He turned about and worked his heels closer to the wall, then set his hand on top of his head, resting his fingers against the doorjamb, before turning about to see that there indeed was a difference; his fingers were a good half-inch above the previous high mark.
He reached down to his belt, drew his knife and marked the spot.
Jason at seventeen, although just barely. He drew himself up straighter.
*Let's try for at least eighteen. You had better move it: breakfast is being held for you, and you've got a workout with Tennetty in an hour.*
"A workout? Today?" He sat down and pulled his boots on. He was leaving for Home and Endell in a few days; if he wasn't good enough with pistol and swords by now, he surely wasn't going to be a lot better by then.
*Nonsense. You grow a little each day, Jason; you'd better learn a little each day.*
True enough. He was nowhere as good with a sword as his father had been—
*—and that wasn't good enough, at least once. Remember. You've got to outthink problems; you can't count on outfighting them. Even if you were as good as Karl was, which you aren't.*
Again, true enough.
He went downstairs.
* * *
Breakfast in the castle had been an informal, catch-as-catch-can thing in the old days, despite Mother's claim that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and U'len's insistence that he sit and eat a full meal instead of bolting down a sketchy breakfast. U'len tended to take what Mother said, as Father used to put it, like it came out of a burning bush.
Whatever the hell that meant. Another question he'd never be able to ask his father.
But it wasn't the old days. Too much had changed since Jason's return to Biemestren with the news that Karl Cullinane was dead. Mother and Bren Adahan had tried to minimize things with ceremony, trying to hide in some sort of formal arrangement of their lives the fact that the core of it all was gone.
Dead.
The dining hall fell silent as Jason entered. He gave a brief bow to the two dozen people in the room, then quickly walked to the head of the table, seating himself in his chair as though he belonged there.
"Please, be seated, all," he said. Mother still wasn't down, but they could be comfortable while waiting.
Doria Perlstein was already sitting; she didn't take to court manners. From her chair halfway down the table, she smiled a good morning.
He returned her smile. Strange, though. He knew she was as old as Father and Mother, but when she'd shed her Hand persona, she'd also shed all of what the years had done to her body, but not quite all that they had done to her face: her eyes weren't those of a twentyish girl. They seemed much older.
"Morning, Jason," Tennetty said as she took her seat at his right. Turning her chair to let her single eye sweep the room, the skinny woman scanned the assemblage with reflexive suspicion before deciding there wasn't anybody to kill, not quite yet; she relaxed into her chair.
With a "Good morning," a smile and the clack of heels striking the floor, Jason's sister Aeia stalked across the room and dropped lightly into her own chair by the foot of the table, rubbing at her sleepy eyes, then gathering her long hair behind her head and tying it into an improvised ponytail. She was dressed in a pair of tight leather trousers and a loose, ruffled blouse that was almost impossibly white.
"Going riding this morning?" he asked.
She nodded as she reached for a roll, then dipped it in a honey tub and took a huge bite. "I'm going to get all the riding in I can here." Back Home, what with teaching at the local school, Aeia had little time for riding, something she had grown to like.
Tell her she'd better watch the eating, Jason thought. I think she's starting to put on weight.
*No, you don't.*
Ellegon must have relayed the exchange; she chuckled and turned to Bren Adahan, who had taken his usual seat by the foot of the table, next to her. "My little brother seems to think I'm getting old and fat. You willing to disagree with the Heir?"
Bren Adahan nodded slowly. "On this matter, I am."
"Fair enough, Bren—but sit over here. We've got some stuff to talk about before the council." Jason beckoned to him, and waved at a seat next to his own.
The Holtish baron's thin mouth twitched in irritation, but then Bren Adahan studiously blanked his face for a moment before displaying an easy smile that looked genuine enough. He nodded briskly, then leaned over to whisper a few words to Jason's adopted sister before taking the seat Jason had indicated. He stroked idly at a small cut at the point of his square jaw. Adahan had cut off his beard a tenday before, and had taken to shaving twice a day.
