A Crown Imperiled (37 page)

And apparently, she thought dryly, even dying didn’t mean you escaped that fate, it seemed.

The sun was setting as they came upon a village and for the first time encountered problems. Six men, mercenaries from the look of them, deserters most like, were standing near the communal well when Miranda and Nakor rode into view.

Their leader was a disreputable-looking fellow with yellowing teeth, a wall eye, and a large floppy hat underneath which stringy light brown hair flowed to his shoulder. He wore what once had been a fine officer’s riding jacket with an array of brass buttons, most of which were now missing. His grey riding trousers and black knee high boots had seen better days. But his weapons appeared well cared for and the six men with him all looked capable enough.

‘Well, what have we here?’ he asked as Miranda pulled up.

‘Travellers,’ she answered, ‘bound for Sarth. Seeking a night’s respite.’

‘Well, that’s a problem,’ said the man as his companions spread out. ‘We’re Sarth militia, you see, and we’ve been sent here to keep the road clear of Keshian spies.’

‘Deserters, you mean,’ said Nakor, jumping down from the horse. He walked up to stand before the leader and said, ‘You’re bandits plaguing these good people. Now, why don’t you leave?’

The man laughed and turned to his companions. ‘Do you believe this little fellow?’

Two of the bandits had crossbows, which were instantly brought to bear on the two elves before they could unlimber their bows. The leader made a ‘tsk, tsk,’ sound. He turned back suddenly with his sword coming out of his scabbard, but before he could draw it fully free, Nakor reached out and shattered his wrist with a single squeeze. The man’s howl was turned into a gurgling gasp as Nakor reached up and tore out his throat.

Onlooking villagers retreated into their homes, several pulling the heavy cloth doors closed, while others peered out of the windows. The two men with crossbows let fly, but Arkan and Calis were already out of their saddles, half-falling, half-leaping as the bolts sped through empty air.

‘That tears it,’ said Miranda leaping from her horse. With two steps she stood next to a bandit attempting to string his bow. She ripped it from his hands and broke it over his head, his eyes rolling up into his skull as he fell to the ground.

Within a minute the other bandits were dead and Miranda called, ‘You can come out now! They won’t bother you.’

The doors remained closed for a full minute, until a man came out, his face a mask of fear. He held a large out. ‘It’s all we have. Take it. Please, take it and go.’

Miranda glanced at Nakor. They didn’t need a place to sleep, but comfort was always preferable to the ground. Yet these people were so terrified of what they had just witnessed, they would do anything to see Miranda, Nakor and the elves depart, despite having just been saved from the bandits.

Miranda said, ‘Keep your food. You need it more than we do.’ She turned away. They mounted the horses and moved off down the road as the sun turned the sea to the west of them emerald green tipped with amber.

After a few moments, Arkan said, ‘That was odd. You saved them, yet they were more frightened of you than the bandits.’

‘Normal humans don’t break wrists with a single squeeze of the hand, nor crush skulls with a blow to the head with a bow.’ She took a deep breath, and then let a long sigh escape. ‘We move too quickly, we’re too strong. We may look like other people, but we’re not.’

Calis shrugged. He knew Miranda wasn’t the women he once knew and loved, but he also didn’t know exactly what she was. He didn’t press for answers. By nature, he was patient and he knew that the truth would present itself eventually.

Nakor said, ‘No matter how vivid our memories, we will never be one with them and they will never accept us.’

Miranda spoke quietly. ‘Pug might.’

Nakor didn’t know if that was an opinion or a hope. He said nothing.

Sarth had proven an unexpected trial. The city was garrisoning levies of soldiers detailed to Krondor, but Krondor was already over-burdened by those forces already housed there. The entirety of the Armies of the West that had answered the Prince’s call to muster had arrived. Garrisons from Yabon in the north, Land’s End to the south-west, and everything between Krondor and Malac’s Cross to the east.

Had they had somewhere else to go, things might have been fine, but they didn’t. They were hunkered down waiting for a Keshian offensive that never came. So the Prince’s Knight Marshal of the Principality detailed as many men to Port Vykor and Sarth as he could.

Now there were thousands of bored, uncomfortable, and soon-to-be hungry troops milling around. The armistice was too new for the Prince to send anyone home, though after Martin’s report reached him he might choose to return the Yabon garrison north, or at least send enough veteran troops to relieve Martin.

