Bloodheir

III

“Allow me to offer this gift, Thane.” Mordyn Jerain pressed a small bundle wrapped in the softest deer hide into Orisian’s hands. “It is nothing much. Just a token of our High Thane’s support for your cause. And of our sympathies.”

“I am grateful,” murmured Orisian as he fumbled with the folds of deerskin. The soft brown hide fell away to reveal a flat, round belt buckle of polished gold, twisted in mimicry of rope.

“It’s a very fine piece,” he said.

“Yes,” agreed the Chancellor. “Made by one of Hoke’s finest goldsmiths, we believe.”

“Hoke,” Orisian repeated.

“Indeed. It comes from Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig’s own treasury.”

“I see.”

“You need not worry,” said Mordyn, with a radiant smile. “Igryn has no further use for it.”

“I imagine not,” Orisian said. He, like everyone in Kolkyre, had heard of Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig’s fate. The rebellious Thane, after his humiliating defeat at the hands of Gryvan oc Haig, had been blinded and taken in chains back to Vaymouth. He languished there now, humbled along with the rest of his Blood. The belt buckle was what, then? Message? Threat?

The summons from the Shadowhand had been polite, deferential even, but it had been a summons nevertheless. It had come without further explanation, beyond a vaguely expressed desire to meet Orisian formally before the feast that Lheanor would be hosting in the Tower that evening. Orisian’s nervousness had hardly been assuaged by Taim Narran’s earnestly offered advice as they walked together towards the Steward’s House where Mordyn had taken up residence.

“It’s nothing more than that he wants to take your measure, I’m sure,” the warrior had said. “He’ll be pleasant most likely. Full of easy words. He’s seldom short of them, from what I’ve seen. Most of what he says will be empty, though, or insincere, so pay it no heed.”

Watching Mordyn now, Orisian detected no sign of either emptiness or insincerity. The man was relaxed, as apparently at ease as he might be if Orisian were an old friend.

“Let me offer you some wine,” the Chancellor said, turning to a small table where a simple clay ewer stood.

“Only a little, thank you,” Orisian said. He would have preferred none, but was fearful of giving offence, or betraying his nervousness.

“Let’s sit.” Mordyn nodded over his shoulder towards a pair of cushioned chairs. “I think you’ll find the wine pleasing. It’s one of the best out of Drandar: a gift to the High Thane from the Vintners. He allowed me to bring just a single vase with me.” He handed Orisian a full goblet. “We can count ourselves greatly fortunate that it survived the journey. The roads are not as smooth as they might be in these parts.”

Orisian took a cautious sip. No matter how good it might be — and it did indeed taste as smooth and rich as any wine he had ever come across — he had no intention of drinking more than that one mouthful.

“I cannot imagine how bitter your grief, your anger, must be,” the Shadowhand sighed as he settled into the other chair. He shook his head sorrowfully. “That one so young should have to suffer such losses is most cruel. It is utterly undeserved.”

“I have been taught not to wish for what cannot be.”

“A valuable lesson,” Mordyn said. “Much misery could be avoided in the world if it were more widely heeded. You’ve caused great excitement here.”

“Not by choice.”

“Of course. But a young man, come into a Thaneship in such… harsh circumstances. And bringing Kyrinin and na’kyrim to Kolkyre. Kyrinin, housed at the city’s garrison! By choice or not, you’ve made yourself the subject of much gossip.”

Perhaps it should be no surprise that the Chancellor knew about Ess’yr and Varryn, Orisian reflected, but it did unsettle him. The Shadowhand had barely settled into his chambers in Kolkyre, and already he knew things that Orisian would prefer he did not.

“You are, what — the seventh Thane of the Lannis Blood?” Mordyn said. The rapid shifts in the conversation left Orisian feeling slow-footed.

“Yes,” he said quietly, realising he had raised the cup of wine to his lips again.

“You come after many great men. Croesan not the least of them, of course. Your uncle was a worthy successor to Sirian. Always firm in the defence of Lannis-Haig interests.”

At the expense of proper deference to Gryvan oc Haig, Orisian guessed was the unspoken implication. He swallowed down another gulp of wine, hoping to quench the first flicker of anger in his breast. Silence, he had concluded, was much the wisest course here. The sooner it was all over, the better.

“A terrible blow, Croesan’s loss,” the Shadowhand said, with a sad shake of his head. “He would have been the very man to lead your people against the Black Road. The very man. It will be hard to measure up to his memory, but I am sure you will one day stand just as tall. We must ensure that you have the chance to grow, eh?”

