Wolf's Blood (16 page)

“Does one of my kin bruise so easily? Bruise at the touch of metal? I think not.”

He threw back his cloak, and for the first time Bryessidan realized that Hurwin wore breastplate and greaves beneath his tunic.

“Father-in-law,” Bryessidan said. “Why are you armored?”

“Would you expect me not be armored,” King Hurwin boomed as if they were sharing one great joke, “when I am come to war?”

“War?” Bryessidan took thin comfort from the warmth with which King Hurwin had greeted his grandchildren. “Surely, my people and I have done nothing to bring you to war against us?”

King Hurwin laughed all the more deeply.

“Nothing of the sort. You are my ally and my friend.”

“Then this talk of war?”

“Against those cursed Spell Wielders who have closed the gates against us,” King Hurwin said, his tone holding genuine surprise. “Who else?”

Queen Gidji looked at her father. and Bryessidan felt a certain degree of comfort that she looked at least as confused as he felt.

“Papa,” she said, “I think we need to talk, but first take off that ridiculous armor. Even if war is necessary, we’re not going to join battle right now.”

The king did not look in the least abashed. “I think it was a good idea. Cut through lots of unnecessary chatter, as I see it, but it has served its immediate purpose. I will change my attire, but I will never change my resolve. Either the gates must be opened to us and our commerce, or it will be war.”

KING HURWIN’S ENTRANCE had been too grand, too loud, and his statements too emphatic for Bryessidan to give more than fleeting, wistful consideration to the idea of swearing those who had been present to secrecy until he himself had heard what King Hurwin had to say. Even if his own attendants and those of the Hammer would agree, too many servants had overheard the exchange, and Bryessidan never forgot that those who served him quite likely spied for those his father’s ambition had made his parole officers.

Instead, Bryessidan had messengers sent to each of the embassies, inviting the ambassadors and the newly arrived emissaries from their homelands to a reception and meeting that evening. He had briefly contemplated a formal banquet, but only so much could be done at a few hours’ notice, and he was not going to give these varying factions more time to think and brood.

“Right now,” Bryessidan, said to Gidji, pacing up and down the length of one of the high galleries in the section of the castle that held their private chambers, “everyone is united in one thing: fear of whoever has taken hold of the Nexus Islands. If we give them time to think, if word spreads that your father arrived bellowing about war, we’re going to have factions crop up.

“Most of these emissaries,” Bryessidan went on, feeling anger flare hot in his cheeks as he remembered, “arrived here to make me nervous, to check the veracity of my report about the gates. I’ve since learned that at least two gate-holding nations had their own incidents with being blocked, but they chose not to report them. Then I did, and now they have to make themselves look less like the cowardly mudsliders they are.”

Gidji smiled and shook her head. “You’re right, but saying so won’t make the situation one whit better, Bryessidan, King of the Mires. They’ll simply say they had reason to be suspect, then look sidelong at you. No. We are better concentrating on those who are our true enemies, these Nexans who have chosen to violate treaties and close the gates against us.”

Bryessidan nodded. “I agree. Tonight at the reception, we must keep the focus on the Nexans rather than allowing old resentments to dominate the situation. I’ve spoken to my minsters, and they all agree.”

He was about to say more, but Gidji interrupted him with an imperious gesture.

“You have hardly time to bathe and dress,” Gidji said practically. “You can’t expect to command this gathering if you are not looking your best.”

Bryessidan looked at her. “One question, Gidji. How much did you write your father about our situation?”

“Enough.” Her gaze slid sideways and her sky-blue eyes seemed transparent of thought, but Bryessidan knew her strength and cleverness, and did not think she was immune to intrigue.

“Enough that he might realize the suspicion we faced?”

“Enough,” Gidji replied, and from her tone, Bryessidan knew that was all she would say. He left for his bath, oddly comforted, and far less angry than he had been before.

BRYESSIDAN SURVEYED THE crowded reception hall from a curtained upper gallery. The initial impression of a sea of rich colors resolved into specific individuals. The king of the Mires made a note of who was talking with whom, of the anxious note that underlay the buzz of conversation, then turned to Gidji.

