Master of the Cauldron Page 7

  In her fatigued discomfort, Sharina took a moment to parse exactly what Tadai had just said. Because of that delay, she managed not to chortle in amusement. You couldn't even call Tadai's words a lie because nobody was expected to believe them. He'd been polite, but he'd made it perfectly clear to the Sandrakkan delegation the direction in which the Royal position would move if they kept belaboring the point.

  Lord Morchan thumped his fist on the table, making the Sandrakkan side bounce wildly. "Curse it, we shouldn't be here!" he blurted. "Everybody knows Volita's cursed. That's why none of this makes any sense!"

  It seemed to Sharina that the negotiations, though tedious, had been very productive. They'd involved the Sandrakkan envoys giving way on one point after another, of course, but that was primarily because Garric's position—the royal position—had been reasonable to begin with.

  Admiral Zettin drew himself up straight and said in the drawl affected by the Valles nobility, "Quite the contrary, my good man. We've made great headway and we'll make more. That's surely better than sweeping all Sandrakkan commerce from the Inner Sea and burning the estates within five miles of the shore. Not so?"

  "Look, I'm just saying that we ought to get off Volita," Morchan insisted truculently. "It's an uncanny place, that's all. Everybody knows that if you go up to the top of the Demon—"

  He bobbed his head, presumably indicating the granite spike that wasn't visible from under the marquee.

  "—you'll see a wonder—but you may never come down again!"

  "Morchan," said Lady Lelor in a poisonously calm voice. "If you'd give us just a little help, we'd all pretend to ignore the fact you're a superstitious ninny. Do you know a soul who's climbed—"

  "Everybody knows what I say is the truth, milady!" Morchan snapped. Marshal Renold, seated between them, leaned back from the table with a sour look and his eyes unfocused.

  "Everybody isn't such a fool!" the priestess said. "Do you know even a sheep who's climbed the Demon, Lord Morchan?"

  Morchan stood up, his face white. His mouth opened and closed silently. He repeated the process, then sat—collapsed into his seat like a pricked bladder—again, blushing furiously.

  Sharina looked at the embarrassed nobleman with a rush of sympathy which surprised her. Morchan was superstitious, and he was a ninny—which he'd proved amply in the course of the negotiations. But he was also more right than wrong in what he'd said about Volita.

  Sharina would've known that even without Tenoctris' warning as the fleet landed. Volita was a center of power. Sitting here was like being in a wind blowing sand too fine to see but which prickled through your tunics. Her eyes felt scratchy no matter how often she blinked.

  Tenoctris had said that some people were more affected than others. Sharina supposed that she herself might be one of the sensitive ones, if only because of the things she'd been a part of in the year since she left Barca's Hamlet. Everyone on the island must feel it to a degree, but....

  Sharina smiled. She'd learned a great deal about politics in the past year. Her brother was uncomfortable also, but by smiling and holding his position with bland insistence, he had an advantage over the less-disciplined Sandrakkan envoys. Their present loud squabble was an example of that, and their irritable fidgeting throughout had been made worse by an atmosphere charged with wizardry.

  "Lady Lelor," Garric said in a voice raised enough to end the bickering across the table.

  When everybody looked at him he went on, "Milords. We've decided the general form of Sandrakkan's future place in the kingdom. The details can be worked out over the next days or if necessary months. The only outstanding point is the fashion in which I enter Erdin."

  "What—" Marshal Renold said, then stopped.

  "My preferred option is to cross the strait tomorrow—"

  He nodded toward the beach and the mainland visible beyond it.

  "—with my bodyguard regiment, the Blood Eagles, and a single line regiment, one of Blaise infantry under their own officers. The remainder of the army will camp here on Volita until after—"

  "Your highness, that's not safe!" Lord Attaper said, standing at the right of the table. Till he spoke, he'd been only another of the guards. "You need—"

  Garric turned without rising from his seat. "Lord Attaper!" he said. "Be silent!"

  One of the Blood Eagles dropped his spear with a clatter. He grabbed for it, fumbled, and finally picked it up in both hands.

