With Bansher dead, Lanae had taken over the management of the eyrie by default, until the king could find some trusted captain to take over his duties. Bansher had been an experienced and talented Master of Eagles, and he would be hard to replace, although Lanae thought that Caris, the landing master at Nevermind would be a good candidate. She wished today of all days that she had a man like him with her, for she was going to see King Falante, and she knew that her ideas were going to be difficult for the king to accept. But things had to change. The King’s Town eyrie was not safe.
She looked out from Sentinel’s nest to the city far below, and the street and river traffic were light today. It was unseasonably cold for the middle of Kastanus, cold enough for her to be wearing her autumn jacket, and the west wind cut through her. It was not weather to be out of doors in, not in late summer. The sun was hidden behind a gray and somber sky.
The other king’s eyes living in the apartments below the eyrie were nervous and frightened by the death of Corrie and the other king’s eyes that had been killed on missions north of the Whitewood. They were reluctant to fly and reluctant to go the eyrie to check on missions, even though there were no eagles available at the moment. Wetwing and Skywolf would be in later today, and Lanae wanted things settled with the king before then.
She locked the heavy door to the eyrie, keeping the only key, before going to her apartment and putting on her finest dress. Her carriage was waiting when she emerged at the street level, and she left the courtyard through the eyrie’s portcullis, for it was a fortress in its own right, a fact that she would appreciate later. She rode to the palace alone, organizing her thoughts.
The footman who greeted her was Damber O’Bullin, and she smiled to see him. Sometimes when her carriage was late he would pass the time with her, and she liked his easy way of talking and his Flana drawl. “Mawnin’ Madam King’s Eye.” He said. “Visiting her mojesty, air you?”
“Not today, Damber.” She answered. “The king himself, I hope.”
Damber nodded. “Goot. He will be hoppy to see you, I reckon.” She smiled and nodded. I hope so, she thought.
She was escorted by a broad-shouldered and stern faced young man in the king’s household livery to a small room with dark wooden paneling and portraits of people she did not know and had never heard of carefully hung on the walls. At the center of the room was a long oval table, stained almost black and shining with a century’s worth of oil rubbed into it. Around the table were half a dozen chairs, and she sat in the one her escort courteously pulled out. “Thank you.” She said simply, but the man neither responded nor smiled. He left without speaking, and left her waiting for the king. The chair was hard and uncomfortable, and she had nothing to do or to read, and the wait seemed long.
Finally Falante D’Cadmouth arrived, and with him came his four bodyguards and his secretary, a thin-lipped old man with a harsh mouth and a fringe of unkempt white hair in which his egg bald scalp nested. Lanae rose when they entered, something Bansher had occasionally had to remind her to do.
“Good morning Madam King’s Eye.” The king said kindly.
“Good morning, Your Majesty.” She replied. She had gotten used to forms of address and the courtesies required of her in the palace, although she still slipped up often, little foibles that the queen’s coterie of high ladies spent endless hours gossiping over. She was the queen’s little pet, the outland farm girl who rode eagles, and her status as an outsider had been firmly cemented in their minds.
“You said the last time we spoke that you might have some suggestions for me.” Falante began sternly, for the last time they had spoken had been the night Bansher died, and she had been a mess. She had wept and blamed lapses in security for his death, and boldly stated that things needed to change to keep the king’s eyes safe, forgetting that she was speaking to the king. His face had hardened, but he had been understanding and forgiving under the circumstances. His expression this morning told her that he was in no such forgiving mood, and that her suggestions had better be more than just the carping of a grieving girl.
“Yes, your majesty.” She began. “Given the losses they eyrie has had lately, I think some things need to be changed.”
“Go ahead, Lanae.” He said in a neutral voice.
“First, we are the king’s eyes.” She said, and her eyes went to his. “We belong to you, and to no others. We have been given missions that are unsafe by captains, dukes and nobles in Northcraven who do not understand that we are constant targets for any Aulig archers, nor do they seem to understand effective bow ranges. We have lost four eagles on close scouts of enemy positions, and we cannot safely do them. I would ask that we be permitted to decline such missions.” This was, she thought, the least controversial of her ideas.
