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“But he’s one of Baron Cassan’s vassals, isn’t he?” Brandark asked.
“Indeed he is,” Tellian agreed. “Which, I’m very much afraid, only means Sir Yarran’s point is even better taken. Cassan and I aren’t exactly boon companions.”
He snorted, and Bahzell and Brandark grimaced. Trianal kept his own expression carefully blank, but the bitter enmity between Cassan and Tellian was proverbial. For almost two decades now, they had been locked in combat for domination of the Royal Council, although, up until Mathian Redhelm’s attempted invasion of Hurgrum, Tellian had been slowly but steadily gaining the ascendancy.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find him involved in something like this,” Tellian continued. “In fact, I’m fairly certain he used Saratic to help encourage his cousin Mathian’s … indiscretion in the Gullet. And whether he had a hand in that particular fiasco or not, I imagine it would be all but impossible for him to resist this temptation. But if he is involved, I’m certain he’s covered his tracks carefully.”
“I don’t think I’m after being all that fond of Baron Cassan,” Bahzell mused out loud.
“Fair enough,” Tellian said. “He thinks the only good hradani is one being used for well-rotted fertilizer.”
“Even so,” Brandark said thoughtfully, “however carefully he’s covered his tracks, he’s still ru
“You’ve a way with words, Lord Brandark.” Yarran’s tone was dust dry. “Take us back to the Troubles, that could, like in King Markhos’ grandsire’s day, with every lord’s hand turned against every other lord.”
“I don’t think Cassan would take things that far—not intentionally, at any rate,”Tellian said, shaking his head. “That’s why I’m certain he’s covered his involvement very carefully, if he is involved. Still, I can see why it would be attractive to him. Especially if Erathian is doing the actual raiding.”
“Aye, Milord.” Yarran nodded his head vigorously. “If he discredits Lord Festian, then he discredits you, because you’re the one who was willing to name a simple knight lord warden in that idiot Mathian’s stead. And if he can discredit you there, then he’s a wedge to discredit you elsewhere. In the meantime, if anything slips, Erathian’s his scapegoat. And if throwing Erathian to the hounds isn’t enough, then he’s Saratic next in line. And Saratic, as Mathian’s cousin and what passes for the head of the House of Redhelm these days, makes a splendid decoy. He’s reason enough to hate Festian all on his own, and Cassan has more than enough members of the Council in his pocket to protect Saratic from serious consequences as long as Saratic keeps silent about any involvement of Cassan’s.”
“You’re right, Sir Yarran,” Tellian said, and regarded the grizzled warrior with speculative interest. Yarran saw the look in his eyes and it was his turn to snort.
“There’s no cause to be looking at me all thoughtful, Milord Baron. It’s not as if anyone in the entire Kingdom doesn’t know how much Cassan hates you. Maybe it’s not my place to be speaking my mind so clear, but it doesn’t take a genius to see how he’s a whole layered defense in place if any of his plans should slip.”
“Perhaps not,” Tellian agreed. “But don’t sell yourself short, Sir Yarran. There are members of the Council who either can’t—or won’t—see the same logic.”
“Maybe that’s because they’ve not spent their entire lives living down on your border with Cassan,” Yarran said with grim humor. “It’s an amazing thing how that … focuses your thoughts.”
Tellian nodded appreciatively, but his gray eyes were distant and the others could almost physically feel the intensity of his thoughts. He sat that way for over two full minutes, then shook himself, like a dog who’d just stepped in from the rain.
“Well, Sir Yarran,” he said, his eyes refocusing on the knight. “I can see why Lord Festian sent you. On several levels.” He smiled under his brushy mustache as Yarran’s eyebrows quirked. “He had to send someone to explain what sort of help he needs, and why,” the baron continued. “And since he did, he showed excellent judgment in sending someone who understands the situation as well as you obviously do. I must confess that I already knew some of what you’ve told me, but I hadn’t realized the whole of it. I’m going to require a day or two to think about it before I decide how best to help Lord Warden Festian deal with it. I assure you, however, that it will be dealt with.”
There was a world of determination in his choice of verbs, and Bahzell felt himself nodding in approval.
“In the meantime,” Tellian said, slapping the arms of his chair and then thrusting himself up out of it, “consider yourself my honored guest, Sir Yarran. I’m very pleased to have you here, and I’ll ask Trianal to escort you to the suite Kalan has assigned to you. Once you’ve had a chance to settle in, I think it would be an excellent idea for you to spend some time speaking with my own senior officers. I’d be obliged if you—and you, Trianal—” he glanced at his nephew “would leave Baron Cassan out of it, but feel free to share any of your other information or conclusions with them, including your thoughts about Erathian and Lord Saratic.” He smiled thinly. “Most of my people are smart enough to figure out who’d have to be behind Saratic, so there’s no need to be any more specific about it. And unlike some nobles, I’ve discovered that keeping the people who are supposed to help you handle any wars or other little unpleasantnesses which come your way as fully informed as possible is a good idea. At least they’re more likely to keep you from stepping on your … sword that way.”
Chapter Eleven
“So, Prince Bahzell,” a youthful voice said, “can I pick your brains for Father’s secrets?”
Bahzell turned from where he’d stood on Hill Guard’s curtain wall, leaning on the battlements while he stared out across the endless grasslands of the Wind Plain. The morning’s overcast had blown away on the winds of noon, and the afternoon sun was settling towards a western horizon of such crystalline blue beauty that it hurt the eyes. The deep, dark green of the reborn grasslands, nourished by the long, soaking rains, spread out below him like the visible proof of the Wind Plain’s short-seasoned fertility. The wind blowing out of the northwest was still on the cool side of warm, but Bahzell enjoyed its slight bite as he luxuriated in an absence of raindrops.
Leeana Bowmaster stood behind him, in one of the simple yet elegant gowns her mother had lately begun to insist she wear. The wind molded the fabric to her long legs, and strands of hair which had escaped her braid danced about her face, flickering like gilded serpents in the sunlight. With her green eyes sparkling with mischievous deviltry, she looked even cuter than usual, Bahzell told himself, steadfastly ignoring the fact that “cute” might not be the precisely the correct adjective.
“I’m not thinking as how my poor brain is after being all that worth picking, Milady,” he told her with a smile.
“Don’t be silly, Milord Prince.” She walked across to stand beside him, gazing out over the same green vista. “Given how hard you work at it, you really don’t do a very good job of hiding your intelligence.”
Bahzell looked at her profile sidelong. That was coming to grips with a vengeance, he thought.
“It’s not so very bad a thing if those as don’t much like you spend their time thinking about how much brighter than you they’re after being,” he said after a moment. “I’ll not claim to be a genius, at the best of times, Milady. Yet for all that, it may be I’m not quite the idiot my old da’s been known to call me.”