“What happens if one of your pieces gets between one of mine and a corner square?”
Holger smiled. Fritji was interested in spite of himself. No doubt he had played a similar game, though he denied it.
“In that unlikely event, you can capture my Dark Attacker and remove him from the board. More likely, I will outflank your King instead. I will tell you ‘Watch your King,’ and then I will capture him. Shall we begin?”
Mikkel had understood only part of what the Wykenig captain was telling his men, but enough that he grasped what was happening.
He and Talkin were being sent from the big Wykenig ship—not as big nor as sleek as Ice Princess but big enough—to be rowed across a short stretch of sea and put on board the smaller ship, the Marmel. They would then be taken—where? The Marmel was even smaller than the old GorGull and could be easily outrun by the Ice Princess or even the ship they were on. Then the strategy became clear to him. The Wykenig captain would deliberately allow himself to be caught, and while negotiations for Fritji and the Sea-Rovers were going on, the Marmel would slip away undetected.
Vaguely he remembered having read something about marmels. Tiny merpeople, as he recalled.
Then the boat was bumping against the hull and a rope ladder let down for the captives to climb. Mikkel was apprehensive about Talkin’s being able to manage, but he need not have worried. He took one of Talkin’s paws, and then the other, and placed them on the rungs, mimicking climbing. Understanding at once, the warkat raced up the ladder and onto the deck far ahead of Mikkel.
“Don’t be afraid of the krigpus, Ridder Shraig,” one of the Wykenigs told the Marmel captain. “It’s tame. Or at least, tame enough. You’re to go to Forferdelig Sound through the hidden way and wait for Ridder Holger to return. The boy and the krigpus are not to be harmed.”
“Very well,” said Shraig. “We’ll put them in a locker down in the hold. But if the krigpus becomes a danger to me or my men, it dies. Make sail!”
A light but steady breeze began filling the striped canvas and the ship moved away from Dragon Blood at a good clip. Mikkel watched it grow small in the distance, knowing that people he knew were on that ship, and knowing that he had no idea of their fate, or his, until Wykenigs took him belowdecks and put him and Talkin into a small locker, not unlike the one he had lately shared with Tjórvi. Spare sails and coils of rope were stored in this one as well. With a pang, Mikkel realized he was on his own, with only his own wits to sustain him.
The door opened again, briefly, and a Wykenig tossed a rough blanket in to him. “I’m Blixt. I’ve been put in charge of you. We’ll bring food as soon as there is any. Might as well get some sleep,” the man said. “You may not be going anywhere, but we are.” Then, laughing at his own joke, Blixt closed the door again and, by the sound, locked it.
Mikkel stared at Talkin, who was staring at the door as if judging its strength. “I’m sorry you got yourself into this,” Mikkel said. “But you insisted on coming along.”
He shook out the blanket. It was rough-woven, and if he didn’t know better he would think it inferior snow-thistle silk. That was impossible, of course; snow-thistle silk came from the NordornLand. He placed it over a stack of sails, hoping to make a passable bed and wondering how he could do that and stay warm at the same time in the chilly hold. Inured as he was to snowy weather, the farther north they had come, the more he was beginning to feel the grip of a different, more intense cold.
Then, belatedly, he remembered Tjórvi’s prescient advice about putting on extra clothing and, even more important, folding his snow-thistle silk blankets and putting them under his shirt.
He pulled them out now—two wonderfully light, warm, compact blankets, finely made—and laid one over the rough one. He settled down, and covered both himself and Talkin with the other. They quickly warmed under the silk. Despite the cold, the boy began to doze.
Late in the afternoon, Blixt brought food, a rather thin soup and a hunk of coarse bread.
“If you promise to keep that beast under control, I’ll let you come out on deck for a while. There’s something ahead that’s worth seeing,” he told the boy.
“Talkin won’t make any trouble,” Mikkel promised, adding I hope under his breath. “We’ll be glad to get out of this locker for a while. We have scarcely seen the sky in so long I don’t remember.”
“Come up topside then. We’ve made the turn, and are lowering the boats now.”
