She raised her eyes a little and looked askance. “Noble blood? Is mine not noble enough?”
“It is the guns of Ivrea and the wealth of that city that he hopes to secure. That and an elevation of our family to the aristocracy of Valdur. A mer princess cannot confer that in his eyes.”
“But the treasure we dredge from the depths for you is considered most acceptable.” She gently pushed away from him, holding his hands in hers. “And it was your father who began that arrangement. Now I must try and heal the wound that myrra has inflicted on my people.”
Danamis lowered his head. “You are leaving still, to see your father then?”
“I am.”
“Citala, take a small bundle of myrra at least. If it is like strong drink is with us you must do this thing slowly. I will gladly give it to you from the stash locked in the storehouse.”
“I have considered that. A small amount would only serve as a prize to be fought over.”
Danamis squeezed her hands. “Think again, my love. You yourself told me that Atalapah would come here with his warriors if they run out of the leaf. What do you think will happen then? If they attack the city they will be destroyed. Our bowmen will see to that. You gave your people the choice of returning to Valdur without myrra or staying at Nod’s Rock to remain as they were. They have made that choice. Give them the myrra.”
She blinked, that slow way the merfolk did, that which he had once thought a sign of confusion, he now knew to be one of irritation. “You think I should give them the means to poison themselves?”
“If it is their choice. Save those who wish to be saved. Many mermen have already joined the colony. Others yet could.”
She suddenly backed away as if a sound had disturbed her. But Nicolo heard nothing.
“Citala?”
It was only then he glimpsed Necalli ascending the great marble staircase to the hall of apartments where they were standing. He glided towards them and gave a court bow, the voluminous sleeves of his elegant silk-like robes swallowing his hands fully.
“Captain Danamis, I give you greetings of the day!” He looked at Citala, his wide thin-lipped mouth breaking into a smile. He spoke to her in the mer tongue and bowed once again. Citala returned the bow—barely—and answered him. He blinked once and replied, but in Valdurian.
“Until I am ready to return. Or when Lord Valerian wishes me to or when he decides to voyage once again. I still have much to learn about Valdur. I was once an explorer even as is Lord Valerian.”
Citala looked aside to Danamis. “I asked him how long he planned to remain in our kingdom.”
Danamis laughed, uncomfortably, knowing Citala’s distrust of the South Sea merman.
“I might ask you the same question, Citala,” said Necalli. “The fact that we speak the same tongue—after a fashion at least—tells me that your people were once among mine. Perhaps, sometime, we could affect a return to your homeland.”
Citala stood straight, shoulders thrust back. Nicolo gently reached for her forearm, warning her. But she smiled broadly at the merman. “We might weigh the possibility that the origins are the other way around.”
Necalli chuckled. “If you could see my kingdom you would be in no doubt of the truth of my words, and the mistakenness of yours.”
Citala voice dropped lower. “Then we must leave it there until one may prove it to the other.”
Necalli bowed again. “I go to see Lord Valerian now. He needs more details for his chart of the southern sea.” He turned and walked down the hall, his long-fingers twitching from out his sleeves like curious snails.
“Hahthlxi,” she mumbled. Danamis didn’t ask for the translation. “I will take you to Nod’s Rock,” he said, grasping her hand again. “You can bring myrra with you, or not. As you choose. But you should see your father again. And your people.”
“Perhaps you should go back to pirating again as you once told me. Leave the rule of Palestro to your father. There is a world out there and many ships for the taking. We could be together upon the seas with no one to tell us what is not possible.”
Danamis kissed her cheek. “My Citala, that is a dream and a wish most inviting.”
She stroked his fine, close-cropped beard. “Then make it come true.”