Jason tried to conceal the fact that he didn't like Adahan. Maybe it was that Bren Adahan was more than ten years older than Jason, and carried his extra age as though it conferred both wisdom and respect.
*Not fair. He doesn't get enough time with Aeia as it is.*
I have to talk to him about some things. We might as well get it all settled during breakfast, Jason thought back, knowing that he was lying to himself. That was all true, but it wasn't the reason. Jason didn't like the way Bren looked at his sister, like he wanted to—
*He does want to. Humans are like that. It's all perfectly natural, as Elarrah could have told you two nights ago. Your sister is more than ten years older than you are, and knows what she's doing. And she is going to let him, eventually, on her terms. So leave well enough alone.*
Jason reddened. Elarrah? The fact that the upstairs maid was sneaking into his bedroom at night was supposed to be secret. He didn't want it noised about.
*Relax; I'm reasonably discreet. But it's silly to leave her alone just because I'm around. I have been reading your mind, such as it is, since before you were born. The next time you want some privacy, just ask me to tune you out. Like your father used to.*
I don't want to talk about it.
There was a distant chuckle. He couldn't tell whether he heard it in his ears or his mind.
Bren Adahan reached out and touched Jason's arm. "Are you all right, Jason?"
"No." He shook his head to clear it. "I mean, yes. I'm fine; I was just talking to Ellegon."
Bren Adahan nodded, and looked down the table at the two empty chairs near the foot. One was Danagar's, who was freshly returned from his travels through Nyphien, trying to find out who was behind the Kernat slaughter. While Danagar had only negatives to report, his trip had been much longer and far more exacting than Karl Cullinane had planned for him; he looked to be shy about twenty pounds.
At Thomen Furnael's urging, Jason had installed Danagar in a room in the residence tower, with orders that he sleep late—
*And fatten himself up.*
Although there was something strange about Thomen of late. Jason was tempted to ask Ellegon to peep him, but . . .
*But that's not right. Your father used to tell me not to peep family and friends, and I'm beginning to understand how right his instincts were, at least on that. Either brace Thomen and insist he discuss what's wrong with him, or wait until he brings it up.*
Jason nodded. That could be put off for a while; for now, they had a problem in the other conspicuously empty chair: Mother's.
Bren caught his stare. "It's getting late. You really should send for her."
Jason shook his head. "No. We'll start without her." He raised his voice. "U'len, you can start serving breakfast."
Half waddling, the fat woman brought the first tray out herself, setting it down between Jason and Bren Adahan before lifting a huge stack of oatcakes onto Jason's plate, following that with a fist-sized cube of ham.
He held back a smile. "I can't eat that much," he said.
She waved a finger at him. "Eat it you will, either for breakfast or as your dinner. You're leaving tomorrow, and I'm not going to have you going out and getting yourself killed with only the remembrance of road food on your mind. When you get your stupid head blown off, it's not going to be because you were too hungry to think straight. It's
not going to be my fault," she said. She picked up the honey tub and poured the thick honey on his oatcakes as if she were pouring water on a fire.
"Just go away and leave me alone," he grumbled.
"Shut up and eat."
He loved the peevish old woman—she'd been watching out for him for as long as he could remember—not that either of them would ever admit it out loud. U'len wouldn't like that.
"I leave when you start eating," she said, crossing her arms over her massive bosom. "So eat."
He picked up his fork and set to work.
Everybody else followed his example; the room was filled with the familiar clatter of plates and tableware, and the sounds of low voices talking between mouthfuls.
I'm starting to get a bit concerned about Mother. Relay, please: everybody's down for breakfast except you.
*I don't want to. It's not fun being in her mind. . . . Oh, very well.* The mental voice fell silent.
What is it?
*I don't want to tell you.*
"What is it?"
