The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) (16 page)

“I know,” Gabriel said. He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You know—sometimes, you really are the best brother,” he said. “Go and be with your lady love. I’ll stay home with our mother.” He sighed. “And Aneas.”

“And your lover, the nun,” Gavin said.

Gabriel sat down and put his head in his hands. “Exactly.”

“No one can say we aren’t an entertaining family.” Gavin sat opposite his brother. “Why the nun, brother? She’s pretty enough, I admit. I rather fancied her myself.” He shrugged. “But…”

Gabriel sat back. “How very often I’ve wondered, brother. I think I’m a bear-hunter caught helplessly in my own bear trap.”

“You worked something on her?” Gavin asked.

“Something like that,” Gabriel answered. He smiled wryly. “Whenever you think you are very clever, that’s when you are getting ready to be awesomely stupid.”

“Based on your own experience?” Gavin asked. “I should stop drinking if you’re serious about letting me go.”

“The fewer witnesses the better,” Gabriel said.

“And her notion of making Pater the King of the North?” Gavin asked, his hand on the door latch.

Gabriel smiled grimly. “The frosting on the bun, dear brother. She thinks I made myself Duke of Thrake to secure her borders.”

Ser Gavin turned, hand still on the door. “Did you?” he asked.

The silence stretched.

Ser Gabriel came and put his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “Gavin, once upon a time, I had plans. Now, they have changed.” He looked away. “So the answer is not simple.”

Gavin nodded. Then gave up on annoyance and embraced his brother again. “You are the king of ambiguity,” he said.

“Send Lady Mary my best regards,” Ser Gabriel said.

The Council of the North started with little fanfare and less ceremony than anyone expected. The next morning, all the principals gathered in the great hall of the citadel. No trumpets sounded, and even the duchess seemed subdued.

Ser John Crayford sat at the head of the table. He was wearing a good green pourpoint and matching hose, and his businesslike attire was reflected on every participant except the duchess. She faced him down the length of the table, enthroned in a tall wooden chair her people had brought and surrounded by her maids. She wore figured velvet shot with gold thread—embroidered griffons.

On the right side of the table sat Amicia, for the abbey at Lissen Carak, and Lord Wayland—hardly a famous name, but Gregario, Lord Wayland, was the chief of the small lords of the northern Brogat, the Hills, and the lands just south of Albinkirk. He was himself a famous swordsman, and he wore the latest Harndoner fashions. By his side was his ally and lifelong friend, the Grand Squire, a dapper, handsome man of fifty in a green pourpoint cunningly embroidered—another of the north country’s famous swordsmen, and one of the north’s richest landowners. Closest to the duchess sat the Keeper of Dorling’s son. He was a tall, hard-faced youth, called Allan. In the Keeper’s own country, they called him Master of Dorling.

Across the table from them sat Ser Gabriel in his person as the Duke of Thrake, and Ser Thomas as the Drover, and Ser Alcaeus, representing the Emperor as Ser John represented the King. By courtesy—there had been other Councils of the North—a seat was left empty for the Wyrm. There were no Orleys left to take the seat by Lord Wayland. Instead, Lord Matteo Corner sat with Peter Falconer—the first the chief of the Etruscan merchants then in the north, and the other an officer of Ser Gerald Random. Between them, they knew, and might speak for, the mercantile
interests. Across from them, the council was balanced by the interests of the Church in the person of Albinkirk’s bishop. It was an august gathering, and aside from the duchess’s ladies, Ser Gregario’s wife Natalia in the most fashionable dress in the hall, and Toby and Jamie, the squire of Ser John, the hall was empty of servants—and moths.

No one was late. When everyone was seated, Ser John rose.

“My lady duchess—my lord Duke of Thrake, my lord bishop, Master, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I am a mere soldier. But I have summoned this council in the name of the king, and I’m most grateful—in his name—that the king’s own sister and the rest of you have found time and means to come.

“My intention is simple. I want to create a unified plan to defend the north country this summer—yes, and for many summers to come. Thanks to your efforts, we have already put a small army in the field at no cost to the people of this district and, if God will grace our efforts, that’s a fine opening to our discussions.”

He looked over the table. “My scouts, and those of the Emperor and the duke, have provided us with reports that the bishop’s scribes have copied for all of you,” he said. “In brief, Plangere is coming. He has an army of the Wild and another of Outwallers, and he has new allies—Galles, who have a flood of reinforcements from home.” Ser John looked around.

