The Patrimony

2

Captain-of-Lances Tim Sanderz floated on his back in the gently steaming, herb-scented bathwater, his eyes closed, allowing the soothing warmth to sink into tired muscles. From shaven pate to stubby toes, there was hardly an inch of visible skin that was not crossed by scars, and torso and limbs alike were ridged and callused at the weight-bearing points of armor. As he slowly moved his arms and legs to and fro to keep himself afloat, the muscles rippled under his skin.

Opening his eyes, he allowed his gaze to wander across whitewashed ceiling, down the painted stucco walls. How familiar it all was; it almost seemed that the past ten years had never been, that he was still the eldest boy growing up in his father’s hall.

“Father …” he mused, conjuring up the image of that aged and stooped, but gnarled and powerful little man, always smelling of the milk and curds and cheese that had made up so much of his diet. The long years I hated you and cursed you. And now I have returned, and you are gone to Wind and Brother Bili says that none of it was really your fault.”

Closing his eyes again, the captain thought back to that last conference with his half-brother and overlord, the arhkeethoheeks, Sir Bili of Morguhn.

For all his exalted rank, Sir Bili’s private office was Spartan in its simplicity. A refectory table, a few chairs and stools in a windowless and lamp-lit room, the thick, stone walls lined with cabinets and the floorspace cluttered with chests, the double-thick door fitted with iron bolts as thick as a warrior’s wrist.

Glancing about while the nobleman poured wine for them both, Tim felt certain that he sat in a second hall armory, was sure that the many chests would yield up plate and swords, dirks and axes and war hammers, that the cabinets held resting hornbows, bales of arrows, stands of pikes and bundles of darts.

For it was common knowledge that Bili of Morguhn had never gotten over the Ehleen-spawned rebellion that had burst forth in Morguhn and Vawn long before Tim was born. Bili remembered well the ruthless butchery of his kin, the besieging of this very hall. He recalled how he and his uncles, cousins and one of his brothers had had to hack their way out of his own capital, Morguhnpolis, and remembered also the death of that much-loved brother, Djehf Morguhn, ere the siege of Morguhn Hall had been broken by the approach of Confederation troops.

All of Bili’s personal servants were Middle Kingdoms men, as were his picked bodyguard. Not one servitor in Morguhn Hall was of Ehleen blood; moreover, all were, if not of the Middle Kingdoms, Kindred or Ahrmehnee from the western marches. He governed his own duchy harshly, as pitilessly as a northern burk lord ruling a conquered province, trusting none but his brothers, his sons and Kindred of proven loyalty. Few men of any race liked him, but there was not one who did not fear and respect Bili.

Sliding a cup of wine across to Tim, Bili said bluntly, “To me. Tim, you’re already thoheeks, and that’s a load off my mind, young kinsman. I’ve been worried sick these past months with no word from or of you, afraid I’d wind up having to confirm a thrice-damned Ehleen pervert to the Duchy of Vawn, your stepmother’s eldest, Myron. Not that he’d have ruled, of course; she would’ve, and she’s far worse than even such as he will ever be. Why, my informants tell me that, since your father’s death, she’s brought in a priest of that damned, baby-butchering, blood-drinking Old Church of the Ehleenee; that she flaunts the outlawed bastard before all at the hall, clothes him in silks and supports him in indolent luxury.”

Tim shrugged. “Well, my father’s been dead half a year. Perhaps this so-called priest is her lover.”

Bili smiled coldly. “That thought came to my mind when first I heard of this priest, but my folk tell me such is not the case. For one thing, Mehleena is as perverted as her son. Her lover is reported to be her cousin, the witch, Neeka; for another, this priest is what the Ehleenee call ‘one of God’s Holy Geldings’—before they’ll ordain a man into that order, they take his ballocks off, and most of his yard, too.”

Tim shuddered. “Sun and Wind! What kind of people are these Ehleenee of the Old Cult?”

