Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) (7 page)

Maklavir, Joseph, and Kendril, being the guests of honor, were all seated near the head of the table. Lord Bathsby and Lord Whitmore were nearby. Serentha sat next to Lord Whitmore, but Kendril noticed that so far she had hardly touched her food. She also deliberately kept her eyes from Lord Whitmore, as if avoiding any contact with the man. Next to her, at the head of the table, was her father, King Nathan.

There was no doubt that the King was very ill. His face seemed pale and almost yellowed, though his rich beard covered much of it. As he grasped his glass his hand trembled violently, and he seemed barely able to serve himself without assistance from a nearby servant. Still, there was life in his eyes, and several times he looked over fondly at Serentha, who returned his loving smiles.

Maklavir, by means that Kendril did not investigate too deeply, had managed to acquire brand new clothing. Even his purple cape seemed to shine with a new luster. The diplomat was soon conversing brightly with those around him, trading and sharing stories and jokes. Joseph, on the other hand, was rather quiet throughout the meal, as if something were troubling him.

“There are reports of another settlement in the Dagger Hills being attacked,” said Lord Bathsby after a sip of wine. “We may have to send out a regiment or two.”

Lord Whitmore delicately cut a slice of venison with his fork and knife. “Any reports on numbers?”

Bathsby shrugged, reaching for a roll. “Hard to tell. At least a few thousand.”

Whitmore whistled, and took a bite of the venison. “That’s quite a few clans. What do you suppose they’re all roused up about?”

Bathsby sighed. “Who can ever tell with the Jogarthi? I’m sure it will all blow over eventually. Come winter the whole lot of them should disband pretty quickly.” He spread some butter on a roll and glanced over at Serentha. “Are you feeling well, Your Highness? You seem distracted.”

The princess blinked, and focused on the nobleman. “Oh, yes, Lord Bathsby, I’m fine. Just…tired, that’s all.” She looked down at her plate, ignoring Lord Whitmore’s concerned glance.

Kendril watched her carefully, his eyes shifting back towards Lord Whitmore. The hand that held his fork slowly tightened.

There was a melodic ringing of silver on crystal. Silence settled over the table as all heads turned to the front. The royal servant who had been striking the wine glass with a spoon took a step back.

King Nathan rose slowly and painfully to his feet, steadying himself with both hands on the table in front of him.

“We are gathered here,” he said in between wheezing gasps, “to celebrate the safe return of my daughter,” he looked over at Serentha, “who was in the clutches of a bloodthirsty gang of villains. For this we owe the intrepidness of Lord Bathsby and the men of the Royal Guard, as well as these men,” he gestured with a shaking hand to Joseph, Kendril, and Maklavir.

There were murmurs of “here, here,” and even some scattered applause. Joseph shifted in his seat uneasily. Kendril looked down at his plate.

“In honor of this joyful occasion,” the King continued, “I have decreed a ball to be held tomorrow evening, to recognize the valiant courage of these men in service of the throne of Llewyllan.” With that the King sat down again, assisted by his servant.

Excited murmurs rippled down the length of the table. Kendril looked up in surprise. Serentha smiled happily. Lord Bathsby’s face was neutral as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes shifting between Serentha and Lord Whitmore.

“A ball?” whispered Maklavir to Kendril. He groaned. “Honestly, I’m not at
all
prepared for any of this. I hope to Eru there is a decent tailor’s shop open tomorrow.”

The dinner guests left slowly, mingling and talking under the lamps and crystal chandelier in the hallway. Serentha had retired to bed, claiming fatigue, and the King had gone as well. Maklavir was off in the billiards room, playing a hand of cards. Or at least that was where he had said he was going. Kendril suspected he was in the kitchen instead, playing a game of somewhat higher stakes.

Joseph and Kendril were standing by a potted plant at the bottom of the palace staircase, standing awkwardly amidst the swirling crowd of aristocrats. A man in the livery of the Llewyllan royal house appeared suddenly before them.

“Gentlemen,” he said with a deep bow before Joseph and Kendril, “your rooms here in the palace are ready for you, whenever you wish to retire. They are at the top of the staircase, the two doors immediately on your left.”

A faint glimmer of hope appeared in Kendril’s eyes. “They don’t happen to have feather beds, do they?”

Joseph glanced over at the Ghostwalker in surprise.

