Part 11 (1/2)

Gavril crossed the room and unchained his strongbox. s.h.i.+elding its contents from the others, he lifted the lid and picked out a pair of coins. Carefully rechaining the box, he walked back to Mierre and held out one of the coins, a large silver dreit.

”Is this a suitable gift for your wench?” he asked.

Mierre's eyes went round and wide. He stared at the coin as though he'd never seen one before.

”d.a.m.ne,” he said softly. ”It's a fortune.” Gavril put the dreit in the larger boy's hand, pressing it hard against Mierre's sweaty palm. ”Give her that.” He held up the second coin, another silver dreit. ”This, she may have when her work is accomplished.” Mierre's mouth was hanging open now. He gaped like the illiterate, ill-bred, minor n.o.bleman's son that he was. Slowly he took the second coin from Gavril's hand.

”It's too much,” he said hoa.r.s.ely. ”It will frighten her.” ”Will it?” Gavril asked scornfully. ”I think not. If she's as l.u.s.ty a drab as you say-” ”She's no drab!” Mierre said hotly. Gavril raised his brows, and Mierre seemed to realize he'd just yelled at his prince.

Looking shocked, Mierre bowed at once. ”Forgive me, your highness. I-I spoke without thinking.”

”This isn't a simple kiss. She is to lure the man completely away from his post. If she can do that, especially to one of Lord Odfrey's knights, she will have earned her money well.” Gavril c.o.c.ked his head to one side and stared very hard at Mierre. ”You will not let jealousy interfere, will you?” ”No, your highness!” he said too rapidly. ”No. She is only a housemaid, after all.”

”Exactly.”

”Well, well,” Kaltienne said, giving them each a wink. ”And maybe you will persude her to look twice in my direction too when she is-” ”Shut up!” Mierre shouted.

A knock on the door interrupted them. Gavril frowned and gestured for silence. His manservant Aoun went to the door, while Gavril's protector. Sir Los, rose quietly to his feet and stood with his hand on his sword hilt. Aoun murmured with someone on the other side of the door, then glanced over his shoulder.

”Well?” Gavril demanded impatiently. ”Is it that page I asked to keep me informed of all messengers who come? Has a dispatch arrived?” Aoun bowed low and stepped out of the way.

”No,” said a tall, lean figure garbed in a tunic of mallard blue. Thum du Maltie entered and swept off his cap with a bow. ”Your highness, I have been sent to escort you to Lord Odfrey.”

Astonished and far from pleased, Gavril frowned. ”Now?”

”Yes, now.”

”But I am occupied,” Gavril said, gesturing at Mierre and Kaltienne. ”With my friends.”

He kept his tone quiet and pleasant, but the insult he delivered to Thum was unmistakable. Mierre puffed out his brawny chest. Kaltienne grinned. Thum's freckled face turned bright red. He was well mannered, educated, quick of wit and understanding, but obstinate, unwilling to commit his loyalty, and too ready to question the worth of Gavril's orders or intentions. Which was exactly why he had not been included in tonight's scheming. If he learned about the intended raid, he would feel it his duty to inform Lord Odfrey.

Already, he'd proven himself a tongue-tattle this afternoon by telling Lord Odfrey where to find Gavril in the marsh.

And Gavril never forgot a slight.

”Your highness is to come at once, if it is convenient,” Thum said to Gavril.

”It is not,” Gavril said.

”Then I am to wait until your highness is free,” Thum said. Annoyed by this interruption, Gavril frowned.

He could play the game and dawdle here in his quarters until the evening came to a close. But Lord Odfrey had a disconcerting habit of seeing through such ploys and dealing with them unpleasantly. There might be extra ch.o.r.es a.s.signed to Gavril tomorrow, or extra drills, or some other unpleasantness done to him under the guise of training. ”Very well,” Gavril said to Thum. He pointed at the opposite end of the room. ”Wait over there.”

Thum bowed and walked silently to the place indicated. He stood next to Gavril's writing table of exquisite inlaid wood and appeared to ignore its litter of reading scrolls, a sloppy pile of perhaps five or six leather-bound volumes that individually reflected enormous wealth, an ink pot of chased silver, fine sheets of writing parchment, a hunk of sealing wax, and Gavril's seal. Gavril glanced at Mierre and Kaltienne. ”Do nothing yet,” he said in a low voice, picking up the diagram and folding it in half. ”We will talk again tomorrow. You may go now.”

