Warautumn (46 page)

“And?” Avall prompted through a sudden yawn.

“Actually,” Tryffon went on, “what we’ve found most reliable has been a series of messengers that have been sent by various folk in the gorge. Tyrill sent several, then seems to have run out of trustworthy squires, but from what we’ve been able to determine from them and by other means, things are bad
there and getting worse. Priest-Clan apparently intended to kill as many High Clan Chiefs as they could manage and slot themselves into those positions, post double guards on everyone else, and assume it would be business as usual. They assumed Common Clan would bend to their will, but Common Clan relies on goods from High Clan, and High Clan goods were suddenly not forthcoming.”

He paused for a long draught of wine, then went on relentlessly.

“As far as goods and the distribution of same, in which category I include food—well, to put it bluntly, everything south of Eron Gorge is still in chaos. On the one hand, you’ve got the traditional poor, who’ve always depended on royal largesse, but who have suddenly found that royal largesse has dried up, so they’re petitioning Priest-Clan for help. Only now they’re finding out that those truly good Priests who used to help them can’t anymore, because most of Priest-Clan’s southern resources were decimated along with everyone else’s; never mind that the planting’s been done late if at all; and their seniors in Tir-Eron have been too busy keeping a peace they destroyed in the first place to oversee planting and harvest up there; and all
that’s
ignoring the fact that they’ve got their hands full of refugees.”

“Which means,” Preedor took up, “that they went looking to their local Priests for help, and when those—mostly—good men and women tried to help, they found they couldn’t. Which has them angry at their seniors.”

“Which basically means that Priest has made enemies among the poor when they sought to make allies,” Lykkon summarized.

“And as for what stirred them up to start with—the fact that Priest said we had a means to access The Eight directly and weren’t sharing—they’re suddenly having to explain why The Eight have let things get so bad when it’s Their minions who are supposed to be in charge.”

“Which isn’t even counting the refugees,” Tryffon took up
again. “Normally, they would have been absorbed back into their clans, propped up, helped out, and sent away again with whatever they’d need to rebuild, and Common Clan would have made a good profit selling their own licensed wares and whatever surpluses they’d managed to buy up cheap now and then. But suddenly their home clans aren’t there anymore, and half the subchiefs from South and Half are prowling through their armories in search of weapons while trying to figure out who they can get to fight for them in order to defend their property against their own, even more unfortunate, countrymen, along with trying to restore order in the name of absent Chiefs and an absent King. Fortunately, honor is pretty deeply embedded in anyone who’s wound up with any kind of chieftainship, but what was supposed to have been a neat little change for Priest hasn’t worked out that way at all.”

Avall puffed his lips thoughtfully. “That’s a lot to digest in a small space. I wonder again why you didn’t abandon the siege and return.”

“Because,” Vorinn replied quickly, “we were almost here when we got word of the coup, and then they took you prisoner, and we felt like we couldn’t leave you. And then, when you disappeared, we expected every moment that you’d return with the Lightning Sword and everything would be better. But even if we had left as soon as you vanished, we would have been taking a risk, because that raised the possibility that we would find ourselves with foes before us and behind us, both.”

“And now we’ve got an even larger army—in theory,” Preedor added. “If we can figure out how to feed them. In fact, I’d suggest we start recruiting from Gem as soon as possible. We should at least be able to acquire a spare hundred or so. We might even
—might
, let me stress—get a few from the Ninth Face, if you make them swear mighty oaths, say on the Sword of Air.”

“All of which means,” Vorinn finished, “that we may actually have helped matters in the long term by waiting. We’re stronger, while Tir-Eron is in worse chaos than before, and
therefore better primed for retaking. The problem is going to be toppling those in command without ourselves running afoul of other, lesser opposition, and getting tangled up in that. But I think we can manage that,” he concluded. “We make a pretty formidable team, all things considered, especially now that we’ve got more magic than we’ve ever had before.”

“Which we need to use with extreme caution,” Avall warned. “There was a reason we sent the regalia away to start with. I’m willing to use it now—and Zeff’s new sword as well—which I guess should become yours for the present; The Eight know you’ve earned it—but after this. Well, I’ll decide after we resolve affairs in Tir-Eron.”

“Before or after Sundeath?” Tryffon asked pointedly.

“
After we resolve affairs in Tir-Eron
,” Avall repeated quietly, and said no more, though he knew Tryffon was referencing his oft-stated intention of ruling only until Sundeath, and then trying, very hard, to step down.

“Now,” Avall continued through another yawn, “I think we’ve said as much as most people can digest as full of good food and wine as we are, and so soon after a major battle. So what I’d suggest is that everyone disperse to quarters and take a bath—or a nap. Whatever you can manage. Let your squires, subchiefs, and seconds-in-command run things for a while; it’s what they’re supposed to do. We’ll reconvene at supper and hash out more of this then—and get what reports we can regarding hard points, like number of people who’ll be coming with us, number of prisoners and casualties, potential supply problems, and that sort of thing. And tomorrow—not at dawn—let’s say at noon; we all need to spoil ourselves a little—we ride out for Tir-Eron.”

“For Tir-Eron!” everyone shouted, leaping to their feet. “Tir-Eron!”

Avall watched them file out by ones and twos, until only Merryn, Rann, Lykkon, and Bingg remained, all of whom regarded him expectantly.

He took a long draught from his glass of wine, filled it, and
took another, savoring the vintage. “Merry,” he said at last, “something tells me that you’ve got a season’s worth of anger built up in you, and that that you didn’t get to do nearly as much fighting today as you would have liked. So how about you go find young Ahfinn and squeeze everything out of him you can—and I mean that literally, if you have to. It wasn’t Priest-Clan that tortured you during the war, but Ahfinn’s friends were in camp when Barrax did, and they could have helped you and they didn’t. Remind him that all the Ninth Face are legally traitors because of that. See what he says. It strikes me that Ahfinn likes information and the kind he likes best is the kind that keeps him alive.”

