The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (26 page)

Mildly entertaining though all these vignettes of the seamier side of life at Damydas Castle were, they weren't what Xirull wanted to hear.

One of the servants confessed to having a drinking problem and to having stolen the wine he needed for his addiction from the baron's cellar. On a certain evening he was almost discovered by Damydas himself. Now, this was something Xirull wanted to hear more about.

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Xirull immediately let his men take the pear-shaped, metal instrument out of the man's rectum and had the room cleared. Then he ordered the last of his own men to leave. He gave the trembling servant a blanket to cover himself with, and invited him to join him at the table, where he gave him, most appropriately, a cup of wine.

“Why was the baron in the cellar?” he asked softly and as non— threateningly as he could manage. “Surely, he could have ordered a servant to fetch him some wine.”

“Yes, My Lord,” the man shivered, spilling wine on his blanket, “my very own thoughts precisely. There is more.”

Xirull raised his eyebrows and smiled encouragingly.

“I had just come down the stairs, and I was entering the cellar, when I heard a noise in the back. I barely had time to hide behind a rack of bottles. I saw it was His Lordship himself. After a while he made to leave the place. From where I hid, I could see him, as clear as I can see you. It was frightening. He was already through the door, when suddenly he seemed to remember something and retraced his steps. He took two bottles out of the very rack I was hiding behind.

Then he left. For real this time. All the same, I daren't move a single muscle for almost a quarter of an hour.”

The man sipped nervously from his cup, looking worriedly up at Xirull from under his downcast eyelids.

The captain of the Black Shields stroked his mustache.

After having left the still shuddering servant under guard, he ordered two Black Shields to come with him and descended into the wine cellar. One of his men held a torch high up, while he resolutely made his way to the back. There a massive door barred his way. It was obvious at first sight that it could not be opened or dislodged by simple means. It had two locks and was made of the hardest variety of oak, reinforced with metal strips.

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It didn't stop Xirull, but it made him involve more men than he

cared to. At last they were reduced to half demolishing the wall, but they managed to enter the room at the back of the cellar eventually.

Three of its walls were covered from ceiling to floor with racks, on which little barrels rested in a double row, one behind the other.

“More wine,” he mumbled.

He ordered a Black Shield to open one of the barrels, and the red liquid started gushing out of the bunghole. On a hunch, he himself grabbed the barrel that stood behind the one that was just removed. It was surprisingly heavy, and Xirull knew he had struck gold. Literally.

Panting he lifted the little vat off the shelf. It slipped out of his hands and fell to the floor where it burst open. Hundreds of gold coins poured out of it.

For just a moment Xirull thought about ways of keeping the gold for himself and a few accomplices. He immediately saw the risks were too great. Too many witnesses. Somebody, sooner or later, would talk, and the captain had no intention whatsoever of being on the receiving end of the treatment he had so liberally meted out to the inhabitants of Damydas Castle. He ordered his men to count the heavy barrels and put them in the middle of the room. Another surprise. Some of them weren't that heavy at all, but clearly didn't contain liquid either. At least twenty of them were filled with diamonds and other precious stones. It was impossible to even approximately estimate just how big the fortune was the late baron had hoarded here.

That same night three doves had left, one after the other, for Fort Nira.

The high king dismounted and perfunctorily greeted the captain.

“Show me,” he ordered.

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“Those on the left are filled with gold coins, those on the right with precious stones,” Xirull said, when they stood in the cellar.

The high king nodded and could barely suppress a triumphant laugh.

“So, Gerri, my old friend, you left me a little something for a rainy day. And just in time too.”

“Everybody out,” he ordered. “Except you, Dennick.”

“I want you to arrange for this lot to be counted,” he added when they were alone. “Don't waste too much time on it, though. A rough estimate will suffice. I want the gold coins to be transported in small amounts, heavily guarded.”

“To Prince Tenaxos's camp?”

“Yes. He'll be getting much more than we could afford to give him out of the poor, destitute treasury, and he'll make good use of it.”

“A good thing we studied the battle of the Zinchara.”

“Indeed,” the high king agreed. “It gave us some valuable pointers.”

“That means nothing stands in the way anymore of our little plan,”

Dennick said, not over enthusiastically.

“Provided Lorsanthia gives us the time to prepare.”

“We haven't received an ultimatum. Yet.”

“No, not yet. But troops are gathering some fifty miles from our borders. There's no telling when Vartoligor will feel ready to attack.”

22
“Come, we're going for a walk in the woods,” Hemarchidas said

curtly when he entered the tent on the training grounds.

Anaxantis, who had been talking to some Clansmen, looked up.

“Oh, okay,” he said, seeing the grave expression on his friend's face. Grabbing his mantle, he took his leave.

“See you later, guys.”

Hemarchidas walked with large, agitated strides, and the prince found it difficult to keep up.

“Slow down, Hemarchidas,” he said, panting.

“Anguor of Curtham, Echron of Syrdunn, Robrant of Emling.”

“Yes, what of them?”

“Boduwald of Semlar, Grenn of Wirringhall, Yothan of Birchland,”

Hemarchidas continued.

“Yes, yes, they're pages. What of them?”

“Hovar of Rasling, Orrigar of Stennwick, Brand of Gisswing, Woldemar of Shoreham— “Stop it right there,” Anaxantis said, tersely. “Why are you reciting the whole roll of pages to me?”

