In the Eye of Heaven (70 page)

Across the hall, the Rooks were playing with him now, smug grins splitting their waxy faces.

"Priests?"
breathed Durand, incredulous.

"So these lads said," said Berchard. "Scribes or arbiters at some court or other. Anyway, our friends must've got greedy cringing around the high table, tugging their master's brocade sleeves, crawling over silk carpets, sleeping in dank cells, sucking stale water while the nobles slosh their gilded mazers of Vuranna's best all around."

As Berchard spoke, the two Rooks poured claret dark as blood. One licked his lips. Durand felt something strange under his hand, but he couldn't look away. Lightning flashed with the crack of thunder hard upon it.

"Seems their rivals had a habit of bowing out. After one feast, the castellan and three bailiffs got so ill that all died but the castellan. Said he lost every hair on his head."

Ouen laughed. "A lucky escape."

"—And a month later slipped on a stone staircase. Fell so hard they could hardly tell who he had been. It wasn't too long befo
re our pair were the only ones l
eft—where once there was a whole choir whispering in the rebel's ear.

"And they'd had their b
eaks in the wrong books: molder
ing tomes, scrolls. Things left in cellars from the Heshtarian days before the Crusade cleared the bastards out. They fell to spending nights upon the wastelands, crawling among the catacombs and altar stones rotting beyond the eyes of Heaven and living men."

Under Durand's palms, the tablecloth seemed to tingle.

"If it's the same pair, they came to nothing."

Durand wrenched his eyes from the Rooks.
"What?"
He could not look further than Berchard's face.

"Backed the wrong horse. Their pet rebel was too faithless for the faithless. With the Rooks in his ears he'd swear anything to anybody and break his word just as easy. Our villains, they slipped away just before Waldemar caught up with the rebel. What they did to that man..."

"Thorough?" Ouen laughed.

"So they said," Berchard allowed. "And thorough with the Rooks, as well, what they could find of them."

Back across the fire, the Rooks grinned. With a tiny ripple of his fingers, one roused the picked dove on his trencher. For an instant, it might have been some sleight of hand, but then the creature's walnut skull twitched up as if conscious of the pain of being cooked and picked to pieces. The Rooks smiled at Durand, as though they were sharing a joke.

"This is where my engineers came in, you see. Priests came down to deal with the Rooks' rooms, including two of the Patriarchs themselves. Laid each chamber open to the Eye of Heaven and razed the rebel's castle. But that weren't enough! No. They turned a river over the place.
That
was what these engineer lads had been doing last. They hired on with the Conclave after they lost their contracts with the rebel. They wouldn't speak about what they saw when the Rooks' rooms came down or when they took the floors up." - The tablecloth sensation—as though he had his hands in something damp—nagged him till he looked down. Like a spreading stain, the whole of the cloth around him had turned black. As he lifted his hands, he saw their silhouettes, pale as the Lost but filling in.

"God in Heaven," Berchard said. Ouen grimaced, twitching his hands into the air.

Table, wall, bench, and food were all scabbed over. A half-finished leg of goose had sunk in on itself, putrid with mold. Maggots teemed. Behind the leering Rooks, a similar broad fan of mildew had bloomed over the plaster. Insects scrabbled down the table. One of Ragnal's own black functionaries plucked one of the running things—cat-quick—and popped it in his mouth.

The lads on Durand's bench leapt back. Durand could see the Rooks chuckling between themselves. Each man of the Holy Ghosts turned, half to Durand, panting with his hand on a sword, and half to the Rooks.

He saw Deorwen's eyes on him, flashing deep and dark.

"Enough of this farce!" roared a voice from the head of the hall.

The warrior King of Errest stood poised over the high table. From the straw, Durand watched, feeling living things swarm under his boots.

"Let's have done with it" said the king. "We're all here; I see no reason to dance round this business all night. Beoran? Yrlac? What say you?"

Creation boomed outside as the bearded Duke of Beoran leaned on his elbow to savor Ragnal's show of temper.

Radomor, however, swiveled slowly. "Now, my cousin. Let it be now."

Ragnal regarded his opponent then: a man who had fought for him under the summer moons, a man who shared his blood. At the center of this wreck, Durand saw real hatred.

"A fearsome thing is the wrath of princes,"
said a voice.

Durand nearly emptied his guts, for this was no whisper in his ear. It writhed in his skull like a fistful of worms locked tight behind his jaws.

The Rooks were looking his way from the midst of Radomor's green thugs. And, if they had been smiling before, now what fun the bastards were having.

"These jackals. Hardly fit for conversation, whatever their virtues elsewhere. Far more pleasant to chat with old friends. Have you told your dashing lord how you watched over his sister? Hours and hours. She and that poor baby. Do you suppose she took comfort, knowing there was a kinsman standing nearby?"

"So be it
cousin,"
Ragnal was saying, "and as I am still ruler of this land, I call the Great Council to begin, and, though I am the subject of its debate, I claim my right to preside." He turned his glare on the assembled company. "Be you ruled by ancient custom, the judgments of the kings and the word of our patriarchs. No man speak false or bare steel till we've done with this business, on pain of damnation."

Durand thought he heard a murmur of assent bubble up from the throng around him, but his head was taut with the seething malice of the voice.

"And now we shall hear it"
the voice said.

