Laurel paced beside me, the weakness caused by being blocked in his aspect seemingly gone, his tail lashing back and forth as he strode. But it wasn’t all a picture of strength and vigor—the cat’s claws dug into his carved oak staff with each step, and he was chewing a constant stream of mentha leaves. Wyln too had recovered, or maybe he was just better at hiding pain. He was with Jusson at the head of the mob and from behind he looked as he always did, his movements just as graceful, the sword he’d taken from the weapons table now in a sheath he wore on his back. Then the fire enchanter turned his head and I could see his eyes dark and blind, the light within them gone.
Chadde was walking with Albe the blacksmith and his apprentices, the peacekeeper and blacksmith’s heads close together as they spoke. Suddenly Albe and the apprentices broke away to run up the front steps of three different houses and pound on the doors. Chadde shifted to another part of the crowd and more folks splintered off to pound on more doors. House after house it was the same as people darted off to roust their neighbors. Some answered the pounding looking annoyed, some wary, but most frightened. Even so, they joined us carrying what weapons they had: swords, dirks, cudgels, short and quarterstaffs, even meat cleavers and carving knives. And it wasn’t just men; women joined us too, carrying bows and with full quivers slung across their backs. The royal guards and aristos’ armsmen looked askance at the women archers; the Watch, however, greeted them with shouts, whistles and clapping hands.
“The women here fight?” a southern aristo asked, conveniently overlooking Chadde leading her watchmen.
“Not all men find wives in the valley or the towns to the south, my lord,” I said. “Many marry women from the mountain villages, where bandit attacks and long winters give folks a different view on who should fight and hunt.”
“Our garrison commander has said that he could make the entire northern marches safe if he had just one company of them,” Jeff said.
Laurel gave a soft chuff of laughter, his tail stilling for a moment. “You should see the females of my clan in full battle mode, honored folk. That’s a frightening sight.”
“Huh,” Ranulf grunted. “The women of Bainswyr do not fight—unless their homes are attacked. Then Heaven help the attackers.” He and Beollan were walking with us— though it looked more like Beollan was walking while supporting Ranulf. Still, the Lord of Bainswyr’s eyes were bright, though they glowed dull red in the sunlight. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”
I swallowed the obvious comment, pressing my lips together so nothing could slip out.
“Thinking about what, honored Ranulf?” Laurel asked obligingly. He tucked his paw into the crook of my arm and squeezed warningly. I folded my lips tighter.
“How this all doesn’t make sense,” Ranulf said. He tried an encompassing wave of his hand and, when he didn’t topple over, he continued, emboldened. “It would’ve been better for Helto to take off and disappear. It would’ve been easy enough, even after the fracas at the Copper Pig. A name change, a new location, and he’s back in business. What he’s doing now, though, will focus the attention of the entire kingdom directly on him, no matter the outcome.”
“The outlaws here aren’t exactly the brightest, my lord,” Jeff began.
“They’ve been bright enough to run their smuggling ring under the unsuspecting nose of your garrison commander for the last five years,” Ranulf said, “even suborning your fellow troopers without his knowledge.”
Jeff started to look at Ranulf, but was snagged by the expression on Arlis’ face. “Bones and bloody ashes,” Jeff whispered. “What have you gotten yourself into, lad?”
Arlis scowled, hunching his shoulder.
“And then there was the conspiracy to topple the House of Iver,” Ranulf continued. “They kept that well hidden too. If it hadn’t been for the arrival of ibn Chause and Master Cat in Iversly last spring, Teram ibn Flavan would have taken the throne.”
“Maybe,” I said, my gaze on Jusson at the head of our ad hoc army. “And maybe not.”
Ranulf grunted again. “Come much closer to it, in any case.”
“So Teram and Gherat were intelligent while Helto and friends are idiots,” the aristo said.
“Are they truly idiots?” Ranulf asked. “Think on this: the realm has already had several shocks—the first Border ambassador ever suddenly appearing last spring, followed by the rebellion with more ties to the Border, then rumors of the kingdom being overun by magicals—”
Everyone around Ranulf gave a weary sigh. “Ranulf,” Beollan began, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Wait, hear me out,” Ranulf said. “What did you say, Rabbit? About other countries?”
I blinked at the Marcher Lord. “Huh?”
“They all have magic workers—Svlet, Caepisma, Tural, even the Qarant. Right?”
“Oh. Yeah. Iversterre is the only kingdom that does not have royal mages or their equivalent.” Until now—and if I survived.
“A world full of magicals,” Ranulf said. “However, we are aware of only one place that has them. What would happen if the king were killed by magic here, so close to the Border? Or at least killed while magic was being flung about every which way so that a blind man couldn’t miss it? Nor miss the magicals right in the king’s house, one of whom is the heir to the throne?”
There was a ripple in front of us, then Jusson appeared, moving against the flow, Thadro and Wyln with him. Thadro looked puzzled at Jusson’s backward progress, but both Jusson and Wyln’s gazes were fixed on Ranulf, proving that there was nothing wrong with their elfin hearing. Beside me, Laurel rumbled a low growl.
“Go on, Bainswyr,” Jusson said as Ranulf paused, surprised at the king’s sudden presence. “What would happen if magic figured in my demise?”
“Nobody would think about those other kingdoms, sire,” Ranulf said. “I mean, if we were near the coast, or down in the southern part of the country, then all right, maybe there are outside influences and even some foreign bugger of an assassin running about. But up here, so close to the Border, it would have to be the magicals, right? No one would believe otherwise.”
“No,” Beollan said, his silver eyes once more too large for his face. “No one would. And what would happen is that we would war, both with ourselves and with the Border. With ourselves because we’d fight over who’d get the throne, and against the Border as the cries for vengeance go up and our doyens preach a holy war. Pox rot and damn it all to hell.”
Doyen Dyfrig had been walking a little ahead of us, keeping himself apart not only from those from the king’s residence, but from everyone else too. Or at least he tried. There was a constant flow of townsfolk around him as they discovered just who was carrying the Staff of Office. Eyes wide, they’d touch Dyfrig wonderingly, some of the older folks looking as though they hoped whatever happened to him would rub off onto them. He now showed that he too had nothing wrong with his hearing by frowning at us over his shoulder.
“No matter how holy, we’d still get slaughtered, Fellmark,” a northern lord said. “The magicals would roll over us like they did before, perhaps not stopping this time until they reach Iversly. Damn it to hell is right.”
Dyfrig stopped walking, allowing our knot of people to catch up with him.
“And then all the other countries would come against us, honored folk,” Laurel said, his grip tightening until his claws pressed into my arm. “If not for the crime of regicide, then for using sorcery to achieve it.”
“But all the magic seems to be aimed at Rabbit,” Dyfrig said, “and not the king. Surely people would realize that the Border wouldn’t attack one of its own.”