“Troops on both sides are on partial pay donated by the wealthy. The Estates for Inger, the merchants of Sedlmayr and the west for us. Inger claims new money is coming from Itaskia. Our friends say Kavelin’s silver mines are pledged to us. Nobody has been asked to fight. Any showdown between men who fought side by side before will probably cause mass desertions.”
Sherilee proved she was not just a gorgeous face and damned fine everything else. “We can’t mine, refine, and mint enough silver to support production and an army, too.”
“When you get down to it, neither side can afford to pay soldiers who aren’t fighting for what they believe in.”
Kristen said, “So most of them will go home, whether or not they loved Bragi. We should find the treasury money.”
Haas said, “My love, the girl genius. One problem. Everybody who knew anything about it died in the riots after the King’s fall.”
“Except Michael Trebilcock. And maybe General Liakopulos.”
“Remote and remoter.”
“Meaning?”
“Liakopulos is dead. Probably murdered by the Itaskians. As for Michael, I don’t honestly believe he survived, either. But if he did he isn’t going to help us.”
Sherilee and Kristen glared. Haas thought that unfair. Such lovelies deserved to have nothing weightier than fashion on their minds.
Yet another way Kavelin distorted the natural order. Kavelin boasted strong women who made remarkable things happen.
…
Dane, Duke of Greyfells, want-to-be lord of Kavelin, paced before a fireplace. His newly acquired headquarters was large, old, and draughty. It overlooked Damhorst, a key town on the east-west trade route through Kavelin. The castle was the ancestral home of the Breitbarth barons. Claimants to that title had been eliminated.
Greyfells had taken the castle by stealth. He and his adventurers now enjoyed shelter, warmth, and security but seldom dared go out in bands of fewer than a dozen.
The locals were mainly Wesson, ethnic cousins of the Itaskians. Politically, though, they favored the line of King Bragi through his first wife.
Greyfells favored a succession through Ragnarson’s latest wife, his cousin Inger.
Dane of Greyfells was not happy. He had come to Kavelin expecting to put the kingdom in his pocket before winter. But winter was here, ferociously, and he was still far from Vorgreberg, hurrying the family decline toward destitution. His troops were melting away, mainly through desertion. Replacements, when he could find any, were untrained, unskilled, and belonged in cells rather than under arms.
His personal attendant announced, “Gales is here, Lordship.”
“About damned time. He was due yesterday.”
“He had trouble getting through. He’s wounded. So are those of his escort who survived.”
Though in a foul temper Greyfells did not yield to the unreason that, too often, left him unable to concede that events could, on occasion, disdain his wishes. He said only, “Clean him up, then bring him in.” He did not like dirty people. He loathed the sight of old blood.
“As you will, Your Lordship.”
The family sorcerer showed up.
“Babeltausque?”
“May I join you, Your Lordship?”
Dane scowled. Fat people were another dislike. Greyfells further disliked Babeltausque because he was expensive to maintain. He was the best paid of any Greyfells retainer, and the least useful, lately.
The Duke was convinced that Babeltausque was a coward and that he knew things he would not share with his employer.
Greyfells was incapable of understanding that he was what the sorcerer feared. Babeltausque withheld information he thought might spark the kind of rage that might lead to him getting hurt.
Greyfells asked, “You have a reason?”
“To collect information. I have trouble working in the dark.”
“You don’t work at all.”
“To work I must be given tasks. Plausible, possible tasks. Not pie in the sky, wishful thinking tasks.” Babeltausque had found his courage today. “Bridge builders are constrained by the limits of their materials. A sorcerer is constrained by the limits of the Power.”
“Varthlokkur never seemed limited.”
“Only from outside. He was. He is. He makes what he does look easy because he’s ancient and far more talented than me.”
Greyfells grumbled but did not send the sorcerer away. Babeltausque found a shadow and settled. He resented the Duke’s attitude but understood it. He was just a house sorcerer, under contract. He lacked a grasp of the Power sufficient to make it as an independent. He could help heal scrapes and bruises. He could retard meat spoilage. He read the tarot imperfectly and the stars the same. His divinations were reliable out to about three hours. He did read character well, usually recognized lies, and could anticipate danger’s approach, particularly when that included him.
His most valuable talent was the ability to remain calm and bland of expression in the face of fear or provocation. He used that talent frequently. Greyfells was an ambitious beast blessed with cunning and a complete lack of scruples-typical of his line. He was neither the worst nor the best duke that Babeltausque had known. He was mediocre in most ways. He stood out because of his rages.
Those assured Dane’s early demise, probably as soon as someone believed he had a chance to get away with it.
Babeltausque’s most important chore was to protect the Duke from his own family, which was not that difficult out here.
The tradition of elevating oneself over the corpse of one’s father, brother, or uncle had not been much honored of late. Only outsiders had laid the Greyfells Dukes low with any verve the past three decades. But the possibility survived in Dane’s imagination.
If this Duke met an early end the House of Greyfells might collapse. There were no relatives suited to replace him.
Enemies in Itaskia must be busy as worker ants trying to make that happen while Greyfells was away. Returning deserters would tell encouraging tales of Dane’s incompetence, which explained why he grew ever more testy. Every day of triumph delayed out here was a day when the family lost ground at home.
Colonel Gales entered. He wore clean clothing that did not fit. His hair was stringy wet from an unwanted bath. His face was red from a rough shave. His right arm was in a sling. He limped.
Greyfells, of course, first noted that he needed a haircut.
The Colonel bowed.
The Duke said, “I hear you had some trouble.”
“We got ambushed by Marena Dimura. They knew who we were and had our itinerary.”
“But you fought through.” Stating the obvious.
“They didn’t press the matter. They hit us, hurt us, failed to kill me in the first rush, started getting hurt themselves, so they faded away. I didn’t chase them. We were all hurt and they would’ve led us into a secondary ambush.”
Greyfells grunted. He was not pleased but he understood. That was everyday life in Kavelin.
Gales said, “Abaca is content to wear us down a man at a time.”
“Too true. Josiah, I’m starting to think I miscalculated when I decided to do this.”
“Don’t feel badly, Lordship. This kingdom ends up making everyone over into a pessimist, whether you love it or hate it.”
The man in shadow studied Duke and soldier. Gales enjoyed remarkable freedoms. He and Greyfells had known each other since childhood. Still, the Duke looked like he wanted to hurt somebody. He controlled the beast within. “Tell me why I’m still out here, Josiah. Why am I not enjoying a cozy fire inside Castle Krief?”
“I can put no kinder face on it than to tell you that Inger wants it this way. She doesn’t trust you. She’s determined not to let you in till she knows you won’t steal her throne.”
The watcher thought that would waken the beast for sure.
The Duke did puff up and turn red but controlled himself again. He managed better with Gales than with anyone else. “I can see that from both the Kavelin disease and family familiarity angles. What she’s been through since we got her to marry Ragnarson has made her leery of everyone.”