Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (29 page)

“How do you know?”

“Archduke Braga learned of the meetings when the late king asked him to pay the messenger directly and without record. He of course told me.”

Archibald stood silent and then swallowed the rest of his brandy in one mouthful. “But wait, why tell you?”

“Because as a good Imperialist, Percy here knows the importance of keeping the church informed of such things.”

Archibald looked at Braga, puzzled. “But you’re a Royalist, aren’t you? I mean, how could the Lord Chancellor of Melengar be an Imperialist?”

“How indeed?” Saldur asked with a smile.

“By marrying into the royal family,” Braga pointed out.

“The church has been surreptitiously placing Imperialists in key positions near the throne of nearly every Royalist kingdom in Avryn and even a few in the nations of Trent and Calis,” Saldur explained. “Through unusual accidents, these men have managed to find themselves rulers of most of those realms. The church feels that when the heir is finally found, it will help make a smoother transition if all the various kingdoms are already prepared to pledge their allegiance.”

“Incredible.”

“Indeed. I must warn you, however, that you won’t be able to obtain additional letters. There will be no more meetings at the Winds Abbey. Regrettably, I was forced to ask the archduke to teach the monks a lesson for hosting such meetings. The abbey was burned along with the monks.”

“
You
killed your fellow shepherds of Maribor’s flock?” Archibald asked Saldur.

“When Maribor sent Novron to us, it was as a warrior to destroy our enemies. Our god is not squeamish at the sight of spilled blood, and it’s often necessary to prune weak branches to keep the tree strong. Killing the monks was a necessity, but I did spare one, the son of Lanaklin, so he could return home and let his father know the deaths were on his hands. We can’t have Royalists organizing against us, can we?” Saldur smiled at him. The elderly cleric took another sip of his drink, the moment passed, and once more Braga observed the persona of the saintly grandfather.

“So, you were after Glouston, Archibald?” Braga said, refilling the earl’s glass. “Perhaps I misjudged you. Tell me, my dear earl, were you more upset you lost the land or Alenda?”

Archibald waved his hand in the air as if he were shooing a fly. “She was merely an added benefit. It’s the land I wanted.”

“I see.” Braga glanced at Saldur, who smiled and nodded. “You may still get it.” Braga resumed speaking to the earl. “With me on the throne of Melengar, I’ll want a strong Imperialist ally guarding my southern border with Warric.”

“King Ethelred would call that treason.”

“And what would you call it?”

Archibald smiled and drummed his fingernails on the beautiful cut crystal of the royal brandy glass, making it ring with a pleasant song. “Opportunity.”

Braga sat back down and stretched out his feet to the fire. “If I help you obtain the marchland from Lanaklin, and you throw your allegiance to me, Melengar will replace Warric as the strongest kingdom in Avryn. Similarly,
Greater
Chadwick will be its most powerful province.”

“That’s assuming Ethelred doesn’t declare war,” Archibald warned. “Kings often frown upon losing a quarter of their realm, and Ethelred is not the type to take such an action without retaliation. He enjoys fighting. What’s more, he’s good at it. He has the best army in Avryn now.”

“True,” Braga said. “But he has no able general to command it. He doesn’t have anyone near the talent of your Sir Breckton. That man is gifted when it comes to leading men. If you broke with Warric, could you count on his loyalty to you?”

“Breckton’s loyalty to me is unwavering. His father, Lord Belstrad, is a chivalrous knight of archaic dimensions. He beat those values into his sons. Neither Breckton nor his brother—what’s his name, the younger Belstrad boy, who went to sea—
Wesley
, would dishonor themselves by opposing a man they have sworn their allegiance to. I do admit, however, their honor can be an inconvenience. I remember once a servant dropped my new fustian hat in the mud, and when I commanded Breckton to cut off the clumsy oaf’s hand in punishment, he refused. Breckton went on for twenty minutes explaining the code of chivalry to me. Oh
yes, my lord, he is indeed loyal to House Ballentyne, but I would rather have a less loyal man who simply obeys without question. It’s entirely possible that should I break with Warric, Breckton might refuse to fight at all, but I’m certain he would not oppose me. Personally, I would be more concerned with Ethelred himself. He is a fine commander in his own right.”

“True,” Braga acknowledged, “but so am I. I would welcome him engaging me personally. I already have a standing veteran army and a number of mercenaries at the ready. I’ll be able to muster superior numbers should that prove necessary. The result will be that he would lose all of Warric, and that could provide me the keys to the rest of Avryn and, perhaps, all of Apeladorn.”

This time Archibald chuckled. “My, but I do appreciate your ability to
think big
. I can see there would be many advantages to my joining with you. Do you really have your sights on the title of emperor?”

“Why not? If I’m poised to conquer, the Patriarch will be eager to throw his allegiance to me, just as the church did with Glenmorgan. If I promise certain rights to the church, he may even declare me the heir. Then no one will stand against me. In any case, this is for another day. We are getting ahead of ourselves.” Braga turned his attention toward the bishop. “I want to thank you, Your Grace, for arranging this meeting. It was very educational. But now it’s nearly midmorning, and I think it’s time to get Arista’s trial under way. I would, however, like to invite you to stay, Archibald. As it turns out, I think I may be able to offer you a gift to show you my commitment to you as a newfound friend of Melengar.”