  "Right," said Garric in a quiet, shaky voice. The atmosphere worked on everybody, whether or not they were generally able to control their reactions. "That's my preferred option, as I say. The other choice, milady and lordships, is for me to march in at the head of the entire Royal Army."

  He licked his lips, forced a smile that Sharina could just see from where she said, and continued, "In the first case I'll crown Earl Wildulf on the steps of the temple in two days time."

  "Your highness...," said Lady Lelor carefully. "Earl Wildulf will be persuaded of the reasonableness of your arguments, I'm sure. But it may take some time—"

  Garric rose to his feet. "I hope Earl Wildulf will be able to send me an answer before the second hour tomorrow, milady," he said, "because that's when I'll begin making preparations for the next stage of the proceedings. There must be extensive planning, as you can imagine. Whichever choice the Earl makes."

  Liane got to her feet. "All rise!" she said, putting a close to the negotiations on Garric's behalf. Sharina stood gratefully in the coughs and shuffling of all the others under the marquee.

  The Sandrakkan envoys rose and started toward their waiting barge. The priestess paused, leaning over the conference table. "Your highness," she said, "there was a foolish rumor that you weren't really a member of the royal house. I can't imagine who started it, but I'll assure you that nobody who's met you in person will credit it."

  Garric watched the delegates leave. His back was straight but Sharina could see tension in the way the muscles of her brother's neck and shoulders bunched.

  Admiral Zettin was talking at Garric about plans and options. His tone was professional, but he was obviously exulting at the fact he'd been chosen to fill the seat that Lord Waldron vacated.

  Triumph had blinded Zettin, ordinarily a very intelligent man, to the obvious: Prince Garric was lost in his own thoughts. He wasn't listening to a word of his admiral's self-satisfied babble.

  Liane hovered at Garric's left side, afraid to touch him or even speak. Sharina stepped up to the table, brushing her brother with one shoulder and forcing Admiral Zettin back with the other. Garric's fists were clenched against the front of his thighs. She covered his right fist with her left hand.

  "Do they know how many people will die if Wildulf doesn't listen to reason?" Garric said in a shaky voice. "Do you know, Sharina?"

  "I know that not as many will die as would if the kingdom fell apart again," she said calmly, turning toward her brother. "We'd start with the islands fighting one another. Then there'd be something else that'd sweep us all away, sweep away everything human. You know there would, Garric!"

  Liane touched Garric's left fist. Many members of Garric's entourage wanted to speak with him, but they were giving space to the two women. "This is the millennium," Liane said. "It requires the united strength of the Isles to prevent the powers from tearing everything apart when they reach their peak, as they did a thousand years ago."

  Garric shook himself like a dog come in from the rain. He put his arms around Sharina's and Liane's shoulders and gave them a firm squeeze. "Now...," he said, turning to face those who'd waited under the marquee to advise or simply observe, "We've got our own planning to do. Who's Waldron's deputy? I need to know—"

  "I'm here, your highness," said Lord Waldron, pushing through the crowd of common soldiers who'd been watching the conference from outside. There was no sign of the courier who'd led him off. "I'm here, but I'm bringing worse news than I ever imagined I'd have to bear."

  "All right," said Garric said
. He sounded calm. The tremble was gone from his voice, and his muscles had relaxed into their usual supple readiness. He gestured to the seat across from where he stood, the one which Marshal Renold had vacated. "Sit if you like, but speak."

  "I'll stand, thank you," Waldron said with harshly minimal courtesy. He looked around at the crowd—gaping, murmuring, gesturing to friends to come close and hear the revelations—and for a moment flushed with the fury that was so much part of him normally.

  The anger vanished like a snuffed candleflame, replaced by an unfamiliar gray misery. "A man who calls himself Valgard, son of Valence Stronghand, has raised a rebellion on Ornifal against what he chooses to call his senile brother Valence III and the Haft peasant Garric."

  Waldron shrugged in stiff-faced embarrassment. He was standing as stiffly as if he'd been tied to a stake to be burned.

