Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor (38 page)

Granting him authority—well, that was another question altogether. Alberich didn't really need or want overt authority; he had all he could handle covertly.

But he
would
get, by virtue of being Selenay's most visible bodyguard, complete access to every strategy session. No one would think twice about it. If he really saw something important, and knew there was something that needed to be said, it would be said through Selenay, or Talamir, or even Sendar himself.

Ah, the advantage of being a Mindspeaking Herald. . . .

:I think that the position of being behind the Powers that Be suits you better, anyway,:
Kantor observed.

:Why? So that no one has to look at my face?:
he asked sardonically.

Kantor pretended to be shocked.
:Why, Chosen—was that a
joke
I just heard?:

:As you know, I have no sense of humor,:
Alberich responded.
:Now, hush, I want to see just how hysterical the Council members get when Sendar talks about the leaks of what should have been Council information. And how much of it is feigned.:

Because he had some suspicions that there were a few—a very few, no more than two or three—members of the Council who were not as tight-lipped as they should have been. He didn't suspect any of them of sending information to the enemy
themselves,
but rather, that they gossiped about Council doings to others. They probably thought that their friends and cronies were trustworthy enough—if they actually thought at all, which was doubtful. These highborn Valdemarans seemed to take it as read that
none
of their friends, or their friends' friends, could
possibly
be untrustworthy, and never mind heaps of evidence to the contrary. . . .

And never mind all of the political infighting that went on between factions.

That was probably where leaks were happening, and not an overt traitor. Of course, all of this chattering made them feel very important and in the know, and their friends would be feeding them information
back
so that in their turn, they could impress the rest of the Council members with their knowledge and insight.
They
thought it was harmless, and in any other situation than the one they all found themselves in now, it would have been. But now, such loose-lipped behavior was nothing like harmless. Even without the Tedrels on the Border, there were other hazards, outside and inside of Valdemar, that could (and probably did) use this information to the detriment of poor, ordinary folk.

So Alberich was paying very close attention to the reactions of the Councilors, and he wasn't at all happy with what he saw.

Lord Gartheser.
He was oh! so very concerned, shocked, dismayed, and he was acting, Alberich was certain of it. Gartheser headed up a faction that had been particularly nasty about Alberich's presence among the Heralds, but Alberich wouldn't have held a grudge if they hadn't been so underhanded about their opposition. Still, he'd have given Gartheser the benefit of the doubt—

Not with that bit of overacting. Gartheser was up to something. Gartheser knew more than he should. And where had he gotten that information?

:Hmm. Unfortunately, Sendar's old playfellow Orthallen is in Gartheser's coterie. . . . :
That was Kantor, who actually knew far more about these people than Alberich did, which was saying a great deal. The Companions had their own information tree, which was as flourishing as any gossip vine in the Court, and was far more accurate.

Alberich suppressed a grimace. That wasn't good. Lord Orthallen, a few years older than Sendar, had been kind to Sendar when the King was a lonely child in the Court, before he'd been Chosen. Now, Alberich was fairly well certain that the
only
reason the adolescent Orthallen had been kind to and protective of the grubby little child Sendar had once been was because he'd had an eye to the main chance, even then. But you couldn't persuade Sendar of that, and as a consequence, as a child, he had made Orthallen into his hero, and as an adult, his close friend and compatriot. Orthallen had extraordinary access to the Royals for someone who wasn't a Herald. In fact, it was virtually a certain thing that Orthallen was going to get the Council seat soon to be vacated by Lord Tholinar.

Alberich liked Orthallen even less than Gartheser. Lord Gartheser was just pigheaded and prejudiced and interfering. He wanted things
his
way, he didn't trust anyone who wasn't highborn, and he wasn't entirely certain even of those jumped-up commoner Heralds. But although he despised Alberich, he didn't mean any harm. And though he probably had friends who were not at all trustworthy, there was no way yet to prove that to him. To give him the benefit of the doubt, Alberich was fairly certain that if anyone could bring Gartheser proof of his friends' iniquity, there was no doubt that he would drop them without hesitation.

Orthallen, on the other hand. . . .

Well, Alberich had no real evidence against the man, other than the evidence of his feelings. Or perhaps, his Gift. Either way, there was
something
about Orthallen that put his back up, like a cat scenting a snake. He had no evidence against the man, and nothing other than his instincts to go on, but—

Now that was an interesting observation, coming from a Companion. Was this purely Kantor's feeling, or did he have some other source of information?
:What if you hooved fellows conspire to keep Orthallen safely occupied with something else? Do you think you could organize that?:

:I can try, but I'm not a miracle worker. The most difficult part is that no one seems to see anything wrong with Orthallen but me and thee.:
Kantor sounded discouraged, as well he should.
:My fellow Companions don't
like
him either, but that could be only because he doesn't really like our Chosen.:

:Then thee and me will have to do what we can.:
Among a thousand other things. . . .

