Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 42

“So you’ll ride out to battle with us too,” said Solon.

“Of course I will,” said Tiburé. “And so will Alburé. Why would we not?”

Her husband shrugged, looking both bored and irritated as he generally did in her company these days. Against the long tapestries of the music hall he cut a fine, imposing figure. But an uninterested one.

“You managed to avoid the last battle up at the Outland Forts,” he commented.

“I didn’t avoid it,” she said, trying not to sound irritated. “Huldarion asked me to come and stay in Kelvha to assess the situation here.”

“And to lounge in comfort with the Lord Melegan and his foolish wife Sillier.”

“Shildha.”

“Ah. I understand it now,” Solon said, raising a forefinger. “They’re in disfavour, aren’t they? Melegan and Sillier. They’re in a hurry to leave Kelvha City, so I hear, before Nerogun can decide to have them taken into custody. So you’ve got to make alternative arrangements.”

“There is that,” said Tiburé evenly. She was determined not to lose her temper.

Poor Shildha, she thought; she doesn’t understand what’s happened – why her lovely lifestyle here is suddenly in jeopardy. It’s all politics. Nerogun’s using that girl’s death to get rid of Melegan, just because he doesn’t like him. It’s true that Melegan’s a vain and lazy man. Good-natured, though. An easy husband. Easier than some.

“Smile,” she said. “We are supposed to be happily married.”

“Nobody’s watching us,” said Solon.

“Oh, they are. All the time.”

“You’re paranoid,” said Solon. “They’re not interested in us, only in Huldarion. Why did you want to talk to me in any case?”

“For several reasons.” She smiled because she was sure that amongst those equerries chattering over by the wall there would be at least one assigned by Nerogun to keep an eye on Solon. Nerogun himself stood blandly by the great ornamental fireplace, listening to the ancient Vizier. Or rather, not listening at all, but watching everyone.

She turned back to her husband. “Firstly, I’m worried about Alburé. She’s been so sad since Gordal’s death. She must have been more attached to him than I realised.”

“Can’t she make do with Sashel? I never could tell those twins apart.”

Tiburé sighed inwardly. “Well, obviously she could. Please talk to her, Solon.”

“I do talk to her, quite frequently. Weren’t you aware of that? Maybe she doesn’t choose to tell you about it, because she knows you’ll only stick the knife in at any mention of me.”

She was taken aback. “I’ve never done that, Solon. Not to our daughters.”

“No, just to everybody else. What else did you want to talk about?”

“I…” No, this was definitely the wrong time. But there was no right time. And at least he could not shout at her, not here in the long hall surrounded by quietly conversing nobles. Although music was being played at one end of the room, not many people were paying attention to it. She saw Huldarion underneath the ornate banners that hung from the centre of the ceiling: he was surrounded by various High Lords all trying to get their word in. If he was bored or irritated he gave no sign of it.

Do it now: just say it, she ordered herself in exasperation. What’s the worst that he can do?

“Solon, I would like an official divorce from you before we go to fight.”

There; it was out. Worse than waiting for a battle. She was more afraid of Solon than she was of the stonemen. It was not from fear of any violence – for he had never raised a hand to her – but of his tongue. His displeasure. His dislike, because it was personal, as battle was not.

He stared across the room at the musicians, who were diligently performing to the uncaring audience. Only Yaret appeared to be actually listening to them. Next to her, Durba and Sina were talking earnestly together.

“Why now?” His voice was cold. “Ah. No, don’t tell me. It’s inheritance, isn’t it. So if you die I don’t get your money.”

“It’s not that,” she said wearily. “I would just like things to be clean-cut between us.”

“You mean that you would like the cut between us to be clean.”

“Surely that’s what you want too?”

“What I have always wanted,” he said, still gazing over at the music-players, “is a faithful, loving wife. And that is what I’ve never had.”

“I know we argued,” she said, with difficulty because she did not want to argue again and could see the way that this was heading.

“You argued,” said Solon. “I didn’t argue.”

“No, you made yourself as blank and unresponsive as a wall.”

He turned to look at her again. “A wall.”

