Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (42 page)

“Possibly,” Landon allowed.  “Did you ever find your
way to the betting table by the catapults?”

“Ah,” the veteran replied, his features narrowing. 
“That’s right!  I lost over a silver in copper to him!”

“Think you can win it back?” Kerwin called over the
noise.  He wore the broad grin he always sported when gambling and gestured
over his shoulder to the game with one thumb.

The veteran accepted the challenge while Kerwin
grabbed a sandwich from an unattended platter.  Marik murmured to Dietrik. 
“I’ll wander down the hall for a moment.”

Dietrik glanced at him.  “I doubt the chaps down there
are eager for our presence amidst their own fun.”

“Don’t worry.”

He had no intention of entering the room where the
nobles were gathered, so paused beside the doorway.  Inside he finally spotted
Hilliard bent low over a circular table.  With him were several others watching
as Hilliard moved a bevy of glasses and small ornaments around the surface,
illustrating whatever he spoke on.  At a guess, it was a piece of military
strategy learned from his teachers at Duke Tilus’.

Satisfied his charge was in no danger, Marik returned
to the second parlor room.  With the dicing game consuming one corner, the men
uninvolved were free to find their own mischief.  During the few moments he’d
been gone the men had discovered a throwing board tucked away in a drawer, no
doubt hidden by the servants.  They had hung it from a wall lamp beside the
hearth and commenced a game.  At least one man must possess terrible aim since
a steel dart protruded from the brow of a mounted stag’s head above the mantel.

“But still and all,” Dietrik explained to a different
bodyguard, “Rawlings is a nice enough town.  I gather the thieves become a
larger problem every year as the port expands.  A well-off merchant might
provide you with a soft retirement job watching his warehouse.  Oh, welcome
back, mate.  All’s well?”

“Seems to be.  I hope someone takes that dart down
before the gateman finds it.”

Dietrik glanced in the direction Marik pointed with
his chin.  “You don’t feel the red and blue feathers add a hint of regal
trappings to an otherwise ordinary and bland decoration?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Marik laughed, “as
long as I don’t get the blame for it.”

Marik found the evening more enjoyable than he’d
anticipated, as Kerwin attempted to empty every purse in the room but his own
and others strove to perforate the baron’s parlor wall until it looked like a
cheese grater.  He jumped at one point, startled when an abrupt commotion
erupted in the hallway.  That turned out to be Keegan Gardinnier arriving in as
flashy a manner as he could pull off.

Landon alternated with Marik, checking on Hilliard
every half-mark or so.  The noise from the assembled future barons rose in
proportion to the number of wine-bearing trays entering their vicinity.  Their
domain expanded to a larger dining room further down the hallway.

Stretches of badly sung lyrics floated to the
mercenaries at times, usually followed by raucous laughter.  This vastly amused
Marik and Dietrik.

“They don’t seem too ‘noble’ for the nonce, do they
mate?”

“Not hardly!  Reminds me of Chatham on Ale House Row
after about nine tankards of ale!”

“Perhaps the kingdom is in good hands after all.  I
worry about that, once in a while.”

“I’ll go check on Hilliard.”

“I think I’ll tag along as well.”

Together, they headed left out their doorway,
following the main hall deeper into the house.  If this mansion contained fewer
than fifty rooms, Marik would eat his boots without sauce.  Several doors
branched off the corridor.  Most rooms were designed for no other reason than
to showcase the owner’s possessions and wealth.  One overflowed with nothing
but hunting trophies ranging from stuffed ducks to a rearing, full sized bear.

“The baron must be quite a hunter,” Marik mentioned
when they passed that doorway.  “He might be able to give Edwin a run for his
coin.”

“I would be greatly surprised, mate, if he actually
won all of those personally.  Especially since he is a citybound noble.”

At the long hallway’s end, they reached the house’s
rear.  It opened into a room as large as the entrance foyer.  Curving
staircases to match the front pair wound up the outside walls.  Between the
staircases was an impressive window-wall looking onto a sprawling backyard
garden.  Dozens of smaller panes comprised the massive window, held in place
with lead framework.

