The Quest for Saint Camber (13 page)

The Moors gave brisk salute to Kelson with spears against their shields as, by pairs, they split to either side to line the end of the aisle. And then, as the unexpected clatter of hooves on the stairs outside the hall heralded the approach of the ambassador himself, the Moors turned inward as one man and lowered their spears to the man they escorted.

By his dress, the Torenthi ambassador, too, was a Moor, though darker complected than any Moor Kelson had ever seen. He rode a tawny-colored desert barb, taller by several hands than the usual of the breed, and his flowing desert robes were of the same amber hue as the animal's shiny coat, though his turban was snowy white, a fold of it covering the lower part of his face. Most impressive of all was the vast cloak of spotted catskin curved around the man's shoulders, dappled and sun-tawny, the great fore paws clasped on his breast and the ponderous head resting on his left shoulder, all gleaming in the sunlight as he paused briefly in the doorway to take stock of the situation he was about to enter.

He bore himself like a prince as he minced his barb delicately down the center of the stone-flagged hall. He appeared to be unarmed—but any number and manner of weapons might be secreted beneath the cloak of spotted fur. Or perhaps he had no need for weapons, since cautious psychic probes from Kelson and several of the Deryni around him encountered closely guarded shields.

Deryni himself, then—or at least well protected by someone who was. His black eyes flashed, vibrant and aware, as he drew rein in the center of the hall.

Only, as he dropped the barb's reins and flung one leg over the pommel of his saddle, preparatory to dismounting, the golden eyes of the great cat's head on his shoulder blinked, the mighty head lifting as the jaws parted in a mighty yawn.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

It is good to keep close the secret of a king
.

—Tobit 12:7

Kelson's gasp was echoed by nearly every throat in the hall as the great cat carefully disengaged its paws from around the Moor's neck and sprang lightly to the floor. The movement, plus the soft plop its landing made—punctuated by something that sounded like a muted growl, cut off in mid-rumble—released the assembled court of Gwynedd to surge back from the center aisle like the sea parting before Moses. What had begun as a breathless murmur of speculation and grudging respect at the man's first appearance became a wave of exclamations trailing into hushed silence as the cat's master dropped nimbly to the floor beside the beast.

The Moor walked the cat to the very foot of the dais steps. One of his men led the barb back to the door of the hall and waited there. The cat sat at once as its master halted, looking up attentively as the Moor slowly tugged loose the cloth veiling his lower face and allowed the faint glow of a Deryni aura to flare visibly around his head for a few seconds—which elicited yet another murmur of foreboding from the courtiers still edging away from the pair. The man's nose was thin and aquiline, with a slight hook to it, made more prominent by a close-clipped beard and mustache.

“May Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful, grant peace and health to all within this house,” the man said, touching a graceful hand to breast, lips, and forehead in salute as he made his bow. His voice was deep and melodious, with only a hint of accent even in the speaking of the ritual phrase.

“I am Al Rasoul ibn Tarik, emissary of my Lord Mahael II of Arjenol, guardian of my Lord Prince Ronal of Torenth and regent for my Lord King Liam in the absence of his royal mother, the Lady Morag. My Lord Mahael sends his personal felicitations on this, the day of your Christian knighting, my Lord Kelson, and prays you will accept this small token of his esteem, one knight to another, as a remembrance of this happy occasion. My Lord Mahael had it especially blessed by the Patriarch of Beldour.”

While he spoke, he had drawn a small, silk-wrapped object from his sash and extended it on one outstretched palm.

“Please accept, as well, my personal congratulations,” Rasoul went on, as Dhugal, at Kelson's signal, came close enough to retrieve the gift—though both young men kept a wary eye on the cat. “We have not the equivalent of your knighthood among the faithful, but we recognize the honor it betokens among your people. My respect to these other young men as well.”

The gift was a heavily enameled cross done in the eastern manner, but Kelson gave it only a cursory glance when Dhugal had brought it back—enough to reassure himself that it carried no malignant glamour. The greater part of his attention was still diverted by the cat.