Puzzled, Mikkel quickly swallowed a mouthful of soup, leaving the rest for the warkat, and, taking the crust of bread to gnaw on, followed the seaman up the ladder and onto the deck of the Wykenig vessel.
The sun was past midafternoon, but as far north as they were, it was likely to linger in place long after full dark had fallen in more southern climes. The light cast mysterious shadows on the line of cliffs the ship faced, creating the appearance of being guarded by ranks of trolls—big ones, little ones, some standing on others’ shoulders. All seemed to be watching as the Marmel’s boats maneuvered into place and, lines attached to the vessel, the men began rowing toward a dark area in the cliff that Mikkel now could recognize as a narrow inlet.
He moved toward the rail. Quickly, he understood why the ship was being towed in. There was room, perhaps, for a vessel such as the two-masted ship he had been aboard so briefly, but a larger craft would be apt to scrape on one side or perhaps both. No ship, whatever size, could maneuver through unscathed if it were under sail.
The rocky walls of the inlet rose almost vertically. Bits of hardy vegetation clung to cracks in the walls, and, ahead, Mikkel could see the jagged tops of mountains that formed the sides of a bowl-like rock structure.
He gazed in wonder, taking it all in. The water they moved through was so clear he could see that the underwater walls were as vertical as those above. He fancied he could have made out the bottom if shadow had not shielded the waters from further view. There was only a hint of the murkiness of decaying vegetation.
Ahead, the mountains held ice-rivers in their laps. They were full of music, and everywhere the splash and tinkle of pure running water created a counterpoint to the rhythmic dip and plash of the oars.
Fascinated, Mikkel held out one hand toward the stone wall that seemed close enough to touch.
“Better not,” a Wykenig said.
Mikkel turned; he recognized Shraig, the captain. Ridder Shraig, one had called him.
“Why?”
“You may be caught by a Rock-Maiden and carried off, never to be seen again.” The man was smiling a little.
In an enchanted spot like this, Mikkel was ready to believe that anything, even being taken by a Rock-Maiden—whatever that might be—could happen. And so, prudently, he kept his hands on the railing and did not risk being captured anew. Talkin emerged onto the deck and moved close to Mikkel. The warkat paid little or no attention to the unworldliness of their surroundings, but calmly sat down to wash his face and paws.
Presently—too soon—they were through the dark, beautiful inlet to the more open water beyond. It was a fjord, Mikkel realized, but one much narrower and even more dangerous than Cyornas Fjord. It also was fed by the ice-rivers above.
Like the entry, the fjord was filled with bright music. Waterfalls, sparkling in the weak sun on one side and glittering softly in reflected light on the other, cascaded down from all directions. Mikkel thought he had never seen a spot so beautiful. He wondered if they were going to stay here for the night, hidden from view.
He turned to ask Shraig only to find that the captain had gone to the aft castle, to supervise as other seamen took up long poles and made ready to use them. He recognized Blixt, his caretaker, among them. Pulled by the small boats, the ship was heading straight for the far wall of the fjord.
Now the helmsman of the Marmel spun the wheel, turning it, deftly maneuvering the little ship so that its course paralleled the far cliff face. As it drifted close, the men wielding the poles kept it from colliding with the wall of ro
ck as the rowers redoubled their efforts to coax the vessel in the direction it should go.
The ship swung around and steadied under the helmsman’s skillful work with the rudder. A brief pause as the ship adjusted to its new course and now Mikkel could see that they were heading down a deep and narrow channel hidden from anyone who entered the fjord and wasn’t aware of its existence. It was so small and the rocky walls so close that trees overhead formed a roof. In the resulting twilight, the men in the small boats towed the Wykenig ship a good league until they were in clear, open water once again. Trees clung precariously here and there, stubbornly trying to survive in spite of the stony ground. The tops of the masts occasionally touched the lowest branches of some of the trees, sending showers of thin green pine needles down upon the ship.
