Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor Read online

  Killing a cow was easier than killing a man? Not when the farmer had delivered the cow as a calf, had agonized over its illnesses, had called it to its food every day for all of its life, brought it all unaware into the killing shed, and stared into its eyes before killing it. Whereas the man he faced was a stranger, was hidden in his helm, and wanted to kill him. Then wanted to take his land, his goods, and his women. A farmer would have no difficulty in making the decision to kill a man.

  No, he was happy to see farmers here. It was the city-dwellers, the craftsmen, that he was concerned about. It was one thing to train and look proficient—it was quite another thing to hold yourself together in combat.

  He glanced at his charge; Selenay was looking white about the lips. He wondered why.

  :She understands now what we’re facing,: Kantor replied. :It’s hit her, in her gut, in her heart, just how big our army is, and by extension, how big theirs is, and all that this implies.:

  Ah. Well, he felt sorry for her, but better now than later. Better now, when she would have time to gather the courage he knew she had and compose herself before the eyes of those who would fight for her sake.

  :For the sake of Valdemar,: Kantor corrected.

  :It is the same,: he countered, as he spotted the convocation of larger, fancier tents that marked the center of the army, and the seat of its leadership. What with bodyguards, sentries, servants and all, it had been too big a convocation to house in any farmhouse.

  :A philosophical difference, perhaps,: Kantor replied, :to you. A real one to us.:

  They reached the periphery of the tents, a boundary marked by another set of sentries stationed every few paces around the edge. The edge was defined by what appeared to be ornamental swags of rope hung between stakes. It wasn’t ornamental, and it was a device suggested by Alberich. Hidden amid the fringe and bullion were bells, very loud bells, and anyone who so much as brushed against those ropes would raise a very audible alarm. One couldn’t climb over it or crawl under it. A small thing, but one more barrier between his charges and harm.

  The Lord Marshal was taking no chances. It was the Lord Marshal who had suggested the second innovation, a layer of black felt lining the inside of the tents, so no one would be silhouetted against the canvas by lights within. Another small thing, but it would make the King, his Heir, and the officers less of a set of targets once night fell. Unless a spy was able to watch them closely, one wouldn’t even know when they were in their tents.

  The Lord Marshal himself was there to greet them, and Alberich moved closer to Selenay as they all dismounted. This would be another good time to strike at her, in the moment when everyone was a trifle relaxed at the end of the journey.

  But Kantor had made a statement that needed to be answered. :She is not Valdemar? Then let her become Valdemar,: he said fiercely. :Men fight better when the symbol of what they fight for is before them. Why do you think we carry a shrine of Vkandis before us when we wage war?:

  He actually took Kantor aback for a moment. :An interesting observation,: the Companion replied, and left it at that.

  It was as well that he did, for Alberich’s attention was elsewhere now—scanning every face and every body around them, even—no, especially—among the servants of the highborn. That was the place for a traitor to slip in, among the servants. He watched without seeming to watch, a good trick he had acquired in the taverns of the worst part of Haven. There were a great many tricks he had acquired there, or learned from Dethor, and he had taught most of them to Selenay’s Six, and Sendar’s too, or at least as many as he could impart to them in the short time he had to school them.

  He was pleased to see that they were using those lessons; pleased to see that the ones guarding Sendar were doing likewise. They were more obvious in their watchfulness, but there was no harm there; they drew attention to themselves, and if there was anyone watching them, he would spot the watchers. . . .

  Layers upon layers of care and misdirection, of planning and deception, and upon them Selenay and Sendar’s lives might depend.

  The moment passed; the King and Heir moved into the circle of guards and canvas. Thin protection, or so it seemed, but stronger than one might guess, for they were out of the milling crowd, where a knife could be employed suddenly and without warning, and into a more controlled place where more watchers watched the watchers.

  He joined them, in the background, always in the background. Now, more than ever, he needed to be unnoticed.

