The Lair of Bones (16 page)

It was a sad reminder that Ferecia had once been a proud land. An even
sadder reminder of its ruin was the marquis himself, who sat just beneath the shield in a silk housecoat, looking down his nose at Myrrima and Borenson. He held a white perfumed kerchief up to his face, and by his sour expression seemed appalled that two people as squalid as Myrrima and her husband should appear in his appointments.

“Oh dear,” the marquis said, “Sir Borenson, it is so good to see you! You look… well.”

“And you,” Borenson said with a strain, the veins bulging in his neck. “Although, last time we met, you had four or five endowments of glamour to your credit. You look to be… a much more withered specimen of humanity without them.” The marquis's face paled at the insult. Borenson affected a cough into his hand, and then clapped the marquis on the shoulder in a manner that was common with men in arms. The marquis looked down at the offensive hand, eyes popping.

Borenson seemed as if he were ready for murder, and the marquis looked as if he might faint.

“I, I, I trust that all is well with… our king,” the marquis stammered.

“Oh, the kingdom is in a shambles, as I'm sure you know,” Borenson said. “So, Gaborn sent me to give you an urgent message. As you also know, he is battling reavers south of Carris.”

“Is he?” the marquis affected ignorance.

“He is,” Borenson affirmed, “And he wonders where his old friend, the Marquis de Ferecia is hiding.”

“He does?” the marquis asked.

“You did receive the call to battle?”

“Indeed,” the marquis pleaded, “and I prepared to ride at once, but then Raj Ahten destroyed the Blue Tower and my men were left with less than two dozen endowments between them. Surely, one cannot be expected to fight without endowments!”

“One can,” Borenson said dangerously, “and one must. At Carris men, women, and children charged into the reavers' ranks without regard for their own lives. They fought with the strength of desperation because they had no choice.”

“A nasty business, that,” the marquis said, appalled.

“And now,” Borenson said, “it's your turn.” Beads of sweat began to break on the marquis's brow. He held the perfumed kerchief closer to his
face. “You are to equip your soldiers and ride toward Carris at once, giving battle to any foe that presents itself, be it man or reaver.”

“Oh dear,” the marquis moaned.

“Father, may I go?” Bernaud cut in.

“I think no—” the marquis began.

“A fine idea,” Borenson urged. “You'll want to present your son to the Earth King, both as a show of family solidarity and to receive his blessing. Any other choice would leave you… exposed.” He studied the marquis's neck as if pondering where the headsman might make a cut.

The marquis was in torment, but his son said, “Father, now is our chance! We can show the world that Ferrece is still one of the great houses. I'll apprise the guard!”

The lad ran from the room, leaving Borenson to hover above the marquis.

Myrrima found her heart pounding. Borenson and the marquis had no love for one another, but Borenson was playing a dangerous game. Gaborn had not ordered the marquis to battle, had not made any threats veiled or otherwise. Yet Borenson threatened the man with the king's vengeance.

Borenson smiled dangerously. “A fine lad, your son.” Now he got down to the real business at hand. “Have you a facilitator handy? I'm riding for Inkarra and need three endowments of stamina.”

“I—I've a facilitator,” the marquis stammered, “and suitable Dedicates may be found, but I'm afraid that I haven't any forcibles.”

“I brought my own,” Borenson said. “Indeed, I have a dozen extra which I should like to present to your son.”

Outside the castle, Bernaud shouted to the captain of the guard, warning him to prepare some mounts.

The marquis gave Borenson a calculating look, and suddenly the terror in his eyes seemed to diminish. His face went hard.

“You see it, too, don't you?” the marquis asked. “My son is more a man now than I could ever hope to be. He looks much as his grandfather did, when he was young. In him the House of Ferrece might hope to return to grandeur.”

Borenson merely nodded. He would not feign any affection for the marquis.

The old man smiled sourly. “So, the king orders us into battle. Let the
fire take the old trees, and make way for the new.” He sighed, then peered up at Borenson. “You're gloating. You'll be pleased to see me dead.”

“I—” Borenson began to say.