“Ready, my queen?” he asked, extending his arm to her.

As she placed her hand lightly on his forearm, Bryessidan noted that although her attire was in the green and white of the Mires, her silver cloak clasp was the seahorse that was the emblem of her birth land. The jeweled eyes captured the light and gave it back as emerald sparks.

What is she saying?
Bryessidan thought.
Is she declaring that despite her marriage to me, she still considers herself one with her father’s people? Or is she providing a reminder—as if any should be needed—that the Mires and Tavetch are joined through our marriage? Or maybe she just wanted her father to see she liked the gift her family sent for her birthday.

For a moment, Bryessidan considered insisting that Gidji remove the clasp and replace it with something less alarmingly ambiguous. Of course, there was the likelihood that she would refuse. Then what would he do? Refuse to have her in the reception hall? Enter the hall glowering at each other? Either of those reactions would arouse far more comment than a cloak clasp.

Instead, Bryessidan found a smile and a courtly bow.

“You look lovely, my dear. Ready to face the wolves?”

Gidji nodded and raised her head high. “At your side, my lord.”

They swept down the broad formal staircase to the sound of a trumpet flourish and a herald bellowing titles that Bryessidan still felt mildly surprised to hear applied to himself rather than his father. Fleetingly, he wondered what Veztressidan would do in this circumstance. Then he put the thought from him. Veztressidan had been many things—including a father loved by his son—but he had not always made the wisest decisions.

Even if diplomacy had been the late king’s gift, that would not have mattered. Veztressidan was nothing but ashes in the royal vaults. Bryessidan must deal with this situation on his own, ever his own, no matter how many fawned and promised friendship. He must never forget the lesson King Essidan’s accession had taught him: there is weakness in needing others; there is strength in solitude.

A reception line formed almost as soon as Bryessidan’s feet touched the floor of the hall. He and Gidji greeted all their guests by name, asking after their journeys, commenting on the weather.

Over and over again, the responses to his polite courtesies were mentions of muddy roads, of seas stormy with spring squalls, of river crossings closed because snowmelt had swollen the rivers, making fords useless and carrying away the bridges.

Bryessidan listened and nodded, hearing the message beneath these banalities:
“If the gates had not been closed to us, none of this would have mattered. What are we going to do about it?”

When the endless serpent of the reception line finally trailed off into a thin tail, Bryessidan and Gidji parted, strolling about the room, continuing little conversations. Bryessidan’s ministers for trade and the navy were there as well. There also was the head of the Chemists Guild, a lean, leathery lizard-like woman, responsible for maintaining the standards of the potions and philters that made the Mires, if not rich, at least very necessary to those who might otherwise consider taking the land under their “protection.”

Notably absent among the king’s close advisors was Amelo Soapwort, the Once Dead in charge of keeping the gate. An amazing number of the newly arrived ambassadorial contingents had included in their number one of the Once Dead, usually the one of those who, like Amelo, had been responsible for maintaining that particular nation’s gate.

Whether or not to include these in the reception had been a matter of furious debate. Bryessidan had already gathered that while the matter of the various resident Once Dead’s loyalty was not precisely in question, still, free discussion of the Nexan situation might be restrained by the presence of those who had—at least until recently—been the Nexans’ close associates.

Thus the Once Dead were meeting in a reception of their own, with Amelo as host. Some had questioned whether this might lead to conspiracy, but Bryessidan had taken precautions. He could not stop conspiracy, but he could make certain that if conspiring was being undertaken news of it would come to his ears. Spies were useful, especially spies who could wait table.

After Bryessidan had circulated among his guests, he gave his chief steward a slight nod. The steward struck a polished brass gong.

At the sound, an almost imperceptible ripple spread through the crowded reception hall. Two people from each contingent politely separated themselves from whatever conversation they had been taking part in. Earlier, notes had been sent to each foreign diplomatic contingent requesting that both the resident ambassador and the newly arrived emissary make themselves available for a smaller meeting.

