No one mentioned the Battle of Narrowneck, but Byren knew they were thinking of it. His cheeks burned with shame and frustration. Through no fault of his own, he’d let down his followers, and he hated it.
Orrade gestured to the merchants. ‘Each of you keeps hired swordsmen—’
‘To protect our property,’ Yarraskem said. ‘In troubled times, a man needs to protect his family and trade.’
‘When Byren is king, he’ll re-open trade,’ Orrade said.
‘Cobalt has already re-opened trade,’ Yarraskem said and shrugged. ‘And he’s lifted King Rolen’s ban on Affinity products.’
‘Not that it ever stopped you from turning a profit,’ Samidor muttered. ‘We all know things slip in with your spices.’
Yarraskem bristled. ‘What are you saying?’
Byren slammed the flat of his hand on the table. They all jumped and turned to him. ‘Fighting amongst ourselves only aids Cobalt.’
Yarraskem and Samidor subsided, radiating affronted dignity.
‘I need Rolencian merchants to honour Queen Isolt’s treasury letter.’ Byren removed the letter from his vest to show them the Merofynian seal and Queen Isolt’s signature. ‘I need gold to buy food and weapons.’
‘We all need gold,’ Yarraskem said. ‘The Merofynians cleaned me out of stock and burned my warehouse. I’ve had to negotiate a loan from Ostron Isle to rebuild my business.’
‘I’m in much the same position,’ the wool merchant said. ‘My stock was stolen and I must make five successful voyages before I can repay my debt to the Ostronites.’ He shook his head. ‘I wish you well, young Byren, but—’
‘The Ostronites sat on the fence and profited from this invasion,’ Samidor said. ‘Take your letter to them.’
Voices reached them from below and the corax ran up the steps. ‘A Merofynian patrol has been sighted two blocks over, coming this way.’
The merchants wished Byren well and left. Only the markiza lingered. She placed a drawstring purse on the table.
‘Gold,’ she said. ‘It is all I can manage.’
‘I will not forget this,’ Byren said, coming around the table. ‘One day I will repay you.’
‘I want to ask you to make sure my son comes home safe, but...’ She gave a sad, proud laugh. ‘I know he will be in the thick of the fighting.’
‘He’s a good lad, Chandler.’ Byren kissed her cheek. ‘No wonder, when he has you for a mother.’
She left and Byren turned to Orrade, who shook his head. ‘How do you know the right thing to say?’
Byren shrugged. ‘I spoke the truth, that’s all.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
NOW THAT FLORIN knew Byren lived, she felt her place was at his side, helping him regain the throne. Instead she was stuck here playing the man so Seela could teach Varuska to dance.
‘Again,’ Seela said.
‘I don’t see why I have to learn these noble dances,’ Varuska muttered. ‘I’ve managed to avoid dancing so far.’
‘You’ll have to dance at the wedding.’
‘Not if we kill him right after the ceremony,’ Varuska countered, flashing a cheeky smile. In that moment, she reminded Florin of Piro. Now that Varuska trusted them, she’d grown confident enough to reveal her true nature... when Cobalt was not around.
Seela frowned. ‘Don’t—’
The door to the women’s solarium swung open and Cobalt strode in. He took in their stance and the dolcimela in Seela’s hands. ‘I see you are practising your dances for the wedding, Piro. Excellent. I’ve brought our marriage forward. Seven days from now we’ll—’
‘What?’ Seela sprang to her feet. Her actions covered Varuska’s cry of dismay. ‘But I haven’t finished making-over her mother’s wedding dress.’
‘Set the castle seamstresses to work.’ Cobalt dismissed her protest with a wave of his hand. ‘I’m tired of waiting.’
He turned and walked out.
As soon as the door closed, Varuska whispered, ‘Why—’
‘He’s afraid of Byren!’ Savage delight surged through Florin.
‘I should have foreseen this,’ Seela muttered.
Varuska would have spoken, but the nurse signalled for silence. ‘Florin, go see what you can learn about the wedding plans. We’ll need an escape route.’
Florin nodded and slipped into the queen’s private chamber. From there, she went down the servant’s stairs, then along the corridor and into another stairwell, heading for the castle-keep’s study.
