Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) (50 page)

“Yes, well,” Corin frowned, and Glynnis saw the realization
in his eyes: he, the Earl of Wirthing, had just been dismissed.  “If you would
like, ladies, do let’s not stand on formality.  You may shed your cloaks.”  He
moved toward a gaudy bell pull near the door.  “My servants will be pleased to
take them and perhaps mend and launder them ere you go.”

“Thank you, no,” Glynnis replied in careful, measured tones,
allowing a bit of shame to color her cheek.  “It is unseasonably cold, even for
the Feast of Bilkar.  We both took rather a chill on the ride here, I’m afraid,
so that even your generous fire is not enough to warm our bones.  That, and I
am embarrassed to say, our clothing is unsuitable for coming to call upon an earl. 
We lost so much, you see…”

He nodded, a magnanimous and somewhat leering smile crossing
his lips that turned her stomach.  “You know, my late wife’s closet is full of
lovely gowns and,” he lowered is voice discreetly, “unmentionables and so forth
that only gather dust now.  We could perhaps adjourn for a time if you wanted
to refresh yourself…”

She bowed.  He may have expected her to hide humiliation
thus, and she would let him believe it, but what she concealed was rage.  She
was certain now exactly what his gambit would be, and while it was not
unexpected, the thought infuriated her more than she had thought it might.

“Sure we thank you for your pains and your kind offer, and I
am certain your late wife’s gowns are charming, but no.  We shall go suddenly,
once our discussion ends, and I would not waste precious time on frivolities. 
To that end, we bade your grooms keep our mounts ready.  We would return before
nightfall.”

“A pity you would leave us so soon.  Is your ride long,
then?”

There it was: the first direct attempt to get information. 
She’d begun to wonder if he would bury her in maneuverings and pleasantries all
morning.  Glynnis opened her mouth to give an empty answer but was interrupted.

“Is this how parlay is done, then?”  Banya’s sulking whine
skirled across the stones of the room.  “This is tedious.  I’ve no interest in
cloaks and frocks.”

Had they been talking about cloaks and frocks?  Ah, yes,
Glynnis supposed they had.  Corin looked at her in confusion.  The many layers
of the conversation to them were as transparent as if they’d spoken plainly: he
had expressed concern that she might be carrying a weapon under concealment––a
weapon at parlay was her right as a noblewoman, but not a hidden weapon, yet it
was also her right to retain her cloak, which created something of a loophole––a
loophole he had tried to close as gracefully as possible and failed.  She would
not let him close the loophole to assure himself that she was unarmed, which of
course meant she was not.  Cloaks and frocks indeed.

The jockeying for dominance and testing the waters for what
he would later proffer as his terms for peace under the guise of offering her
his wife’s vestments as Lady Wirthing was completely lost on the child, as was
her all but flat refusal.  She wondered if the boy wasn’t frankly slow witted. 
She also marveled at the irony of finding common ground with Wirthing in
Moncliff’s exasperating ignorance.  But then, perhaps that was their play.

Nara took the opportunity while the earl and Glynnis stood
speechless, to ask whether Banya was terrified to have made such a long journey
alone.  At first he seemed inclined to rebuff her for speaking to him directly
and asking such a childish question, but then he proudly offered that he had
not come alone and that he had, in fact, brought an entire regiment with him.

Glynnis could almost see Wirthing swallowing a groan at the
boy’s complete lack of discretion, and while the information was not new to
her, she did not see the need to alleviate Wirthing’s discomfort.

“Surely you exaggerate!  A whole regiment,” she laughed
prettily, “but whatever for?  Moncliff tradition has always been to remain
neutral.  Some called it cowardice, some called it indifference, but either
way, neutrality has ever been a Moncliff tradition, and it does not breed
strong armies.”

“My army is as strong as any other!” the boy crowed in
answer.  “How do you suppose we’ve been able to defend ourselves in spite of
our neutrality?”

“Old as I am,” Nara coughed, “I cannot recall a time when
Moncliff defended against an attack,” she said quietly.  “Not even when Kadak
occupied Durlindale.  It took the great Vilmar Damerien to break that siege.”

Predictably, the boy’s face colored.  “My father had readied
our armies to come to rescue the duke’s forces, who were losing pitifully, I
might add.  But Kadak learned of our preparations and fled.” Moncliff grinned. 
“We did not even have to fight!  I count that a victory.”

