The Dog of the North (4 page)

‘I do not follow the doings of the Emmen nobility in detail.’

‘His father, Lord Mosseillion, rebelled against King Alazian. He was attainted and our property was confiscated. When King Arren came to the throne he restored our seat but not our lands
or money. My father is penniless. That is why he sent me north with Lady Isola. He had no money to give me a dowry.’

Beauceron rubbed his chin. ‘Why did you not tell me this sooner?’

‘I was worried that if you could not ransom me, you would use me ill instead. I saw how your men looked at us.’

‘My men have been in the field all summer. Of course they will look at a woman who comes among them. But they answer to me, and they are disciplined. They have seen me hang men for
rape.’

‘I did not know how you would treat me if you knew there would be no ransom.’

Beauceron sighed. ‘Shall I tell you?’

Cosetta looked at him with full eyes.

‘I would have released you. You would have been no use to me, and I could have sent you to Croad: Oricien could then have instructed Lord Sprang to begin preparing Isola’s ransom.
Your silence has cost your freedom.’

Lady Cosetta began to cry. ‘So will you release me once we get to Mettingloom?’

‘It is not so simple. I will have to ask for a ransom for you; I would lose face otherwise, to have brought back a prisoner I could not ransom. And face is important in Mettingloom. I
would not insult you by presenting you to society as my courtesan. Perhaps your father will be able to raise a mortgage on his castle, or Lord Sprang may even ransom the pair of you. I assure you,
I will not ask for an unreasonable amount.’

Cosetta looked at him for a moment. ‘I must go below,’ she said. Beauceron watched her go, shook his head, and presently returned to his own cabin.

3

The sun made a fitful attempt at piercing the heavy grey overcast as the boat approached Mettingloom. Everyone was on deck as the city came into view, even Lady Isola,
whose seasickness – Beauceron suspected – had become an excuse to avoid her captor’s presence over the final days of the voyage.

Lady Cosetta let out a gasp. ‘I had heard Mettingloom was remarkable,’ she said. ‘But I never imagined – this.’

‘“The City in the Sea”,’ said Beauceron. ‘Allow me to point out the main features. You see the little cluster of islets ahead, through the neck of the bay? That is
where the customs men, or Pellagiers, conduct themselves. Then, rising from the sea over there, you see the Metropolia, that cluster of closely packed islets. They are linked by bridges, and
instead of roads, there are waterways – the famous aquavias. That is where we find the King’s palace, the Occonero. Over to the left you see Hiverno, the Winter King’s residence.
The Summer King’s retreat, Printempi, is behind the Occonero and not visible.’

‘And where will we be going?’ asked Isola.

‘I have apartments in the city. You will be my guests for a while.’

Lady Cosetta sighed. ‘The city is unutterably beautiful. The light, and the red and blue roofs . . .’

You should see it in full winter,’ said Beauceron. ‘The lagoon freezes over. You can walk from isle to isle, and the aquavias can be traversed on foot. The only people who complain
are the boatmen, who have to put away their craft for the winter – and of course the Sun King.’

As they spoke, the cog made fast against a smartly varnished jetty. Two men in red coats and blue hats leaped aboard, nimble against the rocking of the boat.

The cog’s captain stepped negligently over to the Pellagiers, who bowed respectfully.

‘Good morning to you, sir. Do have cargo or passengers?’

‘Good morning, gentlemen. I declare myself, Captain Uzzo, my crew of eight, plus seven passengers and their goods.’

Beauceron interrupted. ‘I should more accurately say, five passengers. The two ladies you see before you are my goods, as well as the chests I have stowed below.’

‘I am nobody’s—’ began Lady Isola.

‘Silence, woman!’ said the first Pellagier. ‘I see from the paperwork that this is correct. See here: under the schedule entitled “Spoils of War” is entered
“Plate and Jewels”, 70,000 florins, and “Ladies Isola and Cosetta”, 55,000 florins. All is in order.’

‘I am the daughter of Lord Sprang of Sey. I am no “spoil of war”.’

‘My schedule says otherwise. I have dealt with Beauceron on many occasions, and have never known his book-keeping to be at fault yet. Unlike many war-captains, I must say. Their
record-keeping is invariably slapdash.’

Lady Isola looked at the Pellagier. ‘My interest in accountancy is negligible at best. I am held against my will and demand immediate release.’