Merryn grinned, rose, and managed the sketchiest of salutes before departing. Avall turned his gaze to Lykkon and Bingg. “Lyk,” he said, “your tent should still be here, but I doubt there’s much left in it that would be of use to you. Feel free to move in with me—you and Bingg both—until you’ve got your own gear like you want it. You might also want to keep an eye on Myx and Riff’s kit, since no one else will be around to do that and I’m sure they’ve got some keepsakes in their quarters.”

“Which is a polite way of dismissing us,” Lykkon chuckled, as he, too, rose to his feet, giving Bingg, who had dozed off, a wickedly effective yank in the process. “Come, cub,” Lykkon muttered. “Let’s find you some proper squire’s livery. You’re
way
too small to be a soldier.”

Suddenly Avall was alone with Rann. Rann moved up two chairs to claim the one beside Avall: his former Regent’s Chair. “I know what you’re thinking about,” he said, “or rather, who.”

Avall raised a brow but did not reply. Instead, he slid the bottle toward his friend. Rann took a sip obligingly, then stared at it dubiously and drained the bottle. “Actually, what I’m thinking,” Avall murmured, “is that, now that the ‘problem of Gem-Hold’ does seem to be over, we’ll be moving farther away from them than ever. I don’t like being that far
away. Especially when I don’t even know how far away ‘far away’ is.”

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Rann agreed. “When they’re with you, sometimes you wish you had your own space again—your own distance. But when they’re gone …”

Avall patted his hand, then grasped it fiercely. “Only a little longer, Rann. I keep telling myself that. Only a little longer. But I keep waiting.”

“For what?”

“Waiting,” Avall sighed, “to be happy. No, let me change that—I’m relatively happy now. Let me say … waiting to be content.”

Rann regarded him levelly. “Something tells me that’s never going to happen to either of us—at least not in Eron.”

“At least not in Eron,” Avall repeated sleepily, and said no more. And then fatigue ambushed him indeed and gave him contentment of another kind: in soft and dreamless slumber.

Of the myriad possible ways Tyrill had thought to end her days, none had involved incarceration in a prison cell. And
certainly
not in the ones beneath the Citadel, where the only light came from a rationed one candle per day and what could be coaxed down a dozen levels from outside by a system of shafts and mirrors. Unfortunately, today was gloomy, cold, and rainy, and the outside light was dim—which was probably just as well. Her spirits were dim, too: the dimmest they had been since she had begun her back-street rebellion. How
that
was going now, she had no idea. Elvix hadn’t told her whether she had distributed more blowguns to would-be partisans, and in that Elvix was probably wise. As for Ilfon: she had heard absolutely nothing—not since her own imprisonment began. Priest-Clan could be gathering evidence against both of them, she supposed, but a more likely supposition was that the Kingdom was in such disarray there wasn’t time to see her properly disposed. Which could be good—if they managed to forget about her long enough for someone (she had no idea who) to effect a rescue—or bad, if that chaos resulted in summary execution without trial.

In any case, it was good to be indoors and relatively warm, for the weather had changed abruptly and the wind and rain were cold—the kind of cold that made her bones ache at the best of times, which these were not. She doubted, frankly, that she would have been able to maintain her previous level of activity much longer anyway.

But the waiting was getting to her. Pacing hurt too much, and the light was too uncertain to read by; she was therefore reduced to sleeping and remembering. Inevitably, too, many of those memories centered around her two-son, Eddyn: dead now, and a hero and a traitor all at once—which seemed to be the lot of her sept of the clan. He had even been imprisoned, for destruction of a masterwork—for which offense, oddly enough, he had never stood trial. She wondered suddenly if he might not have been housed in this selfsame cell. It was certainly possible.

In any case, she waited, and then she dozed, and when she awoke again, it was to the sound of booted feet approaching in the corridor beyond the thick oak door. She sat up where she had lain, swung her legs off the bed, and composed herself, wishing she had a comb and a mirror, but grateful that her captors had given her a warmer and more serviceable dress than the one she had been wearing when she and Ilfon had been taken. Sooner than she had really expected, the tread stopped, a loud knock sounded, and a woman called, “Lady Tyrill, your trial will begin in one hand; I have come to see that you arrive in the Hall of Clans in a manner befitting your station.”

A key promptly rattled in the lock, and an instant later the door opened to admit a hard-faced, middle-aged woman in Ninth Face livery: a woman bearing a pile of neatly folded clothing. Two men stood guard in the hallway behind her, but withdrew when the woman closed the door, though Tyrill did not hear them depart.

“I appreciate your consideration,” Tyrill acknowledged tightly. And calmly began sorting through the garments. They
were
her
garments, which surprised her—a full set of ceremonial kit in Argen-yr’s colors and heraldry, in fact, but only in the colors of a rank and file member of that clan. There was no Craft-Chief’s tabard, for instance, nor any other sign of special status, the omission of which had to be deliberate. Not for the first time did she wonder who, exactly, now exercised sovereignty over her former domain. Someone from the sept of Priest-Clan devoted to Craft, she had heard, which made sense, even if it was not encouraging. But which someone, she had no idea.

Far too soon the last laces were tied, the last buckle set, the last sash cinched and Tyrill found that she was ready. Her attendant—she never knew the woman’s name—reached for the cane in the corner, but Tyrill shook her head. “Today,” she said stiffly, “I will do without it.”

The woman scowled as though she were about to protest but had thought better of it, and nodded instead. Crossing to the door, she rapped twice, then called out, “Servants of the Ninth Face, we are ready.”