Nara turned back to the fire to hide her expression.

Glynnis continued to smile, mostly at Wirthing’s distress at
each word that passed the boy’s lips.  “Truly,” she said, “I did not think
Moncliff had a regiment of men all together, much less so many to spare this
far away.  I must ask, what brings your army all the way to Wirthing lands?”  She
batted her eyelashes.  “The earl must have been terrified to see your colors
riding in!”

Wirthing snorted.

“A frank act of war brings us west!” Banya answered with an
earnestness that surprised her.  Since when did a Marquess of Moncliff ever
express such passion?  Ah, so the boy was a warrior doomed to neutrality by
birth.  The frustration would likely send him to an early grave.  “Such a dire
insult as cannot go unanswered.”

Moncliff would have gone on, but Wirthing stopped him short.
 “Now, now, my Lord,” the earl soothed, obviously trying to take control of the
discussion.  “Her Ladyship is here to have parlay with me, not to hear of your
grand adventures.”

Lady Glynnis watched through the corner of her eye as Corin
moved himself around the table and drew up short.  Nara was sitting by the fire
in the chair taken from the head of the table, the head of the table where
Glynnis’s gloves lay almost disdainfully discarded.  Were she a man, he could
not ignore the insult of gloves thrown down at his place at the table.  As she
was not, he was not certain how to respond.  Was it simply the carelessness of
a woman?  De facto Baroness Berendor and wife to the Sheriff of Brannagh as she
was, somehow he doubted it.

Even so, the rules of hospitality bound his hand.  His
intention had been to offer what had been his wife’s chair to Glynnis, but now,
with no chair at the head, it was his place to take that seat as the next most
powerful.  He stood miserably beside that chair, uncertain whether to move the
chair rather awkwardly to the head of the table or go to the far end of the
table, or merely to sit as if it meant nothing.  He finally claimed his dead
wife’s seat, though he did not yet sit, and gestured toward the table to bid
Lady Glynnis choose her place, necessarily giving her more power than he’d
intended.

“On the contrary,” Glynnis said, choosing the seat opposite
him as if it did not matter to her a jot and settling herself in it like a
queen.  “I adore to hear of grand adventures.”  She turned to the boy and
gestured for him to join them.  “Now, what insult is this that you answer?”

The marquess seated himself beside her, leaving Wirthing
alone and unmarked on the far side of the table.  “I dare not show you the
gesture, madam.  It was so vulgar that I fear it would shock your sensibilities.”

She gasped.  “And someone made this vulgar gesture toward
you, Lord Banya?”

“Well,” he hesitated.  “To my colors.  He directly insulted
my commander in Durlindale.”  The marquess laughed.  “The savage probably had
no idea what the gesture meant, but even so, you understand, it cannot go
unanswered.”

“Oh, no.  Of course not.”

Nara looked up from where she sat near the fire.  “A savage
did you say?”

Glynnis absently gestured for Nara to draw herself up to the
table, which the old nun did, grating the heavy chair along the stone floor to
its place at the table.  Glynnis thought she heard Wirthing groan under his
breath.

“Yes, yes,” the earl said impatiently, “the Dhanani are
terribly savage and stupid.  They cannot possibly understand the consequences
when they ape our gestures.  What of it?  Were I to respond to every vulgarity
from the Dhanani, I should never have an end of it.  This is of no interest to
our discussions.”

And Glynnis had thought Moncliff lacked subtlety.  Something
she had learned as a girl at Berendor was that one never knew which tiny piece
of information might be the key to unlocking an entire mystery, so it was
important to gather it all.  From what he said, she had already learned that the
assumption she and the others had made, that Moncliff came to reinforce
Wirthing in seeking for Brannagh refugees, had been wrong.  Moncliff’s
intention was to attack the Dhanani, and he was seeking Wirthing’s help to do
so.  Furthermore, Wirthing had no idea that she and the fugitives from Brannagh
sheltered among them.

A gesture, Moncliff had said.  A physical gesture, not a message,
and the gesture was apparently not common to the Dhanani themselves.  Her mind
raced.