  How ironic, that he, who had trained for most of his life to be a leader, should now require of himself to be insignificant.

  How ironic that he should find, as he dropped back to be a shadow-Herald in his dark gray leathers, that he preferred the place in the shadows to the one in the light. He watched young Selenay as, white-lipped, but with her head held high, she took her place beside her father at the planning table.

  And then he turned his attention to those around his King and his charge. He knew what the strategy for the initial stages of battle would be, at least for now; it had been discussed and discussed until it was tattered. He knew, and he feared that the enemy knew.

  But it had been too late to prevent them from knowing when the strategy was decided—and as he himself had told Dethor, “No strategy survives the first engagement.” You could plan and plot all you liked, but when your plans depended on the enemy doing what you thought he would do, it wasn’t likely that he’d cooperate with you.

  Now all they could do was see what he did, and trust that they could move to counter it, whatever “it” turned out to be. Chances were, it wouldn’t be anything they had planned for. The Tedrel Warlords had not survived this long by being stupid. If anything, they were entirely too clever; that very cleverness had caused any ruler who might consider hiring them to take a good long look and realize that they were in many ways as much a danger to the one who had hired them as they were to the enemy they were sent against. So no one, in all the time they had been roaming, had ever before hired the entire nation. Broken up into Companies, they were safe to have inside your borders. Only the Sunpriests, in an act of monumental hubris, had gathered all the Companies together in one place.

  Now the Sunpriests were well aware of their folly, too late to do them or Valdemar any good.

  We cannot simply turn them back, he thought with anguish. If we do, they will only turn on my people—

  And of all of those here in this camp, he was the only one who would care if they did.

  But what else could he have done, except to act as he had? He hauled his divided attention back to where it belonged, and kept it on Selenay and those around her. The tents were dark, thanks to the felt lining them; the only light came from the entrance and the unlined canvas tops. The bases had been rolled up to ankle-height to allow air to circulate. The interior of the one they were in was sparsely appointed—that would change when the baggage train caught up with them—and for now, the only seating was on folding stools. Sendar was offered one of these and refused it; Selenay did not.

  Talamir called for food and drink, and when it came, made sure that both the King and Heir availed themselves of it. Sendar was, of course, completely immersed in all the reports of the commanders, even though there was nothing new in them. Selenay was looking wan, but Alberich did not suggest that she retire to her own tent. She had to harden herself; they all had to harden themselves, to go beyond what they thought they could do until there was no more strength left, then find more strength, somewhere, somehow.

  As if she had heard his thought, she turned her head toward him and met his eyes. Then she rose and took her place at her father’s side, paying every bit as much attention to the reports as he was. Although the King did not even glance at her, Alberich watched as he placed his hand on her shoulder, tacitly welcoming her presence, and showing any who doubted that she belonged there.

  Good. Now no one would suggest that she get some rest, dismissing her as irrelevant to their discussions.

&n
bsp; A movement—an odd movement—caught his eye. Without turning his head, he identified the movement as someone pulling slightly away, rather than leaning toward the group. His peripheral vision was excellent, better perhaps than anyone guessed, for he had no trouble telling who it was without betraying his interest by looking at the man.

  It was Orthallen, who was serving as the commander for the militia of his sector. His brows were furrowed, his posture tense.

  And he was frowning at Selenay.

  15

  ORTHALLEN—

  There were some singular holes in Alberich’s intelligence regarding Orthallen. At that moment, Alberich wished that he’d spent a little more time trying to fill them.

  But in the very next instant, Orthallen’s frown vanished, to be replaced by his usual, affable expression, apparently leavened by worry. And if Alberich hadn’t seen the transformation, he would have thought that the expression was genuine. Now, however, he was aware that it was a mask, one that Orthallen could don in the blink of an eye, and very seldom dropped.

  A mask over what, one wonders. . . .

