by Megan Derr
"Both would be most welcome," Kinnaird replied, and strode down the enormous hall. It was well cared for, clean and orderly, fine tapestries to cover the windows, the banners of past lords hanging from the high beams. The roaring fire bathed the nearest portion of the room in warm light, and banished the worst of the dark in all but the farthest corners.
Sitting down, he returned the friendly smile the man across from him extended. The man's face bore the lines and scars of a life spent in the hard lands. Handsome, not yet forty, Kinnaird thought. Dark green eyes, light blonde hair, the cut of it soldier short.
"I'd shake hands, your Grace, but my hands are more than bit of a mess right now," the man said, smiling. "But do help yourself, if you are so inclined. There's food aplenty, and I've Bale fetching more wine."
"Thank you," Kinnaird replied, mood already vastly improved. Removing his cloak and gloves, setting them aside on an empty table, he sat down and began to help himself to the food. "You must be Steward Tamark."
"Yes, your Grace, that would be me," Tamark replied. "I can see you met the Baron. Sorry you had so unworthy a welcome."
"This food is all the welcome I require," Kinnaird said. "It is delicious, especially after a hard day's travel. So explain that oaf to me."
Tamark shrugged. "His line owns the land, by the grace of sun and moon and King. We just try to keep him in the taverns and out of our way as much as possible. So I suppose you've come about the attack eight days ago. Ah, here is the wine, thank you, Bale." He poured wine for both of them, and Kinnaird was surprised to see both that Bale was the man from the gate and that he looked like a younger version of Tamark.
"This must be your son," he said with a smile.
"Yes," Tamark said with a proud smile. "He came straight to me himself, to say that you had come. My eldest, turned eighteen just three days ago. I've one another, fifteen in a couple of months, around here somewhere. They're good lads."
"I do not doubt it," Kinnaird replied, meaning it. "Your wife must be proud of all her men."
"She was," Tamark replied, smiling briefly, sadly. "She died three years ago on a hunting trip, but she was proud of her family."
Kinnaird nodded and said only, "I am sorry you lost her."
"Thank you," Tamark said, and drank his wine, and Kinnaird went back to his inspection.
Rather than the more modern court style clothing Kinnaird wore, Tamark was dressed in an old-fashioned tunic, cut sleeveless, made of sturdy dark green fabric, trimmed in a dark yellow-gold, the moon, sun, and sword sigil of the royal army emblazoned on his chest in silver and gold thread. The long sleeves of his undercoat were rolled up, revealing a tattoo on his right forearm of the runic symbols for fire and ice.
It also showed his license, a gold first class band set with the various permit sigils, the King's official seal—and a ruby that surprised Kinnaird. "You're a flame master?" he asked, surprised. A master was a mage who had chosen to focus on one particular kind of magic, to the exclusion of practically everything else. Tamark, being a flame master, would have mastered the use of fire magic as far as it was physically possible to go without killing himself. He was no one to be trifled with.
"Yes," Tamark replied, smiling. "They have tried to lure me to Basden several times, but my family has always served as Steward of Feyestone. I will not be the one to break that tradition; not lightly anyway."
Kinnaird nodded. "It is true the capital could always use more good men, especially of your skill, but I would not leave were I you."
Tamark's smile widened, and he drank his wine. "So why did the King send his noble falcon to investigate our little attack? Though troublesome, we have dealt with such things before, and dealt with this one well enough. It hardly seems worth your Grace's time."
"Can I trust you to keep a confidence?" Kinnaird asked.
"Yes, your Grace."
Nodding, believing him, Kinnaird took a swallow of his own wine—it was good, red and raw, rich in body and flavor—Kinnaird explained the letters, the double attack, their suspicions. When he finished, Tamark poured them more wine and said only, "We kept three of them alive. Would your Grace like to see them now? We have been leaving them to suffer for the past several days. Two of them are not accustomed to the weather. I think they must come from much further south, where the temperature is kinder." He sneered his opinion of this.
