by Stephen Hunt
‘You will hear more of our troubles when the king speaks with the Vandians,’ said Leyla. ‘Our peace has been sundered by rebellion. The northern prefectures have declared for a pretender and are raising armies to fight King Marcus.’
Duncan concealed his shock. He had been raised in the most boring province of the most uninteresting country in the whole Lancean League, and yet, as soon as the slavers flew him over the border, the nation plunged into madness! ‘How can that be? Weyland’s been at peace for centuries. Has everyone gone mad while I’ve been away?’
‘When people forget their loyalty and chase ambition and greed instead, it’s easy enough for treachery to prosper. This must seem terribly strange to you. You arrive back home to find little is as it once was.’
‘Actually, there’s far too much that is the same.’ I never mattered a damn, here … only my position as heir to the Landor pile. With that gone, I might as well not have existed at all. But they’ll know me in Weyland now. That they will.
‘King Marcus feels similarly to you,’ said Leyla, misunderstanding his words. ‘The king is a modernizer, and it’s the advances he’s gifted to our nation that have fed the traitors’ loathing and jealousy of his reign.’
Duncan bit back the cruel retort that any advances the king tried to make in Weyland were just a highborn savage playing with mud castles compared to what Vandia had achieved – all the resources of the world at the imperium’s command, born of fire in the great stratovolcano and captured in its net of sky mines. ‘Weyland should tread carefully, Mistress Landor. The imperium’s arrived to punish the indignity of the slave revolt. They want blood, and they won’t be too fussy about whose they need to spill.’
‘We have a Vandian embassy here now. From what little I know, we have tried to be good allies to the imperium.’
‘Vandia doesn’t have allies,’ said Duncan. ‘It has supplicants and it has foes.’
‘And how do you tell the difference?’
Duncan remembered the horde of foreign nobles lined up to bow and scrape before Emperor Jaelis in the Diamond Palace at the heart of Vandis. ‘One has kings on their knees; the other has monarchs cut off below the knees.’
‘That sounds less than ideal. Can we still count on you, Duncan Landor? Your people, your father, your house?’
‘I answer to a different house now. An imperial one. But I will do all I can to help Weyland. I wish no ill to anyone here.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Leyla. She gently patted her wide belly. ‘And your father will thank you too, although you might have to wait a few years for your little brother to voice his gratitude. You are every bit as fine and brave as Benner described you.’
‘He said that about me?’
Leyla nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Not so fine that he risked his neck to pursue the slavers that kidnapped me,’ said Duncan, bitterly. ‘Instead he paid Father Carnehan to come after us, a mere pastor, in his stead; Carnehan driven half-mad and become a wilding by the time he caught up with us.’
‘Do not tell Benner I said this to you,’ said Leyla, ‘he is too proud to have it known. But I was at Hawkland Park comforting your father when you and your sister were believed lost, far-called, in some hellish slave pit at the other end of the world. He wept every night, cursing the slavers and his family’s unkind fate. Benner would have joined the pursuit if he could have, but he had a wrecked town to rebuild, a prefecture full of broken families missing children, brothers, sisters, parents – either buried during the raid, or slaved and lost. To be the head of a great house is to be responsible for more than just his own blood. He carries that burden and he had to live up to it, whatever the personal cost.’
Duncan felt a twinge of guilt. Could it be true? Had Duncan really mattered to his father, beyond his obvious utility as heir to the house? Perhaps he had misjudged the man; believing him so ready to abandon his son and daughter to the slavers while he attended his all-important holdings. Duncan’s disconcertingly young stepmother took his hand and squeezed it kindly, joining the courtiers in the throne room after they entered the substantial chamber. Vandia’s visitors marched down a wide aisle at the centre of the hall towards the throne at the far end. Weylanders gawked at the interlopers from either side of the room with a mixture of fear, curiosity and uncertainty, splendid tapestries gazing down on them from the walls. Paetro hung back alongside Duncan, the imperial troops halted ahead of them. Helrena strode towards the throne with Prince Gyal and Baron Machus, although the two high nobles paid little heed to the princess by their side; not a single glance in her direction. Duncan could feel the chill under the high hammer-beam roof.
