The Doomfarers of Coramonde (3 page)

He knew brief
regret that Faurbuhl was not to be found. He had considered taking the old
philosopher with him, though he had revealed nothing of his plans to his
teacher. Indeed, the idea had come full-blown a week before, in the strange
period between waking and sleeping when the mind was most flexible and
receptive. A whisper of a suggestion was enough, and he knew that he must
escape, and in that same moment was galvanized to search out the magician Andre
deCourteney and the madman Van Duyn.

Forcing himself
to matters at hand, and putting Faurbuhl out of his thoughts, he looked to his
equipment. He had decided upon and surreptitiously collected the costume of a
bravo of Alebowrene, subdominion of Coramonde. Though he knew there would be
several of such men in Earthfast during the High Durbar preceding the death
duel for the throne, the clothing of a servant or merchant would have been less
conspicuous, so that Springbuck approached his adventure with perhaps more
romantic notions than he admitted to himself.

He donned the
brief cincture, comfortably supple and, in his opinion, overwhelmingly
preferable to stiff, heavy robes of state. He then strapped to each forearm the
leather demisleeves which guarded against wounds from wrist to elbow. It was
difficult work manipulating the numerous buckles on each leather with one hand,
hampered in fastening the second by the hand-cupping cuff on the first. Still,
these were an infighter’s defense he’d used before and he knew their value
well. He pulled on high cavalryman’s boots and picked up his sword, his
newfound sword.

A curious
weapon. He’d come across it poking around in the older, ignored rooms of the
armories at Earthfast. Basket-hilted, it was much like a cavalry saber except
that the blade was only slightly curved and a bit lighter than that, made of
some unfamiliar, pewter-looking metal. On the pommel was struck a single
complex glyphic which the Prince with his sketchy knowledge of such things,
found undecipherable. On either side of the blade, just above the narrow
fullers, was written the name
Bar,
an odd-seeming name for a sword,
evocative of defense rather than offense. Its most puzzling aspect, however,
was that even after obvious long neglect Bar was bright, and its edge sharper
than any he’d ever thumbed. Convinced he’d found a weapon of some special
property, he’d kept his discovery to himself. Its scabbard had been
unserviceable with age, and so with some difficulty he’d procured another to
accommodate it, of black, polished fish skin with bindings and fittings of
white brass, and a belt to bear it.

He buckled the
belt about his hips and fastened the tie-down around his leg. Then he slipped
his parrying dagger into the sheath stitched inside the top of his left boot.
Its hooked pommel rode just high enough to protrude from the boot top below his
sword, ready to be seized at need in his left hand.

He’d thought of
wearing a helmet and his fine chain mail, but discarded the idea of several
accounts. For one thing, both of his suits of mail were known in and around
Earthfast. The risk of recognition would be increased, even if he were well
cloaked and hooded. For another, he didn’t care for its weight, since he wished
to travel as lightly as possible. And lastly, he’d never grown to like the
burden of armor as had his half brother Strongblade. Though trained as most
young nobles were in riding, running, jumping trenches, climbing and fighting
encased in mail or plate, he had always hated its hindrance. He much preferred
to be free of its encumbrance like the Alebowrenian or the Horse-blooded of the
High Ranges.

Almost ready to
leave his ancestral home, he thought that his renowned forebear Sharplance
might have felt just so, fleeing the distant East in the dim past. He went to
fetch the cache of coins secreted behind a carven ivory panel in the bathing
chamber, stopping first to check the bonds of the still-furious Duskwind. He
strode into the next room, anxious to be away, but stopped in midstride at the
sight which greeted him there.

The large pool
contained no water, but rather the body of Faurbuhl the philosopher. His face
was blackened, eyes swollen and darkened tongue bulging from his mouth, hands
still clawing in death at the garrote yet imbedded in his neck. Springbuck
experienced momentary dizziness and a refusal to absorb the death of his
would-be companion, who stared sightlessly at the decorative water apertures
above his head.

A moment only,
and the Prince realized that the Lady Duskwind had been in this room when the
guardsmen entered but had made no outcry and thus must be implicated in—perhaps
had committed—the gentle old man’s murder. Springbuck’s lips drew back in a
soundless snarl.