“Stony,” she said. He was doing it again now, the granite glare. So different from Huldarion’s impassivity which retained a measured, considering manner. Solon’s stone-face was, to her, pure animosity.

“Whereas you, of course,” he drawled, “are all sweetness and delight.”

“I was never that, I know,” she said. “You never gave me the chance to be.”

“That sort of sideways mud-slinging merely proves my point.”

“Can we stop this unedifying way of talking? I would like an official divorce. All it will do is formalise the situation.”

“So who is it this time?” Solon asked.

“There’s no – that’s none of your business.” There was no use denying it, for he probably knew there was someone. Possibly he knew it was Theol. They had not exactly been discreet.

She wondered now if she had been wise to encourage Theol’s invitations. But it was such a relief to be with someone who did not always look for reasons to blame and shame. Someone who made life easier, not harder.

“It won’t last, you know,” said Solon almost carelessly. “They never do, do they? I wonder why that is.”

It is because I choose it so, she thought; but kept her mouth shut.

“You want to remarry?” he asked abruptly.

“Marry? No.”

“Ah. You just want the guilt-free bed, then. I don’t see why I should give it to you.”

“Generosity,” she said.

“To match your wonderful generosity to me, no doubt.”

“You were unfaithful just as much as me.”

“That would have been impossible. And your infidelities predated mine by years. By the time I strayed you could hardly call it straying.”

She thought that was probably true. There was no point in her saying, again, that his coldness and sneering jealousy had driven her away. Maybe she had deserved it after all. She knew that she was not an easy woman to live with.

“A divorce would set you free, Solon.”

“Free,” he said bitterly. “When have I ever been free? I am bound. But I will be free.” He was looking away as if speaking not to her, but to the candlelit spaces of the hall.

She waited, and when he did not elaborate she said,

“Well, please think about it at least. Now let us talk of something else, and smile.”

“Talk of what?”

“I don’t know. These fires.”

“Hardly cause for smiling,” Solon said.

“No. But they are all the news just now. Maeneb told me that it was not the darkburn that caused the destruction of the northern quarter, as Nerogun would have us think, but arson. That the fires were set by Nerogun and Adon.” Saying the final name left a sour dryness in her mouth.

Solon nodded. “It didn’t take a genius to work that out. But it was bungled. Nerogun isn’t half as clever as he thinks. He planned the fires as a distraction from the Lady Janeya’s death. Laid waste to a significant area of his city, just for one self-indulgent woman.”

“How can you know that?”

“The man is transparent.”

“I would have thought that he is very dense,” said Tiburé, glancing over at the Post-Regent’s imperturbable bulk.

Solon laughed. “That too. And he’s taking full advantage of the fire’s effects: two thousand of the twenty thousand soldiers we’ve been promised are new recruits. Very new. Nerogun encouraged any young men made homeless to enlist.”

Tiburé was shocked. “Recruits straight off the streets? They won’t be much use in battle, surely?”

“No, of course not. But they’re cheap: that’s what matters more to Nerogun. Like I say, he’s not as clever as he thinks.”

She reflected that her husband had always considered himself the cleverest person in the room, no matter where the room was. It bemused her that she had ever found such assumption of superiority attractive.

“I wonder whether Nerogun is the spy,” she said, and he immediately became grave again.

“The spy?”

“Whoever was listening to us in that day in the chart room. Or whoever had us listened to. Whoever passed the supposed secret word on to Adon.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, that. I have thought a lot about that. Huldarion has made no comment… but Nerogun’s the obvious candidate. Yet it could be any of them. Personally I have reservations about Shargun.”

“The Arch-Marshal of the army?”

“I was able to observe him at the Outland Forts up north, and he’s a sly old lizard. He and Nerogun seem as thick as thieves but I don’t think Nerogun wholly trusts him – with good reason. Nor do I.”

“Who can be trusted in this castle?” she said, and sighed. “Ah, well, we had better circulate.”

“Had enough of me already?” At once the bitterness was back. Or it had never gone away.

“I am merely thinking of what is diplomatic,” she said with dignity, although Solon was quite right. Once she could not have enough of him. Now she found that preference almost inexplicable.

Yet not quite. If he would only talk to her properly, and set aside his acerbic superiority – as he had just now for a moment – she could still feel that pull. Or the memory of it.

