The Shadow Within (57 page)

He left Simon in conversation with Laramor, Kesrin, and Blackwell before the great hearth fire, not far from where Abramm spoke quietly with Lieutenant Merivale. Behind the king, the serving girls hurried to clear the table and were nearly finished when, to Simon’s astonishment, Abramm turned abruptly from Merivale to step directly and deliberately into the path of one of them, stopping her in her tracks. It was the same girl who had caught his eye earlier, Simon noted, dismayed—even shocked—to realize the man who’d once taken vows of celibacy had a roving eye for the ladies. Worse was that he would even be thinking about such things when he had the campaign of his life to run.

The girl looked up at him in surprise, dirty platters stacked in her arms, a smudge of soot on one cheek. She certainly wasn’t one of the prettier ones. It was then Simon realized he’d misperceived things, for Abramm wasn’t flirting, he was glowering, and though the girl faced him bravely, her eyes were wide and her face pale.

“What the plague are you doing here?!” the king said quietly, his low voice almost lost in the crackle of the fire and the muffled clatter in the kitchen.

The girl’s chin came up. “Trying to bring these platters back to the kitchen, sir,” she said primly, showing far too much hubris for a serving maid.

“Put those blasted things down and come with me.”

Before she could even start to obey, he took them from her, tossed them in a clatter onto the table, and pulled her none too gently to the deserted far side of the room, where they conversed privately. Whatever he was saying to her, he was clearly angry, looming over her in a way that would have intimidated most girls to tears. This one bore up under his displeasure sturdily, back straight, chin up, her gaze holding his almost defiantly as she answered him.

As another girl picked up the discarded platters, Simon glanced aside at Kesrin and found him watching the couple with interest. “She looks familiar,” Simon said to him, “but I’m poxed if I can place her.”

Kesrin flashed a dubious smile. “I don’t doubt it, my lord, as out of context as she is.”

“You know her?”

Kesrin turned again to the disputing couple. “That, sir, is Lady Madeleine, Second Daughter of the king of Chesedh.”

Simon turned incredulous eyes upon the girl—Abramm was once more doing the talking—and saw at once that Kesrin’s claim was true. “Lady Madeleine? What is
she
doing here? And dressed as a servant girl no less!”

“Researching her next song, she claims.”

“
You
brought her?”

“Not knowingly.” Kesrin turned back to him with a rueful smile. “You have to understand Lady Madeleine. She is very resourceful. And seemingly without . . .” He shrugged. “Well, she came disguised as one of my men-atarms, if that tells you anything.”

Abramm had finished his harangue, the two of them now seemingly engaged in a duel of angry gazes. Then he spoke a word and she flinched, turning away from him tight-mouthed and pale. As she fled to the kitchen, Simon fancied he glimpsed a shining tear track on her cheek. He had no time to contemplate, though, for at that moment, Abramm bore down upon them, his anger unabated.

“Were you part of this charade?” he demanded of Kesrin in a tight, low voice.

“Not willingly, sir.”

“You let her come, though.”

“Only after the fact of finding her disguised among my men. I couldn’t very well send her back alone.” He paused. “Not that she’d have gone anyway.”

Abramm grunted, paced to the length of the rug laid out before the hearth, then returned. “You’ll see that no harm comes to her, Master Kesrin. The responsibility lies with you.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And you’ll see she stays away from me, as well.”

Kesrin looked at him oddly. “I thought you were growing fond of her, sir.”

“Fond of her?” Abramm’s eyes rounded and he repeated himself, his voice rising a notch with incredulity. “
Fond
of her? How could I be fond of her? She’s nosy, forward, headstrong, not very pretty, far too smart for someone with no sense of discretion—aye, no sense at all it seems—and she talks too much.” He shook his head. “She has always been irritating, but this—” He broke off and shook his head again. “Just see she stays away from me. The cellar might be an appropriate place to lodge her.”

“You’re suggesting I lock her up?”

“If you think it would do any good, yes!”

