The Duke's Ballad

XX

It began when a merchant ran out of grain. At least, that was what he said, but a servant talked of how his master had decided to sell no more of what was still held within his storehouses.

The merchant had come to an understanding that gold could not be eaten. He’d keep the remaining grain for himself and his family. But he was the only one whose storehouse had stood on the edge of the low quarter. Kars guard drove back any from that area if they tried to reach farther warehouses.

To this one place then they had come with their pitiful coins. They had purchased by handfuls rather than by the basket or bushel, but it had been enough. Now that chance was gone. The grain was there but not for them. A woman hammered on the door. Her man had been taken in one of Kirion’s sweeps. He’d never returned. She’d sold herself over and over to the Kars guard to obtain a few coppers. Her children wept with hunger. And a woman from the low quarter does not love her children the less.

When the merchant would not open the door she broke a window. Then another. A crowd had gathered, and she turned to them.

“The pig within this building piles food high to eat. My children starve. He will sell us nothing. When has he ever dealt honestly with us?” The gathering crowd responded with a sullen muttering of agreement. The merchant was well known for weighing down the scales with his ringer when he measured grain for purchase. The woman picked up another stone and smashed at the storehouse lock.

“Let him be the one who hunts rats. Let it be his daughters who must sell themselves to eat… if they can find any takers.” The sneer in that curse would have etched glass. The merchant’s daughters were arrogant and unlovely. Their servants hated them and with cause. None of that was any secret to the dwellers in the low quarter. She smashed again and again at the lock.

Inside the merchant made his error. Had he been content to stay inside and do nothing it is possible the woman would have found the door immovable and given up. But the merchant, facing the loss of his food, acted. He called out his guards and flung them against the crowd. The woman fell, run through and dying. She screamed her dying hate as she fell, and the crowd became a mob surging forward.

The guards killed again and again. Trapped in the narrow street the crowd could not escape and then it no longer wished to. The mob roared, swirled, coalesced, and struck back. The guards were pulled down one by one until all five were dead. Then the mob moved in on storehouse and home. They smashed in the doors, looting the food and all else portable.

The merchant, in the end a brave man, tried to protect his family. The crowd reached for him, and he died quickly. His wife and daughters did not, although they were dead by the time the mob scattered and were gone with their loot. When the Kars guard arrived there was only an empty warehouse, a looted home, and a number of dead bodies, stripped and left where they had fallen.

The guard reported, and Shastro, white with rage at this challenge to his authority, went in search of his sorcerer. “You wanted more specimens for your studies?”

“You said it cost too dear in guard’s lives last time.” Kirion hid his amusement. He’d already heard about the riot and could guess the rest.

“I’ve changed my mind. Outside I have twenty guards waiting. Another dozen will join them once they reach the low quarter. Go with them if you wish. You can smell out those with traces of the power; they can’t. Take whomever you find. Do what you will, just find a way to rid Kars of that honor-lost Franzo and his damned army!”

Kirion went out to guide more than thirty guards in a ruthless sweep, but the mob had come to understand it had power of its own. The people fought, taking to the sun-baked roofs, dropping stones, throwing rotting offal. And when a small number of the guards were cut off, the ambushers descended to fight them with a trapped-rat-like courage. The guards retreated with prisoners enough to content Kirion for a while, but the mob was left with a greater sense of its own strength.

That night they emerged from their warrens and rioted again. Guards quietly drifted in the opposite direction. They usually patrolled in threes. Three men could not stop fifty, and they were too smart to attempt it. When none appeared to halt the trouble, the mob knew they were the masters now. One of them reminded his friends of past grievances. They closed in on the home of a justice. That prudent man had an escape route and reached it together with his family. But his home was burned to the ground before he returned with help.

The mob split, gathered to itself others, blossomed into hundreds and split again. It flowed through the quarter where more affluent tradesmen and minor merchants dwelled, lighting fires, smashing doors, committing atrocities, and moving on. Guard horns blew as Shastro was informed and gave orders, his face red with fury. Guards formed up in ranks, pikes and heavy horses—mob smashers.