THE CITY OF Maresto was bursting with soldiery: half-trained city militiamen armed with spears and bills; cynical mercenaries of three separate companies (as happy to scrap with each other as much as the enemy), and Duke Alonso’s own haughty men-at-arms, each one trailing a legion of grooms and attendants. Dressed in his black-etched breastplate worn over his fine woollen robes and wearing a pair of tall riding boots, Coronel Strykar was following his commander, Malvolio, and his guard of honour across the piazza that led to the main entrance of the ducal palace. He looked up at the edifice he knew so well. The russet sandstone walls, crenelated and dagged, always reminded him of some giant beast’s jawbone, jagged teeth raking the sky. Had he been born on the right side of the blanket, it might also now be his home. Even so, he knew the place well now that his half-brother had come to depend upon him. Or was it merely blood loyalty, bastard though he was?
He had been held at arm’s length his whole life. Gifts arrived for him every year, a pony when he was ten. But such things only made him the butt of jealousy by others even if his benefactor was only guessed at. He first met Alonso when he was twelve. Brought to the palazzo once a month by his unseen father to amuse the elder half-sibling lord, to play, to learn about the court. Yet he was ever the outsider. The three-year difference in age was a chasm, and Strykar bore it as best he could: all the jibes, the insults, the condescending curiosity about who—or what—he really was. Alonso knew he was blood, even if not quite one of them. In the years to follow, the distance between them remained, an invisible wall. Maintained even when all the court knew who he was. He was an oddity, a relation without purpose. His father’s last fall from a wild destrier brought Alonso to the dukedom and Strykar closer to Alonso. His life in the Black Rose had hastened that change too. As Strykar’s reputation had grown, so had the wall begun to crumble. A Valdur duke needs loyal swords to keep a coronet on his brow and shared blood is better than none.
The great oak gates swung inward to admit them, a dour party of ducal guardsmen ushering the Count and Strykar deeper into the cavernous palace and up a staircase that was wide enough to encompass twenty men—in armour.
Malvolio turned to Strykar. “What will he decide, I wonder? You seem to have his ear more in the last several months. More than I do, it seems.”
“I will tell him what I told you,” replied Strykar over the din of the clanking guardsmen, climbing the stairs. “What I’ve seen up north. A bloody shambles of the border towns. Torinia need to be taught a lesson—and soon. Ursino has had an easy run of things until now.”
Duke Alonso was waiting for them in his private conference chamber, fire blazing in the hearth. Three heavy grotesque armchairs, sparkling with gold leaf, was all the furniture within. The soldiers of the Black Rose bowed low and Alonso beckoned them to be seated. Two guardsmen took up station near the door, their polearms thudding as they stood to attention. Strykar immediately noticed that there were no advisors with the Duke, not even Lord Renaldo, his most trusted. That could bode well or ill in equal measure.
Alonso leaned back after they had seated themselves. “Well, what news has the Black Rose of the north?” Malvolio, a short, wide man built like a bull mastiff cleared his dagger and scabbard which had become stuck in the arm of the chair and bowed his head again.
“Your Grace, Coronel Strykar has briefed me upon his return and I would leave it to him to tell what he has seen on his travels.”
Alonso looked over to his half-brother. “Coronel?”
Strykar cleared his throat. “It’s a sad tale to tell, your Grace. Persarola sacked. Most every village within ten miles of it raided as well. Most folk have fled to Palio and Istriana.”
“Who led the invasion?”
/> “The standard of the Company of the Blue Boar was sighted by many. This was no raid by rogue cohorts. It was organized—well-planned. It was intended to terrify the inhabitants. To drive them away to remake the border. I saw a pedlar who had come through Persarola not one week ago. He told me that new folk were coming from the east to take over the surrounding villages and hamlets.”
Alonso looked up to the rafters in what Strykar thought was a silent cry to heaven. Or a curse. “We no sooner put an end to the mutiny in Palestro and the threat to the wool fleet and now we are rewarded with this.”
“There is more, your Grace. I have seen the High Steward of Livorna and also the new Captain-General of the Temple Majoris—Brother Acquel.”
Alonso’s brow creased. “Yes. That awkward monk who accompanied you and Lord Danamis last summer. Still can’t fathom how he merits his command despite his visions from the saints.”