He nodded thoughtfully, his chin on his hand. “That is a good suggestion, Lanae.” He seemed mildly and pleasantly surprised. “Granted. You have more?”
She took courage from his ready approval, and continued. “The girls don’t feel safe in the eyrie, Your Majesty.” He frowned. “I would suggest moving the main operation elsewhere, to a safer and more remote location, and I would remain here with Sentinel and Darkfeather, until he is retrained. This way the remaining eagles would be safe, in case of another attack on the eyrie.”
“But you yourself would be in danger should such another attack occur, although my guardsmen assure me they can prevent this.”
“But t’was four guardsmen who led the attack two nights ago.” She replied. “That is the reason for the unrest. It is felt that the eyrie is too exposed to whatever ... enemy has been attacking us.” She had been about to say witchery, for that was clearly what it had been, but such things should not be said in the hearing of others, even if the king trusted them. “If I alone am housed there, I can close the eyrie. I think I can keep Sentinel and Darkfeather safe.”
“I will give it consideration.” He replied. “Do you have such a place in mind?”
“I have six.” She answered. “I have prepared a list, with reasons for and against each, and all are within a half-flight from the eyrie, so none would be too inconvenient for the relaying of messages and missions.” She handed him a closed scroll case with the proposed sites listed.
“I’m impressed.” He said, hefting the scroll case. “You have been busy with this.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. My next suggestion relates to the first. As the king’s eyes, we need to be on the king’s business, not the business of the Duke of Flana or the Duke of Zoric. We fly too many missions for grain reports or merchant reports. We’ve flown these reports for years, and they are all pretty much the same year after year. We would be better used to prosecute the war.”
King Falante smiled and shook his head slightly. “You don’t understand the importance of those reports, Lanae. Let me give it to you in brief. This city, and the wealth of every major house in it, is based on trade. When I get a grain report from Flana, for example, I know which farms have met their production quotas, which ones have exceeded them and which have failed to meet them. I also know which crops will be short, and which ones will be in surplus. Guided by this information, I know what the prices of these things will be. Because I use the king’s eyes, I get this information in a single day. The rest of the merchant houses get the information days, weeks or even months after I do. Because I know these things, I can direct my merchants in their trading, and because we are ahead of the market, I almost always profit substantially.”
“And the reports from Zoric?” Lanae asked, forgetting to address him by title. He ignored the lapse, but his egg-headed secretary frowned at her.
“The reports from Zoric and from Torth serve the same purpose, but from the opposite end. From Zoric and Torth I learn what goods the merchants of other nations are seeking. I can then tell the royal ship’s captains which goods to ship and which ones to sell locally. Again, from each report I reap a substantial profit. It takes gold to prosecute a war, Lanae, and the reports ensure
that I have a great deal of it. I would think that these reports are probably as valuable, if not more so, than the reports coming in from Northcraven.”
Lanae nodded, understanding. “I see, Your Majesty. I had not understood these things of markets and of gold. I am just a farm girl, and …”
Falante laughed, interrupting. “Freeman farmers know more of markets than anyone, Lanae. What did you say you sold? Peaches and wheat? I guarantee that your father knows the right price of the peaches he sells, or you would be out of business. I wager he spends many hours in taverns or in merchant’s gatherings or down at the mill to learn such things.”
It was something she had not considered. She conceded him the point, for clearly he had, and carefully, but she was not ready to leave the topic. “Well, Your Majesty, I don’t claim to know of such things, as I said, but I do know the king’s eyes. I know they are strained by the number of missions we fly. If you could perhaps make a list of the ones that are most important, then I could arrange things so that the girls and birds get adequate rest between.”
He nodded agreement. “That should not be difficult.”
