Wind Rider's Oath wg-3 Page 10

  “That might be unfortunate at this point,” the other man agreed, wondering idly what sort of “arrow” the baron might have sent Tellian’s way. “But as dangerous as magi are, it’s not as if they’d really make that much difference, is it?” The baron frowned, and he shrugged. “I don’t wish to appear alarmist, but at the moment, Baron Tellian has not one, but two champions of Tomanak as houseguests,” he pointed out. “I approve of all the precautions you’ve taken against magi, Milord, and I’m glad I was able to assist in some small way with them. But given my choice between two of Scale Balancer’s champions and every mage in the world, I’d probably choose the magi.”

  “A point,” the baron conceded. “But, of course, that assumes the two of them really are champions of Tomanak.” He bared strong, even, white teeth in something no one would ever have called a smile. “Given that we’re talking about a hradani and a hradani-lover who’s not only a woman but who publicly admits she was born a peasant, I sincerely doubt they are.”

  His visitor’s expression didn’t even flicker, but it wasn’t easy for the little man to keep it from doing so. The baron was a powerful, cunning man who was not unduly burdened by scruples. In his own way, he was easily one of the most intelligent men the little man had ever encountered, as well. But he was also a Sothoii, and a bigot. Armored by his own iron prejudice, he genuinely didn’t believe that Bahzell Bahnakson or Dame Kaeritha could possibly be what they claimed to be.

  “I can understand why you might doubt their legitimacy,” he lied after a moment, “but that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. If even half the things they say about this Bahzell are true, he has a nasty habit of surviving rather … extreme threats. And whatever we may believe about them, a significant number of people, especially in Balthar and, unfortunately, Sothofalas, accept that they truly are champions. I might point out that even Wencit of Rum has vouched for them. So whether they are or not, they’re going to be allowed to operate as if they were.”

  “So Wencit of Rum vouches for them, does he? Well, how wonderful!” The baron made a disgusted sound and looked as if he wanted to spit. “Wencit may be impressive to many people, but I’m not one of them,” he said.

  This time, the little man couldn’t keep his shock, even fear, entirely out of his expression, and the baron chuckled harshly.

  “Don’t mistake me,” he said. “I freely acknowledge Wencit’s power, and I have no intention of openly challenging him or giving him a visible threat as a target. However, it’s been my observation that Wencit is also an inveterate meddler. He works for his own ends and according to his own plans, and he’s done it for so long now that I’d be surprised if even he remembers what all those ends are. I don’t doubt for a moment that he would ’vouch’ for this Bahzell and ’Dame Kaeritha’ if it served his purposes. For that matter, I don’t doubt that he’d vouch for a three-legged, one-eyed, mangy dog if it served his purposes.”

  His visitor nodded neutrally, but even as he did, he made a mental note to reevaluate all of the plans he and the baron had hatched together. Cunning and intelligent the nobleman might be, but what he’d just said showed an alarming ability to project his own deviousness and inherent dishonesty onto others, whether it was merited or not. The nondescript little man had no objection to deviousness and dishonesty—they, like his ability to suddenly appear places he shouldn’t be able to get into—were part of his stock in trade, after all. But automatically assuming that those same qualities were what motivated an opponent, especially a powerful opponent like Wencit of Rum, was dangerous. Success required that enemies not be underestimated or discounted.

  “At the same time,” the baron continued, “I recognize that his imprimatur grants this Bahzell and this Kaeritha a certain legitimacy. Fortunately, Wencit himself has already left the Wind Plain. Apparently, he believes he’s accomplished whatever goal brought him here in the first place, which may well be true. But what matters for our purposes is that he’s no longer here to continue to support their ridiculous claims … or to protect them.”

  “Assuming they require his protection,” the other man observed.

  “Oh,” the baron said unpleasantly, “I think you can rely upon it that they’ll require all the protection they can get before too very much longer. I have quite a few little diversions planned for both of them. Especially ’Prince Bahzell.’ I believe you’ll find they’re much too busy just staying alive to spend a great deal of time driving spokes into our wheels.”