He prized loose
the panel and retrieved his wallet; then he took out his sword and, gripping it
so tightly that his hand shook, returned to the bedroom. Through hot tears
forming, he saw a bundle lying behind the door and opened it with a vicious
kick to survey its contents, Duskwind’s traveling clothes and accouterments. He
moved to the bedside, glaring down at the bound girl, his face fell to look
upon, until she consigned her soul to the gods of her house.

But they had
been lovers; she had meant a great deal to him in that time, and he could not
bring himself to kill her. Shame at events in the throne room and his growing
impulse to be away, coupled with grief for Faurbuhl, numbed bun and drained his
thirst for revenge; he’d shown no merit himself in the night’s tragedies. He
searched her imploring eyes.

“What reward
did they offer you?” he wondered aloud. “What wages to slay my friend and then
flee? Was it to be blamed on me? Is that why Captain Brodur left me here so
handily? Be still! I’ll not kill you, though I ought to; I give you your life
and leave you to your own devices. But I vow, the next moment that I see you
will be your last.”

And because he
wouldn’t have her see a Prince of Coramonde weep he sheathed his sword with a
clash and took up the brightly lacquered war mask he’d obtained, with its
colorful crest of plumes. He set it on his head, covering all of his face save
mouth and brimming eyes. Tying the wallet to his sword belt, he fetched his
long cloak and swirled it around him. Concealed from throat to heels, plumes
bobbing behind, he drew back the bolt and let himself into the corridor. There
were no guards in that part of Earthfast, nor were any needed since Fania’s own
picked men manned the gates with orders not to permit him egress, and they were
under the impression that he was in custody and under guard.

But of this he
cared little; he simply wanted to leave Earthfast forever.

They all
hold swords, being expert in war; every man hath his sword upon his thigh
because of fear in the night.

THE SONG OF SONGS,
Which Is
Solomon’s

HE’D readied a story against
being stopped by the portglaves, of being confused and lost in looking to
rejoin his “master,” the envoy from Alebowrene, the sort of thing that happened
often in Earthfast with so many visitors and their retinues quartered there.
Crossing the open exercise areas he came to the stables, filled with the
ceaseless sounds and thick smells of horses of all sorts: brave coursers and
glum-faced palfreys, massive destriers, well-formed jumpers and the enormous
draft animals that pulled the war drays of the entourage from Matloo.

Springbuck had
planned to take his own horse, Fire-heel, but found the big gray gone from his
stall and was afraid to inquire after it with a groom for fear of recognition.
Instead, he selected a light reconnaissance cavalryman’s saddle and began to
ready a swift-looking roncin bearing the markings of the High Ranges on its
flanks and Earthfast’s croppings on its ear. The horse proved balky though,
shying from him and whinnying softly. His warmask, light as it was, yet made
things more troublesome, and so he removed it and set it aside. He finished
quickly and turned to reopen the stall door, to find himself faced with a
figure from his past.

The light was
poor but he still knew his old playmate Micko, stableboy now, but close
companion back in the days when rank meant less and larking was the order of
the day. Micko was at one with animals, just as his father was, though he
hadn’t inherited his sire’s affinity for forest and field, and was most at home
in kennel, aerie or barn. But even Micko, never one for insight or subtlety,
knew the drift of things at Court and must know it was his obligation to raise
the alarm on pain of a traitor’s fate. Springbuck could only wait and taste
bitterness. But Micko, a sorrowful expression on his grimy face, said only, “Do
not let him take his head, as he likes to; he will wear himself out early in
the ride.”

Springbuck’s
cheeks burned. He wanted to explain why he was flying by night like a criminal,
how his enemies had an infinite number of ways to ensure that he wouldn’t survive
a duel for the throne, but he couldn’t think of any words which did not strike
him as self-serving.

So, he brushed
brusquely past Micko and, mounting and masking, guided his horse through the
stable and out across the main bailey, clopping over smooth paving lit by
fluttering torches and toward the portcullis, raised in this time of moribund
festivity. He fell in with a group of riders, laughing celebrants who’d just
mounted nearer the palace proper. The gate warder did not try to delay them,
obvious guests of the Queen. As they all rode down the rampway from Earthfast,
Springbuck gradually fell behind his temporary escorts.

