Darksong Rising (24 page)

in arms as his sire. He is not pleased because his son refuses to learn and blames it upon his

instructors.” Anna forced another smile. “As Arms Commander Hanfor has told me,” she fibbed,

“it is a poor lancer who blames his blade or his mount.”

Surprisingly, Nelmor laughed. “True. Has he not wit enough to find better mount or blade, or to

use what he has, soon enough he will be dead.” The laugh died away. “Yet Lord Dannel has

suggested a match between Lord Birfels’ eldest daughter and his youngest.”

“That match is not suitable.” Anna looked straight at Nelmor. “Your son, or the son of another

lord, would be far better. That is, if those involved like each other.” Based on her past meetings

with the proud lord, that was as much as she dared suggest to Nelmor, and the not-quite-direct

approach would give him the opportunity to consider such a match without the impression of

pressure.

“Why should their likes matter?” asked Nelmor, his tone curious.

“I did not say ‘love,’ my lord Nelmor,” Anna pointed out. “But I have observed the poisoning of

one lord by a consort who was ill suited and the abuse and treachery of another lord who refused

to heed his consort. Defalk cannot afford that kind of scheming. I would prefer that matches have

some acceptance by both parties.” Her tone turned dry. “It is easier upon all the rest of us.”

A smile crossed Jecks’ face, and after a moment, Nelmor chuckled. “You appear so young that

sometimes I forget that you have seen far more than that lovely face displays.”

“You would not wish to have seen all she has seen,” Jecks added ironically. “I’ve seen but a

fraction of it, and I have little wish to see more.”

Nelmor glanced sideways, almost abruptly, then back at the Regent. "Lady Anna... there is one

other matter. I would not trouble you... yet I must bring this up.” A trace of a smile flitted around

Nelmor’s face, at odds with the seriousness of his words.

“Yes?”

“I hope you do not mind, but Lord Klestayr had prevailed upon me…and requested most

urgently that he be allowed to join us for dinner...." Nelmor broke off and offered a shrug.

“Just how urgently?” Anna kept a straight face and arched her eyebrows.

“Urgently enough that he rode in not too far in advance of you, his mounts lathered.”

“The more at dinner the better, and I look forward to meeting Lord Klestayr under your most

gracious hospitality.” Anna almost wanted to gag at the syrup she’d put in her voice. “And I’m

even more glad that we met before dinner.”

“I appreciate your informing me before others at table, and for your many courtesies, Regent

Anna, and for yours as well, Lord High Counselor.” Nelmor remained seated.

Anna realized that she had to end the meeting, and stood. “You have always been most

supportive, and we would not wish to have you surprised in any way.” That’s the last thing you

need, especially with this touchy lord.

The Lord of Dubaria waited for Jecks to rise before standing and speaking, “If you would like

some air before supper, you might wish to view the side garden. It is Delyra’s pride, and quite

beautiful." Nelmor smiled.

“We look forward to seeing it.” Is that the royal “we,” or are you including Jecks? Anna didn’t

like the idea of the royal “we,” but was beginning to understand its necessity.

Nelmor bowed again as the two left his private study.

As Anna and Jecks stepped through the double doors into the small garden, perhaps twenty yards

on a side, graced by what appeared to be a boxwood hedge surrounding a small fountain, Anna

glanced at Jecks, handsome in his royal blue tunic. “We need a postal service." Among a good

many other things.

Behind them followed Blaz and Lejun, each with a hand upon his blade.

“What sort of service might that be?” asked Jecks. “You have few enough golds as it is."

Anna took a deep breath as she walked slowly toward the hedge. She had as many problems

dealing with Defalk that came from her own assumptions. How would people communicate?

Scrolls from the lords—but only if they had something to say. “I think I have an idea. When we

get back to Falcor, I’ll draft a long scroll with all sorts of news in it. Big stuff and little stuff..."

She glanced at Jecks, and could see the blank expression crossing his face. “You saw that

Nelmor didn’t know about Hadrenn or about the freewomen or even about what his own children

were doing in Falcor?”

“That is true"

“So I draft one scroll. Each fosterling copies, say, five. We figure out how many lancers it will

take to travel to each lord.”

“But that costs golds..."

