The Dog of the North

by Tim Stretton

  Fanrolio nodded. ‘Very well. Monetto, will you bring him in?’

  Monetto looked at Beauceron. Davanzato caught the glance. ‘Your Puissance—’

  Fanrolio waved an irritated hand. ‘Not now, Davanzato. I wish to hear no further objections. May I not seek health?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Enough.’

  Seconds later Monetto stepped back into the room, followed by Mongrissore and Quinto in his green and white apothecary’s cape. Beauceron, who was watching intently, saw Davanzato sag in his chair. His olive complexion blanched. ‘Your Puissance,’ he said. ‘I am indisposed. You must excuse me.’

  Beauceron gave a wry smile. ‘Fortunately an apothecary is on hand. You need not depart.’

  Fanrolio peered at Quinto. ‘You are welcome, sir. Beauceron speaks highly of your healing skills.’

  Quinto looked at the ground and mumbled.

  Beauceron interjected. ‘Your Puissance, matters would go more expeditiously if the good Quinto were allowed to make a statement before we proceed to a consultation.’

  Fanrolio’s expression of puzzlement deepened. Quinto gave Beauceron a plaintive look. Davanzato made as if to rise; Monetto moved towards the door to prevent his exit.

  ‘I am come before the Council,’ said Quinto in a faltering voice, ‘to confess to my wicked deeds. I have been suborned from my oath of healing to do great wrong.’

  Davanzato gave a brassy laugh. ‘What buffoonery is this? The man is clearly addled in his wits. If every man who had beaten his wife confessed before the King, he would have no time to rule the realm.’

  ‘I think we must hear this,’ said Lord Gionardo. ‘I sense this is more than a casual blow against a pert wife.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Quinto. ‘I am the apothecary who has been treating the indisposition of the Chamberlain.’

  Fanrolio’s eyes rose in surprise. ‘How does good Osver-gario?’

  ‘My lord, his malady was never as severe as you had believed. At the instigation of Under-Chamberlain Davanzato, I administered herbs which kept him prostrated. Sirs, in simple language I poisoned him.’

  Virnesto rose from his seat. ‘This cannot be!’

  Brissio’s hand went to his belt, before he remembered that swords were not worn in the King’s presence.

  ‘The man is a lunatic!’ cried Davanzato. ‘He should be whipped for his impudence.’

  King Fanrolio spoke slowly. ‘Davanzato, we will hear no more from you for now. Master Quinto, please continue.’

  ‘The Chamberlain fell sick four years ago, and Davanzato asked me to attend him. I confirmed that his illness, a griping of the guts, was transitory and brought on by simple gluttony. This news did not please Davanzato. By one indirection and another he insinuated that he would be grateful if Osvergario’s recovery were deferred, perhaps indefinitely. There was talk of money and, good sirs, my affairs were not well-placed.’ He stood slightly taller. ‘I said that under no circumstances would I kill the Chamberlain. Davanzato said that was very well, since he did not wish him dead. “Chronic incapacitation” was the term he used. I came to understand that by this method Davanzato would enjoy all of the powers of the Chamberlain’s post; if Osvergario died, the King would appoint a new Chamberlain, who would not be Davanzato.’

  He fell silent. The weight become oppressive for Quinto, who added: ‘I am most heartily sorry, my lords. I never imagined that I would need to continue for four years. I asked Davanzato to stop long ago; he told me that exposure would mean my death, and he was not yet minded to change his policies. You may do as you will with me.’

  ‘Where is the proof!’ said Davanzato in a flat rapid voice. ‘This is the rambling of a halfwit.’

  ‘My lords, there is proof aplenty,’ said Mongrissore. ‘We know the herbs Quinto acquired, and the uses to which he put them. We have found the medicines he keeps for Osvergario, and tested them upon an unfortunate dog, now dead.’

  ‘My agency cannot be inferred!’ shouted Davanzato.

  ‘If it please Your Puissance,’ said Beauceron, ‘I would bring another man before you.’

  Fanrolio scratched his pate. ‘The room is scarcely big enough for your drama, Beauceron. Nonetheless, proceed if you wish.’

  Beauceron nodded at Monetto, who stepped from the room once again. There was an audible gasp – from Davanzato perhaps – as he re-entered, with Lady Cosetta and, leaning on her arm, a frail-seeming elderly man.