Ghause looked bored. “So?” she asked.

“So, my lady duchess, he has the force to take Albinkirk. Or Ticondaga. Or Middleburg. Or Lissen Carak. Or even Lonika. But not any of them, if we all field an army together.” He was going to go on, but Ghause interrupted.

“Fiddlesticks,” she said. “Poppycock. I can see straight through him and he’s as impotent as—” She gave a wicked smile. “Never mind. He failed to defeat Ser Gabriel the other day—and he failed to take Lissen Carak a year ago.”

Ser Gabriel pursed his lips. “I don’t agree,” he said.

Ghause looked at him as if he was a mythical being. “I’m sorry, my child. Did I mishear you?”

Gabriel shook his head slightly. “I had a chance to learn from one of his officers.”

Ghause raised a perfect eyebrow. “You tortured him?”

“I subsumed him and took his memories,” Gabriel said.

A near perfect silence fell over the table.

“Ah,” Ghause said, with a smile that could only be described as motherly. “Please go on.”

“I have the impression, first, that the attempt on me was put together with clay and spit, and was not a serious effort. Despite which”—he looked away—“it was very nearly successful.”

“Perhaps,” Ghause said.

“And I also received the impression that Plangere is well-prepared. That the extent of his own preparations left him unwilling to take any risks.” Gabriel shrugged. “Why should he?”

“I don’t believe there’s enough men and power in the world to take Ticondaga,” Ghause said.

“No fortress is stronger than the men on its walls,” Ser John said. “And no fortress can stand a year of siege. Starvation can take any stronghold.”

Ghause sighed. “So much drama. Very well, what do you want?”

“I want to appoint a Captain of the North. And I want to have him muster an army.”

“This captain is to be you?” Ghause asked.

Ser John shrugged. “I was thinking of your son, Gabriel.”

Gabriel looked surprised. “I am going to the tournament at Harndon.”

Ser John nodded. “Harndon is five days’ ride for a single determined man and his escort. Faster if there’s a change of horses.” He looked over the table. “Wherever he strikes, we’ll be able to combine our forces. While I have greater fears for our ancient fortresses than the duchess, I agree that none of them will fall quickly. We will have a month or more to raise our armies if we are prepared.”

“My husband is ready to lead an army straight at the sorcerer, if that’s what you want,” Ghause said. She sat up, like a fierce hawk disturbed at her rest. “Why wait for him? Why not strike him first?”

Ser Gabriel frowned. “By water, your grace?” he asked.

Ghause smiled. “Yes, my child. By water.”

“You are a puissant magistra, Mother. Would you allow an attack on Ticondaga by water?” Ser Gabriel’s tone was quiet and respectful.

Ghause laughed. “I agree that water is a wonderful element to manipulate,” she said.

“And every step he takes south of the inner sea stretches his resources,” Ser John said. “Why should we go there and stretch ours?”

Lord Corner put his hands flat on the table. “Not all of us are men of war,” he said. “I see no reason to risk an army in the Wild.”

Ghause laughed—a genuine laugh, not her laugh of derision. “You are in the Wild right now, my lord,” she said. “Or perhaps I should say, there is no Wild. Irks and boglins—men and priests. And little to tell between them.”

Lord Wayland was a careful man. He leaned back, one finger against his chin. “It is always easier to rally men to defend their homes than to invade someone else’s.”

Now Ghause snorted her derision.

Amicia looked up and down the table. “My lords—how will we know when the sorcerer launches his true effort? Will he not attempt to deceive us?”

Ser John smiled at her. “An excellent point. No army will march and denude any district. We must have an arrière-ban ready to stand on the defence.”

Ser Gabriel met Amicia’s eyes. “It is an excellent point, Amicia. But I think that we can build a mobile army that will move faster than Thorn can.”

A frisson of power passed through the air.

Ghause threw back her head and laughed. “Bless you, my child,” she said. “You amuse me. Taunt him!” She smiled. “Thorn,” she said, seductively.

The air darkened a moment.

Eyes were wide.

“Leave it there,” Ser Gabriel snapped. “If we say a third, the die is cast. As it is, it will stay in the air.” He smiled. “I see all sorts of things that can go wrong, Ser John. But Alcaeus and I have a chrysobul from the Emperor authorizing us to call on the field army, which will, by the first of April or so, be at Middleburg.”

