by Tom Lloyd
He removed his shirt again and took another look at the scar on his chest. The rune was no more than two inches wide; a minor for all the trepidation it had provoked in him. Despite the fact that he could only just see it, when he put the shirt back on the throb of its presence remained. The pain was nothing compared to the nag of its unknown significance.
Investigating the clothes trunk, Isak found a better pair of breeches than his own, and some sort of shapeless shirt with sleeves so short and fat it looked as if it had been made for a Chetse rather than someone of Isak’s build. He guessed he looked a little foolish in it, but the shirt was warm so it would do for the meantime.
There were no boots in the trunk, so Isak closed the lid, looked around the room once more in case he’d missed anything, and stepped on to the murky platform. This time he savoured the taste of magic it contained, an almost metallic flavour that drove the last vestiges of sleep from his mind. He took a deep breath and focused his mind on the bird symbol down below. A momentary rush of giddiness passed away and when the lower chamber and Tila’s slightly alarmed face were revealed, Isak looked calm and controlled.
‘Ah, there you are.’ As he stepped forward the girl curtsied.
‘Oh, please don’t do that every time I see you,’ Isak begged. ‘It makes me feel stupid.’
‘I-yes, my Lord.’ They stared at each other in silence until Isak gave an enquiring nod at a pair of boots Tila carried.
‘Oh yes, I borrowed these from one of the guardsmen. I hope they’re big enough for you. I’ve sent for tailors and a cobbler to attend you this afternoon - if these will suffice for the morning, that is.’
Isak took the boots from her and pulled them on. They were simple, but well made - and certainly better and newer than any he’d ever worn before. The fit was snug, and his toes were crammed together especially tightly in the left, but it was far better than bare feet on cobbled or flagged stone. He beamed at the improvement. Tila gave him a relieved smile.
Should I ask Lesarl for the money to pay the tailors then?’ he asked, recalling Bahl’s earlier instructions.
‘Not at all, my Lord.’
‘Why not?’ he asked, wondering if he had missed something. ‘They’ re hardly going to dress me for nothing.’ She smiled again, and this time Isak thought she was being a little condescending.
‘I think in fact they would dress you for free, my Lord,’ she explained. ‘You are a suzerain, and if their work pleases you, you would be expected to have much more work for them in the future. My grandfather always said that a good tailor was the first requirement of a gentleman.’
‘I’m far from that.’
‘On the contrary, my Lord, as Suzerain Anvee, you outrank almost every gentleman in the nation. My Lord, may I be bold and speak freely?’
Isak shrugged, lips pursed as he anticipated a comment on the shirt he’d just put on.
‘The talk of the palace is that before your elevation to Krann, you lived on a wagon-train.’ She paused, wary of looking foolish or giving offence, but Isak nodded without further comment. ‘If that is the case, I would venture to guess that you find yourself in a life about which you know nothing. Perhaps I might be so free as to offer what advice I can? This is the society I have grown up in. It might be asking you to trust me excessively, but I assure you that any disgrace or humiliation visited upon you would reflect upon me. I am not unattractive, I know that, but I am unmarried at seventeen because my father has no money for a dowry, despite his position. Proving myself an able counsellor to you could compensate for that - it could demonstrate my usefulness to any man beyond the first duty of bearing an heir. I have as much to lose as you do, and as much to gain.’
Isak considered her words. He wasn’t quite ready to trust her, but she had acknowledged that already. At least he knew to be wary, and what more could he ask for?
‘Go on then,’ he said grudgingly.
‘Yes, my Lord. You are now a man of court rank - how society regards you will be determined, first and foremost, by the way you present yourself.’
‘I’ve no intention of presenting myself to anyone. If I’m Krann, then surely people should be coming to me.’
‘And I’m sure they will, that’s the way of politics. However, to wield power successfully, one must cultivate friendships as well as receive them. Isolation is no way to achieve victory in any arena.’
‘Lord Bahl seems to manage.’