She smiled, curtseyed as if to a beloved husband and then moved away from him before they could annoy each other any further. Walking swiftly over to the musicians she joined the assortment of ladies gathered there. Maeneb and Gaelera stood some way distant from the rest, in silence – pretending to listen, she thought, in order to avoid the necessity of speaking. Gaelera had never said a word to her at this sort of occasion.

Instead of giving Gaelera the chance now, she went over to Durba and Sina. Their muttered conversation appeared more earnest – even vehement – than it had been before.

As soon as Tiburé came up to them Durba turned to appeal to her. “Sina must not ride out, must she? She has no idea of what would be involved. What it would be like. It is a terrible, a terrible…” Durba’s voice trailed away as if wanting to disappear and hide again.

Tiburé was startled. “Ride out? Whatever are you talking about?”

“Riding to battle. It would be dreadful for her!”

“It would be more dreadful for me not to be with you,” said Sina in her thin, breathy voice. She put out an appealing hand to take Durba’s.

Durba did not resist, although she said hoarsely, “But I don’t know if I myself can face another battle. It was – there was – it was too – I had a–”

As her voice faded to nothing, Sina clasped her hand still tighter. “There will be other tasks to do as well as fighting. Whatever you do, I will stand by your side. Together we are stronger.”

Durba bent and kissed her hand. Tears stood in her eyes.

Oh no, thought Tiburé with a sinking heart. Not this too. What an unneeded complication. Even if the Kelvhans don’t view attachments between women in the same light as they do those between men – since they don’t believe in them – we really do not need this.

“I think that for you to ride out to battle, my lady, is totally out of the question,” she told Sina severely.

“Why? I have horses,” objected Sina.

“But you have no training, no experience, no knowledge of what–”

“Janeya doesn’t have any of those either!” said Sina indignantly.

“Janeya? What do you mean? Janeya is dead.” Tiburé now felt thoroughly confused.

“Hush! She didn’t know,” said Durba to Sina with gentle compassion. “You must not say anything about Janeya, even to the Vonn.”

“I will say it to everyone if you don’t let me ride out with you,” said Sina stubbornly. Tiburé was astonished. She had never seen the thin, subdued girl so animated. And she was equally astonished at what she now inferred.

“Sina – are you saying that Janeya is not dead as everyone believes? In that case, who died in her place?” She kept her voice down and her manner light, for she was aware of Gaelera’s silent presence some way behind her.

“A kitchen-maid died. Haemorrhage. An accident,” said Durba in a whisper. “The bodies were exchanged.”

Tiburé found her mind was whirling. “But then the two outcast serving-maids who took refuge in the women Riders’ quarters…” Maeneb had told her that much, but no more.

“One of them is not a serving-maid,” said Durba.

“And if she can ride out to battle, so can I,” Sina added.

“But this is… Who knows about this?” asked Tiburé, increasingly alarmed. “Does Huldarion know?”

Durba shook her head. She looked a little guilty, and scared. “Not unless Meya has told him.”

“What? Meya too?”

“She helped to organise Janeya’s escape. But we haven’t told any of the male Riders. Or many of the female ones either; only Delgeb guessed.”

“Delgeb guessed,” repeated Tiburé. “And she kept it to herself? Well, of course she did. She loves a risk.”

“There is no risk,” insisted Durba, “so long as nobody says anything.” She turned to Sina. “And that includes you. Breathe a word of this and you have no chance of coming with us.”

“Children, children,” said Tiburé. “There is no chance of Sina accompanying us whatever happens. Your place is here, my lady, in the castle.”

“And I will come back for you afterwards, and fetch you away,” Durba promised. Tiburé did not try to contradict her; for that was a problem that could be dealt with later.

“I still don’t see why I shouldn’t come,” said Sina. “Lots of the lords and ladies will follow the army in their carriages.”

“A few High Lords and even fewer of their ladies – if any,” Tiburé corrected her. “And it will be a long journey and a hard campaign, not just a weekend jaunt.”

“But ladies often go to see the border battles.”