  "Go on, Lord Waldron," Garric said in the same pleasant tone as before. Sharina, knowing her brother, understood why he was so calm. The Earl of Sandrakkan could choose either war or peace. If he chose war, then thousands would die and the kingdom might tilt toward collapse, and Garric would never doubt that the fault was his for not handling the negotiations properly.

  That responsibility was terrifying. A usurper in open revolt was a merely a tactical problem, not one in which a mistake would turn peace into war.

  "This Valgard—and he has a wizard named Hani with him, behind him I shouldn't wonder...," Waldron continued. "He's gathered a band of fools to support him. I'm very sorry to admit that my cousin Bolor bor-Warriman is one of those fools."

  Waldron took a shuddering breath. There were tears at the corners of his eyes. "My lord prince, I beg you accept my resignation as commander of the royal army. I need to return to Ornifal to deal with a family problem!"

  "Request denied, Lord Waldron," Garric said easily. "At least until you've helped the kingdom deal with a problem that isn't limited to the bor-Warrimans. Now—"

  "I'll capture the Spiteful and the traitors aboard her, your highness!" Attaper said. "Okkan, sound Assemble on the Standards!"

  "No!" said Lord Waldron. "My word is—"

  "Okkan, put down that trumpet!" Garric thundered, pointing his whole left arm at the Blood Eagle signaler. Okkan froze, his silver-mounted instrument to his lips. His eyes sought Attaper's.

  "Your highness!" said Attaper, "this is the kingdom's business, not—"

  "Yes!" said Garric, his voice riding down that of his guard commander. "And if the courier who brought us first news of a rebellion wasn't on the kingdom's business, who is?"

  He turned to Waldron. "Now, milord," he continued mildly, even cheerfully. "Just how dangerous do you judge this affair to be?"

  This isn't my brother, Sharina thought. But that was only partly true, because this self-composed prince was the person her brother could have grown into on his own.

  The spirit of King Carus provided Garric with political experience that no nineteen-year-old peasant could have amassed; but much of that experience was of how not to do things, as Carus himself would be the first to say. It was Garric's own quick, disciplined intelligence that had just avoided a crisis by refusing to arrest a rebel under circumstances that would have dishonored his army commander in the eyes of his family, his class, and himself.

  "It'd be serious if we let it grow," Waldron said, "but of course we won't. Bolor thinks the levies he can draw from the northern districts can sweep away the regiments you left in Valles. He might be right."

  Waldron cleared his throat and looked down; the toe of his right boot gouged the ground. He straightened again and glared at Garric, a fierce old man who couldn't understand the concept that honor might not be dearer than life.

  "Look," he went on. "I don't want you to misunderstand what just happened. Bolor was giving me warning so that I could run before you learned about the rebellion and had me executed. He was a fool to think that I'd run, but he wasn't so great a fool as to imagine that I'd harm the prince to whom I pledged my loyalty."

  The trireme that'd brought the courier was getting under way. The oarsmen were probably upset not to be given a chance to rest now that they'd reached Volita.

  Sharina smiled. It could've been a lot worse for everybody aboard the ship, if Garric weren't in charge.

  "Of course, your cousin knew he was dealing with a bor-Warriman," Garric said. "As do I."

  Garric sighed and bent deeply forward, stretching his locked hands backwards and up to loosen muscles cramped by the previous hours of negotiation. He straightened.

  "Lord Attaper," he said, "have your men move people two double-paces away from this marquee. I'm going to meet here with my inner cabinet, and the discussions may require privacy."

  Garric quirked a smile. "And does anybody know where Lady Tenoctris is?" he added. "Because if there's a wizard involved with this business, I want to know what she thinks about it."

  "I'll get Tenoctris," said Sharina, squeezing her brother's shoulder as she turned to trot off to where she knew the old wizard lay in her shelter. "And I couldn't agree with you more!"

  CHAPTER 3

  Garric sat at the makeshift conference table and for a moment rested his face on his hands, rubbing his brows and cheekbones hard. There's too much for one man to do, he thought in a sudden rush of despair.

  "No, there's not," said the image of King Carus, grinning at Garric with cheerful understanding. "Not if he's the right man, as you are, lad. Not if you do the part that has to be done."

