Ordermaster

II

Thrap!

“Ser Kharl? Ser Kharl?”

Kharl struggled out of sleep. Where was he? How early was it?

“Ser Kharl?” The feminine voice was unfamiliar.

He squinted in the light pouring into the unfamiliar bedchamber, before everything came back. He was in the north wing of Lord Ghrant’s Great House. For just himself, he had not only a large bedchamber, but a sitting room with a desk, as well as a lavishly equipped bath chamber.

“Ser?”

“Coming …” Kharl pulled himself out of the triple-width bed and yanked on his traveling trousers, shambling through the sitting room to the door, aware of the old but thick carpet beneath his bare feet.

“Your breakfast, sir.”

Kharl concentrated, hard as it was, with his order-senses, but so far as he could tell, the young woman stood alone outside his door. He eased the lock plate back. A dark-haired young woman, barely out of girlhood, stood there holding an enormous tray.

“If you’d let me bring it in, ser. If you would, ser.”

Kharl watched as she eased through the doorway and set the tray on the table desk. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, ser.” The girl bowed and slipped away.

After locking the door again, Kharl crossed the sitting room. He looked at the tray, taking in the slices of ham, the egg toast, fillets of some sort of fish, a basket of black bread, a pot of jam, and the twin pitchers, one of pale ale, and the other of cider, with an empty beaker. He hadn’t expected a breakfast to be delivered, but he couldn’t say he was displeased, not as late as he had arrived in Valmurl the night before.

The winds had not been as favorable as Hagen had hoped, and the Seafox had not reached Valmurl until a good two glasses past midnight, even pushing the engines. A coach had been waiting, though, to take them to the Great House. For all that, or because of it, he had not slept that well, fretting as he had about the upcoming audience. Then, just when he had drifted off, or so it had seemed, the young woman had knocked on his door, carrying a tray with his breakfast.

A faint smile crossed his lips. A former cooper, being served by the servants of the Lord of Austra-that was something that Charee would never have believed. The pain he felt when he thought of his dead consort was not so much grief as a deep sadness over something that had never been quite right for years-and for the fact that she had been killed because Egen had wanted to punish Kharl. Her death had led to his losing both boys. Charee’s sister Merayni had claimed the younger Warrl just before Kharl had been forced into hiding. Arthal, bitter at his mother’s death, had signed on to the Fleuryl as a carpenter’s apprentice without even telling Kharl until the morning he had left.

Kharl could only hope that Warrl was doing well as a grower’s boy at Peachill. Once the rebel lords were subdued-if they were-then he could look into sending for Warrl. Going back to Brysta in person to get Warrl wasn’t a good idea, but if all else failed, he’d try that as well. As for Arthal … he didn’t even know where his older son was-or that Arthal would even talk to him if he could find the boy-except Arthal was a young man, an angry young man. Then, Arthal had always been angry, and Kharl had never understood why.

He shook his head and looked down at the breakfast tray. After a moment, he frowned.

There was something about the tray.

He studied it, both with his eyes and his order-senses. His eyes and nose insisted that everything was as it should be. His order-senses told him that there were pockets of reddish white spread through most of the food.

He left the tray on the table and went into the bath chamber.

In less than half a glass he was washed up and dressed. The tray and food remained untouched on the desk, and Kharl used the big brass key to lock the door behind him. He doubted that would stop whoever had poisoned the food.

He found the staircase down to the main level without any difficulty and made his way southward, toward what he thought was the center of the Great House. He stopped in a large hexagonal hallway, off which branched four corridors.

“Ser mage?” asked the guard in the yellow and black of Ghrant’s personal guard.

“I’m looking for the lord-chancellor. Lord-chancellor Hagen.”

The guard looked at Kharl’s face, then at his black garments-those of a mage-once more. “Ah … yes, ser. His chamber is this way. I’d best take you.”

Kharl studied the man with his order-senses, but the fellow seemed honest.