“Don't deny it, Sir Borenson. I have known you for what, a dozen years? You've always been so secure in your own prowess in battle. No matter that I had wealth that you could never match, or a title above your own, every time you've entered my presence, you've given me those insufferable looks. I know what you think of me. My ancestors were kings of renown. But over the centuries bits of our kingdom have been bartered away by one lord, or frivoled away by the next, or stolen from a third who was too weak to keep what he rightfully owned, until the last of us… is me. When you were but thirteen years old you looked at me with disdain, knowing what I was: a minnow freakishly spawned from a line of leviathan.”

“You beg me to speak freely,” Borenson nearly growled, “and through your own self-deprecation, you almost relieve me of the necessity.” He leaned on the table, so that his face was inches from the marquis's, and he stared him in the eyes, unblinking. “Yes, I'll be glad to see you dead. I have no stomach for men who live in luxury and whine about their fates. When I was a lad of thirteen, you looked down your nose at me because I was poor and you were rich, because my father was a murderer and yours was a lord. But I knew even then that I was a better man than you could ever hope to be. The truth is that you, sir, are a milksop, so weak in the legs that you could never father a child of your own. You say that Bernaud favors his grandsire, but I suspect that if we look among your guardsmen, we'll find one that favors him more. Fie on you! If you were any kind of a man, you'd do your best to kill me right now for speaking thus, whether you had endowments or no.”

The marquis's jaw hardened, and for a moment Myrrima thought that he would grab the carving knife from the boar's ham and bury it in her husband's neck. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and smiled wickedly. “You've always felt so constrained to prove yourself. The lowborn always do. Even now, as captain of the King's Guard, you feel the need to challenge me.” The marquis had obviously not heard that Borenson had abandoned his station, and Myrrima wondered what the marquis would have done had he known. “But,” the marquis added, “there is no need for
me
to fight you.
You
and your shabby wife are the ones going to Inkarra, and we both know that the Night Children will send your heads home in a sack by
dawn. As for me, I go to battle the reavers—a foe I judge to be far more worthy and implacable than you.”

For a moment, Myrrima thought her husband would kill the man for his insults, but Borenson laughed, a genuine laugh filled with mirth, and the marquis began to laugh in his turn. Borenson slapped him on the back, as if they were old friends, and indeed for a moment the two were united, if only in their hatred for each other, their scorn for each other, and their desire to unleash their anger upon other foes.

Borenson and Myrrima made their way to the Dedicates' Keep behind the castle. Like everything else in the marquis's domain, the Dedicates' Keep was overnice. The walls of the keep, along with its towers, had been limed, so that the building fairly glowed. The courtyard gave rise to stately almond trees. Their leaves had gone brown, and the grass was littered with golden almonds. Squirrels hopped about madly, burying their treasures. A pair of Dedicates played chess in the open courtyard next to a fountain, while a blind Dedicate sat off in the shade with a lute, singing,

“Upon the mead of Endemoor

a woman danced in white.

Her step was so lissome and sure

She stunned the stars that night.

But far more stunned was Fallion,

whose love grew stanch and pure.

Thus doom's dark hand led to Woe Glen

the maid of Endemoor.”

“You hate the marquis?” Myrrima asked as they walked.

“No,” Borenson said. “‘Hate' is too strong a word. I merely feel such con-tempt for him that I would rejoice at his death. That's not the same as hatred.”

“It's not?”

“No,” Borenson said. “If I hated him, I'd kill him myself.”

“What did he mean,” Myrrima asked, “when he said that the ‘children' would send our heads home in a sack?”

“Night Children,” Borenson said. “That is what the word
Inkarran
means. It comes from
Inz,
‘Darkness,' and
karrath,
‘offspring.'” He spoke the words with such an accent that Myrrima imagined that he knew the language well. “The Inkarrans will send our heads home in a sack.”

“Why?” Myrrima asked.

Borenson sighed. “How much do you know of the Inkarrans?”

“I knew one back home, Drakenian Tho,” Myrrima said. “Drakenian was a fine singer. But he was quiet, and, I guess, no one knew him well.”

