Conqueror’s Moon (15 page)

The other women were gathering up used towels and bathing sundries, while four footmen had come to lift the tub onto a wheeled platform, and were now endeavoring to remove it from the sitting room without spilling water on the fine Incayo carpet.

“Very well,” the princess said. “You may all leave me now. Quench the lights save for the hour-marker.”

They bowed and did as she bade and trooped out, closing the door. Maudrayne locked it, then went to a writing table where an elaborately carved little casket stood, gleaming in the lone candleflame. It was made of precious sea-unicorn ivory, fashioned by the Tarnian crafters of Havoc Bay in the far north. When one pressed certain prominent parts in the correct manner, its lid sprang open. Inside was Maudrayne’s diary.

So many days now to catch up on! But she had not dared to bring the small book along on the pilgrimage. All of her hopes and fears and joys and rages were contained in it, and she intended that no one else should read it until she was dead. She leafed back through the pages, confirming the date of her last womanly course. It was as she’d thought: two moons and more ago. And she had suffered the morning malaise, tender breasts, and swollen feet, and experienced that unaccountable undercurrent of happiness so at odds with the grim tenor of her life of late. Oldwives of Tarn had told her what that meant.

I will let Conrig know, she decided, replacing the diary. I’ll wait for him in his chamber and tell him this very night.

She sat quietly for some time in the dimness, savoring the rest of the fine brandy. Then she rose from her armchair and went into her dark bedchamber, and thence to the door connecting her apartment with that of her husband. It was locked, and that was unusual; but years ago she had had the key copied, and so she fetched it now, opened the door, and stepped over the threshold.

His sleeping chamber was much larger than her own, with a splendid canopied bed in the middle. Wainscot-faced walls were painted dark crimson above, with touches of white and gold in the moldings. The candle-sconces were also gold, but none of the tapers in them were lit, so that the painted landscapes and tapestries on the walls were engulfed in shadows. The only illumination came from the fireplace, where glowing coals crackled before a backlog, from a slightly open door leading to the prince’s sitting room, and from the tall windows. Their draperies had not yet been drawn, so that the lamps on the palace battlements and towers were visible, as well as those in the great city below Cala Hill. Beyond was the black sea, where tiny sparks marked ships at their moorings out in Blenholme Roads.

It was cold in Conrig’s room, and an unfamiliar fragrance lingered in the air. Was it vetiver? How odd! He was as fond of perfumes as most Cathran men, but his usual preference was for bergamot, oakmoss, or clary sage.

Maudrayne might have waited for her husband in his bed; but she recalled happier days when they had lain together by the fire in his wide, padded longchair that stood on a hearth-rug of pieced otterskin. Two throws of black mink lay folded neatly on the floor beside the chair to warm the prince when he sat up late, reading or thinking. She shook out both of them to make herself a nest of soft furs.

I’ll surprise him, she thought, as she snuggled deeply into the chair. Smiling, she fell asleep watching the embers.

==========

At first Maudrayne thought she was dreaming. There were voices coming from the next room—his, and that of a woman. Conrig spoke angrily and the woman laughed at him, a throaty sound that evoked both derision and sexual enticement.

“Why should I windspeak your boring brother Stergos when it’s so much more pleasant to come to you in a Sending and deliver my intelligence reports in person?”

“You should know why—if you had bothered to scry the palace before projecting your Sending. My wife is here and so is the king. Would you destroy me, Ullanoth? I told you not to come here any more!”

“And I told you that I go where I please. But lay your fears to rest, my prince. I’ve secured us against the weak-talented windpeepers dwelling in your palace. Earlier, I watched your touching reunion with your father. I presume that he approved your plan to invade Didion.”

“He did. He even acceded to your own role as ally. But you must leave me at once! What if my wife should find us together?”

Maudrayne stifled feelings of amazement and dismay. How could the Conjure-Princess of Moss be here in Cala Palace, speaking to her husband in his private apartment? And what was she saying about an alliance in the invasion of Didion? She strained her ears to learn more.

Ullanoth was laughing again. “Before I came, I scried your beloved Maudrayne taking a bath and drinking a scandalous amount of brandy. Her chamber is dark. She’s no doubt dead drunk in her bed, with no thought at all of her wifely duty. What a shame! You’ll have to sleep alone… unless you mend your manners and beg my pardon for being rude.”

“Lady, you go too far—aaah!” He broke off with a cry of pained surprise.