There was no chance of any ship anchoring here, if the steepness of the mountains on either side was any indication. Perhaps they could have tied up, if such had been their intention. Clearly, however, it was not. The peaks soared skyward like lance points threatening to stab the sky, so sharp that snow could not cling except in cracks in the rocky slopes.
Blixt returned. “You’ve seen the show. I hope you enjoyed it. Now, it’s on to Forferdelig Sound and the Upplands,” the man said, “where they’ll decide what to do with you.”
Six
Under the circumstances it no longer seemed fitting to hold a great celebration for Earl Royance and Countess Mjaurita. Nevertheless, guests had been invited, festive clothing made, food and drink prepared, and though the festivities might have a shadow over them, the honor due such a revered and honorable ally as Royance would take place.
The Great Hall of the Castle of Fire and Ice was ablaze with light, every holder of the great chandeliers filled with gleaming candles. Everywhere crystal drops and snowflakes had been hung until the very air twinkled.
Granddam Ysa, as Mistress of Protocol, and Elin as her assistant, took on themselves the ordering of the guests as they arrived. Every spare room in Cyornas Castle that could be turned into sleeping quarters was commandeered, cleaned, and made ready. Those guests whose status did not entitle them to lodgings in the castle had to find places to stay in the town. The counts and barons who had residences in Cyornasberg opened their doors, more or less hospitably, to ease the crowding.
Elin consulted one of the many lists she was making. Uncle Rohan and Aunt Anamara were to stay in the castle as were her brother-in-law Peres and her sister Hegrin, King and Queen of Rendel; the Rendelian Lord High Marshal and Lady Rannore, Ashen NordornQueen’s dearest friend, would stay in Svarteper’s quarters in the barbican.
“But what shall we do with people like Mayor Doffen of Pettervil?” Ysa said fretfully. “Or that grotesque Chaggi, leader of the Fridians? His face is covered with tattoos!”
“We will find places, most likely in Cyornasberg. All who are coming are friends to Royance, or to Mjaurita, or to Father and Mother,” Elin said. “I have heard that the Great Chieftain of the Aslaugors is close to arriving as well.”
Ysa searched her memory. “Öydis.”
“I understand that Öydis is getting on in years and her Marshal, Patin, has taken on most of her duties. She still holds the title, though. They will both be here.”
“Could Patin possibly be a bit weary of living in Öydis’s shadow?” Ysa inquired delicately.
Elin smiled at Granddam Ysa, knowing perfectly well what she was getting at. “Not likely,” she said. “Öydis is his mother.”
“That is no obstacle. Speak to him at one of the banquets. Find out if he harbors any resentment for the delay in his coming to his just position.”
“Yes, Granddam,” Elin replied demurely.
“The standards on the towers will be crowded with pennons. It already is with your father’s, your mother’s, the NordornPrince’s, yours, mine—”
“Uncle Einaar’s, Aunt Elibet’s, Peres’s, Hegrin’s, on and on. And that doesn’t even take into consideration other countries or their protectorates. We must find a staff for everyone or deliver a deep insult.”
Ysa stared thoughtfully at nothing in particular, and Elin knew the hint she had dropped had fallen on fallow ground.
“I think we should also inquire as to how relations are progressing twixt Writham and Yuland; they will have representatives here,” Ysa commented.
“More banners.”
“Yes. And the people from the Bog—that was well before your time, my dear, and nowadays they call it the Lowlands—are sending a delegation, headed by Tusser. I remember when he was no more than a savage. Less. But he’s coming with a number of scholars who have been excavating the ruined city of Galinth. It seems that our Earl Royance has contributed generously to funding this project.”
“The Aslaugors and the Fridians are still tribal, aren’t they? I mean, the Aslaugors have united under their Great Chieftain—”
“Not all. There are those, I understand, who still object to being led by a woman. Or her son who leads in her name.”
“You have stayed well informed, even while you were away from Court,” Elin said tactfully. Ysa obviously had a good spy system.
“I have always found it useful to know what is going on around me,” Ysa said. “Iselin is not all that isolated, you know. Let me see your list.”