In his throne room the duke snarled. “There’s always more rats. I don’t care how many you kill. Let them taste blood. You’ll march in and kill until I give the order to withdraw. I’ll teach them who is master in Kars.” He pointed a finger at his guard-sergeant. “I and my advisor are coming with you. Detail your six best men to cover us. And empty the barracks. I’m going to smash the filth who defy me.”

“Yes, sire. At your command.” The sergeant had dead men of his own to avenge. “If it be acceptable I shall use the guards in three companies. We’ll circle the quarter, strike simultaneously from three directions, and have them encircled. We can then drive in, killing as we go until we have them well reminded who rules, sire.” The sergeant had been disgusted at the rioting and horrified at the failure of his men to prevent it. He’d redeem his own honor as well.

Shastro eyed him with approval. “Excellent. Give the orders. I will be with you shortly.” He waited until the man was gone then turned to Kirion. “You’ll come with me.”

“I am a sorcerer, not some bloody-handed guard,” Kirion said coldly. “Am I to waste gathered power dueling filth in the alleys?”

“You’re to guard your duke,” Shastro said savagely. “Half of this trouble came because of your advice and your constant demands for more sources of power.” He became angrier as he felt the truth of his words. “Get out into the gutters for once, Sorcerer, and do some of your own work. See what trouble your advice causes.”

He shut his mouth abruptly, but Kirion had caught the undertone. None of his advice had been responsible for this. It had been Shastro who’d wished to punish the Coast Clan, Shastro who’d demanded Kirion use his sorcery to bring them grief and deaths. But was that what the duke would say to others? Or was he trying to load all the blame, all the actions onto his advisor? Kirion’s mind jumped forward. And if the duke was blaming his sorcerer, to whom was he saying that? Kirion could guess.

If only he was placed behind the duke. But Shastro made certain his sorcerer was before him as they rode off surrounded by armed men. The engagement was savage. It lasted three candlemarks, and in the low quarter whole streets lost some from every home. When it ended the people were cowed. They crawled into their hovels, hating sullenly but too afraid of their duke to emerge from the quarter again or not for some while.

But if Kirion thought that would be the end of it he swiftly learned he was wrong. On a quiet estate in the nobles’ quarter, letters had been written. Aisling had scried the first riot. Keelan thought of the plan.

“Look, Rann. You’re going back and forth with letters. What would happen if you dropped one and it was read?”

“The duke would have me strung up,” Hadrann said promptly.

“No, listen. I don’t mean the real letters. We could write new ones. The city would love to hear that its troubles would be over if they just handed out Shastro and Kirion.”

Aisling looked thoughtful. “That’s very true. And what if they also read letters that were offers. One, say, suggesting that Kirion hand over Shastro only as the real cause of the troubles?”

“And another the opposite?” Keelan queried. “Yes. It’d raise some eyebrows.”

Aisling grinned. “And four of them would belong to Shastro and Kirion if the letters fell into their hands. I could set the merest trace of a spell to help that along. Just so they’d see the right letter for each. I’d wager each has in mind selling out the other anyhow, even if they haven’t offered it yet. Rann, you can disguise your writing. Let’s see what we can do.”

“How do we get the letters somewhere believable?” Hadrann was cautious.

“Write first. The opportunity may arrive.”

The letters were written, masterpieces of innuendo and suggestion, at least the missives supposedly from duke and sorcerer. The one apparently signed by the army’s commander was quite straight-forward, and it also turned out to be straightforward as to how they were discarded for discovery. With Shastro’s punishment of the low quarter he’d been seen by hundreds, as had his advisor.

Keelan and his friend had donned the garb of bullies, hired swords, and skulked away once Aisling had scried the duke’s intent. They’d left through the shrine’s secret door, with a spell from Aisling laid over them that rendered them nondescript and almost unnotice-able. They’d slipped about the fringes of the fight, dropped the letters as the guard retreated with their dead and prisoners, then vanished to reappear through the shrine’s hidden door.