He started to turn away, but Kesrin stopped him. “Sir, I know it’s a surprise to find her here, but really, it’s not as bad as all that. She can take care of herself quite well. And she can—”

“I know what she can do, kohal. But her skills will not be needed here. And if we lose—” His frown became a scowl. “Well, let’s just pray we
don’t
lose.” With that he strode past them and jogged up the stair toward his private quarters, Jared scrambling after him.

Kesrin watched him go with a look of surprise. After a minute, a slow smile spread across his face. “Well.” He glanced at Simon. “Looks like I was right, after all.”

“Right about what?”

“Why, the two of them, of course.”

A ghost of foreboding swept through Simon. “What do you mean, the two of them?”

But the Terstan did not answer him, for at that moment Ethan Laramor strode in with the news that another company of men had arrived, including, to the astonishment of everyone, Lord Temas Darnley, decked out in the most ridiculous of outfits and claiming he wished to fight with the rest of them.

__________

Two hours later, the war council began. Abramm presided at the trestle table in the Great Room, with Simon seated at his right, Byron Blackwell to his left. Lords Laramor, Foxton, Whitethorne, and Darnley, General Callums, and the three other high-ranking officers among the company ranged down either side of the table. Everitt Kesrin had also been invited to sit in.

The king wasted no time getting down to business. “Gentlemen, I believe Gillard will come after me as soon as he can muster the forces,” he declared in a tone that brooked no argument. “I know some of you don’t believe that, but we’ll just have to trust to time to prove who’s right. Meanwhile, we’ll prepare as if he’ll be here within the week.”

“Within the week, sir!” Callums burst out.

“Thus we haven’t time for debate,” Abramm said firmly. “First, I want an intelligence network in place as soon as possible, all the way from here to Springerlan.”

“We have one already, sir,” said Kesrin from his place at the table’s far end. He leaned forward to see around the man at his side. “Through the Underground.”

“The Terstan Underground?” Abramm asked, more for the others at the table, Simon thought, than for his own comprehension.

Kesrin nodded.

“I want someone in charge of that—a focal point for the information.”

“Yes, sir. I’d suggest Seth Tarker, sir.”

“Very good.” From there Abramm moved directly to the matter of logistics, something they’d discussed much in recent days, for he understood well the importance of supplying the men and was adamant about not bleeding dry the people who lived in the immediate area. Normally the army had men in place to see to such details, but Abramm had only half an army, and that as yet unorganized. It was up to him to pull it together. To the surprise of everyone present, he assigned Darnley the responsibility of seeing the men were adequately provisioned.

And to their further surprise, Darnley protested. “Please do not think I am unwilling to fight, sir. In fact, I came out here expressly to do so.”

Abramm regarded him soberly. “No one will fight at all if they lack sufficient weapons or food. It is not an insignificant position I give you. However, if you feel your skills would be better used in combat . . .”

Darnley frowned at him, clearly taken aback by Abramm’s seriousness. After a moment, he nodded. “I see you are right, sir. I will be honored to see the men are fed.”

“There is also the matter of the latrines. And water supply.”

“Yes, sir.”

Abramm continued to regard him with that sober, hawk-eyed gaze, then gave a clipped nod and went on. It soon became apparent that Abramm was running things, and more, that he knew what he was doing. Once he had all the details of logistics settled, he went on to his plans for the campaign itself.

“I want scouts along the road and groups of men already in place when he comes through. The first thing will be brief strikes—hit them and disappear. Or never let them see you at all. But this won’t be about killing. I’ve said before, we have other enemies to contend with, and I don’t wish to spill any more Kiriathan blood than we must. The first gambit will be to harass them. Let them know we’re out there, that we know they’re coming and we aren’t afraid. The point is to strike them in petty ways and not get caught at it.

“Cut their cinches, loose the tether lines, and spook their animals. Foul their food, drain away their water, sabotage their supply wagons. Steal their weapons.” He held up a finger. “That in particular! We’ll use everything we can get our hands on. And any artillery he’s bringing, I want disabled, the cartwheels broken, axles snapped. If they fix it, break it again.” He had more: “Bridges destroyed, trees felled in the road, streams blocked so they back up and flood . . . whatever the situation lends itself to—all without letting ourselves be seen. Even things like cutting their tent ropes in the night work well.”

Many of the men in his audience were frowning. “Sir,” said Callums, “that will only delay, not stop.”