The guard turned down a narrower corridor that stretched a good fifty cubits, but he stopped after thirty at an unmarked ironbound door.

“The mage Kharl to see you, ser.”

“Have him come in.”

“Ser.” The guard nodded and stepped back.

Kharl found himself inside a small chamber, no more than ten cubits square, without even a window. There was a second door, also of golden oak, at the rear of the room. Wearing a black velvet jacket trimmed in gold, with a heavy gold chain with a gold medallion at the end around his neck, Hagen stood beside the small table desk.

“You look upset, Kharl. What is it?”

“I had a breakfast tray delivered. I’m fairly sure it’s poisoned. I just left it in the sitting room.”

Hagen walked to the wall and yanked on the yellow-and-black bellpull. “I’ll send Charsal up with you. He’ll bring back the tray, and we’ll feed it to the rats.”

“The rats?”

“Lord Estloch keeps them for just such purposes. Anything that kills a rat will certainly kill a person.”

Kharl hadn’t thought about the possibility of an organized system for dealing with poison, but the moment that Hagen had mentioned it, he realized that he should have.

Hagen fingered his chin. “I wouldn’t put it past Guillam. I can’t think of anyone else who would know-or want to-that you were coming-or what that might mean. But that doesn’t mean it was he.”

“There’s something he doesn’t want discovered,” Kharl suggested. “Why else …?”

Hagen laughed. “Were it only that simple. A mage reduces everyone’s influence with Lord Ghrant. Many will feel themselves threatened.” The lord-chancellor moved back toward the desk. “How did you sleep?”

“I must have slept. I don’t recall anything.”

“Good. It’s likely to be a long day. Lord Ghrant has confirmed that he expects Guillam at the second glass past noon.”

“Early afternoon,” Kharl mused. “Does Guillam have a dwelling near here in Valmurl?”

“Not that close. He has a country house fifteen kays west of Valmurl, and a small mansion off the Factors’ Square. That’s three kays from here-” Hagen broke off at the knock on the chamber door. “Yes?”

“Charsal, ser.”

“Come in.”

The door opened, and a trim young man, half a head shorter than Kharl, entered. He wore the yellow and black of the Ghrant’s personal guard.

“Undercaptain … this is ser Kharl of Cantyl, the mage. He believes that a breakfast tray that was delivered to his quarters may be poisoned. If you would take one of your serjeants …”

“The rats, ser?”

“Exactly, and have him watch them closely.”

“Ah … after that … where can I get breakfast?” Kharl asked sheepishly.

“Charsal will take you to the kitchen. It’s probably best if the cooks fix something for you while you’re there. I’ll send a messenger to find you before the audience. If you’d just stay somewhere in the Great House.” Hagen nodded to Charsal. “Undercaptain.”

“Yes, ser.”

Because Hagen was clearly preoccupied, Kharl inclined his head. “Until later, ser.”

Hagen offered a wry smile in return.

Charsal stepped back and opened the door, holding it for Kharl. Outside, an older armsman, with a short but grizzled beard, stood. Without a word, the serjeant followed the undercaptain and Kharl.

Kharl led the way back up the stairs. Outside the chamber, Kharl took out the heavy brass key and unlocked the door. His order-senses confirmed that the room was empty. The tray remained where he had left it and did not look as though it had been touched.

“Is this it, ser?” asked Charsal, gesturing toward the tray.

“That’s it.”

Charsal nodded to the serjeant. “Everything gets fed to the rats. You’re to watch them and report to me.”

“Yes, ser.” The serjeant lifted the tray and carried it out.

“Now for the kitchen.” Charsal smiled.

“I hope this isn’t too much of a problem.”

“No, ser. We can’t have people being poisoned here in the Great House.”

“I’m not sure it is poisoned, but there’s something not right about it.”

“When a mage says something’s not right, best to listen.” Charsal smiled. “You were asking about breakfast, I believe.”

“I had thought about it,” Kharl replied with a grin.