The tone of Mordyn’s words was convivial, yet Orisian had the nagging sense that the Chancellor was belittling him. He hoped that his face would not betray his mounting irritation. Mordyn dropped his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, so low that Orisian had to angle his head to catch it.

“You may find Aewult nan Haig somewhat overbearing — many do, I’m afraid — but he will not be here for long. Once he has restored your rightful lands to you, the Bloodheir will be gone in no time. And when you come to Vaymouth, you will find the High Thane much more… amenable. You’ve never been to Vaymouth, have you?”

“No.” The Shadowhand’s assumption that he would be making that journey had caught him unawares. It was not something to which he had given even a moment’s thought.

“It’s a wonderful city. Truly, you can’t imagine until you have seen it. But then Taim Narran may have told you of it, since he’s so recently passed through? How is he, by the way? When I spoke with him in Vaymouth he was very distressed. We’d only then heard the first rumours of the Black Road stirring, as I recall.”

“He’s well,” Orisian said. “As well as any of us are, at least.”

“Indeed. It’s perhaps improper of me to say anything, but you may be well advised not to bring him to Vaymouth with you when you come. He and the High Thane did not part on the best of terms, you know. Taim Narran may be richly gifted in the matter of war — exceptionally so, by all account — but… well, you understand, I’m sure.” Again, Mordyn smiled. It was an expression so winning, so open, that it elicited its pale reflection upon Orisian’s lips before he could help himself. “Anyway, there’s not one of us can say he is without fault. For all Aewult’s failings, he knows how to lead an army. He will make short work of the Black Road, Thane, you need not concern yourself over that. We can leave that bloody business to those with more experience of such things than you or I.”

“I don’t mean to let others shoulder my burdens for me,” Orisian said, the words sounding harder and angrier than he had intended.

The Chancellor shrugged. “Of course. But a wise man would never turn his back on good fortune. The High Thane has sent his own son — his Bloodheir, no less — to fight this battle on your behalf. You would not cast aside the cloak of his protection, would you?”

“No,” said Orisian. No other answer was possible; even he, in his inexperience, knew that.

“No.” Mordyn nodded. “Believe me, Thane, the wisest course here is to stand aside and let those with battle running through their veins resolve matters.”

“My Blood fought alone until now,” Orisian snapped, his self-control faltering. “Our… my people would not expect me to stand aside and let others finish the struggle.”

“You think not?” The eyes above the smiling mouth were piercing and fixed. Orisian’s anger melted away, replaced by unease. He wondered if he had crossed some invisible, and dangerous, boundary; and whether he had done it himself or been led there by the Shadowhand.

“Well, perhaps you are right,” Mordyn murmured. “But Thanes must remember things that their people can sometimes forget, of course. The army Aewult has brought north is payment for an agreement his father made with your uncle. Gryvan protects those Bloods that have submitted to his own. A simple truth, best not forgotten.”

The Chancellor reached for the wine ewer. “Let me fill your cup.”

Orisian laid a hurried hand over the top of his goblet.

“No, thank you,” he said. His mind was rattling around, fumbling for some kind of handhold.

“Does the wine not meet with your approval?”

“No, it’s not that. It is as good as anything I’ve tasted. I’m tired, Chancellor, that’s all.”

“Ah. Well, these are trying times. The strongest of men would find it difficult, let alone someone of your youth. Perhaps you should consider excusing yourself from the feast tonight? I am sure Lheanor would understand; all of us would.”

The concern on Mordyn’s face was flawless. Whatever threat Orisian had seen there moments ago — or imagined he had seen — was utterly gone, replaced by simple sympathy. Sincere or not, it was utterly convincing and Orisian wondered at how easy it might be to be charmed by this man. Yet they said many men had died by his command, that every punishing tithe levied by the Haig Blood sprang from his greed, that he had turned the Ayth-Haig Thane into a helpless drunk, the better to subjugate his Blood.

“I could not do that, Chancellor,” Orisian said.

Mordyn smiled and spread his hands. “No? Well, perhaps not. Ah, but we can dream, can we not? To be freed of the responsibilities that weigh down upon us? In my weak moments, I think of little else.” He set his cup of wine down on the table. “Come, Thane. I’m keeping you from your preparations for the feast. Forgive my selfishness.”

