Raven's Strike (18 page)

Avar handed him a cup of water.

Phoran rinsed his mouth and spat in the basin.

“You were right,” said Avar. “I was wrong. There isn't a man who was in that chamber today who will forget what happened.”

Phoran wanted to forget, but he supposed that Avar was right.

There was a short, efficient knock on the door.

“Come,” said Phoran, recognizing it.

The Sept of Gerant came in, followed by Avar's brother Toarsen. Toarsen still carried the sword, but it was sheathed and resting casually against his shoulder.

It was probably stupid, thought Phoran, that of the four people he trusted completely, he knew only one of them well. An unwitting tool in the Path's plan to ensure a weak emperor, Avar had been first Phoran's guide and then his companion in
debauchery. Avar had never quite reached the heights of corruption that Phoran had managed, though. Like a gold coin in the mud, there was something pure and shining about his friend that nothing could quite smudge.

Until a month ago, Phoran had known Avar's brother Toarsen and Toarsen's best friend Kissel only to greet in the hall as they passed. Both of them were of poor repute—and from what he'd learned in the past month, their reputation for villainy was probably much less severe than they deserved.

He also knew they were, both of them, absolutely trustworthy. They were his, given to him as a gift by Tieragan of Redern—or else he'd been given as a gift to them: Phoran wasn't quite certain.

The Sept of Gerant, though, was very definitely Tier's gift. Gerant had come so seldom to Taela that Phoran wasn't certain he'd ever even met the man before he'd come in answer to Phoran's summons, a summons he'd written on Tier's advice.

Before Gerant arrived, Phoran had envisioned an aging Avar: big, charismatic, and physically gifted—especially after he'd done some reading about the victories Gerant had managed against the Fahlarn twenty years ago. But Gerant was no giant, no flashy hero.

He was shorter than average, and looked a dozen years younger than he was. He dressed modestly and watched more than he talked. At first Phoran had thought him a stolid sort of man, true as good steel but the kind of person who had to think things through before he acted. And Phoran had been right—except Gerant thought faster than most. Phoran's uncle would have liked Gerant, and Phoran knew of no greater compliment.

“You played that well,” Gerant said.

Phoran took a sip of water. “Just give me a dozen virgins to rape, and I could have completed the show.”

“He's never at his best after losing his breakfast,” commented Avar.

“Good thing there weren't another two or three,” continued Phoran. “Or I'd have had to start stabbing them rather than beheading them. Maybe I should have used an axe?”

Avar walked over to a pitcher and poured ale into the five goblets that waited. “Some ale, gentlemen? You can't make conversation with him when he's like this.”

“It's hard,” said Gerant. “Much easier to kill the bastards when they've a sword at your gullet than to do it cold when they're whimpering and shaking.”

“I'd have done it for you,” said Toarsen. Some trick of arrangement had taken the same features that turned Avar into the epitome of male beauty and made Toarsen look like a merry drinking companion—if you didn't look into his eyes.

Had Toarsen killed men who were bound and unable to fight back? Phoran didn't ask; he didn't want to know the answer.

“Nasty business.” Kissel loosened the neck of his captain's uniform and accepted a goblet. “I like killing them when they're trying to kill you better,” Kissel continued, giving apparent answer to Phoran's unasked question—though it was hard to tell: Kissel had a wicked sense of humor.

Kissel was the second son of the Sept of Seal Hold. When Phoran offered to let Kissel stay away from the executions, Kissel had offered to restrain the Seal Hold while Phoran struck the blow—or strike the blow himself. He was not, it seemed, fond of his father.

Taking a deep swallow, the big man relaxed into his usual seat. Somehow in the past few weeks, Phoran's sitting room had been arranged into a council of war.

“They'll fear you now, Phoran,” said Gerant. “But they'll respect you more.”

“I was watching Gorrish,” said Toarsen. “Cold-blooded, that one. He wasn't afraid or impressed by the show. If he'd been a wizard, I'll wager our emperor would be lying in state now.”

Avar nodded at his brother. “I know. I saw it, too. We're going to have to do something about him.”