Once the people ventured forth the letters were found. Few could read, but one by one in the different streets someone was found. The letters were read to savage groups who snarled, their eyes showing a red madness. After that rumors began. One came to Kirion’s ears. He drained every scrap of power, hid himself in night, and came at last to where he could lay hands on the letter of which he’d heard. Hadrann had written well. He’d even initialed the bottom of the page with the mark of one of the duke’s scribes.

Kirion read, burned the letter, and withdrew, his face thoughtful. It seemed as if it really was time to dispose of a duke who’d become dangerous to his creator. That night he worked long and hard, draining a half dozen prisoners to search yet again for his sister. With her in his hands he could work the miracles Shastro demanded. Then he could move against the duke. He found no trace of Aisling and cursed, kicking the bodies that littered the tower floor.

He tried again to find the men who had waited at the ruined garth. They too were nowhere to be found but, straining all his abilities, he was for the first time able to learn one thing: they were dead. They had been dead all this time. That had to have been his sister’s doing, he thought. He would wait, lay hands on some others of the Old Blood and try yet again. He would have her, and with her, the power to do as he wished.

Another rumor had reached Shastro’s ears. He marched with thirty guards, seized one letter and another. He looked at them. Maybe Franzo had tried to reach him with a messenger who’d been killed. That would account for the first missive. The second he read, and for long minutes he raged about his room. Flinging items that smashed against walls and floor. He paused to read it again.

So it was he who had ordered his sorcerer to attack the clan. It was he who had ordered the murders of… He looked down at the page. By the gods, the wretched man had named him as instigator of the deaths of his own cousins. Shastro froze, suddenly silent. The letter said that in proof if a spy was sent secretly, he would find the body of the woman buried in such and such a place. Kirion claimed to have spied on the duke and seen the murders and the woman’s burial. There was even a small neatly drawn map.

Shastro slumped back into his seat. “Sharna!” he said softly. “I loved you and your brother. You were light in my darkness. Warmth for the chill of my heart.” He bowed his head remembering. They’d come out of the low quarter together. He and Sharna, his love, and her brother Paran, his friend. Anything they had they’d shared. When he rose to be duke he’d shared that with delight in having something to give. He’d planned to wed Sharna in all honor and have Paran declared his chief advisor.

He clenched his hands, tears standing in his burning eyes. He knew his darker side, the things he took pleasure in. While Sharna and Paran had been with him he’d been able to resist temptation. Without them he had fallen, listened to Kirion’s prompting, accepted the pleasure offered. He’d been told that as duke, to him no delights were forbidden, and they hadn’t been. Kirion had been quick to offer spells. Any lover his duke desired should be his; they dared not reject their lord.

Shastro had taken as and where he willed. His fingers were rolling something over and over. He looked down: the trinket Paran had made. Paran, who had delighted in his skill and loved to make small baubles to please the eye and caress the fingers. He looked down on the carved amethyst, at the insignia of Cup and Flame. Sharna had been devout. He’d paid Paran to make it for her name day.

He picked up the letter again, studied the map. Kirion had said that his duke’s cousins had been attacked by bandits. They had found the bodies of Paran and his man but no trace of Sharna, though Shastro had ordered a search that lasted for days. Kirion had led it. The duke’s eyes became lethal with hatred as he remembered.

But whoever had written this letter knew where Sharna lay. If it told the truth—and it seemed that it was Kirion who had written—Shastro must discover if the letter lied. And if it did not, there would be a reckoning. His lips drew back from his teeth. Oh, yes. There would be. Then his anger collapsed, and there was only a richly dressed man who leaned against the back of his chair and wept slow burning tears for his love, who might have saved his soul but had died too soon.

A siege is not to prevent the escape of one person here and there but to hold a city within its walls until such time as it is ready to surrender and open its gates. Shastro sent out two men from different points over the walls. One returned. It had taken him long weeks first to find the grave, then to elude the tighter army lines and reach Kars again. With him he brought an item his ruler knew and a description.

“A woman for sure, sire. Small, delicate bones. Long blonde hair. She was well wrapped in a heavy cloak. No, sire. It was plain. Black wool with braided ties. Under it she still had the rags of a gown in lilac. I searched according to your orders. She had this on a braided leather string about her neck still.”