‘That’s the king of this land?’ whispered Paetro, staring with clear disbelief at the man seated on the throne. ‘He may wear a set of royal furs, but his face puts me in mind of a chief justice, thin ink running through his veins.’
Duncan shrugged without comment. He couldn’t deny it; whoever had illustrated King Marcus for the country’s newspapers had taken more than a few liberties to make that plain, pinched aspect look substantial and gallant. On Marcus, the crimson ermine-lined robes of the monarch were like too many clothes layered across an aged sickling relative to warm his bones against the winter.
‘Welcome, noble sons and daughter of Vandia. In comparison to Vandia we are but a poor land at the far end of the caravan routes,’ announced King Marcus, rising to open his arms towards the delegation. ‘But we have this to offer you … the hand of friendship raised against our common foe. Those that have struck against you have also struck against us … the traitors have raised a rebellion in the north of my realm, where they hold your noble emperor’s granddaughter as hostage.’ He was trying to sound commanding, but Duncan detected the anxiety in the voice. Let him fear us, and with good cause.
Helrena Skar stepped forward, her cousin Machus glancing coldly at the princess for interrupting. ‘Lady Cassandra is of my line, my daughter and heir to my house. Where is she to be found?’
‘Your noble daughter is being held prisoner in the city of Midsburg … the rebellion’s stronghold. Those that have plotted against me and conspired against the people of Weyland are the same rebels you pursue for their crimes against the Vandian people. Chief among them, the pretender to my throne, Owen Hawkins. He has fled his nest of villainy in the Burn, fearful of your justice, and even as we speak, he spreads his poison among my citizenry.’
Duncan didn’t know what the king what talking about. Owen Hawkins? The only Owen that Duncan had served with in the sky mines had been a grizzled survivor called Owen Paterson. And what did the war-wracked ruins of the Burn have to do with the empire? Whatever was going on, Prince Gyal appeared to be complicit in the scheme. This wasn’t so much diplomacy being conducted as a choreographed dance between two nations. Gyal pushed his cloak to the side and indicated the forces ranged behind him. ‘We require all those that have insulted the emperor’s honour to be returned for punishment in the imperium.’
‘I require my daughter returned, alive,’ Helrena interjected.
Prince Gyal waved her to silence with a stern stare.
‘I too have daughters,’ said King Marcus, nodding gravely. ‘And I completely understand your concern, Your Grace, which come honourably as both a mother and a loyal highborn of the imperium. You shall have the full weight of Weyland’s forces in returning the young woman to your care. My regiments have driven north, but we have not yet assaulted Midsburg for fear of inadvertently wounding Lady Cassandra or inciting her kidnappers to defile her person. My intelligencers believe she is in the custody of a notorious outlaw … a wretch called Sariel.’
‘Sariel Skel-Bane? He is wanted for execution,’ growled Prince Gyal. ‘The empire seeks that devil for a lengthy list of crimes … robbery, murder, rebellion.’
‘And I urge you to seek peace here,’ called out a man, emerging from a line of ambassadors waiting among the gathered courtiers. ‘Not seek brigands.’
‘T
his is Palden Tash,’ said King Marcus. ‘First Speaker of Rodal. His nation is also a member of the Lancean League.’
‘I know of Rodal,’ said Prince Gyal, his voice dripping with arrogant disdain. ‘As far as your coastal kingdoms’ local alliance is concerned, the embassy’s reports from the region have been acceptably thorough.’ He swivelled to look down on the Rodalians’ head of state. ‘Your advice is of as little concern to me, Rodalian, as the winds that beat upon your land’s barren peaks.’
Duncan frowned. Yet none of the embassy’s thoroughness had been directed towards Princess Helrena or her staff. Duncan could see Helrena fuming about being marginalized by Gyal and his minions, her cheeks burning bright with indignation. She was not used to being a spectator to affairs of state, but the would-be next emperor of Vandia was treating her with little more courtesy than the legionaries he had marched into the palace at his rear.
