Cold Magics (46 page)

“Don’t think so,” said Rowland. “Not judging by the way they were behaving. They’ll get themselves drunk and then look for an excuse to brawl.”

Eileen rolled her eyes. “By the Four, can’t they grow up?”

“They’re bored,” said Patrick, “and they’re young. Never a good combination.”

“So am I,” said Eileen, “But I’m not going around causing trouble.”

“You aren’t a boy,” said Goshawk. “They are.”

“Well, they’re certainly not men,” said Eileen, causing a snicker to run around the table.

“Still,” said Patrick. “Wagers on which one starts it?”

“A silver on Cormac,” said Rowland. “His arm is broken, so he’ll start the fight knowing no one will take him on.”

“Steven,” said the baron. “He’s already insulted George and Thomas once tonight.”

Other names were exchanged, and the pool of money handed to Lady Bethany, who was looking not at all impressed with the wagering, for safe keeping. Thomas wished desperately that folks had better things to do than bet on his upcoming demise. In the midst of it, the duke rose to his feet. His toast was short, thanking the assembled for coming, praising the knights and barons who brought the troops to Frostmire. “To victory.”

“To victory!” they all echoed, and Thomas raised his glass and sipped. It was going to be a long night of toasts, he was sure, and he had no intention of being drunk if a fight was going to be breaking out.

A baron stood and raised his glass, making a toast to the duke, and the drinking began in earnest. Three other barons rose one after the other, praising the arrival of the troops and gently suggesting that the time was ripe for their use. Merchants rose, thanking the duke for his support in times of hardship and the protection of their wares, whatever they were. And so it went, from table to table, through the hall. People sang the praises of their host and his family, offered congratulations and thanks to others, and subtly asked for help through the cold of the winter.

“Is everyone going to make a toast?” Eileen asked under her breath.

“Almost,” said Goshawk. “How many chances do you think people get to have the ear of the court?”

Thomas sipped at his wine rather than downing it as many others were doing, and heartily wished he didn’t have to be in attendance. Across the table Eileen looked beautiful (though slightly annoyed) and Thomas was furious at himself for not having asked to be her escort for the evening. Baron Goshawk, beside her, was attentive and polite, and kept muttering comments on the toasts that made her smile.

It was his own fault, Thomas knew. He’d asked the baron to look after her and the man was doing just that.
Which just proves you’re a fool
, Thomas thought.
Now what will you do about it?

Two toasts later, while Thomas was still thinking about an answer to that question, Lord Cormac stood up.

“My Lord Duke, gentlemen, ladies,” said Lord Cormac, “I wish tonight to raise a glass to Sir George Gobhann, newly appointed to the Order of the White Wolf.”

All eyes in the hall went to George, then swivelled back to Lord Cormac.

“Bravery comes in many forms,” Lord Cormac continued. “Sometimes on the field of battle, sometimes on the duelling floor, sometimes in the actions of one who would save a child from a burning building. But the greatest bravery is when a man, knowing the consequences of his actions, first undertakes those actions anyway and second, faces up to those consequences. Many men, though I use the term loosely, would hide behind those more powerful, or would seek to run away from the consequences of their actions. But a true man, a truly brave man, would stay and face the consequences of his actions, head high, hiding behind no one.”

Silence filled the room as he paused to draw breath.

“But I digress,” Lord Cormac continued. “For I had not risen to speak of bravery, but to speak of Sir George Gobhann.”

The hissed intake of breath throughout the room was matched by sudden movement behind Thomas, just visible in the corner of his eye. He looked to see George being held securely on one side by Sir Patrick, on the other by Sir Rowland, while Lady Prellham leaned close from the table behind and whispered into his ear. Just as well, Thomas thought, or they’d shortly be picking up pieces of Lord Cormac from the floor.

“So raise your glasses to our new knight who, despite a penchant for returning to the fire of the forge and noise of hammer on anvil in the mornings, has through the graces of Lord Henry and with excellent timing, risen himself from the ranks of tradesmen to grace our hall at the table of the knights. To Sir George Gobhann.”