Tennetty kicked back from the table and had a flintlock pistol halfway out of her holster before Doria laid a gentle hand on her free arm, stopping her.
Everybody was looking at him.
Jason shrugged a pro forma apology. "Sorry. I was talking to Ellegon." Please. Deep inside, he knew what the dragon was going to say.
*She's not in her room. She's in her workshop, bent over her bench, crying. Again. She won't answer me.*
He started to push himself away from the table, but noticed that, once again, all the eyes were on him.
There was a long silence until Bren Adahan turned to him. "Please forgive me; I should have mentioned that I spoke to your mother late last evening; she said that she was going to be involved in some sort of work last night, and would probably sleep through breakfast, or get up early and go to her workshop."
*He says, "That's the lie you should have told. Now attend to your responsibilities. We have an agreement on that score, Jason Cullinane."*
"So we do," he whispered.
*So keep it.*
"In that case," Jason Cullinane said, "everybody please be seated, and let us finish our meal."
Unembarrassed, Tennetty seated her pistol firmly in its holster and herself in her chair, then picked up a bacon roll and began to eat as though nothing had happened.
Jason was grateful. He had to try to hold things together, but sometimes he wasn't sure that he could, even for the little things: they ate in silence, the hall empty of Karl Cullinane's booming voice.
CHAPTER 2
Andrea Cullinane
Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
For half of creation she owns:
We have bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
An' we've salted it down with our bones.
(Poor beggars—it's blue with our bones!)
Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop!"
(Poor beggars!—we're sent to say Stop!)
—Rudyard Kipling
One of the differences between Karl and me—and it's a major one—is that I'm far too considerate to ever leave my wife a widow. Guess I'll just have to live forever.
—Walter Slovotsky
Squinting in the bright morning sunlight, Jason Cullinane walked past the salutes of the two guards and out into the day. It was a pretty day, the sky above was—
Huh?
He turned. "Kethol? Durine?" What were they doing on guard duty?
Bringing his flintlock carbine back up to port, redheaded Kethol split his weatherbeaten face in a grin. "Good morning, sir."
Tossing his head to clear a shock of hair from his eyes, massive Durine nodded a good morning, bringing one huge paw up to scratch at where his rough grown beard really didn't end, and his bull neck really didn't begin. The man was built like a bear.
"Morning, sir," Durine echoed.
"What are the two of you doing on front door duty?"
Kethol shrugged. "Got into a bit of trouble last night with the general." A tall, rawboned man, he gripped his rifle with knuckles like walnuts.
"Doing what?"
"It was mainly my fault, sir." It was Durine's turn to shrug. "I had too much beer last night. Got into a little barracks fight."
Jason looked them over more carefully. There was a nasty bruise over Kethol's left eye, and the knuckles on Durine's left hand were almost raw.
"Over what?"
Durine shrugged again.
"One of the whores in town," Kethol said. "Pirojil's taken a fancy to her. Loryal's been bothering him about it."
"Loryal?"
"One of the new troops, from Tyrnael. Him and his three brothers joined up just before the Emperor and us took off for Ehvenor. When Piro punched Loryal, two of the brothers jumped him, then Loryal and another brother jumped me when I tried to come between them and settle things down." He broke into a toothy smile. "'Course, I was calling them poxy sons of a motherless cur while I was trying to calm them down. All Durine did was pull two of them off, while Piro and I settled things, two-on-two."
"Injuries?"
"Just a few." Durine shrugged, again. "Pirojil lost two teeth, and the Spider says some of Piro's ribs are cracked. He took a nasty bite in the ear; Loryal beat him kind of bad. Kethol's dance-partner is lucky the cleric got to him pretty quick, or he'd be singing lead tenor. My two got their heads cracked, just a little. All resting in the infirmary. The Spider put Piro's teeth back together, but left the rest. They all start their punishment tours when they're up and about."