  ‘Osvergario!’ exclaimed Fanrolio.

  The Chamberlain essayed an inflexible bow. ‘Your Puissance, I have been away too long. I am ready to resume my duties.’

  Davanzato gave a tinny laugh. ‘Osvergario, I am delighted to see you in such good health. I had been given to understand your condition was grave. I gladly relinquish my temporary duties!’

  Mongrissore stepped quietly forward, with his legulier’s skill of commanding attention with the most understated gestures.

  ‘My lords, one week ago we ceased to dose Osvergario with the medicines provided by Quinto. The result is the remarkable recovery we see before us. My own apothecary says that with a month or two of proper care, the Chamberlain’s recovery will be complete.’

  Fanrolio turned in his chair to look at Davanzato. ‘You have much to explain.’

  ‘And so I can, Your Puissance!’

  ‘Not today. Virnesto, bring guards and Tintazzo. Davanzato will be a guest at Darkstone tonight.’

  ‘No!’ roared Davanzato. ‘My service, my loyalty! This is intolerable! All the while you fawn and flatter the traitor Beauceron.’

  Guards had appeared as if from nowhere. Davanzato was dragged off, still bellowing in his outrage.

  ‘Lord Gionardo,’ said Fanrolio mildly. ‘Please see that Davanzato is brought before me for trial in short order.’

  Yes, Your Puissance.’

  2

  The next day Beauceron was summoned back to the Occonero before a specially convened King’s Council. Chamberlain Osvergario had taken his rightful place, although Beauceron noticed an unhealthy pallor. The other members of the Council were also present.

  ‘I apologize for summoning you in this way, Beauceron,’ said Fanrolio. ‘The spring draws ever closer, and decisions must be made.’

  ‘I am at your disposal, Your Puissance.’

  ‘I was favourably impressed by your proposals yesterday,’ said Fanrolio. ‘I am an old man, and disinclined for the business of war, but the pressures of state are paramount. I will this day issue the orders for the Winter Armies to be mobilized and to march on Croad: nothing less is consistent with the dignity of the Northern Reach.’

  Beauceron felt a surge of exultation. Fanrolio had approved the plan: Croad would feel his vengeance.

  ‘Nonetheless,’ continued Fanrolio, ‘there are certain aspects of your plan which require modification.’

  Beauceron narrowed his eyes. It would be easy for compromises to undermine the scheme altogether.

  ‘First, and most importantly, I do not consider you the most suitable candidate to lead the army. Your counsel and your martial prowess will be invaluable, of course, but – for several reasons – you are not the best choice for leadership.’

  Beauceron looked across to Captain-General Virnesto, whose face was blank. The old soldier had outmanoeuvred him.

  ‘We must all learn to take our just place in the world,’ continued the King. ‘This applies to great and humble alike. The time has come for Prince Brissio to assume the mantle of leadership, and the Winter Army will march under his banner.’

  Brissio’s eyes shone. He shot Beauceron a glance of sly triumph. Virnesto remained expressionless. Beauceron merely shook his head.

  ‘Your Puissance,’ he said, ‘with all due respect, such an assault must be led by an experienced commander. Prince Brissio’s valour is not in doubt—’

  ‘Enough,’ said Fanrolio in a stronger voice than Beauceron remembered. ‘Who is King here?’

  Beauceron bowed his head
at this presumably rhetorical question.

  ‘Prince Brissio will one day – alas, too soon! – become Winter King of Mettingloom. I would have him a seasoned battle commander on that day, the more so given the somewhat bloodthirsty leanings of Prince Laertio. He must have around him advisers of sound judgement, and his orders will include the requirement to consult both the Captain-General and yourself: nonetheless, command rests with my son. In addition, Prince Brissio will command the cavalry, Virnesto the infantry. Beauceron, you will be responsible for the siege engines. If you find these terms unacceptable, you may withdraw without prejudice.’

  Beauceron looked around the table. Brissio stared back with a malicious grin; Virnesto gave a quizzical glance, while Lord Gionardo looked bored. Chamberlain Osvergario’s guileless blue eyes danced; it was here, Beauceron realized, that Fanrolio’s decision had originated. Beauceron’s scheme was sound, but the Council did not trust him. The credit for any success would go to Brissio.