“Please convey my thanks to your master, my Lord Rasoul,” Kelson said carefully, still wondering what he was going to do if the animal sprang. It had sunk into a crouch as Rasoul began speaking, lithe tail slowly lashing, but its golden eyes watched every movement on the dais with great interest. One giant paw had already crept onto the bottom step, claws flexing lightly against the priceless Kheldish carpet. Nor would archers be much help, if the cat did decide to attack, though they had come to half draw at the animal's first movement.

I don't think she likes the cold floor
, came Dhugal's surprising comment in Kelson's mind, not at all concerned.
Most cats don't. Isn't she beautiful, though?

The notion so startled Kelson, in the process of handing the cross to Rory for safekeeping, that he glanced quickly at Dhugal before continuing what he had been about to say to Rasoul. He had forgotten about Dhugal's uncanny knack with animals.

“Say also, my Lord Rasoul, that I pray peace and health for all in his house, and that our two kingdoms may abide in peace and health.”

“I shall do so, my lord.”

Rasoul sketched another brief, distracted bow, right hand to his breast, but he was already sweeping his gaze pointedly along the upper galleries as he straightened—looking for Morag, no doubt, since he had already seen Liam, still standing quietly among the squires between Duncan and Morgan, the latter with a proprietary hand on the boy's shoulder. He plainly did not care for the archers, either.

Neither he nor Kelson said anything, but Kelson slowly raised one hand in sign for the archers to stand at ease. He could afford that concession. If the cat
did
attack—and Dhugal seemed not at all concerned that she would—then mere arrows would not be swift enough to stop her.

“Thank you, my lord,” Rasoul murmured, with another inclination of his turbaned head. “My next message is for my Lord King Liam and his mother—though I do not see the Lady Morag present in the hall today. I trust she is in good health.”

“Her health is excellent, my lord,” Kelson replied coolly. “Had her courtesy been as notable, I am sure her sojourn at my court would have been far more agreeable for everyone concerned.”

Rasoul snorted and gave an impertinent jerk of his chin, causing the great cat to lift its head and look at him, the rumbling purr faltering.

“I will concede that the Lady Morag's
patience
may occasionally have been lacking, my lord,” the Moor allowed, “as might be that of any noble lady held hostage against her will for close on a year, though her release was promised six months ago.”

So. Rasoul was pulling no punches, going immediately to the heart of the matter. Fine. It eliminated the need for playing diplomatic games. As Kelson framed his reply, he carefully extended his Truth-Reading talent to gauge the Moor's responses—difficult at this distance and to read another Deryni, but Rasoul would find the reverse no easier.

“That promise, my lord, was made before Torenthi agents attempted to assassinate my uncle last summer in my absence,” the king said. “According to the letter of the law, either I or my regent would have been wholly within our rights to execute both hostages, were it not for certain indications that Liam's own death was also intended by the assassins.”

“Sir, your insinuation is not only insulting, it is preposterous!” Rasoul retorted. “If, indeed, these were agents of Torenth who acted in such a manner—for which I have only your word, my lord—” The Moor made a curt, insolent bow, “—why should they wish their king dead?”

The man was good, never making any statement that was not the literal truth, but Kelson knew how many lies could be hidden in what Rasoul did
not
say. Besides, both he and Morgan had questioned the prisoners still languishing in the dungeons below the keep.
Someone
had wanted Liam dead.

“That, I do not know, my lord,” Kelson said. “Perhaps their master wished him dead. I make no particular inference that their master is indeed your master, but one must wonder who stands most to gain, should our young royal guest perish before he comes fully into his inheritance. I assure you, it is not I—if only because your master has the governance of King Liam's heir.”

The Moor bristled at that, prudently silent, but the great cat's rumbling purr rose in volume, verging on a growl, its tail lashing vexedly in response to its master's obvious agitation. Both front paws were now on the lowest step, up to the elbows.

“I decline to answer an allegation so patently absurd,” Rasoul said at last. “If carried to its logical conclusion, it implies that the Lady Morag countenanced her own son's murder.” He glanced at Liam and made him a bow. “Do not listen to their lies, my prince. All is being done that may, to secure your release.”