Kinnaird agreed wholeheartedly. His duties had taken him across the world, and it still dumbfounded him how soft people could be about the weather. The slightest bit of cold and they were wasting wood and magic to stay ridiculously hot. Sun and moon, he had hated the countries that never stopped being hot the most.
"No," he said in reply to Tamark's question. "Tomorrow is soon enough for that. Tell me the full of what happened, by your pleasure."
"Of course, your Grace," Tamark replied, as the evening holy bells began to ring. The bell tower must be close, he thought, given the way the sound reverberated through the great hall. It was definitely late, if the evening holy bells were ringing. He could not wait to find his bed, but he made himself focus as Tamark continued, "Eight days ago it was, now. The school end bells had only just rung, and I was waiting for the half-mark bells to ring so I could take a break. There was an uproar from the back sections, where the castle gives way to the mountain. At the same time, there was an outcry from the southeast corner of the outer curtain, flares of magic that knocked the heat shield hard. We barely managed to keep them up. That was not a pleasant moment."
Kinnaird nodded, and signaled for him to continue.
"By the time we got out there, they had gotten over the outer curtain and were making quick work of scaling the inner curtain. If we had been any slower to react, they would have gotten into the keep proper. They had at least five magic users, of a skill to possess at least second-grade licenses, but I doubt any of them was registered. Didn't speak, beyond cries and grunts, that sort of thing. Could have been from any of the five kingdoms, really. The ones stewing have yet to talk. They're very quiet; it's almost impressive.
"Anyway, they normally would not have been able to get inside so easily, but they knew of two weaknesses that should not have been known by outsiders. One, the section of the curtains they attacked had recently been badly damaged by a careless apprentice who should not have been anywhere near the curtains. We were waiting for the masons to finish up another project; it was only damaged a week and a half. Unfortunately, several people knew of that particular damage, so anyone could have slipped it to a stranger after a few drinks."
"Unfortunate," Kinnaird said.
"Yes," Tamark replied slowly, and finished his wine. "However, no one but myself and four others knew of recent damage to some of the cave rooms. One of them caved in recently, opening up access to the outside. We put up shields, but the unlicensed mages managed to tear them down, and seriously injure two of my mages in the process. They're still asleep." He shrugged. "No one but myself and the two mages and two soldiers down there guarding the fall until we could repair it knew of it. They were doing rounds when it collapsed, and reported directly to me. The two mages could not have told anyone, so that leaves the soldiers. They are currently confined to quarters and under guard."
"How did you manage to stop both attacks?"
"I took the curtains. My second managed the men who came up through the caves. We were very lucky, by grace of sun and moon."
Kinnaird's brows went up. "It seems to me security for the Northern Treasury leaves something to be desired."
Tamark grunted. "Don't I know it. I manage as best I can. I control the military, watch over the city, the mages. I keep it running, and plunk the Baron down long enough to scrawl his name on bits of paper whenever it's necessary. But I can only do so much, especially when the Baron is never around to have my back. What kind of discipline can you expect to maintain, when the man in charge is off drinking and fucking anything in a skirt."
"I understand," Kinnaird said, and made careful note of a
ll he was going to tell the King upon his return. It was reprehensible that such negligence had gone so long unnoticed. "So, it would seem someone is giving away entirely too much information to strangers, and there is no telling what else this someone has let slip."
"Right. Did all too fine a job on this attack, and it definitely had the feel of testing. They'll make another, stronger attack sometime in the next month, I'll wager my place as Steward on it. The mages are braced for it, at least. It scared all of us right proper, how close we came to losing the heat shields."
Kinnaird nodded. "And the good Baron is out carousing; I can see he learned a valuable lesson."
Tamark shrugged. "It is what it is, by will of sun and moon. We have learned to endure him, and manage without him. At least he stays out of my way. Hopefully his son will someday show more sense."
Nodding, Kinnaird finished his wine and pushed plate and cup away. "I thank you for the food, Steward. I do not suppose I could trouble you for a bed."
