The Demon Lord (29 page)

I should tell him nothing, Gueynor thought. It is Aldric’s place, not mine, to tell a stranger what he will or will not do.

“Well, my lady… can you trust him in the small matter of life and death? Or indeed with anything at all?”

That was enough. She could not, would not allow such imputations to continue. But even in her heat she took care not to betray, by hint or hesitation, that the Alban’s name was other than the “Kourgath” he had claimed. “He may be
eijo
, Commander Jervan—but I believe he is a man of honour.”

Jervan smiled slightly and it was just a smile, nothing more. No ironies were hidden by his beard. “Of course, lady. I know that. He is an Alban and honour is a part of being such. But the honour of an Alban is not the honour of an ordinary man. Respect is honour; duty is honour; obligation is honour; courage is honour; and obedience is honour. Honour embodies all the virtues.

“But if, when he had a lord whose word he was bound by honour to obey, that lord told your friend to kill, then he would kill. And if he was told to die, then he would die. You have seen the black knife he carries?”

Gueynor nodded. Of all the weapons he possessed, that black dirk was most apparent, for Aldric never let it stray beyond his reach. In any circumstance.

“That is his. For him, and for no one else. So that he may kill himself if honour dictates he must. I have heard this said of Albans, lady, especially
kailinin-eir
—men of the high clans—that they make the best friends in the world. And the worst enemies.

“The old demon queller Endain told me something of your friend’s past, lady. Of how he came to be here. There was civil war in Alba this spring—though ‘civil war’ over-dignifies it—and it seems your friend fought on the wrong side.”

“Stop calling him my ‘friend’ in that tone, Commander.”

“What then, lady? Companion? Bodyguard? Lover?”

Jervan’s eyes did not leave her face. “I think ‘friend’ is quite adequate. For as is the way of losers, he lost everything. Holds, and fiefs, and titles—all gone. He is lucky to have his life.”

“What trouble was it?” asked Gueynor, intrigued. Aldric, when he mentioned his home—and that was seldom—spoke only in veiled hints as if remembering details hurt him.

“I know little enough, lady. It was small and far away, and the doings of foreigners takes second place to my present duty here. But… It seems that one lord stole the lands and fortress of another. There were some killings—but evidently not enough for the thief’s security. This first lord’s son survived, instead of dying as he should have done by his own hand.”

Gueynor’s face was incredulous. “By his own… ! But why?”

“The Albans see a sole survivor as a coward and a failure. As I told you, a strange people. But four years later he came back at the head of an army: took back his lands, took back his fortress; did some killing on his own account; and then vanished. I think that, having proved conclusively and to his own satisfaction that he was neither a coward nor a man to be taken lightly, he committed suicide at last. Although I have heard it said that he turned religious, that somewhere in the Blue Mountains there lives a monastic hermit who owns a goodly chunk of Alba. But I doubt there’s any truth in that tale.”

“What was his name, this self-willed lord?”

“Supposedly he was the lord of High Clan Talvalin. The last lord. Aldric.”

Gueynor discovered she had developed a sudden uncomfortable tic in her left eyelid, and was only surprised that her whole body did not convulse with shock. Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, she had half anticipated hearing Aldric’s name, but despite her expectation Jervan’s speaking it aloud appalled her… that she had shared her bed, her body, with the young man whom travellers’ tales called Deathbringer—for though the
kortagor
had small time for gossip, peasant villagers gleaned both news and entertainment for such stories… Yet her uncle, entrusted with his true name, had not made the connection. It was, she thought more calmly, hardly surprising. He did not look like a Deathbringer. Nor act like one… Not obviously. But Evthan, and Keel and the other soldiers with him, knew the nickname was well-given.

“You spin out a tale to extraordinary lengths, Commander,” Gueynor observed carefully. “I had thought you were going to tell me something of yourself. And why I interest you.”

“As I said earlier, lady—have you not already guessed? You interest me because of who you are and who your father was.” He leaned back against the wall of the summerhouse, carefully choosing an area that was both dry and reasonably clean, folded arms across chest, crossed legs at ankles… looking indeed the very picture of a gentleman taking his ease and about to indulge in inconsequential chat. Except that there was nothing inconsequential about what Jervan had to say.

