As Aram swung back into line and began moving up the valley alongside the men, his mood darkened. He had believed all along that the grim lord would move against them at the coming of spring; nonetheless, he had allowed himself to harbor a small hope against that belief. He had wanted to impose a semblance of order on the resistance to the grim lord. Part of that deeply held desire had been his plan to make all of Wallensia free.
Once that had been accomplished, the frontier of the free lands would be pushed to the very borders of Elam and the edge of the northern plains. Aram could then work on establishing a friendship or at least an understanding with Cumberland and perhaps even Elam, which would allow him to maintain that frontier at the gap that ran northward into the plains, allowing him to prosecute the war from a relatively secure base. He now had to abandon such ideas in order to prepare his forces to march back along this very road in a few weeks’ time and face a formidable enemy force somewhere near the entrance to the plains, with uncertainty to his west, and servants of the enemy still in control of regions behind him. And though Kitchell of Cumberland had seemed a reasonable sort of man, the information that he had about Rahm, High Prince of Elam, was cause for dismay. Besides all that, there was Joktan's assertion that he must find a way to “subdue” that great land.
His mood grew blacker and once again he moved Thaniel away from the column and brought him to a halt. Elam, it appeared, might become more than just an erstwhile ally of the grim lord; its ruler might very well decide that he was Aram's avowed enemy as well. If that happened, disaster threatened.
There was only one real hope. Aram would have to prepare his men, meet Manon out on the plains, and somehow defeat his forces again. That would buy more time, and maybe give Elam pause, cause its prince to consider his future actions with greater care. But there was his main worry, and visiting it once again pushed his thoughts into even darker regions – would his army stand up to a force of gray men and lashers, foes that most of these men had never seen? Or would it run?
The tiny force of Derosans seemed solid. They knew Aram, had known success under his leadership and would likely face up to danger well enough again. Duridia, because of its border’s long proximity to danger would probably show its mettle as well. Governor Boman exuded determination and quiet strength which would translate to his troops. But what about Lamont?
Aram had watched the men from the east as they trained. They seemed eager and willing and took the training regimen seriously enough, but many of them also acted as if they were on some grand lark, exhibiting a rather cavalier attitude toward the coming conflict. It was as if fighting, injury, and death might not ever come upon their horizon – that they were involved in an exciting but rather harmless adventure, a romp through exotic and foreign lands. Edwar, of course, had seen action, had a clear understanding of the peril, and had witnessed Aram's prowess. But he was only one man among so many – the group which was by far the largest contingent of Aram's army.
Turning aside once again, he sent a thought skyward. “Lord Alvern?”
“I am here, Lord Aram.”
“I want the progress of the grim lord's army tracked very carefully,” he told the eagle. “I want as much control of the timing of the battle as you can give me. When that army arrives on the southern plains, just north of these hills, I want to be waiting there to meet it.”
“I understand,” the eagle answered. “Every hawk between here and Bracken has been alerted, and I will go with Kipwing to observe so that you may know when it will come.”
Aram looked up in response. “I also do not wish to arrive upon the plains too early and stretch my lines of supply.”
“Kipwing is very good at judging distance and time, my lord. We will not fail to give you good information.”
“Thank you.” Aram nodded, satisfied, and though his dark mood remained, Alvern's perception of what was required lifted the clouds of gloom a little. He agreed with the ancient eagle's assessment of Kipwing's latent abilities and granting the younger eagle the latitude to render judgment was the result he had wanted to achieve without offending Alvern. He spoke to Thaniel and they rejoined the long column of men marching eastward. He had six or seven weeks before the army would have to retrace its steps back along this very road. He must use that time wisely.
9.
After leaving the main highway, and spending one night in a nearby inn, Marcus and his driver took another well-paved road to the east, toward the distant green hills. This was the province of Basura, home to one of the most ancient families in Elam. In the days of Marcus' father, Heglund Basura had been High Chancellor of the council and his son, Amund, the chief instructor at – and Dean of – the Great Academy at Eremand, in the south upon the sea. Amund had been a visiting instructor at the university in Vergon where Marcus was completing his education when death had taken the royal house. The two had formed a close bond during that difficult time and through the years that followed Amund had taken on the role of surrogate father to the young, orphaned prince.
With the death of Waren and the ascendency of Rahm, the Basura family had fallen from favor, and these days seldom sent a representative to council, often ignoring official writ and maintaining a sort of autonomous city-state inside the eastern borders of Elam proper. Nor did they send their daughters north, flatly refusing to engage in the conscription of their young women. It was an explosive situation and one that would inevitably reach a critical stage, but for now High Prince Rahm and Heglund Basura both preferred to pretend that all was relatively well and that the disagreements between them were merely political, nothing more, and therefore soluble. But Marcus knew better, and Amund, by a word here and there, had acceded to that which Marcus already believed. The animus that existed between the mighty House of Basura and the throne in Farenaire was the seed from which might one day soon spring civil war.