“Fanatics, snapped Bili, adding, “to be born and bred Ehleen is to be inculcated with fanaticism and treason with your mother’s very milk. My peers speak most unkindly of, me, claiming that I blindly hate and unreasonably mistrust such few Ehleenee as remain in Morguhn. But their duchies did not—a bare generation ago—suffer civil war and ruin because of an Ehleen holy war. Yes, many of them did lose kith in the Vawnpolis campaign and in the mountain fighting that followed, but those dead are only memories to them now, and dim memories at that. Every time I ride over my lands, I am confronted by stark reminders of what evil deeds, were committed here.”

The passion faded from his pale blue eyes. “But, to your case, young kinsman. Could we do this the way I feel to be proper, we’d ride into Vawn at the head of your lances and my dragoons, put every Ehleen who looked at us sideways to the sword, impale that outlaw priest side by side with your stepmother, burn Neeka alive and cleanse your duchy of any taint of the Old Cult or like treasons.”

“But alas, we are not honest burk lords, you and I, and if we did such, we’d have Prince Zenos and his army at our throats in a twinkling. We’d be flagrant lawbreakers, y’see, and—for all his pro-Kindred sentiments—the prince could not allow us to get away with it.”

“However, man, I think you should take at least a couple of files of lancers with you. Only a few of the hall folk are Sir Geros’ people or mine. And as old Hwahltuh became more and more senile, that damned Mehleena persuaded him to let go almost all his Freefighters. I know, for I hired most of them onto my own force. I doubt there’re now a half-dozen over-aged blades left.”

Tim just smiled. “I’m taking Rai with me, Brother Bili—he’s a weapons master. And I’m no mean swordsman, myself.”

“Of course you’re a good fighter,” Bili snorted. “Else you’d not be here, after ten years of Freefighter life. But many a good blade has fallen to the poisoned cup, the strangler’s cord, the knife thrust in the dark. You can’t wear armor all the time, kinsman, can’t go abroad everywhere full-armed. Nor can one or two men guard your back twenty-four hours a day.”

“I am sure that these Ehleen swine have killed before, Tim. Ahl’s blinding was said to be an accident. I think that even Ahl believes it was, but not I. And there is and was much to be questioned in the matter of Behrl’s death, so much so that the prince almost sent a committee to investigate it—would that he had! And, for all his great age, your father’s passing was most strange. None of my informants had ever before seen a man die as he did. You are the last male Sanderz of untainted blood, Tim, and I fear for your safety if you take risks among such folk.”

But Tim had ridden off with only Sergeant Rai, a single pack mule and an assortment of his oldest clothes, leaving his lances camped in Morguhn and his two wagonloads of loot from the intaking of Getzburk locked in the cellars of Morguhn Hall.

The water had begun to cool, and Tim momentarily debated jerking the bell rope to summon the servants with more heated water, but ended by rolling over and pulling himself out of the bath and, after making certain his heavy blade was near to hand, stretching out on the tiles to await the arrival of Rai with clean clothing. But Sir Geros came in first, bearing a brace of cups, and a small bottle of brandy and wearing a self-satisfied smile.

Wrapped in a length of thick cloth, Tim sniffed, sampled then drained the small cup. “Where’d you liberate this, you old bummer? It tastes to be twenty years old.”

Sir Geros nodded. “Twenty-five, my lord. It—”

“Enough of that,” said the younger man, shortly. “Appearances are well kept, in public, but, man, you jounced me on your knee and paddled my arse, when I needed it—which as I recollect was right often. In privacy, let’s be on a first-name basis, eh? Geros?”

“I … I’ll try … Tim.” The old knight stammered. “But, my lord—but you must know, Tim, I was born a nobleman’s servant, as were both my parents and all their folk before them. My father was a majordomo to a komees, which was higher than any of my folk had risen … until me.”

“And you raised yourself on the strength of your arm, on the richness of the blood you shed for the Confederation and on your matchless valor, Geros,” nodded Tim. “If ever any man deserved a cat, it was you.” He gently tapped the silver likeness of a prairie cat which rested on the old warrior’s breast. “I’ve never understood why you, a nobleman in your own right, entitled to rich lands in Morguhn, forsook those lands to serve as castellan here, at Sanderz Hall.”

Geros sighed. “My … Tim, I could never have been happy as a lord. I was born to serve, and service is my pleasure. I … but let us talk of these matters on another day. There are things you must know, and I know not how long my folk can keep others out of earshot of us here.”

