He needed some time. Ellegon could be back any day. Maybe the dragon could do some good—but probably not. If the raid had been instigated by Pugeer, he would hardly have informed his envoy.
Karl would have to confront Pugeer. In person, with Ellegon at his side to read the Nyph's mind.
And if Pugeer was responsible?
He could practically hear Walter Slovotsky. If you insist on juggling knives, you're going to get cut.
If Pugeer was responsible, he was dead.
He turned to Thomen Furnael. "You've been quiet, Thomen. I need your thoughts."
"I doubt that. I might not keep quiet with them."
He knows!
Karl kept his face somber as the boy eyed him coldly.
"I think this is all premature," Thomen went on. "It's not enough to guess, not when we can know. I say we should wait for Danagar." He seemed about to say something more, but stopped himself. "Wait until we know."
"You have nothing to say with regard to my point?" Nerahan asked airily. "You don't find it relevant, Baron?"
"If—if we can discover for certain that it wasn't the Nyphs who are responsible, then we can let them know that. It would be insane to hold people to account for something that they're not responsible for." He turned back to Karl. "You asked my opinion. That is it."
Karl nodded. "And a sound opinion it is. Tyrnael, Thomen, please stay. The rest of you are dismissed."
He caught Andy's eye. "All of you." He didn't want her around for this.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
Cowboy
The absence of romance in my history will, I fear, detract somewhat from its interest.
—Thucydides
"Down in the valley," Jason Cullinane sang as he rode night herd, looking out on the sea of cattle.
He kept singing as he decided, not for the first time, that there was something he would have to ask his father—if he ever was able to face him.
In the meantime, he kept singing. A few hundred yards away, he could hear, although just barely, the slow dirge that Ceenan kept up for the benefit of the idiot cows around him.
"Down in the valley . . ." Jason sang. He had a lousy singing voice, but the cattle didn't seem to mind.
Whether or not it was true, Falikos had the belief, common among drovers, that singing to the cattle would help prevent them from stampeding. During the day, while the beasts were moving, a stampede was merely unfortunate; it could scatter cows far and wide, but almost always in the direction of their march.
At night, a stampede could be deadly. A sudden sound could send the nervous, stupid creatures in any direction, trampling anyone who was insufficiently vigilant or inadequately lucky.
Maybe the singing did help keep them calm. There was nobody else within earshot; he sang a slow, mournful tune he had half learned from his father, improvising the lyrics that he couldn't quite remember—
"Down in the valley, the valley so low,
Hang your head low, cows, hang your head low.
They'll chop you for burgers,
Or make you a stew,
And if I live to be a hundred,
I'll never smell anything worse than you. . . ."
—and adding an editorial comment or two as, under a canopy of twinkling stars and slowly pulsing faerie lights, Falikos' herd mooed and shuffled and stank into the night.
It was almost enough to turn you into a vegetarian, Jason decided. Although Father had said that vegetarianism had some problems: It tended to make you vote for peace-at-any-price candidates, whatever that meant.
Off in the distance, a few hundred of the stupid beasts away, Jason could see another of the night riders spur his horse and gallop off after some dumb stray.
Jason wasn't impressed with the intelligence of the beasts, such as it was. Even what little there was worked at cross-purposes.
Take their homing instincts. Jason seemed to spend half his time chasing cows and calves. If the two were separated, some idiot instinct forced both dumb animals to head back to the very spot where they had last seen each other—no matter how far the herd had moved in the interim. All of the drovers were constantly looping back to find and speed along pairs of cows and calves.
A west wind brought the odor to his nostrils yet again. Every other smell he'd ever smelled was something he had gotten used to. But not this stink.
He brought his gloved hands up to rub at his itching nose, then gripped at the bridge of his nose, as though that could reduce the pain he felt elsewhere.