“He is convinced that Torinia is bent on invading Livorna and overthrowing the High Priest and the Nine. If that is true, it would cut Maresto off from that city and give Ursino control over the north. Ursino has already declared the new commandments heresy. His excuse to clean out Livorna to his liking.” He reached to his belt and produced a folded piece of parchment. “Brother Acquel has given me this letter for you.”
Alonso plucked it from Strykar’s fingers but did not open it. “Well, I have given him what he asked for—arms and armour to support his new military order. What else could he want?”
“He asked for troops from me. He fears his own force will not make ready in time to defend Livorna and the Ara.”
“Will it?”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Alonso waved the packet in his hand. “All, no doubt, explained in here.”
Strykar nodded. “He is greatly worried. And he fears a wider war what with the faith now splitting at the seams. And he may have cause, I must admit.”
“I’m not bothered by these new commandments or the rediscovered texts. I like the merfolk. Why Ursino has to shout and bluster about heresy I don’t understand. He’s a trumped-up, self-important fool.”
“Aye, well the monks say that Ursino’s heart is hardened by a canoness who is a witch in disguise. She guides his hand. Maybe even through the dark arts.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Strykar shrugged. “Your Grace, there are strange reports across the north. And what I witnessed in Ivrea last summer made hard men weep. This woman, whether witch or not, is bending Ursino’s mind and it is to make war upon us.”
The Duke turned to Malvolio. “What forces do we face over the border?”
“Our spies say there are three full companies in the north and another two billeted outside Torinia itself. He also can call upon his own men-at-arms. Combined force in the north perhaps seven or eight thousand men. In the south, six thousand—maybe more.”
Strykar leaned forward. “Your Grace, let us take the fight to them. Over the border.”
The Duke of Maresto arched an eyebrow at his half-brother. “To match their numbers in the north we would risk leaving the city exposed. What makes you think they won’t try striking us here in the south after they have lured you into the provinces?”
“Because they want to take the north from Maresto,” replied the mercenary, irritation rising. “And we owe it to the folk there to save their women, their children and their homes. The insult of Persarola cannot be allowed to stand!”
Malvolio stood, harness jangling, and turned on Strykar. “Have a care, Coronel! You forget your place.”
Strykar slumped back into the overstuffed chair. “My passions run ahead of me. I beg your forgiveness.”
The Duke raised a hand and motioned for Malvolio to be seated. “I am used to his outbursts by now. But mark me, Strykar, your passions will be your undoing. I know vendetta burns in you—for your family—but do not let it master you. Let the Blue Boar come to you.”
“Is the blood debt not to be repaid? I have waited ten years to have Coronel Aretini’s head on a pole. That is a long wait to see justice served for a murderous reiver like him.”
“Your Grace speaks wisely, as always,” said Malvolio, more than a hint of oiliness to his tone. “The last thing we need is to get bogged down in a siege in Torinia. We know they are preparing another thrust into the duchy, maybe further north towards Livorna. We can be ready to take them in the field in open battle.”
Strykar’s jaw clamped shut and he held his tongue. The Count’s implication was clear. A few more villages and towns would have to be sacrificed to lure the Torinians deeper into Maresto in order for them to choose the most advantageous ground for battle. But Strykar had never believed in giving ground to an enemy. Nor would he start to do so.
“I will sanction any battle you can bring against the Torinian companies,” said Alonso, “but use your best judgement in doing so. I cannot give you more than your own lances, spearmen, and rondelieri—plus those of the Company of the Scarlet Ring. Maresto city must be safeguarded so my men-at-arms will remain here.”
Malvolio bowed his head in acknowledgement.
“And we must look to our allies,” continued Alonso. “Now that the old pirate is back in Palestro, the younger Danamis should have plenty of time to strike against the Torinian fleet. That will keep Ursino occupied. His coffers must already be getting low with half his trade taken in the last few months. And we should pursue these orichalcum guns for our own army. Why should Danamis and the Ivreans be the only ones to benefit?”