In the room’s center,
that’s the biggest damn
dining room I’ve ever seen, except for ours, and that feeds the entire squad!,
was
a table long enough to feed fifty.  Most of the young barons had congregated
around one end, all holding small glasses capable of containing only a mouthful
or two at best.  Atop the table, a bottle forest in dozens of colors sprouted. 
Six bottles lay on their sides, having already been drained.

Hilliard sat close by in a chair beside the table’s
head.  Several other nobles were gathered in a loose group, sitting on the
table’s edge or standing nearby.  Marik ignored them.  He studied his charge,
who tipped in his seat, his coordination suffering.  Every time he focused on
the men around him he squinted and bobbed his head.

“At a guess, I’d say Hilliard’s smashed,” he
whispered.

“We may want to leave soon, otherwise we’ll be
carrying him all the way back.  If we can pry him away, that is.”

Marik cast his gaze around in search of Ferdinand. 
How would they make a case for dragging Hilliard away like he was a
recalcitrant child?  Whatever they concocted, they would surely need to speak
to the younger Sestion.

A wet hiss sounded beside him, the sound of Dietrik
sucking in a sudden lung-full of air through his teeth.  About to ask what was
wrong, Marik abruptly took note of the voices around them, and of one in
particular.

“…course, that’s why I always trust my own men first! 
You pay those cutthroats honest coin and you can’t trust them to piss in a
bucket!  King Raymond should throw every filthy mercenary out of the kingdom
and have done with them.  Let Perrisan have them all!  All they ever do is kill
each other over their worthless sand.  No doubt they’d
welcome
a fresh wave
of ruffians!  No, you can’t trust any of them at all!”

Balfourth Dornory held private court, having gained
the attention of a handful among Ferdinand’s guests.  From where he stood,
Marik could see that while many young nobles did not entirely agree with
Balfourth, several others nodded in appreciation at his wisdom.

Of all the people he might run into in Thoenar,
this…this
person
had never crossed Marik’s mind.  Most of Marik’s close
friends had survived the war yet many others he’d known casually had not. 
Their deaths could primarily be laid at this man’s feet.  Marik had always
assumed the true reason behind that was obvious.  Balfourth was a glorified
idiot with no mental aptitude for anything more complicated than sleeping
late.  Now he suddenly wondered if the man had been more cruelly deliberate in
his actions.

“How long has he been here?” he hurriedly hissed to
Dietrik.

“I don’t know.”

“Is he a
contender?
”

“I suppose he might be, mate.  I haven’t been paying
attention to anyone competing outside Hilliard’s block.”

“Kerwin would know.  I’ll bet he does!  Why didn’t he
say anything?”

Several feet away, Hilliard latched onto Balfourth’s
commentary as the pompous fool continued expounding about
his
magnificent campaign against his neighbor, Baron Fielo.  “Say,” Hilliard
directed toward That Moron, catching the entire clique’s attention.  His voice
almost, but not quite, slurred.  “Isn’t that a little extreme?  The band south
of our barony has always been…a capable lot.”

Balfourth laughed.  “As
I
have actually been
forced through not one but two separate campaigns with mercenary miscreants, I
think I know where I speak of, Garroway.”  He regarded Hilliard with a smug
smile, matched by five sycophants around him.  “And those cowards were supposed
to be the best Galemar has to offer.”

Hilliard straightened in his seat.  Or tried to. 
Instead, he listed in the other direction.  “No, no…no!  I know who the best
mercenaries in Galemar are.  They work for my father…at times.”

“Oh, do they?

“Yes!  The…Crimson Kings!  I don’t know who you worked
with, but the…Kings could put them to shame!”

Again Balfourth laughed, far louder this time, mirth
lacing the bellows.  He slapped his palm against the table while he snatched
fresh breath.  “That is
rich
!  Yes, it is indeed!”  Tossing the contents
of his small glass into his mouth, he swallowed the shot in one gulp.  “So you
know, it happens those were the very fools who couldn’t perform the simplest
mission!  Not only were they unable to keep Fielo’s ragtag marauders away from
my main forces,
not only
did they
allow
their target to escape,
but they also
still
demanded their bloodcoin!”

