The Path to Power

by Karen Miller

  She bit her lip. Schooled her face. I am Catrain, Ardenn’s duchess, a meek, compliant mouse. And as Carillon’s bells faded to silence she did as she was told. For the first time not minding, because singing in her mind like those silver bells, Izusa’s promise.

  Freedom. Power. Roric.

  She would have them all.

  “Balfre?”

  Standing on Tamwell’s battlements, overlooking the river where it curved around the night-dark township, Balfre pulled his leather cloak a little tighter to keep out the blustering breeze. It was late, past midnight, and below him, in the castle, the barons slept after a subdued, sober feast. Overhead, the black mourning flags snapped, loud in the chilly silence. With the earlier threat of rain passed, the sky was cloud-clear and starry. A threequarter moon washed silver light over the flowing water and sloping roofs and open fields of Cater’s Tamwell. Torches burned in cast-iron holders, touching a golden glow to the silvery air.

  “Balfre,” Waymon said again, more insistent. “What did the leech say? The barracks leech, I mean. Not Aimery’s leech.”

  “I know which leech you mean, Waymon.”

  “And? What did he say?”

  “Keep still, Your Grace. This might pinch somewhat.”

  A faint scraping of boot on gritty stone as Waymon approached. “But you’re stitched without trouble? You’ll not be impaired?”

  “It seems unlikely.” He frowned. “No thanks to my brother, who did his best to cripple me and bleed me like a winterfeast hog.”

  Waymon stopped. Cleared his throat, sounding awkward. “About Grefin. His body yet lies in the game larder, with the duke. What shall I do with it? I know by rights a traitor’s corpse is quartered around the duchy and the head mounted over Tamwell’s main gate, but…”

  But Grefin was never a traitor. At least not the kind of traitor that Harcian tradition would recognise. Balfre pulled a face. Try as he might, though he’d tainted his brother before Harcia’s barons, he couldn’t quite bring himself to inflict the final humiliation. What that said about him he didn’t know. Didn’t care to learn, just now.

  “Leave him,” he said, wearily. “It’s cold in the game larder. He’ll keep a day or two. But you might want to add some more ice.”

  “Ice,” Waymon said, after a moment. “Yes. I’ll… arrange for more ice.”

  And so much for Grefin. “Has word gone out to the men-at-arms we sent home from the Marches?”

  “It has, my lord. And come morning, the barons are set to ride home to their own castles and bring back their people.” A satisfied chuckle. “Roric is in for a nasty surprise.”

  Not before time. “And Izusa? You’ve sent for her?”

  “I–not yet. I wasn’t sure. Of course I will, Balfre, if you’re sure. But–I wasn’t.”

  Izusa. He hungered for her like a man starving in the wilderness. “I want her safely out of the Marches before we strike at Clemen. Humbert’s old but he won’t show his belly like a grey-muzzled hound. He’ll fight till he’s hamstrung and a sword takes his head and his men-at-arms will follow him. What makes you think I’ll risk Izusa in such a slaughter?”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Waymon said, hasty. “But we have time. And–well—”

  He wasn’t widowed yet. Speaking of which… “That other matter. You’ve seen to it?”

  “I have,” Waymon said, after another, longer pause. “All’s ready. Again–if you’re sure.”

  Balfre looked over his shoulder. In the torchlight Waymon seemed out of character uncertain. “Fuck. After everything you’ve done, don’t tell me you’re squeamish.”

  “Cautious,” Waymon said, warily. “As you should be.”

  He stared again at the moon-splashed river. “Do you tell me they’ll be missed? Any of them?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think I should keep them caged somewhere, like moulting parrots with lice? Because it’s sad to kill them and who can say? They might not spread disease, so let’s risk it?”

  “No, Balfre. You don’t have a choice. I understand that.”

  “But?”

  “But nothing. As I said. All’s ready, and the men-at-arms you requested are waiting downstairs.”

  He turned. “Then let’s be done with this, shall we? I’m tired. I’m hurting. And I want my fucking bed.”

  Of course it was that bitch Mazelina who leapt to her feet when the solid wood-and-iron door to Tamwell’s most solitary prison cell was unbarred and opened.

  “Balfre! What’s the meaning of this? Where’s Grefin? Let us out!”

