Winterbirth (53 page)

The High Thane threw open the doors to his private chambers and swept in. The attendants within, startled in the act of setting out Gryvan's robes for his impending audience with the Dornach ambassador, fled with a volley of curses snapping at their heels. Gryvan slammed the doors shut behind them.

'Explain to me, then, what is happening,' the Thane of Thanes shouted, red-faced. 'Explain to me, Chancellor.'

Mordyn steeled himself and locked his features into a calm, open expression. He had known Gryvan for long enough to be certain that this tempest would blow itself out as quickly as it had arisen. Kale, as immune as ever to the emotions raging around him, had drifted to the window to ensure that no one was loitering on the balconies without.

'Which matter would you have me address first, lord?' Mordyn asked. He hoped, and expected, that Gryvan was most exercised over the news that Mordyn himself had just broken to him, rather than that which a messenger from the Steward in Kolkyre had unfortunately delivered at almost the same moment.

The first, the Chancellor had an answer to; the second was more problematic.

'The Goldsmiths, the Goldsmiths,' snarled Gryvan. He sank heavily into a capacious chair. Aewult made for a small table. Gryvan's servants had laid out some food for him there. The Bloodheir idly surveyed a bowl of apples and grapes.

'Very well,' Mordyn murmured. He carefully clasped his hands across his stomach, in as passive a posture as he could manage. 'I have been looking into the matter for some time now, and we are therefore well placed to respond to recent events. As I was explaining before Lagair Haldyn's message arrived, Gann nan Dargannan-Haig has killed his half-brother. He took him in an ambush. All of this strife within the Dargannan Blood serves us well in weakening them, but the time has perhaps passed when we can stand aside and watch them hacking away at one another. It appears increasingly possible that if left to their own devices, it will be Gann who rises to the top.'

'Yes, yes,' Gryvan said. The heat of his anger was already fading somewhat. His brow remained knotted, but his hand was quite steady as he poured himself wine from a jug at his side. 'But now you tell me that the Goldsmiths own Gann. Apparently you've known this for some time, but not seen fit to share the information with me.'

'Gann's a coward,' Aewult said casually, through a mouthful of apple. 'Throughout Igryn's rebellion, Gann hid away on one of the islands.'

'He is unfit to be Thane,' Mordyn agreed, 'even if he wasn't a creature of one of the Crafts.'

'But he is such a creature,' snapped Gryvan. 'That is what concerns me. I don't care who rules the Dargannan Blood, so long as they know their place. What I do care about is that the Goldsmiths should think they are entitled to try to make Thanes themselves.'

'Indeed,' said the Chancellor. 'The Crafts have always taken an interest in the doings of Thanes, and have never shied away from spending coin in support of their interests. This goes beyond that. To my certain knowledge the Goldsmiths have not only enriched Gann himself, but paid a dowry for his sister's marriage, made a gift of one of their own houses to his infant son and bribed - I regret to say — our own tax collectors to overlook certain private dealings Gann has had with Tal Dyreen merchants. It is my belief - not certain, but probable - that they also paid for the hire of the Free Coast bandits that Gann brought in to kill his half-brother. They have put Gann so greatly in their debt it's unlikely he will ever be anything more than their lackey.'

Gryvan took a noisy swallow of wine, then set the goblet down so roughly upon the table that it spilled.

He shook his hand and scattered red droplets.

'I've made them all rich, all of the Crafts. Since Haig took over from Kilkry there has never been such wealth, and they've garnered more than their fair share of it.'

'They are ungrateful,' agreed the Bloodheir. Mordyn deliberately avoided looking at him. Aewult smelled the prospect of bloodshed and intrigue, and that always excited him. At least Gryvan was capable of restraint; for Aewult, all too often, the bloody exercise of power appeared to be an end in itself.

'Ungrateful, I could tolerate,' muttered the High Thane. 'But when they interfere with my own needs, they go too far. We must have a secure, subdued and obedient Dargannan Blood. Nothing of what we seek - not the Free Coast, Tal Dyre, Dornach - none of that can we reach for without Dargannan first safely under our heel. Whoever the new Thane is, he will be my creature, not the Goldsmiths'.'

'I have a suggestion,' Mordyn said.

The High Thane nodded curtly. He was calm enough to listen now.

