A Darkness at Sethanon (15 page)

Martin began to
dress. “I know, Fannon. That was meant only to keep people from
opposing Lyam in my name. I may have spent most of my life in the
forests, but when I dined with you, Tully, Kulgan, and Father, I kept
my ears open. I learned a lot.”

A knock came and
a guard appeared at the door. “Ship flying the banner of Rodez
clearing Longpoint light, Your Grace.”

Martin waved the
guard out. He said to Fannon, “I guess we’d better hurry
to meet the Duke and his lovely daughters.” Finishing his
dressing, he said, “I will be inspected and courted by the
Duke’s daughters, Fannon, but for the gods’ love and
patience, I hope neither of them giggles.” Fannon nodded in
sympathy as he followed Martin from the room.

Martin smiled at
Duke Miguel’s jest. It concerned an eastern lord Martin had met
only once. The man’s foibles might have been a source of humour
to the eastern lords, but the joke was lost on Martin. Martin cast a
glance at the Duke’s daughters. Both girls were lovely:
delicate features, pale complexions framed by nearly black hair, and
both had large dark eyes. Miranda sat engaged in conversation with
young Squire Wilfred, third son of the Baron of Carse and newly come
to the court. Inez sat regarding Martin with frank appraisal. Martin
felt his neck begin to colour and turned his attention back to her
father. He could see why she had been the excuse for a duel between
hotheaded youths. Martin didn’t know a great deal about women,
but he was an expert hunter and he knew a predator when he saw one.
This girl might be only fifteen years of age, but she was a veteran
of the eastern courts. She would find a powerful husband before too
long, Martin didn’t doubt. Miranda was simply another pretty
lady of the court, but Inez hinted at hard edges Martin found
unattractive. This girl was clearly dangerous and already experienced
in twisting men to her will. Martin determined to keep that fact
uppermost in mind.

Supper had been
quiet, as was Martin’s usual custom, but tomorrow there would
be jugglers and singers, for a travelling band of minstrels was in
the area. Martin had little affection for formal banquets after his
eastern tour but some sort of show was in order. Then a page hurried
into the room, skirting the tables to reach Housecarl Samuel’s
side. He spoke softly, and the Housecarl came to Martin’s
chair. Leaning down, he said, “Pigeons just arrived from Ylith,
Your Grace. Eight of them.”

Martin
understood. For so many birds to have been used the message would be
urgent. It was usual to employ only two or three against the
possibility of a bird not finishing the dangerous flight over the
Grey Tower Mountains. It took weeks to send them back by cart or
ship, so they were used sparingly. Martin rose. “If Your Grace
will excuse me a moment?” he said to the Duke of Rodez.
“Ladies?” He bowed to the two sisters, then followed the
page out of the hall.

In the
antechamber of the keep, he found the Hawkmaster, in charge of the
hawk mews and the pigeon coop, standing with the small parchments. He
handed them to Martin and withdrew. Martin saw the tiny message slips
were sealed, with the royal crest of Krondor drawn on the roll of
paper about them, indicating only the Duke was to open them. Martin
said, “I’ll read these in my council chamber.”

Alone in his
council room, Martin saw that the slips had been numbered one and
two. Four pairs. The message had been sent four times to ensure it
arrived intact. Martin unfolded one of the slips marked one, then his
eyes widened as he fumbled to open another. The message was
duplicated. He then read a number two, and tears came unbidden to his
eyes.

Long minutes
passed as Martin opened every slip, hoping to find something
different, something to tell him he had misunderstood. For a long
time, he could only sit staring at the papers before him as a cold
sickness visited the pit of his stomach. Finally a knock came at the
door, and he said weakly, “Yes?”

The door opened
and Fannon entered. “You’ve been gone near an hour -”
He stopped when he saw Martin’s drawn expression and red eyes.
“What is it?”

Martin could
only wave his hand at the scraps. Fannon read them, then half
staggered backward to sit in a chair. A shaking hand covered his face
for a long minute. Both men were silent. At last he said, “How
could this be?”