  And that, of course, was the key: first things first. In a swirling battle, the spirit of Garric's warrior ancestor generally took charge. Afterwards Garric was always surprised at how little he remembered—how little he'd actually seen while the fight was going on. Carus focused only on essentials: the shimmer of movement to the side that was the edge of an axe; the bare wrist between an opponent's mail shirt and his gauntlet; the slight lift of a creature's upper lip that meant its lion-like jaws were about to gape wide enough for the point of a thrusting sword.

  The same was true in any complicated situation, and the politics of a kingdom could be more complicated than any mere battle. You had to deal with the crucial items while the rest waited, no matter how important those lesser things might've appeared by themselves.

  "And doing that was harder for me by a long sight that deciding who to put my sword through next ever was, lad," Carus said with a wistful smile. "I marvel to watch you, I swear I do."

  Garric lowered his hands and smiled at the men and women around him: Liane, Sharina and Tenoctris; Tadai, Waldron, Attaper and Zettin. They were his close companions, many of them friends and even those who weren't friends—Lord Waldron certainly wasn't a friend—were people whom he respected and who respected him.

  Cashel and Ilna weren't here. Garric wasn't surprised that they hadn't been located in time for an emergency meeting, but he regretted their absence. Cashel and Ilna weren't sophisticated, but they shared a clarity of vision that cut to the heart of problems where others tangled in the non-essential fringes.

  Peasant wisdom—the part that wasn't superstition and platitudes, at least—was merely common sense. That was as valuable in high governmental circles as it was most other places.

  Waldron still stood, glowering at the world at large. Garric pointed to the stool at his right which Admiral Zettin had properly vacated for the army commander. "Sit down, milord," he said a trifle peevishly. "I'm not going to make Lady Tenoctris stand, nor do I care to look up at you while we're trying to solve the present problem."

  Waldron glared for an instant. Before Garric had to repeat what was, after all, a royal command, he sat down. "I still say it's a family problem," he muttered, but he wasn't really arguing.

  "If your cousin were intriguing over the title to your estate, Waldron," Garric said, "I'd agree with you. As it is—well, more than half the army comes from Ornifal."

  "And three quarters of my officers," added Zettin, who'd placed an upended bucket at one end of the table for
his seat. "The common sailors could be from anywhere, but an officer whose home and family are under a usurper's control, well...."

  Lord Attaper shrugged. "When Sandrakkan rebelled twenty years ago," he said, "King Valence took the army to Sandrakkan and put down the rebellion. If the rebels're on Ornifal, I still think it's work for the army."

  He looked up from his hands on the table before him, to Garric and then to Waldron. Both soldiers were nobles from northern Ornifal, but Attaper was from a minor house with less land and money than some prosperous yeomen in the west of the island. He'd joined the army from necessity and risen through skill, intelligence, and unswerving loyalty first to Valence III, then to Garric when Valence abdicated in all but name.

  Waldron was a warrior beyond question, but he commanded because he was head of the richest and most powerful of the northern families who traditionally provided officers and cavalry regiments for the Royal Army. He considered Attaper an upstart who needed to remember his place, while Attaper viewed Waldron as arrogant and narrow to the point of being a fool.

  "Rivalry isn't an altogether bad thing, though," Carus said, musing on the problem. "Since they're both honorable men—and bloody good soldiers too, in their ways."

  "Ornifal isn't rebelling!" Waldron snapped. "Not yet, at any rate, but that'll change in a heartbeat if this boy from Haft sails back at the head of an army."

  He turned from Attaper, across the table, to Garric beside him with an apologetic grimace. "Sorry, your highness, but that's what they'll say, you know."

  "Understood," Garric said calmly. He wished he could feel like a boy again; though he'd thought he'd had problems when he lived in his father's inn. It was all a matter of your viewpoint, he supposed.

  Admiral Zettin pursed his lips. He was in his mid-thirties, a decade younger than Attaper and only half Waldron's age. The royal fleet had had low status during most of the past millennium, but Zettin had accepted the appointment with enthusiasm. He was working to bring his command up to the standards of the Blood Eagles, where he'd served as Attaper's deputy.