Ordermaster

XXXI

Not until eightday did the weather clear fully, and by then Kharl was able to see more distinctly, and the frequency of the sight-daggers knifing into his skull had diminished, although each jab felt as painful as any of those he had endured earlier. He had not seen Hagen, and he knew few withinthe Great House, and those he did not know were both polite, friendly-and distant. That was to be expected, he had come to understand.

Late on eightday afternoon, Kharl strolled through the formal gardens on the south side of the main building, gardens enclosed by a four-cubit-high redstone wall. Despite the wall, the winds and rains had taken their toll on the flowers and the more delicate shrubs. Stems and leaves littered the white gravel pathway. Not a single one of the maroon bellflower stems remained erect, all flattened before the buds had opened.

He stopped before a bed of early pink roses. Beneath the plants was a carpet of petals, still damp from the rain. A single bloom remained largely intact, if with a disheveled appearance, and it drooped on a lower branch, slightly sheltered. Kharl could smell but the faintest scent.

He studied the bedraggled pink rose, still waterlogged. It might have opened into a perfect blossom, once, but the wind and rain of the previous days had put a stop to that. Even so, the rosebushes held the faintest of black auras, the same order that had infused the red pear orchard. He stood on the path, sensing that particular rosebush. He shifted his weight, and the white gravel under his boots crunched.

He had been able to sense the order and chaos within people for some time, an ability that had begun almost the moment he had taken Jenevra’s black staff and fled from Egen’s Watch. The feeling for other aspects of living order-he had become aware of that only recently, and most dramatically, when he had drained the pear orchard of its life order to stop the white wizard supporting Hensolas.

At a cough coming from his left, Kharl straightened and turned.

Hagen stood there.

“Lord-chancellor.”

“Ser mage.” Hagen inclined his head, somberly. “How do you feel?”

“Better, each day.″

“That’s good. Lord Ghrant has set the first audience for fiveday. For Lord Deroh.”

Kharl remembered Hagen mentioning Deroh, but he didn’t recall anything about the lord.

“His estates are midway between Dykaru and Valmurl. He didn′t raise men or arms for the rebels, but he did send golds to Hensolas. He has pleaded that he had to do that in order to keep from having his lands ravaged.”

“It sounds like his lands were in no immediate danger,” Kharl observed.

“I doubt they were. I’d wager a few of the audiences will be like that. You will be there, of course.”

“This time, I’ll whisper what I think to you.”

A sardonic grin crossed Hagen’s face. “I had already suggested that to Lord Ghrant. He agreed most readily.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“No. It’s probably better if you don’t know about the backgrounds of any of the lords who will be appearing.”

“You don’t sound like their backgrounds speak well for them.”

“For them, perhaps, but not for their support of Lord Ghrant.” Hagen shook his head. “I should not even have said that. The less said the better.” After a moment, he looked to the battered roses and the single remaining bloom. “The gardens will be spectacular later in the year after so much early rain.”

“If there isn’t too much more rain,” Kharl replied cautiously. With all the flattened plants and stems he had seen, he had his doubts even if the summer days to come were temperate.

“Lyras said that there wouldn’t be. Not unless you have to deal with more white wizards. That appears unlikely.” Hagen laughed sardonically, a trace more bitterness in the sound than usual, even recently.

“Why do you say that?”

“Lord Ghrant received a message from a Lord Fynarak.”

From the sound of the name, Kharl suspected that the lord was Hamorian. “What did it say?”

“It was vaguely worded, something to the effect that he was conveying the solicitude of the emperor about the internal difficulties that Lord Ghrant had recently faced, but congratulating him on his fortitude and resourcefulness in dealing with the rebel lords. This Lord Fynarak went on to say that the emperor was committed to measures that would ensure peace between Austra and Hamor.”

Kharl smiled, somewhat faintly.

Hagen continued. “The message also conveyed the news that the ship taken by Lord Joharak and his assistant Fostak had apparently been lost at sea with all aboard perishing, and that, shortly, the emperor would name a new envoy to Austra, one who would be committed to ensuring warm and cordial relations.”

“So they sank a Nordlan ship to bury any evidence of Hamor’s treachery?”