The servant smiled. “That they do, sir. Made from the finest goose down from southern Merewith. And now, if there is nothing else, gentlemen?” The servant gave a bow, then left.

Kendril closed his eyes, giving a contented sigh. “A real feather bed.”

Joseph glanced over at a couple of women laughing in the corner. “I always feel like I’m sinking into a bed like that. Too used to sleeping on the ground, I suppose.”

Kendril crossed his arms. “Have it your way. I intend to enjoy a little bit of civilized comfort for once.”

Joseph smiled. “Well,” he said slowly, “I think I might go for a walk before I turn in.”

“Back to the jail?” asked Kendril.

Joseph started. “How…what do you--?”

“Maklavir told me you ran off to the jail while he was at the tailor’s.” Kendril looked over at his companion. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain red-headed bandit, would it?”

Joseph bristled. “Possibly,” he acceded at last.

Kendril looked away. “I thought so.”

“They’re going to hang her, Kendril.”

The Ghostwalker gave an unconcerned shrug. “Isn’t that generally what they do with thieves?”

The scout lowered his eyebrows. “How can you be so callous?”

Kendril shot him a look. “Callous? Last I remember that sweet young thing was holding a loaded bow at us and robbing all our possessions.”

Joseph looked away, glowering. “I don’t think she deserves to die.”

“But it’s not really your choice to make, is it?” Kendril sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Don’t get caught up with this woman, Joseph. You’ll only end up regretting it.”

Joseph gave a sudden laugh. “You’re certainly one to talk about getting caught up with women.”

Kendril’s brow furrowed. “You won’t get into the jail tonight anyway,” he said slowly. “Might as well let it go until the morning.”

Joseph took a deep breath and nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” He glanced up the stairs towards the second floor of the palace. “I might call it a night, I think. See you tomorrow, Kendril.”

The Ghostwalker nodded, watching Joseph as he disappeared up the stairs. For a moment he continued to stand by the potted plant, staring up at the murals above him.

“Care to join me for that drink in the study, Kendril?”

Kendril turned and saw Lord Bathsby standing behind him. He thought for a moment, then nodded.

“Why not?”

“Make yourself at home,” said Bathsby as he tossed his cloak on a chair by the wall. He moved over to a finely polished chestnut desk located beneath a window that looked out over the palace garden. Outside the moon had just risen, bathing the bushes and hedgerows in a shining silver.

The study was rather large, set off from the main hall of the palace by a separate hallway. From the open door Kendril could just barely make out the low murmur of voices from the guests in the main hall, though it seemed like more and more people were starting to leave. The study itself had a wide bookshelf on two walls, covered with volumes of every kind of description. A large table stood near the desk, covered with maps and charts. On the walls were several curious trophies, including a shining scimitar that hung above the window, and a green and blue tartan above the door.

Kendril nodded towards the plaid. “What’s that?”

Bathsby glanced up. “A Jogarthi tartan, from the Helmas Clan, if I remember correctly.” He pulled out a short bottle and two glasses, and set them down on the wide desk. “I got it during my first campaign in the Dagger Hills, when I was seventeen.” The nobleman chuckled darkly. “I received a battlefield commission after I killed the chieftain who was wearing it.” He uncorked the top of the bottle. “Brandy?”

Kendril nodded. “Thanks.” His gaze wandered towards the titles on one of the bookshelves. Daltridge’s
History of the War of the Third Despair
was there, along with more scientific works like Keeling’s
Principia Scientifica
, as well as Erfort’s
Flora and Fauna of South Rothland
. He stopped on Hartland’s
Treatise for a Citizen Militia and its Various Benefits for the Modern State
. He pulled it out of the bookshelf and flipped through it curiously.

Bathsby finished pouring the brandy, and glanced up at the Ghostwalker. “Hartland, eh?” he said with a smile. “Some intriguing ideas, but too theoretical for my tastes. Here you go.” He pushed the glass of brandy towards Kendril.

Kendril replaced the book, and walked over to the desk. “Are all of these books yours?”

Bathsby settled back in his high-backed chair, sniffing the brandy. “Most of them. I taught myself to read when I was in the army. I haven’t stopped since.”

Kendril settled into a chair on the other side of the desk, and picked up the glass of brandy. “That’s quite commendable. Most people wouldn’t have bothered.”

