Last King of Osten Ard 02 - Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  The boy gave her a look of supreme disgust, but edged closer to Jesa and Serasina. Jesa did not get to see much of the duke’s son—his care had been given over almost entirely to male tutors—but she was fond of him, although she had to admit he was terribly spoiled. She knew that back in Red Pig Lagoon Blasis would have been dropped off the rooftop into the water a few times by now for making such faces.

  “By our good Lady, there she is!” said Canthia, on her tiptoes as she looked out the window and across the front of the great house. She turned and hurried to take a seat, then composed herself until she seemed as calm as if she had not moved for the last hour, which Jesa knew was quite the opposite of the truth.

  The queen swept in, surrounded by several ladies in waiting and trailed by a pair of soldiers in Erkynguard livery.

  “I swear that in all the years since I was crowned and married I did not ride in as many carriages as I have here in Nabban.” She had already thrown off her cloak. “Forgive me, Duchess. I fear you’ll have to wait longer still—the street cobbles have knocked my hair and cap askew. I am in a wretched condition.”

  As Canthia’s ladies joined in to help the queen repair herself, little Serasina awoke and began fussing quietly. She was hungry, but the duchess had sent her wetnurse off on some other mission, so Jesa moistened her finger and slipped it into the baby’s mouth in place of a nipple. She hoped the nurse came back soon, because nobody would want to hear a baby crying during a wedding. In the Wran it was quite ordinary during any celebration, but the Nabbanai seemed almost to think of it as bad luck.

  Jesa looked down at Serasina and gave the child a kiss on her small, round forehead. How could such a precious thing ever bring anything but good luck?

  “I beg pardon for keeping you waiting, Duchess,” Miriamele said as the ladies buzzed about her like bees around a patch of clover. “I kept saying, ‘Sacred Father, there is the matter of the wedding . . .’ and he kept saying, ‘Of course, of course. Do you know, I officiated at Count Dallo’s marriage? It’s a shame I couldn’t do the same for his niece, but my foot, you know . . .’ and on and on. I thought he would never let me go.” But Jesa thought the queen’s expression suggested a deeper discontent than merely being bored by the lector.

  “His Sacredness does like to talk.” Canthia tried to keep her voice light, but it was clear she was anxious to get downstairs. “Is all well now, Majesty? Shall we go?”

  Queen Miriamele surveyed Canthia in her pale blue wedding finery, then glanced down at her own deep green dress and frowned. “I look like a pine tree,” she said. “But I feel fairly certain there is no law saying that a pine tree cannot be queen, so off we go.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Queen Miriamele went first, preceded only by two guards and their captain, the stiff-backed, serious-looking young northerner Jesa had heard called Sir Jurgen. Behind them came Duchess Canthia and her closest friends and kin, followed by several more of the queen’s guards and the rest of both women’s ladies in waiting. Sir Jurgen, who had clearly worked hard since his arrival a few hours earlier to learn the estate’s every twist and turn, led the sizable company through the large manor house. From one of the wide windows on the lower floor, propped all the way open to let in the warmth and light of a splendid summer afternoon, they could see the rest of the guests already assembled in Count Dallo’s fine gardens. Jesa could even make out young Turia Ingadaris, waiting under an arbor with Escritor Auxis in his golden robes. She thought the bride seemed little more than a child, slender and small.

  “All the saints be praised,” she heard the duchess say quietly behind her, “they have not started without us.”

  “They would not dare,” said the queen. “After I bumped over cobblestones all the way to get here, I would have their heads off if they did!” Despite the monstrousness of the remark, Jesa was still not entirely certain the queen was jesting. She did not sound as if she was.