“Not exactly. Too much of the world already knows what the emperor attempted. The sinking was another message of sorts. The first was to his own people. He won’t tolerate failure, and trying to escape to other lands is futile. The second was to the rest of the world, suggesting that interfering in Hamor’s affairs can bear a heavy price.”

Kharl understood Hagen’s words, but he had his doubts. “That seems … strange. Dishonest, rather. They interfered in Austra, and we stopped them.”

“And we paid a heavy price, did we not?”

“But a Nordlan ship?”

″Oh … the Fleuryl has been a thumb-thorn for Hamor before, and more than once. Her master barely escaped from Swartheld several years back, something about dreampowder-″

The Fleuryl? Kharl could feel his entire body chill. The Fleuryl?

Hagen fell silent for a moment, before asking, “What’s the matter, Kharl?”

The Fleuryl? Why the Fleuryl? Kharl swallowed.

Hagen waited.

“There … weren’t any survivors?”

“No. The missive made that most clear.” Once more, Hagen waited.

Finally, Kharl spoke, slowly. “My eldest, Arthal. He was a carpenter’s assistant. On the Fleuryl.″

This time, Hagen was silent for some time before speaking. When he did, his words were deliberate, but soft. “I am sorry, Kharl. I had no idea. Rhylla told me your boy had left to go to sea, but not the ship. I didn′t know.”

“You couldn’t. I didn′t tell her. He wasn′t happy with me. Not after everything that happened.”

“I lost one of my boys. Not something like this, though.” Hagen reached out and touched Kharl’s shoulder, gently.

The mage could feel the older man′s concern. It helped-some. “I … I always worried about him … going off because he was angry. Leaving … like that. Not going to something, but from something.”

Hagen nodded. “It doesn′t matter how it happens, or why. It hurts. It always will. It just hurts less often after a while.” The lord-chancellor stood quietly, not offering, not pushing, but not leaving.

Kharl could feel a numbness inside. He didn’t want to think about it, and yet he couldn′t not. After a time, he looked up at Hagen.

“I’m sorry,” the lord-chancellor said again.

“I know. I know.” Kharl swallowed. “I think I’d just like to be alone … for a bit.″

“You’ll have supper with me,” Hagen said firmly. “At the first glass of evening.”

“Thank you.”

The lord-chancellor nodded, then stepped back.

Kharl listened as Hagen’s boots crunched through the damp white gravel, the sound getting fainter until it was gone, and the garden was still once more.

He wondered if he could have accepted Arthal’s death more easily if Arthal had died in a storm or even a brawl. But to be killed … as a result of what Kharl himself had done? Even indirectly?

And the Fleuryl? It had been in the harbor at Valmurl not days before. Arthal had been there, and Kharl had not even known, not even suspected, so preoccupied had he been in dealing with white wizards and rebel lords. So close …

The mage looked back at the single rose, drooping, above the carpet of fallen petals. A single survivor, of sorts, of the storm that Kharl had created. Would that Arthal had been so fortunate.

Arthal … dead. Because of Kharl. Because of a petulant emperor.

Dead …

Slowly, Kharl walked back up to his chambers.

He took his time washing up and preparing for dinner, not that Hagen would care, but because it was easier than doing nothing and thinking about Arthal. He wanted to be alone, and yet he didn’t.

He still thought about his son, even as he later walked down to meet Hagen in the smaller dining room. Why the Fleuryl? Why Arthal?

The lord-chancellor was waiting.

Hagen gestured toward the table, on which there were two goblets of red wine, then seated himself. “It’s hard, when something like this happens.”

Kharl nodded, slipping into the chair opposite the lord-chancellor. “I hadn’t thought …”

“We never do.” Hagen went on. “People say that you need to be alone. It could be that I’m mistaken, but there’s more than enough time to be alone. The nights can be long.” He lifted a goblet. “It’s a sad time, but to better times … and friendship.”

Kharl lifted his own goblet. “To better times and friendship.” He was glad for Hagen’s friendship, and for the way in which the lord-chancellor had immediately responded.

Even from the first small swallow, the wine was warming. “This is good.”

“I hope so.” Hagen smiled.

For a long moment, there was silence.