“True. But when they do get here, they’ll be ragged and disheartened, fearful that, if we can cut their tent and tether lines, we can also cut their throats, and wondering why we haven’t. It wouldn’t hurt to spread some rumors, too—particularly about how strong we are, how many men are joining us—that sort of thing. And any other way you can think to rattle them.”

He fell silent, his gaze roving about the table, gauging the effects of his words on the men, and when he finally reached Simon, the latter couldn’t contain himself, “Where did you learn to wage war like
this,
sir? It’s . . .”

“Devious?” Abramm smiled. “I spent the last four years with the Dorsaddi, Uncle. And before that was trained by the nephew of the great Beltha’adi himself.”

“Esurhite,” Simon said, scowling. “I should’ve guessed. And I’m not sure I hold with conducting battle on the sly. It walks the line of dishonor.”

Abramm became grimly serious. “The best way to win a war, Uncle, is not to have to fight it at all. And I am not above using whatever means of subterfuge I can devise to accomplish that.” He paused, frowning. “If we can strip Gillard’s supporters from him, we won’t have to kill them. And as I’ve said before, one of my highest priorities is to get this done without destroying the meager army we do have.”

“The Gadrielites will not back off, sir.”

“No. But their number is few, and I believe many of those who march against us do so more from compulsion than compunction.” He paused again. “I’ve done this before and it works rather well.”

The men stared back at him, processing the exchange and the startling new concepts he was bringing them.

Then Kesrin said into the ensuing silence, “At Jarnek. You did this at Jarnek before you faced Beltha’adi and his army.”

And now Abramm grinned again. “Aye, and we rattled those men enough they wouldn’t stand and fight when things went bad.”

“When you defeated their leader in that trial by combat, you mean,” Kesrin said. “Who wouldn’t after something like that?”

Abramm shrugged, fingering the pewter goblet before him. “Well, perhaps we can arrange something like that again.”

And at those words, all the men at the table froze, their eyes fixed upon him. He’d just virtually admitted the stories were true, that he really had been the White Pretender, really had slain Betha’adi in personal combat, and—

Simon’s thoughts slammed into the second, greater shock hidden in the meaning of Abramm’s cryptic words.
“Perhaps we can arrange something like
that again.”

Nor was Simon the only one to make the connection.

“What do you mean, ‘arrange something’?” Callums asked, recovering first. “You can’t mean to challenge your brother one on one for the Crown.”

The men chuckled uneasily, but Abramm, Simon noted with a chill of foreboding, remained stone serious. “It wouldn’t be the first time a succession was decided thus in our history,” he said quietly.

And that squelched all remaining levity. Men sat stiffly, exchanging startled, disbelieving glances, until Foxton finally said, “You would kill your own brother, Sire?”

“He’s tried to kill me twice with his own hand, and three times has sent assassins.” Abramm rotated his goblet with a series of tiny turns, then pushed it away with a sigh. “But no. I’d like to think if it came to that I would show him mercy. If life imprisonment can be considered a mercy.” His gaze moved down the table now, catching and holding each man’s eye in turn until he had confronted them all. “So what do you think, gentlemen?Will the soldiers abide such a contest? Will the lords? Will you?”

It was a perfect plan, Simon realized. Fair, economical, dramatic. And it would save the men Kiriath would need for future conflicts. But it would also mean one, if not both, of Simon’s nephews could die. Silence closed around them, into which intruded the sounds from the kitchen, and the fire’s crackle and the moaning of the wind against the keep walls. Outside, a horse whinnied, and there came the distant shouts of men working in the yard.

Finally, Laramor said firmly, “I will abide it.”

“And I,” echoed Foxton.

They went down the table, one after the other, the tally unanimous until it came to Simon himself, who could not seem to find his tongue as he grappled with the ramifications of Abramm’s idea. The king’s blue eyes fixed upon him flatly, as they had that day in the audience chamber. “You knew it had to come to this,” Abramm said softly. “One way or the other.”

Simon met his gaze for a long, silent moment, sick at heart, wishing he didn’t have to choose, and knowing he already had. At length, he nodded, too. “I will abide it, sir.”