“The gardens do look lovely in the rain, Varona,” called Tiscea, Redolcho's wife.
“Oh, don't they just?” said Varona. The green lawns were lush and wet, and the green trees dripped, and the carefully rowed flower gardens seemed to drink in the moisture and glow with pleasure. “There is so much that is beautiful around Cochindel. So much that I have been unable to see.” With a sharp glance at her husband.
“Quit your griping, woman,” Alexanda retorted. “Isn't it just like a woman to admire the beautiful garden, and never a thought for the high walls and guards that protect it from ruin.”
“I'd swear you thought we were all about to be assassinated,” Varona replied, eyeing the armed escort to their front. At the rear of their little column, a similar number of armed men made a line. “Have your negotiations been going poorly, my love?” Alexanda grunted. “Perhaps your rough tongue could be moderated by a woman's softer tones?”
“I try to secure safety and prosperity for Pazira,” said Alexanda. “Not bargain a better price for a Xaldian carpet.”
“Really, Alexanda,” Varona sniffed. She withdrew her hand from the crook of his elbow. Alexanda reclaimed it and replaced it on his arm. He gave it a firm squeeze, whatever his gruff expression. Varona sighed. After twenty-six years of marriage, one learned to recognise an apology when offered, however fleeting it might appear to others. She gave him a thoughtful look. “You look so much nicer when you brush your hair properly. It no longer sticks out like a squirrel's tail.”
“Thank you, dearest,” said Alexanda. “How nice of you to notice.” Varona smiled, and gave his arm a squeeze.
The eastern gate was overgrown with ivy and manned by a small guardpost atop the wall. Several more guards withdrew metal braces from the wall and pushed the gate open with a heavy squeal. Alexanda wondered for the dozenth time if these walls were really fooling anyone. The Pazira House defences deterred petty criminals and unprofessional assassins, nothing more. Like everything in Petrodor, it was a game of appearances.
Some of the village folk waved and called greeting as the column walked by. Varona waved back, and nudged Alexanda on the arm. He waved too. The villagers seemed to like that and called traditional Varansday blessings in their broad eastern accents. Most were peasants, but there were some local smallholders too. Some dukes refused to allow nonnobility to hold title, but Alexanda did. If a common peasant could make enough coin to buy his own plot, then he was clearly a good farmer and should be rewarded. In the Bacosh, of course, such notions would cost a man his head.
“I'm so proud to be married to a duke who is so well loved,” Varona remarked with a smile as they passed.
“That there are so few who are is proof alone that the world is full of fools,” he replied. “These people are the source of all a ruler's wealth, and all his power too, if war should come. Treat them well, and they shall grant him the world. Treat them poorly, and nothing shall save him when the troubles come. It's the simplest equation in the world, yet so many lack the faculties to grasp it.”
“Oh, Alexanda, you also treat them well because you like to make people happy. Don't you?”
“A luxury,” said Alexanda dismissively.
“Alexanda Rochel, you can't fool me. You're not half as hardhearted as you like people to think you are.”
Alexanda spared his wife a small, wry smile. “If you say so, dearest.”
About the temple crowded most of Cochindel and the remainder of Alexanda's earls.
There on a white horse beside the temple steps sat Captain Faldini, with a metal breastplate over chain mail and a helm instead of a hat, with a lance pointed skyward from its rest upon one stirrup guard. He and ten more horsemen kept a clear space before the steps.
“Must he bring his horse to Varansday service?” Varona wondered. “What does he think to do, ride it down the aisle?”
“He does his job, dearest.”
“And makes a spectacular show-off in doing it.”
“That is the nature of the man,” Alexanda admitted.
The crowd parted as the column approached and earls doffed their hats to the duke and duchess. Captain Faldini dismounted.
“Your grace,” said Faldini with a bow. He had dark eyes and prominent cheekbones, features sharp and angular beneath his helm. Some ladies thought him dashing, as he no doubt intended. Alexanda knew that Varona found him, in her own words, creepy.
Many earls, and some of the duke's own family, disapproved of Faldini's promotion to Captain of the Pazira Guard. Alexanda's cousin Redal, for one, had been furious. Lieutenant Redal could have accepted being passed over for some high-born noble, but to be passed over for the second son of a Luchani wine maker was a personal insult, at least in Redal's eyes.
Alexanda cared not. Skill, in his eyes, came from passion. He admired men of passion, something he'd learned from his father, and his grandfather before him. Alexanda loved to spend time at the vineyards, watching the master growers go about their tasks. He loved to watch a talented blacksmith hammering dark, sooty metal into a gleaming blade, or a wheelwright crafting a perfect circle from a straight length of wood. The best craftsmen, his father had shown him, had a passion for their work. And so it was with soldiers, too. Faldini had a weakness for crazy riding, was an unashamed egotist, and could have probably been a first-rate, bloody-handed butcher in the service of some other duke. But he loved his work with a passion, and he was the best available in Pazira. Promoting him to captain meant that Alexanda had to live with certain irate relatives. But overlooking him for one less talented would have meant living with his irate self. As his lovely wife often contended, that was difficult enough when there was nothing to be mad about.
“What news?” he asked Faldini in a low voice, as his wife and their guests, mingled with the surrounding crowd.
“Fast messages travelling between Cuely and Steiner Mansion,” said Faldini. “They rode all night. I think perhaps Patachi Steiner and his dukes plan to attack Dockside and reclaim the star. If Dockside truly do have the star.”
“Oh they have it all right,” Alexanda muttered. “My reports tell me the crowds on Dockside grew all through the night. Gods know how it shall stand this morning. But no, a war against the Dockside is the last thing Patachi Steiner wants. For one, it would unite all the Nasi-Keth factions against him, probably under Cronenverdt, since he's by far the greatest warrior. Right now, they're happily disunited.
“And an attack on Dockside would obviously involve the serrin. The archbishop may have no qualms about offsiding Saalshen, but the patachis have plenty. They can afford to lose Saalshen trade if they win the war for the Bacosh, but not before. And Saalshen has been reluctant to cut trade early for fear of losing leverage, and thus inviting an attack they know they could not survive. An attack on Dockside would be crazy without an attack on Saalshen's properties, the way the serrin fight…and an attack on Saalshen's properties may even bring Patachi Maerler into the fight on Saalshen's side, with whatever dealings he's been making with Rhillian lately.”
Captain Faldini looked mildly impressed. He shrugged within his armour. “I believe you. I'm just a captain. I cut heads.”
“You'd be a much better captain if you knew which heads,” Alexanda remarked.
Faldini smiled. “That's your task, Your Grace. Just point me at them.”
“I'm hoping to avoid pointing you at anyone. We number four hundred, but reports now lead me to believe that Danor and Coroman have brought at least eight hundred each, whatever their claims. We dare not declare ourselves too soon.”
Faldini scratched at his chin. “Word about the barracks is that Maerler is finished. The archbishop favours Steiner, it's clear. Why not declare with Steiner and be done with it?”