“The final item is this.” Lanae said, and again the eggheaded clerk frowned. She hastened to correct herself. “Your Majesty, when we land in Nevermind or in Zoric or especially in Dunwater, the local dukes and lords treat us as if we are their servants. I know that we are young, we king’s eyes, and few of us are of the gentry. There have been many times when we have had missions delayed or had to fly our eagles to exhaustion because a duke or lord mayor has demanded that we attend a supper or a festival or just stand about in his castle or palace so that he can show us off to his friends. I know that such appearances are important, but with so few birds it taxes us greatly. We cannot be ever at the beckon call of the nobility. I would ask that we have leave to decline such invitations.”
“You have always had that authority, Lanae. It’s part of my understanding with the lords. That is a correction you need to make on your side of things. You must tell the girls that my commands come first, and that they must assert themselves.” And what a joy that would be, Lanae thought wryly to herself.
Still, the audience had gone very well, and she was pleased with the concessions she had been able to achieve. Once the king was gone, she spent a moment clearing her head and thinking of the many things she had yet to do today. Bansher’s funeral was in two days, and the door to the eyrie needed fixing, and there were half a hundred things she must now tell the king’s eyes. In the excitement of speaking to the king she had forgotten entirely to mention Caris as a candidate for Master of the Eyrie to replace Bansher, and she kicked herself mentally. She stood and walked from the room, looking for her stern-faced escort, but she did not see him. She did see a number of men with bound swords, wearing the silver hand on blue livery of Elderest. She remembered that the king was to review the Elderest muster before it left for Northcraven today.
Well, she had been many times in the palace, and she knew her way out of it. She had not gone more than fifty paces down the first corridor, however, before she was stopped by a tall lady with silver hair all in an ornate pile with combs and jewels stacked on her head. She did not know the woman, but she looked to be about fifty.
“Are you the Madam King’s Eye the queen is so enamored of?” The lady inquired, and Lanae turned to regard her. She was tall, and still beautiful despite her age, with clear gray eyes and a frank and honest way of looking at her that Lanae instantly liked. Her clothes were of the latest style, and of the finest material. She wore several pieces of jewelry that looked both understated and very expensive.
“I am Lanae Brookhouse.”
The woman nodded. “I thought so. The queen mentioned that you might be in the palace, and she asked if you might come up. I am Elsorina D’Cadmouth, Duchess of Elderest.” Then she took Lanae’s arm in hers and whispered conspiratorially in her ear. “Let’s not keep the queen waiting. You know how new mothers can be.”
Lanae sighed inwardly. So much for not being at the beckon call of the nobility.
“Perhaps I need to remove your eyes.” The witch said, and the part of the seeker that remembered being a man shuddered at the threat. “You have failed me, and you must be punished.”
The seeker was sitting with wet and mucky feet in the arms of the black tree in the near total darkness of the Kalgareth’s hold, but it was not a restful embrace. The horrible black tree owned the seeker now, its roots and boughs a permanent part of the seeker’s being. He could see the hard and mannish face of the black-haired witch in the shadows facing him, although he could not see the outline of her body. A tall man with a scalloped blade at his hip stood behind her, and two dusky skinned servants kneeled at her sides. The two servants were very tall men, with filed and sharpened teeth in their black and foreign faces. The tree owned him, but she was the master of the tree, and he sat in it now as punishment for his failure.
“But we did kill one of the king’s eyes.” He said. “The girl we slew was a rider, and we have killed their protector.” Gone was the sailor’s accent that Dejon Blaise had once had, back when he had a name, but he was still one to offer excuses.
“My command was quite clear, just as my orders are.” She replied. “You were to blind the king’s eyes. That means to kill the eagles, seeker. All of them. You have failed me and must be punished.”
The seeker felt the limbs of the tree tighten around him, holding him in place. He screamed, but no sound came forth, for the first thing the tree always did was to paralyze those organs by which its prey made noise. The seeker writhed in agony, a fury of pain and internal destruction that would be several endless days in duration, and not even unconsciousness was available to him for relief.