'Balance is important in this. There is no need to force a confrontation with the Goldsmiths. It benefits us to remain on good terms with them, and with all of the Crafts, but they do need to learn the limits of their power in this game. I can, therefore, have their piece removed from the board. If we do it in such a way that our hand is not obvious, they will suspect our involvement but be left uncertain. That, I have found, is almost always the best outcome. Uncertainty constrains actions without provoking hostility.'

He heard Aewult snort dismissively. He ignored it; now, and hopefully for years to come, it was Gryvan who made the decisions. The High Thane glanced at his son.

'Go and find Alem T'anarch,' he said sternly. 'Tell him that his audience will be somewhat delayed. And tell him that the delay in no way reflects any lack of respect for the exalted Dornach Kingship.'

'He won't believe that,' Aewult said.

'He's not supposed to, of course,' Gryvan snapped. 'Now go.'

The Bloodheir went, tossing his half-eaten apple back towards the bowl as he went. It missed, and bounced messily to the floor.

'Very well,' Gryvan said. 'Use whatever means it is you have for doing these things. Rid us of Gann, and I will trust to your judgement that the Goldsmiths will understand the message.'

'I will ensure they do,' Mordyn said with a shallow bow.

'And what of Lannis-Haig?' Gryvan asked. This was the second irritation that had driven the High Thane to his brief fury. It was, for Mordyn Jerain, a much greater source of puzzlement and concern than the petty intrigues of the Goldsmiths. He shook his head, a gesture finely calculated to convey both regret and mild uncertainty. It would not be wise to appear over-confident in this area, he knew.

'It is remarkable that Anduran has fallen so quickly, lord. If Lagair Haldyn is correct in his reports, of course. It seems unlikely that he could be wrong about something so . . . substantial.'

'Remarkable. You think it remarkable?' There was still a hint of danger in Gryvan's voice. That anger had not entirely dissipated. 'I think it rather more than remarkable. I would not have agreed to any correspondence with Ragnor oc Gyre all these months had I known he meant to overrun our lands.

However difficult Lannis-Haig might be, the Glas valley is still part of my domain. It will not pass to the Gyre Bloods.'

'No,' said Mordyn emphatically. However unclear the course of events in the north was, that much he could be certain of. 'In all truth, High Thane, I do not know if Ragnor has played us false, or if Horin-Gyre has merely been immensely fortunate. In any case, whatever messages have passed between Ragnor and us in the past, the time has surely come to act firmly. The Black Road must be thrown back beyond the Stone Vale before they can establish a firm grip on the Glas valley.'

'Of course. Our armies are gathered. I will send Aewult himself at their head.'

Mordyn bit back a flicker of unease. Sending the Bloodheir north at the head of an army would not have been his recommendation; none of the other Bloods were overly enamoured of Aewult nan Haig, but Kilkry and Lannis liked him least of all. Now was not the moment to challenge the High Thane's will, though. The Chancellor knew he had stretched Gryvan's patience by waiting so long to inform him of the Goldsmiths' machinations, and by failing to predict the fall of the Lannis-Haig Blood.

He took a step back, fixing his eyes on the tiled floor of the High Thane's chamber. He could remember these tiles being laid, a dozen years ago. Gryvan had brought the finest workmen from Taral-Haig, bought the most expensive tiles the potteries of Vaymouth had to offer. It would take a shepherd three lifetimes to earn the cost of this floor.

'I will see to the matter of Gann nan Dargannan-Haig this evening, if you have no further need of me,'

Mordyn murmured.

'Go,' agreed Gryvan. 'He is one fly we can swat with ease, at least.'

There were few people in Vaymouth for whom the Shadowhand would venture out on the streets of the city at night. In the normal course of events, there was no need for it: people came to him, in one palace or another. But in the case of Torquentine things were different. For him, the Chancellor of the Haig Bloods would don a scruffy, heavy-hooded cloak and sally forth himself. Nothing he might want to say to Torquentine should be trusted to an intermediary, and Torquentine could not come to him.