Once down the
long slope, he stopped and turned in his saddle for one last look at the
ancient keep with its bright lights and whipping flags and battle pennons, as
the faint sounds of gaiety drifted out over the night. With a sigh, he faced
back to the way before him. He knew he must make good distance before dawn, and
started down the broad boulevard which led from the palace-fortress through the
city spread at its feet. He’d thought to perhaps hide in the city for a while
until it was feasible to travel overland, but had dismissed the idea.
Kee-Amaine would be torn brace from beam in the search for him and the rewards
offered would guarantee betrayal from anyone else who identified him—unless
Micko had already changed his mind.

He cantered
slowly down the way, not wishing to attract attention by moving any faster.

Kee-Amaine, the
City of the Protector, surrounded Earthfast as a gaudy collar does a
desperado’s neck, being here fine and colorful and there frayed and badly used.
The street saw little traffic at this hour and the lanterns that lined it
flickered fitfully in the night wind.

He passed a
detachment of the civic watch making its rounds, but they didn’t bother to hail
him or ask his business, seeing him come from the palace-fortress, since things
had seemed quiet this night. It was getting colder, and they were anxious to
finish their tour and return to lay down their heavy pikes for the warmth of
their barracks berths.

Before
Springbuck’s grandfather had imported the twin innovations of night patrols and
streetlighting, life in Kee-Amaine had been confined after dark, since none but
the well-armed or foolish ventured out into the threatening blackness to risk
robbery or murder.

Two riders
approached from the other direction, that of the Brass Lion Gate, which gave
access to the Western Tangent. Their course would bring them right past him,
but Springbuck thought that conspicuously avoiding them would be poor strategy,
and so rode along.

He was soon
sorry he did; as they neared him, he recognized them for Novanwyn, a
Legion-Marshal and favorite of Fania’s, and his senior captain, Desenge. They
stopped and stared at him curiously just as he drew even with them, and Desenge
called out, “What does an Alebowrenian do here, sitting a horse which I myself
saw in the royal stables only this afternoon?”

The Prince
stopped, like it or not. To ignore them would demand pursuit and ruinous inquiry.
Besides, Desenge carried in its saddle rest his long spear, Finder, heavy and
black and said by some to be unable to miss its mark when it flew from its
owner’s hand, with many ill deeds to its name.

The Prince
attempted to disguise his voice, hoping that the war mask would help, as he
faced them and answered, “I have just made obeisance for my liege,
Knight-Commander to the Warchief of Alebowrene, at the feet of your Queen. My
horse was lamed and I was given this one to take Her Grace’s regard to my
lord.”

Novanwyn
inclined his head politely. “Please excuse my aide’s curiosity.” He smiled
blandly. “And let us keep you tarrying no longer. Oh, and if you would be so
kind—Legion-Marshal Novanwyn’s respects to your liege?”

Springbuck
grunted noncommittally and continued on his way, shaken. Passing long walls and
hedgerows bordering the way in this area, he rode for a time, then paused in a
side street and squinted back along the way to see if he were being followed.
To no avail; either he wasn’t pursued or his nearsightedness made it impossible
to see those behind him.

He decided,
though, to take a circuitous route, swinging past the marketplace and coming
round to the southern wall and the Brass Lion Gate by back streets. He hoped
that, in tomorrow’s turmoil at his escape, no one would link a renegade Prince
to a lone Alebowrenian. Then it occurred to him that it was a foolish hope;
Duskwind had seen his attire.

Memories of
Hightower’s death began to intrude again and he spent the ride in painful
examination of his conscience. Alternate outcomes spun in his head; if he’d
moved sooner, faster, fought harder, could he have saved the Duke? Should he
have stayed in Earthfast and fought the duel? At best, he would eventually have
had to meet Strongblade in arms, Strongblade who was wont to toy with two
lesser opponents at a time and who’d often bested their instructor, Eliatim.