Sasha (49 page)

There was liquor waiting on a tray, arranged with six small glasses, and Sofy went straight to it. Barely had her hands grasped the tray when the head cook saw her.

“You girl! Just what the hells do you think you're doing?”

Sofy's heart skipped a beat. She turned, hands folded demurely, and lowered her gaze in the head cook's direction. “I…I was told to take these up to…”

“Where are your wits, girl? The whisky is for later. They've barely finished their tea yet. Take the wine, girl, the wine!” Pointing to a large decanter and glasses upon the central benches.

Sofy arranged the glasses and decanter on a tray, trying to keep her hands from trembling, and made her way up the stairs. No one stopped her. She felt a surge of relief and triumph. It was hardly bravery of Sasha's standard, but it was a bravery all the same. She nearly grinned with excitement.

The staircase spiralled once, then arrived at a curtain pulled across the entrance to Koenyg's quarters…Sofy had seen it before, but never from this side. She paused, excitement giving way to nervous concentration, straining her ears to make out the voices from the rooms beyond. Men's voices, clear and reasonably loud…but not immediately close. Another relief. They were in the main room, adjoining the dining room.

Well…she had to risk it. She backed through the curtain and into the dining room. A long table was set for lunch, six places ready with plates and cutlery. The windows to the right fronted directly onto Saint Ambellion Temple, with a view of Soros Square further to its north.

Sofy walked as quietly as she could to the table, trying desperately to recall how she'd seen the servants themselves do it, so as not to attract attention. She kept her back to the main room, where men stood and talked with cups in hand. She could hear Koenyg's voice as she unloaded the tray, but she was concentrating too hard on not dropping a glass to hear what he said. She heard an answering voice, with a familiar accent—lovely, flowing vowels and soft consonants. The Larosa. Sofy was surprised. Koenyg had just ridden into battle against the representatives of a province of Lenayin, and the first people he talked to were the Larosa?

She walked around the table, setting glasses before each plate…and glanced furtively into the next room. She could see four of the six men, and a servant with a tea tray, hovering inconspicuously. She recognised Koenyg, in formal clothes, his hair wet in the manner of one recently bathed. He appeared utterly unruffled. Another man she recognised was Archbishop Dalryn, black robed and fuzzy headed.

“One greatly doubts the risks to be quite so grave as some would make out,” the archbishop was saying, in ponderous, thoughtful tones. “The pagans of Lenayin are truly pagan, yet they are also Lenay, and they obey their king. Obedience to the king is honourable to them and I must admit that, however godless, the pagans are greatly honourable. In their own way.”

Sofy took up her tray and moved back toward the curtained exit. Beside that exit, however, the door to Koenyg's bedchambers was similarly curtained. Sofy took a deep breath, risked a glance over her shoulder…and slipped behind the bedchamber curtains. She waited, her heart pounding. She did not know what would happen if she were caught. Certainly it would be difficult to feign innocence.

She strained her ears to hear, but the conversation was mixed and it was difficult to pick out individual strands. Something drew her gaze back to Koenyg's broad bed in the centre of his room. Silver chainmail lay spread across the skin blankets, and heavy, leather gloves with steel knuckles. One had blood on it. Sofy stared.

And nearly jumped as voices came suddenly near, silencing a startled gasp before it could quite escape her lips. “I assure you that this was not entirely unforeseen,” came the archbishop's voice. He seemed to be standing by the near end of the table. And he was not speaking so loud as the others. Perhaps this conversation was meant to be private. “The prince is truly a man of steel. Where another man might have faltered before such threats as Lord Krayliss made, Prince Koenyg has endeavoured to turn a difficult situation into an opportunity. And now, it seems, the Taneryn problem has been dealt with once and for all.”

“I am most impressed, Your Grace,” came Duke Stefhan's voice, silky smooth and ever so gracious. “And yet, one is still disquieted. My king was assured, in forging this alliance, that the clans of Lenayin no longer fought. It is disturbing to us to see our great ally so divided.”

