A Cat Of Silvery Hue

This fourth Horseclans book is dedicated to:
Andre Norton—vastly talented colleague and true friend…God bless her;
My mother, whose encouragements have kept me going throughout some very dark days;
Tim and Gil Daniels, Marty Gear and the
BSFS
entire.

The shaven scalp of the tall, broad-shouldered young warrior glinted in the light of the rising sun, as did the burnished surfaces of his suit of three-quarter armor and the dolphin-shaped silver goblet in his right hand. Though heavier and squarely masculine, his face bore a startling similarity to those of the two tall, handsome women who stood before him, their hair but slightly darker than his bushy cornsilk eyebrows.

The large, battlemented building, atop the flat roof of which they stood, was known as Morguhn Hall and was the young man’s ancestral home. The hall crowned a gently sloping hill and, to north, south, east and west, as far as the eye might see, the fields and woodlands and rolling leas were all his domain, the
Thoheekahtohn
of Morguhn.

To their left, a tall column of smoke arose from the rear courtyard, wherein had been laid the funeral pyre of the man who had been husband to the two women and father to the young warrior. Though the man had died of natural causes, the six hacked corpses which had shared his pyre had fallen in battle just hours before their cremations; among them had been a younger son of the two women, Djef Morguhn.

As the hall had but recently been invested, the bailey to their right lay cluttered, and jerrybuilt pens were tightly packed with hundreds of cattle, sheep and goats. The small open space remaining was now filled with above threescore stamping, whickering warhorses, astride most of which were armored and fully armed fighting men. The majority of these riders wore the scalemail hauberks and open-faced helms which identified them as Middle Kingdoms Freefighters’ or mercenary cavalrymen—armed with broadsword or heavy saber, two-foot hide buckler shod with iron, long, broad dirk and a few short-shafted, well-balanced darts. Ten of the horsemen were alike as peas-in-a-pod, being Horseclansmen but recently arrived from the Sea of Grass, thousands of
kaiee
to the west.

Of the remaining men, all save one were armed with broadswords and spears, and wore three-quarter plate very similar to that of the young man atop the hall. This last man, clad in a flowing white robe, was armed with daggers, a full dozen darts and a doublecurved yaghatan. Where all of the other men’s faces, though tanned by sun and weather, were either olive or fair, his was the rich dark brown of old leather.

One who might have been a younger duplicate of the dark-skinned mounted man stood behind the young man on the rooftop. His name was Eeshmahehl and he was a physician from the Black Kingdoms, far away to the north and east of this land. A rail-thin lad, his own skin almost blue in its blackness, stood by the physician’s side, holding with both hands a gleaming brass bowl. He was but recently freed from an odious bondage to a perverted nobleman and had voluntarily apprenticed himself to the tall, graceful brown-skinned man; his hated master had called him Peeos, but all here used his proper name, Peeair.

Eeshmahehl was placing a fresh bandage over a recent wound in the young man’s scalp. As he performed this task, he talked constantly, explaining to Peeair just what he was doing and why, for so had the master physician, Ahlee, imparted his extensive knowledge to Eeshmahehl. The language he spoke was Kweebehkeekos, for, though Peeair was from an exotic land far to the south, this far-northern tongue was enough like his native speech to be easily comprehensible.

Lifting a thick cloth pad, damp with some liquid from the bowl held by Peeair, the physician briefly held the pad under the lad’s fine-boned nose, slightly canted since a blow of his former master’s fist had broken it. “What is the smell, Peeair?”

“Brandy, master.”

Eeshmahehl nodded, placed the pad over the healing wound, held it with his left hand while taking a length of rolled bandage from the compartmented bowl. “Just so, Peeair, just so. And why is the inner bandage so often soaked with brandy, do you remember?”

The boy closed his eyes and knitted his brows in concentration. “To…because wounds covered with such dressings seem to heal quicker and cleaner?”

“Very good, my son, very good. Ahlah has granted you a good memory, which makes me certain that the Elder Masters will quickly confirm you as my apprentice, when you return with me to Zahrtohgah…

Now, set down the basin, Peeair, and hand me the
thoheeks’
helmet.”

