"Good day to you, Laird Fyrelm."
He looked up to see the craggy face of Gaius Octavius Atellus Dulucius, Laird of the Great and Noble House of Gladius.
"Forgive me, Gaius," said Fyrelm, rising to offer his hand, "I was lost in my thoughts!"
"As I have often said, my friend, they are many and deep." Dulucius smiled and, yet again, his face did not crack and shatter, "The hour is approaching midday and I thought you might have time for tea with an old friend."
"Always, Gaius," smiled Fyrelm, "Perhaps we'll find a servant who has not heard the tale of a red-haired lady and her sister."
This time Dulucius laughed hard. "Alas cruel destiny! I fear that story will outlive the both of us, Reginald. The curse of youth and the blessings of age oft seem to battle each other, yes?"
"Indeed. Sit, sit, my friend. I've a new delicacy for you to sample."
***
Dulucius blew on his tea then sipped it appreciatively, as well he should! It came from the far side of the League, courtesy of House McReely. Almost completely composed of merchants and traders, McReely owed its beginning and survival of the Interim, and some McReelys said their continued existence, to House Brightcrown. Over the centuries the Brightcrown Lairds helped to start many and more lesser Houses and Halls. Some prospered, some dwindled and others left the fold of the House that helped them. Not so McReely! Every Laird of that House since Savn the First swore fealty and alliance to Brightcrown and ever worked to support repay the debt no Brightcrown said they owed. That loyalty cost them more than once but every McReely dismissed such concerns with a wave of the hand and a change of subject, and always to Brightcrown advantage.
"These are troubling times, old friend," said Dulucius.
"How so?" Fyrelm knew several answers, just not the one Dulucius would pick. Few of them would trouble any House outside his own, especially Gladius.
"There are rumors. Rumors of rumors of whisperings, actually. They speak of royal censure against House Brightcrown. They come from House Imix and they hint at some Moot-worthy impropriety, though there is not the slightest indication of what it might be."
"What?!" That certainly wasn't on Fyrelm's list! Neither than nor any other impropriety, great or small.
"They are only rumors, Reginald, as I've said. Neither I nor any others doubt that House Varl is behind them but Imix is most closely associated with House Binkor-Sud."
"My Laird Gladius! Upon my Oaths my House has committed no transgression worthy even of lesser censure! Halm's Oath on it!"
"I know that, my old friend," replied Dulucius, unruffled, "I of all people know, more so than any other, that you would sooner cut off your own arms than betray the Crown. Honor and obligation are the heart and soul of House Brightcrown and have been since Rene du'Varl's day. I simply thought you should hear this from a trusted friend."
"Thank you, Gaius, for candor and friendship. I know that and I honor you and the Great and Noble House of Gladius for both. It's just... That is quite the shock to hear over good tea, and as you say these are troubling times."
Dulucius snorted a chuckle. "Ever and always, Reginald, House Brightcrown rises to its greatest glory when times about them are worst." He raised his tea in salute. "We've seen our share of troubles, old friend, and none have broken us yet."
"Truth indeed, Gaius. Nor will whilst there is breath within me!"
Fyrelm chatted with his friend for a while longer before Dulucius excused himself. Fyrelm appreciated Dulucius' warning, his courtesy and his concern. Gladius and Brightcrown shared a history that predated the Crown itself, and though closely allied at times they had also stood at opposites. The strength of Gladius' loyalty to the Crown equaled to the micron that of Brightcrown, but at times they disagreed on the course that loyalty should take.
Brightcrown embraced the League and all its ideals and supported it absolutely. Gladius stood for more self-reliance and less dependency outside the Crown worlds. Over the years many members of each House argued over tea, or something stronger, and espoused their view as the superior one. To date no Brightcrown succeeded in convincing a Gladius, or vise versa, and their friendship grew ever stronger because of it. That gave House Brightcrown at lest one strong and powerful ally on whom it could depend. Fyrelm could depend on Dulucius should matters turn as dire as he feared they might.