“I’m flattered, my lord. I’d welcome the opportunity to spend time with you, and I’m sure whatever gift you may have will be a generous one.”

“You mentioned the thieves who spoiled your move against Victor Lanaklin called themselves Riyria?”

“Yes, I did. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it appears we share a common interest in these two rogues. They have also been a rather painful thorn in my own side. As you already discovered, they pay no respect to people who hire them, and are willing to turn against their employers. I, too, hired them for a task and now find them working against me. I have reason to believe they may be coming here today, and I have set plans in motion to capture them. If they do indeed make an appearance, I’ll try them along with Arista. It’s quite possible all three will be burning at the stake by early evening.”

“You are, indeed, most generous, my lord,” Archibald replied with a nod of his head and a smile on his lips.

“I thought you might enjoy that. You mentioned when you arrived that Alric is dead, and that’s indeed the notion I’ve been circulating. Unfortunately, it’s not so—that is, not yet. Arista actually arranged for those thieves to smuggle Alric out of this castle on the night of Amrath’s death. I believe he has hired them and they will attempt to save her. Evidence indicates they used the sewers to exit the castle, so I’ve taken extra precautions there. The grate in the kitchen has been sealed, and Wylin, the captain of the castle guard, waits with his best men hidden to close the river grate behind them. I even failed to post guards near there, to make it more enticing. With luck, the fool of a prince might actually play the boyish hero and come with them. If he does—checkmate!”

Archibald nodded with obvious pleasure. “You really are very impressive.”

Braga raised his glass in tribute. “To me.”

“To you.” Archibald drank to Braga’s health.

There was a loud pounding on the door. “Come!” Braga called, irritated.

“Lord Chancellor!” One of Braga’s hired soldiers burst into the room. His cheeks and nose were red, his armor dripping wet. On his head and shoulders a small bit of snow remained.

“Yes? What is it?”

“The wall guard reports footprints in the snow leading to the river near the sewers, my lord.”

“Excellent,” Braga replied, draining his glass. “Take eight men and support Captain Wylin from the river. I don’t want them escaping. Remember, if the prince is with them, kill him on sight. Don’t let Wylin stop you. Either way, I want the thieves alive. Lock them in the dungeons and gag them as before. I’ll use them as further incriminating evidence against Arista and burn the whole lot together.” The soldier bowed and left.

“Now, gentlemen, as I was saying, let’s join the magistrate and the other nobles. I’m anxious to get this trial under way.” They all stood, and walking three abreast, they exited the large double doors as one.

The morning sun, magnified by the snow, entered the river grate as a stark white light. The wintry radiance splintered along the glistening ceiling, revealing ancient stone caked in mildew and moss. The frozen sweat of the sewer walls reflected the light, bouncing it back and forth until at last it scattered into the all-consuming darkness. In the gloom, the soldiers waited, crouching and cold. Their feet were ankle-deep in filthy cold water, which streamed between their legs, running
from the castle drains to the river. For the better part of four hours, they lingered in silence, but now they could hear the sound of footsteps approaching. The sloshing of the dirty water echoed off the sewer walls, and the distant movement of shadows played upon the stone.

With a motion of his hand, Wylin ordered his troop to hold their position and maintain their silence. He wanted to be certain the rear guard was in place and his prey was in sight before he made his move. There were many avenues in the sewers where two men could run and hide in the dark. He did not want to be chasing the rats through a maze of tunnels. Not only was it unpleasant down there, but Wylin knew the archduke wanted the thieves for the morning festivities and would not be pleased with a long delay.

Soon they came into view. Two men—one tall and broad, the other shorter and slimmer—dressed in warm winter cloaks with hoods pulled high, rounded the corner slowly, pausing from time to time to look about.

“Remind me to compliment His Majesty on the quality of his sewers,” one of them mentioned in a mocking tone.

“At least the slime is warmer than the river,” the other replied.

“Yeah, too bad this is happening on the coldest day of the year. Why couldn’t it be the middle of summer?”

“That would be warmer for sure, but could you imagine the smell?”

“Speaking of smell, do you think we’re getting close to the kitchen yet?”

“You’re the one leading; I can’t see a thing in here.”

Wylin waved his arm.
“Move in, now! Take them!”

The castle guard rushed from their positions in an adjoining tunnel and charged the two men. From behind, more
soldiers raced forward, blocking any retreat. The troops encircled the two, swords drawn and shields at the ready.

“Careful,” Wylin said, “the archduke says they are full of surprises.”

“I’ll show you surprises,” one of the soldiers from the rear said, and, stepping forward, struck the tall one with the pommel of his sword, dropping him to the ground. Another used his shield and the second man fell unconscious.

Wylin sighed and glared at his ranks, then shrugged. “I was planning on letting them walk but this works too. Chain ’em, gag ’em, and drag ’em to the dungeons. And for Maribor’s sake, get their heads up before they drown. Braga wants them alive.” The soldiers nodded and went to work.