The Long Look, page 9
part #1 of The Laws of Power Series
"Why?"
Tymon seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Because my choices were to kill Laras or to use him. So today I came to find what I owed Takren to find out which way the balance turned. Now I know."
This wasn’t exactly the Tymon of old, but it was a Tymon prepared to act, for reasons he understood as the right ones. He could be wrong, and disastrously so but, Seb knew, even with the Long Look that had been possible.
Seb made his choice, because he always had one to make. He looked grim. "Tell me what you want me to do."
"Only this: you are going to deliver a letter, which I have already prepared." He held up a sealed square of parchment.
Seb blinked. "That’s all?"
Tymon smiled like the Reaper himself. "Ask again," he said, "after I tell you where I want the letter delivered."
§
Lady Margate wasn’t so much angry as disappointed. She stood now in the doorway of the stable from which Princess Ashesa had planned to make her departure.
"Child, this will never do."
Ashesa, caught in the act of loading her saddle pouch with provisions, didn’t bother with concealment now. She still wanted to hide her intentions from her nurse, but she didn’t see how. Lady Margate may have looked like a silly old woman but Ashesa knew better; Margy was no fool, and treating her like one wasn’t going to change that. "I need to see Galan, Margy. In person and private. A letter won’t do."
Lady Margate smiled, but her eyes were like black stones. "I knew you were smitten, Child, but the boy just left. He’ll have to visit most of his outlying districts in a show of force before he can even return to Tonara proper for the coronation. Give him some time to settle his affairs."
"It’s not about that, Margy, and I can’t," Ashesa said. "I’ve been thinking of this for days, and if I wait now I may wait forever. This is important. Please don’t try to stop me."
"I don’t intend to stop you. When I said ‘this will never do’ I was referring to your lame excuse for a disguise."
Ashesa looked at herself, or as best she could without a mirror. Her red-gold hair was hidden by a dark hood; her jerkin and hose were those of a squire. Such were always about on their masters’ business; no one gave them a second glance. That wouldn’t be true in Ashesa’s case, or at least, not now.
"You last pulled this stunt when you were twelve. It barely worked then. It won’t now, Ashesa, though I suppose that’s another reason I shouldn’t call you ‘child’ any more. But it is my considered opinion that even the most near-sighted highwayman in the Seven Kingdoms will not believe you are a boy."
Ashesa considered. "Well, the roads are fairly safe in that case."
"Not that safe, Highness. I’d talk you out of this if I could, but I know well the futility of trying to prevent anything you’ve a mind to do. You’ve more than your share of royal foolishness, for all that I love you deeply. No. You will go escorted or not at all."
Ashesa protested. "Any of Father’s men would talk, and I must go in secret!"
"And you will, but you will leave the matter of your escort to me. You will wait—not long, I promise—until I have arranged it. Or by All the Powers I’ll tell your father before you get well out of the gates, and there are horses in his stables a lot faster than that one. What do you think would happen?"
"He’d lock me in the north tower until my wedding day, at the very least." Ashesa sighed. "Please, Margy ...."
"I’ll do it, Highness. Don’t test me."
Ashesa considered her alternatives, decided there weren’t any. "All right, Margy—have your way. But please hurry."
§
So far, to Galan’s mind, being a king was more trouble than it was worth. "So this is ‘procession.’ My father used the word once, and it sounded like something foul. I begin to see why."
Galan rode with his chief advisors at the head of a column of thirty landed knights, from baron rank to earl, with twice as many men at arms and lesser knights riding on the wings and as rearguard. In the train were servants, cooks, yeomen of the hunt serving as both scouts and foragers, blacksmiths, armorers, farriers, and others besides whom Galan, try as he might, could not quite attach a function to.
"Necessity, My Prince," Albon said. He used the word ‘necessity’ a lot. Albon was just past middle age, of the knightly class and a veteran, but he had since turned his considerable talents to administration, where he was, to use the tournament jargon, high lance.