Censure! Fyrelm wondered idly what peccadillo Varl would concoct if indeed rumor spoke true. Just over twenty years had passed since the last such and it should never have appeared before the Moot. One small indiscretion, more a matter of youthful exuberance and recklessness than seditious intent, and the pristine reputation of House Brightcrown took on a stain. Though frivolous, that incident cost Fyrelm personally much more than it cost his House. Varl and its cronies were quick to take advantage, though, and to turn Brightcrown dishonor into their own personal profit. Fyrelm seethed at the memory a moment before calmness returned. He had ample troubles in the present without resurrecting phantoms from the past.
With a deep sigh Fyrelm finished the last of his tea. It really was good and it should sell quite well. He made a mental note to suggest that Laird McReely increase his imports of it. Then he chuckled at the thought. Likely enough the shrewd Savn already had warehouses full of it and only awaited the word of Laird Brightcrown before increasing sales. At the least, he thought, not all was dismal and gloom.
***
Josef Marcel Carter Fadding, Laird and master of the Great house of Varl, sat at his massive desk of real wood imported from Woodworld, and brooded. The room, expensively attired with impeccable taste, was dark. The desk was made of rare dark hardwood further stained to almost black. Similarly paneled walls rose to the dark-beamed ceiling supporting the ebony-shaded lights that illuminated the dark wood bookshelves and the slightly-less-dark spaces that served only to accentuate the overall darkness of the chamber. The ventilation rustled the dark cloth drapes, wafting them back to give occasional peeks of the dark-framed windows they hid.
At first glance Fadding clashed with his chambers. Short, blond hair framed a delicate and almost feminine face. His eyes gave lie to that, though: two dark points that drank in every detail of everything he saw or heard yet gave nothing back. They bespoke intimate familiarity and comfort with the power he wielded with little tolerance for fault and no mercy whatsoever. At the moment those two tenebrous orbs focused on the first Laird of the Great House of Varl.
Great House. Not Great and Noble House. Above the dark marbled fireplace hung a portrait crafted with oil pigments on genuine canvas. Within its dark frame Josef Varnon John du'Varl stared at his many-times grandson.
"You were foolish, old man," said Fadding in a voice that matched his eyes.
The portrait stared back and said nothing. Though most of the blood of the Great House of Varl would love nothing more than to forget Josef Varnon John, Fadding took the opposite view. Upon his confirmation as Laird he'd had the portrait dug out of the archives and hung in his office. He put it where it would always be watching, watching silently as his descendants tried, most of them vainly, to clean up his mess.
Traitor du'Varl deserved contempt! He even more deserved the title Idiot du'Varl. His attempt to repair the Tragic Schism between Brightcrown and the true House of Rene du'Varl failed in a massive cascade of mistakes. The scheme itself was a mistake! Fadding considered the Schism well-justified and not something in need of repair!
Idiot du'Varl's mistakes were clear and unequivocal. He planned to take the Crown by way of Precedence after assassinating the King by his own hand. Foolish! The next step in his plan: forgive himself once he wore the Crown. After that, to woo Brightcrown back into the fold and add its questionable blood to their own. How he planned to accomplish that Fadding knew not, nor cared.
Avoiding dissolution of House Varl or its banishment took all the favors, debts, obligations, power and most of the wealth the Great and then-Noble House of Varl had amassed. Inexcusable! Had the man but continued the scheme w
ith the patience he showed starting it, his sons or grandsons would have reaped rewards in excess of anything he himself dreamed. And they would have done away with the House that called itself Brightcrown!
Patience. Fadding found that an exercise in patience. Patience required patience; he smiled at that. He would soon reap the rewards of his own patience and, with moderate skill, finally deal the death-blow to the Great and Noble House of Brightcrown!
A rancid afterthought: Idiot du'Varl also penned the decrees establishing House Larner. The blood of that not-Great and certainly not-Noble House consisted solely of solicitors - barristers, they called them then - whose souls knew only money and power. Even House Varl had felt their bite in no few petty or not-so-petty legal disputes over the years.
"Enter!"