“You lost a son,” Kharl said, wanting to talk about Arthal, and yet, not wanting to.

“With some boys, Kharl,” Hagen said slowly, “it seems like a man can do nothing right. If you’re strict, then you don’t understand what they feel. If you’re not strict, they’ll go out and do foolish things. Not that we all didn′t as young fellows. We were more fortunate.”

Had Kharl been too strict? “I didn’t think that I was all that strict with Arthal. I wanted him to understand that he had to do what was expected. People don’t pay unless you do the job and do it well.” Kharl shook his head. “Charee was always saying that he was just a boy, even when he’d reached his double-eight.”

“To them, they’re always boys.” Hagen took the smallest sip of his wine. “It was my second son. Narlan. Tall and strapping. He had a smile that would melt any girl’s heart-her mother’s, too. He worked hard, and he learned quickly.” The lord-chancellor’s voice softened. “He listened to everyone but me.”

“I don’t know who Arthal listened to,” Kharl said, after a moment. “He didn′t listen to me.”

Hagen nodded for Kharl to go on.

“Everything happened so fast,” Kharl mused. “One night, I heard singing and loud voices in the alley behind the cooperage, just as I was getting ready to go up for supper. I went out. Two bravos were making free with my neighbor’s daughter, had her blouse half-ripped off. I stopped them and got her home. I didn’t think much about it, didn’t even tell Charee or the boys. A few days later, I heard moaning in another alley, found another girl. She was a blackstaffer, and she’d been taken by force, beaten badly, and left to die. I brought her back to the cooperage. Charee didn’t want me to. She said it would cause trouble. She was right, but how could I let the girl die?” Kharl stopped and looked down at the wine goblet.

“What happened then?” Hagen’s voice was gentle.

“It turned out that it was the same bravo, lord’s second son. He hiredan assassin. They set a fire in my neighbor’s shop. I went to help. The assassin killed the girl with one of my shop knives. The Watch hauled me off, and put me up for murder. There were witnesses, though. They came to the Hall of Justice and said I couldn′t have done it. One was well known to Lord West.” Kharl shrugged helplessly. “They found blood on Charee’s blouse, said she’d done it. Hanged her and flogged me. Arthal took it hard. He blamed me. He said that it was all my fault, that I should have listened to his mother. Wasn’t that long before he walked out and shipped on the Fleuryl as a carpenter’s boy. Lord West raised my tariffs so high I would have lost the cooperage. Except I killed the assassin. I didn′t even know it was him until later. He’d murdered my neighbor for speaking up for me at the Hall of Justice. I caught him coming out of the scriptorium. Had to run then, and hid till you and the Seastag ported in Brysta. You know the rest.”

“You did the honorable thing,” Hagen pointed out. “More than once.”

“No one else thought so. Not Charee, not Warrl, not Arthal.” Kharl sipped the wine. “Especially not Arthal. He said I never listened and that nothing could be worse than staying with me. I should have stopped him.”

“For how long?” asked Hagen. “He would have left when you were not around.” His laugh was sad and rueful. “That was what Narlan did. He left a note. He wrote that since I could talk him out of anything, he couldn’t say good-bye except in writing.”

“You said … you lost him …” offered Kharl.

“He sailed with a Delapran merchanter-except it wasn’t a merchanter. She was a sometime pirate, and one of the black ships of Recluce sank her in less than a season after he left.”

“I’m sorry.” What else could Kharl say?

“It was a good ten years ago. You don’t ever get over it. It always hurts. It just doesn’t hurt as often.” Hagen offered a faint smile. “You have to remember, Kharl, hard as it is, hard as it will be, that young men make their own choices. We did, and they will. When you’ve done your best-and you’re a man who always tries to do what’s right-in the end, they have to choose for themselves. The hard thing is when they don’t choose well, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

What could Kharl have done differently? He still couldn’t see ignoring Sanyle or Jenevra. Nor could he have not tried to help fight the fire that had threatened Tyrbel’s scriptorium. After that … nothing would havechanged, and Arthal would never have understood, no matter what Kharl had said.

Yet …

He looked at the wine. That was no answer, either. He was just glad that Hagen was there.