“This way, ser.”

The kitchen was on the lower level of the north side of the Great House, a large stone-walled room already uncomfortably warm even before mid-morning.

“The mage here needs some breakfast,” Charsal announced. “Prepared now.”

A round-faced woman looked up, then nodded. “Be right on it. We could have prepared a tray if we’d’a known.”

Kharl kept his frown to himself, but noted the slightest nod from Charsal.

“Anything you’d be liking, ser?” asked the cook.

“Whatever you do best, except I’d rather not have any fish.”

“We can do that. Egg toast, good ham, fresh bread, and cool cider? Jam, too.”

“That would be fine,” Kharl replied.

Both Charsal and Kharl stood against the stone wall and watched as the cooks bustled around the huge cast-iron stove.

Seemingly in moments, the cook had two heaping platters, pitcher and goblet, a basket of the black bread, and a pot of jam all set on a tray. She looked around, as if for a serving maid.

“I can take it,” Kharl said.

“But … ser …”

“I’m escorting the mage.” Charsal stepped forward and took the tray, then turned and led the way to the northwest corner of the kitchen, through an archway, and up a circular set of stone steps into an airy room with wide windows overlooking a stone terrace. “This is one of the dining rooms, ser. For those guests and staff here who are not being fed at various functions.”

Two younger men were seated at a circular table in one corner, clearly finished with eating, but talking in low and intense voices. Besides Kharl and the undercaptain, they were the only ones in the room.

Charsal set the tray on a table before the windows. “Is this all right, ser?”

“That’s fine. Thank you, undercaptain. I can find my way back to my chambers, and there’s no need to keep you from your other duties.” Kharl paused. “You have eaten, haven’t you? There’s more than enough-”

“I ate just a little while ago, ser, but I appreciate your kindness.” Charsal bowed. “If you would not mind …”

Kharl smiled. “Go.”

After Charsal turned, Kharl settled into the breakfast. While he had thought the portions large, he was surprised to find that he left little enough, except for half a loaf of bread. The black bread was heavy and sweetish, some of the best he recalled having, and he’d appreciated it. He still recalled all too well the days of hiding between the renderer’s walls in Brysta, when he and Jeka had gone days with little sustenance.

With his hunger satisfied, using his order-senses, he tried to pick up the conversation of the two men in the corner, both wearing dark green tunics and trousers, the same color as the green of the Austran armsmen and lancers.

“ … taking a chance to stay here … Lord Ghrant … be vindictive …”

“ … not that bad … worse to worry about Fostak …”

“ … say Guillam has audience with Ghrant … what if …”

Kharl strained, but could not make out the words for the next several moments. He refilled his goblet with cider.

“ … wouldn’t know a mage … saw one … not here in Austra …”

“ … wear black or white sometimes … Lyras does … black … not much of a mage …”

“ … say the new one killed Ilteron with a thunderbolt …”

Kharl wanted to snort. He couldn’t create a spark, let alone a lightning bolt. He’d just surrounded Ilteron and his wizard with an impermeable barrier of solid air and let them suffocate. It had been the only thing he’d known how to do.

“ … fellow who’s over there wearing black …”

There was a strangled gulp. Kharl did not look up as the two young men hurried out of the breakfast room.

A wry smile crossed his face. From the fragments of the conversation he’d overheard, he doubted that either man had been the one who had tried to poison him. On the other hand, the younger man had glanced back worriedly, and his hand had been held close to the hilt of the sabre at his side.

Kharl got up slowly, glancing around. As he did, a serving girl, not even so old as his younger boy Warrl, dashed out from the archway at the top of the steps from the kitchen.

Kharl held out a hand.

“Ser?”

“Those two men who were seated in the comer. Do you know who they are?”

“Ser?”

“Do you know who they are?”

The girl looked down, then up. She did not meet Kharl’s eyes. “The taller one, ser, that was ser Zerlin. He’s the youngest son of Lord Woren. The other man … I have seen him, but I don’t know his name.”