The Chancellor rose. Orisian, trying not to show the relief he felt, did likewise. He left clutching the golden belt buckle, feeling its weight in his hand like the greatest of burdens.

Lagair Haldyn, the High Thane’s Steward in Kolkyre, was an indolent man. Mordyn Jerain knew this about him, just as he knew that he drank more than a wise man should, that he had a whore who would sometimes visit him when he travelled out of his wife’s sight, that he had once conspired in the death of a grain merchant in Vaymouth. His less than appealing traits and habits were, though, balanced by two compensating qualities that predisposed him to serve the High Thane loyally: ambition and greed.

“He is only a child, Chancellor,” the Steward was saying in that slovenly voice of his. “Since he turned up here he’s shown no aptitude. It’s as if he cannot believe he is Thane, as if he’s afraid of the very idea. He won’t present any problems.”

“He is young,” agreed Mordyn, “and it’s true that he’s come into this power long before he was ready for it. Still, there’s a bit of fire in him. I stoked it up enough to catch sight of it. Not enough to sustain him in a battle of wills with us, though, I suspect.”

He drained the last of the wine from his cup. It really was some of the very best wine to be had; quite wasted on Orisian oc Lannis-Haig. The ewer, still half full, stood on its little table. Lagair had been eyeing it greedily ever since he entered the room, but Mordyn had no intention of letting even one drop pass the man’s lips.

“He will get good advice from Taim Narran if he pays heed,” the Shadowhand said. “We would be wise to see if we can’t prise the two of them apart, one way or another. And then there’s Lheanor: he will look on Orisian with affection, no doubt.”

Lagair grunted. “Lheanor has his own difficulties. I tell you, that man’s on the edge of losing himself, just as Kennet nan Lannis-Haig did. He’s got himself all twisted up, taking Gerain’s death hard.”

“Fine. A grief-crippled Lheanor makes for an impotent Kilkry Blood. But Orisian oc Lannis-Haig still merits a close watch. Whether he likes it or not, he’s a potent figurehead for his Blood. All of this can yet end up very well for us, but not if we find ourselves burdened with an over-confident Lannis Blood, led by an ambitious young Thane.”

“Very well. I still think you worry too much, though.”

The Shadowhand shot Lagair a pointed glance and was rewarded with a flash of humility and nervousness in the Steward’s face.

“Fortunately, what you think is of less import than what I choose to worry about,” Mordyn said, articulating the words with precision.

The Steward smiled half-heartedly in agreement. Mordyn suspected that almost everything he did, even carousing with his whore, he did half-heartedly.

“If there’s glory to be had here, it’s Haig that must harvest it,” the Chancellor mused.

That, he thought with a touch of despondency, meant Aewult nan Haig. There were few people he judged less worthy of glory, but the Bloodheir was here and he would have to serve. The Lannis-Haig Blood must be indebted to Haig for its salvation, thus Aewult must work that salvation.

“I will talk to Aewult,” he continued. “We must ensure that Orisian stays here while we recover his homeland for him. And you, Steward: what is the state of your contacts here? Have you the means to set some rumours running in the backstreets and the markets?”

“If there is one thing I have learned in all my years,” said Lagair with a self-satisfied smirk, “it is that no Steward worth his title should ever be without the means to stir up a rumour or two.”

“Very well. Put it about that Orisian escaped the Black Road only because he fled and because he took sanctuary with woodwights and half-humans. And that he is too young and untried to save his Blood. All of those thoughts will already be rattling around somewhere in this rats’ nest of a city. Feed them; encourage them.”

Lagair nodded compliantly.

“Foolish of him to bring a na’kyrim here with him,” Mordyn said.

“They’ve got her hidden away somewhere in the Tower, by all accounts. Lheanor’s done everything he can to keep it quiet, the same way he’s got those Kyrinin locked up out of sight. Word always gets out, though. It’s no way for a new Thane to win favour, that’s certain: consorting with halfbreeds and wights.”

“I would be curious to see that na’kyrim, though,” the Chancellor said, as much to himself as to the Steward. “I always found it… interesting that Kennet nan Lannis-Haig kept a na’kyrim counsellor. Such a thing might be useful, I suppose, if one could overcome the hostility of the common folk.”

Lagair Haldyn snorted. “Not useful enough, given what befell Kennet.”

“Well, it does not matter now. Do you know of a man called Ochan, by the way?”

