A Sorcerer and a Gentleman

by Elizabeth Willey

  A shocked silence hung over the courtyard for a moment, and then the lieutenant said, “Dismount and come with me.”

  Count Pallgrave fixed the second messenger with a cold look as the man doffed his coat, a waistcoat, a jacket, and another jacket beneath. He produced from the inside of his innermost waistcoat a folded parchment document. The Count took the damp, sweat-stained letter gingerly, unfolded it slowly, and handed it to the Emperor with a bow.

  To His Right Royal and Gracious Majesty Avril the Emperor of Landuc and Ruler of Pheyarcet Salutations from his Loyal and Devout Subjects the Master Guildsmen of Ithellin which is chartered a Free City under the Crown. We cry to Your Majesty for Assistance as is promised in our Charter in our Affliction of War which hath come upon us of a Sudden in the IIII Month of this Year the XXIII of Your Majesty’s Long Reign. For on the Night of the Dark Moon in this Month we found our City surrounded by a Force which overpowered our Defense which could be but meagre being unready for Attack and having no Warning previous of Same and within the Day following were presented with a Choice of Death or Surrender by the Attacker whose Force battered the Gates of the City and was prepared to breach the Fortifications which have been a Protection to our City since its Founding. Upon which Presentation the Guild Council conferred and Elements within the Council who spoke Treachery and Treason against Your Radiant Majesty prevailed upon Reason to prostitute herself for them in persuading others of weak Conviction and flawed Morals that Capitulation to the Attacker who styleth himself Prospero rightfully King of Landuc—

  “Scorch his soul!” snarled the Emperor, with an inner wrench, and read on.

  —and in consensus unwillingly did we endorse this Treason against Your Majesty with the private Conviction that a live Ally serveth better than a dead Partisan. Thus do we present ourselves to Your Majesty as ready to carry out any Order which you might send by Courier or by Pudlock who beareth this Message to Your Majesty and hath sworn Blood-Oath to see its Delivery. The Number of the Army which lieth now without our Walls is Ten Thousand or greater and a Boy of sharp Eyes hath espied others unnumbered in the Wood which lieth beyond the Commons and the Number of the Vessels which to our Knowledge bore the Force hither is about Fifty but cannot be counted exact on account of Movements. We have heard Rumor of other Assaults and Victories at Methalin and the Seat of the Governor of the Province but Nothing hath come reliably—

  The Emperor snorted and paused at the proverb evoked there (Indeed, the only thing more reliable than Nothing is Trouble) and finished.

  —from either of those Places and so we take the Tidings with Salt. We do send this Petition to Your Majesty to invoke our reciprocal Duty of Assistance from the Crown in time of War as stated in the Charter of our City in the V Paragraph II Sentence and send also Assurance of the Support of those loyal to Your Radiant Majesty the Rightful Emperor of Landuc in the Name of the sacred Well. Signed this VI day of Bluth…

  There followed a half-dozen names and seals. He handed it to Pallgrave. “Verify the seals,” he said. Pallgrave murmured “It shall be done, Sire,” and bowed.

  The Emperor looked at Pudlock, the messenger. “You rode here directly, rather than to the Governor?”

  “We had word, Your Majesty, Sire, that the Governor was dead, Sire, and it seemed a bad chance to take. I rode to Prendile, Sire, and took ship from there to Roysile.”

  The man had been uncommonly swift. Thirty-five days in winter—he must have had favorable winds behind him all the way along the river, his bad news borne on the cold blast from the West that had been frosting Landuc unseasonably. He could have gone overland to Chenay (the city where the Governor of the southern province of the same name dwelt), but to do so would have taken nearly as long as the ship voyage.

  Prospero, at last. The Emperor had always known his older brother would return to recommence his battle for the throne. If Gaston did not defeat him this time, a fatal defeat, he would come again, and again, and again. This time there had better be no mistakes, or the Emperor might get him a new Marshal. The Emperor’s jaw tightened. “You may go,” he said to Pudlock, and “Cremmin!” as the man left, escorted by the lieutenant.

  “Sire,” said Cremmin, from his table near the door.