The day started out pleasantly enough but grew increasingly warm as they went eastward. This was farming country, with rich earth and prosperous holdings. Here and there along the route, towns and villages fronted the road, granaries and storehouses abounded, but as the cart traveled on toward the forested hills, those scattered centers of population began to take on a decidedly martial look. Lookout towers, newly built, occupied all the high places and gated defensive walls crowded up to the roadside at the entrances to each village. Though the gates were open, there were armed men standing about near each of them, making every attempt to appear casual, but their attention was firmly fixed on every oxcart that trundled past.
The sun had slipped several hours past midday when they came to Tobol, Basura’s second-largest city. Here, they were actually detained for a while on the pretext that there was an issue with a bridge that crossed a stream on the far side of the city. Word finally came that the bridge “was capable of accepting traffic” and Marcus and his driver were allowed to move on toward the east.
Evening drew on as they came to a much larger city where the gates were closed.
“Stop here, Rald,” Marcus instructed his driver when they were within a hundred yards of the gates. “I'll walk on.”
He got down from the cart and studied the closed gates of the city. There were towers to each side and the men on the parapets made no effort at concealment. This was the heart of Basura lands; their capitol lay just beyond those high walls and towers. The great family clearly intended that anyone coming into this region be made to understand that there was power here.
Marcus kept his eyes on the gates as he spoke to Rald. “Move to the side of the road and let the ox have some grass. Do you have food and drink?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Good. I'll either be back and we'll leave or I'll send someone for you if I decide that it's alright to stay.”
“As you wish, Your Highness.”
As he walked toward the entrance to the city, Marcus glanced back at the sun. In no more than one or two hours it would abandon the sky. Night would come quickly on and he and
his driver would need to find lodgings. Hopefully, his old teacher would be amenable to entertaining his one-time favorite pupil. Marcus and Amund's relationship was one that required each of them to be cautious and circumspect, especially since it was becoming increasingly difficult to act as if it were purely academic in nature rather than personal and conspiratorial.
Allowing the throne to learn of his abiding interest in Janifera, the lovely and fetching niece of his old tutor would alleviate much of the suspicion, reducing his interest in Basura province – at least in the mind of the High Prince – to a level that would be considered more carnal than political. Marcus understood this, but was loath to allow his uncle access to the knowledge of that which, for him, had become something almost sacred.
He stopped a dozen paces from the gates. Up close, they were quite impressive, solid, well-built, and imposing.
A bearded face looked down at him from the parapet. “Prince Marcus?”
Marcus looked up, studied the face. “Do I know you?” He asked.
“No, but I know you, Your Highness.”
“Are the gates of Sevas always closed these days?”
There was a moment's hesitation, then, “No, Your Highness, just for today. Chancellor Heglund ordered them closed after luncheon – I don't know why. For an inspection of some kind, I think.” As Marcus stifled a smile at the obvious lie, he also took note that even nine years after he'd left the office, Heglund Basura's people still called him “chancellor”. The face turned away and called down to someone inside. “Open up – let Prince Marcus of Elam come in.”
The gates began to turn on their massive hinges. Marcus waited until the bearded man looked his way again. “Thank you, sir,” he called up.
“Of course, Your Highness. Welcome to Sevas.”
Beyond the gates, the city was as open and airy as Marcus remembered, the streets were wide and paved, with three- and four-storied buildings to either side, most of which were surrounded by spacious verandas. Sevas was a prosperous town whose citizens enjoyed their prosperity. There were armed and armored soldiers standing off to the left who watched Marcus with apparent casual disinterest, but managed to maintain a solidly martial attitude all the same. From a small square building on the right of the street a man dressed in official robes of the red and yellow of the House of Basura approached diffidently.
“I assume that you're here to call on Dean Amund, Your Highness?”
Marcus nodded. “Yes, if he has time for me.”
The man smiled. “Dean Amund has said many times that you are always welcome in his home. You know the way, of course?”
“I do.”
The man stepped to one side, and moved his hand to indicate the interior of the city. “The city is open to you, Your Highness. Enjoy your stay.”
Marcus hesitated and thought of mentioning his driver beyond the gates, but decided against it. It was no doubt better to ascertain the genuine attitude of the people of Basura toward a member of the royal family first and Amund would be straight with him on that point.
“Thank you, sir,” he said and started along the street toward the city's interior regions.
“Marcus, my lad!”
Marcus stopped in his tracks and looked over in surprise. From the dimness of a tavern on the right hand side of the street, Amund emerged and approached with his arms held wide. The teacher, a middle-aged man with iron-gray hair and an angular, intelligent face perched nobly atop a very tall, thin body, strode forward and grasped Marcus firmly by his shoulders. His brown eyes twinkled with delight.
“Have you come as an emissary of the throne, or are you a fugitive from justice?”
Marcus grinned back. “As a friend – and a seeker of the truth,” he replied.
“Still seeking the truth, are you?” Amund eyes lost a bit of their good humor. “The truth is somewhat hard to find in the palace these days, I suppose.”
Stepping back, Marcus frowned at him. “Did you know I was coming?”
Amund laughed. “No one travels in the province these days but that we know it well in advance. We've decided that being cautious is more than wise, it's necessary.”
Marcus' frown deepened. “But how does word travel so fast?”
“We have our ways, my lad. Come, you must be hungry after your journey out of Cumberland.”