They bowed, Mierre looking thoughtful and Kaltienne grinning wickedly. Out they went, and Gavril walked into his bedchamber to idle several moments before the looking gla.s.s-a costly possession indeed, and perhaps the largest object of its kind in the entire hold. He straightened his doublet, made sure his linen undersleeves were still white and clean, and tilted his cap even more rakishly over his brow.

He buckled on a slim, bejeweled poniard that glittered in the soft-burning lamplight, glanced at his prayer-cabinet in the corner, and decided he would not pray before answering this summons.

His anger was a coal that burned steadily inside his breast. The altercation between him and Lord Odfrey this afternoon could not be forgiven. If the chevard was summoning him to offer an apology, Gavril did not know if he would accept it. He had never disliked a man more than Lord Odfrey, never.

He found the chevard stern, unyielding, disrespectful, and unfit to run a hold of this strategic importance.

The chevard possessed a high reputation as a lordly knight and warrior. Men across all Mandria respected his battle skills. But Gavril valued subservience more, and Lord Odfrey showed him none.

Cardinal Noncire had cautioned Gavril before he chose Thirst that he would dislike this upland hold.

However, the king encouraged Gavril to accept the positioning, wanting him to receive his final training at the hands of a warrior like Lord Odfrey. And besides, Thirst was the closest hold to the Dark Forest, the strongest, most heavily manned citadel guarding the northeast corner of Mandria.

Every day, a small detail of knights stationed themselves at the bridge gate. Any travelers wanting to cross the river and continue east into the Dark Forest had to identify themselves and their business. Any travelers venturing forth from Nold into Mandria had to do the same, plus have all their goods searched and accounted for.

Prior to coming here, Gavril had listened to tales of danger, battles to repress raiders, commerce, adventure, good hunting, and how Thirst stood as a beacon of light and truth against the pagan darkness of Nold and other lands. Gavril had imagined a hold full of traditions and honor, always active, always at the center of intrigue and tremendous adventures. Gavril was determined to use Thirst as his base while he searched for the Chalice. It had been missing for many years, and during that time its legend had only grown. Nether had once been Mandria's most powerful ally, but now under the rule of King Muncel, Nether was only a shadow land, its fortunes dwindling every year. Gavril believed that the Chalice had been stolen from Nether and concealed for a purpose ordained by Thod. Clearly the Chalice was destined to cast its blessings on another realm. He was determined to find it for Mandria. All his life, Gavril had believed himself destined to do something special, to live a life renowned among kings and men. When someday he succeeded to his father's throne, Gavril believed, possessing the Chalice would make his rule both prosperous and powerful. He would wage war on Nether first, crus.h.i.+ng the darkness there. He would annex Klad, driving forth its barbarian peoples, and take its valuable pasturelands for his own realm. Someday, he would be a great king, and his name would resound across the land.

But for now, he was only a young prince, his ranks and t.i.tles courtesies, his knight's spurs as yet unearned. He chafed at being in this awkward place, neither a child nor yet considered a man. He had come to Thirst s.h.i.+ning with expectations, eager to begin the destiny promised him in the horoscope castings of the court's astrologer. Gavril had brought his servants, his guards, his books, his dogs, his wines, his velvet hangings, his desk, footstools, weapons, horses, falcons, and prayer-cabinet.

He had come expecting to live in the unofficial capital of upper Mandria, centered within its intrigue and activity.

Instead, Thirst was an ancient, crumbling, ill-maintained hold on the edge of a bleak marsh in the midst of nowhere. The villages nearby were tiny enclaves of unbearable squalor and poverty. The serfs acted sullen and disrespectful. Many still held old and forbidden memories of when upper Mandria was another realm, called Edonia, with its own king and armies. The land around Thirst Hold was almost flat, cleared for fields, and fitted with ugly levees and channels to drain marsh flooding in spring and autumn. Hunting was poor, except in the forest. The climate was dismal, cold and damp, and winter had not even set in yet. It was only a few days short of Aelintide, the great feast-day of autumn harvest, with a month beyond that to Selwinmas and what the uplanders called the long cold.

Gavril found Lord Odfrey to be the kind of bleak, humorless drudge he most despised, all duty and work, with no understanding of fas.h.i.+on, fun, or the amenities of a civilized life. The chevard locked up Gavril's wine, confiscated half his books, dismissed nearly all his servants, complained that his dogs ate too much and caused trouble in the kennels, refused to alter his chapel hours for Gavril's convenience, and expected Gavril to run, fetch, and scurry with daily ch.o.r.es like the other b.u.mpkins who had fostered here over the years. The chevard's master-at-arms. Sir Polquin, was a muscular brute lacking manners or respect. Rarely would he allow Gavril to practice the more sophisticated and modern swordplay he had been learning at home. Instead, every day brought the same old boring, outdated drills and practice.