  On principle he didn’t answer. Never again would he bow to someone else’s demands. Especially not hers. It was Mazelina’s fault, more than anyone’s, that Grefin was dead.

  Kerric grasped the bitch’s arm, urging her to silence. “Your Grace, can’t you tell us why we were taken into custody?”

  Because Grefin’s wife was unpredictable and his surviving son was dangerous, despite his youth, he’d told Waymon he wanted five men-at-arms to accompany them into the castle’s torchlit and cobwebby rabbit-warren dungeon. Two men between them carried a cauldron of mutton stew, a pitcher of ale, and a pail full of dry bread, bowls, cups and spoons. As they delivered the stew and the pail, setting them down just over the cell’s threshold, and Waymon and the other three men-at-arms stood wary with their swords drawn and pointing, Balfre looked at his meagerly lamplit prisoners.

  They all stared back at him, fear and confusion in their eyes. His goodsister. His niece. His nephew. His wife. His daughter. Tamwell’s steward and Aimery’s foreign leech. Seven people who’d be dead by sunrise because he’d poisoned their mutton stew. He held his breath a moment, waiting to feel something. Anything. But he felt nothing. Not even for Jancis, who’d once shared his bed, or for the plain, tear-stained girl she’d borne him, who was his own flesh and blood.

  But then Grefin had been his flesh and blood. And if he couldn’t weep for Grefin…

  Mazelina wasn’t tear-stained. Even fearful, she kept her wits. Shook off her son’s hand and took a half-step towards him, heedless of the men-at-arms’ raised swords.

  “This is outrageous, Balfre. I want to see my husband!”

  “And I want to know by what right you hold us here,” Kerric added, emboldened by Mazelina’s defiance. “We’ve done nothing wrong, Balfre.” He’d taken hold of his pretty sister’s hand. A pity Ullia had to perish. But there it was.

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “Then why are you doing this, my lord?” Jancis whispered, clutching her useless daughter. “Have we displeased you somehow? Tell us what we’ve done and we’ll make amends.”

  That earned her an irritated glare from Mazelina. Anger had blinded the bitch. She seemed oblivious to her danger. Curteis, though, the aged fuck, knew what was coming. The knowledge of impending death was in his dull eyes. But he looked half-dead from grief already. Likely for him this was a mercy. As for the silent leech, well, that was unfortunate. A good leech was ever useful and this one had worked wonders keeping Aimery alive for so long in the face of Izusa’s sorcery. But not even Curteis was as intimately acquainted with Aimery’s health. It would be madness to risk belated questions or doubts now, with victory close enough to taste, like fresh blood.

  “I’m sorry to frighten you,” he said gently, caressing them all with his mildest stare. “And I’m sorry you’re kept here, in such discomfort. Certain matters are come to light that must be untangled as a matter of grave urgency. But I assure you they will be. You’ll not be kept prisoned long, and you’ll see Grefin soon.”

  “What matters?” Kerric said, suspicious. “Are we accused of something, Balfre?”

  “If we are, it’s a mistake,” his pretty sister added. “Please, uncle, if you’d tell us what you think we’ve done so we can explain ourselves, then—”

  He raised a hand. “Please. You must know there are protocols I am forced to follow. As Harcia’s duke I can’t be seen to favour family above the law. Aim
ery would never forgive me.” Smiling again, he showed them the reasonable ruler. The loving uncle. “Be patient, Ullia. All of you, be patient. Let me see to this mystery. In the meantime, eat and drink and try to rest.”

  His brother’s bitch of a wife was still protesting as the cell door closed in her face.

  “Stay,” he told Waymon, as his men-at-arms barred the door. “And no matter what you hear, do nothing. Understood?”

  If Waymon was distressed, no man would ever know it. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Then I’ll see you again at sunrise.”

  Accompanied by his men-at-arms he limped away from the barred cell… and didn’t look back.

  The night before Egann arrived in Eaglerock castle uninvited and unannounced, Roric lost hours of peaceful sleep to ravaging, bloodsoaked dreams. Startled awake a half-dozen times, sweating and gasping, his heart pounding so hard he thought he must choke. In the end he abandoned any hope of sleep.