“No,” came the scornful retort. “You go too far, daring to lay rude hands on a Conjure-Princess of Moss. So there! You’ve been punished. Now entreat my forgiveness, and I’ll say I’m sorry for hurting you with my magic, and we’ll make it up between us with a kiss.”

Great God of the Arctic Storms! Maudrayne prayed. Grant that this is some nightmare and let me wake! She dares to speak to him like a mistress? And he makes willing answer—

Maudrayne could not doubt the evidence of her own ears. She overheard amorous sighs and murmurings, and the kind of endearments exchanged only by lovers of long standing. Red rage and wounded pride swelled her Tarnian heart, and she would have sprung up and rushed into the next room to confront the guilty pair. But the next words spoken by the sorceress so intrigued her that curiosity overcame anger. She settled back to listen.

“Restrain your ardor, my prince, until I’ve shared my latest news with you. There is a very serious problem. I have learned that the man killed at Castle Vanguard by your young footman was a high-ranking Mossland sorcerer named Iscannon. He was one of the Glaumerie Guild members who accompanied my brother on the voyage to the Continent. Beyond a doubt he was deeply involved in Beynor’s plot to thwart your conquest of Didion.”

“But how did he find out about the secret meeting?” Conrig asked. “His joining of Hartrig Skellhaven’s train traveling to Castle Vanguard had to be planned well in advance. Surely Beynor could not have windwatched our conferences at Brent Lodge.”

“He could have, but he didn’t. I took careful precautions against it. That’s the problem I spoke of. I believe that you have a traitor among your own people. Beynor had no reason to suspect you were calling a council of war. Furthermore, he and his followers would hardly mount a long-distance surveillance of Cathra on the off-chance of discovering some useful secret. The magic is hellishly difficult, even for Mossland sorcerers. No—my wicked little brother was told of the meeting at Castle Vanguard by some disloyal Cathran.”

“A traitor… The man who comes immediately to mind is Skellhaven, and yet all my instincts tell me he is loyal.”

“In my judgment, your instincts are correct. The pirate lord hates Didion and despises Moss, as does his cousin Holmrangel. And even if one of them was careless and let slip that they were meeting you, they had no advance knowledge of a council of war. So your turncoat must be another.”

“He can’t be one of the three Heart Companions who accompanied me from Brent Lodge,” the prince said. “They didn’t know the purpose of the meeting, either. Only two persons were aware in advance of my intention to attack Didion—Duke Tanaby Vanguard, who organized the council of war at my behest, and the Lord Chancellor, Odon Falmire. I can’t believe either one would consort with Beynor. What possible motive could they have for doing so? You must investigate further, lady.”

“I’ll try,” Ullanoth said, “but there is little more I can do until I have a long talk with Beynor. He returned to Royal Fenguard a couple of hours ago, quite unexpectedly, in a splendid, brand-new ship hidden beneath a spell of couverture. He went off immediately to speak to our father. I did scry the two princes of Didion at home in Holt Mallburn. They were celebrating their new alliance with Stippen and Foraile. I saw the treaty when they showed it to King Achardus.”

“Curse them,” Conrig growled.

Ullanoth uttered a soft, wry laugh. “I’ll do my best, you may be sure… But while I delve into the affairs of my little brother and his cohorts, you must consider who among your own close associates might have a strong reason to betray you.”

A long silence.

Conrig said, “There is only one.” Another silence. “And he may have been able to find out about the meeting at Castle Vanguard by eavesdropping on my conversations with my brother, or by some other means.”

“Who is this person?”

“We’ll talk of it later.”

“We don’t have much time. Less than two weeks remain before your army sets out. And there’s something else you should keep in mind. The sorcerer Iscannon was not only a spy. He was also one of Glaumerie’s premier assassins.”

“God’s Blood! Would he have dared to come at me in Castle Vanguard?”

“Beyond a doubt. And now that he’s dead, Beynor may send another. You must beware, my prince. Seek magical assistance from your brother Vra-Stergos. There is a certain charm I know that would render you sure protection. Unfortunately, I cannot give it to you via a Sending, nor do I dare share its magic with a Brother of Zeth.” She paused, then asked casually, “What did your servant Deveron Austrey do with Iscannon’s moonstone amulet? I know that Skellhaven has the golden chain. But the boy took the sigil, didn’t he?”

