“So, he intends to attack someone,” I said. “But who? We are at peace.”
“Perhaps we should ponder what a great nobleman might consider Necessity.”
I duly pondered, and was able to reach no conclusion. I spoke cautiously. “You have not described a noble’s behavior in flattering terms. You have said that the great nobles form cliques that conspire against one another, and I believe history supports this—but I don’t recall history supporting a naval attack from one clique against another, at least not in peacetime.”
Utterback’s answer was quick. “And is Duisland at peace?”
“Not with the corsairs.”
“But within its own borders?”
I hesitated. “The King is dead,” I said.
“Stilwell is dead. Leaving behind?”
“The two princesses.” A startling idea gripped me. “Do the princesses war with one another?”
“There’s more in the world than the two princesses, Goodman Quillifer.” Utterback raised a slinkskin-clad hand and began to count off the gloved fingers. “The princesses. Young Queen Laurel. Three former Queens, all still alive, and all with their noble relatives and their affinity. There are three or four bastard daughters; I know not how many, but they do not matter because their families do not matter. Then there is the bastard son, Clayborne, raised at court, whose mother is Countess of Tern confirmed in her own right, and who has but lately married the Duke of Andrian and all his land and wealth in Bonille. Clayborne is popular at court—a pleasing young man, quick of wit, handsome and charming, and resembling his father in many ways, save that he is lazy. He has always denied any ambition, but there are many who say he would make a good King. The princesses have been raised by their mothers, in exile from court, and are not well-known, and are not popular.”
The tally of this list had taken all fingers of both hands. I looked at the gloved hands for a moment. “You imply that Clayborne may try to seize the throne?”
“He may, or may be pushed into rebellion by his mother, who was deprived of a throne by that inconvenient first husband of hers, who would not oblige her with a divorce even when the King himself asked it of him. My Lady of Tern has deeply felt the lack of a throne ever since.”
My eyes turned again to the high-charged galleon waiting at the wharf. “So, Lord Stayne readies for a civil war. On which side?”
“He is a friend of the Countess, and a sometime ally of the duke. A companion in the bastard’s revels. I know nothing of his relationship with our new Queen, if he has one.”
I contemplated barrels of supplies rising in a net, and floating over the galleon’s hold at the end of a yardarm. “If Stayne wished to pledge his loyalty to Queen Berlauda,” I pointed out, “he needn’t ride all this way to board a warship; he could ride from his home to Selford in three or four days. And neither would he sail if Clayborne were anywhere that could be reached by road.”
“A telling point,” Utterback said. “I had not considered that. The bastard must be in Bonille, or abroad.”
“Have you spoken to the Lord Lieutenant? He could close the port and prevent Stayne from leaving.”
Utterback waved a hand. “Of what party is the Lord Lieutenant? I know not—Stayne might be permitted to sail free, while I am tossed in a dungeon.” He frowned. “Would that I knew my father’s mind. He is well disposed to Clayborne, I know, and has been one of his mother’s lovers, but I cannot say whether any such sentimental attachment will lead him to rebellion.” He looked again at the galleon. “Would he wish me to go aboard with Stayne, I wonder?”
“What,” I pondered, “would a great nobleman consider Necessity?”
“Hah.” Utterback was darkly amused. “The secretary grows impudent, to turn his master’s words against him.”
“The master grows careless,” returned I, “to speak of rebellion before the secretary.” I stepped closer to Utterback, and spoke into his ear. “We know nothing of this matter, whether there be rebellion or no, because the corsairs blockade us here, and keep the news from sailing to us. Let us then take horse and ride to Newton Linn—I cannot imagine the Aekoi will have sailed so far north, and there will be tidings waiting us.”
Utterback gave him a look. “Are you so reckless? Or so determined on adventure, that you would venture rebellion?”
“I have already lost all,” I said. “Family, fortune, prospects. One prince is as good as another, so they be generous to their followers.”
Utterback regarded me closely. “Have you the stomach for more than one Ethlebight? For if we have a civil war, plundered cities will be common as spots on a leopard.”
I felt my stomach turn over. I could find no words. Utterback put a hand on my shoulder.
“Nor am I so bloodthirsty,” he said in comfort. “Nor am I.” He sighed, and turned to walk heavily down the quay. I joined him.
“The Pilgrim offers as his philosophy,” Utterback said, “that a dispassionate submission to the dictates of Necessity is the first of all virtues. And so I shall resign myself to fate, and continue this sad, useless embassy until Necessity compels me to another course.” He shrugged, and looked over his shoulder at me. “Thus shall I be a dutiful son, or failing that a dutiful subject, or if both objects fail, the dutiful citizen of a dungeon, as fortune wills.”
“As my lord wishes,” said I. “Though the humble secretary wishes to remind his master that there are still courses of action that have not been considered.”
“Ay. I could join a monastery!” Utterback grinned, and made a mocking bow with a swirl of his feathered cape. “The master thanks the secretary, and will release him to finish his letter, though he also hopes the secretary will be discreet regarding the substance of this conversation.”
I bowed. “Of course, my lord. The secretary knows better than to argue the merits of rebellion in a message that anyone could open.”
But even without a description of my conversation with Utterback, I had a very long postscript to add to my letter to Kevin.
I could describe Clayborne’s possible rebellion as a rumor I had heard on the docks, and suggest that the Irresistible might be intended for fighting the war, and not the corsairs after all. If any of this were true, no help would come to Ethlebight this winter, and precious little in the way of sympathy.
I was beginning to realize how little the country cared about my city, and how small its concerns were against the intrigues of the great powers of the land.
* * *
The Embassy Royal set out at midmorning, after the long breakfast at the Guild of Apothecaries. Clouds opaqued the sky, and by afternoon the cold rain pelted down.
I had brought a long overcoat that, like the rest of my clothes, I had looted from an abandoned house. It was a thick cheviot tweed, very warm, and had a cape that I could pull over my head as a hood. I remained reasonably comfortable, but still I wished I’d bought oilskins. The rains continued on and off all day, and made the journey miserable.
My new chestnut, Toast, with his palfrey’s gait, floated with ease over the road, and would have delighted me had the weather been more reasonable. I bribed Toast with his favorite food and consoled myself with the thought that I no longer had to put up with the lurching carriage, even at the cost of being wet and cold.
I am not a natural rider, and after the first day I was near-hobbled with pain But as the journey continued, the pain faded, and I believed that the animal and I were forging an understanding, one based on bribery if nothing else.
Mavors’ Road was in better condition than the coast road, but the weather made it more trying. And for five days the coach lumbered through wet weather, its big wheels throwing up sheets of water as it careened through ponds, lagoons, and fords. It bogged down frequently and had to be shoved and worked and coaxed out of the mud. Then the road began to ascend the Toppings, one after another of steep-sided hills crowned with hardwood forests. Here the road was in poor repair, and sometimes washed out. Creeks and rivers ran between the hills, and though some were bridged, most had to be forded, and the water was high and the crossings difficult. Old castles loomed above the track, most of them deliberately torn open so they wouldn’t become the haunts of bandits. The towns were small and mean, and the inns mean and wretched. Soon, Gribbins and Utterback were scratching again, and I rejoiced on my clean bed of straw.