Jason nodded. Valeran had given him long lectures about barracks discipline. What Garavar had done was sound economics, and even sounder discipline: use the minimum magic necessary to heal the combatants beyond danger or permanent damage, but let them ache for a while—the more, the better.
But to every rule there were exceptions. Durine, Kethol and Pirojil had been his father's companions on his last ride to Ehvenor. "I'll see Garavar—"
*As you were, Jason.* Ellegon's voice was firm. *Even when you're wearing the crown, you'd better have a better reason than that for overruling Garavar.*
He tried to cover the interruption with a cough, and wasn't at all sure he was successful. But—
*But nothing. Now let's go see your mother.*
"I'll see you later, then," Jason said, knowing that he hadn't covered his gaffe well.
*Actually, you didn't cover it at all. They know you were going to meddle in Garavar's domain. But they probably won't say anything about it.*
Jason left the path for the grass. It was shaping up to be a pretty day. A light, gentle wind blew in from the west, accompanied by only the fluffiest of clouds in the blue sky overhead.
The grass was up to his calves, trimmed that morning by sweeping scythes into a rippled sea of lush green. Jason breathed in the rich smell of the new-mown grass, enjoying it.
That was the thing about peace, he used to say; it gave people time and inclination to care about something as trifling as the height of grass on a lawn. There were limits to even an Emperor's powers; it was simple to forbid everybody except the caretakers to walk on the grass, but during wartime it was hard to find somebody to care for it.
He walked around to the side of the main residence tower, stepping from the softness of the lawn to the stones of the parade ground.
A huge, vaguely triangular head lifted from the warmth of the stones and stared at him.
"Morning, Ellegon," Jason said as he walked over to the massive beast. Father used to say that Ellegon was the size of a Greyhound bus, which Jason had never quite understood. Now, a bus was a kind of cart, but wasn't a greyhound a kind of dog, a small mastiff or something?
Ellegon was huge; Jason couldn't imagine a dog a twentieth that size.
*Good morning, Jason,* the dragon answ
ered. With a deep grunt, he got first his forelegs and then his rear legs underneath himself, then raised himself to his feet, his massive, leathery wings curling and uncurling almost spasmodically, while smoke and steam issued from nostrils the size of dinner plates.
The dragon's mouth sagged open to reveal rows and rows of teeth the length of a forearm . . . and an incredible miasma of dragon halitosis, painfully bad breath that reeked of decaying flesh and rotting fish. Ellegon wasn't fastidious about what he ate.
Jason gagged. "Turn your head away, please."
*Sorry.* Scales creaking in the morning air, Ellegon turned his massive head away, clearing the air with a quick shot of flame.
It never really made sense to Jason, the way that others had to restrain a fear of Ellegon. It was like, well, like being afraid of Tennetty's swords. The universe was divided into two kinds of people, and only one kind was endangered by either.
*They're not just afraid of being eaten. Humans don't like me because I know too much.*
Way too much. It was one thing for Ellegon to save Jason from making a fool of himself in front of Kethol and Durine; it was another for the dragon to probe into . . . private matters.
*I won't mention it again,* the dragon said, although Jason could have sworn he heard a distant mental mumble: Just like his father. Spends too much time thinking with what's between his legs rather than what's between his ears.
"And you eat too much, too.—Let's go see her."
It was only a few hundred meters across the parade ground to the northwest corner—too short for Ellegon to bother with flying.
Jason walked quickly, the dragon lumbering along behind.
* * *
Normal humans like to steer well clear of working wizards; it's only prudent. Andrea Cullinane's workshop was far away from anything else within the walls of the castle. If it hadn't been for security considerations, everybody involved would have been more comfortable with putting it outside the inner curtain wall, or perhaps in Biemestren township itself.
But security considerations had been involved; Mother's Biemestren workshop had, as far back as Jason could remember, been in a low stone building in the northwest corner of the inner ward.
Guardians of the Flame - Legacy Page 29