  Alberich forced himself to be charitable. All he saw was a frown, which might have been occasioned by anything. That Orthallen didn’t approve of anyone as young as Selenay being privy to every bit of war planning going on. That Orthallen didn’t like the prospect of a Queen instead of a King. That Orthallen didn’t approve of a female being involved in war planning. That Orthallen had indigestion.

  Perhaps not that last, although being on the doorstep of the final campaign of a nasty war was enough to give anyone worse than indigestion.

  The likeliest was that Orthallen had suddenly been confronted with the fact that he would one day be serving a Queen instead of a King. And given the urgency of the current situation, “one day” might be a great deal closer than he thought. And he didn’t like the prospect.

  It had been some time since Valdemar had had a Queen; there wasn’t anyone now alive who remembered the last one—it had been a good long time, after all, and she had been a co-Consort, ruling with her King, Sendar’s grand-father.

  Sendar’s Queen, who’d had no interest in being co-Consort, had died when Selenay was a mere infant, and Orthallen had a good reason to be wary of the problems associated with a female ruler. Women did die in childbirth, and even if Selenay wedded someone Chosen, who could be a co-Consort, there could be trouble if she died; the Kingdom had been left to the Council to rule while Sendar had gotten over his beloved wife’s death. If that had happened when there was a crisis like this one looming, the result could have been a disaster.

  Could have been, but would not have been. Perhaps Orthallen couldn’t understand that; he wasn’t a Herald, he didn’t know what deep wells of comfort the Companions were, and he might not understand just how totally Heralds were driven by duty. If Sendar had had to deal with a crisis, even in the moment of his beloved’s death, he would have. That he gave himself over to mourning was only because he knew he had the luxury of doing so.

  Nevertheless, Alberich did not like that frown on Orthallen’s face; there was something about Orthallen’s expression that he couldn’t pin down, and his instincts said it was more than just one older man concerned about the possibilities that a young woman Heir represented.

  It must have come as a distinct shock to him, seeing her here, seeing her being briefed instead of being sent to a tent to rest. It’s one thing to see “the child” sitting at a Council table, it’s quite a different thing to see her sitting here. After all, just because Selenay had a Council seat, it didn’t follow that she was truly a part of the Council’s deliberations. The seat could have been nothing more than show, for certainly Selenay’s vote went with her father’s every time. Given Orthallen’s patronizing attitude toward the Heir, the shock of realizing that she was a power to be reckoned with and had a mind of her own must have been unpleasant. But was it unpleasant enough to cause that particular kind of frown? It hadn’t been the look of a man surprised and a little offended; it had been the expression, calculating and angry, of one who had not realized that there was a roadblock to his plans. Or so Alberich thought, but everything he thought he’d observed was all in retrospect, for the expression hadn’t been there more than a moment. It was distinctly frustrating not to be able to quantify his feelings, but since he’d been working in the slums of Haven, his instincts had sharpened, and he’d come to depend on what they told him.

  Therefore, he would keep an eye on Lord Orthallen.

  So he delegated a portion of his mind to doing just that, and turned the rest of his attention back to the briefing that Sendar was getting. The Lord Marshal and his Herald Joyeaus were getting to the end of things Alberich already knew, and they looked as if there was more to say. A great deal more. And that it was bad news.

  “The ForeSeers are reporting difficulty, Majesty, as are the FarSeers,” Herald Joyeaus said. Her thin face was set in an expression of solemn thoughtfulness, for this development was something new—though not unexpected, at least, not to Alberich. The fact was, he was surprised that it had taken so long for the Tedrels to block attempts to FarSee what they were doing. Possibly they had not realized that the Heralds could do such a thing with the amount of accuracy they had. Possibly they had been blocking attempts to scry magically, and had not until now reckoned on the Gifts. Possibly they had been saving their mages for this moment.

  Or possibly it had taken them this long to buy or coerce magical expertise. . . .

  It seemed to take the rest by surprise, though, all but the Lord Marshal, who looked grim. “Exactly what do you mean by ‘difficulty,’ Joyeaus?” Sendar asked.

