Prince of the North

by Turtledove, Harry

  They passed another couple of mostly deserted villages that day, and a wrecked keep. And, about noon, the Fox saw on a distant hill a building that wasn’t quite a keep but was far stronger and more elaborate than anything a serf would need. Raffo saw it, too, and scowled blackly. “If that’s not a bandits’ nest, you can call me a Shanda nomad.”

  “That’s what it is, all right, and right out in the open, too.” Gerin spat into the dirt of the road to show what he thought of it. “Everything’s going to the five hells when bandits set themselves up like barons.”

  “Who do you think the first barons were?” Van said. “Bandits who got rich, most likely. That’s how it was a lot of places, anyhow.”

  “Insulting my ancestors, are you?” Gerin said. “I’d be angrier if I didn’t know you were probably right Even so, one fine day we’re going to come down here and burn these bandits out before they get the chance to turn into barons.”

  “We’re getting close to the lands Adiatunnus holds,” Raffo said. “He’s liable not to like that.”

  “Aye, he might have in mind to use these buggers, whoever they are, as a buffer between him and me,” Gerin agreed. “That he has it in mind, though, doesn’t mean it will happen so.”

  The sun had slid more than halfway down toward the west when the chariot clattered up to a new border stone standing by the side of the road. The boulder was carved not with Elabonian designs or letters, but rather with the fylfots and spirals the Trokmoi favored. In the roadway itself stood a couple of red-mustached northerners, one with a spear, the other with a sword. The one with the spear called in lilting Elabonian, “Who might you be, coming to the lands of the great chief, Adiatunnus his own self?”

  “I might be anyone. I am Gerin the Fox,” Gerin answered. “Did Adiatunnus’ liegeman Diviciacus pass this way?”

  “He did that.” The border guard gave Gerin a look more curious than hostile. “And I’m after thinking it’s fair strange, Fox, for you to be after him so. Have you changed your mind, now, over the matter anent which Diviciacus was sent forth for to talk with you?”

  “I have not,” Gerin answered at once, which made both Trokmoi scowl. “But neither am I at feud with Adiatunnus, nor with any of his. Does peace hold between us, or not?” He reached for the bronze-headed axe in its rest on the side wall of the chariot. Van hefted his own spear, not in a hostile way but thoughtfully, as if to find out how heavy it was.

  It certainly made the Trokmoi thoughtful. The man who had spoken before said, “Sure and you’ve no need to be fighting us, now. For all Diviciacus ranted and carried on about what a black-hearted spalpeen you were, Fox—these are his words, mind, and none o’ my own—he said not a whisper of faring forth to fight.”

  “As I told him I had no quarrel with Adiatunnus,” Gerin agreed. “But tell me this—when Diviciacus rode through here, did he have with him in the chariot a boy of four summers? Not to put too fine a point on it, did he have my son? Before you answer, think on this: if you lie, we shall be at feud, and to the death.”

  The two northerners looked at each other. This time, the one who had the sword replied: “Fox, by Esus, Taranis, and Teutates I swear he did not.” That was the strongest oath the Trokmoi used, and one they did not swear lightly. The fellow went on, “If we aimed to go to war with you, we’d up and do it. Stealing a child, now?” He spat. “Bad cess to any man who’s after trying such a filthy thing.”

  “Aye,” the other warrior said. “Did one of ours do such to you, Fox, we’d hand him back nicely tied and all, for you to do with him as you thought best. You could make him last days so, and wish every moment he’d never been born. I’ve two lads and a girl of my own, and I’d use the same way any ogre of a man who so much as ruffled a hair on their heads without my leave.”

  His anger and sincerity were unmistakable. Maybe Adiatunnus had set him and his friend here just because they lied so well but Gerin couldn’t do anything about that, not without an army at his back. He said, “I shall believe you, but remember what I said if you’ve not spoken truth.”

  “Och, but we have, so we’ve nought to fear,” the fellow with the sword said. “I hope you find the bairn safe, Fox.”

  His friend nodded, adding, “Since you’re apt to be spending the night in the open, would you want to buy a hen from us, now?”