  He set his mouth. He cared nothing for credit; Brissio could claim to have invented the moon. What was more alarming was Brissio’s certain incompetence. He was capable of leading the entire army to destruction, or of sitting outside Croad until Enguerran appeared and obliterated the northern force. But there was no choice. He went with Brissio, or he did not go at all.

  ‘Your Puissance, I accept your commission. I will follow the Prince to Croad and give my best counsel and battle to ensure its fall.’

  Fanrolio beamed. ‘Excellent! With such a harmonious command, how can we fail? Virnesto, see to it that the fleet is ready to sail within the week. I will not be cheated of my victory by the spring.’

  ‘Brissio is a dangerous man: vindictive, stubborn, stupid. It is an unfortunate combination.’

  Beauceron stood on the dockside where Virnesto superintended the lading of his fleet of cogs.

  ‘He lacks experience, for sure,’ said Virnesto, rubbing a hand across his grey hair. ‘He will have need of good advice.’

  ‘You are too generous. We both know he will not take advice, and in addition he nurtures a resentment against me.’

  ‘You cannot expect my sympathy,’ said Virnesto. ‘If you had wished to secure Brissio’s good opinion, you should not have conspired against his father.’

  ‘I was—’

  ‘Acquitted, yes, I know. That is scarcely to the point. You have courted Brissio’s enmity: now you are under his command, and wish you had been more tractable.’

  ‘He will wreck the invasion.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Virnesto. ‘You have the siege engines, I have the infantry. There is little damage Brissio can do to himself with the cavalry.’

  ‘What if Oricien sallies forth from Croad? Brissio could not command a battle.’

  Virnesto peered at him intently. ‘You have assured everyone who will listen that Oricien is of timid disposition, and will sit behind his walls. I hope you did not say that for simple advantage.’

  ‘I am affronted,’ said Beauceron mildly. ‘Oricien will be disinclined to fight; but if it is forced upon him, an army commanded by the Prince will not shine.’

  ‘What use is cavalry in a siege? His role will be peripheral.’

  ‘That will not stop him trying to settle scores with me.’

  ‘That is a problem of your own making. Do not expect me to be interested. If your personal safety is of such concern, you may remain in Mettingloom with the King.’

  ‘You know I care nothing for my safety; but I do not wish to die either through Brissio’s malice or his incompetence.’

  3

  Beauceron broke early one afternoon from supervising the drilling of his men and walked over to that part of the Occonero where Isola was lodged. The sun was beginning to generate warmth as well as light, and spring could not be far away. How ironic it would be if his plans were ended by green shoots.

  He had not seen Isola since she testified against him at his treason trial. She had been Davanzato’s dupe, and he had to acknowledge that he had no claim on her loyalty. Her attitude was harder to read: her initial resentment had softened and at times she had seemed almost to show a regard for him.

  Isola had been reinstalled in her old suite and Beauceron was escorted up the stairs by a servant. ‘You must be careful, sir,’ said the maid. ‘Her humour is unstable.’

  ‘This is not a new situation,’ said Beauceron. ‘She has always been an unpredictable woman.’

  The maid shook her head. ‘This is something different. I hope you can bring her some comfort.’

  The maid took Beauceron into Isola’s parlour. ‘Captain Beauceron, my lady.’ She bowed and withdrew as rapidly as consistent with her dignity.

  Lady Isola looked up from her couch with bloodshot eyes, her hair straggling and her skin pasty.

  ‘Beauceron,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘You have come to gloat at my misfortune.’

  ‘Isola – my lady – you know that is not the case. I was simply concerned that we should not part on bad terms.’

  ‘“Part”? Am I going home?’

  Beauceron grimaced. ‘It is I who am leaving,’ he said. ‘The invasion against Croad proceeds. We sail the day after tomorrow.’

  Isola gave Beauceron a long unfathomable look. ‘You are remorseless, and implacable. I should not like to be Oricien. I think he will not live to hang you after all.’

  ‘That was always my intention,’ said Beauceron, sitting on a couch opposite her, since Isola did not seem inclined to offer.

  ‘I no longer care,’ said Isola heavily. Beauceron noticed a new puffiness to her cheeks. ‘Oricien does not deserve my loyalty, and it may be you do not deserve my enmity. I have found little enough kindness here: does it matter if you all kill each other?’