“That cannot be correct,” Hilliard countered.  “I am
sure you must be mistaken about…a fact or two.”

“I was there, Garroway!  I saw what I saw, and later
on they gave further proof of their inadequacy.  Over and over they let the
Noliers trample my forces when we rode our patrols.  Then they let the southern
defenses fail at the camp so the Noliers could ride straight into the heart of
it!  Pitiful, truly.  If I was the king’s seneschal, I never would have given
them so much as a copper.  I would have jailed them for gross misconduct and
treason!”

Raw, pulsating fury seethed through Marik as it had
only once before in his life…on the night of Shalla’s demise.  Rage burned as a
fiery second heart in his breast.  His temper, which he had kept mostly in
check since joining the band, flared and drove him to act without thinking.

Marik stepped into the dining room from the hallway. 
Dietrik’s hand slapped at his wrist to stop him.  He barely registered it.  He
did not care that he was a nobody among the cultural elite.  He did not care
that this could be the biggest mistake in his life.  All he wanted was to beat
Dornory’s brat into the floorboards right there in front of his peers.

He intended to slam his fist through That Moron’s
face.  Within five steps, his brain, in a frantic effort to save his neck from
the hangman’s gibbet, proposed a better tactic.  Instantly casual, laid back,
at ease, he slipped his thumbs through his belt and sauntered closer.  No one
noticed him yet.

“I have never heard that the Crimson Kings were
charged with camp security before,” Hilliard protested, his befuddled mind
unable to formulate a better retort than that.

“They were bivouacked on the southern rim,” Balfourth
returned heatedly, out of countenance and growing red.  “And those idiots let
the Noliers walk right past them!  Were you there?  No, you weren’t!”

“Funny,” Marik commented, causing Balfourth to spin
and face him.  “But I don’t seem to recall you were there either.”

Straightening, spine stiffening to face this new
challenge, Balfourth demanded, “Who are you, to speak so disrespectfully to
me?  You overstep your place!”

Marik ignored that.  “Hmmm, yes, as I seem to recall,
that particular day you were last seen headed west as fast as your feet could
carry you.”

“How dare you slander me?  Who do you think you are?” 
Flecks of spit flew from Balfourth’s enraged lips.

“Well, Dornory,” Marik replied with calculated
insolence, “I suppose I’m one of the fellows you owe your life to.  With your
stalwart
leadership running into hiding with you, we ‘filthy mercenaries’ had to
step up and kill Duke Ronley without you.”

The whole room’s attention focused on the confrontation;
Marik’s own attention centered solely on this damned pompous deluded
fool
. 
Balfourth’s five new friends frowned as if to pass sentence on his existence.

“So,” That Moron spat.  “You’re one of
them
,
are you?  I could have guessed as much.  Anyone as insolent as you could only
make a living as a mercenary.  You dare to challenge me?”

“Why bother?” Marik asked with a toss of his head. 
“An army captain was able to lead our company with better skill than you.  You
spent an entire night screaming over a few stitches.  You actually thought
you
were in charge of the progression to destroy Fielo’s dam, though damned if
I know what put that fantasy into your head.”  With every word, Balfourth’s
crimson hue deepened. 
Humiliation.  How does it taste, Moron?  Nothing
pains you as much as losing face, does it?

Several nobles laughed.  None were the same ones who
had nodded in appreciation while Balfourth ranted before.  Perhaps they, like
Hilliard, were the few nobles who believed in the duties their rank demanded.

One called out, “Tell us how you managed to get back
to the supply line before the rest of the army, Dornory!”

This sparked renewed laughter from the gathered
crowd.  Apparently whoever the voice belonged to had also been present at the
Nolier war.  Probably he had fought alongside the rest at the catapults and
knew Balfourth was hardly a tenth the man he wanted people to think he was.