The dark wooden door to the chamber swung open and Sir Beau Outremin, Knight of the Order of Shining Steel, walked in with a bemused look on his face. Another idiot, thought Fadding, but a useful one. Even the chief of his House Knights had yet to puzzle out Fadding's seemingly prescient knowledge of pending visitors.
The simple expedient of a concealed proximity sensor within the outer room gave Fadding ample warning when someone approached his door. It also disturbed him that he was the first one of House blood to devise that inanely simple idea. Still, he liked the unsettling effect it had on those seeking an audience.
"Well?"
"We handled the agent, m'Laird," said Outremin, "There will be no incident or smirch upon our House."
Handled, thought Fadding, at least the man had that much sense.
"What of his information."
"We found nothing, m'Laird. He must have destroyed it. After a careful search of the vessel we found the remains of a melted datacube. Neither he nor the pilot removed aught else. The information is secure."
"Inference and speculation, Outremin! What of the pilot?"
"He... escaped, m'Laird. He did manage a distress signal before we could jam it. A rescue shuttle arrived before we could... handle him. We put men aboard the shuttle to ensure he did not talk but he disappeared as soon as it grounded."
"But he still lives."
"For the moment, m'Laird. That moment will not be long."
"See to that. Make certain of it. Then perhaps you will have something more than total failure to report."
Outremin bowed and left quickly. Fadding smiled inwardly, in truth quite satisfied with his minion. He knew most of what Outremin reported through other agents, but that the man didn't try to hide his failure pleased him. The news, while not all Fadding desired, affected his plan not at all.
***
Leslie Coldwahl Simmons, Laird and CEO of the Great House of Binkor-Sud, paid close attention as the lesser lords and notables reported this quarter's earnings. Most reported profit while a few told of expected losses. Overall the report and projected outlook was quite good. Simmons himself managed the special project, Silver, that now out-produced any other single source by a considerable margin. The stockholders, the blood of the House and certain privileged Notables, would be quite happy with their earnings. After the last report and a few critical discussions Simmons adjourned the meeting, issued his orders and sent his workers on their way. After the last ones left, the door opened to admit Lord Victor McConney, blood of the Noble House of Sunghblak.
"Good morning, m'Laird Simmons," he said, bowing to the exactly proper degree.
"Good day, Lord McConney," said Simmons, returning the bow, "Would you care for refreshment?"
"Not particularly." McConney fetched a glass and filled it. "But you look as though you need it." He handed Simmons the glass and sat with him.
"Is something troubling you, Victor?"
"Yes, Lord Cole. Very perceptive." McConney relaxed somewhat. "It concerns Project Silver."
"How so?"
"I dislike working with House Varl. They are dangerous, even as friends. Even as friends whose friendship guarantees a good profit. I mentioned my concerns to Dean and he dismissed them out of hand."
He meant Simmons' nephew and liaison to Project Silver, and his friend from a young age.
"Lord Dean can be reckless at times." Simmons smiled at this. "but never when profit as great as this is involved. Working with Varl is much easier than with Gladius or Brightcrown. They interfere incessantly and make a call to Moot over the smallest impropriety. House Varl's desires are transparent. They seek ever and always the destruction of Brightcrown and the acquisition of more power and wealth. Thusly they wish to expunge the stain to their honor."
"Exactly, my friend! That is what troubles me. What is to stop them from sacrificing us in that desire to accomplish their goals?"
"That is a concern," said Simmons, "but not one for worry. You know, as do few others, the magnitude of the debt Varl still owes us. They work to reduce it quickly but I will not allow them undue haste in doing it. That gives us quite a lever to use, and will for some time yet. If that fails to stay their hand we have other... persuasions that most certainly will. Do you remember the former Great House of Atien?"
McConney winced at that. House Atien tried to default on all of its debts to Binkor-Sud. When the smoke cleared, Binkor-Sud owned all of Atien's assets: estates, companies, wealth, stocks and every other holding. Not even Lewis XIV, Laird and Chief Solicitor of House Larner, would attempt a defense for House Atien, and that spoke volumes! A few Nobles whispered that Binkor-Sud owned outright some of Atien's blood, but few truly believed that.
