Green Rider (22 page)

Warm air flowing through an unshuttered window cleared out stale air which had accumulated in the library chamber throughout the lengthy northern winter. What a change mild air was, and for once without that damp, chill wind.

A bee droned along the flowered vine growing just outside the window, and the air smelled of fresh green things and lilacs. The square of sky framed by the window was brilliant and clear. On such days, it was said, you could see Mount Mantahop of the Wingsong Range from the fortress gate towers. Mirwell scoffed at that—in all his years he had never seen it. The range was just an indistinguishable line of nubs and bumps far, far away on the horizon.

He sipped from his goblet of rhubarb wine and stared into the embers of the day fire, allowing the wine to warm him from inside. Despite the influx of summerlike warmth, the old stone fortress was dim, and if you weren't careful, in a perpetual state of damp and mildew. Mold grew in the dark corners which his servants battled constantly with soap and scrub brushes.

The damp made his bones ache. He could never seem to keep warm, not satisfactorily anyway, and he suspected it was unhealthy to reside in the dank fortress. His personal mender advocated he leave his library chamber and soak up the sun outside, but there was too much to do. This was no time for catnapping in the sun.

The efficient Beryl Spencer sat across from him in a straight back chair, her nose buried in half a dozen sheaves of paper. She must be nearsighted. He would have to look into getting her fitted for a pair of specs, but he hated the idea of wrecking her lovely oval face with glass and wire. Besides, the lenses would no doubt cost a pretty fortune.

"The clan is presently headed by Stevic G'ladheon," she said. "It was his only daughter, Karigan, who provoked Lord Timas. She hasn't been seen or heard of since running away."

"Tell me about the clan," Mirwell said, intrigued by how Beryl's scarlet uniform deepened her rosy, healthy cheeks.

"It's based in Corsa. No surprise there. Corsa is home to many merchant clans due to its outstanding deep water harbors. G'ladheon invests heavily in shipping, but is not a dominant holder in any single ship."

"Wise of him. The more diverse his holdings, the less risk to his fortune. He does have a fortune, doesn't he?"

Beryl looked up at him with those pale green eyes of hers, glistening like the gems that were her namesake. "Stevic G'ladheon is perhaps the single wealthiest person in all the provinces. Last year's Merchant Guild's Year End Reckoning had him the highest grossing member."

"Therefore, not a man to anger if his wealth is any indication of his influence. What does he deal in?"

Beryl scanned her papers. "Textiles and spices mainly. Some lumber and paper. Much of his trading is done inland via river cog and wagon train. He has strong ties with Rhovanny, and has even traded ice in the Cloud Islands. Very clever of him to find such a market in the tropics. According to some of your relations, my lord, he doesn't venture often into Mirwell Province."

"No wonder I've heard little of him. Do any of my relations consider him a threat?"

"No, my lord. Though, just in case, they traced some of his personal history. He is the clan founder—Clan G'ladheon has existed for some twenty years."

Mirwell snorted. "A bought clanship, I've no doubt."

"G'ladheon worked hard for it, starting with small merchant families to learn the trade. He's intelligent to have accumulated such wealth over so short a time." Was that admiration in Beryl's voice? "Here's an interesting bit of information. About thirty-five years ago, he served on the merchant vessel
Gold Hunter
, which used tactics of questionable legality during peacetime to acquire goods for trade."

"Explain."

"The crew practiced piracy, my lord. Mostly around the Under Kingdoms. They wreaked havoc with the sugar and tobacco trades."

Mirwell raised his brows. "More interesting by the moment. Any idea of what capacity he served as on this vessel?"

"No, my lord."

"What became of the ship?"

"It was sold and reregistered as
SMV Avren's Pride
, and became something of a coastal scow transporting granite and lumber. It was lost somewhere in outer Ullem Bay fifteen years ago."

"I see no immediate threat from this G'ladheon fellow." Mirwell sipped his wine. It was just the right amount of dry balanced with sweet. It did not rival the fine vintages produced in the lake country of Rhovanny, but in a pinch it would do. Vintners couldn't seem to grow grapes in Sacoridia's sandy soil, so cider and fruit wines served as staples. Unless Rhovan was to be had, of course.

"Good work, Spence. Keep the information on hand just in case he turns into an overwrought father. Should he cause us trouble, I'm sure our good friend aus-Corien of the Under Kingdoms would be interested in hearing about him. And we may have our own uses for the information."

"Yes, my lord. Anything else?"

Mirwell rubbed a sweaty hand on his thigh. He could think of countless "things" she could do for him. He felt a certain thrill at the idea of what she could do for him tingle all the way down to his loins. Would voicing his desire wreck her fealty and efficiency? Or, would it bind her closer to him?

Phaw, randy old man
, he thought, not displeased by the response of his libido. But she was too effective as his aide and he feared ruining her devotion. Should she make the first advance herself, however…

She never would. He was a grizzled old man and she was more intent on making a place for herself in his court hierarchy with pure hard work. She had moved swiftly up the ranks during her term in Sacoridia's regular militia, and had given it all up to serve her governor and home province. The chance she had taken paid off, and here she was working her way up in his own provincial militia. Ambition was a trait Mirwell admired, and honest ambition rare enough.

Ah, well. At least I can enjoy my dirty thoughts.

"My lord?"

"Eh?"