  ‘My lady, your perspective is unduly gloomy.’

  A flash of the old Isola appeared in her dark eyes. ‘I fail to see the benefits of my situation. I am forgotten in this garret, no one will pay my ransom, I have been kidnapped by you and threatened by Davanzato, and there is no chance I will ever go home. If it were not for my good friend langensnap life would be intolerable.’ She reached for the flask at her side and filled her glass.

  With a sudden burst of energy, Isola sprang from her couch and knelt before Beauceron, taking his hands. ‘Take me with you, Beauceron! When you march south, return me to Croad. You no longer have any need to worry about ransoms, or flattering Fanrolio.’

  Beauceron pulled his hands away. ‘You are not mine to take. Fanrolio holds your ransom in his gift.’

  ‘You kidnapped me once! Can you not do so again?’

  Beauceron pursed his lips. ‘The course is inadvisable; in any event, I should hardly be helping you by returning you to a city I intend to sack.’

  ‘The risk is mine,’ she said. ‘From Croad I can make my way to Glount, and thence to Sey.’

  Beauceron stroked his chin. Isola would not be an ideal travelling companion; she might even cause mischief at Croad. Her value as a hostage would be negligible, since Oricien did not care enough to raise a ransom. Now was not the time for sentiment.

  ‘I will raise the question with the King,’ he said. ‘I see no reason to be optimistic’

  Isola looked at him with brimming eyes. ‘You must help me! I will die here!’

  ‘You must not overdramatize the situation. I am more likely to die than you; I am off to war.’

  ‘Loneliness and misery kill every bit as effectively.’

  ‘I can only speak to the King. If I do not see you again, you must know that I bear you no ill-will for your testimony. It is all policy, and you are a victim.’

  Isola seemed to have difficulty speaking. ‘Go now,’ she said in a thick voice. ‘There is no more to say.’

  4

  The ice on the aquavias had thinned and in some places thawed. It was no longer possible to walk safely upon it, nor yet possible for the wherries to navigate the waterways. Beauceron therefore took a circuitous route from the Occonero to the Printe
mpi, the last stage of the journey undertaken in a small boat across the deeper water separating the Summer Court from the rest of the city.

  The great lobby of the Printempi was all but empty. In winter few had reason to visit the Summer Court. Beauceron approached a factotum and asked if Lady Cosetta was on hand; the man scurried away to find out. It was by no means a foregone conclusion; Cosetta maintained a formidable social schedule in her enthusiasm to extract the maximum advantage from her situation.

  Beauceron looked from a nearby window into a courtyard where a patch of bare earth was on display. This was the home of Tardolio’s horticulturalists, where every effort was made to cause plants to bloom, and thus prove spring to have arrived. At the centre of the effort was a man of indeterminate age with a shock of white hair. Beauceron looked on in astonishment, for it was a face he recognized. His first impulse was to shrink back behind a pillar; this was hardly consistent with the Dog of the North, and instead he stepped out boldly into the courtyard.

  ‘Good afternoon to you, sir.’

  The man turned and bowed. ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘I know you, do I not?’

  ‘My identity is no secret. I am Pintuccio, King Tardolio’s thaumaturge.’ He scrutinized Beauceron’s face. ‘I know you of course; although not the name that you presently use.’

  ‘I am Beauceron, called by some the Dog of the North.’

  ‘Ah! Your life has not taken the path I might have expected.’

  ‘My title is all part of the menace necessary to a successful brigand. I would prefer you not to advertise the name under which you originally knew me.’

  Pintuccio made a negligent gesture. ‘The subject holds little interest for me; I have no appetite for casual gossip. If you wish to cultivate an air of mystery, it is of no concern to me.’

  ‘Your own name is now different.’

  Pintuccio shrugged. ‘Here I am Pintuccio; in Emmen I am Pinch. Neither is my true name. I go where I will.’

  ‘I did not expect to find you in Mettingloom, nor a horticulturalist. Is this not a demeaning calling for a man of your learning?’

  ‘You never understood the way of the thaumaturge in Croad; neither do you now. In the winter, the blooms lie dormant; dead even. Yet come the spring and they burst forth in such abundance that no power can check them. What is the source of such wonder, the birth of life itself? It is hard to see such study as “demeaning” or trivial. The thaumaturge must always follow his own way.’