Galan had not been so far removed from the day to day functioning of the kingdom that he didn’t realize what a shrewd group of men Riegar had brought into his service, and he was not fool enough to squander their advice. Still, three weeks from the day he had left Ashesa at Morushe, Galan didn’t think he was one mile closer to home. The road was interminable, the showy raiment he wore was hot and uncomfortable, and the expense of maintaining such an honor guard made Galan’s stomach hurt, for all that much of their food and lodging was provided by the noble houses he "visited" on the procession.
"Necessity?" Galan repeated the word, trying to decide what there was about the sound of it that annoyed him the most. "Isn’t this just for show?"
"Yes. Which is far more important than you think, My Prince. You are the heir to the throne by right; I think all the noble houses agree to this, albeit some might be more enthusiastic than others. Your escort is large as befits your station but, more to the point, it is a show of force, presence, and control. You show your steel but offer your hand for the Oath of Fealty. The nobles swear allegiance and we pick up more escorts as we go. Finally, we ride into Tonara in pomp and with the full—and present—backing of the noble houses. The coronation proceeds smoothly from there."
"Lord Albon, I dare say you could find political advantage from a visit to the privy."
Albon thought about it. "Easily, My Prince."
Galan nodded. "My father was wise to listen to you. I’ll do the same."
"I am honored by your confidence." Albon signaled to Tals, another of Galan’s counselors riding at a discreet distance. The younger man rode up to them bearing a parchment map of the region they were traveling. Albon studied it for a moment then nodded, satisfied. "Patience, Highness. We have stops here and here," he said, pointing to two fairly small but ancient fiefdoms. "Tollors and Pokai are not very powerful these days but they do have influence; we can’t afford to overlook them. As their resources are not infinite we’ll stay as long as protocol demands but no longer. Even so, in a week’s time we’ll be able to reach the Ducal provinces of Korsos and Maltai. Once those two worthy gentlemen swear fealty and their escorts join us, we’ll be more than ready to proceed to Tonara with or without House Dyrlos in attendance."
Galan sighed, and winced as he shifted a bit in the saddle. "I can last that long. Though the royal rear end may have other ideas."
§
Vor pointed at a squiggle that represented the Kor River. "Here, at the ford. We can attack the vanguard from the cover of this ridge. Whatever we do, it must be here," Vor said.
Laras studied the map Vor had put before him on the table in the great hall. "This is dangerously close to Korsos," he said, "and I know beyond question that the Duke is loyal to House Kotara."
Vor nodded. "My point, Your Grace. Once Galan’s escort joins forces with the Duke's retinue there, the prince will be too strong to attack directly. The procession has given us time to muster, but there is a limit to how many troops we can move without undue notice. Our contact in Pokai will send word when Galan departs, so we can move when the time is right."
"Efficient," Laras said drily, "but hardly the mark of a popular uprising in favor of Molic."
Vor smiled. "Already considered. Our hired foot will be wearing peasant garb over their mailshirts. It won’t fool anyone but, even if we have to commit our own horse, it will cloud the issue enough that, once Molic is safely crowned, our version of events will be the one that survives."
"Impressive, Vor." Laras considered. "With timing and enough surprise, our own horse may not even be needed."
"As long as everyone remembers that the point is to slay Galan, not defeat his entire escort. Once Galan is dead, loyalties will be in flux in any case. I doubt if we’ll have to face the entire escort at that point, though keeping our reserves ready is still wise."
"Certainly, but the nobles will want to see to their own holdings before they worry about the succession. That will leave us free to act and present them with their new King before anyone can argue." There was a predictability to the nobility’s way of thinking that Laras found very reassuring.
"One thing, Vor. I want you to remain here and look after my lady and children. If anything goes wrong I trust them to your care. I’m going to see to the attack personally."
Vor frowned. "Of course I’ll obey, but wouldn’t it be wiser to remain here?"
"Perhaps, but if you are discovered everyone would know it was my doing anyway, so my presence changes nothing. And if we are committed to destroying House Kotara I want to be there. I owe my fool of a father that much, if nothing else. Are your men ready?"