“But you know that our borders are closed?” Borenson asked. “Gaborn's grandfather barred Inkarrans from his realm sixty years ago, and the Storm King retaliated. Few who have entered his realm have ever returned.”

“I've heard as much,” Myrrima said. “But I thought that since we were couriers, we would be granted safe passage. Even countries at war some-times exchange messages.”

“If you think we're safe, you don't know enough about Inkarrans,” Borenson said. “They
hate
us.”

She understood from his tone that he meant that they didn't just actively dislike her people, the Inkarrans hoped to destroy them. Yet Myrrima had to wonder at such an assessment. She knew that Inkarrans were outlawed in Mystarria, but it wasn't so in every realm among the kingdoms of Rofehavan. King Sylvarresta had tolerated their presence in Heredon, and even did some minor trading with those Inkarrans who followed the spice routes up through Indhopal. So she wondered if Borenson's judgment wasn't clouded in this matter by the local disputes. “And why would you think that they hate us?”

“I don't know the full story,” Borenson said. “Perhaps no one does. But you know how Inkarrans feel about us ‘Dayborn' breeding with their people?”

“They don't approve?”

“That's putting it mildly,” Borenson said. “They won't talk about it to your face, but many Inkarrans are sickened by the mere thought of it—and for good reason. Any child from such a union takes on the skin, the hair, and the
eye
color of the Dayborn parent.”

“Which means?” Myrrima began.

“A full-blooded Inkarran, one with ice white eyes, can see in total darkness, even when traveling through the Underworld. But many half-breeds can see no better at night than we do, and the dark eyes follow down from
generation to generation. The Inkarrans call such part-breeds kutasarri, spoiled fruit of the penis. They're shunned in their own land by some, pitied by others, forever separate from the Night Children.”

Myrrima remembered the half-breed assassin that had tried to kill Gaborn.

“But,” she argued, “even some in the royal families are kutasarri. Even the Storm King's own nephew—”

“Shall never sit on a throne,” Borenson finished.

“Here's a mystery,” Myrrima said. “Why would a kutasarri from Inkarra agree to act as an assassin? Why would he try to kill Gaborn? Certainly it wouldn't be for love of country.”

“Perhaps he merely wants to prove his worth to his own people,” Borenson said. “But there may be more to it. The Inkarrans do not just hate us for the color of our eyes. They call us barbarians. They hate our customs, our way of life, our civilization. They think themselves superior.”

“That can't be the whole argument,” Myrrima said. “I've seen Inkarrans in Heredon. They didn't seem to hold us in contempt at all. There has to be something more.”

“All right,” Borenson said, “A history lesson, then. Some sixty years ago, Gaborn's grandfather, Timor Rajim Orden, discovered that many Inkarrans who were entering our lands were criminals fleeing justice, so he closed the borders. He turned back many of their traders, and told the minor nobles to put on trial any man that they believed posed a threat. Three minor Inkarran nobles in Duke Bellinghurst's realm thus went to trial, and proudly admitted that they were more than criminals—they were assassins bent on killing the king's Dedicates. They were from a southern tribe of Inkarra, one that despises us more than most, and had sworn to destroy us barbarians in Mystarria. Bellinghurst executed the men summarily, without first seeking King Orden's approval. King Orden was a moderate man, and some say that he would have merely outlawed the offenders. But I think that unlikely, and in any case, it was too late. So he sent their bodies home as a warning to all Inkarrans.

“When the dead men reached their own land, their families cried out for vengeance to their high king. So King Zandaros fired off a choleric missive protesting the executions and cursing all northerners. Gaborn's grandfather sent a skyrider over the mountains, telling Zandaros that if he refused to
patrol his own borders, then he had no business protesting our attempts to protect ourselves. A day later, a skyrider from Inkarra dropped a bag on the uppermost ramparts at the Courts of Tide, at the very feet of King Orden. In it was the head of the child that had borne the message to the Storm King, and with the head came an edict warning that the citizens of Mystarria—and all of the other kingdoms in Rofehavan—would no longer be tolerated in Inkarra. Soon after, the Inkarrans began building their runewall across the northern borders, a shield that none dare now pass.”