Kharl sensed the truth. “Thank you.” Unfortunately, he could have used the name she didn’t know. He stepped back and let the scullery girl collect his tray and the dishes on the table the two men had vacated.

He’d been in the Great House less than half a day, and he was beginning to see why Hagen had never wanted to serve as lord-chancellor. He thought about attempting to use his order-abilities to shield himself from view; but that was hard work, and he’d have to move slowly. For what? Because he was worried?

Still … he needed to be watchful.

He passed two guards in yellow and black on the main level as he made his way toward the staircase up to his chamber. Both nodded politely, and he returned the nods.

For the residence of the Lord of Austra, the Great House was surprisingly stark and simple. The walls on the main level were of simple polished stone, as were the floors. There were occasional niches, set shoulder high, in which there were busts of figures Kharl did not recognize. The ceilings were of a white plaster, and unadorned. All the doors were of ancient golden oak, and the fixtures upon them were brass, tarnished in many cases.

Kharl was halfway up the closed circular staircase when he thought he heard something below. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. He couldn’t see the bottom of the staircase because of the curvature and the walls, but there was no one on the steps as far down as he could see.

He turned and continued up the stairs, stopping at the top landing, and listening. Then he extended his order-senses. Two figures were frozen around the curve of the stairs, as if waiting for him to go on. Kharl considered. Now what? He wasn’t carrying any weapons, not that he was any good with anything except a staff or a cudgel, and even if he had been, he couldn’t very well attack someone for merely following him.

He smiled, then turned and walked quickly through the archway at the end of the landing, turning left and heading toward the north wing.

He swallowed. Ahead of him was a figure in the shadows of the space where the corridor ended, intersecting the narrower hallway that served the north wing. The figure was lifting something. Behind him, he could hear boots racing up the staircase.

Kharl concentrated, first hardening the very air on each side of him into a barrier, but with a good three cubits between each barrier, then wrapping himself in darkness-and invisibility. He also flattened himself against the wall, as an added, if unnecessary, precaution.

Clank! Something had struck the barrier. Clank! Clank!

“Frig!” The single word was half-whispered, half-hissed, and came from the hallway, probably at the top of the staircase, but Kharl could not see, not wrapped in the darkness of invisibility, and he was having enough trouble managing the barrier and invisibility, without trying to extend his order-senses forty or sixty cubits.

“ … gone …”

“ … friggin’ mage … get out of here …”

At the sound of boots on stone, Kharl dropped the invisibility, but, even so, could only catch the vaguest glimpse of two figures in dark green or gray as they darted from the hallway down the staircase. He turnedback toward the north wing, but that figure had vanished as well. He could not see or sense anyone else nearby.

With more than a little trepidation, he released the barriers, quickly. He was breathing as hard as if he had run half a kay, but that was to be expected. Using order-magery the way he had took strength and endurance.

Kharl collected the three bent crossbow quarrels, then, with his order-senses extended, made his way to the end of the central corridor and down the narrower hallway back to his own chamber. His order-senses told him that it was empty. He unlocked it and stepped inside, sliding the lock plate into place.

He sat down in a straight-backed chair to catch his breath and collect his thoughts.

Should he tell Hagen?

He decided against immediately telling the lord-chancellor. What good would that do? Hagen already knew that someone didn’t want Kharl at the Great House. Kharl didn’t want to run down to Hagen and once more convey news about which Hagen could do little. Doubtless crossbows and men in green were all too common in Valmurl and probably in the Great House. Also, he wouldn’t be surprised if someone had planned for him to do exactly that.

Besides, Kharl needed to prepare for the audience with Guillam. He needed to think about what he might say, and, if given a chance, what questions he might need to ask.

Also, he didn’t want to create more consternation in the Great House. That would not help him, Hagen, or Lord Ghrant. No … it might better be handled quietly. That was also something else he had learned from experience. Bitterly.