At the base of the blood black tree, the firm and dusky hands of the men from a land far away removed the last of the little bundles that had once been human infants from their places. This loathesome fruit had ripened, and was ready to be put to use.
Maldiver D’Cadmouth wore his chainmail today. His livery was linen, navy blue and elaborate, a heavily decorated version of that worn by his men, and the white hand that was one of his house sigils decorated his breast, and two royal eagles adorned his collars. He knelt when the king approached, lowering his eyes for a moment, then stood.
“Good morning, cousin.” The king said with a too-familiar friendliness that Maldiver found irritating. After his humiliation in open court, that Falante D’Cadmouth could think they might still be on friendly terms was ridiculous. Still, if the man wanted to play at farce, Maldiver could as well.
“Good Morning, My Liege.” He said. “Would you like to review the muster?”
“Of course!” Falante said enthusiastically. “I had heard it was the largest to take the field. It will mean a lot in Northcraven.”
Maldiver nodded agreement. “They are the finest I could assemble, Your Majesty. Both household levies from all of the great families in Elderest, peasant conscripts and free companies. Fourteen thousands of fighting men and two thousands to support them. Additionally I have secured an agreement with the Lighthill to the services of two thousand godsknights.”
Falante’s head came up, and his eyebrows shot up appreciatively. “Impressive. I am putting together a muster from the Regency, and I don’t know that I’ll be able to match yours. Still, together we should be able to relieve Northcraven quite easily.”
The king launched into a boring discussion of the trivialities of tactics, and Maldiver tried not to roll his eyes. He had generals for this kind of thing, and a king playing at being a tactician would always be an amateur. He nodded politely as they walked on, and he considered his cousin Falante.
The young king was failing, and did not know it. Dunwater had received the report of the trial of the man who was charged with the death of their duke, and they were furious that nothing had been done. The man’s actual guilt or innocence hardly mattered, and Maldiver understood that the account of the trial and the much e
mbellished story of Prosk’s heroic sortie were inconsistent, but the duke of a major holding had died. The man should have been hanged regardless of his innocence. That the king had failed to order this done had infuriated Prosk’s kin, and the Dunwater D’Cadmouths and D’Tarmans were hardly a forgiving bunch.
Reports were coming to the Regency from every point in the north of defeat and loss. Whole townships had been plundered and destroyed by the reaving Auligs, and the king’s navy sat at harbor in Torth and in Nevermind, waiting for their admiral. The admiral had been injured in a duel and should be ready to sail north in four days yet, but the king should have sent someone else. Any fool could command a fleet, Maldiver thought. You just told the men to do the jobs they knew, and turned them loose on the enemy. Even if the fleet was lost, at least the king was seen to be doing something. No, the people were not happy, and they were not behind this king.
Falante’s wife was a failure, thanks in no small part to Maldiver. Through his surrogates in court he had fostered rumors and innuendo about the queen’s strange friendship with the lowborn king’s eye from Walcox, and the wives of powerful men felt spurned and rejected by her. Who was this king’s eye to be appearing at court functions and parties, and why did the queen spend so much time alone with her? She was quite fetching, in a boyish way, the rumors went, and didn’t the Pulflover D’Tarmans have a history of improper relations? There had been those two boys, and certainly nothing had ever been proved, but when it came to the gentry it never was of course. The queen was much loved by the peasants, but such loves were whimsical and fleeting, and not to be relied upon.
The Flanesi felt cheated at market, the men of Arker felt they had borne the war’s losses too heavily, and the territories north of the Whitewood were practically lost now. The Duke of Northcraven was a prisoner in his own keep, and the Auligs ravaged all of his lands. Zoric stood behind their king, but their own duke was tainted with the name of being a smuggler, and none would support him. Diminios was too distant and too poor to matter, and Orr and Brenwater would fall behind whoever held the King’s Town.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 81