Ragnal loomed over the table, almost sneering as he spoke. "Here is the matter: To furnish this realm with an army to pacify the marches, I borrowed coin from this council. As surety for the sum, I have pledged"—he plucked the Evenstar Crown from his head—"this bauble and all the trouble it has brought me. Now that the term of this loan is concluded, I am informed by my treasurers that there can be no repayment." There was an apologetic ruffle from the black functionaries. "Therefore, I must petition this, my Great Council, to forgive the debt."

Leaning there, with his mane and beard of copper gold, the King of Errest looked up and down the high table.

"Who," he rumbled, "will speak for forgiveness?"

For a moment, no one could move.

Someone nearby was saying, "Durand. Durand what is the matter with you, boy?" Then it was Deorwen's voice, and someone telling her, "For God's sake, go."

"Who will the brave one be?"
said a whisper grinding and slithering in his brains.

Durand closed his eyes, gulping for air and clenching his fists.

At the high table, he saw a tall lord stand: the Duke of Garelyn, neighbor of Duke Abravanal. They had bound their duchies through the marriage of their children. He looked like a wild Marcher, with his long mustaches, or some arcane lord from the deep of Fetch Hollow. The duke smoothed his long surcoat and knelt before the king.

"I would have the honor, my King, if it pleases you to grant it."

"He is well-spoken for a country lord, do you agree? Like a dog trained to walk on its hind legs"

Durand clasped his head in both hands. He could feel his friends close around him, but he could do nothing to answer them.

"Have we given you our thanks for old Gol? That plan was all his own—his ambush—though he may have made certain assumptions. It is strange how like children grown men can be. In the end, he only wanted back into Radomor's good graces. But we had no need of him any longer. All that blood, and his own knife. He would have held it a thousand times, and then for it to grate among the bones of his neck..."

Durand could taste blood. He could feel the veins and tendons in his throat. He could feel the catching edges of razor steel. The words writhed and twisted. People were trying to drag him from the hall. He shook himself free.

"You have fought by our side, Garelyn," Ragnal said, "and been our staunch ally. We can think of no man better."

Garelyn nodded deeply and stalked into the space before the high table as the gale churned and wailed like Lost souls at the arrow loops. The man had to pitch his voice loud over the storm.

"Your Majesty, your Highness, and honored lords of the Council. I will speak plainly. Our silver was not squandered. It was not spent on horses and hunting lodges. It has not bought mansions in Eldinor or wine from Vuranna. In short, it wasn't spent as I might have spent it." Some of the gathered nobles laughed. 'The silver was spent where we were told it would be: on putting down Mad Borogyn and his Marchers. It went to knights and marshals. It went to stablemen and common soldiers. It bought remounts and victuals. It bought these things, and, with them, it bought peace and security on our eastern marches. We have not fattened our king's purse with this money; we have bought safety and freedom for our merchants and tradesmen and our brothers in the marches. Were we mistaken in rendering this money to the king? Was His Majesty mistaken in calling upon us? Should we send back our hard-bought peace for the return of cold silver? I say we should not. My king has bought my peace with my money. I, for one, will not—"

As he spoke, the whole castle shook.

A bolt crashed against the rock of Tern Gyre itself, sending the tall lord staggering. Durand pictured turrets sliding into the sea. He felt the jolt through straw and hands and knees.

"He had been doing quite well. Let us hope the storm has not disturbed his pretty speech."

The duke, eyes darting at the high row of arrow loops, made to continue.

"We a
re forced," he said. "We are for
ced to speak in base terms—terms of commerce—when the very security of this realm is at issue. Only because this council would not grant its king the aid his cause required is this payment called 'loan' at all. Only because this council would not take up the duty its honor demanded was our king forced to hazard his crown. Where a soldier in the field risks his life to defend his home and honor, our liege lord risks his crown to defend
our
homes and
our
honor. This debt is not his shame, but our duty. Only by taking up our duty will we be free to lift our heads."

The tall duke stood a moment, grim-faced with his long mustaches. The storm flickered. He really might have been a Fetch Hollow man.

"So says Garelyn," he concluded. "Let him who wishes deny it."

The Rooks were clapping their hands, laughing, while Durand's head crawled with their whispers.

On the dais, Ragnal turned to fat Hellebore, smug Beoran, and the Duke of Yrlac.

"Who among you would speak against forgiveness?"

"Great King," said Beoran, "if it pleases you."

"Another performer! And we had thought to entertain with our little puppet show. We might have saved our efforts."

Durand pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Beoran took Ragnal's snort as permission to stand and bowed from the waist—looking every bit a cocksure ship's master. "Your Majesty, your Highness, members of the Great Council."

Durand looked up to see Beoran smiling, splitting his iron beard in a genial grin full of teeth. "If the storm will allow me, I'm afraid that I have been left to pose the obvious question: Is the king not to be held to the same standard of honor as even the meanest of his subjects?"

Durand heard snarls around him.

"My!"
exclaimed the writhing voice.
"He is a daring traitor, is Ludegar of Beoran. Ware pride, Your Grace! Ware pride!"

Durand could barely breathe.

The Duke of Beoran waited with his hand spread over his inflated chest Finally, he raised that hand.

"I do not intend to be flippant. The matter is serious. If our king gives his word, is he not to be held to that oath? If he vows a thing, is he free simply to discard it? I think we know what the answer must be.

"I say His Majesty undertook
just
this risk when he begged his loan from this Council. Would we have granted it to him if we had known that we would never see it back? Are we all so wealthy? I fear that His Majesty knew what he did. I fear that he understood that we could not afford so great a gift and so must be cajoled. That we must be given some hope of seeing our fortunes again, or we would not open our hands. In short, I think he'd have promised us a moon."