The other servants hastily withdrew, Gennard close on their heels.
Bodrik shook his head slowly, as if dazed. He fumbled with his left hand inside his disheveled tunic. “Lursk is dead, Master,” he said hoarsely.
I snatched up the wine ewer and filled a goblet to hand to Kasarian, who held it to Bodrik’s lips.
“Rest a moment,” Kasarian advised. “Wolkor is coming to attend to your wounds.”
The wine seemed to revive Bodrik. As he drank the full measure, some color returned to his blanched face. Kasarian set aside the emptied goblet and lifted his castellan into a chair. Bodrik’s labored breathing eased. He managed at last to extract the message packet with his left hand, and held it out to me. “Baron Gurborian entrusted me with this reply to be given only into your hands, Worthy Baron,” he said, his voice clearer and stronger than before.
Accepting the bloodstained packet, I peered questioningly at Kasarian, who drew one of his belt knives and reached across to cut the packet’s binding straps. “How came Lursk to die?” he asked.
There was no mistaking Bodrik’s reaction—he showed his Alizonian fangs in a triumphant grin. “Whilst we waited for Baron Gurborian to compose his reply, Master, Lursk and I fell to arguing in the courtyard.”
Kasarian nodded gravely. “I trust,” he said, “that you promoted the duel to facilitate my orders?”
“Aye, Master. I thought an open clash with Lursk would guarantee a direct audience for me with Baron Gurborian.” Bordrik looked at me. “Before I entered the Master’s service,” he said, “Lursk killed my younger littermate in Canisport. I thank the Worthy Baron for this opportunity to settle my Line’s account with Lursk.”
I acknowledged his statement with what I hoped he would view as a nod of approval. I had been in Alizon for only a matter of hours, and already one death had resulted. What a dreadful place this was—filled with violent hounds, legendary monsters, and murderous barons.
Kasarian held the message packet stationary for a moment. “How came you to survive once Lursk was dead?” he inquired in a dangerously calm voice. “Surely there were others present in Reptur’s courtyard.”
“Lursk’s men would have killed me,” Bodrik replied with earnest conviction, “had it not been for Lord Gratch. The noise of our struggle attracted his attention. He came out of the balcony, quill in hand, just as Lursk foolishly overbalanced and I ran him through. The others were set to attack me, but Lord Gratch ordered them to seize me and bring me before Baron Gurborian at once. The Baron was not pleased to hear of Lursk’s death, but he said to Lord Gratch that the opportunity provided by Krevonel’s message could not be lost due to misdeeds by underlings. I spoke up then, Master. I told him that I had settled a private score with Lursk—our duel had naught to do with Krevonel or Reptur. He said I had best stay out of Reptur’s reach henceforth, then ordered me to deliver his reply before he changed his mind and killed me himself.”
Kasarian smiled unpleasantly. “Should the occasion arise that I must dispatch another message to Gurborian,” he remarked, “I shall take care to send a different messenger.”
Gennard returned with bandages and a basin of water just as Wolkor arrived carrying a well-worn satchel bulging with ointment jars and herbs that I presumed he kept to treat injured hounds—or Alizonders. Fortunately, in one sense, this was far from my first experience with severe battle injuries. I had helped our Wise Women during the harrowing years of the Dales war, so I was not outwardly shaken by the sight of blood and mangled flesh. I took the bandages from Gennard and spread them out on a nearby table ready to be folded to the required dimensions.
Wolkor and Gennard swiftly removed Bodrik’s tunic and the remnants of his undergarment. Besides the still undisclosed wounds on his neck, he had suffered a jagged sword cut down his right forearm. To my surprise, Wolkor threaded a delicately curved needle with what appeared to be a length of waxed thread. While Gennard pressed together the edges of the slash, Wolkor sewed the torn skin as neatly as any seamstress, then sponged the area with wine before bandaging it.
Leaving them to examine Bodrik’s neck, Kasarian pulled Gurborian’s reply from the packet. He held the document out deferentially for me to read, but I could make scant sense of the elaborately swirled Alizonian script.
“I vow, Worthy Baron,” Kasarian observed to me, “that Gratch’s hand has become more decorative since the last time I saw it. Let us seek a better light by which you can advise me of your response.” Taking my arm, Kasarian firmly steered me to a table near the looming dire wolf, well out of listening range of the other Alizonders.
“Gurborian, through Gratch’s quill, expresses himself with his usual pretense,” Kasarian said, fetching an extra candle to illuminate the writing. “ ‘Volorian,’ ” he read in a low, sarcastic voice, “ ‘I rejoice that you honor Alizon City with your presence. We have sorely missed your counsel these many years—I have often thought what valuable contributions you could make to advance Alizon’s interests. Now you grace me with your most noble invitation to attend you. I shall be delighted to arrive at the time and place you specified, accompanied solely by Gratch and a minimal party of guards. Your suggestion truly stirs my interest. I dare to hope that both our Lines may benefit greatly from our meeting. Pray extend my most cordial greetings to Kasarian, whose loyal service I have long admired. I eagerly await the set hour. Gurborian.’” Kasarian paused, then bared his teeth in a feral smile. “Morfew has earned a large medallion to attach to his baronial chain,” he said. “Our quarry has taken his well-worded bait. Come, let us set our arrangements in order.”
At our approach, Bodrik insisted upon rising to his feet. He appeared to be fully recovered from his ordeal.
“Wolkor,” Kasarian said, “you may return to the Kennels. Tell the steward you may draw a flask of bloodwine.”
Grinning, Wolkor bobbed his head and slapped his House badge with enthusiasm. As soon as he had closed the door, Kasarian turned to Bodrik and Gennard. “We shall be receiving Baron Gurborian this midnight,” he informed them. “The Worthy Baron and I shall confer with him and Lord Gratch in the green audience chamber. Since this is to be a secret meeting, they will be accompanied by only a few bodyguards. Bodrik, are you fit to serve as my Armsmaster?”
To demonstrate his restored capacity, Bodrik flexed his right hand and sketched a vigorous swordsman’s flourish. “Aye, Master,” he asserted. “Krevonel’s prime troop can overmatch any of Reptur’s lot.”
“See that they do,” Kasarian ordered. “It is possible that some . . . disagreement may arise between our two parties. Your picked troop will deal with Gurborian’s guard. The Worthy Baron and I will attend to Gurborian and Gratch.”
“Shall I bring your sire’s sword from the Armory, Master?” Gennard inquired.
“Yes, take it to the audience chamber,” Kasarian replied, “along with proper refreshments for the four of us. The Worthy Baron and I will take a light supper here. You will fetch our repast before you attend to the arrangements in the green room.”
Bodrik had not been gone long when Gennard duly delivered yet more trays of rich Alizonian food, which he was prepared to serve, but again Kasarian dismissed him to “see to your more important duties below.”
Kasarian shut the door behind him, observing briskly to me, “Your imposture would be revealed if Gennard saw you eating. Your flat Dale’s teeth betray you. You must therefore guard against showing your teeth to Gurborian and Gratch. It is as well that Volorian’s supposed ague prevents you from consuming the prepared refreshments.”
I choked down a bit more of the Alizonian food, vowing to keep my mouth shut tight throughout the baronial meeting.
At last, Kasarian led me downstairs to a wide hall. He stopped before towering double doors that opened inward upon a spacious room whose walls were draped with vibrant green tapestries glistening with gold-threaded patterns. Three substantial iron cressets set in floor mounts provided illumination in addition to the candles flaring on the large table at the room’s center. Gennard had arranged a lavish cold supper on a long trestle table against a side wall. He had also placed a sheathed silver-hilted sword on the conference table.