  “Give the messenger from Ithellin sixteen crowns and suggest he join the army.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “We are not to be interrupted save by Prince Herne.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  The Emperor Avril rose and went through a tall door into his private office, where he seated himself at the writing-table before the convex glass and performed the Lesser Summoning of Vision and Sound for Prince Gaston.

  11

  IN A LONG ROOM HUNG WITH maps and weapons, with three narrow-slitted deep-silled windows at one end and none elsewhere, two Princes planned war for an Emperor.

  Prince Gaston, the Imperial Marshal, and his brother Prince Herne stood at an octagonal table of old dark wood. On it, covering the eccentric webwork of antique curlicues, scratches, and gouges which made it an unsuitable writing surface, a large map lay unrolled and weighted. They were placing counters deliberately, allocating forces, moving them, exchanging them, considering possibilities of weakness and strength. Over their heads above the table hung four yellow-flamed oil lamps in thorny black baskets, four flames per lamp; the flames cast a clear mellow light over the map and put sparks in Prince Gaston’s hair and shadows in Prince Herne’s tendrilled curls. Beyond the lamplit table, the walls and floor were dark and the windows hollow.

  “If he has taken Ithellin, then he will next proceed up the Ithel River,” suggested Herne.

  “Too predictable,” Gaston said. “Certes he’ll move men there, but ’twill not be hard to dominate the region. He’ll not waste any bulk of his force on’t. Nay. The question foremost in my thought is, whether he be indeed in the West in Zeächath—or in Ascolet.” And his finger tapped the Pariphal Mountains and drew a swift curving line along their length and northward, straight to the City of Landuc. “Think thou like Prospero, not like Herne, and recall his strategies afore this. His works are subtle, indirect, yet apt to his need. He blows hot and cold, here and there; ceaseless movement veils his central purposes. He’s mutable, and in his mutability dwell both his strength and weakness. For I do believe that betimes his own deeds surprise him.”

  “We need fresher tidings,” Herne said. He folded his arms and studied at the table. “Hm. Gaston, there was some rumor—very recent—about Lys.”

  “Lys?”

  Herne grunted an affirmative. “You recall Red Bors of Lys—he died in that battle against Golias, with Sebastian. Lys’s army turned that one for us. I can’t think what I heard, but it was about Lys.”

  “Lys,” Gaston said to himself. There, extending from the forested foothills of the Pariphals across the Plain of Linors, lay Lys, an inconsequential kingdom in bygone days, now a bucolic County.

  Herne nodded. “Lys. It’s too much of a coincidence, that we have trouble boiling up there and hear something or other from that backwater.”

  “The men of Lys fight well. I’ll draw upon them ’gainst our opponent in Ascolet.”

  His brother frowned. “You think Prospero could be there?”

  “I questioned Sir Strephon. He said that the men he met mustering did so in the name of the true King.” Gaston picked a half-dozen counters up and weighed them in his hand.

  “Prospero right enough. Odd. Ascolet’s never been partial to him nor any but their sheep and goats.”

  “He’ll have struck some bargain with them. Yet there be no grievances to my knowledge. ’Tis but another Crown province.” Gaston placed three tokens near the City. “Hath ever Avril studied reviving that Barony?”

  “No. I mentioned it to him once—I thought to reward my man Sir Anguran with at least a Baronetcy. Avril said it’s as extinct as Sebastian.” Herne snorted. “Anguran has nothing still,” he said.

  Gaston nodded and tapped a pass on the map. “He’
ll hold this ere I arrive, an he be Prospero,” he murmured.

  “You’ll go to Ascolet?”

  “Aye. The terrain’s like to my Montgard. I’ll bring men hither. An this be Prospero, shall want the best force available to me there; an it be some other, and Prospero in the West, then shall I put this down and join thee. Thou’lt take the mass of our forces with thee to Zeächath.”

  Herne pounded his fist into his hand. “That misbegotten sorcerer. I’ll take his head off when I see him.”

  “That’s no man’s prerogative save the Emperor’s, and methinks even he would hesitate to exercise it,” Gaston said coldly.

  Baring his teeth briefly in a humorless grin, Herne paced beside the table and watched his older brother allocate the army.

  That night at the Emperor’s semicircular high table, Prince Herne said, “I heard some news from Lys, but I can’t recall now what it was.”