“I don’t
know. The message only says an assassin.” Martin let his gaze
wander around the room, every stone in the wall and piece of
furniture associated with his father, Lord Borric. And of his family,
the most like their father had been Arutha. Martin loved them all,
but Arutha had been a mirror of Martin in many ways. They had shared
a certain way of seeing things and had endured much together: the
siege of the castle during the Riftwar while Lyam had been absent
with their father, the long dangerous quest to Moraelin to find
Silverthorn. No, in Arutha Martin had discovered his closest friend
in many ways. Elven-taught, Martin knew the inevitability of death,
but he was mortal and felt an empty place appear within himself. He
regained his composure as he stood. “I had best inform Duke
Miguel. His visit is to be short. We leave for Krondor tomorrow.”

Martin looked up
as Fannon re-entered the room. “It will take all night and
morning to get ready, but the captain says your ship will be able to
leave on the afternoon tide.”

Martin motioned
for him to take a chair and waited a long moment before speaking.
“How can it be, Fannon?”

The Swordmaster
said, “I can’t answer that, Martin.” Fannon was
thoughtful a moment, then softly said, “You know I share your
grief. We all do. He, and Lyam, were like my own sons.”

“I know.”

“But there
are other matters that cannot be put off.”

“Such as?”

“I’m
old, Martin. I suddenly feel the weight of ages upon me. News of
Arutha’s death . . . makes me again feel my own mortality. I
wish to retire.”

Martin rubbed
his chin as he thought. Fannon was past seventy now, and while his
mental capacity was undiminished, he lacked the physical stamina
required of the Duke’s second-in-command. “I understand,
Fannon. When I return from Rillanon -”

Fannon
interrupted. “No, that’s too long, Martin. You will be
gone several months. I need a named successor now, so I can begin to
ensure he is capable when I leave office. If Gardan were still here,
I’d have no doubt as to a smooth transition, but with Arutha
stealing him away” - the old man’s eyes filled with tears
- “making him Knight-Marshal of Krondor, well . . .”

Martin said, “I
understand. Who did you have in mind?” The question was asked
absently, as Martin struggled to keep his mind calm.

“Several
of the sergeants might serve, but we’ve no one of Gardan’s
capabilities. No, I had Charles in mind.”

Martin gave a
weak smile. “I thought you didn’t trust him.”

Fannon sighed.
“That was a long time back, and we were fighting a war. He’s
shown his worth a hundred times since then, and I don’t think
there’s a man in the castle more fearless. Besides, he was a
Tsurani officer, about equal to a knight-lieutenant. He knows
warcraft and tactics. He has often spent hours speaking with me about
the differences between Tsurani warfare and our own. I know this:
once he learns something, he doesn’t forget. He’s a
clever man and worth a dozen lesser men. Besides, the soldiers
respect him and will follow him.”

Martin said,
“I’ll consider it and decide tonight. What else?”

Fannon was
silent for a time, as if speaking came with difficulty. “Martin,
you and I have never been close. When your father called you to serve
I felt, as did others, that there was something strange about you.
You were always aloof, and you had those odd elvish ways. Now I know
that part of the mystery was the truth of your relationship to
Borric. I doubted you in some ways, Martin. I’m sorry to admit
that . . . But what I’m trying to say is . . . you honour your
father.”

Martin took a
deep breath. “Thank you, Fannon.”

“I say
this to ensure you understand why I say this next. This visit from
Duke Miguel was only an irritation before; now it is an issue of
weight. You must speak to Father Tully when you reach Rillanon, and
let him find you a wife.”

Martin threw
back his head and laughed, a bitter, angry laugh. “What jest,
Fannon? My brother is dead and you want me to look for a wife?”

Fannon was
unflinching before Martin’s rising anger. “You are no
longer the Huntmaster of Crydee, Martin. Then no one cared should you
ever wed and father sons. Now you are sole brother to the King. The
East is still in turmoil. There is no duke in Bas-Tyra, Rillanon, or
Krondor. Now there is no Prince in Krondor.” Fannon’s
voice became thick with fatigue and emotion. “Lyam sits upon a
perilous throne should Bas-Tyra venture back to the Kingdom from
exile. With only Arutha’s two babes in the succession now, Lyam
needs alliances. That is what I mean. Tully will know which noble
houses need to be secured to the King’s cause by marriage. If
it’s Miguel’s little hellcat Inez, or even Tarloffs
giggler, marry her, Martin, for Lyam’s sake and the sake of the
Kingdom.”