  “You probably stole it,” Gerin said without rancor. “That’s what all you Trokmoi south of the Niffet are—just a bunch of damned chicken thieves.”

  “Indeed and we’re not,” the northerner with a spear answered indignantly. “We came south because you Elabonians are after having so many things better and better than chickens to steal.”

  Since that was nothing but the truth, Gerin could not even argue with it. He tapped Raffo on the shoulder. His driver slewed the chariot in the narrow roadway and started east, back toward Castle Fox. “Sensible,” Van said. “This set of woodsrunners seemed friendly enough, but we’ll want to put some distance between them and us all the same. One of their higher-ups is liable to decide we’re worth hunting through the night.”

  “My thought exactly,” Gerin agreed. “Raffo, go by back roads while the day lasts, so long as they lead north or east. If we stay on the main track, I think we’re asking for trouble.”

  “Aye, lord Gerin,” Raffo said, and then, after a moment, “I’m sorry we didn’t find your son.”

  Gerin sighed. “So am I. I have to pray that Rihwin or Drago or Widin had better luck than we did.” He tried not to think about what might be happening to Duren. Too many of the pictures his imagination came up with were black ones.

  “We were so sure the Trokmoi had run off with him, too,” Van said. Another man might have put that, You were so sure—Like any proper friend, the outlander shared responsibility as well as credit.

  “We’ll know more when we get back to the castle,” the Fox said, wondering how he’d keep from going mad till then.

  Rihwin the Fox spread his hands. “Lord Gerin, Schild Stoutstaff’s border guards declined to give me leave to pass into their overlord’s land. For whatever it may be worth, they say Tassilo did enter that holding, but that they saw no sign of any small boy with him.”

  “For whatever it may be worth,” Gerin repeated. “If he had Duren trussed up in the back of the wagon, it may be worth nothing at all. Or, on the other hand—” He gave up, shaking his head in frustration and dismay. He’d hoped he’d find answers at Fox Keep, not just more questions, but questions seemed in better supply. Turning to Widin Simrin’s son, he asked, “Any luck with you?”

  Widin was a young man, but wore his beard long and forked, an antique style. He shook his head. “The same as Rihwin, lord prince. Aragis’ borderers say they’d not seen Rihwin—nor Tassilo nor Otes, either—but would not give me leave to enter their lord’s land.”

  Drago the Bear said, “As for Otes son of Engelers, lord Gerin, far as I can tell he’s just vanished off the face of the earth. No trace of him eastwards, that’s certain.”

  “Well, what happened to him?” Gerin growled. But he knew that could have a multitude of answers, too. The jeweler might have run into bandits, he might have been taken ill and laid up at some little peasant village which Drago had gone right past, or he might have decided not to fare east after all. No way to be certain, especially now that Drago the Bear had decided to give up the trail and return to Fox Keep. Gerin might have wished for more diligence from him, but he’d done what he was told, which was about what he was good for.

  As if uneasily aware his overlord was dissatisfied with him, Drago tried to change the subject: “Lord Gerin, you shouldn’t let Schild get by with the insolence he shows you these days. He bent the knee and set his hands in yours after you slew Wolfar, but you’d never know it by the way he acts. He has his nerve, he does, keeping your vassals off his land when he’s properly a vassal his own self.”

  “In law, you’re right,” Gerin said. “Trouble is, we haven’t much law north of the High Kirs. So
long as he hasn’t warred on me or attacked my lands when I was busy elsewhere, I’ve always had more important things to do than forcing him to heel.”

  “But when it’s your son, lord prince?” Widin asked softly.

  Gerin sighed. “Aye, now it’s my son—not that Tassilo seems to have had him. I’ll send Schild a courier with a letter: his border guards won’t hold back a courier under my orders to take the message to their lord.”

  “They’d better not, anyhow,” Drago said. “’Twould be against all polite usage.” Down in the heart of the Empire, Gerin thought, Drago would have made a perfect man of law: he lived in a world where precedent bulked more real and larger than reality. That often served him well—it saved him the trouble of thinking, which was not his strength, anyhow. But when he had to confront something new and unusual, he might as well have been unarmed.

  Rihwin the Fox said, “I hope the mere sending of a letter will not offend Schild’s, ah, delicate sensibilities.”

