Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (50 page)

“And an attack on Dockside would obviously involve the serrin. The archbishop may have no qualms about offsiding Saalshen, but the patachis have plenty. They can afford to lose Saalshen trade if they win the war for the Bacosh, but not before. And Saalshen has been reluctant to cut trade early for fear of losing leverage, and thus inviting an attack they know they could not survive. An attack on Dockside would be crazy without an attack on Saalshen's
properties, the way the serrin fight…and an attack on Saalshen's properties may even bring Patachi Maerler into the fight on Saalshen's side, with whatever dealings he's been making with Rhillian lately.”

Captain Faldini looked mildly impressed. He shrugged within his armour. “I believe you. I'm just a captain. I cut heads.”

“You'd be a much better captain if you knew
which
heads,” Alexanda remarked.

Faldini smiled. “That's your task, Your Grace. Just point me at them.”

“I'm hoping to avoid pointing you at anyone. We number four hundred, but reports now lead me to believe that Danor and Coroman have brought at least eight hundred each, whatever their claims. We dare not declare ourselves too soon.”

Faldini scratched at his chin. “Word about the barracks is that Maerler is finished. The archbishop favours Steiner, it's clear. Why not declare with Steiner and be done with it?”

“Patachi Maerler,” said Alexanda with heavy sarcasm, “commands ten thousand plus, and most of southern Petrodor. Any assault into his territory would be a military nightmare. He has Saalshen on his side. His holy brother has just deprived the archbishop, and thus Patachi Steiner, of their greatest rallying cry—the Shereldin Star—and placed it most cleverly into the dragon's mouth. Patachi Maerler is cunning, Captain—he gives the star to the dragon, and now Patachi Steiner must go and fight the dragon if he wants it back. Patachi Maerler will sit back and watch them maul each other, and smile. Had he kept the star himself, Patachi Steiner may have fought
him.
This way, he loses nothing and his enemies decline.

“Furthermore, I will not leap on board this crazy ship of war unless I am convinced Pazira has absolutely no other choice. You are young, and you have seen battles, but you have not seen war. I have. This war that looms shall be slaughter on a scale that would make even the highlanders cringe.”

Alexanda walked to the head of the column moving up the stone steps to receive a blessing from the priest before the doors.

It was a nice little temple, Alexanda reflected. His builder's eye studied the stonework and appreciated the symmetry, the precision of supports and strongpoints that might be hidden to others. Footsteps echoed in a gathering volume as the temple slowly filled. Alexanda and Varona reached the end of the aisle, and sat together on the left, Bryanne joining her mother, further from Alexanda. Alexanda removed his hat, and continued his examination of the ceiling. The wood support beams looked interesting—rel wood, perhaps. Rel was usually too heavy for such beams. He wondered how the craftsmen had done it, craning his neck…

“Dear, sit still,” his wife scolded in a low voice, as the benches beside and behind them were gradually filled. “It's not dignified.”

“I promise you, dear lady, this ceiling is vastly more interesting than anything some priest might say this morning.”

“We have this conversation every second Varansday,” replied Varona, on the edge of temper. “You are the duke and it is your obligation to sit here and suffer with the rest of us.”

“Oh tosh, what are you talking about? You enjoy it.”

Infinitely more refined, Varona raised her eyebrows. “I happen to be a good Verenthane.”

“And I'm not?”

Varona smiled, and patted his arm. “Don't worry, dearest. I pray for you.”

“Why is it an interesting ceiling, Papa?” asked Bryanne.

“Oh, Bryanne,” said her exasperated mother, “don't encourage him.”

Alexanda smiled broadly at his daughter. Bryanne grinned. “I'm so glad you asked, petal. Now look up at this beam here, this one right at the end above the wall. That's called a brace.”

He was still explaining the intracies of construction and weight-bearing loads, when the priest ascended to his altar. Varona slapped her husband and daughter on the leg to make them shut up. Alexanda did so, grumpily, and as the priest began to drone, he busied himself with thoughts of Petrodor and its circumstances.