Tila paused. ‘My Lord, to the other nobles you are just a youth - albeit one with potential as a soldier. The divine edicts are clear the Chosen are just that: made fit by the gifts of the Gods, but they
Must prove themselves worthy of those gifts, and they must hold on to power by themselves. Lord Bahl is one of the greatest warriors in the Land. In combat, he is matchless. Quite aside from the fact that our finest regiment is loyal to him to a man, no Farlan alive could beat him in a duel. In the political arena, he’s well protected by his Chief Steward. You, on the other hand, are untested in any form of battle, and you’re a stranger to the viciousness of polite society.’
‘So as my advisor, what would you have me do?’ Isak shifted his weight from one foot to the other. As he grew irritated, so he felt the squeeze on his toes become more noticeable.
‘Show yourself to be their equal. Dress and act as befitting a man of your station and they will soon be flocking to court your attention. If you are quiet and considered, welcoming but never overly so, then you will have the time you need to learn how to deal with the men of court rank: the dukes, suzerains and counts. They are men of guile who will use the law, force, influence and rumour to gain what they want. To play their game, you must first understand its rules.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then men will align themselves to you. They won’t all be trustworthy, of course, but that will be how you can develop your powerbase grounded in something more than military might. Lord Bahl’s intentional rejection of high society has caused him more than a few problems in the past.’
‘That sounds like a dangerous opinion to me.’
Tila stared at Isak in alarm before realising he had not meant it as a threat.
‘I -I don’t believe so, my Lord. It is well known that Lord Bahl takes little interest in politics or the cult of Nartis, and that this has caused problems in the past.’
Isak stayed silent while Tila’s words churned through his head. Yet more strange, more confusion in his life; more playing the games of other men, something he had yearned to be free of. Damn them, he thought all of a sudden, I am a man of power now and that means I should be able to live my life how I want. Why should I bend to another man’s will? Let the Land now bend to mine. He opened his mouth to say exactly that to Tila, then the words faltered in his throat. She was trying to help, to be a freiend. Right now she was the only one he had here; no need to reject everything she’d said.
‘You might be right. I’ll have to think about it all,’ Isak said. ‘In meantime, Lord Bahl told me to find Swordmaster Kerin.’
Tila gave a half-curtsey, bowing her head a fraction too slowly to avoid showing the rush of relief that flowed over her face. ‘He will be on the training ground, my Lord. This way.’
She led him down the empty corridor towards the Great Hall, where the wide stone stairway brought noises from the rest of Tirah Palace. Isak resolved to investigate the place at a later time. He smiled. The high roofs and hidden eaves of this ancient place would soon welcome him and share their secrets; with no father to curse his absence, Isak had only his own fancy to obey.
Tila pushed open the door to the Great Hall, walked in and cast a pointed look at those within. Then she stepped aside and drew herself up by the door, holding it open for Isak.
‘Today I will have your personal chambers prepared. Lord Bahl has given explicit instructions that you sleep in the tower for a few weeks, but chambers in the main wing above us are also to be yours.’
Isak nodded and walked past her into the
hall. Only four people were inside, two servants tending to the fire, now standing to attention, and a pair of guardsmen. The younger was still sitting, his bloody leg stretched out on the bench while the other, a grizzled man of a similar age to Carel, had risen to his feet. A length of bandage trailed from his hand.
Isak, not sure what to do, gestured at them to continue what they’d been doing as he strode past them and to the tall double doors that led outside. One was slightly ajar, enough to see daylight, and when he opened it fully, he found himself at the top of a wide stone stairway with no rail that led down to what was obviously a training ground. To either side was a drop of almost ten feet; unsurprisingly, the steps were badly worn in the centre. A mass of grey cloud hung in the sky, resisting the wind’s listless attempts to drive it away. Isak could hardly tell where the sun was, so he quickly gave up gauging the hour, but guessed he had slept far later than usual.
Off to the left stood the barbican, flanked by two sharp towers. The dark maw of the keep tunnel rose up from the ground, its length sufficient to prevent any light from the other side from showing. Isak turned and looked up at the great bulk of the main wing. The Tower of Semar rose behind it. He felt himself start to topple backwards as he strained to see to the very top. Against the diffused morning light the huge tower that reached up into the heavens looked elusive and shadowy-Now Isak was inside the palace, he realised just how large the fortress was - and still the tower looked impossibly tall.
