Gryvan took a noisy swallow of wine, then set the goblet down so roughly upon the table that it spilled. He shook his hand and scattered red droplets.
‘I’ve made them all rich, all of the Crafts. Since Haig took over from Kilkry there has never been such wealth, and they’ve garnered more than their fair share of it.’
‘They are ungrateful,’ agreed the Bloodheir. Mordyn deliberately avoided looking at him. Aewult smelled the prospect of bloodshed and intrigue, and that always excited him. At least Gryvan was capable of restraint; for Aewult, all too often, the bloody exercise of power appeared to be an end in itself.
‘Ungrateful, I could tolerate,’ muttered the High Thane. ‘But when they interfere with my own needs, they go too far. We must have a secure, subdued and obedient Dargannan Blood. Nothing of what we seek—not the Free Coast, Tal Dyre, Dornach—none of that can we reach for without Dargannan first safely under our heel. Whoever the new Thane is, he will be my creature, not the Goldsmiths’.’
‘I have a suggestion,’ Mordyn said.
The High Thane nodded curtly. He was calm enough to listen now.
‘Balance is important in this. There is no need to force a confrontation with the Goldsmiths. It benefits us to remain on good terms with them, and with all of the Crafts, but they do need to learn the limits of their power in this game. I can, therefore, have their piece removed from the board. If we do it in such a way that our hand is not obvious, they will suspect our involvement but be left uncertain. That, I have found, is almost always the best outcome. Uncertainty constrains actions without provoking hostility.’
He heard Aewult snort dismissively. He ignored it; now, and hopefully for years to come, it was Gryvan who made the decisions. The High Thane glanced at his son.
‘Go and find Alem T’anarch,’ he said sternly. ‘Tell him that his audience will be somewhat delayed. And tell him that the delay in no way reflects any lack of respect for the exalted Dornach Kingship.’
‘He won’t believe that,’ Aewult said.
‘He’s not supposed to, of course,’ Gryvan snapped. ‘Now go.’
The Bloodheir went, tossing his half-eaten apple back towards the bowl as he went. It missed, and bounced messily to the floor.
‘Very well,’ Gryvan said. ‘Use whatever means it is you have for doing these things. Rid us of Gann, and I will trust to your judgement that the Goldsmiths will understand the message.’
‘I will ensure they do,’ Mordyn said with a shallow bow.
‘And what of Lannis-Haig?’ Gryvan asked. This was the second irritation that had driven the High Thane to his brief fury. It was, for Mordyn Jerain, a much greater source of puzzlement and concern than the petty intrigues of the Goldsmiths. He shook his head, a gesture finely calculated to convey both regret and mild uncertainty. It would not be wise to appear over-confident in this area, he knew.
‘It is remarkable that Anduran has fallen so quickly, lord. If Lagair Haldyn is correct in his reports, of course. It seems unlikely that he could be wrong about something so . . . substantial.’
‘Remarkable. You think it remarkable?’ There was still a hint of danger in Gryvan’s voice. That anger had not entirely dissipated. ‘I think it rather more than remarkable. I would not have agreed to any correspondence with Ragnor oc Gyre all these months had I known he meant to overrun our lands. However difficult Lannis-Haig might be, the Glas valley is still part of my domain. It will not pass to the Gyre Bloods.’
‘No,’ said Mordyn emphatically. However unclear the course of events in the north was, that much he could be certain of. ‘In all truth, High Thane, I do not know if Ragnor has played us false, or if Horin-Gyre has merely been immensely fortunate. In any case, whatever messages have passed between Ragnor and us in the past, the time has surely come to act firmly. The Black Road must be thrown back beyond the Stone Vale before they can establish a firm grip on the Glas valley.’
‘Of course. Our armies are gathered. I will send Aewult himself at their head.’
Mordyn bit back a flicker of unease. Sending the Bloodheir north at the head of an army would not have been his recommendation; none of the other Bloods were overly enamoured of Aewult nan Haig, but Kilkry and Lannis liked him least of all. Now was not the moment to challenge the High Thane’s will, though. The Chancellor knew he had stretched Gryvan’s patience by waiting so long to inform him of the Goldsmiths’ machinations, and by failing to predict the fall of the Lannis-Haig Blood.
He took a step back, fixing his eyes on the tiled floor of the High Thane’s chamber. He could remember these tiles being laid, a dozen years ago. Gryvan had brought the finest workmen from Taral-Haig, bought the most expensive tiles the potteries of Vaymouth had to offer. It would take a shepherd three lifetimes to earn the cost of this floor.
‘I will see to the matter of Gann nan Dargannan-Haig this evening, if you have no further need of me,’ Mordyn murmured.
‘Go,’ agreed Gryvan. ‘He is one fly we can swat with ease, at least.’
There were few people in Vaymouth for whom the Shadowhand would venture out on the streets of the city at night. In the normal course of events, there was no need for it: people came to him, in one palace or another. But in the case of Torquentine things were different. For him, the Chancellor of the Haig Bloods would don a scruffy, heavy-hooded cloak and sally forth himself. Nothing he might want to say to Torquentine should be trusted to an intermediary, and Torquentine could not come to him.
The Chancellor made his way down disreputable streets towards the heart of Ash Pit, perhaps the least savoury of all Vaymouth’s districts. He maintained a wary eye and the shambling gait of one too old and ill to be worth the attention of the city’s cutpurses. Almost out of sight, two trusted men—his own hirelings, not the guards that came with the post of Chancellor—followed him. They would intervene if trouble threatened, but even so there was some slight risk in walking these streets after dark. He had made the journey only a handful of times.
He came to a narrow junction and paused. He gave a hand signal and his escort sank into the shadows. The Chancellor crossed the street. The building to which he made his shuffling way was completely anonymous: just one more poorly built house jammed into a long street of its fellows. Yet when he tapped upon the door, Mordyn could feel its strength and solidity beneath his knuckles. No ordinary shack would have a door of heavy oak, banded with iron across its back and barred with a thick beam. Torquentine treasured his privacy.
Mordyn knew, as he waited patiently for a response from within, that he was being observed; that he had been beneath the gaze of hidden sentries from the moment he came within a hundred paces of this place. He doubted they would know him for who he was, but equally they would not believe him to be just another decrepit beggar. It mattered little if they mistrusted his disguise. Many people who came to see Torquentine must prefer to keep their faces hidden.
A haggard-looking woman opened the door. Her pallid, sickly face was disfigured by the tell-tale marks of the King’s Rot. Part of her nose was eaten away, and purplish blotches marred her cheek. Mordyn had always thought it an elegant touch for Torquentine to employ such a doorkeeper. Superstition or pure distaste at the sight of her might be enough to repel some uninvited guests.