Duty (Book 2) (8 page)

Mirelle smiled. “He killed Cormith. What further proof do you need?”

“From what I heard of the event, Cormith lost because he was arrogant and stupid, not because Gen overwhelmed him with skill or experience. I think I would much rather have Cadaen or Tolbrook protect the Chalaine and have Gen assigned to some other post in the Dark Guard, protecting you in Cadaen’s stead, perhaps.”

“While I should certainly like nothing better than to have the pleasure of Gen at my side day and night, I will leave him where he is.” Athan opened his mouth to object, but Mirelle plowed on before he could start. “I really do not think you should tender any recommendations to me about anything concerning the Chalaine’s safety until you have been properly briefed by those entrusted with her care. Ethris will be joining us shortly and will thoroughly inform you about all you wish to know in this regard.

“While I had planned for you to meet Regent Ogbith tomorrow, I will have him brought this evening in company with Jaron, Captain Tolbrook, and Cadaen so they can vouch for Gen’s skill-at-arms. If they cannot convince you, then I suggest you gather five of the best soldiers from the Eldephaere and let Gen beat on them until you are satisfied or they are dead. And—” The First Mother’s tone grew serious and sharp. “—I love my daughter. I
never
want to see her come to the least harm. So do not come into
my
Hall and imply that I am not doing
everything
possible to see to her wellbeing. And do not within my hearing ever insult, dishonor, or demean Lord Blackshire. He has done more than any man living for the Chalaine’s life and honor, and you had best show him the respect he is due.”

Gen was impressed and wondered if there was anyone in Ki’Hal that could intimidate the woman. Unlike the majority of the other Padras at the table, Athan did not appear ruffled in the least.

“And so you know, First Mother, the Pontiff has afforded us some liberty in assessing the situation and implementing what changes we see fit to insure that the Chalaine and the Ha’Ulrich are fully protected and prepared for their important work. I will personally oversee the protection of the Chalaine and will require unfettered access to her chambers, her Protectors, and the leadership of the Dark Guard. Padra Nolan will do the same for the Ha’Ulrich. I will speak with all those you have indicated, though it will be difficult for them to satisfy me concerning Gen. I will, of course, want to interview him sometime today.”

“By all means, assess and interview to your heart’s content,” Mirelle returned heatedly. “Lord Blackshire is my daughter’s Protector and that will
not
change, even if you recommend or even command otherwise. If I find you are hindering him or Jaron in their duties in the least degree, I will pack the lot of you up, put you on the slowest carriage back to Mur Eldaloth that I can find, and pray for snow! I rule in Rhugoth, not the Church. The next time we talk, I suggest you address me with a great deal more respect than you have done this morning.”

They were shocked. Athan’s pale face bloomed red.

“Now,” Mirelle said as she stood, voice calm, even flippant, “enjoy your wine. Ethris will be with you shortly.”

Gen escorted her out, the Padras already chattering frantically to each other. Mirelle leaned in close. “And they were so pleasant and accommodating in the letter announcing their imminent arrival,” she whispered. “Athan obviously has an agenda. I am going to write the Pontiff immediately. I wish he had never left. Let’s go find Ethris. I’m afraid his job just became more difficult.”

“So, where are we going, Gen?” Volney asked. Gen waited for him and Gerand to ready themselves to head into town. It was the afternoon of Sixthday, and Gerand and Volney had time free from their masters. As usual, the Dark Guard worked the apprentices doubly hard in the morning, and neither Gerand nor Volney seemed overly enthusiastic about heading back out into the snowy, cold afternoon. But Gen, who had slept during the morning, invited them to accompany him on an errand laid on him by Chertanne.

“We are to go to the smithy on Chadsbury Street,” Gen answered as Volney retrieved Gerand’s cloak and handed it to him before getting his own. “As a reward for my distinguished service to the Chalaine, Chertanne has commissioned a fine set of armor to be crafted for me. The smith, Morgan, I believe, is to take measurements this morning so he can finish it before the trip to the Shroud Lake Portal and Elde Luri Mora.”

“Is it true that Chertanne disowned his concubines and sent them home?” Gerand asked.

“Yes,” Gen answered. “He announced his decision just a week ago to the Chalaine and the First Mother.”

“Was the Chalaine happy?”

“I would imagine so. It is difficult to say what she feels,” Gen lied, hiding what he knew out of respect for the Chalaine. Mirelle had informed her daughter of Kaimas’s interference, and the Chalaine viewed Chertanne’s sudden concessions with a cynical eye.