“Sir George Gobhann!” the call went around the room. No one at Thomas’s table raised a glass.

“You’re working at the forge in the mornings?” Patrick said.

“Aye,” said George, a very dangerous edge in his voice. “So?”

“With all we’re putting you through? Where do you get the energy?”

George stared for a moment in disbelief, then laughed, his voice echoing in the silent hall and bringing frowns to the faces of the young lords. Some of the angry red faded from George’s complexion. He nodded towards Lord Cormac. “What should I do about that?”

“Very little,” said Patrick. “Words are words. Let them bring it to blows so you will be in the right when you squash him.”

“Lord Steven is rising.”

“Best fencer of the lot,” said Patrick.

“Of course he is,” said Thomas. “Any guess who he’ll be insulting?”

Thomas’s guess was wrong. “Duke Antonius, my lords, I wish tonight to speak of a fair lady; a lady whose name is known to all but whom, for the sake of her reputation, I may not name. A lady whose fiery appearance and equally fiery temper has done much to
raise
the…
attention
… of those whose tastes run to such young women.” He paused to let the quiet chuckle run around the room. “A young woman who, were she to be a flower, would be a wild rose, at once pale and red, at once beautiful and prickly. Like all such roses, she would be a common flower, open to all to partake of her softness and sweet scent. Yet her thorns would drive away any that would seek to pluck her and claim her for their own. Her thorns, and an equally wild wasp which guarded her jealously, sting at the ready.

“Now, this wildflower has experienced a rise in her place in the world, which in turn has caused a certain noble bee to experience a rise himself.” He paused while another chuckle went through the room. “A rise, that is, of interest so powerful that our wildflower has turned her face away from the equally wild wasp with his perpetual sting to the more gentle ministrations of the noble bee, for whom she willingly opens her petals.” A few gasps of shock, followed by giggles and chuckles circled the room. “Gentlemen, in honour of this lady, who I cannot name, I raise my glass. Gentlemen, ladies, I give you a toast to love and the taming of the wild.”

“Love and the taming of the wild!” echoed through the room amidst much laughter.

Thomas didn’t move, nor did any at their table, as glasses around the room were raised. The part of his mind that wasn’t seething noted that no glasses were lifted at the head table, either.

“Subtlety was never Steven’s strong suit,” said Patrick.

Eileen was shaking with anger. “He as much as called me a slut in front of the entire court,” her words carried no further than the table.

“Oh, no,” said Thomas, fuming. “He called
someone
a slut, and if that someone gets mad enough to call him on it, well, that just shows everyone who it is, doesn’t it?”

“Everyone knows who he’s talking about,” said George, his voice a deep, dangerous rumble.

“But because he didn’t come out and say it, he hasn’t really insulted anyone.” said Thomas. “Coward.”

“Coward or not, I’ll make him answer for it,” said Goshawk. “I’ll not have a lady under my protection insulted in such a way.”

“Not if I get him first,” said Eileen, still glaring at Steven. Her glare shifted a moment later to Baron Goshawk. “What do you mean, under your protection?”

Before Goshawk could say anything, Rowland hushed them all. “Father Roberts is rising.”

Silence fell in the hall as Father Roberts came to his feet, glass in hand.

“Duke Antonius,” Father Roberts began. “My companions and I have seen the countryside and the burned villages; seen ruins where there were once walls and fields. We have talked to those who have retreated to this city to protect themselves from our foul enemy and his even fouler weapons.

“Your Grace, we have become convinced that immediate action is called for.”

Every person in the room who had not been looking at the priest already, swivelled in their seats and craned their necks to see. Father Roberts paused, letting all attention come to him. Thomas took a quick look to the duke. The man’s expression was neutral, but the tension of those sitting around him flowed through the room in waves.

“Your Grace,” continued the priest, “your people are well fed. But, come Midwinter, they will be starving. Food will grow short, and with that shortage there will be unrest and hardship.” He looked around the room. “I have walked among those in the streets, I have spoken to those whose homes have been burned. The Church of the High Father will not stand to see so many of its children suffer if it can help.”