  The company made their way down a narrow, winding staircase and into an open arcade between one part of Dallo’s sprawling house and another. Stairs descended from either side of the arcade, one set leading to a path on the right that Jesa thought must connect to the front of the house, the other leading down into the lush greenery of the count’s garden. The baby was beginning to complain again in Jesa’s arms, and when Queen Miriamele suddenly stopped just at the top of the garden stairs and raised one hand, Jesa was certain that she was about to be scolded. But Sir Jurgen turned—he had already gone several steps downward—and mounted back up in an instant to stand beside the queen, one hand on his sword hilt.

  “Majesty?” he said. “What—?”

  “Soft,” she said. “Someone is coming.”

  Jurgen tilted his head as the duchess, the rest of the guards, and the ladies-in-waiting bumped to a clumsy halt behind them.

  “Your Majesty,” asked one of the her ladies, “why do we stop?”

  “Be quiet.” Queen Miriamele still held her hand upright, like a priest blessing a crowd, but her face looked suddenly drawn, even weary. “I heard the sounds of swords rattling.”

  Everyone could hear the noise of feet now, and it was all Jesa could do to stay silent and clutch little Serasina to her breast, but her heart was beating so fast that she feared the baby must feel it.

  A group of men came around the corner from the front side of the house, at least a dozen or more headed for the stairs and the arcade where the queen and others had stopped. They were an unruly-looking crew, clearly dressed for a fight—several carried swords, and the rest had clubs and short, nasty-looking spears. Jesa’s heart seemed to scramble up her throat until it blocked her breathing.

  “Behind me, Majesty,” said Jurgen.

  The queen ignored him. “Stop!” she called out in a voice so loud that it startled little Serasina into a moment of breath-holding silence, then a shocked wail.

  The interlopers, who had just seen that the arcade was full of people, had slowed anyway, but at the queen’s single word they halted.

  “Out of the way!” cried one of them, a dark-bearded man with eyes bright under bony brows.

  “Majesty,” said Sir Jurgen under his breath, but the queen did not even look at him.

  “Gentlemen, I do not see your invitations to this celebration,” she said loudly. “Perhaps you would show them to my guards so we can all go together and wish the bride and groom well.”

  “If you don’t move your arse out of our path, we’ll just go through you, milady,” said the bearded man, curling his lip. “And your guards too.”

  “Sir Jurgen,” said Miriamele, “give me your sword.”

  For a moment the knight couldn’t even respond. “Majesty?”

  She extended her open hand, still staring down at the bearded man. Even Jesa could see that, for Jurgen, it was like cutting off his own hand to surrender it, but at last he drew the blade from its sheath and held it out to the queen, hilt first. The two groups, courtiers and guards on one hand, armed bravos on the other, could only stare at her as she took it. “I am Miriamele,” she said, speaking slowly but very clearly, “daughter of High King Elias, granddaughter of High King Prester John. I myself am Mistress of the High Ward. If any of you have the courage to attack your lawful queen, come and do so. I promise you that whatever happens, you will not escape unbloodied.”

  “Your Majesty, no!” cried Canthia, but she received no more response from the queen than had Jurgen.

  “And I see that at least one of you wears the Kingfisher crest,” the queen continued, staring at one of the bravos in the back, whose tunic had gaped open to show the duke’s emblem. Some of the swordsmen were staring up at her as though they had suddenly discovered their path blocked by a mythical monster, and even the bearded leader looked dismayed by what was happening. “Guards, keep that one alive, whatever else happens. The royal torturers will find out if he wears that insi
gnia honestly or not.” She turned to her soldiers. “Do you hear me? Alive. We cannot make him scream if he is already dead.”

  For a moment it seemed everything stood on a swaying balance, like a market scale. Jesa was quietly edging back the way they had come, preparing to take the baby and run. At the duchess’ side, little Blasis asked in his piping voice, “Who are those men, Mama?”

  Then the balance tipped. The man with the Benidrivine crest under his jacket suddenly turned and sprinted away back up the path, headed for the front of the estate, and within a few heartbeats most of his comrades had joined him. The bearded man had only time to throw a curse at them all, then followed after them at a dead run.