“Bear with me, my dear lord Jecks. Anyone who wants to send a scroll, including fosterlings—a

one-sheet scroll—pays a silver to send a message to father and mother." She smiled. “Or anyone

else. Anyone except the lord who wants to send a return message also pays a silver.”

She pulled at her earlobe. She’d always had little earlobes, and Brill’s youth spell had done

nothing to change that. “If I send out those scrolls two or three times a year... the lords will know

more than they do now—and they’ll hear some things the way I want them said. We might even

get enough silvers to pay for it.”

Jecks fingered his chin. “Some would not trust such.”

“It doesn’t matter. We tell the truth, and they’ll hear it somewhere else. In time, they’ll accept it.

And some might also decide to send fosterlings to Falcor when they find out who else’s offspring

are there.”

Jecks langhed. "For that alone they might!”

Anna enjoyed his laugh, and the moist and garden-fresh air in the early twilight, for the few

moments before they faced the strain of yet another dinner with more skeptically inquisitive

lords and consorts.

20

ENCORA, RANUAK

A lone at the table, the Matriarch stands and smiles as the dark-haired and thin-faced woman

enters the small hall.

The newcomer wears a sea-blue tunic and trousers, the sole ornamentation being a gold pin on

her collar. The fine gold wires of the pin represent two sheaves of grain, crossed. She bows, a

movement barely more than perfunctory. “I am here at your request, Matriarch."

“It is good to see you, Abslim. I know it is early, and you must soon be on your way to preside

over the opening of the Mercantile Exchange, but I appreciate your taking the time to come and

see an old woman.” The Matriarch stands, slowly, deliberately.

A tight smile precedes Abslim’s reply. “With such compliments, Matriarch, I fear the words that

will follow."

“Nonsense. The harmonies will protect you. They have pro tected us all." The round-faced

Matriarch absently smooths back her gray hair, then straightens her own faded blue tunic before

reseating herself at the table and gesturing to the chair across from her.

“Your wish?” asks Abslim.

“When I visited the Exchange earlier this year, you expressed a certain concern that Defalk

might not make good on the debts of the previous lord of Falcor.” The Matriarch pauses, then

adds when she perceives that Abslim is not ready to respond. “At least, that was what I

perceived.”

“The Exchange was concerned about the unrest in Defalk.” Abslim’s words are tight.

“All Defalk now acknowledges the Regent. I would assume that this would greatly reassure the

Exchange.”

“There remains the matter of over a thousand golds.”

“And were those golds repaid?”

Abslim forces a shrug. “That would be up to the traders."

“I think not.” The Matriarch’s contralto voice is both rich and commanding. “Once the golds are

received, you will ensure that Defalk and its lords and merchants receive the treatment accorded

our friends and most valued customers.”

“That will be after harvest, Matriarch. At least six weeks."

The gray-haired woman laughs. “The sorceress’ messenger and guards arrived here last night.

With eleven hundred golds. I persuaded them to wait until I spoke to you."

Abslim remains silent “The traders who support the South-Women will not be pleased."

“Have I been right in judging the sorceress and Regent of Defalk, Abslim? Or has the Exchange

been right?”

“The Exchange will defer to the Matriarch.”

“No." The word is cold, yet menacingly melodic. “You will grant those terms, of your own

accord, with no word about deference to the Matriarch. You will treat Lord Bertmynn as you

have treated the sorceress in the past.” A gentle, but cold, smile suffuses the round face. “Is that

clear, Mistress of the Exchange?”

“There will be muttering, Matriarch... and unhappiness."

“You will ensure that there is none.” The Matriarch rises.

Abslim rises as well, her face pale. “As you command. As you command, and may the

harmonies protect us all.”

“I trust the harmonies, Abslim, even when they appear in dissonance. Best you do as well.”

The Matriarch remains standing until well after the Mistress of the Exchange has left the small

hall.

21

The afternoon sun beat down on Anna’s back as Farinelli
 
carried her eastward, back toward

Falcor. While Anna’s floppy hat blocked much of the sun, she could feel the lower part of her

neck beginning to burn.

Beyond the wooden rail fence on the north side of the road, men with scythes were cutting the

golden wheat, and behind the reapers, women were bundling the grain and loading it onto flat

wagons. Puffs of dust rose from Farinelli’s hoofs, but the light road dust settled quickly in the