Corfe had been invited to dine that night at the town house of Count Fournier. He did not truly have the time to spare for leisurely dinners, but the invitation had intrigued him, so he dressed in court sable and went, despite Andruw’s jocular warning to watch what he ate. Fournier’s house was more of a mansion, with an arch in one wing wide enough to admit a coach and four. It stood in the fashionable western half of the city, within sight of the palace itself, and to the rear it had extensive gardens which ran down to the river. On the bank of the Torrin there was a small summerhouse and it was to this that Corfe was led by a crop-headed page as soon as he had left his horse with a young stable boy. Fournier met him with a smile and an outstretched hand. The summerhouse had more glass in it than Corfe had ever seen before, outside of a cathedral. It was lit by candle-lanterns, and a table within had been set for two. To one side the mighty Torrin gurgled and plopped in the darkness, its bank obscured by a line of willows. As Corfe looked around, something detached itself from one of the willows and flapped away with a beat of leathery wings. A bat of some sort.
“No escort or entourage, General?” Fournier asked with raised eye-brow. “You keep little state for a man of such elevated rank.”
“I thought I’d be discreet. Besides, the Cathedrallers are mobbed every time they ride through the streets.”
“Ah, yes, I should have thought. Have a seat. Have some wine. My cook has been working wonders tonight. Some bass from the estuary I believe, and wild pigeon.”
Silver glittering in the candlelight upon a spotless white tablecloth. Crystal goblets brimming with wine, a gold-chased decanter and a small crowd of footmen, not one yet in his thirties. Fournier noted Corfe’s appraising glances and said shortly, “I like to be surrounded by youth. It helps keep my-my energy levels high. Ah, Marion, the first course, if you please.”
Some kind of fish. Corfe ate it automatically, his plate cleared by the time Fournier had had three mouthfuls. The nobleman laughed.
“You are not in the field now, General. You should savour my cook’s work. He is an easterner as a matter of fact, a convert from Calmar. I believe he might once have been a corsair, but one should not inquire too thoroughly into the antecedents of genius, should one?”
Corfe said nothing. Fournier seemed to be enjoying himself, as if he possessed some secret knowledge which he was savouring with even more gusto than he did the food.
The plates were taken away, another course came and went. Fournier talked inconsequently of gastronomic matters, the decline in Torunn’s fishing fleet, the proper way to dress a carp. Corfe drank wine sparingly and uttered the odd monosyllable. Finally the cloth was drawn and the two men were left with a dish of nuts and a decanter of brandy. The servants left, and for a while the only sound was the quiet night music of the river close by.
“You have shown commendable patience, General,” Fournier said, sipping the good Fimbrian spirit. “I had expected an outburst of some sort ere the main course arrived.”
“I know.”
“Forgive me. I like to play my little games. Why are you here? What’s afoot on this, the eve of great events? I will tell you, as a reward for your forbearance.”
Fournier reached under his chair and set upon the table a bloodstained scroll of paper. Upon it was a broken seal, but enough of the wax remained for Corfe to make out the crossed scimitars of Ostrabar’s military. Despite himself, he sat up straight in his chair.
“Do have a walnut, General. They complement the brandy so well.” Fournier broke one open with a pair of ivory handled nutcrackers. There was blood on the nutcrackers also.
“Make your point, Fournier,” Corfe said. “I do not have any more time to waste.”
Fournier’s voice changed: the bantering tone fled to be replaced by cold steel. “My agents made a capture today of some interest to us all. A Merduk mullah with two companions, out riding alone. The mullah was a strange little fellow with a mutilated face and no fingers on one hand. He spoke perfect Normannic, with the accent of Almark, and claimed to be one Bishop Albrec, fresh from the delights of the Merduk court.”
Corfe said nothing, but the candlelight made two little hellish fires of his eyes.
“Our adventurous cleric was bearing this scroll on him. He took quite a deal of persuasion to give it up, I might add. After further persuasion he revealed that he had been charged with delivery of it to you, my dear General. You alone, and in person. Now, we have an agent in the enemy camp, that you already know. But would you believe that until tonight I did not know the identity of that agent? Strange, but true. Now I know everything there is to know, General. Or almost everything. Perhaps you could explain to me why exactly you are receiving despatches from someone at the very heart of the Merduk court?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Fournier. What is in this scroll?”
“That is of no matter for the moment. However, there is the rather alarming prospect of the Torunnan commander-in-chief being in clandestine communication with the enemy High Command. That, my dear Corfe Cear-Inaf, is treason in anyone’s book.”
“Don’t be absurd, Fournier. It’s come from this agent of yours you’ve been preening yourself over for weeks. What’s in the damned scroll? And what have you done with this Albrec?”
“All in good time, General. You see, the interesting thing is that the scroll did not come from any agent of mine. It came, as my little misshapen bishop finally admitted, direct from the hands of the Merduk Queen herself. Perhaps you could explain this.”
Corfe blinked, startled. “I have no idea-”
“Colonel Willem,” said Fournier, raising his voice a fraction. And out of the darkness a group of men instantly appeared. The candles lit up the length of their drawn swords.
A shaven-headed man with a patch over one eye stepped into the summerhouse. Willem, one of Corfe’s senior officers. Behind him was young Colonel Aras. Willem had a horse pistol cocked and ready, the match already smouldering on the wheel.
“Place General Cear-Inaf under arrest. You will take him to my offices down by the waterfront and hold him there.”
“With pleasure, Count,” Willem said, grinning to show broad gap-ridden teeth. “Get up, traitor.”
Corfe remained in his seat. The amazement fled out of his mind in a moment. Suddenly many things had become clear. He took in the faces of the newcomers with a quick glance. All strangers to him but for Willem and Aras. They were not even in army uniform. He turned to Fournier, keeping his voice as casual as he could.
“Why not just have me shot now?”
“It’s obvious, I would have thought. The mob would never wear it. You’re their darling, General. We must discredit you before we hang you.”
“You’ll never convince the Queen,” Corfe told him.
“Her opinion is as immaterial as her rule is unconstitutional. The line of the Fantyrs is at an end. Torunna must look elsewhere for her rulers.”
“I’ll wager she’ll not have to look far.”
Fournier smiled. “Willem, get this upstart peasant out of my sight.”
They had a closed carriage waiting in the court-yard. Corfe was manacled and locked inside. Aras shared it with him, another pistol cocked and pointed at his breast, whilst Willem and the others rode pillion. The carriage lurched and bumped through the sleeping capital, for it was late-some time past the middle night, Corfe guessed. His mind was racing but he felt curiously calm. It was all in the open at last. No more intrigue: only naked force would work now.
He looked Aras in the eye. “When I saw you hold your ground in the King’s Battle I never would have believed you could be a part of something like this.”
Aras said nothing. The carriage interior was lit by a single fluttering candle-lantern and it was hard to see the expression on his face.