Tiburé felt suddenly very tired. “I know they do. They seem to think the putting-down of a few ill-equipped rebels is entertainment. It is not. And what is coming is not a skirmish, it is not a question of a handful of unruly tribesmen who will be easily vanquished. It is war. Perhaps a long and difficult and bloody war. We do not know exactly what weapons our enemies may use against us, but we know they have some dreadful ones. And the High Lords who follow the train will stay at a very safe distance from any real fighting, believe me.”

“Well, Idria is going to ride out with the army,” Sina said defiantly. “And if the Princess can...”

“Idria?” Tiburé was thunderstruck. What on earth gave the girl that idea? “Naturally Prince Faldron will be at the forefront of his soldiers,” she said, “but there is absolutely no necessity for his sister to accompany him. And I would say there is no chance of it either.”

Seeing Sina’s eyes suddenly widen, Tiburé realised that she had spoken more loudly than she intended. To her dismay she heard a new voice answering behind her.

“Idria may, if she wishes. There is precedent. But it seems to me unlikely.”

It was Gaelera. Tiburé had not heard her approach. As she turned and said with a deep curtsey, “My Lady Gaelera,” she thought, how did she stop those skirts from rustling? They rustle loudly enough at other times. How much had Gaelera heard?

“You will be wondering what else I have heard,” said Gaelera without expression. “The answer is – nothing. Very little, at least, and none of it of any interest to my father. As for the Princess Idria, I had already gathered something of the sort, and it does not surprise me. Since the arrival of you Riders she has acquired a more adventurous spirit.” She made her accustomed action as if to smooth out her embroidered skirts.

She means Sashel, Tiburé said to herself. The Princess Idria thinks herself in love with Sashel. Huldarion feared it had become too obvious. As for Sashel: well, Huldarion opined that Idria was to him as a kitten might be, diverting and attractive, but that the attraction showed signs of becoming something more. It was high time that Sashel was removed.

“The Princess cannot marry a mere Rider of the Vonn, of course,” observed Gaelera. “Not unless he were of equal rank to Huldarion. I imagine that can never be the case?” She looked at Tiburé, who in her astonishment shook her head.

Gaelera clasped her hands against her bodice. On most other young women the gesture would have looked demure. On Gaelera it appeared as if she were preparing to pull out some secret weapon.

“So,” she said. “In any case, I believe that other plans are in train for Princess Idria. You need not concern yourselves with them. But she will not ride out.”

“And you, my lady?” enquired Durba. “You will not either, I presume?”

Gaelera put her head on one side. “I hold my father’s concerns in my heart. I have a deep interest in all that he is doing. And also in the welfare of my country.” She speaks, thought Tiburé, as if they were two quite separate things. “Therefore I may follow my father, later on, in the royal carriages. I believe the travelling accommodation can be made quite comfortable. But, my Lady Sina, to ride out with the horsemen of an army cannot be comfortable at all. I do not advise it.”

With that, Gaelera made as if to walk away; but then she paused, and during a slight gap in the music, spoke again. Tiburé thought she saw some fleeting, unreadable expression cross the woman’s face, yet her words were bland enough.

“I am informed that strange things were seen in the city yesterday. By many people, briefly. Did you observe them?”

“I… well, yes,” said Durba cautiously. “There was, I think, some sort of wizardry… odd things popped out of nowhere.”

Tiburé thought of her wedding ring which had appeared inexplicably on her windowsill. She had been tempted to open the window and throw it out, as she had once done many years ago, from a different window. But then she had gritted her teeth and picked it up, taking it as a missive – a reminder to try and talk to Solon.

“I myself observed a strange event within my chamber. My cupboard door flew open. A roll of cloth fell out and unwound itself along the floor.” Gaelera was looking not at her listeners but somewhere past them. Instinctively Tiburé glanced round to see who was there; but it was only Nerogun and his hangers-on. “Fortunately I was alone,” said Gaelera thoughtfully. She inclined her head and moved away; this time, with a continuous dry rustling of her ornate skirts.

I wish I knew that trick, thought Tiburé, to move without sound when I wish to in these awful dresses. Hers itched. And it always rustled.

“Do you think she heard everything?” whispered Durba.

