The Dragon Lord (25 page)

“A princess,” echoed Aldric in an odd, small voice. “Imprisoned in a tower. Yes. You did say, tower?”

“I did. The Red Tower. At Egisburg.” Goth looked at him curiously, wondering just a little; but it was Bruda who tilted back his chair and hid the start of a smile behind one hand. He could see what way Aldric’s thoughts were tending, and what their reaction might eventually be; and it was something which the sober, serious general might not like—even thothough it tickled Bruda hugely.

“It was her misfortune,” that Prokrator continued, once his twitching mouth was under control, “to be on the wrong side of what is really a truce line (although nobody will ever dare to call it that) when yet another of those damned interminable so-called demarcation conferences—peace talks, if you really want to know— when yet another of those wrangles fell apart and the borders were closed. Marevna and her people were stopped well short of the frontier, taken into custody, and there they’ve been ever since.”

Bruda pushed papers to and fro on the table, then flicked a glance at Aldric from under his lowered brows. “I don’t know how Etzel’s cavalry patrol came to be where they were at so opportune a moment. But I do know that the breakdown of the conference was engineered; I was there, and I saw it happen. Someone, somewhere, is playing a double game and when I find out who…”

“Knowing or not knowing does little to help the princess just now,” Goth said stiffly. “She’s a political prisoner and her continued well-being is the Emperor’s responsibility.”

Aldric nodded; this was a standard enough ploy. “What was the threat this time?” he asked blandly. There had to be a threat, there was
always
a threat.

“This.” Goth set a tiny, elegant box on the table. Made of ivory, it was covered in a fine mesh of carving, openwork so that the red satin of its lining could peep through in contrast—the sort of thing in which a lady would keep her choicest gems. “This contained the letter by which Emperor Ioen was informed of his sister’s abduction.”

“And how many boxes did Grand Warlord Etzel promise to return the princess in, if her brother didn’t behave himself?”

“Enough,” said Bruda flatly, all his humor quite evap-orated. “And he isn’t bluffing. Never in all the years of the Sherban dynasty has any warlord made an idle threat.”

“I can imagine,” said Aldric. “Yes indeed.” What point in making ferocious noises if the violence they promised was never carried out?

“For the sake of political balance it is vital that the princess be rescued,” Goth was ticking points off on his fingers now, “and equally vital that the Emperor should have no connection with anything irregular.”

Aldric looked at the general and fought back yet another crazy, humorless chuckle. Typical, he thought, that outright war was preferable to subterfuge. But then subterfuge of another kind had brought him here. As Goth explained further, he—Aldric—represented Alban support for the enterprise as no words ever could. An enterprise that was potentially lethal and which had at all costs to be resolved without unnecessary bloodshed. Neither side wanted a war if it could be avoided—but if it came, each would prefer the other to have started it.

“So then, my lord
Aldric-arluth
Talvalin,” the general gave him his title for the first time, in much the same way any wheedling request is preceded by flattery, “what think you of our predicament?”

There was silence up and down the table; heads turned to stare at Aldric, waiting expectantly for his reply. And Aldric did as Prokrator Bruda had expected that he might.

He laughed…

“You mean—You mean to say that this is why I was dragged halfway across the Empire? For a story I might tell to children! Princesses and towers and wicked lords, by God!” He kicked back from the table, a jolting violent movement which brought Voord’s honor guard out of their seats with swords half-drawn. “Sit down, you two!” the Alban snarled. “I won’t bite!” Neither man moved, and he shrugged. “Then please yourselves. I no longer care.”

“Aldric! Hear us out, man.” It was Bruda now, the one man among the lot of them whom possibly he might listen to. That at least was what the Prokrator was hoping. “At least, listen to me” Bruda had not risen to his feet—had not, in fact, changed his posture in the chair at all. He radiated calm as a fire radiates heat, and when Aldric looked at him he caught the younger man’s eyes with his own and held them for a moment, then gestured with his hand. “Sit down. Be still. Hear what we have yet to say—then be angry if you wish.”