He pulled his attention back to the Council meeting, and was pleasantly surprised to see that the Council members, after their initial shock, were actually pulling things together. Surprised? No—astonished. He truly hadn't thought they would bury their differences and get straight down to working together, burying feuds and sparring and jockeying for power so quickly—

But they were! The horseshoe-shaped table buzzed with half a dozen overlapping conversations, as the Councilors dropped their political differences and settled down to the task at hand. Sendar somehow kept track of it all; Selenay just kept track of who was in need of a page, of writing materials, or just another pitcher of drink. As the time candles burned down, Selenay sent more pages for food and drink, while the Council organized and coordinated the resources of their territories, Guilds, crafts, and associations. They were tallying up what could be brought down South immediately, what could be collected in a fortnight or a moon, what could be spared, and how much could be done and still leave just enough left to keep everyone from starving to death over winter, and no more. Because now, finally, they
all
realized that even if the entire kingdom was left impoverished, that ruthless stripping of resources still had to be done in the face of the enormous threat that the Tedrels posed. Finally,
finally,
they understood. And at least now that they understood, they were prepared to act, and act swiftly, with no argument. The shock over, they were showing their mettle. Even Lord Gartheser.

“Better hungry and cold than dead and cold,” said Lady Donrevy grimly. That seemed to sum up everyone's feelings.

Not before time, but at least it was
in
time. Alberich settled his face into a mask of indifference. It was time for him to observe, and nothing more. As the candlemarks passed, the daylight faded, and pages brought and took away laden and empty platters and pitchers, he watched and listened.

His
time to act would come later.

“No, and no, and
no!
”

Selenay was in a temper; losing patience with her maid-servant entirely, she pulled the useless gowns out of the traveling chest, wadded them up, and threw them on the floor. She did
not
want the creature to try and foist the blasted things off on her again.

“I will
not
take those gowns, or
these
gowns, or any gowns
at all!
” she snapped, as the maid snatched the dresses up with an expression of shock and offense, and smoothed them hastily. Selenay felt a pang of guilt over the crumpled and wrinkled state of the delicate white silks and satins, raimes and linens—but not enough to show that she felt any guilt. “How many times must I tell you? I'm going to a
battlefield,
not a fete, a ball, a state visit, or a festival!”

“But, Highness, you will be surrounded by highborn young men!” the maid protested indignantly. “Your Highness cannot possibly wish to appear the hoyden—”

Great good gods! What part of “battlefield” doesn't she understand?
Selenay suppressed a groan, and wondered what demon had possessed her to accept this foolish woman as her personal servant.

Unfortunately, the creature did
not
know about Heralds, nor did she care. She cared only about the trappings of rank, the care of gowns, the importance of self-importance, and she could not seem to fathom that there was another set of duties of the Princess and Heir that went far beyond looking handsome, finding a husband of suitable rank, and following the appropriate court etiquette. Yes, she was sheer genius when it came to dressing well and looking exquisite. But that was all she was good for. On the whole, the woman was far more hindrance than help, especially now, and finally Selenay sent her on a fool's errand into the attics just to get rid of her, knowing that
she
would be packed and gone long before the woman got back.

Then she did something she would normally
never
have done. She pulled out everything the maid had packed, and
tossed
it out, all over the furniture, the floor, wherever it happened to fall when she dumped the packs. The maid could do something useful for a change when she returned; she could pick it all up, see that the gowns were pressed and brushed, sort out all the hairdressing nonsense and cosmetics, and put it all away. Selenay could braid her hair by herself very well, and the only “cosmetic” she was likely to use “out there” was soap.

With the maid out of the way, it took just over a quarter of a candlemark for Selenay to pack. It wasn't difficult, she'd learned how to pack for the field long ago, and had watched her friends as they packed up to go out countless times. Wistfully, she had watched them then; she had known it wasn't possible for
her
to go, but she had wanted to, so badly.

Well, now she was going; and she didn't want to. Alberich probably thought that she would be excited about being in the front lines, and anticipate being in the thick of fighting, right up until she got her first real look at it, and only
then
would she lose her taste for war. He was wrong. She had already lost her taste for war, and she knew far more about it than she thought he realized. She had been making it her business to visit the wounded in the House of Healing ever since all this began, to thank them. They seemed to appreciate her attention, though why, she couldn't imagine. Maybe it was just that for most of them, it was their first (and probably last) close-up look at one of the royals.

Well, she knew first-hand what war
really
meant, and she was absolutely terrified. And was not, under any circumstances, going to show it.

She rang for a servant to help her with her trunks, but carried two of her packs herself. And she outdistanced the poor servants in her haste to get down to the stables. Probably she should have waited for an escort of Guardsmen, but she didn't have time. And if she wasn't safe at this moment, with the Palace and grounds alive with Guards, Heralds, and the last of the regiments to leave Haven, she would never be safe anywhere.

She popped out of the nearest door onto the courtyard in front of the Palace, a place that was normally quiet and empty at this time of the morning. Not this morning. . . .

The sun was just above the horizon, a sliver of red in a dusky sky; the air was a little damp, with dew slicking the cobbles rimming the pavement and birds filling the air with their morning calls. It seemed too beautiful a morning to be riding out to war.