  “You mean, will he get angry because my courier can read and he can’t?” Gerin asked. Rihwin nodded. Gerin said, “It shouldn’t be a problem. Schild may not have much in the way of learning, but he doesn’t hate people who do—unlike some I could name.” Some who are my vassals, he thought.

  “If you did want to make him worry about you, Captain, you could use one of those serfs you’ve taught their letters,” Van said.

  “Makes me worry, too,” Drago muttered, just loud enough to let Gerin hear.

  “No, I try not to let word of that leak out of the holding,” Gerin said. “The time’s not ripe, not yet.”

  “Still don’t know why you started that crazy business anyhow, lord,” Widin said.

  “Why? Because there’s too much ignorance running around loose in the northlands, that’s why,” Gerin said. Widin and Drago both stared at him in incomprehension. Van shook his massive head; he’d known what the Fox was up to for years, and hadn’t complained about it, but that didn’t mean he approved.

  Even Rihwin, who was himself not only literate but possessed of a formal education better than Gerin’s, seemed dubious. “One of the things of which the serfs remain cheerfully ignorant is their own miserable lot,” he remarked. “Let them learn to think, to reason, and they will surely wonder at the justice of an order which keeps them in their huts and the barons who rule them in grand keeps like this one.”

  “They wonder at that anyhow,” Gerin said. “The northlands have never been free from peasant revolts, and that’s only grown worse since the Trokmoi came over the Niffet But my serfs, among them the ones I’ve taught, have stayed loyal where those of other lords rose.”

  “Belike that’s so—for now,” Van said. “But often, too, it works out that a man who’s too hungry and worn to rise up will go on working where even a pack mule would drop dead. Give that same man a bit of hope, now, and a full belly, and then try to crack the whip on him … well, you’d better have a good place to hide, is all I have to tell you.”

  Gerin clicked his tongue between his teeth. That had some truth to it; his own reading of history said as much. But he answered, “I have to take the chance. If I don’t, this whole land will slide back into barbarism in two generations’ time, and the only way you’ll be able to tell Elabonians from Trokmoi will be by black mustachios in place of red.”

  “I’m not ignorant,” Drago said indignantly. “Hearing I am all the bloody time wears thin, lord Gerin. I know how to war and raise horses and keep order in my own holding. What else do I need?”

  “Suppose there’s a drought and you need magic done to get some rain?” Gerin asked.

  “I hire a mage, of course.”

  “Where do you suppose the mage learned his art? If he’s any good, at the Sorcerers’ Collegium down in the City of Elabon. But northlands mages can’t do that any more—we’re cut off, remember. If we want to have another set of mages come along to replace the ones who die, we’ll just have to find some way to train them ourselves. That means reading and writing, too, you know.”

  Drago scowled. “You don’t argue fair, Fox.”

  “There I must disagree,” Rihwin said. “Lord Gerin’s arguments strike me as logical enough—and logic also seems to me to be a civilized appurtenance worth preserving. The question is whether the risks inherent in seeking to make civilized men of serfs outweigh the benefits to be gained from that course if successful.”

  Gerin abruptly sickened of the dispute. “A murrain on it,” he growled. “The only thing that truly matters now is who has Duren and what they’re doing to him. I said the same thing before we all set out searching, but I hoped we’d know something when we came back to Fox Keep. Instead, here we are sitting along this same cursed table five days later, and just as ignorant as the moment we set out.”

  Rihwin gave him a sidelong glance. “Where chariots rumbling down roadways and men beating bushes fail, sorcery might serve. I speak purely in the abstract, you understand, my own abilities along those lines having been raped away by the angry god, but the possibility deserves mention.”

  “It would deserve more mention if I were more of a wizard.” Gerin sighed. “Oh, aye, you have the right of it, and I’ll try, but I’ve essayed such magics before, and never yet found what I was looking for. And by the time we can find a proper mage and bring him here, the trail will have grown cold.”

  “Attempting a spell while convinced it will fail is the surest way to guarantee such failure,” Rihwin said.

