The Iron Wars

EIGHTEEN

All morning the brightly liveried cavalcades had been trekking into the city. Crowds of commoners turned out to cheer them as they trotted and trundled across the blackened Lower City and began following the paved expanse of the Royal way into Upper Abrusio and the twin towering edifices of the palace and the monastery.

They were magnificently turned out, the horses richly caparisoned, the closed carriages gay with paint and banners, the gonfalons and fanions of the noble houses of the kingdom snapping and flaming out overhead like brilliantly plumaged birds. Their procession stretched for the better part of a mile, from the Eastern Gate clear across to the foot of Abrusio Hill. Above them, the abbey and the monastery of the Inceptines were hung with flags in welcome, patches of newly mortared stone bright against their weathered old walls. In the courtyard before the abbey ranks of servitors waited and a dozen trumpeters stood ready to blare out a salute when the nobles drew near.

Jemilla sat watching from an open carriage, well wrapped up against the flurries of sleet that were rattling in from the Hebros. Beside her sat her steward, Antonio Feramond. He was red-nosed and sniffling and had his collar turned up against the raw wind.

“There-there, do you see? That bloodless, pompous old fool. There he sits, the very picture of the gracious host, looking like the cat who caught the mouse.”

Jemilla spat. She was talking of Urbino, Duke of Imerdon, who sat on a patient white destrier at the entrance to the great courtyard, ready to welcome his fellow nobles to the council.

Well, one could not have everything. Those with an inkling of intelligence would know who had brought this about. But it galled Jemilla that she was to have no part in the proceedings until Urbino produced her and the child she bore like a cony from a conjuror’s hat. She would act the dutiful noble-woman, grieving for the King who had been her lover, whilst behind the scenes she would pull the strings that made Urbino dance.

“The venison was brought in this morning, was it not?” she demanded of the miserable Antonio.

“Yes, madam. A score of plump does, well hung, too. But had I known these blue-bloods were going to flood the city with their retainers I’d have ordered a dozen more.”

“Don’t worry about the hangers-on. Bread, beer and cheese is good enough for them.”

“At least we did not pay for the wine. That saved us a pretty penny,” Antonio said smugly. Though the monastery and abbey had been looted in the aftermath of the late war, the Inceptine cellars had escaped damage. There was enough wine in them to float a fleet of carracks. Antonio had also made himself a pretty penny by selling a few tuns of it to an enterprising Macassian ship’s captain. He thought this was his secret, and Jemilla did not intend to disabuse him of the fact until she deemed it useful to do so.

“How stand our funds at the moment?” she asked him.

“We have fifteen hundred and twelve gold crowns left over, madam. The duke was very generous. We’ll make a profit from the affair, never fear.”

Short-sighted fool. He thought in terms of profit and loss, while Jemilla’s eye was set much higher. One day soon she’d have the entire Hebrian treasury at her disposal. Let them have their pomp and panoply, for now.

A commotion at the western side of the courtyard drew her attention. A knot of riders trotting into view.

“Who in the world-?”

Foremost among them was a noble lady riding side-saddle. She was hooded and cloaked against the inclement weather, but Jemilla knew her at once. That Astaran bitch, Isolla. What did she think she was doing here? And beside her a man in a broad-brimmed hat that buckled and tugged in the wind. He wore a patch over one eye and seemed a mere skeleton under his fur-trimmed riding robes. Jemilla’s mouth opened as she recognized Golophin. Behind the pair were four heavily armed knights bearing the livery of Astarac, and then four more in the colours of Hebrion. The group of riders joined Duke Urbino in the centre of the square. Even from this distance, Jemilla could see that the duke was taken aback. Golophin swept off his hat and bowed in the saddle, his head as bald as an eggshell. Isolla offered the bemused duke her hand to kiss.

“Madam,” Antonio began. “Who-?”

“Shut up, you fool. Let me think.”

The head of the nobles’ procession entered the square, and there was a deafening flourish of trumpets. Isolla and Urbino greeted the arriving noblemen together, the Astaran princess throwing back her hood to reveal an intricately braided head of auburn hair set with diamond-headed pins.

Jemilla had been outmanoeuvred, upstaged. But as she turned the thing over in her mind she realized that it did not matter. The council would run its course, a regency would be voted into existence. Let the odd pair have their triumph; it would mean little enough in the end.

The council assembled in what had once been the refectory of the monastery. The broken windows had been replaced-though plain glass was now installed where once there had been ancient and beautiful stained-glass windows-and the huge chamber had been swept clean, the walls replastered and the banners of the nobles hung along the massively beamed vault of the ceiling. Two fireplaces, each large enough to accommodate a spit-turned bullock, had been cleaned out and blazed with welcome flame. The long refectory table had survived and stood where it always had. Crafted of iron-hard teak from Calmar, the only marks it bore of the recent fighting were a few arquebus balls buried deep in the timber. High-backed chairs, ornate as small thrones, were ranged along it, and the nobility of the kingdom took its seats amid a buzz and hubbub of animated talk, whilst serving attendants set decanters of wine and platters of sweetmeats at intervals along the table and lit the dozens of thick beeswax candles which stood in clusters everywhere.