  Lying in the darkness, in the vast and empty bed that had witnessed the desolation of his marriage to Lindara, the futility of his tears, the arid wasteland of his rage over her death, his child’s death, at Humbert, he tried to ignore the crushing sense of dread that threatened to grind his bones like chalk. Tried to tell himself, he was no better than a churl frighted by falling stars. But the self-scolding didn’t help.

  When the sun rose, he rose with it. Suffered himself to be dressed by his body servant and ate a lonely breakfast. Then Egann came, dread made flesh, and sleeping nightmare was turned to waking dismay–which only deepened when Humbert’s loyal whipcord of a man refused to say why it was so important for Clemen’s duke to spirit himself out of the castle with a smothered identity and ride with all urgency to the Marches.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” was Egann’s only reply. “Beyond news that Aimery’s dead, all I can tell you is Lord Humbert doesn’t waste your time.”

  For Humbert’s sake, he hoped not.

  The ride from Eaglerock castle to Humbert’s manor was brutal. They foundered three good horses between them, came close to foundering themselves. Arrived at last at the manor’s stableyard, Roric all but fell from his saddle. As stable lads scurried to take the exhausted horses, Humbert stamped out of the manor and hustled him to what looked like an abandoned dairy. Inside its cool cellar, an open coffin on a trestle. In the coffin, a corpse packed in sawdust and ice. It was greenish and bloating, stinking the chilly air with death.

  Roric stared. “Another one? Why is it you insist on showing me rotting bodies? Humbert, if this is why I’ve near killed myself riding from—”

  “Clap tongue and look at him!” Humbert said, with a push. “I know he’s a bit ripe, but can’t you see it’s Vidar?”

  “Vidar,” he said blankly. “Humbert, are you—”

  Another hard push. “Look!”

  He looked. Looked again. Then he started to laugh.

  “You think this is funny?” Humbert demanded.

  “No. Yes. No. It’s just…” Roric rubbed his eyes. Wondered if he’d fallen into some kind of mad dream. “I was thinking of marrying Kennise.”

  As though he’d not heard that, Humbert banged a fist to the side of the coffin. Looked as though he’d rather bang it against his duke instead. “It’s Vidar, Roric.”

  He made himself look again at the body in the coffin. Though its face was grossly disfigured, he knew it. “I can see that.”

  “And?”

  “And this is the second time you’ve told me Vidar’s dead. How sure are you there won’t be a third? Or a fourth? Perhaps even a—”

  “Roric!” Beside himself, Humbert stamped around the cellar. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to know where he’s been? Aren’t you—” And then he stopped stamping. “What the fuck d’you mean, you’re thinking of marrying Kennise?”

  Helpless, they stared at each other, a rush of terrible memories flooding to fill the silence. So long since they’d stood face to face. So much rage and pain between them and no way to go back.

  “Fuck, boy,” Humbert muttered. “You look like shite.”

  “You look old. And you’ve grown a coarse tongue.”

  “That’s the Marches. They do coarsen a man.”

  It seemed they did more than that. Humbert’s years of skirmish and exile had carved deeper lines in his face. Thinned his hair and whitened what remained. He’d lost weight, his bones and muscles showing closer to the surface. In his eyes shadowed memories, unshared. He was a different man. But then, so was his duke different. With all that had happened since last they’d met, it was a wonder they even recognised each other.

  “So. Vidar.” He looked again at the one-eyed corpse in the coffin. “You say you know where he’s been?”

  “I know where I was told he’s been. In the Harcian Marches. Living as Balfre’s guest.”

  A punch of dread beneath his breastbone. “Balfre?”

  “I’ve no doubt he sold Aimery’s son every Clemen secret he could think of.”

  Of course. “His revenge for Lindara.”

  Their eyes met, briefly, then they both looked away.

  “How did he die?” Roric said, after a difficult moment. “Do you know? Has it anything to do with Aimery’s death?”

  “Perhaps. I can’t say for sure.”

  “Then what can you say for sure?”

  Humbert’s tired eyes narrowed. “I was also told,” he said, his voice rough, “that with Vidar’s help you and Balfre recently came to an arrangement. When Aimery died you’d give him Clemen and its Marches in return for a fortune in gold and jewels so you can live out your life in exile.”

  He felt the cellar tilt around him, felt a rush of bile into his throat. A sick rage that left him dizzy. “Who told you that?”