He stepped forward to place an item on the polished wooden table. Shastro waved his permission for the man to depart, casually tossing him a purse as he did so. But his eyes were on the deadly lovely knife that lay before him.

He knew this object. It had been a jest between the three of them the midwinter he’d become duke. Paran had carved tiny cats from semiprecious gems, gifting one each to his sister and cousin. Sharna had embroidered handkerchiefs using her own hair for the initials. Thus, she’d said, they could each have something of her. And Shastro had ordered his court silversmith to make the knives, tiny delicate razor-sharp blades fitted into silver-chased sea-ivory hilts.

They were grace knives to be worn about the throat and used as last resort. He’d jested that now he was duke and they of the nobility, they had honor to defend. He turned the hilt in shaking fingers seeing the initials twined in the chasing. Sharna, Shayril’s-daughter. He lowered his head to lay it on the knife, praying for some fading echo of her to reach him.

“How did you die, love?” he whispered to it. “My spies found no wounds they could swear to. Did you die calling my name, trusting me to help, and I failed you? But I trusted too. I trusted a man who came offering me a throne, saying I was the strong one Kars and Karsten needed. A man who swore that no one found your poor body. Did he even look? Or did he already know!”

The duke raised his head, and his eyes were frenzied. “How did you die, love? To give him power? I say he knew!” His hand crushed the letter he had been rereading when his spy returned. “He drew the map.” His voice dropped to a hissing whisper. “He’ll pay, love. I swear. For the years without you both. For the years he tempted me and I fell.” He kissed the knife gently. “With this, on this, I swear. He’ll murder no more, love, once I am done with him.”

Shastro stood. He reached up to take a pendant from about his neck and replace it on the chain with the knife, dropping it into his tunic with an air of finality. He smoothed his face. No sign must there be of what he knew. Kirion saw too much if a man was careless. Shastro did not intend to be careless. He would lead his sorcerer on, use him, drain all the power the man could summon up, then strike.

He found Kirion working a spell and interrupted without ceremony. “I want something done.” Kirion bowed silently, but a newly alert duke saw the quick flare of anger. Yes, his advisor did not like taking orders. Had that been contempt mixed with the rage? Shastro drew himself up. “You are to scry Franzo’s army. I want him watched whenever he is in conference with his captains.”

“That will take power.”

“What else is power for?” He softened his tone. “Besides. I may have a gift for my most useful sorcerer. A spy has bought me word that there is a whole family with the Old Blood hidden somewhere in the city. He is closing in on them. Six, maybe more, but six at the least. All half bloods. He says the parents are both that, and hence all four of their children. The city is closed; they cannot escape. What could you do with all of that power at your command!”

Kirion turned to hide his face. What could he not do? Rid himself of this arrogant fool for a start. Raise a duke who’d hang on Kirion’s every word. And win a war with Estcarp to give him an endless supply of victims to drain until his power could open gates, tear down the sky, and—He turned back avidly.

“At your command, my Lord. No word from Franzo shall escape me. But let it be soon that this family is found. It will take all the power I can leech from those we have now to overhear Franzo for any great length of time.”

“You shall have them as soon as possible, my dear advisor.” He swept out smiling to himself. Once the dungeons were empty he’d claim that the family had been taken, on the way. He’d arrange as-sassins then. That would drain any power Kirion was withholding. With his sorcerer powerless, Shastro would take great pleasure in cutting his heart out with Sharna’s own small knife.

Behind him Kirion had a blank look as he thought furiously. Shastro was up to something, but what? This family. If he had them in his hands he’d have all the power he needed. He’d do as the duke demanded until then. After that Shastro could beware.

Varnar entered and Kirion smiled at him. His hands rose to weave hypnotically. He’d see what Franzo and his army planned, but for now he’d ready this tool. It would amuse him afterward. He spoke in a quiet, compelling rhythm. Varnar sat, his eyes becoming blank as he saw his family: his adored wife, his beloved daughter. How he missed them. He’d be with them in his master’s home outside Kars if it were not for this siege. Kirion laughed soundlessly at the entranced dreaming figure.