“What she did not hear, she guessed,” Tiburé answered drily. “Well, that was good advice she gave you, Lady Sina. I too would advise against any attempt at riding as a soldier.”

Sina looked downcast. But further argument was thankfully forestalled, for the musicians struck up a new, louder tune.

Those instruments they played with sticks – called stibhults, as Tiburé recalled – were not altogether unpleasant, but the complex harmonies were quite beyond her. However, Yaret, nearby, was listening as intently as if she hoped somehow to memorise the music.

Tiburé moved away from the elaborate din to the quieter spot where Maeneb stood, now with Parthenal beside her. He must have taken pity on her isolation. And to be seen next to an attractive woman was advantageous to him also, Tiburé reflected.

Well, he would have to put up with an unattractive one too, for a bit. She was about to greet them when Maeneb spoke to her with some urgency.

“What did she tell you?”

“Who? The Lady Gaelera? She told us that Sina ought not to ride out with the army as the silly girl would like to do.”

“She certainly should not,” said Parthenal.

“Gaelera also said that she herself may accompany Nerogun in the carriages behind the troops. I have no idea why she would wish to do so.”

“She may feel constricted in the castle,” suggested Parthenal. “Can’t say that I blame her.”

“It hasn’t bothered her these last eight years,” said Tiburé.

“I think she feels she needs to keep an eye upon her father,” said Maeneb with some hesitation.

“She said something of the sort. An affectionate daughter.” Although Tiburé spoke in light irony, she did not expect Maeneb’s answer.

“She doesn’t trust him.”

Tiburé stared at Maeneb before remembering to appear nonchalant. She looked away and smiled as if at some joke before saying, “I should have thought that if anyone trusted Nerogun, it would be his daughter.”

But Maeneb shook her head. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Gaelera told me that she fears her father will betray his country. She wanted me to warn Huldarion.”

“And have you?”

“Yes.”

“How did he react?”

“I don’t know,” Maeneb said. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Do you believe Gaelera?” asked Parthenal.

“I do,” said Tiburé. “That man has no scruples.”

“She has a grudge against her father,” Maeneb murmured.

“Why?”

But Maeneb only shrugged.

“So are you Gaelera’s friend now?” asked Tiburé in disbelief.

Maeneb paused. “I think I might be,” she said, sounding worried.

By now it had become difficult to talk quietly, for the music was growing louder. There were multiple squawks from the stibhults, building up to some sort of climax. If she were musical, thought Tiburé, it would no doubt sound very fine; but since she was not, she preferred to retreat back down the hall.

There she caught Huldarion’s eye. There were several things she would have liked to discuss with him, but too many lords still clustered round him at the moment. She would have happily talked to Uld, a thoughtful, courteous man, but he was in conversation with her husband. Should she join Theol, laughing easily with those lordlings underneath the vast brightness of the tapestry? No. Better not.

Prince Faldron was enjoying a joke with Aretor and Sashel: hearty laughter in that corner of the room. She looked for Princess Idria and saw her sitting amidst a bevy of the lesser ladies of the court. Not a glance towards Sashel. Good. She knows she’s on display, thought Tiburé.

“Ah, Rothir,” she said, with some relief. “How are you enjoying the music?”

“More now that it’s finishing,” said Rothir.

“You don’t care for the stibhults?”

“Is that what they’re called? I expect one on its own would be perfectly acceptable.”

“Well, that one’s finished at least,” said Tiburé, for one of the musicians had laid down his instrument although the others were still working up to some raucous finale. The man stood up from his stool, seeming from his jerky movements to be in a hurry. He must be feeling ill, thought Tiburé, with some compassion, before the man began to run.

He ran, not for the door as she expected, but away from it, towards the group of nobles clustered round the Vizier and Nerogun. As he ran he reached inside his tunic and pulled out a dagger and brandished it, slashing at the air.

“What?” said Rothir, at once feeling for his sword. But he carried none on this informal evening: and neither, realised Tiburé, did the majority of men here, whether Kelvhan or Riders of the Vonn. There were shouts: the nobles scattered: somebody thrust Nerogun aside.