  “I see.” The other man nodded again, then stretched and walked slowly across to a chair which faced the baron’s desk. He settled into it and crossed his legs, and his mind was busy behind his bland eyes.

  Obviously, the baron had plans even he hadn’t yet discovered. Well, that had been a given from the outset. Whatever his other flaws, the baron was an experienced and skillful conspirator, and the nondescript man had taken it for granted from the beginning that he would keep his various conspiracies as separated from one another as he could. Which was only fair, since the nondescript man was doing precisely the same thing.

  But all of this secrecy and skulking about, however entertaining and profitable it might be, did lead to the occasional moment of uncertainty. For example, what sort of deviltry did the baron have in mind for Bahzell and Kaeritha? And did he began to suspect the deviltry the nondescript man and his other … associates had in mind for the two of them? More to the point, would the baron’s plans get in the way of the nondescript man’s?

  He considered the delightfully different possibility of simply asking the baron straightforwardly what he intended, but he was afraid the shock might do his host’s health a mischief. Besides, if he asked the baron that, the baron might ask him the same question, and that could lead to all sorts of complications. The nondescript man was confident that the baron was every bit as ambitious and ruthless as he could have hoped, but there were probably limits to the actions and allies he was prepared to contemplate, even so. Given how hard he was working at maintaining his technical ignorance about the nondescript man’s own abilities, it seemed safe enough to assume he would definitely balk at direct, knowing association with black wizardry and Dark Gods. For that matter, it was even possible (however unlikely) that if the baron discovered the nondescript man’s full intentions and plans he might actually choose to place the well-being of the Kingdom above his own power and position.

  “I suppose, since you’ve obviously already made arrangements to keep both of them occupied, that you’re aware Prince Yurokhas seems close to convincing the King to grant official ambassadorial status to Prince Bahzell?”

  “I know the Prince would like to convince the King to do so,” the baron replied a bit cautiously. “According to my own sources, however, the King remains resistant. And, I should add, that’s also been my own observation as a member of his Council.”

  “The King does remain resistant … so far,” the other man agreed. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to grant it, Milord. As you must know even better than I, Markhos is skilled at keeping his own council and avoiding any open appearance of commitment until after he’s made up his mind to act.”

  “That’s certainly true enough,” the baron agreed sourly. “He learned that from his father. Fortunately, however, and with all due respect for the Crown, he’s not as intelligent, in some ways, as his younger brother.” The baron snorted. “Yurokhas may have a big enough maggot in his brain where religion is concerned to accept that this Bahzell might really be a champion of Tomanak, but aside from that, he’s a dangerous man. We’re fortunate so much of his time is taken up with the Order of Tomanak in Sothofalas. If it wasn’t, he’d have even more opportunity to lead the King into dangerously foolish policy decisions.”

  “I thought you just said the Prince was intelligent,” the other man said, more to poke the baron with a sharp stick than because he disagreed. A slight gleam in the baron’s eye suggested that he understood exactly why the question had been asked, but he c
hose to answer it anyway.

  “He is intelligent. Unfortunately, even intelligent people can be wrong, especially when something like religious belief begins to interfere with the pragmatic requirements of governing a kingdom. And when that happens, the more intelligent the believer is, the more damage he can do before someone else stops him. That’s why Yurokhas is dangerous. He’s not only smarter than the King, unfortunately, but the King knows he is, which is even more dangerous. Markhos doesn’t always agree with Yurokhas, and he’s quite capable of rejecting his brother’s advice. But he doesn’t do it out of hand, and it doesn’t keep him from trusting Yurokhas and regarding the Prince as his closest, most reliable adviser.”

  “I see,” the little man said again, and nodded. “Actually, Milord, that agrees very closely with my own analysis. Which leads to another perhaps delicate question.” He paused until the baron raised his eyebrows politely, then shrugged. “I’m curious, Milord. Have you, by any chance, considered … removing Yurokhas from the equation?”

