Man’s hand, not God’s.
He broke open King Mark’s letter and stood on the pitching gallery reading it.
My Dear Cousin, it began. This is written in haste and without ceremony—the dispatch galley waits in the harbour with her anchor aweigh. Her destination is Abrusio, for I know not where else you can be reached. Despite the terrible stories which are coming out of Hebrion, I believe that you will arrive back in your capital in the end and eject the traitors and Ravens who are intent on ruining the west.
But I must tell you my news. My party was ambushed in the foothills of the southern Malvennors by a sizable force of unknown origin, and we barely scraped through with our lives. An assassination attempt, of course, an effort to rid the world of yet another heretic. It can only have been arranged by Cadamost of Perigraine and the Inceptine Prelate of that kingdom. I fear other attempts have been made, on both you and Lofantyr, but obviously if you are scanning this missive you survived.
The old laws which governed conduct and guided men’s actions are destroyed. I have had an uprising of the nobles in Astarac to deal with, and it is only in the last few days that I have been able to call Cartigella my own capital again. But the traitors were ill-led and ill-equipped—and they had no Knights Militant to back them up. The army, which remained loyal in the most part, thank God, is now scouring Astarac for the remaining pockets of the rebels. But there are rumours that Perigraine is mobilizing and I must guard my eastern frontiers, else you would have Astaran reinforcements to help you in the sorry task of regaining your own kingdom.
My sister will wed you, and if she is as plain as a frog she is nonetheless a woman of sense and intelligence. More than ever we heretic kings must stand together, Abeleyn. Hebrion and Astarac shall be allied, for if we remain separate then we will fall alone. I will not waste time on pomp and ceremony. As soon as I hear from you that you are safe in Abrusio she shall be sent to your side, the living proof of our bond.
(Do you remember her, Abeleyn? Isolla. You pulled her plaits as a boy and mocked her crooked nose.)
From Torunna I have tidings much the same as here. Macrobius has been properly received as the true Pontiff, but according to my sources he is not seen much abroad and may be ailing, may God forfend. He is all that stands between us and utter anarchy. Lofantyr is directing the Merduk war personally, and yet Ormann Dyke seems to be neglected and the refugees surround Torunn by the hundred thousand. He is not a general, our cousin of Torunna. Sometimes I am not even sure if he is a soldier.
I must scrawl ever more hastily, as the tide will soon be on the turn. A Fimbrian army, it is said, is on the march. Its destination is reported to be the dyke, which may explain Lofantyr’s neglect if it does not excuse it. He has hired the old empire-builders to fight his wars for him, and thinks he can leave it at that. But the hound brought in over the threshold can prove to be a wolf if it is not watched and given discipline. I do not trust Fimbrian open-handedness.
I end here. A pitiful missive, without grace or form to recommend it. My old rhetorics tutor will be grumbling in his grave. Maybe one day philosophers will once more have the time to dance angels on the heads of pins, but for now the world has too much need of soldiers and the quill must yield to the sword.
Fare thee well, cousin.
Mark
Abeleyn smiled as he finished reading. Mark had never been much of a one for polish. It was good to know that Hebrion did not stand alone in the world, and that Astarac seemed fairly on the road back to her proper order. The news of the Fimbrians was interesting, though. Did Lofantyr truly expect them to fight and die for Torunna in the east without wanting something more than coinage in exchange?
Isolla. They had all played together as children, at conferences and conclaves as their fathers changed the shape of the world. She was thin and russet-haired, with a freckled face and a bend to her nose that had been evident even then, when they were not yet into their teens. She was only a year or two younger than himself—quite old to be married for the first time. He remembered her as a quiet, long-suffering child who liked to be left alone.
Such memories were beside the point. The important thing was that the Hebro-Astaran alliance would be firmly cemented by this marriage, and personal feelings did not come into it.
(He thought of Jemilla and her swelling belly, and felt a thrill of uneasy apprehension for a reason he could not fully understand.)
The feeling passed. He went inside and shouted for attendants to come and help him disrobe and wash. He poured himself a flagon of wine from the gimballed decanters on the cabin table, gulped it down, bit into a chunk of herb bread, gulped more wine.
The cabin door opened and his personal steward and valet were standing there, still in their castaway clothes, one chewing.
“Sire?”
He felt ashamed. He had forgotten that these men had been through whatever he had, and were as hungry and thirsty and tired and filthy as he was himself.
“It’s all right. You are dismissed. Clean yourselves up and get yourselves as much food and wine as your bellies will hold. And kindly ask Admiral Rovero to step back in here when he has a moment.”
“Yes, sire. The sailors have heated water for you in one of their coppers in the galley. Shall we have a bath prepared?”
A bath! Sweet heavens above. But he shook his head. “Let the lady Jemilla use the water. I will do well enough.”
The men bowed and left. Abeleyn could smell himself above the usual shipboard smells of pitch and wood and old water, but it did not seem to matter. Jemilla was carrying his child, and she would appreciate a bath above all things at the moment. Let her have one—it would keep her away from him for a while.
He realized suddenly that he did not much like his mistress. As a lover she was superb, and she was as witty and intelligent as a man could want. But he trusted her no more than he would trust an adder which slithered across his boot in the woods. The knowledge surprised him somewhat. He was aware that something in him had changed, but he was not yet sure what it was.
A knock on the door. Admiral Rovero, his eyebrows high on his sea-dog face. “You wanted to see me, sire?”
“Yes, Admiral. Let us go through this plan you have concocted, you and Mercado, for the retaking of Abrusio. Now is as good a time as any.”
There was to be no rest, no chance to sit and stare out at the foaming wake and the mighty ships which coursed along astern, tall pyramids of canvas and wood and gleaming guns. No time to turn away from the care and the responsibilities. And Abeleyn did not mind.
Perhaps that is what has changed, he thought. I am growing into my crown at last.
TWENTY-TWO
A LBREC ’ S head was full of blood, swollen and throbbing like a bone-pent heart. His face was rubbing against some form of material, cloth or the like, and his hands, also, felt swollen and full.
He was upside-down, he realized, dangling with his midriff being crushed by his own weight.
“Put me down,” he gasped, feeling as though he might throw up if he did not straighten.
Avila set him down carefully. The young Inceptine had been carrying him slung over one broad shoulder. The pair of them were breathing heavily. Albrec’s world dizzied and spun for a moment as the fluids of his body righted themselves. The lamp Avila had been carrying in his free hand guttered on the floor, almost out of oil.
“What are you doing?” Albrec managed at last. “Where are we?”
“In the catacombs. I couldn’t bring you round, Albrec. You were dead to the world. So I piled up stone in front of the hole and tried to find a way out for us.”