If there was one good thing to arise from the current mess, he thought, it was that the power of the provinces and their dukes had been reinforced. Now the squabbling patachis realised they needed them after all, and for more than just decent wine and a good cheese. Most of the men who would march to war would be drawn from the provinces. But they would only obey the instruction of the archbishop, not any fat, greedy patachi. Fathers and mothers would only part with their sons if the gods decreed it. Priests and patachis, so mutually necessary, and such an equal curse upon the land.

Danor was with Patachi Steiner and had participated in the recent attacks against Family Halmady and their allies. So had Vedichi…but that was no surprise; Duke Belary was a leech, sucking the blood from all within his borders until Pazira towns were bursting with poor peasants escaping from Vedichi's harsh masters and harsher taxes. Coroman's support was a given—Petrodor was within Coroman's historical borders and, while Duke Tosci was no fool, Steiner's allied families owned many of Coroman's best lands, and the loyalty of his wealthiest earls. No, Patachi Steiner had Tosci by the balls, and Alexanda could hardly blame the man for his capitulations. Pazira, thank the gods, had distance between itself and Petrodor. That and a healthy, regional contempt that went back many centuries.

Songel was a prospect. Alexanda had met with Duke Abad just the other night. He was clearly unhappy with the Steiners and was leaning Maerler's way. Maerler, it seemed, had offered him terms of trade more favourable than had Steiner…

In addition to Songel, the province of Flewderin was only interested in being left alone, and Cisseren were…well…ambivalent. Add it all together and Patachi Steiner only had three provinces firmly behind him. Four remained, as the serrin Rhillian never failed to point out whenever they met. Four weaker provinces, it was true, but add Saalshen and the balance was just about even. Maerler were not out of this race yet, not by a long way. Now Alexanda just had to think of some way to help extend the deadlock indefinitely. In that sense, his sympathies lay clearly with the green-eyed, white-haired beauty and her strange flock. If only he could find a way, before it drove him mad.

And what of this strange business with Halmady? Who knew that Halmady were plotting against their allies? Patachi Halmady had been known as a most unambitious man—a praiseworthy quality, if one were Patachi Steiner and looking for a safe right hand. Alexanda did not know what to make of it all. Could it have been true? Or were Halmady inconvenient for some other reason? Adding to the strangeness, he now heard that Princess Alythia of Lenayin had survived, and was with her sister in Dockside. Steiner had ordered the others killed, it seemed, but not the princess. Well, hardly surprising, if one were to reckon with the temper of her father, the King of Lenayin. But the king's temper would be sorely tested anyhow in this slaughter of his daughter's betrothed family. Something had arisen within the halls of Steiner Mansion to make such a drastic action seem well worth the risk. As to what that could be, Alexanda could only wrestle with the uncomfortable feeling that he was missing something. Something very big, and very obvious to everyone who knew the secret, and completely puzzling to everyone else…

The temple was very quiet, he realised. The priest was still talking, and usually there were rustles of fabric from the ladies’ dresses, or creaks from the benches as people shifted their weight. Now, nothing. Alexanda looked at the priest. He seemed very…well, tense. A bald man in a black robe, his face an even paler shade of white than usual, reading from a scroll upon the lectern.

“…and have the blasphemous gall to call this slander ‘philosophy.’ They creep through our city in the dead of night, promising murder and mayhem to all who oppose their malicious intent. They spread their misgotten wealth, corrupting those whose souls can be easily bought—the traitors, the blasphemous, the bastards and the fornicators. These evil collaborators
have sold their souls for a few golden coins, and now, they are servants of the demons of Loth.

“Trust none who would serve these demons with the glowing eyes. Like demons, they have no morals. They fornicate with whomever they choose, their women have no concept of feminine virtue, and they have even been known to fornicate with their own brothers and sisters—even with their children. Through their human servants, they seek to spread their vile ways into our midst, to excuse them before our revulsion as ‘philosophy,’ and other such evil words that pretend know no good nor evil. They seek to devour human souls, as they have no souls of their own. It is the moral, godly duty of each and every true Verenthane in Petrodor—nay, in all Torovan—to resist these evil, twisted creatures with every fibre of our being. So have the gods decreed, and so does our blessed archbishop declare to we, his humble supplicants.”

