The Briar King (24 page)

“Come around the side,” Brother Pell said. “I've a feeling you can use some water.”

“I'd be very thankful,” Stephen said.

Without the crushing weight of the firewood, Stephen had a better look at the monastery. It was built in the high style of the early de Loy period, when regents from Liery sat upon the throne in Eslen and brought architects from Safnia and Vitellio to marry their talents with the local craftsmen. Here the result was exuberant, strong, and practical, constructed of a pale rose granite. The chapel was marked by a double arched bell tower above a long, narrow, steepled nave. The doors were set in high arches. Two wings extended from the center of the chapel, traveled some thirty yards, then took rightangle turns back toward Stephen, terminating in smaller versions of the chapel doors. In the two three-sided yards thus enclosed were herb gardens, small vineyards, chickens, outdoor hearths, a few lazy dogs, and a number of monks working at various tasks.

Brother Pell led him into the yard on the right, through an open arch in that wing, and Stephen saw that the back of the structure mirrored the front. This yard, however, was more serene, planted with rose gardens and adorned by statues and shrines to various saints. Against the chapel wall was built an arbor, covered in grapevines, and beneath were wooden benches and boards for dining. Brother Pell motioned Stephen to a bench. The board was set with a pitcher, two mazers, and several plates of food.

“Sit, sit,” Brother Pell said. He took up the stoneware pitcher and poured them each a mazer of water. It was cold and clean-tasting, and it felt like the laugh of an angel going down his throat. Stephen finished it greedily, then poured himself another.

Brother Pell had turned his attention to the cloth-covered plates. “What have we?” he wondered, lifting the linen.

The answer set Stephen's mouth watering. Crusty bread, a round of soft, pungent cheese, slices of brick-red ham so salty he could already taste it on his tongue, and yellow and red speckled cherries.

“May I?” Stephen asked.

“The bread only,” Brother Pell replied. “Novices are not allowed meat, cheese, or fruit their first month here.”

“Not—” He closed his mouth. He had heard about this sort of thing. He should have been prepared for it.

Brother Pell laughed gently and clapped his hands thrice. “My apologies, yes? That was me having fun with you. Please, eat of anything before you. There is no hardship concerning food here, save on fast days or when contemplation is assigned. Eat frugally, but well. That's our motto, here.”

“Then—”

“Tuck in,” Pell said.

Stephen did. He forced himself to eat slowly, but it was difficult. His stomach wanted it all, immediately.

“What brought you here, Brother Darige?” Brother Pell asked.

“To the church or to d'Ef ?”

“D'Ef. I heard you requested this monastery, specifically.”

“I did indeed. For its scriftorium. There is only one more comprehensive—the one in the sacarasio of the Caillo Vallaimo in z'Irbina.”

“Oh, yes. Your interest in names and such. But why not there, then? Why d'Ef ?”

“The Caillo Vallaimo has more scrifti. D'Ef has better ones, at least by my interests.”

“How so?”

“D'Ef has the best collection of texts from the early days of the Hegemony in this region.”

“And why does that excite you?”

“It's the chronicle of the spread of the faith, its battles with heresy and black warlockery. I am also much interested in the early languages of these regions, spoken before Vitellian was imposed.”

“I see. Then you are conversant with Allotersian dialects and script?”

Stephen nodded excitedly. “It was my major course of study.”

“And Vadhiian?”

“That's more difficult. There are only three lines written in that tongue, though it's much like Old Plath, from what I can see. I—”

“We have ten scrifti in Vadhiian here. None are completely deciphered.”

“What!” In his excitement, Stephen upset his mazer. It flew from the table and broke into pieces at the brother's feet.

“Oh!” Stephen said, as Brother Pell bent to gather the shards. “Oh, I'm sorry, Brother Pell. I was just so—”

“It's no matter, Brother Darige. You see?”

Stephen
did
see, and his mouth dropped wide. Brother Pell had gathered pieces, but what he set on the table was a whole mazer. A faint steam rose from it.