  The Emperor set his spoon down with a frown. Empress Glencora, with a serious expression, sat a little straighter and watched him. Princess Viola took on a knowing look, and Princess Evote’s mouth settled in a thin line. Prince Gaston continued with his soup without reacting.

  “Your memory is usually not so poor,” Evote said, and lifted her spoon to her lips.

  “Well, it was minor scandal,” said Viola. “Nobody took any note of it. Lys—really.” She shrugged Lys to oblivion.

  “Nobody with half a brain,” the Emperor said caustically. “Lys. Yes, there was news recently. Why do you inquire?” he asked Gaston.

  Gaston shrugged.

  “Then it can wait,” said the Emperor, “until we have supped.”

  And the meal resumed, with Viola unusually quiet as she strove vainly to recall particulars of the forgotten gossip from Lys that might hold secret significance.

  Afterward, the Emperor collected Herne and Gaston with a nod and led them to his private office.

  “Are you intending raising troops from Lys?” he asked point-blank.

  “Aye,” Gaston said.

  The Emperor nodded.

  “Something wrong there?” Herne half-asked.

  “We hope not,” the Emperor said. “This will be a test of whether anything has, as you put it, gone wrong. You recall that Bors and Sithe of Lys left one surviving child, a girl.”

  “The son died hunting,” Gaston said. “I recall no girl.”

  “There was a daughter, much younger. Bors took his wife back to Lys when she was carrying, rather than stay here, although Panurgus wanted them to stay, Bors was a favorite—you know how he was. The wife died of childbed-fever, although the girl lived, and then Bors was killed. Thus the girl became a ward of the Crown, and the Crown appointed Baron Ocher of Sarsemar her guardian.”

  “ ’Tis old business,” Gaston said. It came back well, old Court feuding and jealousies, and not wholly as the Emperor told it. Avril himself had been the reason Count Bors had left Panurgus’s Court, risking his King’s displeasure. Bors had left in solidarity with Prince Sebastiano, Avril’s and Gaston’s bastard half-brother, whom Avril had manipulated into a quarrel with their father through ceaseless plotting, picking, and politicking. Less than a year later Sebastiano was dead, Bors was dead, Panurgus was dead.… The Fireduke remembered the truth of the business, far better than Avril would ever want anyone to do now that he had gotten his desideratum, the throne. Gaston blinked slowly and attended.

  “Our concern was to secure Lys, because the armies of Lys are a useful tool. We had discussed with Ocher the possibility of his son marrying the girl, but Ocher himself was interested in her. He petitioned the Crown for permission when she turned sixteen and came out of first minority a few years back. Ocher had been … aggressive and we were pleased to deny Lys to him for the nonce.”

  “That incident with the Free Port,” said Herne. “He’s a braggart but a good soldier.”

  “A little too good. We had rather not have Lys’s armies under someone with such obvious ambition to aggrandize himself and his lands. We have had other nibbles of interest in Lys and the girl, but we put them off because none was right, and we had no other good candidate for the place handy.”

  Gaston thought that he would not leave such a vacancy long open. Avril had always been too grasping.

  “All very well,” the Emperor said, pacing, “until last summer when we had tidings from Ocher. The girl, what’s-her-name, eloped with a captain in Ocher’s guard who was no fool at all, for he ran straight from Sarsemar to Lys with her and wed her on the first day of the appropriate auspices after her twenty-fifth birthday.”

  “Ah,” said Gaston. “She came of age.” Girls always did. And Avril’s grasping hand had clutched nothing this time, lost its grip on the scion of Lys: tinder quickened at the touch of the match, become intangible flame.

  “Exactly. We do not trust Sarsemar, but now there is a complete unknown down there. Ocher tried to get the girl back in time but failed and was beaten out of Lys soundly.”

  “It could be just as well,” Herne said. “Recognize the new Count and give him some small favor, and he will perhaps serve better than Ocher.”

  “Perhaps. There’s no doubt that the fellow has his own ambitions. Men don’t do things that risky for the hell of it.” The Emperor stopped in front of a locked cabinet and opened it. From a drawer he took a stack of papers and looked through them. “Here. Her name is Luneté. The man’s name is Ottaviano. No family information—probably he’s just a soldier who presented a more handsome face to the girl than Ocher’s.”