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“Pages you say? Ha. That's where you're wrong. Squires. They call themselves squires.”

“The difference being?”

“The difference being, you little fool, that a page brings you your dinner and opens doors for you. Squires bring you your weapons and fight beside you.”

“Ha.”

“Moreover these are not just squires. They call themselves Ehandar's Squires.”

“They must be the ones he's giving special lessons.”

“Exactly. There are a few more by now, but I forget their names.

They all wear this ring they had made at a local silversmith. A cheap bauble, stamped out of a sheet of silver and then plied to fit on a finger. Guess what it represents.”

“Well—”

“An eagle falling on its prey,” Hemarchidas interrupted him. “Does that mean anything to you?” he added in a sarcastic tone.

“Of course. It's Ehandar's personal emblem.”

The Cheridonian stopped.

“Anaxantis, he is forming his own group of loyal followers. Just as I said he would.”

“Did he give them the rings?”

“No,” Hemarchidas said, reluctantly. “It appears they bought them out of their own pocket. Anyway, I investigated the matter — very discreetly — somewhat more. They keep to themselves. They sit together at the same table in The Hole, and somehow they managed to switch bunks, and now they all sleep in the same two barracks. They're very particular about who they admit into their circle.”

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“It seems innocent enough,” Anaxantis said. “Birds of a feather, you know. Young guys love to belong to a special group, all of their own. It's perfectly natural.”

“Innocent? Natural? It's dangerous, I tell you,” Hemarchidas burst out. ”Listen,” he continued in a calmer tone, “they may keep their own counsel most of the time, but they're not shy in voicing their opinions.

They think your brother should be warlord. They think you got the glory at the Zinchara, while he did the hard, dangerous work behind the scene. Yes, they're buying into that tangle of rumors you had spread around, and in their version Ehandar is the big hero.”

“My brother is enjoying their company, and exercising them gives him something to do. Besides, he trains some of the Clansmen as well, doesn't he?”

“Yes, he does. Most of the lessons he gives to both groups together.

Then he decided the younger ones, the pages, or the squires as they call themselves now, needed extra training, given their age and inexperience.”

Anaxantis smiled.

“What harm can it do? They're just boys, young men who like feeling special because they can call a prince by his given name.”

“What harm can it do, he asks,” Hemarchidas said, exasperated.

“Anaxantis, that's just it. He is a prince and moreover, like you, lord governor. He has direct access to you, to the castle, the armory, everything.”

”What if your brother decides he'd rather have the Devil's Crown instead of your love after all? You're keeping the tower for your own personal use. Hardly anybody, besides you or your brother, ever enters there. What if one evening he comes up the stairs, accompanied by his fanatically loyal squires, armed to the teeth? There would be no way to escape. Nothing you could do. Nothing I could do.”

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Anaxantis slung his arm around the Cheridonian's hips.

“Hemarchidas, I see you're worried, and I love you for your concern, but, really, Ehandar is no threat to me. On the contrary. And his squires… let him have them. I don't mind.”

“Let him have everything that may restore him.”

“Look,” he added, “I'm not saying we shouldn't be careful, and I know full well that I'm not invulnerable, let alone immortal. In this case, however, I think you're barking up the wrong tree.”

Hemarchidas looked at his friend. As usual nothing could budge his confidence in his brother, he knew. Was it only love? Or partly guilt?

“Fair enough. I'll keep an eye on how things develop, though. And you will check as well, I guess.”

The prince shrugged.

“You know me well enough by now. Of course I will.”

Hemarchidas relaxed.

“Then my job is done.”

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Anaxantis stood before the wooden framework, looking pensively

at Berimar's helmet. It had been joined recently by a gorget, which covered the neck, and two enormous pauldrons to protect the shoulders. It looked as if the upturned bucket had grown iron wings.

The incomplete construction seemed to scowl ominously at him, and, his hands on his back, he glared right back at it.

”Ha,” Ehandar said enthusiastically, entering their room, “I see you're admiring the harness. What do you think? Doesn't it look frightfully grand?”

“Eh, yes, frightfully.” He simpered uncomfortably.

“The left pauldron was a bitch to get right, let me tell you. It had multiple dents, and I kept watching the blacksmith while he tried to remove them for fear he would damage it. Luckily, he didn't. On the contrary, he made a nice job of it, and even some of the rust fell off. I paid him handsomely.”

“If you keep that up, your reputation will suffer, love,” Anaxantis said.

Ehandar didn't seem to have heard him. He laid his hand on his half brother's shoulder and let out a sigh of satisfaction.

“Can you imagine wearing that into battle?”

“Not really, no,” Anaxantis said, doubtfully.

“Look how the pauldrons stick out far beyond the shoulders of a man of average build, and how they end horizontally, with razor sharp edges. With one brusque movement you could seriously harm an opponent. You could almost decapitate him with one single shoulder thrust.”

His eyes shone, enraptured. Then he snapped out of his enthrall— ment and kissed his brother on the cheek.

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“Right. You go sit in the chair and relax, while I go clean the floor,”

he said.

“Sweetheart, no,” Anaxantis protested. “We have servants to do that for us, remember?”

“Nonsense.” Ehandar smiled. “I can do a far better job. It will be done in no time, and, besides, I don't like other people, except friends, coming and going here. I like it that this is our little domain. Sit down.”