  “What do you wait for, Sir?” the queen said to Jurgen, handing him back his sword. “I will get the ladies to safety. Go and catch those fellows. We may not actually have a royal torturer, but I still want that man wearing the duke’s crest left alive to be questioned.”

  Jurgen looked completely discomfited, but at least had the presence of mind to take his men and hurry after the escaping bravos, shouting for aid as he went. Within a moment they had vanished down the path, and now Jesa could hear other worried voices calling from the garden below.

  Jesa realized she was shivering like a willow tree in a strong wind and sat down on the first step, cradling little Serasina. She held the baby close, crooning wordlessly into her ear, still not quite able to believe what had just happened. It had all taken place so quickly!

  Someone was leaning over her. Jesa looked up to see the queen. Her face was quite pale. “Do not fear. She will do better than the rest of us. They understand little at this age, and remember less.” Queen Miriamele let out a long, ragged sigh. “Oh, my knees are weak and shaking. Threatening armed bandits with a sword when I have not used one in years and years! What was I thinking? Here, move over, child. I must sit next to you or fall down. Damn this stiff dress!”

  * * *

  After the ceremony, Count Dallo Ingadaris approached Miriamele. The master of the household looked genuinely distressed, but few men rose to the summits of power in Nabban without being able to tell a convincing lie. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I have heard of your brave act, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Benevolent God alone knows what those men planned.”

  “You need not thank me,” she said. “I only did what I thought best. Sometimes men who would happily cut a throat will be awed by power and titles.”

  “Such bravery.” He shook his head wonderingly. “Your husband—our king—would be very proud.”

  “My husband would call me an idiot,” she said and laughed a little despite herself. Miri wanted only to hurry back to the Sancellan Mahistrevis and crawl into her borrowed bed—her moment of bravado was costing her dearly—but she was determined to make it through the meal before leaving with Duchess Canthia in the duke’s coach. “And he would be right.”

  “I am unhappy to report that most of those cut-throats escaped,” Dallo told her, “although a few were killed. We will get to the bottom of this, Your Majesty, I promise you.”

  “Please keep me informed, my lord.” On the other side of the garden the new bride Turia was greeting a line of well-wishers. Her husband Drusis was nowhere to be seen. The young woman looked so delicate that Miri felt unexpected pity for her. She will have to learn to put up with so much more of this. So much more.

  Dallo thanked her again, then returned to his guests. As she watched the count’s portly but lightfooted progress across the garden, Miri wondered whether she was right to see him as entirely a villain, or whether it was only the demons of her childhood fleering at her.

  In truth, she told herself, nobody in this city should be trusted. She found herself missing her friend Rhona, who would have helped her to laugh at the obvious insincerity of the Nabbanai courtiers.

  Sir Jurgen sidled over to the large ceremonial chair where Miri sat and bowed, but before he could begin she called Count Froye to join them. Froye was holding a cup of wine in each hand, and offered one to the queen, who refused it. He handed it to Jurgen instead, who seemed only too happy to accept and downed it in one go, as though he had been waiting a long time for something like it.

  “I heard what Dallo said,” Jurgen began quietly. “Yes, a few of the intruders were killed, but the leader got away, and none of those who fell were wearing Benidrivine livery under their clothes.”

  “But you saw it too, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Majesty. The Kingfisher, plain as day.”

  “So either they were sent by someone in Saluceris’s employ, or they are members of his party that acted on their own . . . or we were supposed to believe they were one of those.”

  “You think it was a false banner, Majesty?” Froye had also lowered his voice, so that in the midst of the garden, as music played and children ran back and forth trailing stolen ribbons and bunting, Miri felt like a conspirator.

  Ah, Nabban, she thought sourly. How quickly you draw us into your webs. “I certainly think it possible,” she said. “Never take anything here for its appearance. Which does not mean things are never what they seem, but it is definitely the more uncommon outcome.”

  Jurgen looked shocked, and his whisper was almost too loud. “But why would Count Dallo have someone attack his own house?”