Turning a corner, she spotted Cobalt ahead of her and hung back. Then she heard voices and realised the castle-keep had waylaid him on the landing between floors. Florin sank into a crouch, with her ear pressed to the gap between the railings.
‘They tell me you’ve moved the wedding forward. Don’t you see it looks bad if you rush things?’
‘And it will look even worse if the real Piro turns up.’ Cobalt said. ‘I’ve had word from Merofynia. She was there when Byren killed Palatyne. So was Fyn. Byren has named his brother lord protector of Merofynia. Soon all of Rolencia will know. Port Marchand already knows.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Declare the other Piro to be an imposter and marry the real Piro.’ There was laughter in his voice.
The castle-keep digested this in silence.
‘Don’t worry, Yegora. We’ll send out invitations by fast riders. The nobles and merchants will make all haste to join us. They won’t want to miss the royal wedding.’
‘The castle will need—’
‘I don’t want the wedding in the castle. I want it held at Narrowneck.’
Florin was as stunned as the castle-keep.
‘B-but that’s—’
‘It’s perfect. It juts into Lake Sapphire, bound by cliffs. It’s the equivalent of a giant stage. I’ve already sent men to rebuild the wall across the narrowest point. Only invited guests will be allowed onto Narrowneck, but the ordinary folk can bring boats across the lake and watch the ceremony, which will be held on the point. Narrowneck is defensible, yet open.’
‘I don’t know, Illien, to wed where so many have died...’
‘To wed where Byren was defeated. It sends a message. I’ll secure the throne with this marriage, and I’ll have an heir before a year is out.’
‘The arrangements... So much needs to be done, I don’t see how—’
‘You have a genius for organisation, Yegora, and you have an army of servants at your disposal. Ah... here comes Amil. Off you go. I know I can trust you.’
Florin heard the castle-keep’s footsteps retreating, but she had not heard Amil’s approach.
‘You sent Lady Death my message?’ Cobalt spoke Ostronite.
‘Yes. Fyn and Piro will cause you no more trouble.’
‘And Byren?’
‘As soon as he starts gathering an army, a corax will infiltrate his ranks and kill him.’
‘It must look like an accident. We don’t want to make a martyr of him. Better they remember him as the fool who lost a battle, won Merofynia, then caught black-spot fever and died.’
‘You should have been a corax.’
Both men chuckled.
Florin shivered and crept away, cursing Cobalt.
FYN KNEW THE sea. Maybe not as well as the three royal navy captains who gathered around the war-table, but he knew there was almost no chance they’d catch the Utlanders responsible for this morning’s outrage.
It was late afternoon and they’d been talking long enough for Fyn to know that the harbour-master wanted to make it clear that he had not been negligent. The merchants wanted assurance Utlanders would not dare to invade Mero Bay again. Lord Cadmor wanted his family name respected. Lord Yorale wanted to advise the queen. Lord Neiron and Captain Elrhodoc wanted their opinions heard even though they knew nothing about the sea.
Isolt looked to Fyn. ‘Should we send the royal navy to hunt down Utlanders when we don’t know which Utlanders entered Port Mero?’
‘All U
tlanders are guilty of piracy,’ the oldest navy captain said, and the other two agreed.
‘We must send a clear message,’ Captain Elrhodoc stated.
Neiron nodded. ‘He’s right. Merofynia cannot be attacked with impunity.’
The merchants and nobles agreed with him.
‘For nearly a hundred years, our bay was safe from Utland depredation,’ Yorale said. ‘Force is all they understand.’
‘Send the bay lord,’ Neiron suggested. ‘Now that he has the fastest yacht ever built, he—’
‘He has to defend the bay,’ the harbour-master said. ‘That’s why the queen gave him the royal yacht.’
‘I gave him the yacht to replace the ship he lost defending the bay,’ Isolt corrected. ‘And I wouldn’t have had to do that if everyone had paid their tithes.’
There was some muttering.
‘I can protect Port Mero best by going to sea,’ the bay lord said. ‘We have to make sure the Utlanders know if one of their ships ventures into Mero Bay it brings the wrath of Merofynia down on all Utlanders.’