Miranda found the local commander and introduced herself. He was somewhat sceptical of the odd-looking quartet, until he read Martin’s report and saw it embossed with the ducal signet bearing the upward-facing crescent, the mark of the second son.

The captain, an old soldier from Krondor, asked, ‘So Duke Henry is dead, then?’

‘Yes,’ said Miranda. ‘He was returning to Crydee from the road to Ylith when goblins attacked. One got lucky, or he was unlucky.’

The old soldier got up from behind the table he was using as a desk. He had occupied a chandler’s home so the furniture was well-made. It probably had the most comfortable bed in the town. ‘I’ll pass along the boy’s report to the Knight Marshal. Word should reach the King within a fortnight.’

Miranda said, ‘Not to make too fine a point of it, Captain, but that “boy” held Crydee for a week, then retreated and held Ylith again against a full legion of Keshian Dog Soldiers, twice that number of auxiliaries, and a full company of Leopard cavalry. With two hundred men-at-arms from Crydee and the rest of the local muster, those left over after the Earl of Ylith marched south. I’d say he’s shown that he’s more than a boy.’

‘Fair point,’ said the captain. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, lady?’

‘If there’s a boat for sale or hire, I need to travel to Sorcerer’s Isle.’

‘The Isle? Even in peace time you’d have trouble finding anyone mad enough to make that journey. It’s right off to the west of Krondor you know, and every ship in and out gives it a wide berth.’

‘I know where it is, captain. It’s my home.’

The captain looked as if he was uncertain what to say. Finally he said, ‘Tell you what. Go to the docks and look for an old mad man named Sully. He has a little sloop he’s been boasting is the fastest thing in these waters. If Kesh or Queg gets a notion, you might find out if it’s true. I’ve held him here in case I needed a fast boat to Krondor or Ylith, but so far I’ve had no need of him.’ The captain crossed back to his desk and quickly wrote out a note, signed it, and affixed his seal of office to it.’ He handed the folded document to Miranda and said, ‘Tell him he’s already being paid if the subject comes up. It’s a returned favour from the Prince for bringing us this report.’

‘You’re more than fair, Captain.’

As they turned to leave, the captain said, ‘I’ve fought Keshians before. If the boy faced Dog Soldiers and Leopard cavalry, he’s got sand.’

‘Yes, he does,’ said Nakor.

They left and went searching for the man named Sully.

The
Seafoam Lady
, a converted freighter turned into the gaudy personal transport of the Duke of Ran and his guests, hove to in the harbour in Rillanon waiting for the proper conduct from the harbourmaster to a berth at the royal docks. Normally a personage of the Duke’s rank would be given clear access to the quayside, but as every duke with a ship was either already at anchorage or just arriving, things were getting very crowded and the harbourmaster was down to his last iota of patience.

Eventually, the Duke’s party was given clearance and a nicely-appointed longboat was sent from the quayside to the ship. A cleverly-designed if somewhat cumbersome platform on pulleys had been devised as a means to get the Duke’s portly wife to the longboat without demanding that she sacrifice her dignity by trying to climb down netting or being carried by sailors in a sling. The device was torturously slow, but eventually the Duke, Duchess, two small sons, and their four guests were in the longboat.

Reaching the quayside, they found a carriage waiting to conduct them to guest quarters in the palace. The carriage barely held the Duke and his family and the two ladies. Ty and Hal were content to borrow horses from the escorts for the ride to the palace.

Both young men had been to Rillanon before, Hal once and Ty on several occasions, but each experienced the same sense of wonder riding from the docks up the King’s Highway to the palace. The city was breathtaking from this vantage.

King Rodrick IV, known to some as the Mad King, had undertaken a city renovation project in his first year, insisting that every inch of the palace be faced with the finest rose-and-gold quartz interspersed with brilliant white and pale blue tilework. Then he fancied the idea that the entire city be likewise finished, his ambition being to turn the city into the most beautiful in the world. His vision had been carried through by his successors, Kings Lyam and Borric II.