“Why indeed,” agreed Malvolio. Strykar said nothing but bridled at the man’s arse-licking puffery. He wasn’t sure just what arrangement Danamis had with the Ivreans but he was sure that his pirate friend would not be keen to sell any orichalcum guns—not even to an ally. He had seen first-hand how the cannon could turn a stout carrack into kindling in minutes.
“Shall you convene a battle council, your Grace? With the other commanders? Time is crucial and the season well under way. The roads are dry up north now.”
“I have already given Lord Renaldo orders to do so. For the morrow. And Coronel, I would like you to go to Palestro before you take your column north again. Admiral Danamis is your friend. See if he will not part with some of his artillery for our sake.” Strykar prevented his jaw from dropping by giving a nod. Was he supposed to negotiate a price on his own? And that was even assuming his old business partner and sometime friend would countenance parting with part of his valuable arsenal.
The door at the far side of the chamber opened and a round-shouldered Renaldo entered as if he had heard his name. Clutching a piece of paper, he scuttled over to the Duke’s chair and bent to whisper in his ear. Strykar saw that the old man was as white as a ghost, his eyes fairly bulging with excitement—or concern. And as Renaldo whispered urgently, he watched Alonso’s face fall, a veil of disbelief descending on it. Malvolio had noticed it too, throwing a concerned glance to him and shifting on his cushion. Slowly, the Duke reached for the paper that Renaldo’s shaking hand was offering. Alonso’s eyes squinted as he read. He lowered his arms and looked at the mercenaries before him.
Malvolio leaned forward. “Your Grace?”
At length, the Duke found his voice. “The king is dead. A few days ago.”
Strykar sat upright and Malvolio began to stutter. “What? How did it happen? He was not ill.”
The Duke’s eyes went to the letter again. “He was bitten. By that damned cockatrice he kept as a pet. Bit his hand and he was dead after one night. I did not know they were... venomous.” He trailed off as all the implications began to sink in.
“Sempronius dead. Saints preserve us,” muttered Malvolio.
“Queen Cressida has declared herself regent. The prince is only ten.”
Strykar remembered his meeting with the king in the last summer. A fool more interested in his gaming and sport than his kingdom. And he himself had given that damned cockatrice a sideways glance as it had skulked around the hal
ls like some hungry dog, its beady blood-red eyes never blinking. But this news was badly timed indeed. And then he suddenly remembered the royal hunt where the cornered satyr gave his prophecy of coming war—a war that he said the king would not live to see.
“Your Grace. Does not Duke Ursino have some blood claim to the throne? Cousin to Sempronius?”
The Duke looked up, distractedly. “Yes, I believe he does. What are you suggesting? That he would challenge the succession to Prince Sarant?”
“Now would be the time to make his move.”
“Unlikely when he is otherwise occupied with us,” added Renaldo, annoyed at the mercenary’s boldness.
Alonso shook his head firmly. “No. What would be his cause to make such a claim for the throne? Even if he is of the blood.”
Strykar looked over to Malvolio, and then back to the Duke. “Bastardy... for a start.”
Renaldo laughed explosively, before he remembered his place and bowed low to the Duke. “Forgiveness, your Grace. But that notion is nonsense.”
“I know,” replied Strykar, “that Nicolo Danamis was close to the queen before her marriage to Sempronius. The boy was born just nine months later. It could have been his. Few alive know any of this, and Danamis’s romance was quickly quashed by the House of Guldi. But I would bet good money that Ursino has somehow found out as well. More to the point, the queen handed Danamis a sack of gold as big as a boar’s head when we left Perusia last summer to fight the mutineers. Without the king’s permission. She made quite a show of it.”
Alonso shook his head. “Bastardy could never be proven.”
“With respect, your Grace, it does not have to be. The suspicion will give him cause to challenge. Torinia sits on the edge of Perusia. The Queen’s household has no more than two thousand soldiers, I warrant. He could lay a siege without breaking a sweat.”
Malvolio continued the line of reason. “Then it would be civil war. Every duchy and the free cities taking sides.”
The Witch of Torinia Page 7