  “I am prepared to do many things in the service of the Kingdom and its best interests,” the baron said in a cold, flat voice. “Yet the King is the heart and soul of the Kingdom. It is his person which unites us, and without that unity, we would disintegrate once more into the patchwork of squabbling, warring factions we had become in his grandfather’s day. Because of that, his person must be sacrosanct, whatever I may think of his policies of the moment, under any but the most desperate of imaginable circumstances. At present, Prince Yurokhas stands only fifth in the succession, after the King’s sons, yet the blood in his veins is the same as that in the veins of King Markhos himself. Mistaken and dangerous though I believe him to be, I will not see it spilled unless there is no other possible way to save the Kingdom.”

  “I see,” the nondescript man said yet again. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers across his chest, and gazed steadily at the baron. How much of that, he wondered, was actually sincere? And how much of it is no more than so much rationalization? Protection not of the all-unifying King or his precious person but of the system and hierarchy which grants the good Baron his own power base?

  Not that it really mattered. He’d been told what he needed to know. Always assuming the baron had told him the truth.

  “Very well, Milord,” he said finally. “I think we’ve each given the other enough to chew on for the moment. I’ll keep you informed of anything my sources turn up about Festian, Tellian, and the rest. For now, Lord Saratic and his people will keep the pressure on all of them, I feel certain.”

  He cocked one questioning eyebrow, and the baron nodded in confirmation.

  “Excellent! And while they’re doing that, my associates and I will be doing our bit to help. And if anything occurs to us which might help to distract or otherwise occupy Bahzell and Kaeritha, I assure you that we’ll act upon it. With your agreement, I’ll drop back by for another visit in about a week, unless something comes up in the meantime. If something should happen to come to your attention, or if any small way in which we might be of service should occur to you, you know how to get word to me.”

  The baron nodded just short of curtly, and the nondescript man rose from his chair.

  “In that case, Milord, I’ll bid you good evening,” he said cheerfully, and stepped out of a windowed door onto the rain-swept terrace beyond. One of the baron’s most trusted armsmen was responsible for guarding that door, but no shout of alarm or challenge was raised. Not that the baron thought for a moment that any lack of alertness on his armsman’s part was to blame for that silence.

  He watched his visitor disappear, then snorted in irritation, stood, and crossed the study to close the door behind him. Then he continued his interrupted trip towards his bedchamber, considering the conversation which had just ended.

  As the other man had said, he reflected, he had a great deal to chew upon before he dropped off to sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  “Now remember, Soumeta. We need access to Herian and his outlets.”

  “I understand that, Theretha.”

  “Well, if things are as bad as Jolhanna says they are, then we’ve got to convince Master Manuar to approve our entry. And to enforce the charter’s requirements that we be given fair access and the full protection of the law while we’re here.”

  “Theretha,” Soumeta said with exaggerated patience, “I was there when Mayor Yalith discussed the entire trip with you. I know why we’re here, all right?”

  Theretha Maglahnfressa bit her tongue. She knew it was only her own anxiety which made her so insistent. But still—

  “Maybe I should come along,” she said nervously. “I have met Master Manuar before. Maybe I could—”

  “Theretha—!” Soumeta began, then visibly made herself stop and draw a deep breath.

  “Look,” she said, in the tone of someone hanging onto her own composure with both hands, “the mayor discussed all of this with us before she sent us out here. She and the Town Council made it abundantly clear that the situation’s gotten so bad that it’s time we took an official position. And I, Theretha, as an officer in the City Guard, have official standing which you do not. As such, I will make the initial contact with the market master, and you won’t. And I promise that I won’t snatch him across the desk and cut his throat, no matter how he provokes me.”

  Theretha started to say something more, then closed her mouth with an almost audible snap as Soumeta glared at her. The older woman wasn’t particularly fond of men, especially those in positions of power, in the first place, and her frustration was only too apparent. But Theretha never doubted that it—like the anger which accompanied it—was directed at the situation which had prompted this trip in the first place, and not at her.

  Which didn’t make her feel a whole lot better as she nodded acceptance of Soumeta’s orders.