Marcus stopped and stared at him. How –?”
Amund laughed again. “It's not just our own province that interests us. We like to be secure in our knowledge of that which transpires in the regions beyond. Come, let's go to supper.”
Marcus hesitated and indicated the road behind him. “My driver is outside the gates, with the cart.”
Amund's congenial gaze hardened. “How well is this man known to you?”
“It's Rald, my manservant from university days,' Marcus answered.
“Rald – oh, yes; his family is from Aniza, is it not?”
At this, Marcus' look grew dark. “Yes, and as you might imagine, he has no love for the throne. So far, we've managed to keep his lineage a secret. People believe him to be from Vergon.”
Amund nodded with approval. “Very wise, my lad. I'll send a servant for him. We'll put him up at my house and send the ox and cart to my father's barns. Come, let's go get you settled. How long can you stay?”
Marcus shook his head. “But one night only. I’m on my way to report to the High Prince on the events in The Land Beyond the Gates.”
The teacher visibly winced. “We don't refer to Rahm as High Prince in this province, Your Highness, and the correct name of our northern neighbors' land is Cumberland. I taught you that, remember?”
“I do,” Marcus admitted. “I just think it better, given my present circumstances, to maintain the language of the throne.”
Amund sighed. “Yes, I suppose so. Well, supper will not come to us, so let us go to it.”
Marcus had always thought that the great house of the family Basura would have rivaled any palace in any land. It was five stories of wood and stone, beautifully wrought, with broad verandas all around, on every level, so that all possible views of the surrounding countryside could be enjoyed. Amund led Marcus into the great hall and handed him over to a servant with instructions that he be put into a room on the second floor with a view toward the eastern hills.
“Supper within the hour, Marcus,” Amund stated as he walked away, then he paused and turned back. “Oh, yes, and we have another guest that will be joining us. No – not Janifera – she will be there, of course, but I speak of another.” He treated the prince to a searching gaze. “I've always relied on your discretion, my friend...”
Without hesitation, Marcus nodded. “You have my trust and loyalty, Master Amund. That has not changed – nor will it ever.”
“Good, good. Alright then, my lad, supper within the hour. You know the way to the dining hall.” And Amund walked away.
Marcus trusted Amund to see to Rald’s needs, so he followed the servant to his room, which looked out upon the forested eastern hills. Sevas had been built at the edge of the wooded uplands, indeed, some of its neighborhoods merged with the forest. After freshening up, Marcus wandered the veranda and watched the light change among the trees as the sun went down behind him until it was time to go down.
There was a crowd at supper. Chancellor Heglund sat at the head as always, with Lady Basura on his left and Amund on his right. Marcus, as he represented the royal family, was placed next to Amund. Janifera, looking lovely in a dark blue gown, with her golden-brown hair flowing down in sweeping curls on either side of her heart-shaped face, sat three places down on the opposite side of the table, where she and Marcus could exchange glances but engage in little conversation. Though he regretted this fact, Marcus understood the rigors of protocol involved in entertaining a representative of the throne.
Besides, for the moment, he really wanted to talk with Amund. He would try to find time to spend with Janifera later.
Directly across from Marcus, next to
the tall, willowy, white-haired Lady Basura, there sat a sturdy built man of middle age, with graying hair and pleasant features, and blue-gray eyes that seemed to twinkle in the candle light as he glanced around. He was dressed in the uniform of a high-ranking Elamite officer.
Marcus knew this man, or rather had seen him before, but did not know his name.
Amund touched him on the sleeve and indicated the man. “I trust you know General Kraine?”
Marcus looked across the table and inclined his head. “I've seen you, sir, though I know not where.”
The general's face began to form a smile of friendliness which was quickly stifled, and was replaced with an expression of stoic politeness. “No doubt at the palace, Your Highness. Military officers are summoned there at times. Or perhaps it was in the south. Do you often journey into Cinnabar?”
Before Marcus could respond, Amund leaned forward. “Olyeg was attached to House Cinnabar until just recently,” he interjected.
Marcus shook his head. “It was probably at the palace, then. I am seldom in the south these days.”
The general inclined his head politely at this but remained silent. When he did not speak, Amund leaned forward again. “Olyeg has been sent here to help insure the loyalty of the soldiers of the House of Basura to the throne in Farenaire.”
At this remark, General Kraine looked pained. “Officers of the throne are often moved from one post to another, Dean Amund. And surely there is no question as to the loyalty of the House of Basura?”
Amund looked across at him for a long moment and then burst out laughing. “Olyeg, my friend, there is no need for circumspection. The loyalties of everyone in this house, and at this table, including Prince Marcus here, are well known to me. I trust them all. We are all of us, it is safe to say, loyal to Elam. But there is not one of us that believes his loyalty is thereby transferred to him who currently sits the throne.” His smile failed and he leaned further, and his voice went low and harsh. “Such sentiments may be considered treasonous, I suppose, but we will no longer allow him to deny us the ancient rights of autonomy –“ His voice grew harsher still “– and that usurper will never again send any daughter of any of the towns and villages of Basura northward in one of his miserable slave wagons.”
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 7