‘Those are our orders?’ The oldest of the royal navy captains asked, but he looked to Lord Yorale, not the queen, for confirmation. ‘Sail in convoy, hunt down Utlander ships, capture them and—’
‘If you capture one of their ships and kill every last Utlander, how will the others know the missing ship wasn’t simply lost at sea?’ Fyn asked. ‘How will the Utlanders know this was retaliation for attacking Merofynia?’
‘Surely you don’t suggest we leave some of the crew alive to go home and breed more savages?’ the youngest navy captain asked.
‘Put them to the sword,’ Elrhodoc said. ‘The only good Utlander is a dead Utlander.’
‘Execute them all?’ the oldest navy captain asked Yorale.
At least Yorale had the tact to consult Isolt. ‘What are your orders, my queen?’
She looked to Fyn. ‘You were a sea-hound.’
‘Instead of putting the captured Utlanders to the sword, bring them back.’
‘To imprison?’
‘No, my queen. Justice must be seen to be done. Word has to spread amongst the Utlanders. They have to know Merofynia has retaliated.’
‘And how are you going to ensure they know this?’ Elrhodoc asked.
All eyes turned to Fyn, who glanced to Isolt. She was not going to like this. ‘We build a gallows on the ocean side of the outer headland, and hang the Utlanders where they can be seen by passing ships.’
‘Hang them?’ Isolt whispered, shocked.
‘They were always going to die. This way, their deaths serve us.’ Fyn made his voice hard. He was determined not to lose any of the ground he’d gained with the defeat of Warlord Cortigern. The Merofynian elite had to respect and fear him. ‘Leave the Utlanders’ bodies to rot, as a warning to any who would attack Merofynian merchant ships either in port or on the high seas.’
The others were nodding even before he finished.
‘We’ll look like barbarians,’ Isolt protested.
‘They are the barbarians,’ Elrhodoc said.
‘You have a woman’s soft heart,’ Neiron told Isolt. ‘Leave the warring to us.’
‘But this will make the Utlanders hate Merofynia,’ she protested.
‘They already hate us, my dear,’ Yorale said.
The bay lord nodded. ‘He’s right. They kill or enslave the crew of every ship they take, my queen. Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.’
Isolt flushed and looked down. Yorale gave her shoulder a fatherly squeeze.
‘I should lead the fleet,’ the oldest navy captain said. ‘I have seniority.’
‘But I sail the largest ship,’ the second captain argued.
The youngest captain turned to Yorale. ‘What—’
‘You have all served the crown well,’ Isolt said. ‘But none of you have the fire of revenge in your bellies. I name Cadmor my lord admiral. He’s had fifty-five years as a sea-hound.’
There was nothing the three navy captains could say. They left to prepare their ships. As Isolt took her leave, Fyn tried to catch her eye, but she would not look at him.
Meanwhile, the harbour-master, the new lord admiral and Captain Aeran discussed increasing port security with Fyn. Aeran offered to send more patrols to the wharves. Cadmor offered his grandson’s service.
‘Young Camoric will be up and about in a few days,’ Cadmor said. ‘He’ll be spitting mad to miss the chance to sail on the royal yacht. He can patrol the bay.’
‘I thought he lost his ship.’
‘That he did, the foolish boy. He’ll be captain of a fishing boat until our other ships return. Teach him to think before he rushes into things.’
By the time Fyn escaped the meeting, Isolt was long gone.
The overcast day brought an early twilight to the palace corridors. Servants were already lighting candles when Fyn went looking for Isolt. She was not in any of her usual places and, according to Rhalwyn and Cortomir, had already visited the Affinity beasts’ grotto. Was she hiding from him?
Finally, Fyn learned she was in her chamber, dressing for the evening meal. He asked to see her, but the servants sent him away.
Torn between frustration and remorse, Fyn went to change for dinner. Surely Isolt could see that if the nobles and merchants did not respect him, they would not follow him? And leniency to the Utlanders would only make Merofynia look weak.
A little later, Fyn strode into the palace’s dining hall as though he wasn’t dreading eating at the royal table. Each evening, Isolt welcomed a different noble and merchant margrave to the seats of honour each side of her. This way, no one could claim she favoured any one above the others.