Along the walls, scribes sat at little desks prepared to take down every word spoken by the assembled dignitaries, and a trio of brawny servitors manhandled extra chairs to accommodate the unexpected additions to the throng. The seating had been nicely arranged in order of precedence and rank, but the arrival of Isolla and Golophin had thrown these out and things were being hastily rejuggled. The larger throne at the table’s head would remain empty, of course, to represent the absent King and, a princess being as lofty in rank as a duke, Isolla would be sitting opposite Urbino in the next two places. Golophin declared himself happy with a well-padded chair by the fire. He had a decanter and glass brought to him there and sat sipping and watching the crowd with evident enjoyment.

It took an hour for the notables to finish greeting each other, find their places and assume their seats. During that time Jemilla appeared and had another comfortable chair brought in so that she could sit opposite Golophin at the fire. He offered her wine but she demurred graciously, citing her pregnancy. They sat staring into the flames, for all the world like an old married couple, whilst the clamour died around them into an orderly silence.

A grey-clad Friar Mendicant appeared by the empty King’s place, and raised his hands.

“My lords, noble lady, a moment of prayer, if you please, for our poor afflicted King. May he soon recover his senses and rule over us with the justice and compassion that was his wont.”

Those present bowed their heads. Golophin leaned forward and whispered to Jemilla:

“Your idea, I suppose.”

“You won’t object to a prayer for the King’s health, surely, Golophin.”

“Poor and afflicted. I’ll bet you just wish.”

The cleric withdrew. Duke Urbino stood up. For a second he seemed at a loss for words. Then he met Jemilla’s eye, and his spine seemed to stiffen.

“Gentlemen, my worthy cousins, gracious lady, we are gathered here on a mission of paramount importance for the future of the kingdom of Hebrion…”

“A good choice,” Golophin told Jemilla. “Respectable, but dense. No doubt you’ve got him close to thinking he’s his own man.”

“Any man who thinks he’s his own man is a fool. Even you, Golophin. You hold fast to Abeleyn although he’s as good as a corpse. Why not give your loyalty to his son? What principles would that compromise? He would wish it so, were he alive.”

“He is alive. He is alive and my King. And he is my friend.”

“If he were dead-truly dead-would you recognize his son as the heir to the throne?”

Golophin was silent a long time whilst the Duke of Imerdon rambled on in his portentous, pompous way and the rest of the assembly listened with grave attention to his platitudes.

“If it were his son,” he said finally.

Jemilla felt a cold hand about her heart. “You need not concern yourself on that score. Abeleyn himself was convinced. Besides, there have been no others in my bed.”

“Palace guards do not count, then.”

“I had to gain my freedom. I used the only tool I had.” It seemed suddenly very warm here by the fire with the old wizard’s bird-bright eye intent upon her.

Golophin’s eye left her as he drank more wine. Jemilla’s face did not show the relief she felt. This man must go, she thought. He is too knowing, too damned shrewd by half. I can fool the rest, but not him-not for ever.

“Do not trouble to talk to me of the King’s heir, lady,” the wizard said, wiping his mouth. “We know who will rule in Hebrion if that prating fool up there is appointed regent, or if your brat is finally brought into the world and survives to his majority. If it is indeed Abeleyn’s child in your belly, then I would be the first to recognize the infant’s claims, but I would sooner stick my head in a she-wolf’s den than let you have any say in the child’s rearing.”

“It is well that we understand each other,” she said.

“Yes. Honesty is often refreshing, don’t you find? Have a taste of this superb wine. You look somewhat peaked, and one glass will not hurt the child any.”

He poured her some, and they both raised their glasses, looked at each other, and clinked the glasses together.

“To the King,” Golophin said.

“To the King. And his heir.”

• • •

"Well?” Golophin asked Isolla. “What did you make of it?”

They were in the King’s private chambers, sharing a late supper of pheasant stuffed with truffles and basil-one of Golophin’s favourites. The weather had worsened, and hail rattled at the tall windows.

“The Hebrian nobility is even more long-winded than that of Astarac,” Isolla replied. “They must have talked for seven or eight hours, and they barely got beyond introductions.”

“They’re feeling their way. Our presence unsettled them. After Jemilla left I made a point of ostentatiously taking down their names. Let them fear a pogrom. It will concentrate their minds wonderfully.”

“That Jemilla; you were talking to her for a long time. One might have thought you were old friends.”

“Let us say that we understand one another. In many ways she is an admirable woman. She might have made Abeleyn a worthy queen, were she not so… ambitious.”

“She’d rather be king.”

Golophin laughed. “There you have hit the nail on the head. But she is not of the calibre of Odelia of Torunna, another scheming and ambitious woman. Jemilla wants to rule, and damn the consequences. She would lay the kingdom waste if it would put her on a throne.”

“Is she that highly born? I was not aware.”

“Oh, no. She is a noblewoman, and she married well, but her blood is not of such a vintage that it would ever enable her to rule constitutionally, even if she had been a man. But she has brains. She will rule through others.”

“Urbino of Imerdon.”