‘Since Beauceron values you and your companion at 55,000 florins, that is unlikely. Captain Uzzo, cast off and proceed to Ruglatto.’

The cog lapped towards its new mooring. Beauceron and Monetto conferred at the bow.

‘Have you decided what you’re doing with the ladies?’ asked Monetto.

Beauceron looked back down the boat to where Lady Isola was still expostulating with the Pellagier.

‘We failed in our first objective,’ he said. ‘Siedra must have been travelling back to Croad. The ransom for the ladies will be useful, however, as will the plate.’

‘Do you think Sprang and Coceillion will pay the ransoms? My understanding is that Sprang is niggardly and Coceillion penurious.’

‘We may need to be flexible.’

4

Beauceron took temporary lodgings for himself and the ladies at a tall inn of eccentric proportions, leaning to the east as if in supplication to the west wind whipping in
off the sea. The rates were modest, and Beauceron used a tone of surly menace to extract a further discount.

‘You will no doubt wish to refresh yourselves,’ said Beauceron as he escorted the ladies to their new quarters. ‘I regret that conditions over the past weeks have been
primitive.’

Isola looked around her room. ‘I cannot deny that hot water will be welcome.’

Beauceron sat down on a couch opposite the ladies. The curtains were faded and the fabric worn in places. Only the fastidious would notice the faint smell of cabbage from the adjacent kitchens.
‘We must have an understanding,’ he said. ‘It is regrettable but true that you remain, for now, my guests.’

‘Guests!’ spat Isola.

‘It is not my intention that your stay in Mettingloom will be undignified. I wish to allow you as much freedom as possible, and indeed escape from Mettingloom is all but impossible,
especially in winter. I am your best – indeed your only – hope of a return to your homes. You need not concern yourselves with expenses, and I will arrange for you to be suitably
housed. I would advise you to look upon this interlude as a kind of holiday.’

‘You are a madman,’ said Cosetta with quiet emphasis. ‘This is the Northern Reach, and I am your prisoner. Talk of “holidays” is callow.’

‘Lady Cosetta,’ said Beauceron with a sigh. ‘I understand – and indeed regret – your discomfort. But circumstances are as they are, and Mettingloom is a city of
many attractions. You will be much in demand in society, and I profit nothing from cloistering you and having you pine away and die. Enjoy your celebrity, make the most of your adventure. You will
both tell your grandchildren of your stay in Mettingloom.’

Isola shook her head. ‘You do not have the remotest understanding of our situation.’

Beauceron leaned forward. ‘Perhaps not. But I understand Mettingloom.’ He stood up from the couch and bowed. ‘I will return in two hours to escort you to dinner.’

5

The next morning Beauceron slung a bag over his shoulder and took passage on a wherry. It conveyed him around the Metropolia to set him down at the imposing square before
the Occonero: for the duration of winter, the residence of Fanrolio, the Snow King.

Beauceron had always admired the cool elegance of the Occonero. Two pillars, slender yet grand, stood before him, marking the entrance to the central piazza. One column was topped by a stylized
sun, the other by a moon: an orange banner fluttered from this latter pillar. The piazza was enclosed on three sides by buildings several storeys high, mullioned windows concealing who knew what
secrets. Beauceron had been in Mettingloom for seven years and much of what went on behind the windows remained a mystery to him. At the right-hand side of the piazza stood the portion of the
Occonero given over to the King of the Season’s household. Beauceron hitched his bag over his shoulder and strode through the colonnade into this area. Much would depend on the next hour.

A guard in shining silver mail, with a black surcoat and a snowdrop scarab pinned to his breast, stepped forward to block his way with a halberd.

‘What do you here?’

‘I am Beauceron. I have an appointment with the Chamberlain.’

‘The Chamberlain is indisposed.’

‘Then take me to Davanzato. No doubt he still conducts business in Osvergario’s absence.’

The guard grunted and motioned with his head for Beauceron to follow him. If the man recognized him he gave no sign of it.

Beauceron strode through the marbled walkway, a route he knew as well as the guard. Soon he found himself before a heavy wooden door, and two guards with the same snowdrop scarabs.

‘It is customary to pay me a gratuity,’ said his escort.

‘I am not a slave to custom. Be thankful that I do not report your avarice to Davanzato.’

The man scowled and slunk back off down the corridor.