Every evening, the men set out to charm her, even if they were grandfathers. Usually Fyn smiled at their clumsy compliments, but tonight he was troubled by the distance between himself and the queen. He would ask Isolt to dance, get her alone and... what? Apologise for doing the right thing?
Someone had to make the hard decisions.
Fyn looked up at the royal table as he approached. Behind it, the wall was decorated with a mural depicting stylised wyverns. It was made of many tiny tiles and semi-precious stones. The brilliant blue of the lapis-lazuli glinted in the candlelight.
Isolt did not meet Fyn’s eyes as he bowed to her and made his way around the table. Lord Wytharon’s grandson, the new lord of Wythrontir Estate, sat on her left. Wythrod was around Byren’s age. From his glazed expression it was clear he found the young queen desirable and, finding himself at her side, could not believe his luck.
As Fyn took his seat, he strained to catch their conversation, then realised he was just looking for an excuse to interrupt. He should make be making polite conversation with Travany, who sat on his right, but the middle-aged lord made no effort to include him in his discussion with Lord Rhoderich.
Further down the table, Abbot Murheg caught Fyn’s eye. It was a pity they could not continue their debate about the origins of the statues on Ruin Isle.
Neiron, now Lord of Nevantir Estate, ignored his dinner companion to cut into Wythrod’s conversation with the queen. Fyn saw Isolt’s mouth tighten in annoyance and was glad he had restrained himself.
An altercation over by the main entrance drew Fyn’s eye. He could hear a young, hoarse voice protesting. There was a scuffle. One of the ceremonial guards tripped. A filthy youth darted past them and staggered across the floor. He was barefoot and dressed in rags, and his long hair hung in matted clumps. Feverishly, he searched the high table.
‘Grab him.’ Captain Elrhodoc sprang to his feet. ‘Grab the Utlander.’
Men cursed, women shrieked.
‘I’m not—’ the youth protested.
Before he could finish, several of the ceremonial guards tackled him, pummelling him. Amidst jeers of ‘kill the Utlander’, they drove him to the ground, then caught him by his arms and lifted him off his feet.
Struggling frantically, he bit the hand that gagged him and
managed to shout. ‘I’m no Utlander.’
They quickly silenced him. Three restrained him, while a fourth drew his knife and prepared to cut his throat.
‘Not here at the dinner table,’ Elrhodoc yelled. ‘Take him outside.’
‘Wait.’ Fyn had rounded the table and now approached the captive. ‘He spoke Merofynian like a noble.’
‘He has filthy Utland eyes,’ the guard with the knife announced. ‘He’s a spy. An assassin!’
Fyn looked into those strange, desperate eyes. Tears of fury and indignation left tracks on the youth’s dirty cheeks. ‘If he was a spy, he would come amongst us in fine clothes, with a convincing story. Let him speak.’
The guard glanced to Captain Elrhodoc for confirmation, before removing his hand.
‘Fa-Father,’ the captive youth sobbed, addressing someone at the high table. ‘Don’t you know me? It’s Trafyn!’
‘Trafyn?’ Lord Travany came to his feet. ‘They told me you were lost at sea.’
‘Our ship was taken by Utlanders.’ Tears of relief poured down his cheeks as the queen’s guards stepped back. ‘But I escaped.’
‘From the Utland ship that raided last night?’ Fyn asked.
Trafyn nodded. ‘I escaped and swam ashore. I went to Travantir Townhouse, but there was a new guard on the door, and he turned me away. I’ve been trying to get into the palace to find—’
‘Trafyn...’ Travany came down the high table, heavy jowls quivering. He swept the youth into an embrace. ‘Travrhon, come see. Your brother has returned from the dead.’
Travany’s older son approached. ‘Trafyn?’
Trafyn swayed on his feet. His father stepped in to support him on one side and his brother took the other.
‘Some good has come from the Utland attack after all,’ Isolt said. ‘Take your son away, feed and clothe him, Lord Travany. Tomorrow he can tell us of his miraculous escape.’
‘I killed two Utlanders,’ Trafyn claimed. ‘Gutted them and jumped overboard.’
His brother cast him a sceptical look, but his father beamed proudly and the diners cheered.
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