Bathsby took a sip of the alcohol. “I was a determined lad,” he said wistfully. “I had designs to change the world, back then.”

Kendril tasted the brandy. “Have you?”

The nobleman laughed. “Not yet. I’m still just a simple soldier, Kendril.” His face turned serious as he looked at the long bookshelf to his right. “Besides, the world doesn’t need
me
to change. It already is changing, and faster than most men seem to like.”

Kendril set down the glass. “What do you mean?”

Bathsby sighed. He tapped the glass in his hand with his finger. “Look around, Kendril. Here in Llewyllan time may seem to stand still, but outside of these borders all of Zanthora is transforming into something completely new, totally unique.” He gestured up towards a blue volume on the bookshelf. “That book, for instance.
Observations on the Celestial Movements
, by Sir Francis Urqart. If he’s right, Zanthora may
not
be the center of the universe after all.”

The Ghostwalker nodded slowly. He picked up the glass again. “I’ve heard of his ideas before. They’re not entirely convincing.”

Bathsby shook his head, leaning forward excitedly. “Perhaps not, but that’s not the point, Kendril. Urqart is a sign of the times. He represents all those who are beginning to ask the forbidden questions, to delve into matters that have been ignored for far too long.”

Kendril gave Bathsby a curious glance. “You seem remarkably interested in astronomy for a simple soldier.”

The nobleman laughed, and leaned back again in his chair. “But it all
connects
, don’t you see? Our grandfathers fought each other with swords and shields, locked into a feudal system and following a rigid code of chivalry. Nowadays a nation cannot be considered great unless it owns a battery of cannons, and the knights of yesterday have been replaced by the musketeers of today. It’s all a part of the natural course of change. The world
is
changing, Kendril, and Llewyllan is in danger of being left behind.” He fell silent, looking up at the tartan above the door.

The glass clinked as Kendril lifted it from the desk. He took a short taste, then settled back in the chair. “You sound as if you don’t have much confidence in the King,” he said.

Bathsby snorted. “The King? The King is tottering old fool. His time has come and gone, only he doesn’t know it. He still holds jousting tournaments, for Eru’s sake. Jousting tournaments!” The nobleman laughed bitterly, and shook his head. “No, my friend, Llewyllan is not changing as it should, nor will it as long as an outdated, backwards monarchy continues to rule.”

Kendril paused, the brandy glass still in his hand. “So what exactly are you proposing?”

Lord Bathsby saw the expression on the Ghostwalker’s face, and gave a hearty laugh. “Nothing extreme, I assure you. Just observations, that’s all.” His smile faded. “But Llewyllan
is
in danger, in danger of being left behind because of its stubbornness to change.” He gestured to one of the maps on the table. “Our nation is in a delicate position, Kendril. We are not a populous people, and we are not a powerful one. The Lion’s Gate is the only pass through the Shadow Mountains, and Llewyllan controls it, along with the lucrative trade with the Spice Lands to the south.” He swished his brandy around in his glass. “Everyone else in Rothland knows that, and it’s for this reason that Llewyllan cannot afford to be lax. We’re a small fish in a big ocean, and the sharks are circling.”

Kendril put his brandy back on the desk, and pushed it away. His eyes were guarded. “So what can be done, then?”

Bathsby was silent for a moment. He wrapped his hands around the glass. Through the window the moon rose ever higher, its silver sheen filling the garden outside.

“You have heard about Lord Whitmore and the princess?” he asked at last.

Kendril felt a yawning hole form in his stomach. “No,” he said flatly.

“Lord Whitmore,” said Bathsby slowly, “has asked Serentha to marry him. The King is in favor of the match, and it will undoubtedly take place. It is only a matter of time.”

Kendril fell back into the chair. He felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. “I didn’t know.”

Bathsby shrugged. “I’m not surprised.” He leaned forward, playing with the glass in his hand. “Whitmore is a greater fool than the King,” he said quietly. “He’s never done a day of hard labor in his life. He knows nothing of science, or technology, or even war or diplomacy. If he is allowed to become King than Llewyllan will certainly die, or worse, be swallowed up by Calbraith.” A look of determination came into his eyes. “I can’t allow that to happen, Kendril. I am too much of a patriot to see my people devolve into impotence or servitude.”