"Anything else?"

Now she must think him a dotty old fool leering at her like that. "Send in Amilton," he said, then amended, "
Prince
Amilton."

"Very well, my lord."

Mirwell watched after her with longing and regret, and observed how her every movement was graceful, yet held a stillness like a deer in the woods: alert but calm, and not prone to excessive motion. She reminded him of the Weapons, but their movements were always precise and lacking beauty.

Ah, if he were a younger man, then maybe, but now he must set aside his thoughtful maunderings and get on with his great work. The glory of his clan was more important than anything else, and Amilton had been insistent about seeing him today. Mirwell had put him off all morning, and most of the afternoon. By now, the prince would be angry enough to spit venom.

"There are ways," the governor told the bear head mounted on the opposite wall, "of showing who is in control. Subtle ways, mind you."

The bear had once exerted her control on him in a none-too-subtle way. It was she who had maimed his right side. He had been careless during the hunt, had gotten between the mother and the cubs. The bear mauled him, and it was perhaps his injuries which had prevented him from siring another son, though he was always certain to blame his wives. He could not be perceived as weak in any of his ventures. Too bad the wife who bore Timas had been so short and mean. The boy had acquired her temperament and size.

Half-dead and ravaged from bear claws and teeth, Mirwell had hunted down and killed the mother bear with nothing more than his own stubborn will and a dagger, just to prove he was not weak. He skinned her and ate of her raw heart, still warm and pulsating with blood. As he chewed, bear blood gushed in runnels down his beard and neck, and into his gaping wounds, blending with his own streaming blood. This, he thought, made their strength one.

Then, out of pity, he killed the mewling little cubs, too little to survive without their mother. Of the bear pelts, he made a mantle to wear on state occasions as a reminder to others of his strength.

Prince Amilton entered the chamber, glowering. His bodyguards, simple Mirwellian guards, posted themselves outside the doorway. Not that he needed guards in the governor's house, but he had become dependent on his two Weapons who usually never left his side, and now they were somewhere out in the great wide wilderness tracking the Greenie and leaving him, in his mind, vulnerable.

Regular militia made a poor substitute for one used to the fanatical, servile devotion exhibited by Weapons. Mirwell liked the idea of a more vulnerable Amilton. It made the prince more malleable.

Amilton was dressed in elegant silks with a purple scarf tied prettily around his collar—useless clothes more suited to impressing court butterflies than anything else. He did attract his share of female attention, but to what practical end?

The governor preferred a military look himself, and no one in his court, not even the ladies, wore such lavish fabrics or colors. Amilton looked a butterfly in House Mirwell.

Mirwell touched his brow and inclined his head, not deeply, but not insolently either. He was excused from a full formal bow because of his old hunting wounds.

"Wine, my prince?" he inquired.

Amilton waved a contemptuous hand at Mirwell and faced the fire. Mirwell poured him a gobletful anyway, and with great effort, limped over to the hearth to give it to him. Amilton took it wordlessly—and poured the contents on the floor.

Mirwell watched unblinking. "How may I serve you, my prince?"

Amilton turned on him, his expression haughty. His face was narrower, more sharp and severe than his brother's, but he had the brown, almond-shaped eyes that characterized Clan Hillander.

"You shall not serve me the bottled urine you call wine."

"I beg forgiveness, Liege. Rhovan is difficult to come by, and we save it for more… extravagant occasions." It was no wonder the late king had chosen Zachary to rule— Amilton was a spoiled fop.

"You seem reluctant," Amilton said, "to update me in the affairs concerning my brother."

"Missives from Captain Immerez are few. He is hard on the road to ensure our plans go forward without mishap. You know as much about his progress as I do."

"It seems I could have sent my own assassins months ago and have had done with it."

"Of course we've tried that avenue to no avail—it lacked finesse. The assassins were promptly thwarted."

"Yes, because you've permitted spies into your house who learned your plans. And my brother knows where I am."

"If your brother knew the source of those assassins, don't you think his Weapons would be upon us now? And why should he care where you are, so long as it is far away from Sacor City? My liege, we only suspect there is a spy in House Mirwell."

"I believe my brother was suspicious enough of those last attempts to put a spy here. How do you know our next attempt won't fail?"

"Every precaution is being taken, Liege. You must trust me in this."

"I sincerely hope you don't fail this time, Tomas." Amilton left his goblet on the mantel and moved restlessly about the chamber. He paused by the open window which looked over the training fields of the provincial militia, and allowed the implied threat to hang in the air before he spoke again. "And you trust this Gray One?"

"Explicitly. He is of the old powers, and his alliance will bring such influence and glory to us that we can't even begin to imagine it."

Amilton leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, his trim, angular figure silhouetted against blue sky. "I don't particularly care for his ways. The groundmites, you know. But the Gray One's forces ought to convince the other governors and nobles to ally with me."

"His forces are great enough to take a province at a time, if necessary," Mirwell said. "And he has offered you powers?"

"Not precisely. I fear he may betray us and offer them to my brother first."

"It would be easiest for the Gray One, in his own self-interest to do so."

"I agree."

"Let us not fret," Mirwell said. "He'll have trouble convincing your brother that the D'Yer Wall should be crushed. Zachary is far too scrupulous."

"And I'm not?" Not even a trace of a smile could be found on Amilton's lips.