“I was surprised when Dason returned to the Dark Guard,” Volney added, opening the door to their room and leading the way into the hall. “It would seem an honor to be in the Ha'Ulrich’s service, even in light of the . . . difficulties. Chertanne does appear to be mending his ways a bit, though, which my father says is of great comfort to the aristocracy and officers alike. Who would have thought that he would stand and actually praise you, the one who defied him?”

Gen said nothing, and Gerand noticed his peculiar lack of response to Volney’s comment.

“You see his changes as disingenuous?” Gerand prodded.

“To be diplomatic to my new benefactor, I will say only that I find it highly coincidental that Chertanne’s behavior changed with the arrival of his adviser, Kaimas.”

They walked out of the barracks into a gray afternoon. Low dark clouds dropped large, heavy flakes on the ground. The snow had started only a few hours before, but it had already covered everything in a fluffy blanket of white. There was no wind, and Gen speculated that the storm would linger throughout the day.

The fresh snow improved the city, covering the dirty sludge churned up from the snow that had fallen three weeks ago. The weather meant fewer people on the streets, and the soft covering muffled the harsh edges of city’s usual din. Gen judged that a snowstorm might be the best time to venture into streets he usually found unpleasant, noisy, and crowded.

“Is this your first time outside the castle walls since you challenged Chertanne?” Gerand asked, coming to a sudden realization.

“Yes,” Gen replied.

“Then bury your face in that cowl! We’ll do the same.”

“You fear I’m still in danger?” Gen asked. “I was under the impression that the whole situation had settled down, given recent events.”

Gerand laughed wryly. “Danger?” he said, signaling to the guards at the gate before lifting his cowl over his head. “Not from assassins, friend. From a mob.”

“Really?”

“Tell him, Volney.”

“Well,” Volney explained, “it goes something like this. . . Gerand and I go into town every Sixthday to relax, take in some entertainment, and in general enjoy ourselves after getting unfairly beaten about by our masters. What do we end up doing instead? Answering questions about you and telling every young woman in the whole of Mikmir that, ‘No, we won’t deliver a letter to Lord Blackshire.’ I swear, if we would have brought even half back to you, you would find you had little time to do anything else but read them! We almost stopped going into town because of it. They have provided us with a great deal of tinder to start the fire with, for which we thank you.”

“I had no idea I was such a celebrity,” Gen remarked.

“Oh, please,” Volney retorted disgustedly. “You can’t be
that
isolated. Surely you get news of what goes on in the city.”

“A little,” Gen said. “But I don’t seem to recall that a few amorous young ladies were important enough news to concern anyone in the castle.”

“If you say so,” Volney said incredulously. “Well, if you are in need of some entertainment, then we’ll see to it that you get some today. Some of the letters are absolutely scandalous. Gerand actually blushed.”

“You read them?!” Gen exclaimed. “I thought you said you refused to accept the letters or burned them?”

“I only read a few,” Volney stammered. “And that was only because. . .”

“I had nothing to do with it!” Gerand said, obviously embarrassed. “He insisted on reading them aloud to me despite my objections. I would never. . .”

“Calm down,” Gen soothed. “I don’t blame you for anything. I doubt there was much to get excited about anyway.”

“I hope so,” Gerand said, “because a stack of them went missing a few days ago. We suspect Kimdan has them.”

“And if Kimdan has them. . .” Volney interjected before Gen could comment.

“Then the Lady Fairedale will know about them as well,” Gerand finished.

“I am not worried,” Gen shrugged. “I can hardly feel responsible for letters I have not seen or answered from women I do not know who are writing me without any solicitation on my part.”

“But you can be sure,” Gerand added, “that Kimdan will cast them in the worst possible light.”

“Is he very public, then, about his affections for Fenna?”

“Yes,” Gerand answered. “I don’t know how close you and Miss Fairedale are, but to hear him tell it in the commons, he feels he has nothing to worry about.”

Gen smiled to himself and let the subject drop. The snow fell more quickly now, smaller flakes dropping faster and more thickly. They stopped several times to ask for directions to Chadsbury Street, Gerand insisting on doing the talking to keep Gen’s identity a secret for as long as possible. Fortunately, Chadsbury Street was a scant mile away and situated against the Kingsblood Lake.

As they approached the smithy, the rhythmic banging of hammer and anvil rang out sharply over the frozen water where children laughed and played on the ice. The three young men spied a roughly carved sign of an anvil hanging on a fence gate and opened it, working their way around to the back of the modest one-story home made of white plaster and wood. There they found the smith.

Morgan was a monster of a man, blue-eyed with black hair just starting to gray at the temples. The forge was in a large room behind the house, and, unlike most smithies, Morgan’s room was not littered with broken plows, spades, and pots. Pieces of armor and weapons of all types were stacked or leaned against corners. As they entered, he looked up from a conical helm he had been reshaping. Gen lowered his cowl, his companions following suit.