He’d taken the fool from the low quarter. A man so ugly, so scarred that no woman had ever looked at him beyond a commercial transaction. Kirion had first drugged the man in wine offered a good servant, then started to insert the dreams.

Now Varnar believed in the lie his master had created. Kirion had made him straight, strong, and handsome. Only the strength was true. Out of Varnar’s dreams Kirion had created a family. They were an idealized portrait that had never existed: the adoring wife, the lovely gentle loving little daughter. Neither had ever existed.

The dreams had become the man’s reality, and soon Kirion would end the dreams. He’d show Varnar the truth and drink in the man’s utter despair. Varnar would die of grief for phantoms. Kirion would drain the pain and use it. He’d slash away the picture the man had of himself and allow Varnar to see his real shape, that of a man ugly beyond redemption. He smiled. It would be so much fun. But for now he must do as Shastro wished. He drew on his stored stolen power and scried. How interesting. Franzo was talking to that pup of the duke’s. The one with the plain, stupid cousin. He drew more power and settled to listen.

Aisling was talking with Shastro when she felt the tingle of magic. She had spelled bracelets, given one each to her brother and friend. The signal was different. It would warn if Kirion listened alone or if the duke was with him. Hadrann felt the prick of warning and switched smoothly to another tack. He’d been speaking of the city. Now he spoke of the duke, praising him.

“My Lord Duke feels he was grievously misled. He listened to one who was unwise, perhaps even deliberately so. Perhaps if your terms could be adjusted there might be agreement. After all, you would have no wish to punish the innocent?”

Franzo was slightly puzzled but agreed. Hadrann continued in this vein until the sharp tingling faded from his arm. Then he resumed the original discussion.

In Kars a furious Kirion sagged back. Damn. He’d lost focus. He called for Varnar and gave orders.

As the days slipped by the last of the scourings from the low quarter filed in one by one to be used up. Kirion chanted, drew power, and had the lifeless remains removed.

He focused again on Franzo’s camp. Now that was interesting. The man was sending out soldiers. Kirion split his attention trying both to hear the orders given and follow the first troop as they left. It drained his power slowly over several weeks so that by the time he found that one troop was merely on a run to collect supplies and that Franzo’s orders for the other were to ride about the walls on watch to ensure no spies slipped out, he was drained.

Midwinter came and went, and spring would sweep over Karsten in another few weeks. The city was desperate. Of those outside the palace, only Aisling and her comrades and servants had enough to eat. Twice the guards had been forced to beat off thieves who had succeeded in scaling the wall after food. The yearling lambs were eaten. The hens too long since, and only one pair of geese remained. Grain and hay were rationed; the horses grew thin. If the siege held much longer they would be food for the guards and Amara. Only Wind Dancer did well. The rats and mice were bolder and more careless.

Shastro had his own spies. He knew the dungeons had emptied. He must see to it that Kirion needed more power. He spoke quietly to men, one by one. They departed. In his tower Kirion summoned Varnar. It was time to use this fool. He must know what was being planned behind his back by his duke and the commander of the besieging army. He could draw on no more prisoners; it must be Varnar’s pain and grief that fueled a final scrying. He could afford to spend the man. Soon Shastro would find the hidden Old Blood family and bring him power to spare.

On the rented estate Aisling jerked from her seat as the geas bit at her. “Keelan, we have to go to the palace.”

“What about Rann?”

“He took another letter to Franzo. He’ll go back to give a reply to the duke first. Wait for him near the duke’s rooms then come to our suite.”

They left, riding swiftly. In Aisling’s carrysack Wind Dancer rode with them. He’d flatly refused to be left behind. With cat senses he knew that he too was a part of this. He’d be needed. In time, Hadrann was able to leave a preoccupied duke and join them. Aisling laid out her scrying tools, slipped into her pendant’s silver mists and waited patiently.

Over-mountain Hilarion felt a shift in the lines of power. A geas moved to conclusion. For success or failure he did not yet know, but he would know soon enough. In the Valley of the Green Silences those who’d known a girl, prayed for her. Prayed too that war from their cousins in another land might be averted. The lines of power firmed. It was time.