“How many in the hall are you sure of, Geros?” asked Tim.

The elder set down the bottle to tick off names on his fingers. “Old Tahmahs, the head groom, is loyal; then there’s Mahrtun, the dragoon sergeant, and the five troopers. The majordomo, Tonos, blows first hot then cold; I can’t say he’s our man, but he doesn’t seem Lady Mehleena’s either.”

Tim frowned. Tonos’ name was not one of those given him by Archduke Bili, and it could bode ill to have so powerful a servant leagued against one.

Geros continued, graying brows knitted in concentration. “Our only reliable people in the kitchens are Hahros, the meat cook, and his eldest apprentice, Tchahrlee. Hahros is a retired Confederation Army cook and far better qualified to be head cook than that mincing effeminate, Gaios, but naturally Gaios has simpered his way into Lady Mehleena’s good graces. Anyway, I’ve taken the liberty of promising Gaios’ position upon my l—” At a warning frown from Tim, he hurriedly corrected to, “your assumption of your patrimony.”

Tim nodded. “You know these folk better than I; speak in my name when it seems wise or needful. I’ll back you up.”

Geros smiled thanks and went on. “The keeper of the cellars, Hyk, is an Ahrmehnee and another of the ones I can’t figure.”

“In that case,” said Tim, grimly, “I think we should start bringing arms up out of the armory a few at the time and secreting them somewhere where we can get to them easily, when and if we need them.” Then, noticing the return of Geros’ smile, he inquired, “Or have you already commenced such, old friend?”

Quickly, the castellan told of the stocks of arms hidden in various parts of the hall and outbuildings—enough to equip forty men, if somewhat sketchily. Adding, “But Tim, even if we do see troubles, they’ll be nothing like the risings here and in Morguhn years ago. For one thing, there be precious few Ehleenee in Vawn, save those servants hired since your lady mother’s time. Almost all the farmers in the duchy are Ahrmehnee, so too are the mechanics and tradesmen hereabouts. The nobles all are first- and second-generation Horseclansmen … and you know well what sort of shrift they’d give Ehleen rebels or religious fanatics.”

“No, Tim, the only danger lies in the fact that Mehleena is set on her spawn, Myron, sitting in your father’s place. There were some very peculiar aspects to the death of your brother, Behrl, last year.”

“Yes,” Tim answered. “So Bili informed me. Something to do with a mock fight, wasn’t it?”

Geros grimaced. “Closer to an out-and-out duel, my … Tim. It was during that last, long illness of Lord Hwahltuh. Young Behrl was at the sword posts, one morn. Myron and the boy who then was his lover sauntered out and began to make crude and disparaging remarks. Finally, Behrl—who never could stomach Myron for any length of time, anyhow—suggested that his tormentor get a sword and see if he could do better.”

“Now, Tim, Myron is no mean swordsman. He is long in the arm and strong. But, in all my years, seldom have I seen a man handle steel as did Behrl; the lad was an artist with the sword.”

“Anyway, Myron sent his bum boy running and soon was at the posts himself. I’m told that Behrl, in his turn, twitted Myron’s showing—at least, this was overheard by Gaib, the farrier, who happened to be passing by. I was in my house when I heard the first ringing of the blades and the fighting shouts. I headed for the practice yard as fast as these legs would carry me, but halfway there I heard a terrible cry and, when finally I panted up, Behrl lay dead in his blood, his chest hacked half through, just below the shoulder-blade.”

“Tim, Myron is a good swordsman, as I said, but Behrl was his master—and mine own. Without outside help, interference, there be no way that Myron could have even nicked Behrl, much less slain him!”

Tim pursed lips and squinted. “There were no witnesses?”

Geros shook his head. “Only the bum boy. What I got out of him on the spot was little—he was verging on hysteria—and seemed to back up Myron’s lies. And when I wanted to question him the next morning, he was nowhere to be found. It was nearly two weeks before Moorahd, the hall hunter, hauled what was left of the corpse out of the north forest. A hot summer that was and the body was ripe, and animals had been at it till there was no way to tell just what had killed him. We only knew it was the runaway by a silver torque Myron had given him.”

