it with every fiber of his being. He wore the robe and pendant of his office – married to it every bit as much as a counselor is married to the Order – and looked washed and ready as if it were the middle of the day. The lamplight shown off his bald head as he nodded toward the men sprinting into the room.
The couriers slid to his shiny black shoes on their knees, arms stretched above their heads, red pouches extended. Sweat dripped from their brows, running off noses and chins to brighten the tiny tiles beneath them. Cary kept his eyes down, suppressed his adulation as the Chamberlain lifted the pouches first from his extended hand and took them to the King.
“Please, rise,” the King ordered as the Chamberlain dialed letters into the cryptic that protected the pouch’s contents from prying eyes. One letter wrong and the vials hidden within would break, their contents would mix, and fire would engulf the bag. Cary rose but remained at attention, eyes fixed, seeing nothing, awaiting orders. He glanced to the side at the same moment as his rival. They caught each other’s eyes and nodded imperceptibly.
The Chamberlain handed Cary’s letter to the King. It was a single page. From the light reflecting through, it was only a few lines long. As he read, the King’s eyes grew narrow and dark. His expression became stern. He handed the letter to his oldest son, the general, as the Chamberlain opened the second satchel. The second letter was longer than Cary’s, several pages of tight script, and he felt slighted by the inequity. If that were not enough, this letter had more effect on the King. He ground his teeth and mumbled, “That idiot fool. Of all the people to claim that throne, and at a time like this.” Reading some more, his mouth quirked. “Rammeriz alive. That, at least, is something.”
He
finished and handed it on – the first letter had long ago made its way back to the Chamberlain. The Prince was not so restrained as his father. “They wouldn’t dare!” he yelled. “They won’t last a month.”
“They don’t have to,” the King replied. “It can only mean that the new Emperor has allied himself with the invaders. They know we can’t face them both. They will make us chose, or splay us down the middle and pick our bones.” Cary tried not to hear the conversation. It was not his place. He should not even be in this room. Yet he could not help but feel his pulse quicken at the confirmation of the rumors that had been sweeping through Ostholm. So there was an invading army. It was true. And they were allied with the Empire?
“So what do we do?” the Prince asked. “From Thoren, the invaders could be at Lethbridge in four, maybe even three, weeks, and there’s the other army advancing on Wildern. If it falls as quickly, the invaders could be at Lianne on Alta at almost the same time. And we must meet the Empire. We cannot allow those vultures to run unchecked behind us.”
“Calm yourself!” the king growled, gesturing to the messengers still standing before them. “Gather your generals. We will decide on the specifics in council. But we will deploy. Within the week, we ride with all our forces to meet the invaders.” Then, with a sigh, he turned to his other son. “And you, prepare to open your vaults. I want these men to carry our offers to the Fells by tomorrow’s dawn.”
From Across the Clouded Range Page 111