Martin stifled
his anger. Fannon had pressed a sore point with him, even if the old
Swordmaster was correct. In all ways, Martin was a solitary man,
sharing little with any man save for his brothers. And he had never
done well with the company of women. Now he was being told he must
wed a stranger for the sake of his brother’s political health.
But he knew there was wisdom in Fannon’s words. Should the
traitorous Guy du Bas-Tyra be plotting still, Lyam’s crown was
not secure. Arutha’s death showed all too clearly how mortal
rulers were. Finally Martin said, “I’ll think about that
as well, Fannon.”

The old
Swordmaster rose slowly. Reaching the door, he turned. “I know
you hide it well, Martin, but the pain is there. I’m sorry if
it seems I add to it, but what I said needed to be said.”
Martin could only nod.

Fannon left and
Martin sat alone in his chamber, the sole moving thing the shadows
cast by the guttering torches in the wall sconces.

Martin stood
impatiently watching the scurrying activity in preparation for his
and the Duke of Rodez’s departure. The Duke had invited Martin
to accompany them aboard his own ship, but Martin had managed a
barely adequate refusal. Only the obvious stress of dealing with
Arutha’s death had allowed him to rebuff the Duke without
serious insult.

Duke Miguel and
his daughters appeared from the keep, dressed for travel. The girls
were poorly hiding their irritation at having to resume travel so
soon. It would be a full two weeks or more before they were again in
Krondor. Then, as a member of the peerage, their father would be
hurrying to Rillanon for Arutha’s burial and state funeral.

Duke Miguel, a
slight man of fine manners and dress, said, “It is tragic we
must quit your wonderful home under such grim circumstances, Your
Grace. If I may, I would gladly extend the hospitality of my own home
to you should Your Grace wish to rest awhile after your brother’s
funeral. Rodez is but a short journey from the capital.”

Martin’s
first impulse was to beg off but, keeping Fannon’s words of the
night before in mind, he said, “Should time and circumstances
permit, Your Grace, I’ll be most happy to visit you. Thank
you.” He cast a glance at the two daughters and determined then
and there that should Tully advise an alliance between Crydee and
Rodez, it would be the quiet Miranda he would court. Inez was simply
too much trouble gathered together in one place.

The Duke and his
daughters rode out in a carriage toward the harbour. Martin thought
back to when his father had been Duke. No one in Crydee had need of a
carriage, which served poorly on the dirt roads of the Duchy, often
turned to thick mud by the coastal rains. But with the increasing
number of visitors to the West, Martin had ordered one built. It
seemed the eastern ladies fared poorly on horseback while in court
costume. He thought of Carline’s riding like a man during the
Riftwar, in tight-fitting trousers and tunic, racing with Squire
Roland, to the utter horror of her governess. Martin sighed. Neither
of Miguel’s girls would ever ride like that. Martin wondered if
there was a woman anywhere who shared his need for rough living.
Perhaps the best he could hope for would be a woman who would accept
that need in him and not complain over his long absences while he
hunted or visited his friends in Elvandar.

Martin’s
musing was interrupted by a soldier accompanying the Hawkmaster, who
held out another small parchment. “This just arrived, your
Grace.”

Martin took the
parchment. Upon it was the crest of Salador. Martin waited until the
Masterhawker had left to open it. Most likely it was a personal
message from Carline. He opened it and read. He read again, then
thoughtfully put the parchment in his belt pouch. After a long moment
of reflection, he spoke to a soldier at post before the keep. “Fetch
Swordmaster Fannon.”

Within minutes
the Swordmaster was in the Duke’s presence. Martin said, “I’ve
thought it over and I agree with you. I’ll offer the position
of Swordmaster to Charles.”

“Good,”
said Fannon. “I expect he will agree.”

“Then
after I’m gone, Fannon, begin at once to instruct Charles in
his office.”

Fannon said,
“Yes, Your Grace.” He started to turn away but turned
back toward Martin. “Your Grace?”

Martin halted as
he had just begun to walk back to the keep. “Yes?”

“Are you
all right?”

Martin said,
“Fine, Fannon. I’ve just received a note from Laurie
informing me that Carline and Anita are well. Continue as you were.”
Without another word he returned to the keep, passing through the
large doors.