“Quite.”

“How are you going to stop them, Golophin? They’ll begin discussing the regency tomorrow.”

“We can’t stop them, lady,” Golophin said quietly.

Isolla was startled. “So what are we to do?”

The old wizard sat back from the table and laid aside his napkin. “Jemilla has planned well. In the absence of the King, a quorum of the nobility is allowed to make decisions of state. It has precedent, my legal minds tell me. The decrees of the council will have the full force of law.”

“But we have the army and the fleet behind us.”

“What would you have me do, lady? Stage a coup? Rovero and Mercado would never agree to it. The city has suffered enough, and it would make us no better than Jemilla. No. There is another way, though. Only one thing can take the wind out of their sails now.”

“And that is?”

“The King himself.”

“Then we are finished. That’s impossible. Isn’t it, Golophin?”

“I-I’m not entirely sure. I must do some reading on the matter. I will tell you later. Later tonight, perhaps. Could you meet me in the King’s bedchamber by, say, the fifth hour of the night?”

“Of course. Have your powers come back then?”

The old mage grimaced. “They are not a migrating flock, Isolla. They do not fly away and return overnight. There is some recuperation, certainly. Whether it will be enough is another matter.”

“Do you think you could heal him? It would be the answer to everything.”

“Not quite everything, but it would make life… better, yes.”

Isolla regarded her companion closely. Although he was still rail-thin, his face did not have quite the skull-like look about it which had so startled her at their first meeting. She wondered what had happened to his eye. She had not asked, and Golophin had ventured no explanation. It wept tears of black blood from under the patch sometimes, and he carried a stained handkerchief to blot them away.

“My thanks for the fowl, lady,” he said. “I must retire to my books for a while.” He rose. There had never been any ceremony between them after the first few days.

“Are you-are you in pain, Golophin?”

His quirkish smile, warm and yet gently mocking. “Aren’t we all, in this unhappy world? Until later, Isolla.”

Golophin had a tower out in the hills, a discreet run-down place where he could attend to his researches in peace. Once he might have spirited himself there in a matter of moments, but nowadays it took two hours on a fast-stepping mule. The door, invisible to the naked eye, opened on a word of command and he wearily climbed the circling steps to the uppermost room. From there he could look out of the wide bay windows across twenty leagues of Hebrion, a kingdom asleep under the stars, the sea a faint glimmer on the horizon, and to his right the black bulk of the Hebros Mountains blotting out the sky. The witching hour, some called it. Dweomer worked best at night, which did nothing for the reputations of those who practised it. Something to do with the interfering energy of the sun, perhaps. There had been a paper presented to the guild about it a few years back, he remembered. Who-? Ah yes, Bardolin, his former apprentice.

And where are you now, Bard? Golophin wondered. Did you ever find that land in the west, or are your bones fifty fathoms deep in green water?

He closed his remaining eye. Mind-rhyming was one of his disciplines, and the one least affected by all that had come to pass lately. He let his thought drift free, gossamer thin, frail as shadow, and sent it drifting over the sea. It touched upon a few hard-working night fishermen in a winter ketch, flicked around the massive, formless intelligence of a whale, and ranged farther yet, out into the empty seas of the west.

No good. His power was still ragged and convalescent. It could not focus or observe with any accuracy. Even when he had been whole, his gyrfalcon familiar had always been necessary for that. He began to withdraw, to call back his glimmering mindscrap.

Who might you be?

He staggered physically. Something like the glare of a bonfire passed over him, the massive, all-seeing regard of an immensely powerful mind.

Ah, there I have you. Hebrion! Now there is synchronicity in action. Not many of you left, are there? The continent is dark as a grave. They have almost done us all to death.

Golophin was frozen, a specimen turned this way and that for inspection. He tried to send a probing feeler towards the mind that held him, but it was rebuffed. Amusement.

Not yet, not yet! You’ll know me soon enough. What are you doing scanning the empty west this night? Ah, I see. He lives, you know. He is not happy, but he will come to it in time. I have great plans for your friend Bardolin.

And then a feeble spark of someone else, hurled across the darkling ocean.

Golophin! Help me, in the name of God-

And nothing. Golophin fell to his knees. Something huge and dark seemed to blot out the stars beyond the tower window for an instant, and then it was gone and the cold night air was empty and silent.

“Lord God,” he croaked. He spun a cantrip to light up the midnight room, but it guttered and flared out in seconds. He knelt in the darkness, gasping, until finally he mustered the strength to fumble for flint and tinder and light a candle. His hands were shaking and he skinned a knuckle with the flint.

And it smote him.

A bolt of mind energy so intense that it manifested physically. He was tossed across the room. The power crackled through him, contorting his limbs, ripping a shriek out of his throat. He rose in the air and the chamber grew bright as day as the excess poured out of him in a discharge like the effulgence of a captured sun. He blazed like a torch for ten seconds, writhing in an extremity of pain he had never before experienced or imagined. His robes burned away to ash and the candle was shrivelled into a pool of steaming wax. The heavy wood furniture of the room smouldered.

Then it left him, and he fell with a crack of bones to the floor.