"They await only your word, Your Grace."
Laras nodded. "Well, then. It is given."
He said it easily enough. All the reasons had been explored, as well as the risks. There was nothing else to consider. It was the right thing, the only thing, to do. Laras knew that, but it didn't change the sick feeling that lingered in him long after the words were out.
Ω
7 Honor, Glory, and the mess they made
Molic stood on top of a sharp ridge of land near the Kor river. "I am so pleased," he said. "It’s all so wonderful."
Duke Laras, mounted at the head of his personal guard, listened politely, though he kept a firm hand on the reins and intently scanned the crossing of the Kor river, visible from their vantage point among the oaks on the ridge. "How so, Your Majesty?" he asked.
His Soon-to-Be-Majesty spoke with a sort of pathetic eagerness. "No one ever listened to me before," Molic said. "I mean, they listened, but it’s like they didn’t hear me. Even the simplest things. My claim to the throne. The correct pronunciation of my titles. That sort of thing. I’m glad that all that’s finally over."
"A glorious day, indeed ... yes?"
A scout ran up to kneel at Laras’ stirrup. "One of their outriders discovered us on the north side. I think we killed him quietly enough, but there are more about and they may notice he’s gone before long."
Laras frowned. "Galan is being inconveniently prudent, or well advised by people who are. Tell Nassen’s men to advance as far as they can, right to the treeline if they can do it without being seen. We may have to move sooner."
"Aye, Your Grace."
The scout bowed and hurried away, and Laras turned his full attention on the Pretender. "When you’re on the throne, Majesty, there will be Masters of Protocol whose sole joy in life is the correct rendering of your titles. I will see to it personally."
"You are a loyal subject, Duke ...?"
Laras smiled. "I’m sorry to beg your indulgence once more, Sire, but our time is not yet. I promise to reveal all soon." Laras couldn't help but be amused at the fact that Molic didn't even recognize one of the most powerful dukes in the kingdom on sight. Still, it was a convenient failing.
Molic shrugged, the matter clearly already well on its way to forgotten. "So be it."
One of Laras’ personal guard was the first to spy the column. "Here they come."
At this point "they" were little more than a black spot in the distance, then a line, then a snake, then a column of mounted men with spears glinting in the sun as they rode out of the trees sheltering near the Kor. Laras judged the distance. "I wish we had more archers, Merak."
The guard nodded. "Or better ones, Your Grace," he said. "As things stand ...."
"We can’t risk a volley that might miss and would certainly warn. You have a good eye, Merak. No, what archers we have today have another task."
Laras watched the column grow even closer. He waited for the inevitable moment. Not the attack as such, but the moment when Prince Galan’s column reached the banks of the Kor and there would be no time to recall Nassen and his mercenaries even if Laras wanted to. Until then, all options were open. After, there was no turning back. He didn’t have to wait very long.
Now. We are committed.
Soon the first mounted riders of Galan’s vanguard splashed into the Kor. Nassen, as instructed, let the first few riders pass. Prince Galan’s personal guard was clearly visible as they reached the river ford. Laras heard the muted shout as Nassen’s men broke cover and advanced. Just that quickly the battle was joined.
The vanguard heard the commotion behind and turned about, hesitating only a moment in their confusion, but in that moment Nassen’s small company of archers loosed on them, striking several down before they could rejoin the embattled column. The other end of the column was fouled beyond the riverbank, choked off from the battle by the land and the press of bodies in front of them. So far it was going according to plan.
"Is he dead?" Molic asked, excited.
Laras, watching the battle from the ridge, shook his head. "No, Sire. Not yet. His guard is pressed hard but they fight well as we expected. Still, hemmed as they are by our spearmen they cannot use their mounts to best advantage."
What he didn’t say was that the dilemma worked both ways; on the attack Nassen’s men could not form a proper line of spears without giving Galan’s men a flank to strike at; with their skirmish lines as they were the confusion worked against both sides. The ambushers’ main advantage was surprise and that, as Laras knew well, would not last.