Gavril's own private suite-if two meager rooms could be called a suite-was clearly a storeroom that had been cleared out for his use. Never mind that the other fosters shared a single chamber with only their cots and a chest each to hold their possessions. Born and raised in the great palace Savroix, considered the very heart of all Mandria, Gavril had spent his life surrounded by affluent, luxurious comfort. His personal apartments took up a whole wing of the palace; an army of efficient servants garbed in his personal livery antic.i.p.ated his every wish. Thirst Hold-considered one of the largest and most affluent upland citadels-was in reality shockingly primitive. Even worse, there could be no quest for the Chalice if Lord Odfrey continued to deny Gavril his mead, plus two of his most valuable books, containing as they did much arcane lore about the Chalice, the Field of Skulls, and the channels of magic which ran through Nold. There could be no quest if Lord Odfrey would not let Gavril enter the Dark Forest. He tried to conceal his purpose by conducting hunts with his dogs and friends, but Lord Odfrey worried about everything, including this present war among the dwarves. Gavril did not fear the creatures. He was a prince of Mandria. He had no quarrel with the people of Nold, and he did not believe the dwarves would harm him.

Destiny had brought him here. If he did not take action soon, he would see his destiny slipping through his fingers, unseized through the blundering interference of Lord Odfrey.

Scowling at his likeness in the looking gla.s.s, Gavril brushed his golden hair behind his ears and left his bedchamber. Thum was still standing by his desk, speaking in a low, courteous voice to Sir Los.

Gavril's approach caused their conversation to break off. He snapped his gaze from one face to another, with an annoyance that felt sour in the pit of his stomach. ”If you are reduced to page,” he said tartly to Thum, ”then by all means escort me to the chevard now.”

Gavril and Thum descended the curl of steps leading down inside the tower to the second floor, where a walkway spanned the distance between the west tower and the central buildings. The night air lay dampand cold on Gavril's shoulders. He wished he'd worn a cloak, but he would not go back for it now. If need be, he could always ask Sir Los-following a few steps behind him-to share his cloak. Thum s.h.i.+vered as he strode along. His doublet was fas.h.i.+oned of thick welt, but it was not fur-lined as Gavril's clothing was. With his breath steaming from his mouth in the gloom, Thum said, ”It's mortal cold out here tonight. Winter's on its way, Aelintide or no.”

”Are you cold, Maltie?” Gavril asked in a voice as bored as he could make it. ”I hadn't noticed. Look yon.” He stopped in his tracks and leaned over the parapet, then tilted back his head to scan the dark sky overhead. ”Is the cloud cover breaking? Do you see any stars, Maltie?”

Thum was obliged to halt beside him. With chattering teeth, he said, ”Nay, your highness. No stars.”

”Some glimmer of light from those windows across the keep must have tricked my eyes,” Gavril said with a laugh. ”Perhaps it will snow by dawn. Think you so?” ”Nay, your highness. It's mild yet in the season. We've some autumn before us yet.”

Enjoying his game, Gavril smiled to himself in the darkness. Keeping Thum du Maltie out here in the cold air in his thin clothes was one way to punish him for this afternoon's defiance. He would find more.

”Explain to me the winters here,” Gavril said. ”We have but scant snowfall at Savroix, but many have told me upland winters are bitter indeed.” ”Aye,” Thum said, hugging himself. ”Bitter enough.”

”Then it will get colder than this?”

”Aye.”

”Will the snows come often? Will we be trapped indoors?” ”At times.” Listening to Thum's teeth chatter, Gavril's smile widened. ”I have heard there is much hunting that can be done even during the cruel grip of winter. Tell me what you know, Maltie.”

Thum, his teeth chattering more than ever and his thin shoulders hunched now as he tucked his hands beneath his arms to keep them warm, responded politely, although his descriptions were terse. Gavril felt slightly uncomfortable, but he held himself against s.h.i.+vering and stood there, not listening to anything Thum said.

Across the keep, sentries walked the ramparts. Torches burned at set points along the crenellations, and now and then Gavril saw one of the sentries pause to warm his hands by the blaze. Beyond the marsh, one of the village churches was ringing a bell, its sound echoing along the waterway. The hour grew late.