The serrin, Alexanda realised, with horror. This shaven-headed son of a goat was talking about the serrin.

“Chief among the crimes of these wretched animals is blasphemy.” The priest spoke with little of the spontaneity or passion that the words might have appeared to describe. Instead, he read with the air of a man giving a prepared recital before a troupe of learned scholars, determined to get every word correct lest he be later reprimanded for his omission. “Let us consider the principle ‘philosophies’ of Saalshen. Chief amongst them is the
shal'ans neel
, what these evil ones declare as describing the absence of truth. Not only do these pagans disbelieve in the gods, they disbelieve in everything! There is no love, they declare. There is no peace. There is no right, and no wrong, and therefore all actions are excusable! By this alone, we can see that the only guiding principle of Saalshen is immorality itself. The inhabitants of Saalshen are guided in their course here in the world by the principles of immorality, of evil, of decadence and greed and lust. Surely such a plague could only be visited upon us by demons of Loth and their servants.”

Alexanda's initial shock gave way to fury. He thought of leaping to the altar and throwing the lectern to the ground. He thought of beating the priest to a pulp with his bare hands. He thought of drawing his sword and running the man through as he surely deserved. This was worse than playing with fire. This…
this
speech, was something that for all his faded faith, he had never thought to hear from the mouths of priests. This was evil.

Alexanda got to his feet. Now there was a stirring in the temple. The priest continued, glancing up from his scroll, wavering for the first time in his diatribe of filth. Alexanda reached for his wife's hand, expecting her protest and well prepared to berate her before the entire temple. Instead, she rose stiffly, reaching in turn for Bryanne. Alexanda gave the priest a long,
deadly glare. The priest continued reading, recovering his rhythm with grim determination. It was clear he had not written these words himself.

Without a word, Alexanda turned and walked down the aisle. Guardsmen by the doors scrambled to open them and alert the guard beyond. Varona and Bryanne followed. Behind him, Alexanda could hear others following. The priest's voice droned on, with determined perfection on every syllable.

Alexanda walked out into the light rain to a town grey and deserted, save for the Pazira Guard now scrambling into position in the small courtyard before the steps. Up these steps now ran Captain Faldini, alarm on his face. He met his duke halfway down.

“Send a man to find the groundsman Adrian,” Alexanda told the bewildered captain. “Tell him to send a message by bird. Tell him it's urgent.”

“We have birds?”

“Something a groundsman knows that a captain might not. A gift from Rhillian. They will fly direct to her, or to Saalshen's properties, at least.”

“Yes, Your Grace. What should the message say?”

“Tell her that the archbishop uses the morning sermon to incite fury,” Alexanda said grimly. “Tell her that she should expect a riot, at the very least. This sermon will be identical, the length and breadth of Petrodor. Gods forbid they hear it in Riverside, though I'm sure they will. Gods curse that bloody-handed tyrant of an archbishop.”

Others were filing down the stairs now, donning furs against the rain. A number were scowling in fury as evident as his own. Some others seemed bewildered, as though they did not know why their duke had stormed out of the sermon, but had felt obliged to follow. Yet more appeared uncomfortable, and hesitated on the wet steps as if wondering if he would now go back inside. Walking out on a sermon would not look good if word got back to their holdings…or indeed to the archbishop himself. Many others, it was clear, remained inside the temple, keeping their seats for reasons of faith, etiquette, dislike of their duke, or outright agreement with the priest's words. Well, Alexanda thought darkly, as Captain Faldini rushed to give orders, at least now he'd know for certain who was who.

Varona took his hand on the steps, and squeezed. “I'm sorry, my love,” she said quietly. “You were right, I should have let you stay in bed.”

“Not at all,” said Alexanda darkly. “It's well that you dragged me out in the rain. Now, we must be prepared for anything. That blasted archbishop has no idea of what he's just done.”