The Chancellor made his way down disreputable streets towards the heart of Ash Pit, perhaps the least savoury of all Vaymouth's districts. He maintained a wary eye and the shambling gait of one too old and ill to be worth the attention of the city's cutpurses. Almost out of sight, two trusted men - his own hirelings, not the guards that came with the post of Chancellor — followed him. They would intervene if trouble threatened, but even so there was some slight risk in walking these streets after dark. He had made the journey only a handful of times.

He came to a narrow junction and paused. He gave a hand signal and his escort sank into the shadows.

The Chancellor crossed the street. The building to which he made his shuffling way was completely anonymous: just one more poorly built house jammed into a long street of its fellows. Yet when he tapped upon the door, Mordyn could feel its strength and solidity beneath his knuckles. No ordinary shack would have a door of heavy oak, banded with iron across its back and barred with a thick beam.

Torquentine treasured his privacy.

Mordyn knew, as he waited patiently for a response from within, that he was being observed; that he had been beneath the gaze of hidden sentries from the moment he came within a hundred paces of this place. He doubted they would know him for who he was, but equally they would not believe him to be just another decrepit beggar. It mattered little if they mistrusted his disguise. Many people who came to see Torquentine must prefer to keep their faces hidden.

A haggard-looking woman opened the door. Her pallid, sickly face was disfigured by the tell-tale marks of the King's Rot. Part of her nose was eaten away, and purplish blotches marred her cheek. Mordyn had always thought it an elegant touch for Torquentine to employ such a doorkeeper. Superstition or pure distaste at the sight of her might be enough to repel some uninvited guests.

'Is your master at home, Magrayn?' the Chancellor asked. It was more ritual than genuine enquiry: Magrayn's master never left this place.

The woman stood to one side and gestured for him to enter. He knew the rules, and went no further than a step beyond the threshold as she closed the door behind him. There was another barred door to pass through yet, and only Magrayn could give him permission to progress.

'Show your face,' she said. Her voice was slovenly, uneven. The Rot had sunk into her throat.

The Chancellor slipped back his hood and looked her in the eye.

'The visage matches the voice, I trust?' he smiled.

Magrayn grunted and gave a swift triple knock upon the inner door.

'Open up,' she called, and Mordyn was given admittance to Torquentine's lair. Hard-faced men searched him and took his knife from him, and he was led down into the cellars.

The man Mordyn had come to see would be thought a monstrosity by some, but to the Shadowhand such a view would be a meaningless distraction. Torquentine was, above and beyond all else, useful.

There was more than one network of power in the Haig Bloods, and Torquentine stood at the heart of that which shunned the light of day and the scrutiny of curious eyes. A word whispered in a quayside drinking den in Kolkyre or murmured with lust-loosened tongue into a doxy's ear in Dun Aygll could find its way to Torquentine. A sizeable fraction of the illicit gains of smugglers, thieves, moneylenders and assassins throughout the Haig lands seeped along surreptitious channels to his pocket. He was the spider at the centre of a vast, almost invisible web. But if he was a spider, he was one grown fat upon the flesh of his prey.

Alone, the Chancellor entered the chamber in which Torquentine reclined upon a vast heap of cushions.

The man was gigantic. His voluminous clothes concealed a body that must weigh as much as three more commonly sized men. The skin of his face sagged and folded itself down. One eye was gone, a ragged scar running across its empty pit from temple to nose. The good eye that stared out at the Chancellor shone with intelligence. Mordyn often reflected that Torquentine's size might serve a purpose in one way at least. It was too easy to judge a man by his girth, to assume that one so bloated could only be dimwitted, or weak, or foolish. Such assumptions would be a grievous error on the part of anyone dealing with Torquentine. To the Chancellor's knowledge there were few people in Vaymouth who were quite as dangerous.

'Chancellor,' Torquentine said hoarsely. 'An unexpected pleasure. It has been some time since the Shadowhand graced my chambers.'

'More than a year,' Mordyn agreed as he lowered himself on to an immaculately upholstered bench, the room's only piece of furniture. Small bowls of aromatic herbs and petals rested beside him. Their scent mixed with the smoky aroma given off by the guttering oil lamps. Beneath it all, Mordyn could catch a hint of the malodorous air they were intended to mask. The Chancellor glanced quizzically at the material covering the bench.

'You have new upholstery,' he remarked.

'Indeed,' rasped his host. 'I tired of the previous pattern. And it had been worn by the buttocks of a great many supplicants.'