"The solar is readied," Tamark replied, and rang a bell next to his hand. "His lordship never uses it. He prefers to live in his house in the city; our old castle does not suit him." He did not express his opinion on the matter; he did not need to. "It's a fine room, your Grace, and yours for as long as you choose to stay. Moon guard your sleep."
"And yours, Steward. Good night," Kinnaird rose as a servant appeared and followed him through a doorway that led up a short flight of stairs to the private solar which normally would be used by the lord and lady of the keep.
He wondered what was below him, as normally the solar was on the ground floor, behind the great hall, on the protected side of the keep. Well, a mystery for another day. He had enough with which to contend for the moment. Shucking his clothing, Kinnaird quickly climbed into bed. As he settled, he noticed that someone had set out fresh clothes on a trunk near the fireplace; they were far more suited to the region.
Out of habit, he settled a heat spell on his bedclothes, should the heat shields actually fail in the night. Sun and moon, he hoped they did not. Next, he checked the heat shields, ensuring that all was indeed well there.
Then he extinguished the candles in the room with a focusing of thought and power, and finally burrowed down deeply into the soft, warm blankets, and the surprisingly comfortable bed.
His mind spun with thought after thought, trying to unravel the mystery of it all. Eventually, however, he simply became too tired to stay awake. He drifted off to sleep as his mind turned away from thoughts of intrigue and war, and settled on thoughts of Reyes.
Three
Reyes stifled an urge to roll his eyes, as the Earl of Pleasant quibbled with the King over taxes owed.
The King glanced up as the Earl finally paused, catching Reyes' eye. Immediately understanding what was needed, Reyes opened his portfolio and slid out the reports he had been carefully compiling over the past month. He slid the main set toward the King, and a copy toward the Earl.
"As you can see," the King said, flipping through the reports, "your arguments are futile. Now, if you would like to make up for the time you have wasted, you may explain these numbers to me." His voice was idle on the surface, but heavy with the possibility of serious penalties just beneath.
The Earl was silent.
"You are almost two years behind on your taxes," the King continued. "I have done you a courtesy by calling you here to speak privately. I will continue to keep the matter private, only myself and Reyes know anything about it, past the individual in the tax offices who first brought the matter to my attention. You have until the end of the month, my good Earl, to pay at least fifteen percent of what you owe. I expect the rest by the end of the year. This year's taxes are figured into the numbers, so you need only worry about the final sum."
The Earl remained silent for a couple more minutes, then finally replied, "Yes, your Majesty."
"Then I believe this meeting is concluded," the King said. "Thank you for your time."
"Majesty," the Earl repeated stiffly, then rose, bowed, and left the room.
Falling back in his seat and sighing, the King said, "Ring us some coffee, Reyes, would you?"
"Of course," Reyes replied, and yanked the blue bell pull. Coffee requested, he closed the portfolio which had held the reports, and opened the one that held the King's schedule for the day. "You are clear for the next hour, then you have a meeting in the garden with Lord Charles at half past dusk bells. I've got you meeting your councilmen for drinks at evening holy bells, and supper with the ambassadors at the half mark bells. Is there anything that requires adjusting, which has slipped past my notice?"
The King shook his head. "No, I do not think so. You might see that the usual assortment of lords is invited to drinks, it will make them feel special."
"Yes, Majesty."
The King gave an amused snort.
Reyes smiled, and corrected himself, "Yes, Rhoten."
Nodding, satisfied, Rhoten said, "I do not suppose we have heard from any of a certain three parties and you've simply not had the chance to inform me?"
A knock at the door prevented Reyes from immediately replying, and he chatted with Maggie for a few minutes before she bustled off again. Once she had gone, he poured the coffee and finally replied, "Alas, no. I am sorry. No news from the north or south, as of yet. But it has only been two days. No doubt they want to be absolutely certain before they write."
"More than likely," Rhoten replied. "Anyway, I do not doubt Kinnaird will do his very best to be home in time to put fresh flowers upon your desk come the new week."