Obediently, Elin handed it to the Duchess.
“Yes, yes. Very good. Thorough. I see you have assigned Prince Karl of Writham and Duke Bernhard of Yuland rooms in the castle. You need to pay attention to these young men. I am certain they have been sent as potential suitors. Flirt with them. Make them each feel as if they have a chance to join Nordorn nobility.”
Elin made a face. “I am not the least bit interested in either of them.”
“Of course you aren’t—not seriously. But you can certainly amuse yourself. Call it practice. You must get out of yourself, my dear, if you don’t mind my saying so. Look outward. You’ll never accomplish anything if you are thinking only of yourself.”
With difficulty, Elin restrained herself from making a harsh—and unwise—retort. “Do you truly believe I think of no one but myself?”
“It is perfectly normal at your age, dear granddaughter. I was very like you when I was young. All I am saying is that it is now time for you to look outward, start exerting your power and influence as a princess, and as a budding woman. I can think of no better subjects for this practice than the envoys from Yuland and Writham. Nor can I think of anyone better to guide you than me. Would that I had had such a tutor when I was young and still beautiful.” The Duchess laid Elin’s list on her worktable, smoothing it with her hands. They had grown thin, the veins standing out sharply against the bones, and her rings hung loose. “Let me see what I can add to this, and where I can have people share quarters. We are seriously crowded, but surely room can be made for the most important. Now, run along. Surely there are matters you need to attend to elsewhere. And remember what I have told you.”
“Yes, Granddam.” Elin got to her feet, curtsied, and left Ysa’s apartment. No fear of any visitor being lodged in there, she thought, any more than in mine or Bjaudin’s, or Father’s and Mother’s rooms.
She had already devised a solution of sorts for the plethora of banners. Those of the nobility would, of course, fly in ranks on the staffs atop the castle towers. Those of lesser folk—in this case, barons, counts, ambassadors—would be displayed along the ramparts of the castle walls where they would make a brave show. But better she should order this at the last minute, to keep Granddam Ysa from claiming it as her idea. Elin was already very aware of Ysa’s penchant not only for scheming, but also for taking credit where it was not due her.
She smiled; her first thought had been to reject Granddam Ysa’s advice about dallying with the would-be suitors. But on second thought, she decided to obey. It would be good practice. Also, she realized, there was a good chance that the Court, especially her father and mother, would be so taken up with this new facet of their daughter’s personality t
hat Granddam Ysa would be able to do very much as she pleased.
Yes. By the end of the four days’ feasting they should have Fridians warring with Lowlanders, the new name the former Bogmen had chosen for themselves; Aslaugors warring with Aslaugors and with Fridians; and possibly even Writham declaring war on Yuland. Never mind that Writham was located well west of Rendel and Yuland was an island kingdom to the south and east, if provocation were great enough a way would be found.
She had already met the Writham prince, Karl, and knew that he found her attractive. If the delegate from the Island Kingdom of Yuland were also young enough and vulnerable enough, she could possibly stir up a rivalry that might bear fruit when she chose.
Each to her own strengths. The Duchess was beyond the age for flirtation; it would be an absurdity and laughed at. Therefore, let her stir up trouble with the Aslaugors and the Fridians and the former Bog-Men. They were rough people, often ill-mannered and even dirty and smelly. Elin had a more pleasant task by far. She would encounter Duke Bernhard this very evening. Then she would see.
Her new peach-colored snow-thistle silk dress lay on her bed, ready, with its matching coat, hosen, and slippers. Fortunately, the fashion was to dress children very much like adults, so she would not look like she had just come from the nursery.
She sat down at her dressing table and let Lady Hanna touch up the rouge that reddened her cheeks and lips. It made her look very grown-up, she thought. It would have been nice if Granddam Ysa would permit her to wear her beautiful emerald ring, but she had allowed it only that one time. Instead, she would wear pearls at neck and ears. They would look beautiful against her clear skin. Nevertheless, she longed for the time when she, too, would possess really important jewels such as a Great Signet.
The Knight of the Red Beard Page 9