“Lord Blackshire!” he said, bowing. “I am Morgan the Smith. I welcome you to my humble home.”

“Thank you,” Gen said. “Please stand and be at ease. I have been a commoner my whole life and am not accustomed to being bowed to. I should introduce Gerand Kildan and Volney Torunne, apprentices to the Dark Guard.”

“Welcome all,” Morgan said. “I want you to know that I followed the First Mother’s instructions and told no one you were coming.”

“The First Mother sent instructions?” Gen inquired, curious.

“She did, Milord,” Morgan answered. “She feared you would be mobbed if I told anyone you were to visit me. Though I would like to introduce you to my boy, if you would allow it.”

“Of course,” Gen said.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any daughters, would you?” Volney asked. Gerand elbowed him hard in the ribs. Morgan’s face scrunched in confusion.

“No,” he answered. “It’s just me and my boy here. His ma died birthing him. But I’ll fetch him after we are done so we won’t be interrupted.”

For the next hour, Morgan grilled Gen about the style of armor he wanted, taking notes on a fresh piece of parchment. Gen was impressed; most smiths in Tolnor could not read, much less write. After Gen described the designs he wanted on his breastplate, arm greaves, and leg greaves, he had to argue passionately for several minutes for Morgan to accept that he did not want a helmet of any sort, as it would interfere with his vision and hearing.

Volney and Gerand poked around the shop while Morgan measured and scribbled. They commented on several items, speculating as to how the damage to the items had been done.

“This was obviously done with a blunt lance,” Volney said after examining a deeply dented breastplate. Morgan stopped writing for a moment.

“Actually,” he corrected, “General Harband was thrown by his horse and he landed chest-first on a fence post.”

“Old Hardman Harband?” Volney laughed. “Oh I wish I could have seen that.”

“Killed the horse directly after, I hear,” Morgan added, turning back to Gen. Volney laughed again.

“No doubt. And for you foreigners,” Volney explained, “General Harband is as brutal and coarse a person you’ll ever find in our refined nation. He’s grumpy and ugly and wiry and has this scraggly white beard and these sunken beady eyes that make him look like he’s a hundred years old. My father threatened to send me to train with him if I ever did something bad. Terrible, terrible stories about that man.”

“Surely he can’t be all that bad,” Gerand said. “Regent Ogbith would dismiss him if he were so uncouth and wild.”

“I’m sure the Regent would love to dismiss him but is too scared to do it,” Volney argued. “When Harband was just a lowly Captain, they say his Knight Captain threatened to court-martial him for some reason. Harband gets mad, and that night he walks four miles to town, gets some thread and a needle from a tent maker, and sews the Knight Captain inside his tent while he’s sleeping.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Gen said, arms outstretched as Morgan measured from his armpit to his elbow. The name Harband was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it.

“Then he set the tent on fire,” Volney added.

“And not only that,” Morgan continued. “Before he sewed the tent shut, he threw in a canvas sack full of squirrels, badgers, and the like.”

“Really?” Volney said. “I hadn’t heard that little detail.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Gerand said. “They would have dismissed him for such an act, even in Rhugoth.”

“Ah!” Volney returned, finger pointing in the air. “They could not prove that he did it and he would not confess.”

“Seems it would be easy to prove it was him,” Gerand said. “He went into town, and catching badgers and squirrels is dicey, noisy business.”

“How would you know anything about catching badgers and squirrels,
Prince
of Tolnor?” Volney countered.

Gerand and Volney spent the rest of the time arguing the merits and fallacies of the fantastic story, Morgan interjecting from time to time with other exploits that proved that General Harband was capable of other gross forms of malice. Gen listened, amused, thinking the material perfect for a little barding, if he were ever to have the chance of it again.

“That is all I can do today,” Morgan said, stowing his materials. “I’ll need you to come back from time to time during the next few weeks to do additional fittings and adjustments. Your project is highest priority, though I’ll need to repair the General’s breastplate quickly, lest he become angry with me.”

“I can certainly understand that,” Gen said.

“Let me fetch my boy, if you’ll permit. He’s only fourteen and watched you at the Trials. I daresay he’s imitated you a great deal in this very shop room. Scares me to death.”

Gen smiled and nodded his assent, and Morgan jogged to the edge of the lake and shouted for his son, Emry. Gen watched them return. Emry, while not as bulky as his father, was still muscular and tall, even at fourteen. By his movement, Gen surmised that he was agile. The boy smiled affectionately at his father as they approached the smithy. Gen couldn’t help but size Emry up as an excellent candidate for a fighter, as long as further growth didn’t ruin his quickness and balance.