“Borgun! Borgun!” the musician yelled. He was young, wild-eyed, wild-haired, waving his knife frantically but seemingly without much purpose. Rothir sprang over a bench and ran towards him.

So did several others. Those closest to the man jumped back as he swiped his knife around indiscriminately: a Kelvhan equerry who tried to seize him fell backwards with a long gash in his arm. The music had ceased; one or two women screamed, to Tiburé’s annoyance. Shouts and bellows for the guards rang out – where were the guards, she wondered? In the castle they were normally everywhere.

“Borgun! Borg–” The attacker’s yells were cut off abruptly. Before Rothir could reach him, someone else had.

His head had just been slashed from his body. It thudded to the floor and rolled a short way, spouting blood onto the polished wood. More screams from various Kelvhan women. Oh, be quiet, thought Tiburé, looking for the man who’d done it.

He looked familiar. Modish yellow hair, fine clothes, a scowl beneath dark brows as he bent and wiped his sword clean on the dead man’s clothing. Yes, she knew him. Dughin. Trust that man to carry a sword when others did not.

And now with a clattering rush through the doors the guards did arrive, too late – which worried her almost as much as the attack itself had – and hurried over to the bloodstained corpse. Nerogun strode out from the protection of the men around him and began to berate the guards. Did the Post-Regent look shaken? It was hard to tell. He certainly looked angry.

The musicians had all risen to their feet. Unlike Nerogun, they did look shaken by events – terrified, indeed, which Tiburé thought was understandable; she foresaw the interrogations which they would have to bear.

Yaret had been standing alongside the musicians, but now she quickly stepped away, for a number of the guard were stamping over to round them up. The soldiers pushed them roughly over to the door with many curses, kicking aside the lutines and stibhults that had been laid upon the floor, throwing down the fluttering sheets of music and trampling on them as they herded the players out at swordpoint. Making up for their lateness with this bullying behaviour, thought Tiburé. Once they were gone Yaret began to pick up the instruments and replace them carefully on the stools.

Tiburé looked back at the bloody corpse, which still lay untouched in an empty space of floor until Nerogun walked up to it and kicked it. He was talking forcefully, gesticulating to the other lords although she could not distinguish the words. Rothir pushed his way through the murmuring crowd to rejoin her, along with Parthenal.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” said Tiburé. “Who was the assassin aiming at? Nerogun?”

Rothir shook his head slowly, with a frown. “Unclear. Maybe everyone in general. He looked frenzied rather than focused. Huldarion has advised the Riders to stay back and keep well out of the affair.”

“Good,” said Tiburé.

Yaret came walking up the hall towards them. She was clutching several sheets of music, which were torn and trodden. Some bore dirty footprints.

“Are you trying to save those for the players?” Tiburé remarked. “Don’t bother. Those poor men won’t be coming back to perform for us any time soon.”

“What will happen to–”

“No, don’t ask,” Tiburé said, shaking her head firmly.

“But the other players knew nothing about the man. He’d only just joined their group.”

“What?” Rothir’s frown deepened as he stared at Yaret.

“How can you know that?” said Parthenal.

“I spoke to a couple of the players just before the guards ran in. That man had only been with them a few days, they said, he didn’t play very well, in fact he could barely play at all. But he was given the position by a noble, so they couldn’t object.”

“A lord? Which one? And why?” demanded Tiburé.

Yaret said quietly, “They didn’t know which lord. But the young man used to be a stable-boy. This was a promotion. That’s all they seemed to know.”

By now the corpse and its detached head had been wrapped roughly in a sheet. The soldiers dragged it out, leaving a smeared red trail along the polished floor. The hubbub of raised voices began to grow muted, although nobody seemed to know quite what to do.

Yaret gazed over at the thin pool of blood, which people edged around without looking at it properly, as if it were not quite visible.

“He was just a boy,” she said, in a sad murmur. “I kept noticing during the performance that he didn’t play the same notes as the others. Most of the time he was just pretending. I put it down to nerves because he looked… quite terrified.”

Rothir put a hand on her shoulder. “It was a swift death,” he said.

“It was a very efficient death,” said Tiburé. “And what I would like to know – apart from where the guards were at the crucial moment – is why he shouted nothing out, except the name Borgun.”