Hurry up and kill him, Master Nassen!
The thought made Laras feel a little ashamed of himself; he wasn’t sure why. He shrugged it off.
The fighting was fiercest around the prince, and Laras expected to see the banner fall at any moment, but it did not happen. Laras was impressed despite himself when he realized that Galan wasn’t waiting to be butchered like a veal calf, but had drawn his own blade and, though not the warrior his brother had been, clearly knew how to use a sword. Twice Laras saw the blade extend when one of the mercenaries managed to grab rein or saddle of the prince’s horse, and twice the attacker fell back. Once he even fell over.
"Is he dead yet?" Molic repeated, hopefully.
Laras gritted his teeth. "No, Sire. He is not. Patience."
Laras gave a counsel that he did not believe. Patience was losing as, the Duke now realized, were Nassen’s mercenaries.
Merak pointed. "The outriders are returning, Your Grace!"
Laras saw them too. Groups of scouts coming in twos and threes, doubtless alerted by the commotion, were spurring hard to relieve the column. Worse, a dozen or so knights wearing the blue phoenix of House Tandas had found another way down the bank, avoiding the choke point at the crossing. One fell to an arrow as they crossed but the rest spurred on toward the embattled prince, where a clump of mercenaries had formed, pushed back by a hard defense.
Merak voiced Laras’ thought. "If they hit that mob from the rear we’re finished."
Duke Laras nodded. "You have the horn?" Merak grinned with excitement and held up a large hunting horn, the agreed signal for the reserves. "Well then, at my command—"
Merak’s gaze grew wide as he shouted a warning. "Your Grace!!"
A lone rider burst through trees, then practically threw himself from his saddle to grasp Laras’s reins. The guard pressed forward and the Duke had his sword halfway from its sheathe before he recognized the man.
"Vor! What in the Name of the Powers are you doing here?!"
"Y...your grace..." Vor’s face was flushed red, though whether in shame or exhaustion or both Laras could not tell. "We are betrayed!"
Merak held up the horn. "Your Grace, we dare not delay!"
Vor shook his head. "No! No. Please ... please read. Hurry!" He forced the parchment into Lara’s hands.
Laras unfolded the parchment and, with one last hasty glance at the battlefield, began to read. The message was very short but the Duke’s reading of it seemed to take forever. At last he looked up, and his face was white as death. "Where was this found?"
Vor took a deep breath before he answered. "In the nursery," he said. "Pinned by a small dagger to Lytea’s crib as she lay sleeping. She could almost reach out her hand..." Vor didn’t finish.
Duke Laras looked stunned, and more than a little afraid. "Apparently rumors of Tymon the Black’s death were in error. Damn it all, how, Vor? How was this done? Where were the guards?"
There was nothing but shame in Vor’s expression. "In place and awake, Your Grace. As for how, well, as I consider who wrote the message, I can easily guess. I had to bring it myself; I trusted no one else with this."
Laras just stared at the parchment for several long moments, then glanced back at the battle. The mercenaries were hard pressed, but the right attack in enough force could still tip the scale. "You were right to come, Vor." He turned to his men. "The horn, Marek—put it away."
His officer had halfway raised the horn to his lips. Now he just stared at his leader, blinking like an owl. "Your Grace?"
"Now, Marek. And send the word down the ranks—we’re leaving."
"Leaving?" Molic stared at his ally, uncomprehending. "The battle is not over."
"For us, it damn well is," Laras said. "I am sorry."
Molic ran forward, grabbing at Laras’ reins. "No! You can’t! It’s not done!"
Laras didn’t seem to notice him. He just looked at the battle, wistfully. "I’m afraid it is, Your Majesty. I see that Nassen has fallen. Good. Now I can only hope that he didn’t inform his men who had hired them, but that wasn’t his way, and so we depend on the discretion of a mercenary captain. In either case it can’t be helped now."
"What are you talking about?" Molic asked. "It’s not finished. It’s not!"