He felt absolutely lousy. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. His lower back ached with the pain of having spent the last half day in the saddle—the only moments out of it when he had to relieve himself. And even that had just made things worse: The unending hours in the saddle, combined with the indigestible lumps of fetid mush that Falikos' cook had the unmitigated gall to call food, had given him a case of hemorrhoids that forced him to put a soft blanket between his butt and the saddle.
It was easier on the horses, at least. They couldn't be worked too hard, or they'd just lie down and die. Like all the other drovers, Jason cycled through five or six of the ponies throughout the day, resting the others. Libertarian, while a great riding horse, didn't work cattle; the gelding was getting an easy trip to Pandathaway.
He jerked hard on the reins; the stubborn roan moved reluctantly to the right, refusing to break into a canter as Jason headed back toward where the spare ponies were hobbled for the night.
Why the drovers couldn't be treated as well as the horses was one thing that Jason wondered as he dismounted and moved his saddle from the tired roan to a weary bay gelding.
The other thing was about his father. Karl Cullinane had told Jason that when he was a boy, he had often dreamed of being a cowboy; it seemed to him to be a romantic kind of life.
While he was trying to get the halter settled around the bay's head, the animal stepped on his foot, sending him tumbling to the ground, pain shooting up his leg.
He had to be silent in his agony; a shout could send the cattle into hysterical flight in any direction.
As he—slowly, painfully—got to his feet to try again, he wondered, for the thousandth time: What kind of idiot thought that this was romantic?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
After the Council of Barons
Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.
—Mao Tse-tung
When the rest had left, Karl led Tyrnael and Thomen up the back stairs and into his private office, the one that connected to his and Andy's bedroom. He brought a dusty bottle of Riccetti's Best down from the shelves, uncorked it, and poured each of three mottled-green whiskey glasses half full.
"What are we going to do?" Tyrnael asked.
"It's simple." Karl waved them both to a seat and braced himself against the wall. "Tell him, Thomen. You worked it out."
The boy—no, it wasn't fair to call him a boy—Thomen Furnael sipped his whiskey, smiling over the rim of the glass. "We are beginning to think too much alike, aren't we?"
"I don't think like either of you." Tyrnael downed his whiskey and shook his head in irritation. "I don't understand what's going on."
While Karl poured Tyrnael a second glass, Thomen sipped at his. "True. Two things are happening. For one, do you remember that poacher that you hanged?"
"Of course."
"Well, I tried to turn him loose—but Karl figured out what I was trying to do and stopped me."
Karl had to admire the way that Tyrnael merely said, "Oh?"
"The reason he was able to stop me was that he figured out what I was going to do, and took the next step. I am about to do the same thing, in reverse: Karl is thinking of trying to take on Pugeer in person, have Ellegon sort through his mind and find out if he was behind the Kernat raid, and if he was guilty, kill him. Correct?"
"Correct." Karl nodded. "Like I said, we think too much—"
"Then you're a damn fool." Thomen Furnael threw his glass against the wall.
It shattered, spraying glass and whiskey around the room.
Footsteps thundered in the hall outside; three guards, pistols drawn and cocked, rushed into the room.
"Majesty—"
Thomen didn't move. "It's nothing, soldiers," he said, sitting absolutely still, his hands folded across his lap.
The soldiers' faces were studiously blank.
"Dismissed," Karl said coldly. "Get out of here."
When the door closed behind them, Karl spun on the younger man. "What was that about?"
"That was to get your attention. I would have preferred to kick you in the balls to get your attention, but I don't think I could."
"And now that you've got my attention?"
"You're not going to do it." The younger man stood and walked to the window, tapping his signet ring against the glass. "Karl, if you even think about trying it, I'm going to break security and this window and shout so loudly about what you're planning that you won't believe it."
He turned back to Karl. "You had to stop me quietly; I may have to stop you noisily."
"You—"
"I don't like the odds, and I'm not going to let you play the game. Think it through, Karl," Thomen said, slowly moving to the sideboard to pick up a fresh glass. "May I?" he asked, hefting the whiskey bottle.