"They could petition the Crown to pay their debts in full," said McConney, "I doubt King Hartwig would deny them that. He would suspect machination, of course, but he would be within his right to allow it."
"Perhaps so, but that will disrupt any plans they have for the next twenty to thirty years. Unless their need is truly dire they will hold their debt and sheathe their swords."
"I still don't trust them."
"Nor do I, my friend, but that will not stop me from using them," said Simmons.
"To greater glory and profit, then." McConney raised an imaginary glass. "Will you join me for lunch?"
"Of course, m'Lord Victor! My pleasure to do so."
***
Richard Ambith checked the crowds and terrain with an extra-careful eye. He had no illusions about his fate if his caution faltered. Besides Varl he didn't know exactly which Houses worked to engineer Parl's death but Brightcrown had more than a few enemies, all of them willing to execute extreme measures upon any poor soul with the temerity to oppose them. Even the least of them was far too much for Pops Ambith's oldest son to handle unaided.
He still marveled that his desperate distress call worked. Having participated in more than one urgent rescue, both practice and reality, Ambith knew well the few moments of chaos that would ensue once the rescue ship grounded. Not so his erstwhile captors! He gave them the vanish once the shuttle settled good and lost himself in the starport crowds. Nor did he dare leave the port complex. A quick check of the logs showed nothing unusual: no incident report, no rescue report, nothing on heavy weapon fire detected and not even a logged delay.
The implications of that chilled Ambith. Normally his fellows in the Elder Guard kept close and careful watch over such things and only incredibly high authority or illegal data access could squelch them. Fortunately for him that type of privilege rarely spent a lot of time in a starport. His continuing freedom showed that he knew more about the starport than did his enemies. He considered trying to locate someone high enough in charge to receive the data he had on his chip but decided to hold it close instead. That left escape as his only option. After a day and sleepless night he found what he wanted. Now came the spiky part.
Four Elder Guardsmen marched smartly across the tarmac with their serjeant. Ambith knew their destination and worked himself close enough to it well before they arrived. When they passed close, he waited for the last to walk by him and he stepped in behind the man unnoticed. Several workers looked their way but he let his uniform spea
k for him.
The five Guardsmen in front of Ambith marched up the ship's ramp, past her steward and into her hold. Before that worthy could comment, Ambith stepped to one side and began closely inspecting the hydraulics. He smiled inwardly. How many times had he drawn the undesirable duty of checking a ship for contraband? Very well did he know the procedures and protocols for those inspections. He also knew this particular ship had no illicit substances aboard, she and her crew arrived, traded and profited with the blessings of House Darwin, a current ally of House Brightcrown. No doubt some knight of Varl or Binkor-Sud ordered this extra inspection simply because he could.
After allowing time for passenger and crew cabin inspection, Ambith headed that way. He knew the others would inspect the ship as quickly and efficiently as possible, and given the layout of the vessel, her holds and her cabins he knew exactly how they would do it. He felt a sense of relief now, even though the danger hadn't abated. The crew scurried about, unfortunate targets of their captain's desire to leave and his irritation at this last gratuitous delay. Ambith himself simply looked with great suspicion at any crewman who met his eyes. They instantly dropped theirs and hurried back to their tasks.
Ambith found an empty cabin quickly enough. The inspection would finish soon and when the serjeant recalled his men back to the hold he took his comm and crushed it beneath his boot. The ship launched quickly after that and Ambith took it strapped into the bunk. Not his roughest takeoff by an L-shot! Now came the stressful wait. He had no delusions about making the trip undiscovered, but he'd at least wait past the first... Yes! The vessel microjumped away from Faircoast in order to line up its L-shot.
***
"Hello, gentlemen."
The ship's first mate and steward both jumped and scrabbled for the blasters they didn't have. Ambith sat, visibly at his ease, in the ship's main lounge. She made another microjump while he walked from the cabin and now the astrogator would take some time to calculate the L-shot. Ambith still wore his uniform but absent a few critical insigne and patches now.
The Burning Crown (Stone Blade Book 4) Page 4