Now these select men and women made their way to a smaller, if still not small, meeting room. Here the housekeeping staff had managed to construct a long table with room enough for everyone to be seated around the board.

Bryessidan took the head, and his father-in-law drifted to the foot. Everyone else was left to mill and find their own seats, thus avoiding any carping over place. The steward had thought this procedure was rather rude and violated protocol, but Bryessidan had retorted that he felt that having all these people invite themselves into his land was rather rude and a violation of protocol. Just because these varied nations had defeated his father ten years before did not mean that the Mires was their land.

Despite—or perhaps because of—the informal seating arrangements, everyone settled quickly. Bryessidan cut the flowery formalities that he knew were usual and moved to the root of the matter.

“Each of you is here for a specific reason,” he said. “Either you are the resident ambassador for your land, or you are head of the ambassadorial group recently arrived from your homeland. The matter that brought each of you here is the same. The gates through the Nexus Islands, gates that we have all come to rely upon, have suddenly been blocked. Passage has been refused. The gates are useless to us. Is this essentially correct?”

A brown-skinned woman with high cheekbones and glossy hair the color of wet ink cleared her throat. Bryessidan recognized her as the resident ambassador from the land of u-Chival to the south. The king inclined his head to her.

“Aridisdu Shervanu. please speak.”

Shervanu’s voice was musical and spoke the language of the Mires with an accent that was perfectly correct and yet somehow managed to give the impression that each word had several more syllables than were actually spoken.

“Kidisdu Laloreezo has come here to the Kingdom of the Mires because the omens indicated that the closing of the gates heralded difficulties to come for our land. This may indeed be so, but I should like to make it perfectly clear that our land does not rely upon the gate network. That it is useful, we do not deny, but we would not like it thought that we were in any way reliant upon the creations of the sorcery that was crippled by divine will.”

Bryessidan had been briefed to expect something like this. The people of u-Chival held very conflicted opinions about the gates. On the one hand, they were a practical people. Therefore, they could not see refusing to use the gates if the gates were present and functioning. On the other hand, ever since the days of what they persisted in viewing as Divine Retribution the people of u-Chival were markedly uncomfortable with the use of sorcery. Every land, every culture had its own explanation for why the fevers had come, but as far as Bryessidan knew, the u-Chivalum were the only culture to outright state that the fever was a condemnation from the divine.

Most nations were more comfortable leaving deities or stars or ancestral judgment out of what was already a complicated issue. Yes, magical ability was now considered questionable almost everywhere—that was why Veztressidan had been able to recruit those with magical talent as easily as he had done—but even when religious reasons were provided as a gloss, the real reason underlying the condemnation of magical ability had been simple. Magic was dreadfully powerful, and very easily abused.

King Bryessidan nodded politely to Aridisdu Shervanu and Kidisdu Laloreezo, acknowledging if not precisely agreeing with their point of view. Personally, he thought the u-Chivalum were as dependent on the gates as anyone else. Weren’t they the ones who had been building that expensive temple? Their own land was hot and wet, gems uncommon. The already expensive project would have been prohibitive without the gates through which to bring slabs of marble and other valuables. However, there was no advantage to stating so, not here, not now.

Bryessidan acknowledged Kembrel Speaker, the emissary from Hearthome. Perhaps because Hearthome had been among those Veztressidan had succeeded in conquering—and who had turned conqueror in turn—there was something snide about Kembrel’s manner.

“I am not reluctant to admit that my land has found the gates convenient. However, as with our friends from u-Chival, I would not say we
rely
upon them. Our timber, woolens, and metal goods are not as delicate and susceptible to travel damage as are the goods of some lands. We also have several excellent harbors.”

Kembrel’s warm, understanding smile barely hid a condescending sneer.

Making sure I don’t miss that you mean me and my land?
Bryessidan thought, but oddly, instead of anger he felt amusement, maybe because the ploy was so transparent.