“But alas, we are not honest burk lords, you and I, and if we did such, we’d have Prince Zenos and his army at our throats in a twinkling. We’d be flagrant lawbreakers, y’see, and—for all his pro-Kindred sentiments—the prince could not allow us to get away with it.”
“However, man, I think you should take at least a couple of files of lancers with you. Only a few of the hall folk are Sir Geros’ people or mine. And as old Hwahltuh became more and more senile, that damned Mehleena persuaded him to let go almost all his Freefighters. I know, for I hired most of them onto my own force. I doubt there’re now a half-dozen over-aged blades left.”
Tim just smiled. “I’m taking Rai with me, Brother Bili—he’s a weapons master. And I’m no mean swordsman, myself.”
“Of course you’re a good fighter,” Bili snorted. “Else you’d not be here, after ten years of Freefighter life. But many a good blade has fallen to the poisoned cup, the strangler’s cord, the knife thrust in the dark. You can’t wear armor all the time, kinsman, can’t go abroad everywhere full-armed. Nor can one or two men guard your back twenty-four hours a day.”
“I am sure that these Ehleen swine have killed before, Tim. Ahl’s blinding was said to be an accident. I think that even Ahl believes it was, but not I. And there is and was much to be questioned in the matter of Behrl’s death, so much so that the prince almost sent a committee to investigate it—would that he had! And, for all his great age, your father’s passing was most strange. None of my informants had ever before seen a man die as he did. You are the last male Sanderz of untainted blood, Tim, and I fear for your safety if you take risks among such folk.”
But Tim had ridden off with only Sergeant Rai, a single pack mule and an assortment of his oldest clothes, leaving his lances camped in Morguhn and his two wagonloads of loot from the intaking of Getzburk locked in the cellars of Morguhn Hall.
The water had begun to cool, and Tim momentarily debated jerking the bell rope to summon the servants with more heated water, but ended by rolling over and pulling himself out of the bath and, after making certain his heavy blade was near to hand, stretching out on the tiles to await the arrival of Rai with clean clothing. But Sir Geros came in first, bearing a brace of cups, and a small bottle of brandy and wearing a self-satisfied smile.
Wrapped in a length of thick cloth, Tim sniffed, sampled then drained the small cup. “Where’d you liberate this, you old bummer? It tastes to be twenty years old.”
Sir Geros nodded. “Twenty-five, my lord. It—”
“Enough of that,” said the younger man, shortly. “Appearances are well kept, in public, but, man, you jounced me on your knee and paddled my arse, when I needed it—which as I recollect was right often. In privacy, let’s be on a first-name basis, eh? Geros?”
“I … I’ll try … Tim.” The old knight stammered. “But, my lord—but you must know, Tim, I was born a nobleman’s servant, as were both my parents and all their folk before them. My father was a majordomo to a komees, which was higher than any of my folk had risen … until me.”
“And you raised yourself on the strength of your arm, on the richness of the blood you shed for the Confederation and on your matchless valor, Geros,” nodded Tim. “If ever any man deserved a cat, it was you.” He gently tapped the silver likeness of a prairie cat which rested on the old warrior’s breast. “I’ve never understood why you, a nobleman in your own right, entitled to rich lands in Morguhn, forsook those lands to serve as castellan here, at Sanderz Hall.”
Geros sighed. “My … Tim, I could never have been happy as a lord. I was born to serve, and service is my pleasure. I … but let us talk of these matters on another day. There are things you must know, and I know not how long my folk can keep others out of earshot of us here.”
“How many in the hall are you sure of, Geros?” asked Tim.
The elder set down the bottle to tick off names on his fingers. “Old Tahmahs, the head groom, is loyal; then there’s Mahrtun, the dragoon sergeant, and the five troopers. The majordomo, Tonos, blows first hot then cold; I can’t say he’s our man, but he doesn’t seem Lady Mehleena’s either.”
Tim frowned. Tonos’ name was not one of those given him by Archduke Bili, and it could bode ill to have so powerful a servant leagued against one.
Geros continued, graying brows knitted in concentration. “Our only reliable people in the kitchens are Hahros, the meat cook, and his eldest apprentice, Tchahrlee. Hahros is a retired Confederation Army cook and far better qualified to be head cook than that mincing effeminate, Gaios, but naturally Gaios has simpered his way into Lady Mehleena’s good graces. Anyway, I’ve taken the liberty of promising Gaios’ position upon my l—” At a warning frown from Tim, he hurriedly corrected to, “your assumption of your patrimony.”
Tim nodded. “You know these folk better than I; speak in my name when it seems wise or needful. I’ll back you up.”
Geros smiled thanks and went on. “The keeper of the cellars, Hyk, is an Ahrmehnee and another of the ones I can’t figure.”
“In that case,” said Tim, grimly, “I think we should start bringing arms up out of the armory a few at the time and secreting them somewhere where we can get to them easily, when and if we need them.” Then, noticing the return of Geros’ smile, he inquired, “Or have you already commenced such, old friend?”
Quickly, the castellan told of the stocks of arms hidden in various parts of the hall and outbuildings—enough to equip forty men, if somewhat sketchily. Adding, “But Tim, even if we do see troubles, they’ll be nothing like the risings here and in Morguhn years ago. For one thing, there be precious few Ehleenee in Vawn, save those servants hired since your lady mother’s time. Almost all the farmers in the duchy are Ahrmehnee, so too are the mechanics and tradesmen hereabouts. The nobles all are first- and second-generation Horseclansmen … and you know well what sort of shrift they’d give Ehleen rebels or religious fanatics.”
“No, Tim, the only danger lies in the fact that Mehleena is set on her spawn, Myron, sitting in your father’s place. There were some very peculiar aspects to the death of your brother, Behrl, last year.”
“Yes,” Tim answered. “So Bili informed me. Something to do with a mock fight, wasn’t it?”
Geros grimaced. “Closer to an out-and-out duel, my … Tim. It was during that last, long illness of Lord Hwahltuh. Young Behrl was at the sword posts, one morn. Myron and the boy who then was his lover sauntered out and began to make crude and disparaging remarks. Finally, Behrl—who never could stomach Myron for any length of time, anyhow—suggested that his tormentor get a sword and see if he could do better.”
“Now, Tim, Myron is no mean swordsman. He is long in the arm and strong. But, in all my years, seldom have I seen a man handle steel as did Behrl; the lad was an artist with the sword.”
“Anyway, Myron sent his bum boy running and soon was at the posts himself. I’m told that Behrl, in his turn, twitted Myron’s showing—at least, this was overheard by Gaib, the farrier, who happened to be passing by. I was in my house when I heard the first ringing of the blades and the fighting shouts. I headed for the practice yard as fast as these legs would carry me, but halfway there I heard a terrible cry and, when finally I panted up, Behrl lay dead in his blood, his chest hacked half through, just below the shoulder-blade.”
“Tim, Myron is a good swordsman, as I said, but Behrl was his master—and mine own. Without outside help, interference, there be no way that Myron could have even nicked Behrl, much less slain him!”