"Good," Tellian said, giving his nephew a nod, then folded his napkin. He set it beside his plate, pushed back his chair, rose, and kissed his wife's cheek. Then he glanced at Leeana and smiled crookedly.
"I'm not inviting you this time, daughter of mine," he told her. Brief disappointment flickered in her eyes, but it came and went so quickly it was more imagined than seen, and she returned his smile. "After all," he continued, "I'm quite sure you have your own sources. Come to the library before bed tonight. Let me know what you've been able to pick up about Sir Yarran's visit on your own."
"Yes, Poppa," she murmured in her most dutiful tone, green eyes glinting wickedly, and Tellian laughed. He stroked one hand over her gleaming, golden-red hair, then returned his attention to Bahzell and Brandark.
"Such a submissive child," he said, shaking his head regretfully. "Not a spark of spirit, not an ounce of spunk anywhere in her."
"Aye," Bahzell said, smiling as Leeana stuck out her tongue at him. "I've noticed as how all of your womenfolk seem to be beaten down, Milord."
"Every one of them," Tellian sighed, and then twitched as his "beaten down" wife poked him shrewdly in the ribs.
Sir Yarran climbed out of the comfortable chair with something that looked rather more like a respectful nod than a bow as Tellian, Bahzell, Brandark, and Trianal entered the study. He'd obviously availed himself of the offer of a wash up, and changed out of his riding boots, but there were still traces of the Wind Plain's omnipresent springtime mud on his trousers. A tray on the small table beside his chair bore the remains of a fat sandwich, a bowl of thick, savory vegetable soup, a couple of apple cores, and a mostly empty stein of beer, and he brushed a dusting of crumbs from his tunic as he straightened up.
"Welcome, Sir Yarran!" Tellian said, striding across the study to take the older man's right hand and forearm in a warrior's clasp. "I trust my people have seen to your needs adequately?"
"Oh, aye, that they have." Yarran patted his flat belly with his free hand and grinned. "They wanted to sit me down to an entire meal, but I told them a sandwich and some soup would do me fine, and so it did. Thank you."
"You're quite welcome," Tellian assured him, giving his forearm a final squeeze before he released it. Then the baron settled into a chair of his own, waving an invitation for Yarran to sit back down. The knight was obviously pleased by the gesture, but he chose to remain standing, in a sort of modified version of the Sothōii stand-easy, as the others found seats facing him.
"I have no doubt you bring me less than pleasant news from Lord Warden Festian," Tellian continued, "but you are always welcome in my house, nonetheless. I know from my correspondence with him that he has complete faith in you, and if he does, then so do I."
"Uh, thank you. Thank you, Milord Baron." The gray-haired knight seemed almost flustered, as if the praise were unexpected. Then he drew a deep breath and looked past Tellian to the others.
"This is my nephew, Sir Trianal, Sir Yarran," Tellian said in answer to the unasked question. "He's one of my officers, and he spent the summer before last with Sir Kelthys, so he's familiar with Glanharrow's geography. And I invited Prince Bahzell and Lord Brandark to accompany us for much the same reasons. They, too, are familiar with Glanharrow. In fact, I believe you met both of them there in the aftermath of the previous Lord Glanharrow's . . . expedition down the Gullet?"
"Aye, Milord, that I did." Sir Yarran's lips twitched in a smile, and he flexed his left arm. "As a matter of fact, Prince Bahzell and I met during it." He flexed his arm again. "I was just a mite more fortunate than some of the other poor buggers who met up with him that day."
"No lasting damage, I'm hoping? " Bahzell said politely, watching the knight flex his arm for a third time.
"None the healers couldn't put right, Milord Champion," Yarran replied.
"And no hard feelings, I trust," Tellian said. Yarran looked at the baron quickly, his expression almost shocked.
"Of course not, Milord!" He shook his head for emphasis. "'Twasn't anything personal, for either of us. I was with Sir Festian-well, Lord Festian, now-and I never thought that trip was a good idea to begin with. Even if I had, I got off lighter than any man should expect to if he's daft enough to cross swords with a champion of Tomanâk!"
"I'm afraid it was personal for quite a few people who were there that day," Tellian said grimly.
"It was," Yarran agreed. "Enough hate can curdle anyone, Milord, and the gods know there's been hate enough from both ends of the Gullet, time to time. Course, only a fool lets hate drive him, especially when there's blood to be spilled if he does."
"A wise observation," Tellian said, glancing ever so briefly at his nephew's profile from the corner of his eye. "I wish more people shared your opinion," he added, and Yarran shrugged.
"Can't do much about people who insist on using stable muckings for brains, Milord," he said philosophically. Then chuckled. "Except, of course, for kicking their arses out of their chairs and putting someone else into them. Which is by the way of bringing me to the reason I'm here."
"Then I suppose we should get to it," Tellian said, and pointed rather more emphatically at the chair Yarran had gotten out of. "Sit yourself back down and tell us what Lord Festian needs."
"As to that, Milord Baron," Yarran replied in a voice which held much less humor than it had a moment before, "I'm afraid what he really needs is something in the way of a miracle."
He sat obediently back down, although Bahzell and Brandark both had the impression that he was uncomfortable sitting in Tellian's presence.
"That bad, is it?" the baron asked with a frown.
"If it's not now, it's headed that way, Milord," Yarran told him frankly. "We've had minor problems, almost pinpricks, from the beginning. That started the day Lord Festian was confirmed in his wardenship, as you might say. But it's gotten worse. In the last couple of weeks, we've had two major cattle raids and a raid on one of our stud farms."
"Cattle and horses both?" Tellian mused aloud.
"Aye, Milord. Before that, it was sheep, but it's clear as the nose on my face they're getting more ambitious. And they're not just thieves, either, whatever they'd like us to think so far. They've already managed to burn a handful of barns, despite the rain, and Lord Festian has started posting armed guards to protect our larger herds and farms. To my mind, it's but a matter of time before they decide to raid one of those herds or farms, and when they do, there's going to be blood on someone's blade. And," he added more grimly, "on someone else's hands."
"I see." Tellian leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "I wish I hadn't already come to much the same conclusions on my own," he said. "But from your tone of voice, I suspect you have your own suspicions about who the brains behind this campaign might be. Do you?" he asked bluntly.
"Well, as to that, Milord," Yarran said slowly, obviously considering his words with care, "yes, I do. And so does Lord Festian, though I think he's less eager than I to be naming names." The marshal shrugged. "I'm naught but a common-born fighting man, when all's said-Lord Festian, now, his word carries more weight than ever mine could. I'm thinking he knows that, and he's not wishful to be accusing anyone until he's the proof firmly in hand, as it were."
"Very wise of him," Tellian agreed. "But if you have any suspicions, I want to hear them."
"Well, as you've asked, Milord, it's in my mind that Lord Erathian wasn't so very happy to see Lord Festian named to lord it over him. That's how he sees it, leastwise. And I hope you'll pardon my bluntness, Milord, but for all that Erathian was first in line to kiss your hand-aye, and would've kissed something else of yours, if you take my meaning-when you turned up in the Gullet that morning, he'd also been one of Mathian's hangers-on. Until you did turn up, he'd been breathing fire and farting flame about all he'd been set to do when we reached Hurgrum. Then, all of a sudden, there he was, the very spitting image of peace and reason."