“There are two powers in this Empire, lady. The Emperor—and his Grand Warlord. And Lord Geruath, by lack of diplomacy and tact—and thanks in large part to the foolishness of his son—has lost the… friendship… of both. A deal of money enters this town each month; Alban money—not gold, but credit scrip drawn on the merchant guilds. It is intended to finance unrest, uprisings… Anything to keep the Warlord’s attention from Alba. For without war, what realm needs a Warlord… ? Instead it buys Lord Geruath his weapons and Lord Crisen his sorceries, his women and his wines. There will come a time, and by my judgement that time is not far off, when either Warlord Etzel or Ioen the Emperor will send a force to stamp this place to dust. You see, lady, by lacking the protection granted by support of one side, our Overlord has no defence against action taken by the other.”

“Get to the point,” snapped Gueynor, letting her impatience show at last.

“The point, my lady Gueynor Evenou, is that if you were to take this citadel and hold it—hold it well—for one side or the other, then you would almost certainly be regarded with some favour. As a stabilising influence, shall we say… ?”

“Say whatever you like. But say it quickly!”

“Certainly you would be permitted to retain your holding here: the support of one side or the other, remember? And… and you would have avenged what happened to your father and your mother.” Gueynor stared at him but said nothing. “Curious, is it not—the similarity between yourself and the Alban I told you of? Except that you have waited ten years, while he waited only four.”

“And what advantage,” Gueynor’s voice was icy, “do
you
gain from this… enterprise?”

“Ah, lady… now we do come to the point.” Jervan stroked his beard a moment, watching the girl thoughtfully, reading much from her posture and expression that remained unsaid. He nodded once to himself. “I expect advancement, of course,” the
kortagor
said in the tone of one stating the obvious.

“And what precisely do you stand to lose, if I say
no
?”

Jervan’s hooded eyes opened very wide for an instant, reminding Gueynor of a startled hawk; then his right hand moved smoothly to the dagger-hilt at the small of his back. “You would not live long enough to find out. Indeed, you would not live to walk from here, much less betray me.” He meant every word.

Gueynor arched an eyebrow at him and smiled in the cool, dismissive fashion she had seen Aldric employ. It was incongruous in such a situation and its very incongruity gave Jervan pause. “I said nothing of betrayal,
Kortagor
Jervan. Only refusal. What will happen to the garrison commander when one or other of the Great Powers stamps this place to—to dust, was it? Will they strike off your head or simply hang you like a common criminal?”

Her shots, though hastily aimed, struck home with considerable force. Jervan did not go so far as to flinch at the girl’s words, but something flickered in the depths of his eyes as the pupils dilated slightly. “I think, lady, that you will make an admirable Overlord.” It did not sound much like a compliment.

“Overlady you mean, of course, Commander.”

Jervan looked at her and smiled wanly, not at this moment inclined to debate the finer points of Drusalan grammar. The title
Overlord
was neutral and did not change its gender to match the holder’s sex. “Overlord I said and Overlord I meant. For all the years you spent consorting with your peasant friends”—and he spat the word
peasant
—”you remain aristocratic enough.”

“Do you mean… lordly?” Suspecting a veiled insult, there was a lethal edge to Gueynor’s voice.

“Aristocratic. Not necessarily noble, but arrogant. Arrogant enough for any Princess of the Blood. Even Marevna.”

“Commander Jervan, would you speak to me like this if I was your Overlord?”

“No, my lady I would not. But until that time I would. I will. Because you understand the reasons why I do. As you understand the reasons why I do. As you understand them now.”

“Very well. So what is your plan?”

“Simple enough. Simple and direct. Use your
eijo
. As I said before, he is a killer. And I fancy he has death in mind for Crisen Geruath. I… feel it. And also, if the rumours are true, for the Overlord himself. Geruath Segharlin collects weapons; he has done so for years— yet he remains remarkably ill-informed as to how other men regard their swords.”

“Is it, Commander, that you are perceptive—or is it merely that you have a nest of spies throughout this fortress?”