Palden Tash rapped his cane of office against the marble floor, the sound echoing across the throne room like a pistol report. ‘Then you should know Rodal and the Lanca have strongly counselled for an end to these hostilities. The league nations have held back from intervention. We do not wish to incite further escalations in fighting. Your forces must leave Weyland’s shores. From what I understand, you have arrived from a region of Pellas far-called beyond the reach of normal trade and common alliance. It is not your empire’s place to support one side or another in a remote civil conflict. Return to your homeland in peace and allow the Lanca to mediate a lasting settlement here.’
Duncan winced. The first speaker shared his people’s reputation for blunt talking, but you did not address a member of the Vandian celestial caste in such a haughty manner. Unfortunately, Palden Tash seemed blithely unaware of his miscalculation.
Prince Gyal nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Must depart? You make an interesting point. Allow me to counter it.’ Gyal raised his arm and his troops surged forward, seizing Palden Tash. Before Duncan could gather his thoughts, the soldiers had gagged the Rodalian and dragged him struggling furiously across to a high wall. Gyal’s legionaries untied the rope holding a pennant aloft and wrapped its cord around the Rodalian’s neck, hoisting him up inside the chamber between two tall stained-glass windows. Tash’s boots whipped about as the politician hung above the floor. Many among the group of ambassadors rushed forward to try to cut him down, but they were beaten back by the legionaries’ rifle butts. Chief among the would-be rescuers was a young Rodalian woman flourishing a dagger who attempted to stab the Vandians, but the armoured troops easily overpowered her, beating her savagely to the floor and laying into her until she was stretched out beaten, bleeding and still. Duncan noted that none of the king’s guardsmen – the only other force bearing firearms inside the palace – attempted to intervene. Short of a threat to the life of Weyland’s monarch himself, they had clearly been instructed to offer no resistance to their powerful visitors.
Prince Gyal indicated the desperately shaking Rodalian hanging above the courtiers, his face turning purple; the Vandian noble was oblivious to frantic shouts and yelling from the league’s diplomats. ‘There is no limit to the imperium’s reach or imperial law. We suffer no commands from barbarian councils. Those who offend against the emperor or the empire’s rule will find immediate execution is their only reward. The King of Weyland has offered the hand of friendship in punishing criminals sought by Vandia, brigands who are now making mischief in his land, and I as the empire’s appointed legate have accepted his cooperation. If any bordering barbarian realm believes it can gainsay the imperium’s will, step forward now. After I have improvised a gallows for your insolent necks, I shall locate your piddling satrapy on a map and burn whatever open-sewered slum masquerades as capital of your sty to ashes.’
Duncan heard moans and saw wringing of hands, but there were no more takers for the prince’s justice.
‘Gyal has his father’s knack for making friends,’ whispered Paetro.
Duncan shook his head, sadly. ‘This is badly done.’
But the reality was that the princeling could no more afford to lose face in front of his subordinates than the empire could appear weak before its neighbours. Palden Tash finally stopped struggling at the end of the rope, his corpse swaying limply in front of a religious tapestry of The Saints’ Seven Mercies.
‘Cut him down!’ barked Baron Machus. ‘Draw and quarter the dog’s body, load his remains in a fast patrol ship and drop them over whatever piss-hole he hails from.’ Machus’s legionaries obeyed with the kind of alacrity that only the truly terrified could show. They knew what their celestial caste masters were capable of: the nations of the Lanca were only just beginning to learn. That poor Rodalian fool should have kept his mouth shut.
Prince Gyal indicated the king seated on the throne of Weyland for the benefit of the league’s ambassadors. Marcus had broken out in a cold sweat despite being swaddled in so many robes. ‘This is what an ally of the imperium looks like.’ Then Gyal’s hand jabbed towards the corpse tumbling toward the floor. ‘While that is how those who oppose us look. Send word to your barbarian chiefs that they must choose which they wish to be considered; but have them know it matters naught to me. My fleet carry shell and fire enough to leave every kingdom of the three oceans nothing but burning dust.’