“Why… yes. He wanted to hand it over to my brother. But I feared the thing was charged with dangerous magic, so I made him throw it down a necessarium at Castle Vanguard.”

“Ah. That was well done. The moonstone might have done great harm in inexperienced hands, and for love of you I would not see your dear brother Stergos imperiled.”

“So you love me! You’ve never said so.”

“I say it now. And I prove it thus…”

The minutes that followed were broken only by wordless cries. Then the passion of the two in the sitting room grew more intense, until it was evident that neither paid any heed to their surroundings.

==========

With tears of humiliation and fury streaming from her eyes, Princess Maudrayne crept out from beneath the furs, refolded them with shaking hands, and slipped away, locking the door to the prince’s bedchamber behind her. When she was safe in her own apartment, she dried her eyes and put on an ermine-lined cloak against the night chill, then lit a candle and went to the elegant small room where her chief lady-in-waiting slept.

“Sovanna! Wake up. I have need of you.”

The noblewoman groaned pitiably and emerged from her bedclothes with maddening slowness. “Madam, are you ill?”

“I’m unable to sleep. Every bone in my body aches. You must fetch the shaman Red Ansel Pikan and have him bring me a remedy. I presume he still resides in his usual palace room?”

Sovanna Ironside lurched to her feet and fumbled for her house shoes. Her voice was barely civil. “Well, he should be there. One never knows for sure. Since you left on the king’s pilgrimage, the Tarnian leech has prowled the city as he pleases, night and day, doing God knows what. But he usually comes back to the palace for a good meal and strong drink and a warm bed… Ah, where’s my plaguey cloak? It’s freezing in here.”

“Fetch Ansel yourself, Sovanna. Don’t send a footman. And hurry.”

A martyred sigh. “Yes, Your Grace.”

When the woman was gone, Maudrayne returned to her sitting room, heaped fuel on the nearly extinct fire, and efficiently poked it back to life. Pouring herself another stiff tot of brandy, she sat brooding by the hearth for over half an hour, until there came a scratching at the hall door.

She opened it to a smiling, rotund man of medium stature. He was clad in a brown leather tunic with matching gartered trews, over which he wore a greatcoat of lustrous sealskin, ornamented at the sleeves and hem with wide bands of gold thread embroidery and ivory beadwork. A massive pectoral of gold paved with Tarnian opals hung on his breast, and he carried a sea-ivory baton ornamented with inlays of precious metal. His hair and bushy beard had the lively tint of tundra fire-lilies, and his eyes were dark, deep set, and kind.

“Can’t sleep, Maudie?” he inquired genially. “I’ve got just the thing.” He touched an ornate baldric having numerous pouches closed with ivory toggles.

The sharp-faced lady-in-waiting hovered behind him, carrying a lantern. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

“Thank you, Sovanna,” the princess said. “You may retire.” She took Red Ansel’s arm and drew him inside, locking the door. “I’m sorry to have roused you.”

“Oh, I wasn’t asleep. There’s much ado in the palace tonight. Prince Heritor Conrig summoned me less than half an hour ago, following a wee-hours meeting of the Privy Council. It seems your husband fears an attack on Cala from the Continent. I’ve been ordered to enlist Tarnian mercenary ships to help defend the city.”

She lifted her brows. “And will they come?”

“I’ll windspeak the sealords in Goodfortune Bay early tomorrow and we’ll see. The prince wanted me to do it at once, but I told him our countrymen would charge him double if they were forced to talk business in the middle of the night.”

“Come and sit with me by the fire. Would you like some brandy?”

Ansel chuckled. “Does a Tarnian ever refuse good liquor?” He studied her face as she poured, and his cheerful mien became one of deep concern. “You didn’t really summon me for a sleeping potion, did you, lass?”

“No, old friend.” She sighed. They took their ease and he waited patiently for her to speak while they both sipped from crystal cups. Her question, when it finally came, made him goggle in astonishment.

“Ansel, what is a Sending?”

“Well, well! So you’ve got yourself mixed up in sorcery, have you?”

“Not I,” she said calmly, “but my lord husband.”

A brief look of pity shone in the shaman’s eyes. “A Sending is a magical body replica, a double of a highly talented person, sent over a distance to have converse with another who possesses talent. The simulacrum is virtually identical to the Sender’s natural form—warm and solid, not a ghost. While a wizard inhabits his Sending, his true body remains alive but totally senseless.”