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“It was,” Yarran agreed. “Enough hate can curdle anyone, Milord, and the gods know there’s been hate enough from both ends of the Gullet, time to time. Course, only a fool lets hate drive him, especially when there’s blood to be spilled if he does.”
“A wise observation,” Tellian said, glancing ever so briefly at his nephew’s profile from the corner of his eye. “I wish more people shared your opinion,” he added, and Yarran shrugged.
“Can’t do much about people who insist on using stable muckings for brains, Milord,” he said philosophically. Then chuckled. “Except, of course, for kicking their arses out of their chairs and putting someone else into them. Which is by the way of bringing me to the reason I’m here.”
“Then I suppose we should get to it,” Tellian said, and pointed rather more emphatically at the chair Yarran had gotten out of. “Sit yourself back down and tell us what Lord Festian needs.”
“As to that, Milord Baron,” Yarran replied in a voice which held much less humor than it had a moment before, “I’m afraid what he really needs is something in the way of a miracle.”
He sat obediently back down, although Bahzell and Brandark both had the impression that he was uncomfortable sitting in Tellian’s presence.
“That bad, is it?” the baron asked with a frown.
“If it’s not now, it’s headed that way, Milord,” Yarran told him frankly. “We’ve had minor problems, almost pinpricks, from the begi
“Cattle and horses both?” Tellian mused aloud.
“Aye, Milord. Before that, it was sheep, but it’s clear as the nose on my face they’re getting more ambitious. And they’re not just thieves, either, whatever they’d like us to think so far. They’ve already managed to burn a handful of barns, despite the rain, and Lord Festian has started posting armed guards to protect our larger herds and farms. To my mind, it’s but a matter of time before they decide to raid one of those herds or farms, and when they do, there’s going to be blood on someone’s blade. And,” he added more grimly, “on someone else’s hands.”
“I see.” Tellian leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I wish I hadn’t already come to much the same conclusions on my own,” he said. “But from your tone of voice, I suspect you have your own suspicions about who the brains behind this campaign might be. Do you?” he asked bluntly.
“Well, as to that, Milord,” Yarran said slowly, obviously considering his words with care, “yes, I do. And so does Lord Festian, though I think he’s less eager than I to be naming names.” The marshal shrugged. “I’m naught but a common-born fighting man, when all’s said—Lord Festian, now, his word carries more weight than ever mine could. I’m thinking he knows that, and he’s not wishful to be accusing anyone until he’s the proof firmly in hand, as it were.”
“Very wise of him,” Tellian agreed. “But if you have any suspicions, I want to hear them.”
“Well, as you’ve asked, Milord, it’s in my mind that Lord Erathian wasn’t so very happy to see Lord Festian named to lord it over him. That’s how he sees it, leastwise. And I hope you’ll pardon my bluntness, Milord, but for all that Erathian was first in line to kiss your hand—aye, and would’ve kissed something else of yours, if you take my meaning—when you turned up in the Gullet that morning, he’d also been one of Mathian’s hangers-on. Until you did turn up, he’d been breathing fire and farting flame about all he’d been set to do when we reached Hurgrum. Then, all of a sudden, there he was, the very spitting image of peace and reason.”
He grimaced distastefully, and Tellian scratched his neatly trimmed beard thoughtfully.
“Erathian, hm?” he mused. Erathian Halberd, Lord Warden of the Fens, was one of his less savory vassals. The man reminded Tellian of a snake crossed with a weasel, and Dathgar, Tellian’s courser, couldn’t stand him. But in some ways, that only made Tellian less ready to seize upon him as an object of suspicion. It was dangerous for a powerful noble to fall into the trap of spending his suspicion on obvious targets. Even if he was right, and those he suspected were up to no good, concentrating on them was only too likely to distract him and keep him from noticing the actions of more outwardly honest and trustworthy traitors until it was too late.
“You met Erathian during your time with Kelthys, didn’t you, Trianal?” he asked his nephew after a moment, and the young man nodded.
“Yes, Un— Milord Baron.” Trianal cleared his throat, then continued more naturally. “I didn’t get to know him well. He didn’t have a great deal of time to waste on someone too young to know which end of a sword to hold.”
The youngster’s voice was absolutely neutral, but Tellian had to raise a hand to hide a smile. He could just hear Erathian saying those exact words, even picture the sneer that would curl his lip as he said them.
“I see,” he said, when he was certain he could trust his voice. “But you did meet him?” Trianal nodded. “Very well, did your impression of him match Sir Yarran’s?”
“I didn’t actually see him when Redhelm headed down the Gullet,” Trianal said with scrupulous accuracy. “Not until I arrived with you and Hathan, at any rate. But given what I saw of him summer before last, I’d say Sir Yarran is probably being too kind to him.”
“Well, that’s blunt enough, at any rate,” Tellian murmured, and quirked an eyebrow as Bahzell stirred in his chair. “Yes, Milord Champion?”
“If you’ll pardon my sticking my own finger into your pie, Milord Baron,” the massive Horse Stealer rumbled, “it’s quite a few things I’ve heard of this Erathian, as well, and not a one of ’em good.”
“To be honest, I could say the same myself,” Tellian agreed. He stroked his beard for another moment, then cocked his head at Yarran.
“From what I’ve seen of you, Sir Yarran, I doubt very much that you’d be pointing a finger at someone just because you didn’t care for his ma
“I’d try not too, any road, Milord. But not only was Erathian sucking up to Mathian before you arrived to spoil the party, but whoever’s been raiding our cattle and horses has been giving us the slip by disappearing with them in the Bogs. Now, that’s as nasty a stretch as you’re like to find anywhere on the Wind Plain, all full of mud and water and a few patches of quicksand. Yet whoever’s been using it for a highroad for cattle’s managed to do it without leaving a single mired beef to point his tracks.” The marshal shook his head. “I was second in command to Lord Festian when he commanded Redhelm’s scouts, Milord. It was my business to find my way through bad going, and I’ve spent more time in the Bogs than most of Lord Festian’s men. But I’ll tell you plain, I’d not be able to get through there so slick. It would take someone who knew his way through them like them back of his own hand to get herds that size through at all, much less without losses, and Erathian’s holding lies smack in the middle of the Bogs. As a matter of fact, it’s one of your border holdings. It backs up against Golden Vale. In the South Riding.”
Sir Yarran stopped speaking, but his eyes met Tellian’s steadily, and Tellian frowned.
“Golden Vale. That would be Lord Warden Saratic, wouldn’t it?” It was a statement, not a question, and Yarran nodded silently.
“That’s a nasty thought, Sir Yarran,” the baron said after a moment. “Not that that necessarily means you’re wrong. Especially given that Saratic was so happy to give his cousin Mathian a refuge after the King stripped him of his wardenship.”
“ ’Happy’ might be putting it just a bit strongly, Milord.” Yarran said with a grim chuckle. “He was ready enough to take Mathian in, but he wasn’t half pleased about it. And he’d some remarkably warm things to say about you—and about you, Prince Bahzell—at the time.”