The duke still said nothing. At his sides, his sons had assumed nearly identical blank expressions.

“Therefore,” Father Roberts said, “I pledge to you the might of the High Father’s church. I have the authority to bring two thousand men to the North, with supplies sufficient to feed those troops and this city through the winter.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. Around him there were nods of approval, while in other parts of the room there were murmured comments and whispered discussions. Father Roberts’s voice rose above them all. “Your Grace, give me the word and I shall bring the full force of the church to bear. It will take two months for my men to go and return with more troops. Give me the word and they will do so. Give me the word and our troops will chase these raiders from this land. Give me the word, and I will bring food for your people, to help them through the winter.” He paused a moment, his eyes never leaving the duke. “Give me the word that I may unleash the might of the church and its inquisitors on those who befoul our land with witchcraft, and we will help restore good order once more.”

Thomas’s anger flamed higher. It wasn’t enough that his friends were being tormented by those petty boy nobles—never mind that most were older than he himself—but now Father Roberts had to laid his cards on the table in a way that practically demanded an immediate response.

“This is my pledge, your Grace,” the priest said, raising his glass high. “And let my pledge stand as my toast. To victory, your Grace. Over those who use witchcraft, over those who dare attack your duchy or any of the servants of the High Father. We will not rest until they are defeated, and with your word we will not wait until spring but summon an army powerful enough that they can be destroyed before the winter is finished. To victory!”

Glasses rose throughout the room. “To victory!” Thomas, glass in hand, even managed to get the words out and swallow his wine. At the high table, the duke raised his glass but said nothing.

“Well,” burbled one of the merchants at Thomas’s table as the priest sat down. “This is good news! The duke cannot resist that offer.”

“No, I don’t think he can,” said Thomas.
Which leaves me in something of a mess, doesn’t it?
Throughout the room voices chattered, replaying the envoy’s offer and wondering at the duke’s response.

“Even if he agrees today, it will be at least the two months before troops arrive,” said Patrick. His eyes were on Thomas, his voice speculative. “Longer, probably.”

“Two months,” agreed Baron Goshawk, “if the duke agrees today.”

“Assuming the duke gives him leave to go,” said Rowland, “he still he has to make it to the South without getting killed along the way.”

The duke rose to his feet, bringing all conversation to a halt. “Ladies and gentlemen, merchants, knights and other friends; it has been a long week, and I am afraid my age begins to tell itself. I will retire early tonight. I bid you all stay, talk, dance, and enjoy the evening.”

The duke abruptly stepped down from the table and strode across the hall, his sons and guards following close behind. Thomas rose with the rest as he went by. The duke passed Father Roberts without even acknowledging the man. A rough gesture from the duke made his sons remain behind, and the duke left the banquet hall, closing the doors behind him.

“Apparently the duke can resist the offer,” said Rowland.

“He cannot!” exclaimed the merchant. “Two thousand men could make all the difference in the world!”

“Two thousand mouths to feed,” said Patrick, “and an army not under his control. It is not a good thing.”

Everyone stayed on their feet and servants began to move tables aside for dancing. The duke’s three sons stayed at the door a moment, talking to each other, then spread themselves out, moving easily through the crowd.

“Do we have to stay?” asked George.

“Of course,” said Eileen. “We can’t leave just because people are being complete…” She left off the sentence and Thomas, knowing Eileen’s capacity for swearing, guessed that she was working very hard at keeping up appearances. She didn’t manage to keep the anger from her voice. “We have to stay, we have to dance, and we have to be polite until Lord Henry gives us leave to go.”

The crowd swirled about, the younger members looking across the room for potential dancing partners, the older members talking in groups and casting eyes around to see what the others were doing. Amelia was whispering to William, while Steven and the others were standing in a close knot, talking. Baron Goshawk offered his hand to Eileen for the first dance. She took it and curtsied graciously, though her expression had not changed.

A fair crowd had begun to gather around Father Roberts, talking animatedly and thanking him for his generous offer. Lord John and Lord Richard sauntered in his general direction while Henry made his way towards Thomas and his friends.