“We needed to kill that one, too,” agreed Gerant, finding a small bench and taking a seat. There was a soft chair set out for his use, but, to Phoran's private amusement, Gerant was more comfortable with humbler furniture. “It's too bad there wasn't enough evidence against him.”

Phoran gave a sour grunt and exchanged the water cup for a goblet of ale. “He was too busy running the Council for Telleridge to make many appearances below. The Path's servants knew, but I couldn't expose them to the kind of things that happen to servants who bear witness against their betters.”

He wandered casually over to his chair and plopped down with a leg thrown over one arm. The company was steadying him, giving himself something to think about other than the blood that spattered his clothing.

“That reminds me,” said Gerant, “I promised Tier I'd look after you, but you make it damn difficult. If Avar and Kissel hadn't thought to accompany you, you'd have been parading down the hall by yourself. You were supposed to wait and take half of your guard. Your performance today has made you a target—not just for the Path members who escaped us, but any Sept or merchant who liked things better while you were more concerned with whoring and drinking than matters of state.”

“They had their whoring emperor for too long,” agreed Phoran wryly. “It'll take us all time to adjust. I'll try to remember to take guards with me.”

“Kissel and I picked out a few trustworthy men from the Emperor's Own,” Toarsen said, and Phoran hoped he missed Avar's wince. It was likely that any number of the Emperor's Own were going to prove themselves untrustworthy. “They'll be stationed outside your rooms in pairs, day and night.”

Gerant rubbed his face; he knew the Emperor's Own, too. He'd been conducting the morning training sessions (which Phoran attended), letting the captains conduct an evening session alone. “There aren't a dozen I'd trust, yet,” he said.

“They'll stand twelve-hour shifts,” said Toarsen. Phoran noticed he didn't argue with Gerant's assessment. “And Kissel and I will rotate with them.”

Gerant shook his head. “The shifts are too long. And, by picking only a few, you're telling the rest they're not good enough. Pair them up—one trustworthy with another less so. Rotating three-hour shifts. Any longer than three hours, and a guard's not as effective.”

One of the benefits, Phoran thought, of having these men was that they so often took care of the arguing so he could see around it to the real problem.

“Have them guard me in here,” said Phoran.

Gerant raised an eyebrow.

“They're all noblemen,” Phoran said with a faint smile. “Raised in noble households. They know which fork to eat with—and are probably more likely to do so than I am. Of
course they make lousy door guards because that's not what they are. They aren't servants or castle guards. They'll come in and keep company with me, and we'll put castle guards at the door. Surely we can find a few castle guards who won't stab me in the back for having their captain hung. Find the ones he disciplined most often.”

Avar snorted. “That'll be good. Pick out the worst of the castle guards to keep the Emperor safe.”

“That's it,” Gerant said suddenly. Phoran deduced that he was agreeing with Phoran rather than Avar. “That's what we've missed. We'll make the Emperor's Own something different from a guardsmen troop or an army. They're not suited to the kind of service a guardsman gives.”

“I'm noble born.” said Toarsen. “If someone gave me a uniform and expected me to disappear except when they barked out orders, I'd resent it.” He grinned, and this time his eyes lit up, too. “Come to think of it, that's how the Raptors treated us, and look what it got them.”

“That doesn't mean we'll let discipline go,” Phoran told Avar, who was looking unhappy, “quite the opposite, I think. Tier said there isn't a man among them who isn't a decent swordsman. We'll find more experts, though, and teach them knives, staves, fighting dirty, and anything else we can think of. Tier said that they needed to be
valued.
” He knew how that felt. He knew these young men who were looking for a purpose; he'd been one until very recently.

“So you make them think they are valued,” said Kissel. “And then they become loyal.”

Phoran shook his head. “I do
need
them, Kissel. All I have to do is show them that. They don't replace the castle guard—hopefully that won't be necessary, but if it is, I can find replacements elsewhere. I need them to be my eyes and ears, my hands and feet.” He started to get enthusiastic. “Look how much trouble the city guards have with the wealthier merchants and lesser nobles. Let them appeal to the Emperor's Own—noblemen, gentlemen, men of rank who are listened to and respected.”