"If you're going to drink it this time."
"Fine. —What if it is Ahrmin, Karl? Don't you think he's noticed that you do things yourself? Even after all this time, the extent you like to stick your hand in the way of the knife manages to surprise most of us, but he's been studying you for years—and he's been on to you ever since he set up the siege at Furnael Castle, back during the war. That was intended to catch you. You like to be out in front of things; you always have.
"Just in case anyone might have thought that you had outgrown it, you ran that raid on Arondael's castle a few tendays ago. If it is Ahrmin behind all this, you'll find yourself breaking into the castle, and then—"
"And then the trap gets sprung. If it is a trap."
"Exactly."
"Your suggestion, then?"
Thomen drained the glass as he returned to his chair, taking the bottle with him. "I don't like the odds; we have to know." He poured himself another glass.
Tyrnael looked from one to the other. "So? We let matters rest where they are?"
Thomen shook his head. "No. We investigate; we send out spies, we move troops into position—"
"Can't that set off a war between us and the Nyphs?" Tyrnael cocked his head to one side. "Wouldn't we be better striking first?"
"We are better off not striking at all, if the Nyphs aren't guilty." Thomen, Baron Furnael, shook his head. "You'll have to gamble, just like the rest of us. His majesty will have to brace Pugeer's ambassador, and get him to understand that there's going to be a reprisal only if Nyphien was responsible."
"If they are?" Tyrnael asked dubiously.
"Baron, when I was a boy, my father sent my mother and me away from the war. To safety, he thought. We were seized by slavers and sold off."
For a moment, Karl could almost see Thomen's father standing there, as Thomen gripped the glass with white-knuckled fingers. "I am not going to talk about that time, Baron," Thomen said quietly, the words paced like metronome beats. "It was not pleasant. Not for my mother; not for myself."
Setting his glass and bottle down on the floor, Thomen Furnael drew his beltknife and balanced it on his palm. "I swear, Baron, that we are going to do our best to find out who did to your people what was done to me, and when we do, they are going to die."
The young baron slid the knife back into its sheath. "If we can capture any, you and I are going to work the choke nooses ourselves, and watch them dance in the air while they beg for another breath. Unless you want in on that, your majesty."
Karl Cullinane smiled. "When you get older, Thomen, you'll learn that it doesn't matter who does it."
Thomen's anger at him was still manifest, but the young baron had dismissed it as irrelevant. Karl had to admire him; while he hadn't forgiven Karl for stopping him, this was a matter of state policy, and personal feelings couldn't be allowed to enter into it.
A simple application of reasoning, really—the emperor planned to risk himself, but the emperor couldn't be risked. Nor, for that matter, could he afford to strangle a baron with his own two hands to shut him up, passingly tempting as that seemed.
So: "Okay, Thomen, we'll do it your way." Karl Cullinane drained his own whiskey, looked longingly at the bottle, then shook his head. Too much work to do. "First thing is we work out how many troops we're sending into Tyrnael. I'll want to get Nerahan in on this"—he tugged on the bell rope, twice—"since he seems to understand cannon better than the rest of you."
"Cannon?"
Karl Cullinane seated himself at his desk and pulled out paper, reaching for a map of the border area. "Cannon." He spread the map out on the floor and pulled out a box of gaming pieces. "If we're taking on the Nyphs, we're going to be able to blast them into little, bloody pieces." The door opened. "Nartham. Good—I want Garavar and Nerahan here, now."
* * *
Karl Cullinane rubbed at tired eyes and looked from Nerahan to Garavar to Thomen to Tyrnael. "Anybody got anything else?"
Kneeling at the northern edge of the map, General Garavar leaned forward. "I can't see any major improvement," he said, tapping at the map, "unless you want to move this battery from here to here."
