bowed to the two sisters, then followed the page out of the hall.
In the antechamber of the keep, he found the Hawkmaster, in charge of the hawk mews and the pigeon coop, standing with the small parchments. He handed them to Martin and withdrew. Martin saw the tiny message slips were sealed, with the royal crest of Krondor drawn on the roll of paper about them, indicating only the Duke was to open them. Martin said, ‘I’ll read these in my council chamber.’
Alone in his council room, Martin saw that the slips had been numbered one and two. Four pairs. The message had been sent four times to ensure it arrived intact. Martin unfolded one of the slips marked one, then his eyes widened as he fumbled to open another. The message was duplicated. He then read a number two, and tears came unbidden to his eyes.
Long minutes passed as Martin opened every slip, hoping to find something different, something to tell him he had misunderstood. For a long time, he could only sit staring at the papers before him as a cold sickness visited the pit of his stomach. Finally a knock came at the door, and he said weakly, ‘Yes?’
The door opened and Fannon entered. ‘You’ve been gone near an hour—’ He stopped when he saw Martin’s drawn expression and red eyes. ‘What is it?’
Martin could only wave his hand at the scraps. Fannon read them, then half staggered backward to sit in a chair. A shaking hand covered his face for a long minute. Both men were silent. At last he said, ‘How could this be?’
‘I don’t know. The message only says an assassin.’ Martin let his gaze wander around the room, every stone in the wall and piece of furniture associated with his father, Lord Borric. And of his family, the most like their father had been Arutha. Martin loved them all, but Arutha had been a mirror of Martin in many ways. They had shared a certain way of seeing things and had endured much together: the siege of the castle during the Riftwar while Lyam had been absent with their father, the long dangerous quest to Moraelin to find Silverthorn. No, in Arutha Martin had discovered his closest friend in many ways. Elven-taught, Martin knew the inevitability of death, but he was mortal and felt an empty place appear within himself. He regained his composure as he stood. ‘I had best inform Duke Miguel. His visit is to be short. We leave for Krondor tomorrow.’
Martin looked up as Fannon reentered the room. ‘It will take all night and morning to get ready, but the captain says your ship will be able to leave on the afternoon tide.’
Martin motioned for him to take a chair and waited a long moment before speaking. ‘How can it be, Fannon?’
The Swordmaster said, ‘I can’t answer that, Martin.’ Fannon was thoughtful a moment, then softly said, ‘You know I share your grief. We all do. He, and Lyam, were like my own sons.’
‘I know.’
‘But there are other matters that cannot be put off.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’m old, Martin. I suddenly feel the weight of ages upon me. News of Arutha’s death … makes me again feel my own mortality. I wish to retire.’
Martin rubbed his chin as he thought. Fannon was past seventy now, and while his mental capacity was undiminished, he lacked the physical stamina required of the Duke’s second-in-command. ‘I understand, Fannon. When I return from Rillanon—’
Fannon interrupted. ‘No, that’s too long, Martin. You will be gone several months. I need a named successor now, so I can begin to ensure he is capable when I leave office. If Gardan were still here, I’d have no doubt as to a smooth transition, but with Arutha stealing him away’ – the old man’s eyes filled with tears – ‘making him Knight-Marshal of Krondor, well …’
Martin said, ‘I understand. Who did you have in mind?’ The question was asked absently, as Martin struggled to keep his mind calm.
‘Several of the sergeants might serve, but we’ve no one of Gardan’s capabilities. No, I had Charles in mind.’
Martin gave a weak smile. ‘I thought you didn’t trust him.’
Fannon sighed. ‘That was a long time back, and we were fighting a war. He’s shown his worth a hundred times since then, and I don’t think there’s a man in the castle more fearless. Besides, he was a Tsurani officer, about equal to a knight-lieutenant. He knows warcraft and tactics. He has often spent hours speaking with me about the differences between Tsurani warfare and our own. I know this: once he learns something, he doesn’t forget. He’s a clever man and worth a dozen lesser men. Besides, the soldiers respect him and will follow him.’
Martin said, ‘I’ll consider it and decide tonight. What else?’
Fannon was silent for a time, as if speaking came with difficulty. ‘Martin, you and I have never been close. When your father called you to serve I felt, as did others, that there was something strange about you. You were always aloof, and you had those odd elvish ways. Now I know that part of the mystery was the truth of your relationship to Borric. I doubted you in some ways, Martin. I’m sorry to admit that … But what I’m trying to say is … you honour your father.’
Martin took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Fannon.’
‘I say this to ensure you understand why I say this next. This visit from Duke Miguel was only an irritation before; now it is an issue of weight. You must speak to Father Tully when you reach Rillanon, and let him find you a wife.’
Martin threw back his head and laughed, a bitter, angry laugh. ‘What jest, Fannon? My brother is dead and you want me to look for a wife?’
Fannon was unflinching before Martin’s rising anger. ‘You are no longer the Huntmaster of Crydee, Martin. Then no one cared should you ever wed and father sons. Now you are sole brother to the King. The East is still in turmoil. There is no duke in Bas-Tyra, Rillanon, or Krondor. Now there is no Prince in Krondor.’ Fannon’s voice became thick with fatigue and emotion. ‘Lyam sits upon a perilous throne should Bas-Tyra venture back to the Kingdom from exile. With only Arutha’s two babes in the succession now, Lyam needs alliances. That is what I mean. Tully will know which noble houses need to be secured to the King’s cause by marriage. If it’s Miguel’s little hellcat Inez, or even Tarloff’s giggler, marry her, Martin, for Lyam’s sake and the sake of the Kingdom.’
Martin stifled his anger. Fannon had pressed a sore point with him, even if the old Swordmaster was correct. In all ways, Martin was a solitary man, sharing little with any man save for his brothers. And he had never done well with the company of women. Now he was being told he must wed a stranger for the sake of his brother’s political health. But he knew there was wisdom in Fannon’s words. Should the traitorous Guy du Bas-Tyra be plotting still, Lyam’s crown was not secure. Arutha’s death showed all too clearly how mortal rulers were. Finally Martin said, ‘I’ll think about that as well, Fannon.’
The old Swordmaster rose slowly. Reaching the door, he turned. ‘I know you hide it well, Martin, but the pain is there. I’m sorry if it seems I add to it, but what I said needed to be said.’ Martin could only nod.
Fannon left and Martin sat alone in his chamber, the sole moving thing the shadows cast by the guttering torches in the wall sconces.
Martin stood impatiently watching the scurrying activity in preparation for his and the Duke of Rodez’s departure. The Duke had invited Martin to accompany them aboard his own ship, but Martin had managed a barely adequate refusal. Only the obvious stress of dealing with Arutha’s death had allowed him to rebuff the Duke without