Reyes rolled his eyes and ignored that comment, pointedly not looking at the roses still perched on the corner of his desk, across the room.
Another knock came at the door, and Reyes stood up to get it rather than telling the knocker to enter. This was Rhoten's only break until he finally went to bed, and Reyes would not surrender it lightly. "Yes?" he asked, and immediately relaxed as he realized it was only a court runner with the afternoon post. "Thank you."
"Sir," the runner said politely, bowing, then darting off to deliver the rest of his bundles.
Carrying his bundle tucked under one arm, Reyes strode first to his desk to fetch his letter opener, then returned to the table to open the post while finishing his coffee. He set everything down to refresh both their coffees, then turned to his lamp, trimming it and turning up the flame. Extended Night was always a difficulty—the mages must work harder, more oil must be used more often, and never was there more than the faintest hint of light teasing at the horizon.
Light adjusted, he picked up his letter opener. It was a handsome piece, like every piece in the magnificent desk set that had been a gift from the King when he had dismissed everyone else and kept only Reyes. The letter opener was perhaps the finest part of the set; a miniature version of the royal ceremonial sword, accurate right down to the motto carved into the blade, and the hilt encrusted with diamonds, amber, and pearls. Rhoten had once joked that the letter opener was probably far sharper than the ceremonial sword had ever been.
He quickly sliced through all the seals on the thirty-odd letters in the pile, sorting them by importance as he went. When he finished, he set the letter opener aside, flipped his portfolio open to a fresh page, readied a quill, and opened the first letter. After a few minutes reading he said, "Your daughter is requesting additional funds, Sire."
Rhoten sighed. "Indeed. Where is her guardian's letter?"
"Right here," Reyes replied, and picked up the next letter in the stack, reading through it quickly. Per the King's instructions, Princess Alana's guardian regularly reported to the King what she did, and how much she spent, since the Princess was all too fond of hiding details from her father. Bed-ridden since birth, due to her weak constitution, she had long ago mastered the art of finding creative ways of keeping herself amused—ways that displeased her father, and not infrequently raised several brows at court. "I would not send the funds, Sire." He extended both letters across the ta
ble.
Rhoten sighed and took them, reading over them briefly. "You are right. Do not approve further funds being sent to her. Speak personally with the treasury in the morning. I think I shall also compose a letter to her—a very lengthy one."
"As you wish," Reyes replied and flipped to tomorrow's schedule, making the necessary adjustments to the morning schedule. "Are you certain you would not like something more substantial than coffee before your garden meeting?"
"No, thank you," Rhoten replied. "I will be fine through it, and more likely to stay awake while he drones on. But see to it something light is sent to my rooms, while I am changing to evening wear?"
Reyes smiled. "Already done."
"Of course," Rhoten said, grinning. "I scarcely believe I ever managed without you. If only the rest of this place was half so efficient and reliable. I think I should make you heir, hmm?"
Reyes choked on his coffee, and glared. "Perish the thought, Majesty. Anyway, they would kill me before the reading of the King's Will was complete. I want no part of your job; I am as close to it as I ever want to be."
"Still, the looks upon their faces," Rhoten said, chuckling and shaking his head.
"Indeed," Reyes said dryly. "I live to serve, Majesty, in whatever capacity you desire."
Rhoten sniggered, then drained the last of his coffee, smiling in thanks when Reyes immediately refilled it.
Reyes watched a moment, as Rhoten turned to stare absently out the window, briefly lost in thought. He smiled faintly, always happy to see Rhoten genuinely happy, if only for a moment. The King had never had an easy life—made King at only twenty-one, parents both dead of sudden illness. Sick himself, and the country terrified he would die as well. Only to be rushed into marriage as he was practically still climbing from his sickbed. Married to a woman who was selfish, callous, ungrateful, lazy—and had only managed to produce one sickly, remarkably similar in temperament daughter, before falling off a horse due to an excess of wine. Throughout, there had also been myriad problems at the border, untrustworthy secretaries, and all the usual hazards and difficulties of court life and running a country.