  “A Marcher woman. And Vidar, in a written confession.”

  “What confession? Show it to me!”

  “It’s in the house,” Humbert said, his beard jutting. “I’ll show it to you presently. But you should know I think it’s written in his hand.”

  “I don’t care what Vidar’s confessed.” He was sweating, icy drops against hot skin. “None of it’s true. Tell me you believe me, Humbert. Tell me you don’t believe Vidar.”

  Humbert looked at him in disgust. “Believe that cockshite? Don’t be a fucking pizzle.” Then he sighed. “But the claim was made in public, Roric. You can trust it’ll soon be whispered in taverns the length and breadth of Clemen. That won’t do folks’ tempers much good.”

  Another sickening rush of bile, drowning relief. “This woman, Humbert. I’d speak with her. I’d know why—”

  “You can’t. She’s dead. So’s the man-at-arms I sent to fetch her.”

  “Dead how?”

  “Ah.” Humbert tugged at his silvered beard, such a familiar gesture. Painful. Stirring more memories of kinder days, long gone. “That’s what you’d call a mystery, Roric. Her cottage burned to the ground with her in it. My man too. Could be she thought she’d somehow be blamed for Vidar. She was a Marches healer, and couldn’t save him. It’s hard to see now but he was stabbed to death. Could be she saw my man, lost her wits and…”

  “Or,” he said grimly, “she was part of this muckrakery and Balfre had her silenced. Had Vidar silenced too, so he could spread his lies unchallenged. Is he still in the Marches?”

  “No. He’s ridden home to Cater’s Tamwell to be acclaimed Harcia’s duke.”

  “Is he behind this, Humbert? Is it all Balfre’s doing?”

  Flickered with candle shadows, Humbert’s face was bleak. “I’d say so. Just as those lies about you and Clemen were his doing, and Ercole’s murder, and the Pig Whistle’s burning. All of it done to stir shite for Clemen. I tell you, Balfre’s the biggest fucking cockshite of a liar as ever drew breath.”

  “And you think he has his eye on our duchy.”

  Humbert snorted. “I’ve been saying as much ever since you made me your lord of the Marches. Or did you never read a single pissing letter
I wrote you?”

  There was an upturned barrel in the cellar. Perching on it, wincing, Roric stared at the dirty stone floor. “I read every one of them.”

  “And yet Aistan’s voice is the only one you hear. Or so I’m told.”

  He looked up, sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

  Humbert tugged his beard again, a crease between his grey, bushy eyebrows. “You looked and sounded just like Harald then.”

  “Don’t. I’m too tired. And we don’t have time.”

  “Was it Aistan’s idea that you wed with his daughter?”

  “What does it matter?” he said, as his muscles throbbed and his bones ached. “I can’t marry her now. Vidar’s treachery taints her. It taints Aistan. Fuck.” He pressed his palms to his face. Hid in the dark, like a coward. “If only you’d let me wed with Catrain.”

  “Ha.” Humbert snorted again. “Let you and me start with the if onlys, boy, and we’ll still be flapping our lips when Balfre kicks down the door.”

  He dropped his hands to his lap. For this I killed Harald. I failed to save his son, for this. He made himself meet Humbert’s steady stare.

  “Tell me, my lord, since you’re so keen to advise. If you’re right and Balfre does mean to ride against Clemen… have we any hope of stopping him? Or should I throw down my sword now and let the duchy pass to him without bloodshed?”

  “Surrender?” Humbert’s face darkened. “You’d see us slaves in our own land, Roric? Or sold outright into Zeidica and Osfahr and the Treble Kingdom and Hent? Are you maggot-brained? Do you think baring our throats to Harcia will tempt Balfre into mercy? That cockshite wouldn’t know mercy if it rammed a pike up his arse. No, Roric. We don’t surrender.”

  Roric pushed off the edge of the barrel. “Then what should we do? Your own words would seem to condemn us to bloody slaughter! How often have you written to me of Balfre’s skilled men-at-arms, his lethal training of them, Harcia’s schooling in battle against those raiders? How can Clemen prevail? We have no coin for war, for the hiring of mercenaries!”

  “It’s not coin we need. It’s heart and stomach and the will to defeat Harcia. And that comes from you, Roric! Courage flows from a duchy’s duke!”