“It’s no matter, Brother Darige. You see?”
Stephen did see, and his mouth dropped wide. Brother Pell had gathered pieces, but what he set on the table was a whole mazer. A faint steam rose from it.
“You—” Stephen looked back and forth between the old man and the mended cup and felt his face pricked from within by a thousand needles.
“Y-you did a sacaum of mending. Only a—” The implications crystallized. “You must be the r-reverend fratrex,” he stammered.
“Indeed, yes. You see? I do have better things to do than to stare out of a window all day.” His thick brows lowered dangerously. “And now, we must consider what to do with such a prideful young man. Indeed, we must.”
3
Rumors of War
“We are not at war with you,” the archgreft Valamhar af Aradal explained to William II and his court, stroking his yellow mustache. “Indeed, Hansa is not at war with anyone.”
William counted slowly to seven, a trick his father had taught him.
A king should not answer too quickly. A king should appear calm.
The old man had been full of advice, most of which, William had discovered later, came from a book written centuries ago by the prime minister of Ter Eslief—a country that no longer even existed.
He shifted on the simple throne of white Hadam ash and gazed around the lesser throne chamber. It was “lesser” only in that it wasn’t as ornate as the room where coronations and high court were held. In size, it was just as grand, its ceiling rising high in a series of vaults, its ruddy marble floor expansive enough to make even a fat, haughty fool like Aradal look small. Which was quite the point.
Aradal’s guards stood well behind him, armored but un-weaponed, wearing garish black-and-sanguine surcoats. Ten Craftsmen more than doubled their four. On William’s right hand stood Praifec Marché Hespero, in somber black robes and square hat. On his left, where a prime minister ought to stand, stood Robert, clad in bright yellow and green velvets. The only other persons in the room were Baron Sir Fail de Liery, in his dun-colored surcoat, and his young charge Neil MeqVren.
Seven.
And now he could speak mildly, rather than in a burst of fury. “Those weren’t Hanzish troops on those Hanzish ships that sacked four towns in the Sorrow Isles? That seems dangerously close to war, so far as I am concerned.”
“The war,” Aradal said, “if you can call this sort of minor skirmishing that, is between the Sorrows and Saltmark. Salt-mark, I’m sure you know, is a longtime ally of Hansa. They asked for our help, and we gave them what we could spare; our ships and troops are under their command. The Sorrows, after all, were the aggressors. And may I further point out, Your Majesty, that the Sorrow Isles are not part of the Crothanic empire.”
William leaned his elbow on the armrest of his throne and propped his chin on his fist, regarding the Hanzish ambassador. Aradal had a fat, pink face above a corpulent body overdressed in a black sealskin doublet trimmed in martin and red kidskin buskins glittering with diamonds—hardly a sterling example of Hanzish manhood. Yet that was deceptive, as William knew from bitter experience. The man was as clever as a raven.
“The Sorrows are under our protection,” William said, “as Saltmark is under yours, as well you know. What evidence have you that King Donech was the aggressor in this matter?”
Aradal smiled. “It began as a conflict over fishing grounds, Majesty. The west shoals are rich and, by treaty, neutral territory. In the last year, ten defenseless fishing ships from Salt-mark have gone down to the draugs, sent there by Sorrovian privateers. Three more were sunk in Saltmark’s own waters. Who could tolerate such a breach of treaty? And what sort of protector would Hansa be, to rest and watch while our ally faced the Sorrovian navy? A navy, I might add, equipped and supplemented by both Liery and Crothany.”
“I asked for evidence, not sailor’s stories,” William exploded, forgetting to count this time. “What evidence have I that any of Saltmark’s ships were ever sunk? And if they were, that they were sunk by any ship from the Sorrows?”
Aradal fiddled with his mustache. Were his lips moving? Was he counting? Damned book.
“The evidence can be presented,” the ambassador finally said. “We have witnesses in plenty. But the real proof is that Your Majesty has doubled the number of his ships in the Sorrows.”
“As you’ve more than doubled your own in Saltmark.”
“Ah, yes, but it appears you sent your ships before we sent ours,” Aradal replied. “Doesn’t that suggest Your Majesty was well aware of a conflict developing between the Sorrows and our protectorate? And before you would take such action, would you not be aware of the cause of the conflict?”
William kept his face impassive. He’d moved the ships in secret, at night, to hidden harbors. How had Hansa learned of it?
“What are you saying?” he asked. “That we sank your fishing ships?”
“No, Sire. Only that you knew the Sorrows were due a just revenge. That the Sorrows are like your children, and even when they go astray you would protect them.” His eyes hardened. “That such would be a mistake, just as it would be a mistake to commit a single knight, soldier, or sea captain from the army of Crotheny to join in this conflict.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is a simple statement. If you go to war with Saltmark, you must go to war with Hansa. And that, Majesty, would benefit no one.”
Sir Fail de Liery, up until now sitting quietly, suddenly pounced up from his bench.
“You fop! Do you think Liery will stand by while you conquer our cousins on this ridiculous pretext?”
“If Liery joins with the Sorrows, we will have no choice but to assume that we are at war with you,” the ambassador replied.
“And, no doubt,” William said softly, waving de Liery back to his seat, “you will counsel me to not join with Liery? And when both the Sorrows and Liery are in your hands, and some excuse allows you to turn your attention to Andemeur, you will still insist that it isn’t my affair? What, then, when you’ve camped on the Sleeve? Or in my own sitting room?”
“That is not the situation we are discussing, Majesty,” Aradal said smoothly. “When Saltmark has a new treaty with the Sorrows, this sad little affair will be at an end. We have had thirty years of peace, Majesty. Do not risk that, I beg you.”
“I’ll show you risk, you damned popinjay—” Fail began, but William cut him off.
“This is our court, Sir Fail. We will consider what Liery has to say, but later. Lord Aradal is here to treat with Crotheny.”
The old knight glared but took his seat. William sat back, then glanced to Marché Hespero.
“Praifec, do you have anything to add to this … discussion?”
Hespero pursed his lips, pausing a few breaths before speaking.
“I am grieved,” he said, “that the church was not entrusted with our traditional role as peacekeepers. I fail to understand why I’ve had no word from my counterpart in Hansa, though I’m certain any delay was unintentional. Nevertheless, it seems that the church is consulted on fewer decisions of note with each passing day, and that is, as I said, a grievous thing.”
His black-eyed gaze wandered over each man in the room. He clasped his hands behind his back.
“The church Senaz and His Holiness the Fratrex Prismo have been quite outspoken about their desire for peace, particularly between Hansa and Crotheny. War between them could lay waste the world. I urge both of you to set aside any further hostilities until I’ve had a chance to speak with Praifec Topan and to consult with the Senaz.”
Neil watched the Hanzish ambassador as he left the chamber. He didn’t like the man’s smile.