  “They waited till her majority,” Gaston said.

  “So we said.” The Emperor looked up inquiringly.

  “Probably no coercion, then,” Gaston pointed out.

  “That means she rules, not he, since she inherited before the marriage,” Herne said, understanding. “If he wanted power, he’d have taken her without waiting.”

  “Or he’s a fool,” said the Emperor.

  “Hath the Crown recognized her?” Gaston asked.

  “Yes. Ocher informed us of the abduction, so-called—she was still a Crown ward when that happened and he had to, or we’d have had to remind him of his obligations. He wrote again and informed us that he had failed to prevent the marriage after skirmishing in and around the Lys-Sarsemar border. The abduction was an offense against the Crown, but since it wasn’t strictly a rape—they were formally betrothed before the man took her out of Sarsemar, very clever—the Crown took no action against them. Here,” he picked up a paper, “she informs us that she has taken the title of Countess of Lys and cites her rights to it and so on, taking an administrative-oversight tone. As if we had forgotten to confirm her in the office. There was little we could do about it; we don’t want to make a difficulty where none is needed. We sent back a confirmation of her right to the title and a request that she present herself at Court at her earliest convenience in order to be vested and to take the oaths.”

  The Emperor’s plans were a sticky web of threads; Gaston saw them all. Avril now waited to see what sort of fellow the girl had taken, waited to see what she would do, waited to draw them into his influence. “Which she hath not yet done,” Gaston guessed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs at the ankles.

  “No. With winter coming, we suspect they’ll not attend Court until spring unless we command their attendance.”

  “What’s the husband’s name again?” Herne asked.

  “Ottaviano.”

  “Madanese?”

  The Emperor shook his head. “Out of Ascolet. Ocher had nothing good to say about him, but we cannot be surprised by that.”

  “The sum is that we cannot be sure of Lys,” said Gaston, “and there is war in Ascolet.”

  “Lys probably knows that,” Herne said. “I say that we inform Lys that her men will be required by the Crown.”

  “As simple as that,” Gaston said, studying his feet.

  “Her husband can’t be too stupid,” the Emperor said. “He’ll jump at the chance to distingui
sh himself, more likely. Quite a promotion, from soldier in Baron Sarsemar’s service to Count of Lys.”

  Prince Gaston and Prince Herne were at their map again, discussing contingency plans, when a footman interrupted them with a request from the Emperor for their immediate attendance.

  They collected their notes and locked the room, both being of untrusting and cautious disposition. The Emperor was in his private office again, and he was in a foul temper.

  “Read this,” he said curtly, and threw a letter at Gaston.

  Unto His Gracious and Radiant Majesty …

  Gaston skipped five lines of titles and honorific flattery.

  … from Lord Esandor Frett, His Majesty’s Governor-General of Preszhëanea, salutations. I have sent this by the swiftest courier available to me and hope that it reaches you without delay. Word has lately reached Eälshchar that there have been attacks in the southwest border region, by a substantial and well-organized force of men. Although reports varied widely, I have been able to ascertain that the force is quite large, 2000 to 2500 in number, and well-equipped. They have struck (to my knowledge) at four smaller villages (of 20 to 50 hearths) and a market town of 2600, Viddick. All have been looted and fired, and many of the residents were slain, taken as booty, or impressed into menial servitude.

  Report of these attacks is causing high alarm in the area. I have dispatched the locally-posted Twelfth Regiment of the Army of Landuc thither, in accordance with the CXXVI point of my commission, but I am certain that a single regiment will be hard-put to defend an area so large from a mobile and opportunistic attacker.

  There have long been difficulties, as Your Majesty is aware, with brigandage in the area known as “Outer Ascolet”; the incidents, however, have been in the south and west, particularly in the Pariphals along the Plain of Linors near Sarsemar. Preszhëanea is not prepared to meet or repel such assaults. I petition Your Majesty for reinforcement of the Twelfth Regiment with at least one other and for investigation, on the Ascolet side, into this assault. I have sent queries to Earl Maheris, Governor-General of Ascolet, and have had no reply. The messengers may have been taken on the road.