“Master Barsonage is not present, but I will speak for him. If you deal openly with us, we are prepared to offer you an alliance. Orison’s strength, and the Congery’s, against Cadwal.”
That brought Prince Kragen’s fury up short. He stared for a moment; his mouth hung open. Then, in a tone of fierce care, he asked, “Do I understand you, my lord Tor? Have you just proclaimed yourself King of Mordant? Have you murdered Joyse? Have you and Norge been plotting revolt?”
“Of course not,” the Tor groaned. “I claim only the position of a chancellor.” Really, this was too much. How could he possibly be expected to stand here and argue when he was probably bleeding to death inside? “If I were a younger man, I would teach you to regret that accusation.” If Lebbick hadn’t saved his life, he would have given up the whole business and let himself collapse. “The King is only gone, not deposed. Not murdered. In his absence – and in his name – and with Captain Norge’s support,” he added, hoping that Norge wouldn’t contradict him, “I will make decisions.
“We are prepared to offer you an alliance,” he repeated. “If you will deal openly with us.”
Prince Kragen continued to hesitate, caught – the Tor supposed – between suspicion, curiosity, need. And he probably didn’t trust the wine-soaked old lord in front of him. Who would? A guard came into the hall and crossed toward Norge, but the Tor ignored him. In addition, Artagel began to fumble toward consciousness. The Tor ignored that as well. He concentrated on Prince Kragen’s silence.
“Come, my lord Prince,” he wheezed. “I am not well. I will not be on my feet long. You have said that you desire an alliance. And your desire is demonstrably sincere. With the rupture” – poor choice of words – “of Orison’s gates nearly accomplished, you desisted when Terisa and Geraden came into your hands. But you did not keep them and their knowledge for yourself. You brought them here, risking them and your own person for the sake of what you hoped to gain.
“The blow which struck you down under a flag of truce was a mistake. Artagel will admit as much.” The Tor saw no reason to refrain from extravagant promises. “Will you sacrifice your own needs and desires merely to punish us for a mistake?
“My lord Prince, tell us the things you came to say to King Joyse.”
Artagel levered himself off the floor, lurched to his feet; one hand clasped the back of his neck, trying too late to protect it from Gilbur’s attack. When he saw Prince Kragen facing him, sword poised, he took a step backward and looked around urgently, searching to comprehend what had happened.
“A report, my lord Tor,” Norge announced tranquilly. “You asked for reports.
“There’s panic in Orison, and it’s spreading, but we’ve been able to keep it out of the courtyard – away from the gates. The Prince’s honor guard is waiting as patiently as possible. No sign of King Joyse. Geraden is definitely with Master Barsonage. The mediator’s quarters.
“Two of the duty guards say they saw Adept Havelock’s brown cloud lift off the King’s tower.” Nonchalantly, Norge avoided Prince Kragen’s sharp gaze. “If they’re right, it didn’t attack the encampment. It just floated out of sight.”
The Tor suffered this interruption as well as he could, but he hardly heard what Norge was saying. At the moment, all he really wanted in life was the ability to cry out; scream his pain at the ceiling. And not just the pain of his brutalized abdomen. He had other hurts as well. Lebbick’s death. King Joyse’s abandonment, when he, the Tor, had staked his heart on the belief that Joyse still deserved trust. And the humiliation of being distrusted because he had drunk too much wine.
His eyes ran again. Stupid, stupid. Through the blur, he croaked, “Artagel.”
“Is this certain?” Prince Kragen snapped at Norge. “The report is to be trusted? The King’s Dastard has not attacked us?”
“Lebbick?” Artagel demanded like a man who still wasn’t entirely conscious. “Lebbick?”
“You struck Prince Kragen under a flag of truce. That was a mistake. Tell him you know it was a mistake.”
Both Prince Kragen and Norge stared at the Tor as if the old lord had lost his mind.
“Lebbick!” Artagel cried through a clenched throat. “What have they done to you?”
The Tor tried again. “Artagel.”
“Terisa? Geraden?” Artagel jerked his head from side to side, scanning the hall, the guards, the bodies. “Where are they?” A flush of blood and pain filled his face. “Did Gart get them? Somebody give me a sword! Where are they?”
“Artagel!” Norge put an inflection of command into his easy tone. “Eremis and Gart took the lady. Geraden is all right. Pay attention. The Tor gave you an order.”
“Gave me a what?” Artagel rasped as if he were about to begin howling. But then, abruptly, he froze; his eyes widened. Almost matching Norge’s casualness, he asked, “Where is King Joyse?”
“That,” said Prince Kragen in heavy sarcasm, “is a question we would all like answered.”
Slowly, Artagel’s jaw dropped.
The Tor made one more effort. “Artagel, you struck Prince Kragen under a flag of truce. I want you to apologize.”
Then, deliberately, the old lord closed his eyes and held his breath.
He didn’t look or breathe again until he heard Artagel say, “My lord Prince, I was wrong.”
Artagel was smiling like a whetted axe. His voice held an edge he might have used against Gart. And yet—
And yet he did what the Tor needed.
“It’s inexcusable to violate a flag of truce. And you saved my life once – you and the Perdon. I just didn’t have time to think. I was afraid of what King Joyse might do. Everybody in Orison knows he’s been practicing his swordsmanship. The Castellan said he was probably going to challenge you to a duel. I thought he was crazy enough to try it.”
Prince Kragen couldn’t hide his surprise at this information, but the Tor clung to his pain and let everything else pass over his head. Unexpectedly, his spirits lifted a bit. There was good reason why everybody in Orison liked Artagel.
“I’ve seen you fight,” Artagel concluded. “King Joyse didn’t stand a chance. I was just trying to save him.”
Artagel had the Prince’s attention now. Kragen thought intently for a moment, then said, “Artagel, you have the reputation of a fighter. You understand warfare. What is your opinion? Who has the most to gain from an alliance, Orison or Alend?”
Without hesitation, Artagel answered, “You do, my lord Prince. We’ve got the Congery.”
The Tor couldn’t be sure of what he saw any longer. His eyes kept running, and the damage to his stomach seemed to throb up into his head; his brain felt like a balloon about to burst. Nevertheless he had the impression that the Prince was sagging, letting go of his fury.
“My lord Tor” – Prince Kragen’s voice came from somewhere on the other side of a veil of pressure – “Geraden and the lady Terisa approached me from the Care of Fayle, where they had witnessed Queen Madin’s abduction. But that was by no means their only news. Among a number of other things, they informed me of Master Eremis’ treachery.
“Simply for that – to warn King Joyse of his enemies – I might have been willing to risk myself here. But I have other information as well, knowledge which both confirms and worsens the things Geraden and the lady Terisa revealed.
“I know where High King Festten’s army is.”
The Tor felt himself about to fall. Really, somebody ought to teach Gart to treat old men with more respect. Nevertheless he was determined to do what he could.
“Norge, announce in Orison that I have taken command during the King’s absence. You are appointed Castellan. Make it heard. It is our only defense against panic. The people must believe that we still stand, regardless of treachery.”
Norge saluted equably, but the Tor ignored him. “My lord Prince,” he wheezed as if his wounds were going to kill him, “we must leave this hall before Master Eremis sees fit to attack again. Come with me to King Joyse’s rooms. We have much to discuss.