Trespass? Is that all I did by naming myself queen, just step a little beyond the bounds of my birth?
Erryn took the proffered rod, hefted its engraved length in her hand. It was too pretty to use for stirring stew or thumping heads. So, as far as she was concerned, the thing had no use. “It’s beautiful,” she said in a wondering voice, as if greatly impressed.
The emissaries smiled and nodded. Two bald men, and another pair with short, snow-white curls. The sweet perfume they wore threatened to gag her. She went on.
“The man who held the position of reeve before-a raping bastard by the name of Mitros, whose fat head I took great pleasure in liberating from his equally plump body-never carried such a fine rod as this.”
Seemingly put out by her response, the emissaries quietly conferred with harsh whispers and sharp gestures. When they turned back, they were all oily smiles again.
“This man, Mitros, was not appointed by our good and generous liege,” they informed her gravely, one picking up where the other left off so smoothly that she had a hard time following the conversation. “Should you accept the king’s offer, you’ll be more than a mere reeve, you’ll also be Lady Erryn,” they finished as one, speaking as if lady sounded so much finer than queen.
To Erryn’s mind, they were fools. Anyone could name herself a lady. Look at Nesaea, who had been her mentor for a brief time, if never her friend. She was no more a born noblewoman than Erryn was a born queen. Names and titles meant nothing, unless you could make others believe they were true. At worst, Erryn was halfway to being a queen already-she had named herself, it was true, but held no illusions that she would not have to fight to keep her claim. As such, becoming Lady Erryn was akin to going backward. Still, she decided to hear these men out, because as Nesaea had told her, “Listening to your enemies leads to understanding them, and understanding them will help you defeat them.”
“Should I accept,” Erryn said, voice neutral, “what recompense will your ‘good and generous liege’ offer me?” She had never been to any court save her own-the common room of the Cracked Flagon, with its ale- and wine-stained wooden floor, and slipshod plank walls covered in hides, antlers, and ten lifetimes of soot-but she felt sure her question had a courtly ring to it.
A question instead of immediate agreement distressed the emissaries anew. They pushed their heads together yet again, faces twisted into scowls. They recovered quickly and pressed closer to her, their tongues all but wagging in her direction. Erryn decided Breyon was right about highborn arse-licking, and couldn’t help but clench her buttocks under her snug leather leggings.
One of the bald emissaries, the tallest and most spindly of the lot, swept back his ermine-lined cloak of scarlet wool and stepped forward. “Should you accept, milady, you’ll be expected to resume delivering shipments of gold-ore to the King’s City of Onareth. In return, King Nabar will provide you with enough soldiers to ensure that Valdar is protected from ravening plainsmen, as well as the bandits known to frequent these lands.” His eyes failed to conceal his opinion that Erryn herself was little more than a common brigand. “Assuming your willingness, King Nabar has granted you lands and, of course, a true title.” From the depths of his cloak, he produced a scroll with a blob of blue wax sealing it closed. A moment later, out came a leather sack that clinked when he bounced on his palm.
“Truly?” Erryn asked, feigning interest. They offered her more every time she showed the barest reluctance, suggesting that they were conniving and untrustworthy-not that she had expected anything less. These fools were the picture of all she hoped to avoid in her own rule.
“Indeed, milady. King Nabar has even agreed to provide funds necessary to pay for the construction of a fine manse hereabout, one suitable to your station….” Just short of cringing, the emissary’s words trailed off as he looked around at the wide fields beyond the palisade, with their dying grass and wildflowers, the stubble of recently harvested crops gone a dirty yellow within fieldstone hedges, and finally to the dark forests of pine, fir and birch ringing it all about. He cleared his throat, shivered. “Enough gold, I daresay, for you to build a woodland palace, if you wish.”
“Oh my, a woodland palace?”
General Aedran leaned in close to Erryn. “If you poke your dagger into his gob, I’ll give you ten woodland palaces.”
A giggle escaped Erryn. The bald emissary scowled. Before he could waste anymore time, Erryn eased back her wolfskin cloak to caress the hilt of the short sword gifted to her by Nesaea. It was a pretty thing, fitted to her stature, the pommel set with a large oval sapphire, the crossguards fashioned of engraved silver, and the blade sharp as a midwinter wind. She barely knew how to use long steel-concealable knives suited orphaned village girls better than swords-but the way she touched it widened the eyes of her audience. The tall bald emissary retreated a few dainty steps, his fine slippers squelching in the mud.
“My lords,” Erryn said, putting on a winning smile, “I prefer to keep my current title and my gold, which is far more than King Nabar could ever give me. As for manses and palaces … as you can see, I already possess an entire fortress full of soldiers. And, as you surely know from the map I sent your good king, I’ve claimed the lands between the Shadow Road and the Gyntor Mountains east to Pryth, and west to Qairennor. Anything less from your liege is simply unacceptable.”
The emissaries looked at her with bulging stares and purpling faces, as if she had ordered their manhoods seared with hot irons. She took their silence as an invitation to proceed.
“Be that as it may, I’m open to trading with your king, and I’m willing to pay the highest price for all southern goods.” Feeling generous, she dropped a saucy wink. “Perhaps even better than top price … say, as much as a third better over the next five years?” That seemed more than generous.
Purpled faces gave way to bewildered blinks and slack lips all around. Before they gave her an answer, she slapped them with her conditions.
“Of course, King Nabar and his court must openly acknowledge that I am Queen of the North, and yield up the lands that I’ve claimed for myself and my people.”
That snapped them out of their shock. “Your people!” they said as one.
The spindly one stepped forward again, his bald head gone to an alarming shade of plum. “You filthy, dog-rutting whore,” he hissed. “If you jest, it is best to say so now, for I can assure you, the very serious game that will commence upon our departure is nothing you and this pack of inbred, lack-witted rabble can hope to win.”
Erryn’s Queensguard shifted. A few even chuckled. One thing a Prythian admired more than sharp steel was a sharp tongue. Of course, they also had a penchant for cutting out such tongues, and few were averse to wearing those bloodied bits of meat on leather strings around their necks.
It was a close thing for Erryn to resist drawing her sword and teaching the bald bastard some respect, but insults didn’t bother her overmuch. While he had lived, that bastard Mitros and his men had taken turns raping her when she dared speak against his harsh dealings with the village folk. So, in a way, suggesting she had lain with dogs was not far from the truth. As much as she ever would, she had overcome the shame and disgust of that abuse. So what was it to have this whining abuser of boys soil her good name?
“I wouldn’t stand for that,” Aedran whispered in her ear. Of all her men, he seemed the most troubled by the insult.
“What would you have me do?” Erryn whispered back.
Aedran’s gaze flickered to her sword in answer.