“You—” Stephen looked back and forth between the old man and the mended cup and felt his face pricked from within by a thousand needles.

“Y-you did a sacaum of mending. Only a—” The implications crystallized. “You must be the r-reverend fratrex,” he stammered.

“Indeed, yes. You see? I
do
have better things to do than to stare out of a window all day.” His thick brows lowered dangerously. “And now, we must consider what to do with such a prideful young man. Indeed, we must.”

CHAPTER THREE
RUMORS OF WAR

“WE ARE NOT AT WAR WITH YOU,” The archgreft Valamhar af Aradal explained to William II and his court, stroking his yellow mustache. “Indeed, Hansa is not at war with anyone.”

William counted slowly to seven, a trick his father had taught him.

A king should not answer too quickly. A king should appear calm.

The old man had been full of advice, most of which, William had discovered later, came from a book written centuries ago by the prime minister of Ter Eslief—a country that no longer even existed.

He shifted on the simple throne of white Hadam ash and gazed around the lesser throne chamber. It was “lesser” only in that it wasn't as ornate as the room where coronations and high court were held. In size, it was just as grand, its ceiling rising high in a series of vaults, its ruddy marble floor expansive enough to make even a fat, haughty fool like Aradal look small. Which was quite the point.

Aradal's guards stood well behind him, armored but un-weaponed, wearing garish black-and-sanguine surcoats. Ten Craftsmen more than doubled their four. On William's right hand stood Praifec Marché Hespero, in somber black robes and square hat. On his left, where a prime minister ought to stand, stood Robert, clad in bright yellow and green velvets. The only other persons in the room were Baron Sir Fail de Liery, in his dun-colored surcoat, and his young charge Neil MeqVren.

Seven.

And now he could speak mildly, rather than in a burst of fury. “Those weren't Hanzish troops on those Hanzish ships that sacked four towns in the Sorrow Isles? That seems dangerously close to war, so far as I am concerned.”

“The war,” Aradal said, “if you can call this sort of minor skirmishing that, is between the Sorrows and Saltmark. Salt-mark, I'm sure you know, is a longtime ally of Hansa. They asked for our help, and we gave them what we could spare; our ships and troops are under their command. The Sorrows, after all, were the aggressors. And may I further point out, Your Majesty, that the Sorrow Isles are not part of the Crothanic empire.”

William leaned his elbow on the armrest of his throne and propped his chin on his fist, regarding the Hanzish ambassador. Aradal had a fat, pink face above a corpulent body overdressed in a black sealskin doublet trimmed in martin and red kidskin buskins glittering with diamonds—hardly a sterling example of Hanzish manhood. Yet that was deceptive, as William knew from bitter experience. The man was as clever as a raven.

“The Sorrows are under our protection,” William said, “as Saltmark is under yours, as well you know. What evidence have you that King Donech was the aggressor in this matter?”

Aradal smiled. “It began as a conflict over fishing grounds, Majesty. The west shoals are rich and, by treaty, neutral territory. In the last year, ten defenseless fishing ships from Salt-mark have gone down to the draugs, sent there by Sorrovian privateers. Three more were sunk in Saltmark's own waters. Who could tolerate such a breach of treaty? And what sort of protector would Hansa be, to rest and watch while our ally faced the Sorrovian navy? A navy, I might add, equipped and supplemented by both Liery and Crothany.”

“I asked for evidence, not sailor's stories,” William exploded, forgetting to count this time. “What evidence have I that any of Saltmark's ships were ever sunk? And if they were, that they were sunk by any ship from the Sorrows?”

Aradal fiddled with his mustache. Were his lips moving? Was
he
counting? Damned book.

“The evidence can be presented,” the ambassador finally said. “We have witnesses in plenty. But the real proof is that Your Majesty has doubled the number of his ships in the Sorrows.”

“As you've more than doubled your own in Saltmark.”

