were a few chuckles. Tanaby said, ‘The unusual arrangement, dear Zea, was meant to evoke the lack of coziness we may expect to experience if we agree to participate in the prince’s venture.’
‘I see.’ The baroness kept a straight face. ‘Well, it’s been a dull year in Marley. The harvest’s safely in and ample enough in spite of the Wolf’s Breath, and my knights and thanes are restless and in need of distraction.’ She glanced out the window at the spectacular sky. ‘A pity we only get these magnificent sunsets when the volcanos belch.’
Old Baron Toborgil Silverside said, ‘King Achardus of Didion and his starving people must take faint comfort in such beauty.’
‘Famine smite the lot of them dead,’ growled Beorbrook, ‘and may a hundred thousand vultures shite their bones!’
‘And so let it be forever,’ Count Ramscrest added, in a voice hard as granite.
A respectful silence fell over the group, for everyone knew that the marshal’s two elder sons and Ramscrest’s youngest brother had been in the ill-fated royal delegation presenting the Edict of Sovereignty to the King of Didion. Ramscrest’s brother had left a widow and three small children. As for Beorbrook, only his third son, Count Olvan Elktor, untried in battle at twenty-one and thick as two oaken planks, was now left to inherit the most strategically important duchy in all of Cathra. There was small hope that Olvan would ever fill his father’s boots as earl marshal, and it seemed likely that the office and its great perquisites would pass out of the Beorbrook family with Parlian’s demise.
All at once the door of the inner chamber was kicked open with a sharp rap and Conrig appeared. The Prince Heritor was dressed all in black, as was his custom, and his wheaten hair and short beard looked almost coppery in the ruddy light, a strange contrast to his dark brown eyes. He had two magnums of wine tucked under each arm and a corkscrew dangling from his right hand.
‘Good evening to you all, my friends, and thank you for coming. Be at ease, and let there be no idle ceremony.’ When they continued to stand motionless and uncertain, he said to Vanguard, ‘Godfather, help me cope with these bottles, which I brought specially from Brent Lodge for this gathering. It’s a brisk new Stippenese vintage from the Niss Valley that will quench our thirst without dulling our wits. Time enough for ardent spirits after you’ve all listened to my proposal and made up your minds about it.’
They relaxed then, and there were low-pitched words of greeting to Conrig from the older nobles and diffident nods from the young ones. Cups were drawn from velvet or leather pouches and held out for filling by the prince himself, who called each person by name and made casual talk. Lady Zeandrise had her weathered hand kissed by the royal winebearer and pursed her lips tightly to forestall a smile.
Finally Conrig poured into Tanaby’s own simple beaker of waxed honeywood and let the duke do the honors for him. The prince’s silver cup was lined with gold; a great amethyst formed part of the stem, a talisman against drunkenness … and poison.
‘A toast,’ he said quietly, lifting his drink. ‘To the good sense of those here present, which must determine whether the plan I propose will be acceptable or die aborning.’
‘To good sense,’ Tanaby echoed, ‘but also to daring.’ He had already been taken into Conrig’s confidence and knew some details of the scheme, but had withheld judgment of its merit pending this consultation with the others.
They took their seats in a poorly concealed aura of excitement, with the Prince Heritor seated on the folding chair and the others spread out on either side. Young Baron Kimbolton put more wood on the fire. The sunset was rapidly fading.
‘Do you like the wine?’ Conrig inquired pleasantly.
Most voiced their approval. Count Munlow Ramscrest grimaced and shifted his great bulk so that his stool creaked ominously. His oversized mantle, trimmed with black wolf fur, spread around him like a sledge robe. ‘I would as lief take honest Cathran mead any day over foreign grape-gargle. Still, it does cut the phlegm.’
The others roared with laughter.
But then bluff Ramscrest asked the prince flat out, ‘Your Grace, does this plan of yours involve mere punitive strikes against Didion, or would you wage open warfare?’
‘I intend to mount an invasion,’ the prince replied, ‘and seize Holt Mallburn, and force Achardus to accept the Edict of Sovereignty or have it stuffed down his gullet.’
Ramscrest’s face, as homely and full of bristles as that of a boar, broke into a beatific smile. He said, ‘Oh, yes. Yes indeed!’
Some of the others began to exclaim and call out questions, but the penetrating voice of Parlian Beorbrook cut through the clamor like a brazen trumpet. ‘And what does the King’s Grace think of this brave notion?’
They all fell silent.
The prince set his cup on the small table before him, rose, and began to pace slowly back and forth in front of the fire. He was five-and-twenty years of age, over six feet tall, well-built, and fine of feature as his father, King Olmigon, had been in his youth; but no one in the room would dispute that Conrig Wincantor far surpassed his sire both in strength of character and in mental acuity. In recent years the king had become capricious and vacillating, prone to following dubious advice from certain favored members of his Privy Council, and shunting important matters aside while he dithered over some triviality.
Olmigon had agreed to Conrig’s Edict of Sovereignty proposal only after months of dispute. It was the king who had made the disastrous decision that the royal delegation bearing the Edict to the court of Didion should be small and accompanied only by a token force of warriors; and it was the king, a fine naval tactician in his prime, who had decided that Cathra’s response to the delegation’s slaughter should be a sea blockade rather than a land invasion of the northern kingdom.
Conrig said, ‘Before answering that question, Earl Marshal, I must impart to you melancholy tidings. Since you’ve been busy for the past months keeping Great Pass secure from bandits and Didionite incursions, you may not know that King Olmigon has lately experienced a worsening of that abdominal rupture which has so long afflicted him. The royal alchymists are zealously applying both natural science and sorcery, but the latterday weight-gain of my father makes treatment more difficult than in past years.’ He took a poker and pulled the smoldering logs together so that they might burn better. ‘King Olmigon is in great pain much of the time. He continues to conduct important state business from his bed, however, refusing medicine that he fears might dull his mind, even as the suffering itself prevents him from straight thinking. Queen Cataldise is at his side day and night.’
Dying! They all had the identical thought.
The prince turned about and let his eyes rove slowly over those seated. ‘However, my lady Maudrayne has sent to Tarn for a healer of special talent, and if God wills, the King’s Grace will be restored to health. I command you not to broadcast tidings of his sad disability beyond this room. Only keep him in your prayers.’
And remember who it is that will succeed to the throne of Cathra when Olmigon does sing his Deathsong.
Nods and murmurs.
‘It was my personal decision,’ Conrig continued, ‘as well as that of a certain other high-ranking member of the Privy Council, not to trouble the king with this new matter until I have consulted with you all and determined whether or not the invasion proposal is practicable. As Lord Constable of the Realm, acting with