  “Good,” Soumeta growled, and Theretha stood huddled in her cloak, tense and unhappy beside the cart, and watched Soumeta stalk into the market master’s office. A couple of townsfolk saw Soumeta coming and got out of her way—promptly. Unlike Theretha, Soumeta wore the war maids’ chari and yathu with no cloak or poncho, despite the drizzly chill. She also wore a grimly determined expression … along with her swords, garrotte, and bandolier of throwing stars. No one was going to mistake her for anything but what she was—a dangerous individual in an unhappy mood—and Theretha wished she could convince herself that that was a good thing.

  Her powers of self persuasion didn’t seem to be up to the task, and she didn’t much care for the older war maid’s expression herself, either. Nor did the fact that Soumeta had been nominated for this by Saretha Keralinfressa, the leader of the Council faction most in favor of taking a hard line with Trisu of Lorham, make her feel any better. She knew Mayor Yalith herself had wanted to be sure Kalatha sent someone who would stand up to any attempt at intimidation, but Theretha was worried by the politics of the choice. She couldn’t escape the feeling that the real reason Yalith had put Soumeta in charge had been to blunt the increasingly vocal criticism of her own, less confrontational policies by Saretha’s faction. Theretha was firmly in agreement with the mayor in this instance, and it worried her that Soumeta wasn’t. Then again, she knew she’d never liked any sort of confrontation, whether it was physical or purely verbal, so perhaps she was overreacting.

  She folded her delicate, skilled hands under the cloak, rubbing them lightly together for warmth. The spring day had been chilly enough at noon, with the sun directly overhead. Now that late afternoon was shading into evening and the omnipresent clouds of this torrential spring were blowing up once again out of the west, Theretha’s breath was beginning to steam. It was going to be a wretched night if they wound up having to sleep under the thin protection of the cart’s canvas cover, she thought miserably, and from Soumeta’s combative expression, it was likely enough that that was precisely what they were going to do.

  Not for the first time, Theretha wished she’d shown at
least some aptitude for the weapons and self-defense training every war maid candidate was required to undergo. Unfortunately, she hadn’t. Her instructors had done their best, but Theretha was a mouse at heart, not a direcat. As Darhanna, a senior instructor had put it, Theretha was one of those people whose best primary defense was to be invisible, because she simply couldn’t bring herself to try to actually hurt someone, even in self-defense. Darhanna had been as kind as she could about it, and gotten her through the mandatory training somehow, but it had been only too obvious at the end of it that she regarded Theretha as someone who should never be allowed out without a keeper. Like Soumeta, she supposed.

  Actually, Theretha agreed with Darhanna. There were times when she still couldn’t believe she’d ever found the courage to run away to the war maids in the first place, despite everything her stepfather had done to her. She probably wouldn’t have managed it even then, if her younger brother Barthon hadn’t agreed to—insisted that she let him, actually—escort her to Kalatha, the nearest war maid free-town. Kalatha’s mayor at the time had been deeply surprised to find a male member of her family actively abetting her in her flight. And surprise had turned into astonishment when the mayor discovered that Theretha’s escape to the war maids had been Barthon’s idea in the first place. In fact, the mayor had been suspicious, and initially disinclined to accept Theretha, as if she’d feared that Barthon was part of some elaborate trap or scheme to discredit the war maids. But then the mayor had received the report from Kalatha’s senior physician on Theretha’s condition.

  It was the evidence of the botched, two-day-old miscarriage which had turned the mayor’s suspicious resistance into angry acceptance. To her credit, the mayor hadn’t even suggested that it might be Barthon’s place to “avenge” Theretha. No doubt a good part of that restraint stemmed from the fact that war maids, like their patron Lillinara, believed it was a woman’s own responsibility to seek redress for wrongs done to her. But the horrible, crippling burns Barthon had suffered in the furnace explosion which had killed their father would have prevented him from taking any sort of personal, direct action against their stepfather, and the mayor had recognized that. In fact, she’d offered Barthon a place in Kalatha, and Theretha still wished her brother had accepted the offer.