Ser John looked up in surprise. “My pardon, my lord duke, but the chatter in the market is that the Emperor is bankrupt and cannot field an army.”

The Duke of Thrake smiled mirthlessly. “What do you think we were doing last year?” he asked. “Dancing? The Empire has a field army. It will be at Middleburg.”

Ser Thomas slammed a fist on the great table. “I like what I’m hearing,” he said. “I like the notion of the fight this season and not next. But I have my herds to move, and most of the tail of my best men is with me. I can send a man home to muster levies, but until the drove is over—”

“I mislike the idea of keeping an army in the field all summer,” Lord Wayland said. “We’re not the Emperor with an army all the year. Fields must be ploughed. My archers are my yeomen. My spearmen are my herdsmen.” He shrugged.

Next to him, the Grand Squire grinned and nodded. “I wouldn’t mind a season of campaigning,” he quipped. “But my people would. And my wife, come to think of it.”

“A shirt of mail is a year’s lost herds.” The Bishop of Albinkirk spoke seldom, but he spoke well.

Ser John looked at Ser Gabriel. “Can you command the Emperor’s army?” he asked.

Ser Gabriel looked at his hands. “Yes,” he said.

Ser Alcaeus was seen to smile.

“Then let us build a force here, based on your company and Ser Ricar’s. I’m sure we can pay your wages.” He looked at the merchants, who flinched.

Ser Gabriel shook his head. “I’ll pay my own,” he said. “I’m the Duke of
Thrake. I had other plans, but I’ll put them aside for the summer. We can keep the northern levies and the Hill clans as our reserve.”

“But what of the Royal Army?” Ghause asked, too sweetly.

Ser John frowned. “I do not think we can rely on the Royal Army this summer,” he said primly. “I don’t think we will see them north of Harndon.” He sighed. “Or if we do, we may rue it.” He looked around. “I would rather not speak all my thoughts than lie. But unless I am mistaken, the Royal Army will not save us this year.”

“Because of raids in the south?” the Etruscan merchant asked.

“Because Alba is on the brink of a civil war,” the bishop said quietly.

Ser John leaned back. “We are all king’s men here,” he said. “We will
be
the Royal Army.”

Ser Alcaeus looked as if he was going to choke.

Ser Gabriel frowned. “We will be an allied army of the north. If the Emperor contributes troops, he will not want to be seen as a vassal of the King of Alba.”

The Duchess of Westwall nodded. “Well said, my son. We are allies, not feudatories. Let that be clear.” She looked around—more like the griffon than was quite right. “Consider this, gentles—if the Royal Army cannot help us, and if we must raise our own army to hold back this petty sorcerer, what will we do when a serious threat comes? Why pay our taxes to a distant king who cannot defend us? Why not have
our own king
?”

Ser John sat up straighter, and looked at the duchess. “I beg your pardon, your grace, but are you contending that the Earl of Westwall is
not
the vassal of the King? Are you suggesting…”

The duchess smiled. It was the sort of smile one might imagine on a particularly subtle fox just before he eats the chicken. “I am a poor weak woman with no great head for politics, Ser John. I speak no treason when I say that my brother cannot defend us. His writ does not run here.” She smiled, and her smile narrowed. “I merely tell you, brave knights, that neither my husband, nor I, will be bound by a document or an agreement that decribes us as the king’s vassals or
requires
our knight service. On the other hand, if such an agreement is worded as an alliance, we will eagerly contribute to both the field army and to the total effort and the costs.”

The Bishop of Albinkirk narrowed his eyes. “You see the Adnacrags as a sovereign county?” he asked.

The smile that the duchess wore grew, if anything, a little wider. “I have said no such thing,” she said. “Yet, I imagine that were we to make ourselves sovereign, we would only aid our own defence.”

“This is treason,” the bishop said.

“Make the most of it,” the duchess snapped.

“We owe our service to the king—” Ser John began.

“Why?” Ghause asked. “He’s just a man—and a feckless one. The way I
hear it, my son and Sophie saved you all last spring. The way I hear it, the King almost lost his army in the woods and had to be saved by his slut of a Queen and the river fleet. And now he’s let in an army of Galles who are running rough-shod over the south. I’m here to tell you that we will not allow them into the north.” She sat back.