The high stone walls encircled a vast tract of land. They were dotted with defensive towers, and there were stables and barracks nestling close in several places. Various plots within the wall were fenced off for livestock and for huge kitchen gardens, but the majority held soldiers. A line of archery butts were taking a beating at the far end, while the wide stretch of ground in between contained drilling foot soldiers and cavalry.
The palace was not built for defence. It had grown over the years, and the ancient wall surrounding the training ground was now a patchwork, first enlarged after an original section around the tower had been destroyed by magic. These days it was so long that it would take thousands to man it. But no one had ever succeeded in laying siege to Tirah Palace because the Farlan Army was a mobile one, manoeuvrable and superbly trained. The horses were drilled as hard as the soldiers, and their rapid response, tight formations and excellent logistical management meant that few enemies ever got the choice of battleground. Organisation of supplies was so crucial for the Farlan Army that the Quartermaster-General outranked even suzerains, in peace time as well as at war.
Isak trotted down the steps and made his way to a nearby groom who was attending to a tall chestnut hunter. The magnificent animal remained patient and still as the groom inspected a foreleg hoof.
Isak took a moment to admire the warhorse, a finer creature than any he’d seen before, before asking, ‘Can you tell me where I can find Swordmaster Kerin?’
‘The Swordmaster?’ replied the groom without looking up. ‘He’s busy with the rich boys of the Guard. Wait till he’s finished; some of them are knights and they don’t like commoners interrupting.’
Isak smiled. Only a day back he’d have obeyed that advice. ‘Tell me which one he is anyway. I think I outrank a knight so they won’t complain for long.’ The man looked up, and dropped the hoof in shock. He quickly recovered himself and dropped to to one knee, muttering apologies. ‘My Lord, forgive-‘
‘Don’t worry, just tell me which one is the Swordmaster.’
The man hopped to his feet and pointed to a group of men gathered in a circle thirty yards away. ‘Of course, my Lord.. He’s over there, training the high-born men. The, ah, the man in blue, with a quarterstaff.’
Isak turned to follow the man’s hand. The group was assembled in a half-circle, centred on the man in blue and a mailed figure frozen in mid-lunge. The Swordmaster was pointing with his staff at the position of the other man’s leg. He could see why the groom had been dismissive; it was a fencing class, teaching nobles how to fight with a rapier. The weapons were next to useless on a battlefield, but duels were common enough among the upper classes and skill with the narrow blade had brought many men fame.
As Isak approached, the assembled men stopped paying attention and stared instead at their new Krann. He smiled inwardly, wondering what rumours were flying around the palace. A commoner arriving in the dead of night and soaked in blood, declared as Krann to Lord Bahl and future Lord of the Parian - no doubt there were many assuming, as some part of Isak still did, that this was all a joke.
To the Swordmaster’s credit, he hardly hesitated as he felt his audience’s attention stray. Turning smartly, the slim-built, greying man hefted his staff, took a step towards Isak and then dropped to one knee. ‘My Lord Isak, you honour us with your presence.’ As he spoke, Kerin looked up, assessing Isak with an unwavering gaze that betrayed no trace of apprehension. ‘You’re Swordmaster Kerin?’
‘I am, my Lord.’ Kerin didn’t blink or shift his attention for an instant. For a man kneeling, the Swordmaster showed no intention of being impressed yet.
‘Well then, Lord Bahl told me to report to you.’ Kerin rose, leaning heavily on his staff, but Isak wasn’t fooled. From the rapt attention the others had been giving him, he guessed Kerin was worthy of his title.
‘That he did, my Lord, and now you’re out here, you’re under my command. There’s no room for titles here; no room for more than one commander. If you don’t like doing what I say, tough shit. You’ll do it or you’ll not walk this field.’
Isak blinked in surprise; that hadn’t been how he’d expected things to start out - but then he remembered Carel repeating to him, again and again, whenever the subject of joining the Guard came up: Keep your damn temper under control and your mouth shut. Either you’ll learn to take orders, or they’ll chew you up and spit you out. There’s nothing that the Swordmasters haven’t seen before; make sure you show yourself to be more than just a white-eye.