“Noblemen,” said Avar dryly, “who were thieves and vandals until just recently. I hope. Of whom your captains can find only what—fourteen trustworthy men?”

“Ten,” said Kissel. “Including Toarsen and me.”

“Noblemen who serve an emperor who was a drunkard and a screwup,” said Phoran. “I certainly hope it is possible to change—and if you don't, you'd better pretend you do, or you might offend Us.”

Avar grinned. “All right. But you need to keep at least one of them who is on the captains' shortlist of trustworthy souls near you.”

Gerant chuckled. “They'll work out. Phoran's hit upon it, I think. That's what happens when people are around Tier for too long. They start expecting miracles—and usually get them.”

“Before you came here, my lord,” said Kissel, “you hadn't seen Tier since the Fahlarn War. Do you always answer summonses from commoners who served in your command two decades ago?”

Gerant smiled and ran a finger over his moustache to smooth it. “I answered a summons from my emperor, lad. Make no mistake.”

Phoran tilted his goblet toward Gerant. “And they say you don't know how to play politics.”

Gerant let out one of his soft chuckles. “No. What they say is that I don't like politics.” To Kissel he said, “I do understand your question, though. Tier and I haven't seen each other since the war, but we've exchanged letters two or three times a year for twenty years and . . .” He shook his head. “You've met Tier. I'd trust his judgment before I'd trust my own—and I've done so. I expect that if I'd not heard from him since he left Gerant, I'd still come running if he asked.”

“You've got it, too,” observed Phoran. “That something that makes people want to do as you say. I don't know what it is, exactly. Avar has it upon occasion, but you and Tier carry it about your shoulders like a mantle of authority.”

Gerant bowed his head. “Thank you. I've had to work at it. Tier was like that when he was a snot-nosed boy leading around men twice his age and experience and not a one of them thought to question it.”

Toarsen laughed. “The Path didn't know what they were doing when they threw him down among us, did they, Kissel? I think they expected us to cow him or torment him like we did that poor Traveler bastard who was there before him. But
instead Tier took us and made us into a weapon for the Emperor.” He nodded at Phoran, who raised his goblet in acknowledgment.

“See that you serve him well,” said Avar.

“Speaking of service,” said Phoran, changing the subject. “I need an heir.”

Avar grinned at him. “Do you have a lady in mind?”

Phoran rolled his eyes. “Please don't be stupid, Avar. Any wife I can contract right now is as likely to kill me in my sleep as anything. A blood heir will have to wait until I have a few more allies than those who are now present. Besides, a child would be of no use anyway. Too vulnerable.”

He sipped at his drink and let them roll the idea around in silence a while, then said, “If I have a legal heir, an adult heir, the first thought in my enemy's mind won't be—if Phoran could just take a fall off his horse . . . or down the stairs, then I wouldn't have to worry about him.”

Avar got it, but Phoran could see that Kissel and Toarsen were still working through it.

“It's not so much that I'm less vulnerable with an heir,” he explained. “It's that there is less to be gained by my assassination—especially if my heir is likely to be more trouble than I am.”

“It won't help with Gorrish or anyone else with a personal grudge,” said Avar. “And, if you'll excuse me for saying so, you've gone out of your way to offend a lot of people, Phoran. But political enemies will be less likely to consider assassination as a solution. Do you have an heir in mind?”

“You,” he said, and could have laughed at Avar's blank face. Avar wasn't stupid, but sometimes you had to grab him by the shoulders and make him look before he saw the wild boar charging him. “Come now, who else would it be? Your mother and mine were first cousins or some rot—which is how your father took over as regent when my uncle died. You're as close to family as I've got—you and Toarsen.”

“I don't want to become Phoran the Twenty-Seventh,” Avar said in dead seriousness.

“Don't then.” Phoran leaned back and took the last swallow from his goblet. “Follow my tradition and include the first Phoran. You can be Phoran the Twenty-Eighth instead. Or, as
far as I'm concerned, since I presume I'll be dead if you inherit, you can be Avar the First.”