  “To blame on his enemy—his ally’s brother, of course,” said Froye promptly. “But we do not know that is true—do we, Majesty?”

  “No. But as they say, never wager against treachery when you are climbing the Five Hills. My aunt Nessalanta taught me that and I have never forgotten it.” Miri offered a grim smile. “She knew it well, the good Lord knows—the most treacherous old bitch I’ve ever met.” She turned to Sir Jurgen. “How did they get in, Captain? Has anyone found out?”

  “One of the gates was open, and the count’s guards there had been struck senseless.”

  “The premise being that one or two of them climbed over, silenced the guards, then opened the gate for the rest.” Miriamele considered. “Odd that men bent on bloody, perhaps even fatal mischief would not have slit the guards’ throats to make certain they did not wake and give the alarm. How was it that so many of them escaped with you after them, Jurgen? And you were helped by the count’s guards, too, I assume, because you made enough noise going after that Dallo’s men must have come to see what happened.”

  The knight looked shamefaced. “Bad luck. Just at the moment the sell-swords or whatever they were ran for the gate, another noble arrived with his entourage and we became tangled up together, all mingled. People were shouting and cursing. By the time we could get clear all but a couple of the intruders were onto their horses and away.”

  “Horses?”

  “They had them hidden farther down the hill, behind a wall.”

  “So this was no group of drunken troublemakers come to spoil the wedding,” said Froye. “This was well planned.”

  “Perhaps even more than we can see now,” Miriamele said. “Who was the late-arriving noble?”

  “The islander fellow. You’ve seen him.” Jurgen was clearly embarrassed not to be able to summon the name.

  “Viscount Matreu?” That seemed strange. “Does it not feel convenient that he should arrive at such a moment?”

  “Majesty,” said Froye, almost shocked. “I assure you that Matreu is as trustworthy as I am! He has been a staunch ally of the High Throne for all the years I have known him. In fact, he saved Duchess Canthia not long ago from a street riot.”

  “In any case, Your Majesty,” said Sir Jurgen, “how could anyone have known those men would meet you only to flee just then?” He colored. “I beg your pardon, but I confess I thought you had lost your wits, my queen, when you asked for my sword. I thought you were going to leap down the stairs at those ruffians like something out of an old story.”

  Miri laughed, but now that her blood had cooled, t
he thought of it frightened her. “Bluff, Captain, bluff. That is what I learned from my mother’s people. Never admit weakness, never show fear, and stick to your lie even when it seems everyone must see through it.” She sighed. “You may be right about Matreu, Froye. I fear since coming here I see conspiracies everywhere.” She looked up and let her gaze slip from face to face. “Even now, I suspect that everyone in this garden is looking at us, wondering what we’re saying, guessing and arguing about it.”

  “Sadly, Majesty, you are probably correct about that,” Froye said.

  “Then let us put this aside until we are back in the Sancellan Mahistrevis. I will have a better idea of things, I think, if I can be there when Duke Saluceris gets the news.”

  “He will likely have heard before he returns from Ardivalis, Majesty,” said Jurgen. “But surely you don’t think the duke could have had anything to do with this?”

  “My good captain,” she said, a little sharply, “Have you not been listening? If you are to be of use to me, you must learn to suspect everyone and everything here, lest one day you find a knife in your back and I must begin searching for a new protector. This is the most treacherous country in Osten Ard, and has been since long before Imperator Crexis hung Our Lord upside down on the Execution Tree.”

  Sir Jurgen and Count Froye both made the holy sign against their breasts.

  And may He help me to get back to the Hayholt and my grandchildren alive, she thought. I wish I had never come.

  17

  A Scent of Witchwood

  The afternoon sun vanished behind dark, threatening clouds as Jarnulf and the rest finally returned to the cave near the mountain’s foot where they had left their horses. To Jarnulf, that day seemed so long ago that it might have happened in another life.