‘Stand aside,’ said Beauceron to the two door-guards. ‘I am here to see Davanzato.’

One of the guards stepped forward. ‘Davanzato may not want to see you.’

‘Your attempt at surly menace is not intimidating. If I wished you harm, you would already be dead,’ said Beauceron with a sharp smile.

From within the room came a voice. ‘Send him in, Sicurano. This visit I am expecting.’

Beauceron pushed past the guard into the room. A fire in the hearth and rich burgundy hangings softened the cold stone walls. A window looked out over the aquavias and a plush battlecat-pelt rug
lay on the marble floor. At the far end of the long room sat a slender man in his early maturity, thick dark hair confined in a long tail behind his head. No expression creased the olive skin of
his face.

‘Beauceron,’ he said.

‘Davanzato,’ said Beauceron with a minimal bow. ‘You are kind to see me at such notice.’

Davanzato gestured to a couch exquisitely carved with innocent faces, and Beauceron moved to sit. Davanzato came out from behind his desk to sit on an adjacent chair.

‘I await with interest, as ever, news of your doings,’ said Davanzato. ‘His Puissance has few more industrious commanders in the field – although you look a little
tired.’

Beauceron made a dismissive gesture. ‘A summer’s campaign is always arduous. I ask for nothing better.’

Davanzato clapped his hands and a pretty young servant appeared. ‘Theria, two glasses of langensnap, if you please. I take it you still enjoy a glass, Beauceron?’

‘I would never decline your hospitality. You might think I was suspicious of poison.’

‘Aha! The Dog of the North will never succumb to poison. Your destiny must be to die on the battlefield.’

‘Lord Oricien has decreed that I shall die by the rope. He has built a gallows in the marketplace of Croad, and will not allow common felons to hang there: it cannot be used until I am
there for its maiden voyage, so to speak. All of his preparations are in hand, with the exception of the honoured guest. Such laxity mars his thinking here as in so much else.’

‘I feared for your safety this time. You were away long enough that there were those who said you were not coming back.’

‘I am sure you knew better. I was delayed by the nature of our plunder; it required careful handling.’

‘Plunder?’ Davanzato leaned forward.

Beauceron smiled. He sipped at his glass of langensnap, feeling the cloying warmth slip down his throat. ‘In fact, Davanzato, I have brought you a gift. I remembered your fondness for all
things Sey.’

He took from his bag a candlestick of gold, inlaid with tiny rubies and intricate silver filigree, and handed it to Davanzato. ‘I confess that I did not declare the item to the Pellagiers.
They are scrupulous in their observance of the King’s ordinances, but they do not always move with speed.’

Davanzato’s black eyes gleamed. ‘I can overlook your misdemeanour on this occasion. This is a delightful piece, and genuine Sey workmanship. There is none of the heaviness in the
filigree one finds in the Emmen copies. This is a valuable and beautiful piece: I thank you.’

‘Think nothing of it. I am always conscious of the great service you render to the Winter King, and show my appreciation accordingly.’

Davanzato inclined his head. ‘Service is its own reward. If I might perform any small convenience for you, I should be glad to.’

Beauceron raised his hands in denial. ‘I would not wish to impose upon your time or regard for me. Naturally I would like to see my prizes expedited by the Pellagiers, and my men and
guests cleared to enter the Metropolia as soon as possible, but in this I wait my turn along with everyone else.’

‘Nonsense, Beauceron! By lunchtime all will have leave to enter the city, and your prize will be cleared by sundown tomorrow. It is unthinkable that such a renowned commander must wait in
line with the merchants of the Briggantia.’

‘I am grateful for your attention to such a trivial matter,’ said Beauceron. ‘I trust that His Puissance remains in good health.’

Davanzato nodded. ‘His physician has prescribed a new regimen: he thrives. Indeed, I have not seen him so well for years.’

‘Good! Perhaps the physician will have time to spare for Chamberlain Osvergario.’

‘Ah,’ said Davanzato softly. ‘There the omens are not so favourable. He rarely leaves his bed, and if anything his condition worsens. I may be conducting his duties only
temporarily, but there seems no end in sight to my labours.’

‘Four years, I believe,’ said Beauceron. ‘A long time to toil at “temporary” duties.’

‘Not quite four,’ said Davanzato with a frown. ‘Still, we must sacrifice ourselves where we must. What of your own plans?’