“Ah, yes, but it appears you sent
your
ships before we sent ours,” Aradal replied. “Doesn't that suggest Your Majesty was well aware of a conflict developing between the Sorrows and our protectorate? And before you would take such action, would you not be aware of the cause of the conflict?”

William kept his face impassive. He'd moved the ships in secret, at night, to hidden harbors. How had Hansa learned of it?

“What are you saying?” he asked. “That
we
sank your fishing ships?”

“No, Sire. Only that you knew the Sorrows were due a just revenge. That the Sorrows are like your children, and even when they go astray you would protect them.” His eyes hardened. “That such would be a mistake, just as it would be a mistake to commit a single knight, soldier, or sea captain from the army of Crotheny to join in this conflict.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It is a simple statement. If you go to war with Saltmark, you must go to war with Hansa. And that, Majesty, would benefit no one.”

Sir Fail de Liery, up until now sitting quietly, suddenly pounced up from his bench.

“You
fop
! Do you think Liery will stand by while you conquer our cousins on this ridiculous pretext?”

“If Liery joins with the Sorrows, we will have no choice but to assume that we are at war with you,” the ambassador replied.

“And, no doubt,” William said softly, waving de Liery back to his seat, “you will counsel me to not join with Liery? And when both the Sorrows and Liery are in your hands, and some excuse allows you to turn your attention to Andemeur, you
will still insist that it isn't my affair? What, then, when you've camped on the Sleeve? Or in my own sitting room?”

“That is not the situation we are discussing, Majesty,” Aradal said smoothly. “When Saltmark has a new treaty with the Sorrows, this sad little affair will be at an end. We have had thirty years of peace, Majesty. Do not risk that, I beg you.”

“I'll show you risk, you damned popinjay—” Fail began, but William cut him off.

“This is our court, Sir Fail. We will consider what Liery has to say, but later. Lord Aradal is here to treat with Crotheny.”

The old knight glared but took his seat. William sat back, then glanced to Marché Hespero.

“Praifec, do you have anything to add to this … discussion?”

Hespero pursed his lips, pausing a few breaths before speaking.

“I am grieved,” he said, “that the church was not entrusted with our traditional role as peacekeepers. I fail to understand why I've had no word from my counterpart in Hansa, though I'm certain any delay was unintentional. Nevertheless, it seems that the church is consulted on fewer decisions of note with each passing day, and that is, as I said, a grievous thing.”

His black-eyed gaze wandered over each man in the room. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“The church Senaz and His Holiness the Fratrex Prismo have been quite outspoken about their desire for peace, particularly between Hansa and Crotheny. War between them could lay waste the world. I urge both of you to set aside any further hostilities until I've had a chance to speak with Praifec Topan and to consult with the Senaz.”

Neil watched the Hanzish ambassador as he left the chamber. He didn't like the man's smile.

“You see what I mean?” Fail grunted. “We've been fighting a slow war with Hansa for years. Your father was a casualty of it. But when it comes here, it's suddenly all talk of fishing rights and who should have been consulted.”

“You disapprove of our governance, Sir Fail?” William asked mildly.

“I disapprove of catfooting around what all of us know,” Sir Fail replied. “But I think Your Majesty was forceful, today. Still, what does it mean? That's what I want to know. Will you help us drive them from the Sorrows?”

“I would rather they retired,” William replied. “And I will certainly wait until the praifec has made his inquiries.”

“You'd rather they retired? As well await a she-wolf to suckle a fawn!”

“Enough, Sir Fail. We will discuss this matter at length, I assure you. I did not send for you so that we might argue today.”

“Why then?”

“Two reasons. The one, so you would hear Ambassador Aradal and know, from his own lips, what he told me and what I said to him, so you can take it back to Liery when you go. The second—I wanted to see your young apprentice. It's been ten days since he saved my queen's life, and I have not properly thanked him.”

Neil dropped to his knee. “Your Majesty, I require no thanks.”