A clear example had been set. Duncan worried it would not be the last one he was forced to witness before Vandia’s expedition left his homeland’s shores.
Carter rode ahead of the force of mounted soldiers, carefully following a rutted earthen road through the woods, bristlecone and limber pine that had hadn’t been cut back for a long time; dark needle leaves giving the place an ancient, haunted feel. Carter sat astride a black mare called Peppercorn almost as ancient and slow as his father’s old horse at Northhaven. But then horses, like so much else, were in short supply among the Army of the Spotswood, and though Carter was a newly minted captain under Prince Owen’s command, the steeds allocated by commissary staff reflected the beggarly nature of their war. Horses that had been pulling wagons across Middenharn’s farm fields one month had been requisitioned as reluctant cavalry mounts for the Second Royal Cavalry Brigade of the Army of the Spotswood the next. The royal in their title was all that was regal about the brigade, and that only to remind everyone who fought under the rebels’ banner that Owen was Weyland’s true heir. The riders’ rough woollen uniforms had been left grey, not enough dye available in the north to colour their coats the southern forces’ proud blue. Half Carter’s troop fought with a mishmash of weapons collected from above their own mantelpieces, the rest carried notoriously unreliable rifles shipped west across the border from Gidor. If only that had been all that had slipped across the border. Battle hardened royalist cavalrymen from the Eastern Frontier, the Fourth King’s Mounted Riflemen, had ridden north from the prefecture of Victorair and flanked the prince’s defensive line, passing unchallenged through Gidor and striking deep into rebel territory. The unwelcome visitors from the Army of the Bole were acting as marauders, riding and hiding, striking and burning, leaving random northern farms and towns in ashes behind their passage, refusing engagements with the prince’s regiments, disappearing like ghosts whenever they were pursued. These soldiers had hunted bandits for decades along the perilous frontier region, and they were proving themselves adept now they’d switched from gamekeeper to poacher. Carter found himself riding eagerly to encounter the marauders, though. A small recompense for champing at the bit in Midsburg while the country was turned into a patchwork of confused, contested, warring territories. He’d seen nothing of battle beyond sad wagon trains returning overladen with bandaged soldiers, many missing arms and legs, their faces tired and hard and blank. Carter pushed the war’s victims out of his mind. He needed to know he was making a difference, pushing the enemy back, pressing towards the day when he stood again in Arcadia, his father freed from a royal prison and Willow unshackled from her forced marriage. I’ll go mad riding around in circles up here. Waiting for the fort
unes of war to hand me a chance to liberate my family.
‘The fight will come north soon enough without us seeking it,’ Carter’s sergeant told him. Arick Densen had been an innkeeper before the war, as dry-humoured, dour and flinty as the Sharps Mountains he hailed from, as did the majority of their company. Pragmatic, independent-minded people, and as tough as the Rodalians in their down-to-earth way. Thin and rangy, not an inch of spare fat on the lot of them. Fine shots, too, even with the unreliable foreign rifles in their hands. Carter half-thought his soldiers might be eating the same grass as their mounts when he wasn’t looking; such was their endurance on sparse rations. Not for the first time he wondered what the soldiers really thought of him and his competence as an officer. Carter had ended up with the nickname of Cap’n Warrener, the rough and ready soldiers taking the two knives tucked into his riding boots as a sign his previous employment had involved skinning a warren of rabbits. Every time they stopped to make camp, Carter suffered a barrage of joke apologies about the lack of rabbit with the rations, and how they’d try harder to capture loyalists for some shaving.
‘You brooding about your father again?’ asked the sergeant, noticing the far-called look on Carter’s face.
‘And my girl,’ said Carter.
‘Best not to dwell on it,’ said Arick. ‘Ain’t any of us riding a gravy train with biscuit wheels in this war.’
‘Have you had any more news from your brother?’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘Don’t reckon northern crewmen are being allowed shore leave now, in case they split for their home prefectures. And even if Jarret got a pass, every Guild of Radiomen’s hold would be closed to him. Bad Marcus doesn’t want sympathizers sending messages our way … too many chances for spies to slip us a few coded words.’