Now as the carriage rolled along cobbles chosen for their rosy colour, the noon sun turned the entire royal hillside into a stunning display of reflected glory. Light played off one surface then another, as brilliant white façades glimmered with hints of aqua and lavender, rose and gold. Not only the palace and the homes of the powerful and rich were finished in the brilliant stone, but the public face of every house in every sector save the warehouses near the docks. Even those drab precincts were elevated from the mundane by the light that washed over them.

But of course otherwise this was a city like any other: in dark corners evil was plotted and behind those brilliant faces, dark alleys lay wherein murder was done. A brothel or drug house might be dazzling to behold, but the trade within was the same as in the seediest corner of Durbin. As Hal’s father had warned him about Rillanon before he set off on his journey to Roldem, ‘A whore may be the most beautiful woman you’ve seen, my son, but she’s still a whore.’ And as they entered the palace marshalling yard, Hal dismounted and thought to himself,
But she is indeed a beautiful whore
.

Grooms wearing powder blue livery trimmed with golden braid hurried to take the horses and help the guests dismount from the carriage, while a line of royal household guards stood at attention, their black trousers and large, red-plumed black hats, and tabards with a golden lion on a red field making them the smartest-looking soldiers Hal had ever seen. Then his father’s voice came to him: ‘But can they fight?’

Several officials came forward to greet them, and with what appeared to a genuine love of the theatricality of the moment Duke Chadwick informed the palace’s major domo, ‘I have the honour of presenting Her Highness, Princess Stephané of Roldem, who seeks audience with His Majesty at his earliest convenience.’

The manager of the King’s palace had the good grace to look nonplussed for the briefest second. Then he turned to his second and said, ‘Make sure that the royal guest quarters are readied at once!’

The speed with which that official took off convinced Hal that in the time it took Stephané and Gabriella to walk to the guest accommodations set aside for visiting royalty, windows would be opened, fruit and chilled wine placed upon the table, candles lit, and bedding freshened, as if they had been expecting her all along.

Ty whispered to Hal, ‘I think if Sung the White showed up—,’ he meant the Goddess of Purity, ‘—he’d have her room ready.’

The entire party was ushered into a receiving area where a party of government officials were waiting. Standing in the middle of the group was a gentleman of middle years wearing a well-tailored dark green coat of simple cut. He bowed to Stephané and said, ‘Highness, allow me to present myself. I am Sir William Alcorn, the King’s Chancellor. I can only say this is a most welcome and wonderful surprise. His Majesty will of course expect you to dine with him tonight.’ He turned to the Duke and said, ‘Your Grace,’ then he greeted the Duchess, and returning to the Duke said, ‘Many of the Congress have gathered to discuss the coming peace with Kesh. An informal dinner has been arranged for that purpose, if you’d care to attend.’

‘Yes, of course,’ answered Duke Chadwick.

Turning to the two young men, Sir William said, ‘Young Lord Henry, we anticipate your father’s arrival with the other western lords in the company of Prince Edward soon. Until then please be our guest.’ To Ty he added, ‘And you, Master Hawkins, are welcome as well.’

Stephané turned to Hal, her expression fixed in a smile, but her face almost devoid of colour. ‘Would you be so kind as to call upon me once you’ve settled into your quarters, Lord Henry? You as well, Master Hawkins?’

For the briefest moment, Sir William’s expression flickered as if he was thinking of a reason to object, but finding none he merely smiled and said, ‘Ask any servant and you will be shown the way. Now, if you excuse me, I must attend to the business of the day.’ He bowed and moved away, whispering to a subordinate, and various servants immediate began escorting guests to different parts of the palace.

The King’s palace was set atop the highest hill overlooking the harbour at the northern end of the Island of Rillanon, birthplace of the Kingdom of the Isles. Buried below the foundations of this city were the ruins of earlier settlements and villages. History began where lore ended, and tales of great heroes sung by bards were transcribed and gathered and thus was the history of nations fashioned.

Hal walked past a garden, remembering that Dannis, the first island monarch to set his standard on the mainland, had made a conquest from this calm sanctuary but rather from a torch-lit stone tor a hundred feet below this palace, covered by centuries of detritus, a single tower that had been raised over a thatch-roofed village of daub-and-waddle huts protected by a log palisade. The mighty Kingdom fleet had comprised a dozen long barques with single masts with less than thirty warriors per boat, and Bas-Tyra had been a rival village on the mainland with its own single tor overlooking log walls.