“Very convenient … for somebody,” grunted Tim. “So now, the only way we can get at the truth is to put dear half-brother Myron to the question. And if the man he is be as stubborn as the child he was it would have to be rather severe questioning. Hmmm.”

A grin split Geros’ face almost from ear to ear. “Ah, Tim, it will do these ears good to hear that strutting, buggering popinjay howl! Of course, your father’s Room of Truth has not been used in some years, but I doubt not it can be put to rights quickly enough, and …”

Tim grimaced. “And we’d have the archduke, possibly even the prince as well, down around our ears before the echoes had died. We must never forget that this isn’t a northern burk but a duchy of the Confederation, wherein, what we have here contemplated is illegal; not even the High Lords, up in Kehnooryos Atheenahs, can put a Confederation nobleman to the torture without ironbound proof of wrongdoing.”

The young captain smashed scarred knuckles into horny palm. “Why? Why could there not have been one living witness? The deed must’ve been planned long and carefully to have been carried off so cleanly.”

Then he fell silent. A dim, almost imperceptible far-speak was nibbling within his mind: “But there was another witness. Brother Tim, and Sir Geros is right, it was murder—pure and simple. No, brother, do not try to range me, please—there are other secret mindspeakers in your hall. And do not expect me to make myself known or to reveal what I saw until you have made it safe for me to do so.”

And the fleeting contact was gone, like a wisp of morning mist.

“Who are the mindspeakers, here, Geros?” asked Tim. “How many of them are ours?”

Geros frowned. “Beyond any doubt, the best is your brother, Lord Ahl. You must recall that he always was far above average in that faculty, and it has been improved by a couple of years of training at the Institute in Kehnooryos Atheenahs and the year he lived at the duke’s court. But my daughter, Mairee, is almost his peer in mindspeak … and the two are seldom parted; he even took her to the capital with him, and the duke seems to think highly of her.”

“And,” grinned Tim, shamelessly picking thoughts from the older man’s mind, “you know how she feels toward my brother and are thinking that Ahl would not prove a bad son-in-law, eh?”

Though red with embarrassment, Geros nodded vigorously. “Lord Ahl could do worse, Tim. Blind as he is the Kindred will never accept him tahneestos. But he has the wisdom to make a fine town lord, and my baronetcy in Morguhn boasts a fine little town, and, since my stepson and both my natural sons died, Mairee is my only heir.”

Tim nodded emphatically. “No need to convince me, old friend. I think it a marvelous idea, not to mention a stroke of pure luck for Ahl. I agree he’d be a better town lord than perhaps anything else; neither custom nor law requires a town lord to be sound of body himself, just to maintain a few Freefighters and a ready levy under a loyal and efficient captain.”

“But back to this question of mindspeakers, Geros …”

“Master Tahmahs and most of his grooms are good to fair, of course, Tim.”

Tim nodded. “Yes, good horse handlers have to be.”

Geros went on, “There are many with middling mindspeak, like mine own, among the servants and the soldiers, though definite eye contact is necessary to range most of them.”

“How of Mehleena and her litter?”

Geros looked the disgust he so strongly felt. “If she herself has any at all, she’ll not ever own to it, since her damned priest says that any who can use that ability are witches and damned of his crucified god.”

Tim snorted a short, harsh laugh. “That any of that accursed, traitorous pack should accuse normal Kindred of ‘witchcraft’ surely surpasses sane understanding. But, pray continue.”

“Well, Tim, as to the piglets: Whenever the bitch has the chance to talk to Vawn or Morguhn Kindred, she’s always prating about the mindspeak ability of Myron, but he’s got no more than have I. Treena, the eldest girl, has none, and neither does Speeros, her year-younger brother. As for the two youngest, Maia and little Behti, it’s possible they’re more of Vawn than the rest—at least they look like they are, and, when the bitch or the others aren’t about, they act more like they are, too.”

“Sun and Wind alone know just what talents that damned Neeka owns, and …”

Suddenly there was a quick, measured series of knocks against the outer door and Geros opened it a crack, then closed it and turned back. “There’s no more time for talk, Tim. The majordomo is hotfooting it out here, and Lord Ahl has come down to break his fast. I’d best let him know you’ve arrived.”