  “I know that, too, but I find optimism hard to come by when I see no good reason for it.” The Fox wished he could cast aside his gloom. As Rihwin had said, he would have been a better wizard—though never a good one, he thought—without it. But it was as much a part of him as the scar over his left eye.

  Just then, Fand came into the great hall. She pointed to Rihwin and Widin and Drago. “I know they had no luck,” she said. “Are you after finding your lost boy, and him so small and all?”

  “No,” Gerin said, and the one word pressed the weight of defeat and despair more heavily onto his shoulders.

  “Och, the black shame of it, to be snatching children,” Fand said. She meant it, Gerin judged, but hers was a nature that held the troubles of others in mind for only a little while before returning to her own concerns: “And fair lonely I was, too, with both my men off on a sleeveless errand. Still and all, though, they might have brought something back with them to make amends for being gone so long.” She looked hopefully from Gerin to Van.

  The outlander answered first: “Maybe I should bring my hand across your greedy backside. Does that seem fair, when you think on what we were about?”

  When Van spoke in that rumbling tone of warning, as if he were an earthquake about to happen, sensible men walked soft. But Fand was nothing if not spirited herself. She shouted, “Greedy, is it, to be asking a simple question of you? Often enough there’s a question you ask of me, aye, and with the understanding my answer had better be yes, too, or I’d be sorry for it. And you call me greedy? A pox take you!”

  “If a pox did take me, where would I likely get it?” Van retorted.

  “You’ve been staying with me too long,” Gerin murmured. “That’s the sort of crack I’m apt to make.”

  Fand didn’t hear him. She let her wrath fall on Van: “You? Who knows where you’d be likely to come by the pox? You think I don’t know you’ll cover anything with a slit, like a billy goat in the springtime? I’ve more to fear from your wanderings than you from mine. Go on, now, tell me I’m a liar.”

  Van turned the color of the embers smoldering on the hearth. “That’s the way of a man,” he sputtered. Drago, Rihwin, and Widin nodded. So did Gerin, though he was less inclined to make a tomcat of himself.

  “Och, I know that.” Fand tossed her head in fine disdain. “But since it is, why blame me for what’d be the fault of your own self?”

  Gerin worked so hard to choke down laughter that he had a coughing fit. Van wasn’t the only one who’d spent a
lot of time with him. No toga-wearing Sithonian sophist could have done a neater, more logical job of punching holes in the outlander’s gibe than Fand just had.

  Van looked his way. “Will you not come to my aid?” he asked plaintively, as if alone on the field and beset by a host.

  “I think our lady here was greedy, too, but as for the rest, you got yourself into it, and you can get yourself out.” Gerin rose and headed for the stairs. “As for me, I’m going to see what sort of search spells I can use to try to find my son.”

  Bass and alto shouts, like angry kettledrum and horn, followed him up to his library. He knew of no greater hoard of books anywhere in the northlands, yet he also knew how inadequate the collection was. There were hundreds of grimoires, for instance, but he owned fewer than ten. With them he had Lekapenos’ epics, a few codices of history, a couple on natural philosophy, a treatise on horsemanship, another on war, a school set of Sithonian plays (many of them crumbs from Lekapenos’ banquet)—and that was all. So much knowledge stored away in volumes he would never see, let alone own … thinking of his own ignorance saddened him.

  He went through the grimoires one after another, looking for a spell that would let him see either who had taken Duren or where his son was now. He found a fair number of them, but had to dismiss most out of hand. Some were beyond his limited abilities as a mage. Some required ingredients he could not hope to obtain: dried sea-cow flipper from the Greater Inner Sea, for instance.

  And too many needed wine. Even if it hadn’t been unavailable, he would have been afraid to use it. The last thing he wanted was to attract the angry notice of Mavrix.

  “I wonder if ale would do?” he muttered, running a finger down the closely written column of a cantrip that looked promising except for prescribing a silver bowl full of wine as the scrying medium.

  A sentence near the end of the spell leaped out at him: Whereas the aspect of Baivers god of barley is dull, sodden, and soporific, whilst that of Mavrix lord of the sweet grape (to whom the cry of Evoii! rings out) sparkles with wit and intelligence, the ill-advised operator who seeks to substitute ale for wine will surely have cause to regret his stupidity.