“I assure you, Duke Stefhan, these divisions are merely temporary. All bold new directions are accompanied by a temporary tumult, are they not? King Torvaal's mind is decided on the alliance, and he could not have an abler lieutenant than Prince Koenyg. I trust that you are not having second thoughts, my good Duke?”

“But of course not, Your Grace.” The duke's footsteps came closer. Sofy stared down at the short gap between the bottom of the dividing curtain and the floor, wondered abruptly if the men might see her boots beneath. She backed up several steps, gingerly.

“Just…” and the duke sighed. “Please, Your Grace.” The voice turned away from her. “I know that you are a proud Lenay. I mean no offence. But I also know that you are a true Verenthane, and a man of great culture and knowledge. I tell you only that it is no easy thing, Your Grace, for a proud people like the Larosa, and for the broader alliance of the free Bacosh peoples, to come to a land like…like Lenayin, for assistance.”

“I quite understand, Duke Stefhan,” said the archbishop. “Lenayin is a fair land, but we cannot possibly hope to match the measure of sophistication and artistry of a great people such as the Larosa.” Sofy blinked in startlement. The archbishop truly believed
that
?

“I'm so pleased you understand,” said Duke Stefhan, with the air of a man ever-so-relieved not to have been misunderstood.

“Dear Duke,” said Dalryn laughingly, “of course I understand! Baen-Tar is but a small island of aspiring civilisation in a sea of barbarity! We try, my Duke. The holy fathers try so hard to bring civilisation to the masses, and in the larger townships I am pleased to say that we make progress. But the rural folk resist so, and they are fierce in their savagery. The king will simply not allow us to take stronger measures of persuasion, no matter how often we may ask it of him.”

The duke laughed appreciatively. Sofy felt suddenly cold.

“Oh, I do have dreams, my Duke,” Dalryn continued, with the weary amusement of a man confronted with a long and endless task. “I dream that perhaps, in several centuries from now, Lenayin may aspire to become even half of the great, civilised kingdom that Larosa presently is. But I understand that it must pain you to be forced to seek such an alliance, and on such terms. How could it not?”

“Your Grace is most civilised, and most understanding,” said Duke Stefhan. “Your dreams for your kingdom are worthy. Indeed, my people say that is the truest calling of a Verenthane to pursue the greatest and most noble tasks, even if they may take many lifetimes to complete. We in the free Bacosh now endeavour toward such a grand task—firstly, to reunify the Bacosh, and secondly, to rid ourselves of the threats and barbarism of pagans and demons alike.

“One must deal firmly, Your Grace!” There came the smacking sound of a fist driven into an open palm. “The gods’ word is final and the gods’ word is law. The gods do not negotiate with their lessers. The threat must be removed. And one day it shall, by any means at our disposal. If Lenayin is to become the great civilisation of your dreams, Your Grace, you should learn this lesson. Be strong with the pagans—force is all they understand.”

The cold in Sofy's veins grew worse. Her stomach tightened, and she felt ill. She stuck a knuckle in her mouth and bit to refocus her mind. She couldn't believe she'd been so
stupid
! Sasha had been right all along.

The archbishop made an appreciative noise. “And the girl, Duke Stefhan? You have been spending quite some time with her the last few days. Is she adequate?”

“She is pretty enough, one supposes,” the duke said regretfully. “Our heir will not be offended by her looks at least. But she is so simple, Your Grace. Simple, childish and headstrong, with none of the sophistication of a cultured Larosan lady.”

“But one must make allowances, Duke Stefhan. Her upbringing was not the equivalent of the royal Larosan court. And she is the youngest daughter, and spoiled.”

Time seemed to stop. Sofy could not deny what her ears were hearing, even though her dazed and horrified mind refused to accept it. She stood paralysed, clutching the silver tray with numb fingers.

“This is true, Your Grace…but again, please understand that it shall be a sacrifice to the dignity of the heir. To marry such a girl, for the sake of an alliance, shall be distasteful.”

“The Larosa require the services of the army of Lenayin,” the archbishop replied, somewhat sternly. “Lenayin may be uncivilised, my Duke, but when held in tight rein beneath Verenthane command, the pagans can certainly fight…and, I might add, our Verenthane soldiers are perhaps unmatched in human lands.”