“Ochan Lyre? The Cook, they call him, but I cannot guess what such as he would have done to merit your attention.”

“If you cannot guess, better not to try. If there is one thing I have learned in all my years, Steward, which have been rather more demandingly spent than yours, it is that speculation quickly leads the unwary onto unsafe ground.”

“Of course, Chancellor. Well… Ochan the Cook. A smuggler, by reputation, and a thief and a usurer.”

“He is under someone’s protection, then, if he has the reputation but hasn’t been taken?”

The Steward shrugged. “He must have some arrangement, I imagine; with the Guard, most likely. Has the poor man incurred your displeasure in some way?”

“Not personally. But if he does not pay the tithes and taxes that he rightfully should… if the Kilkry-Haig Blood is incapable of controlling their own people, they should be encouraged towards a more stringent attitude. Can you make it happen? Can you unpick whatever protection he enjoys?”

Lagair pursed his lips in thought. It seemed an affected gesture to Mordyn, but he suppressed his impatience.

“I could,” said the Steward. “Yes, I believe I could. A word in the right ear, you know. It may not be well received, of course. Interference seldom is, in these parts.”

“Do it anyway. I want him gaoled. Or dead. Why is he called ‘the Cook’?”

“Oh, a foolish story that he stewed and ate some rival long ago. No right-thinking man would give it any credence. You know how these thieves like to dress themselves in dark rumours.”

“Yes,” murmured the Shadowhand, thinking of Torquentine in Vaymouth: a shadow at the centre of a far more intricate web of rumour, but far too clever to let his name be widely known. Ochan the Cook would soon regret whatever he had done to draw Torquentine’s attention. Though playing the role of Torquentine’s vengeful messenger irked him, Mordyn was willing to see it through. It would be a profitable exchange of services, so long as Torquentine delivered on his promise to kill Gann nan Dargannan-Haig. And the Shadowhand had never been one to put pride above effectiveness.

“I will go and find the Bloodheir,” Mordyn said, rising to his feet. “I should talk to him before the feast. He’ll be in no mood to listen later on, and probably too drink-bruised to do so tomorrow.”

He turned back after a few paces down the passage, and returned to the doorway. He was not surprised to find the High Thane’s Steward leaning over the jug of wine, sniffing at it.

“Have one of your servants take that to my chambers, would you?” Mordyn said. “And get them to build up the fire there a bit more. I was cold last night.”

The Chancellor was deep in thought as he headed for the Tower of Thrones. He was tired, for he had been sleeping badly ever since leaving Vaymouth. The chambers the Steward had provided for him here in Kolkyre were a very poor substitute for the comforts of his Palace of Red Stone. That, combined with the fact that he never slept easily while separated from his wife Tara, meant he suffered too many hours of wakefulness in the night. It did not help that he was, in any case, on edge.

Not the least of his concerns was his reliance on Aewult nan Haig. So far, the Bloodheir was irritating and offending various people without precipitating an irrecoverable breach. That could easily change. Every new day provided abundant opportunities for him to say or do something profoundly unhelpful. The sooner Aewult and his army were moved on, the better. The question thereafter would be whether he could manage the swift defeat of the Black Road.

All the signs, thankfully, were that the Black Road’s forces in the Glas valley were too few to offer any serious resistance. Now that he was here in Kolkyre, where it began to be possible to sift fact from rumour, Mordyn was satisfied that Lannis-Haig had been undone by misfortune and by the cunning, rather than the numbers, of their enemies. The complicity of the White Owl Kyrinin, the ravages of the Heart Fever five years ago, a tendency to complacency in Croesan and his family: these were all it had taken to allow the Horin-Gyre Blood, alone, to bring Anduran down. They would be of little use against Aewult nan Haig’s army.

The Shadowhand winced as flurries of sleety snow began to swirl around him. He had never much liked Kolkyre but at this time of year, when bitter winds came off the sea and every day seemed given over to fog or rain or sleet, it was particularly unpleasant. He folded his arms to protect his hands from the cold, and longed for the day when he would be on the road south once more. In Vaymouth now, Tara would be bathing, breathing the sweet clove-scented air she so loved; or perhaps hosting some gathering of the ladies of Gryvan’s court, exquisitely garbed. Too far away, Mordyn thought, and too long to wait for our reunion. If Aewult did not win his victory quickly — insufferable as such a victory would no doubt make him — it would be a considerable time before the Chancellor forgave him.