Clearly a Dhanani had gone through Moncliff’s lands, which
were far outside their normal range, but Bakti had not mentioned sending any
messengers or scouts east.  Further, it was a tribesman whose knowledge of
Invader ways was fluent and instinctive, someone who must have lived among them
for some time.  Aidan was the only one…

No.

Chul.

Her heart jumped.  She was certain it could be no other. 
But how?  The last she had heard of them, Chul was with Gikka, hiding in Farras
after the fall of Graymonde.  When Brannagh fell and they’d had to go into
hiding, she’d sent Dane to seek Gikka and the boy there, but they were nowhere
to be found.  Chul would have no reason to have gone so far east without her.  Gikka
might have her own reasons to go east, certainly, but based on the timing, Glynnis
allowed herself to hope, however faintly, that perhaps those reasons involved
Daerwin and Renda.

Moncliff gasped.  “But you promised we would talk about––”

“I promised no such thing.  Is this what you came to
discuss, my Lady?” Wirthing said over him, casting a hard look at the boy.  “Dhanani
savages and their insults?”

“It’s certainly more interesting than cloaks and frocks,”
the boy huffed, turning his chair toward the fire.

“Truly,” she said diplomatically, “I find the whole business
fascinating.”

“For my part, I had thought we might discuss how to arrange
for peace, since that is the customary use of parlay.”  Wirthing sat back in
his chair and crossed his hands on the table.  “Suffice it to say, my Lady,
that both our houses are diminished by this conflict between us.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “being destroyed does tend to diminish a
house, it’s true.”

“Quite.  You have nothing, I have everything.  Even with
nothing, however, you still have the standing of a noble house second only to
the duke’s own.  Not to mention your own title as Baroness of Berendor.”

“That title resides with my brother, Ander.”

Wirthing smiled curtly.  “Yes, of course.  In any case, my
thought is that perhaps by joining our fortunes, we would at once improve both
our circumstances, yours far more than mine, and that together we might be of
even more use in aiding the marquess in his little squabble.”

Moncliff was incensed.  “Squabble?”

“Yes.”  Wirthing’s tone was unmistakably final. “Squabble.”

“Honestly,” the boy sulked.

The earl picked up her gloves rather lazily and looked at
them, a dull realization dawning in his eyes.  “These are lovely, my Lady. 
Exquisite work.”  He cast a meaningful glance to Moncliff.  “Did you see these
gloves, Lord Banya?  Dhanani leatherwork, if I am not mistaken.  I’ve always
wanted some, but alas, the tribesmen will not sell them to Invaders, as they
call us, not at any price.”

“No, in fact, they will not.”  Glynnis smiled easily and
took them from him.  “I’ve had these for years, a gift from the Dhanani shaman
who rode with Renda during the war.  Surely you remember Aidan Ka-Zoga?”

“Not satisfied with cloaks and frocks,” Banya sighed, “now
you must talk of gloves?  What next, hair ribbons and hats?”

Gods, but the boy was dense.  She looked the gloves over and
rubbed at an imaginary spot on them.  “A pity they are starting to wear so in
the palm.  I despair of replacing them.”  She looked between the two men, still
smiling, watching carefully.  “A shame I lost all my other gloves when…” she
looked at Moncliff sympathetically and shrugged.  “Well, but how someone treats
an ancient ally does not necessarily indicate how he will treat a new one, does
it?  You mustn’t worry, Lord Banya.”

The earl’s smile froze. 

“Of course.”  She watched Banya staring into the fire, still
oblivious, and shook her head.

Wirthing cleared his throat. “As I was saying—”

She spoke over him, all the laughter and playfulness gone
from her voice.  “You received Lord Daerwin’s letter, I take it?”

He looked at her sharply.

She watched him rub at the chill he took and wondered what
it was he’d seen in her blue eyes that struck him so.  She fancied that perhaps
it was a glint of flint and steel that reminded him of Daerwin.

“Letter…” he said, obviously stalling.

She crossed her hands and sat back in the chair.  She cast a
bemused look at Lord Banya, who stifled a yawn.  The brat could not be bothered
even to appear to pay attention.  “Lord Corin, would you have me bore the marquess
further with the rather embarrassing contents of that letter?  I can, if I
must, but…”

“No, no,” the earl answered quickly.  “I believe I recall
the letter in question.  Something touching on a brace of murderous thieves and
how Daerwin blamed me for what they did.”