Isak gave a small smile; if he was now the Krann, none of these men had seen one of those before, but he still had something to prove to them. Better he showed them the man he could become, rather than the animal they all expected.
‘Think I’m joking, boy?’ The Swordmaster broke in on his reverie. ‘There’s near enough a thousand men on this ground; defy me and you’ll find out whether their loyalties lie with me or some wet-behind-the-ears suzerain of a place no one’s ever been.’
Isak held up his hands in submission. ‘I’ve not yet had a chance to get used to my title; I think I can put it aside for the moment.’ He looked around at the men assembled. Disappointed at what he saw, Isak craned his head past them at the nearest troops. ‘I thought there were other white-eyes in the Ghosts?’ he asked finally.
Kerin snorted. ‘That there are - seventy-six of the vicious bastards at the last count.’
‘You don’t like white-eyes?’
‘Hah! Boy, to me you’re just a soldier - and right now, you’re not even that. The best way to piss me off is to be touchy about what you are. You want to know why I call them vicious bastards? It’s because they are. I could count on my fingers those white-eyes in the Guard who’ve spoken more words to me than you just have. General Lahk is the only one that’s properly civilised, saving yourself perhaps, and the general broke another white-eye’s neck with his bare hands a few years back.’ There was a hint of a smile of Kerin’s face as he spoke, the confidence of a man in his element. Isak suspected even the white-eyes of the Guard, bastards or not, would follow the Swordmaster’s orders without question.
‘ I’m keeping the others away from you because they’ll want to get into it first chance there is. Like their pecking order, do our white-eyes, and none of you can control your temper. If it starts, someone will die; that’s why they’ll be flogged if they even walk past you. Now, enough talk. Can you fight?’ Isak nodded, biting back his frustration. Kerin seemed to be suggest Isak didn’t even have much in common with other white-eyes ev
en amongst his own, would he still be an outsider?
‘Good. Give him a staff, Swordmaster Cosep,’ Kerin ordered a stout officer in Bahl’s livery. The eagle on his chest was gold rather than the usual white, and Isak guessed that was the mark of a Swordmaster, the most skilled of all Parian soldiers. Kerin acted as if he were the highest-ranked among them; he must be high enough that he had no need of markings or livery.
Isak had not even managed to gauge the weight of the staff when a loud crack broke the air and a burst of pain flared in the side of his head. He stumbled forward, almost dropping his staff in the process. Cosep stepped smartly back as Isak staggered and winced. His vision went black for an instant, then he saw Cosep smiling, the Swordmaster’s eyes angled to Kerin rather than Isak. Instinctively, Isak threw himself to the right as Kerin’s staff flashed towards him again - this time it would have done more damage than just a clip round the ear. ‘Come on, boy, at least try to defend yourself,’ the Swordmaster called, sounding bored.
Isak took a step back to collect his wits, but Kerin was on him again, swinging a sloppy stroke at Isak’s head, perhaps hoping to tease a reaction out of him. Instead, he almost lost his staff as Isak lashed out angrily at the oncoming weapon and smashed it away. That gave him the moment he needed and now he was on the attack. He struck out, again and again, and as Kerin stepped smoothly over a long swipe at his shins, he grinned at Isak’s unexpected speed.
Now Isak held the staff like an axe, hands apart until he slid them together for a stroke, aware that his height and reach gave him the advantage. Kerin was chancing the odd blow, but was too sensible to go toe-to-toe with a white-eye. Isak felt the man watching his every step and movement, drinking in the details while watching for a flaw to exploit.
For a man approaching fifty summers, Kerin moved with the speed of one of his pupils, diverting one strike over his head with apparent ease, then turning in behind a straight thrust with a delicate pirouette and jabbing backwards at Isak. Years of experience meant Kerin immediately dived away when he felt his blow meet nothing but air, but the pleased astonishment was plain on his face as he rolled and jumped up, staff ready to defend himself.