Aldric stared, glared rather, through eyes that had gone narrow and vicious, and the black wolf-pelt
coyac
covering his shoulders seemed for just a moment to… bristle?
No
, thought Bruda,
I’m imagining things
. Some inner prompting made him glance at Voord, and what he saw on the
hautheisart’s
already too-pale face made him revise his opinion. The ship-captain’s report had been bad enough, but the implications of this were just too…

Then, very slowly and carefully, Aldric Talvalin resumed his seat.

He had been told many things already, Bruda knew, but not the unpalatable truth behind his being brought here. No one had yet decided how and when he was to learn that, but Bruda had once expressed the wish to be there when it happened. Now he was no longer so sure. He knew a great deal more than he had any right to know about this Alban clan-lord, but it was the way in which he and Goth and Voord had come to know such things that lay at the bottom of all. For all that it would be of benefit to the Empire which he served—and loved, though that was only admitted on rare occasions, in private, when he was in the maudlin stage of drink—the transfer of information had been a distasteful thing. Dishonorable. If there had been some other way…

But there had not.

Bruda was not
Hauthanalth Kagh’ Ernvakh
for nothing. He commanded the Guardians of the Emperor’s Honor, as old and respected a position as any in this young Empire, and to do so he was truly a man of honor and self-respect. Unlike Goth, with his plots and stratagems—and especially, unlike Voord. But very like the young man who sat bolt-upright not the length of his own ash cane away, sat and stared and dared him to try to make some sense out of his disrupted life. Aldric too was an honorable man; honorable not only as the Albans defined the word, but also as the Prokrator himself regarded it. He was consequently deadly—a whetted blade poised and ready to fall. But where? On his captors?

Or on the king who had so totally betrayed him?

“Aldric,” said Bruda very quietly, “Princess Marevna was taken captive twelve leagues from the frontier. More than thirty miles inside hostile territory. So tell me—why is she held in Egisburg, a city only three leagues from the line?”

“Well within range of a mounted storm-column,” expanded Goth.

Aldric looked from one to the other and whistled thinly through his teeth. ” ‘Here’s your sister, majesty-come and get her.’ And if the Emperor does send in a force—”

“Then the Empire will go up in flames from end to end. War, to justify the Warlord.” Bruda leaned forward, his face taut. “Will you help us, Aldric? As your king desires?”

The Alban settled back into the padded embrace of his own chair and looked from face to face with hooded, unreadable eyes. His own mind was already made up— duty demanded it—but curiosity and alcohol were beginning to get the better of him. He wanted to know what these allies-to-be really were, beneath their eager, dutiful, would-be heroic expressions that were concealed by masks of metal, and he knew a certain way of finding out.

“This whole affair,” he said, no longer looking at anyone in particular, “is so twisted that merely trying to work through the basic permutations gives me a headache. And it stinks of intrigue. That’s not a perfume I’m too fond of. So, just for your so-comprehensive records, king or not, duty or not—no, I won’t.” He allowed the small sounds of astonishment, anger or downright disbelief to fade away, then glanced bleakly towards
Hauthei-sart
Voord. “But I imagine you volunteered to change my mind. So. Convince me.”

He had expected threats of violence, such as those uttered by
Teynaur’s
captain; what he had not expected was the exultant smile which stretched Voord’s razor-cut mouth, a smile which sent a tiny shiver of apprehension across the Alban’s skin. The pressures of the Imperial Secret Police, he guessed far too late, were likely to be more than commonplace. What could they be? Or promise? Or do?

He learned.

“The report from
Teynaur
is quite enough for this man to be handed over to the secular authorities on a charge of sorcery. That, however, would be time-consuming and ultimately a waste of our investment. In any case, mere straightforward death is no threat to a
kailin
of Alba.” If drunk enough to tell the truth, Aldric would have differed with that opinion; but for once, and wisely, he kept his mouth tight shut.

“So instead,” continued Voord, “I considered the dossier which we acquired. It gave me a means whereby this pride and honor—stubbornness, no more—could be turned to our advantage.” He tapped one finger on the table and Garet slid a folder towards him across its polished surface. Voord opened it, flicked through the contents twice—an operation made clumsy by the bone and leather talon of his left hand—and extracted two fragile sheets.