  Joyeaus’ mask didn’t slip, but Alberich didn’t have to be an Empath to know that she was very worried. “As you know, Majesty, my own strongest Gift is FarSeeing, and although when I Look elsewhere I have no difficulties, when I Look across the Border, I might as well be Looking into fog. In concert with two others, I made further attempts, but we managed no more than glimpses, which were confusing at best. The ForeSeers tell me that they are unable to See anything when they attempt to scry into the future—”

  “But as we all know, ForeSeeing is chancy at best,” Sendar finished for her. “The most probable answer to that is that there are so many possibilities branching from this moment that they are unable to see even one clearly. I am more concerned by the report from the FarSeers. Can FarSeeing be blocked?”

  Officers and Councilors began murmuring nervously among themselves and shifting their weight. Alberich pulled at his collar, feeling stifled suddenly and wondering if he was the only one who found the rising tension in the tent to be edging close to panic.

  “I—” Joyeaus hesitated. Alberich was astonished that she did so. How could she not know that it could be blocked? How could she not have expected that enemy mages would do so? And yet, from the way she looked, and the way Sendar acted, it seemed that the possibility had never even occurred to them.

  Alberich didn’t want to step out of the shadows and draw attention to himself, but he didn’t seem to have a choice. No one else saw the blindingly obvious. He cleared his throat; the sound was shocking in the silence that had followed Sendar’s question. Every head in the tent swiveled in his direction.

  “Herald Alberich?” Sendar prompted.

  “Senior, high-rank Sunpriests, such powers have,” he said carefully. “And unscrupulous others with magic for hire are, in the Southern Kingdoms. Among the Tedrels, there may be magicians, though specifically I have not of such heard.”

  They looked at him as if he had spoken in Karsite, not Valdemaran. Maybe in a way he had. He cursed his lack of fluency, and the need to speak without composing what he was going to say.

  He tried again, this time coming directly to the point. “Assume you must, that others than Heralds Gifted are. Surely Sunpriests are, for this I know! Surely Tedrels are, for they are a nation, and some must Gifted be! Yes. Blocked your Gifts can be!”

  Joyeaus blink
ed, and looked as if she was coming out of a daze. “He’s right, Majesty,” she said. “We have been remiss in assuming that only Heralds are Gifted—and that just because we don’t know ways of blocking Gifts, it doesn’t follow that someone else hasn’t found a way.”

  “So the Gifts are useless?” asked one Councilor, his voice sounding strained.

  “No, no—only FarSight and ForeSight!” Joyeaus hastened to say. “Mindspeech works perfectly well, and Fetching as well, at least as far as we can tell. We’ve never depended on ForeSight, it’s too rare a Gift and too erratic anyway.”

  I can vouch for that, Alberich thought grimly.

  “And we’ve never depended entirely on FarSight either,” Selenay put in, her high, young voice carrying over the muttering (and, yes, there was rising panic in those voices) of those around her. “We’d be fools to depend on any single source of intelligence, gentlemen! You may depend upon it, there are other ways of finding things out at a distance. Including—” she added, with a touch of irony, “—common spies.”

  “Animal Mindspeech,” replied someone. Alberich couldn’t tell who, precisely, for the background chatter distorted the sound. The voice was female, though, and very confident. “The Chronicles say that the Hawkbrothers of the Pelagiris Forest use Animal Mindspeech with their birds as spies. Surely we can do the same? Or listen through the ears of a horse or hound?”

  The muttering subsided, and what there was of it sounded less panicky. Sendar turned to Joyeaus. “Deal with it, Joyeaus. Find the Heralds with Animal Mindspeech; see what you can do. Ask Myste what’s in the Chronicles. Perhaps the Heralds of our generation have not needed to worry about their Gifts being blocked, but there’s no reason to think it hasn’t happened in the past somewhere, and if anyone will know where, when, and what was done about it, it will be Myste.”