“I do not doubt it, Your Grace.”

“And Lenayin requires the alliance to bring them fully into the brotherhood of Verenthane kingdoms. Remember that it is not merely your Larosan king that you serve, Duke Stefhan—it is the gods. The gods shall be strengthened in Lenayin by this alliance, and the holy Bacosh shall be freed from pagans and demons alike and the holy Bacosh throne shall be restored to its former glory. Such a great destiny is worthy of some small personal sacrifices, don't you think? And if the girl displeases the Larosan heir too greatly…well, he needn't actually
bed
with her, need he? I'm certain that, in a civilised kingdom such as your own…other arrangements could be found?”

Jaryd stood atop the great Baen-Tar walls by the main gate, watching the steady flow of Rathynal traffic. All entering the city, be they farmers on their carts, or townsfolk afoot, or nobility on horses, were being thoroughly searched by wary soldiers with drawn weapons—northerners, Jaryd saw, looking down on them.

“They're searching for weapons?” Jaryd asked Captain Tyrun, who stood on the wall beside him, looking grim. “Who would be foolish enough to smuggle weapons into the city at such a time?”

“Not weapons,” said Tyrun, with a shake of his head. “Messages. Or maybe poisons.”

“Even if there were Goeren-yai who'd take revenge for Lord Krayliss,” Jaryd countered, “I couldn't imagine them being so subtle. Goeren-yai take revenge by chopping necks with swords. Anything else is dishonourable.” His arm throbbed in its sling, and he felt naked beside his men's chainmail, which was too much effort to don because of the injury. He worried for Sasha, too. His men reported seeing her leave on her big black horse, and there were no reports of her return. He hoped she hadn't done anything stupid. But then, knowing Sashandra Lenayin, that seemed a futile hope.

Jaryd exhaled hard. “With Krayliss gone, what'll happen to Taneryn? Who'll be the great lord?”

“Uncertain,” said Tyrun. “If I were a suspicious man, I'd guess they intended to decide that at this Rathynal. Only they thought we'd kill Krayliss when we went north and they'd just have to decide who to replace him with. Prince Damon only delayed things a bit.”

“Won't Taneryn get to decide their own great lord?”

“Seriously?” Tyrun frowned at his commander in a way that made Jaryd feel about ten years old. “How many provinces get to decide their great lord? The Goeren-yai are a majority in maybe seven out of eleven provinces, and how many Goeren-yai great lords are there? Only noble lords can decide to raise a great lord from their midst if there is no natural heir; commonfolk have no voice. Krayliss's family survived this long because the chieftains of Taneryn have always held great power and Krayliss's great-grandfather fought hard against the Cherrovan, but refused to convert. He was the only one.”

“Krayliss has sons…” Jaryd ventured.

“Huh,” Tyrun snorted. “There's an old law, Sylden Sarach; it means ‘judgment of clans’ in some old tongue or other, I forget. Old Corporal Cadyth was telling me about it. Under the old ways, a chieftain's entire family could be dissolved if his peers deemed that family's honour stained beyond repair.”

“Dissolved?”

“Aye, dissolved. The family heads executed, the children adopted into other families. King Soros kept that law, though it's never been used since. Mighty useful now, I'll reckon. They'll find a way to get the whole family out of the way, find one of Krayliss's enemies in Taneryn—and he has plenty—who's willing to convert, and there's your new great lord.”

“You talk as though you don't approve.”

Captain Tyrun shrugged. “Approve, disapprove…I am a humble company captain from lowly stock. My father was a stablehand and my sister married a miller. I do as the Great Lord of Tyree commands.”

“And what of the king's commands?” Jaryd ventured.

“Usually that's the same thing.” Tyrun gave his young apprentice a stern, sideways stare. “Pray that it should remain so.”

“Master Jaryd! Master Jaryd!” Jaryd turned to find a young man in lordly clothes and chainmail emerging from the gate guardhouse, evidently out of breath from having climbed the stairs fast.