“One: the steading of Tervasdal in Valhol.” Aldric’s head jerked up. “Two: the citadel at Seghar.” A harshness darkened Voord’s voice as he pronounced the name, and he arranged both sheets on the table with fastidious neatness, their edges parallel and just-so. Then he stared at Aldric. “And three: a certain very fine Andarran stallion, presently in the stables of this very stronghold. Kyrin and Gueynor and Lyard,” he grated, all the mockery leaving his words as he slapped his right hand flat against the documents. “Do you really want to hear the details of what I have in mind?”

“You
bastard
...” All color had drained from Aldric’s face, and his fingers were gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that the knucklebones shone ivory through the stretched skin.

“Think of everything your mind can compass,
hlensyarl”
hissed Voord. “And even then you won’t have guessed the half of it.”

Aldric came to his feet slowly—very slowly, like a man oppressed by some vast weight—and only Bruda was close enough and quick enough to catch the brief, bright malice that glittered for a moment in the Alban’s eyes. He turned, shoulders sagging like those of a man broken in body and spirit, a man with no defiance left, spreading both hands helplessly wide as he bowed his head to Goth. “The… my… sir, the decision is concluded. When do we go?”

“Tomorrow,” said Goth, “will be soon enough. First you need clothing and armor.”

Aldric waved one hand—a weak, indecisive gesture— towards the bench behind him. “Armor I have already, sir,” he said.

“But not for Egisburg. Ride through that city’s gates in Alban harness and you would never leave again. You’ll need our cavalry equipment.”

“I am keeping my own weapons.” This time there was a hardness in his voice which had not been there before, an edge that left no room for argument.

Goth heard it and looked past him towards Bruda; Aldric’s peripheral vision caught the Prokrator’s nod of consent and also a hand-sign which meant nothing at first. It was the sort of gesture he might have used himself, if signalling that something be increased, but here and now it seemed right out of context—until Goth spoke again.

“Prokrator Bruda concurs with your choice of weapons,” said the general, and Aldric almost let his thoughts be heard aloud.
Choice
, said his mind;
as if I gave you any more choice than you gave me
. “But he also points out that to warrant such blades you must also carry high rank.”

Aldric heard the clatter as Voord shot out of his chair, knocking it over in his haste and this time didn’t bother to conceal the smile summoned by the sound—a smile which widened to a grin of honest pleasure as the first few words of an outraged protest were silenced by Goth’s upraised hand. “What… what rank, sir?” he ventured at last.

Both of the senior officers considered for a moment, but it was Bruda who answered at last. “A brevet of
en-hanalth
should be quite sufficient,” he said, accompa-nying the words with a look which dared Voord to argue with him.

Voord did. “You can’t do this!” he blared, all affronted dignity now. “You can’t hand out such a high rank as if it was—”

“Voord!” Bruda’s voice was sharp. “I just did.”

“But… but that means. . .” Disbelief struggled with the reality of the situation and reality won. “He’s superior to
me
!” Hoping that he was wrong, that this was perhaps some black joke played on him for his earlier foul manners, he stared at Bruda and then at Goth in the hope of seeing an eye twinkle or a smile begin to spread. Instead he saw the Lord General nod his head in agreement.

“Effectively,
hautheisart
, yes,” Goth said. “He is superior.” There was something about the way he said it which suggested that the superiority lay in more than merely rank, but Voord was past noticing subtle nuances of tone.

He flinched visibly at the general’s words, for such a statement from such a source was not open to question— not after what had been said bare minutes earlier about the differences in their rank. But this was more important to Voord than even caution, and his next words were addressed, pointedly so, to his own commander. “
Prokrator Hauthanalth
,” he said, his use of Bruda’s full style and title being for exactly the same reason that Aldric’s had been spoken by Goth: to preface and emphasise a request. “Sir, tell me that I don’t… I don’t have to obey his orders, do I?” The abject “please” was unspoken but patently obvious for all that.

On another occasion, or in a different situation, or even if Voord had not been so discourteous—no, bloody rude!—earlier, Bruda might have said what his lieutenant wanted to hear. Instead he too nodded, with finality. “I’ll be the final arbiter, of course; not,” with a significant glance at Aldric, “that I anticipate anything of the kind. But this is a step taken for protective coloration, so if
hanalth-rank
should by any chance give a command to
hautheisart-rank
before witnesses who might otherwise be curious, then
hautheisart-rank
will obey. Without hesitation or question. Is that understood?”