“Which will occur in due time, my lord,” Kelson replied, before the boy could speak, “but not today and not in the very near future. For the present, it is my intention that Liam of Torenth shall remain the guest of Gwynedd until he attains his fourteenth year—to which end, I have this day squired him to Prince Nigel Haldane, Duke of Carthmoor—”

“
Squired
him—”

“Hear me, my lord! Your king is yet of tender years. Nor was it anticipated that he would one day rule Torenth. It was not
I
who encompassed his elder brother's death,” he added, letting Rasoul read the truth of
that
. “But it is my responsibility to see that he is properly trained to rule his land when he comes into his legal majority.”

“And whence derives this alleged responsibility, my lord?” Rasoul challenged.

“Because last year, King Liam did me homage for his kingdom,” Kelson replied, “as was agreed between myself and his uncle, the late King Wencit. That places him under my protection.”

“Say, rather, your servitude,” Rasoul muttered.

Kelson sighed. “Hardly servitude, my lord, saving such servitude as any child owes his elders while he learns the lessons of maturity. That is a servitude which I myself have borne, and gladly, and under direction of the same goodly knight. Your king must learn his statecraft somewhere, after all.”

“Then let him learn it at his uncle's knee!” Rasoul responded. “Your ways are not our ways. To keep him hostage, apart from kin and countrymen—”

“—is no different from the fosterage that most highborn youths endure, sir,” Kelson replied. “He studies with my own royal cousins,” he swept an arm in the direction of Payne and Rory, “and he spars with the flower of Gwynedd's chivalry—which is precisely how he would spend his next four years, were he nobly born in Gwynedd and not in Torenth. Surely you cannot think that ill.”

Rasoul let out a perplexed sigh. “It is not I whose approval you must gain, my lord. My Lord Mahael will not like this.”

“I do not require that he like it,” Kelson said. “I do require that he accept it, as regent of my vassal, the King of Torenth. Missives have been prepared by my chancery, detailing my intentions in this matter, and you will deliver these to your Lord Mahael upon your return to his court. I shall expect his presence in Cardosa in June.”

Rasoul's dark face went very still.

“You
expect
—”

Kelson leaned back a little in his chair, never taking his eyes from Rasoul's. He could feel the tension rising among the Moors, but their master suddenly had become a tightly shielded blank.

“If you prefer, I shall
command
it, my lord,” he said carefully. “And once I have met your master face-to-face and assured myself of his peaceful intentions—and Prince Ronal's well-being—I have no doubt that terms for the lady's release can be arranged.”

“Ah.” The one word seemed to dissipate all the pent-up tension that had been building in both Rasoul and his men, further reinforcing Kelson's belief that he was wise to tread softly, that something was afoot in Torenth. “Then, you do intend to set the Lady Morag free.”

With but the faintest flare of his own shields, apparent only to another Deryni, Kelson smiled conspiratorially and gave the Deryni lord a shrug.

“Our kind are few at the Court of Gwynedd, my lord. She will be far less trouble to Duke Mahael than she has been to me. Do you take my meaning?”

The observation contained just enough wry irony to restore the Moor's good humor. Chuckling aloud—to the mystification of most of the court—Rasoul nodded, giving Kelson another bow.

“I do, indeed, my lord. I—don't suppose I might have brief audience with Her Highness?”

“Alas, no, my lord,” Kelson replied. “I trust you will understand why.”

Of course, he did not volunteer the more practical reason for his refusal—that Morag was no longer in Rhemuth—and Rasoul had no reason to suspect it. As the Moor shrugged and bowed again, Kelson stood, cradling his sword in the crook of his arm.

“Good, then. I believe we understand one another. May I invite you and your men to join the feast that will shortly be served in honor of today's knightings? Or, if you prefer, may I offer you less formal refreshment while the missives for your lord are brought? Archbishop Cardiel, would you see to that immediately, please?”

Rasoul, gracious once more, inclined his head, and the great cat stirred at his feet, stretching languidly.