“I guess; and it seems I guess correctly. Remember, Gueynor, I was at the gate. I saw Kourgath-eijo’s longsword. That is a blade of master quality, and if Geruath has not already made an offer for it he will do so, eventually.”

“And then?”

Jervan smiled thinly. “And then… ?” he echoed. “I don’t think you need me to tell you.”

“And what of the guards?” asked Gueynor practically, remembering some of Aldric’s muttered observations. “This citadel is over-full of soldiers.”

“You need not concern yourself about the guards. All their wages are months in arrears and only the hope of eventually getting the money they are owed keeps them here. And I know where the treasure-chests are kept.”

“Of course…”

“Of course! As garrison commander, it is one of my duties to ensure they are paid an adequate—barely adequate—retainer to hold them in Seghar. While a mercenary can smell money in the offing… Well, it ensures their loyalty from week to week. Pay them all that they’re owed, lady, and they’re yours to command.”

“And you, Commander? How many months’ back pay do you expect to receive from a magnanimous new Overlord?”

The soldier tried, and failed, to suppress a foxy, crafty grin of self-satisfaction. “I am owed no money at all.”

“The pay-chests…”

He must have caught the look in Gueynor’s eye and the unspoken speculation which passed across her face, for the grin turned swiftly to a frown. “Yes, the pay-chests—but not in the way you think. I took only what was my due; not a copper more. Albans don’t hold the monopoly on personal honour and I do have some self-respect… I was born here, in the Empire. I grew up here; married here, my wife and children live here. I have no desire to leave.

“But I have served the Imperial military for twenty years. Twenty years, lady, sheathed in that damned stinking mail. I should be
hautheisart
by now, or
eldheisart
at least like the others who have lorded it in the citadel; yet I am still merely a
kortagor”
His arm gestured, taking in the ruined gardens, the tumbledown buildings and the grimy towers of the fortress. “Garrison Commander. Of this…” Jervan worked his jaws a moment, then spat juicily as a man will who has a filthy taste in his mouth. “I may have access to the money-chests, my lady Gueynor; but what I want is the stuff that money cannot buy—promotion, favour. Power! To be well-placed, to be respected… Is that not reasonable for any man to want?”

“That all depends,” said a quiet voice behind him, “on whether you want respect during your lifetime or respect for your memory. Which is it,
Kortagor
Jervan?”

The feeling had begun as unease, nothing more: a nervousness which had forced him prematurely from his bath. And then it had expanded, bloating to a monstrous
wrongness
that had bordered close to physical nausea.

Aldric had stood naked and dripping in the bathhouse, immobilised by a series of racking shudders which had torn through him like the strokes of a mace, before throwing his unused towel aside and fighting his way into dry garments which had clung to and resisted wet skin every inch of the way. With each moment that passed he grew more sure that something in this fortress had involved Gueynor, would try to involve him—and would probably be something for which he had not planned…

Marek Endain might have thrown some light on the matter—except that there was no sign of the demon queller anywhere. It was as if the one man Aldric wanted to talk to, from whom he most needed reassurance, was deliberately avoiding him. Which, given the Cernuan’s mood when they had parted, was not overly surprising.

It was then that he began to ask after Gueynor, and consequently it was not coincidence which brought him to the summerhouse: because two servants had given the same answer to his question concerning “Lady Aline’s” whereabouts, but the second had added by way of helpfulness that
Kortagor
Jervan had asked a similar question only a short time past…

Natural caution had brought Aldric into the sad gardens on soft feet, but the fluttering under his breastbone had made that stealthiness as rapid as was humanly possible. As he approached the tumbledown belvedere he had expected to hear… what? The sounds of interrogation, voices raised in threat and protest, something of that sort. Not civilised and almost friendly conversation. No matter that the conversation seemed to be dominated by Jervan’s unmistakable tones, what few words he had detected spoken by Gueynor had been casual, relaxed, indeed confident. Certainly more so than he was.

He had waited for an opportune moment, aware that to do so smacked somewhat of melodrama, and then stepped through the door to speak his entrance cue. No more than an actor, Aldric thought sardonically as two heads turned towards him; but in what play? And is it a tragedy or the blackest of comedies… ?