"I don't like it." Tyrnael shook his head. "Not close enough to the border. We can't move cannons quickly; I'll want them to be as close as possible to the troops."
Which made sense, both for defensive and offensive purposes.
"Hmm . . ." Nerahan raised a finger to his lips and then touched it down to the map. "There. There's a good road down the side of the hill, and it seems to make sense to me to keep the guns as high as possible."
Karl looked over it again, trying to decide. "It could work either way. If it rains, those roads are going to turn to mud, and we're not going to be able to get the guns down from there for days."
"I disagree. Respectfully, always respectfully." Nerahan shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We only need to move them in order to attack, and we attack at our convenience, not theirs."
"Good point. Garavar, who do you want in tactical command? Gashier?"
"No. Too hotheaded," the general said. "Kevalun."
"I was going to give him—"
*Karl.* A distant voice sounded in his head. *Karl, we've got trouble.*
He jerked upright. "Ellegon!" What is it?
*He's probably not hurt, but Jason's missing.*
What? Tell me—
*We're not going to be able to do anything about it tonight. I will be landing in the courtyard in just a minute. Meet me.*
"On my way."
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
Decisions
Not every man was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
—Miguel de Cervantes
There had been a time, long ago, Karl Cullinane decided, when he could allow himself the occasional trace of panic in his voice.
That time was long gone.
"Andy?" the big man asked, his voice steady and level as he stared out into the night. "What are we going to do?"
In the courtyard below, Ellegon dipped his massive head as the dragon dined on the bloody hindquarter of a sheep while a dozen men swarmed over him, strapping down leather bags filled with supplies for Daven's team, trapped in Khar.
"Maybe the others have found him by now." Andy gripped his hand, hard. Karl could feel her pulse, going like a triphammer.
Karl Cullinane put his arm around her and pulled her close. "I'll do what can be done," he whispered. "I swear it."
*Andrea could be right. Maybe Tennetty and the others have caught up with him.* Steam hissed from between Ellegon's teeth; the dragon daintily dipped his head to take another mouthful of the sheep. Or, rather, what had been the sheep; there wasn't much left.
Karl shook his head. Maybe Jason was safe, and maybe not. But he wasn't going to assume anything. If it worked out that way, fine; certainly, Tennetty and Ahira could track Jason down, given enough time, absent sufficient competition.
If they had enough time.
"Very well," Karl Cullinane whispered. "So be it." Cullinane turned slowly to the old general. "Garavar—can you help Andrea handle things while I'm gone?"
The old soldier nodded slowly. "The military side of it. Not the political. Even at that, I'll need Kevalun as my deputy. Or Danagar." Garavar looked at Karl reproachfully.
"I understand." Karl nodded. "Danagar is overdue from Nyphien, and you're not sending out parties after him. But it is different, dammit. Danagar is a professional soldier; Jason's just a boy. Garavar, you understand why I have to treat this differently."
"No." Garavar's face was rock-still. "But I accept it."
"You'll need me," Thomen Furnael said. "To help keep the nobility in line. If you insist on doing this."
Karl nodded. "Right. Thank you, Thomen. You're a good—"
"No. This doesn't change anything between us, Emperor. The empire needs stability right now, and if you're going to run out—"
Andy plucked at Thomen's sleeve. "He has to. Your father would have understood."
"My father would not have understood." White-lipped, Thomen snatched his arm away and drew himself up straight. "He sent Rahff into danger, knowing that the chances of his coming out alive were small. He sent my mother and me away, and let us be clapped into slavers' chains. But he never left his barony behind. He never abandoned his people, his duties." His voice softened as he turned to Karl. "He understood what came first; he understood his responsibilities. Better than I do, perhaps; certainly better than you seem to, Emperor."
"Good point." Karl nodded. "And well taken. But I'm still going, Thomen."
Andrea went to Karl and gripped his hand. "I'm going with you. Maybe I can find him."
Guardians of the Flame - Legacy Page 17