Gingerly, the sinewy brown hands settled the weighty helm atop the thick bandages, then fumblingly commenced to thread straps through buckles.

Smiling, one of the two widows stepped forward, saying, “Please, Master Eeshmahehl, allow me. You are inexperienced at it, but my sister and I helped arm our father and brothers before we were half the age of young Peeair.”

While the two women fastened the neckpiece to helm, lowered the cheekpieces, then set about checking and tightening the fit of various other components of their son’s set of plate, a tall, much-scarred man of forty or so emerged from a corner tower and strode purposefully the length of the side wall, his Pitzburk plate clanking and the plume on his helm nodding.

After ascending the stone steps to the roof, he paced over to the young
thoheeks
, rendered a military salute and said, “The column is formed up, Duke Bili. Each horse bears a skin of watered wine and a wallet of war rations. Master Ahlee said that it would be neither painful or injurious to the beast, so I’ve had your black charger saddled and fitted with a chamfron.”

The
thoheeks
nodded curtly. “Very good, captain. You may return, now. I’ll join you, shortly.”

Saluting once more, the officer spun and retraced his steps, while Bili embraced and kissed each of his mothers, saying, “When the Undying High Lady Aldora and her dragoons arrive, point them in the direction of the rebels’ retreat. Tell them that his grace rides with us and wishes them to join us.”

Mother Behrnees nodded briskly. “We will, Bili. But, ere you ride…you really should make your peace with Count Djeen.”

Bili’s mouth thinned into a grim line. “There is no peace to be made, Mother. The tail does not wag the dog. I, not Count Djeen, am lord here, a fact which I had to make abundantly clear to him!”

Mother Mahrnee’s blond braids swished as she shook her head. “Admittedly, he did provoke you, son, but he is a very proud man. You could have taken him to a place apart. You should not have humiliated him before everyone in the hall.”

The
thoheeks
snorted harshly. “When did he hesitate to call
me
to task, to question
my
every word, before whoever happened to be nearby, Mother? No, the time was overripe for him and everyone else to be made aware that this is now
my
duchy and that
I
will order it and its affairs in
my
way. Now, I must go.”

When the last scale-clad trooper had cleared the courtyard,
Feelahks
Sami Kahrtuh, the castellan, saw the heavy, thick gates shut and the two massive bars dropped into place, but the outer grille of wrought iron he left raised, for with the would-be rebels in full flight, hotly pursued by Duke Bili’s stout little band, there were no rams to threaten the entry portals.

Old
Komees
Djeen Morguhn, retired
strahteegos
of the Confederation Army and a soldier for most of his sixty-odd years, limped along the length of the wall and up the stairs to the roof, where the ladies still stood, watching their son’s column re-form and set off down the hill at a brisk trot. The plates of the old man’s set of proof scraped loudly each time he leaned against the wall to swing his stiff leg up onto the next step. His visor was raised so his one eye might do the work of two, and the shiny brass hook which had replaced his left hand sparkled in the morning sunlight.

He limped over to the ladies, muttering, “Damned foolishness, that’s what it is, and no mistake! Probably get himself and half his troop killed for a piece of senseless stupidity! The tower has already spotted the van of the Confederation
kahtahfrahktoee
, why not let professionals handle this matter of pursuit and harassment, eh?”

“Sun and Wind, my lord count,” snapped Mother Behrnees, “what do you want? For more years than I care to recall, you chivvied our Bili’s father to forsake his passive, peaceful ways. Now you would condemn the son for being actively warlike! But I think you’ve learned better than to do so to his face, have you not?”

The scarred, wrinkled features flushed hotly. “The young whippersnapper! To so abase me before my wife and daughter and everyone else in this hall! And after all I’ve done and tried to do for him! That act, alone, shows how dangerous is his immaturity!”

“Now hold!” Mother Mahrnee’s tone was cold and brittle as midwinter ice. “Lord count, think you. When did
you
ever shrink from patronizing or upbraiding
Bili
before all and sundry? How long did you think a proud man would submit to such abuse and humiliation?”

The nobleman’s lips made as if to spit. “But he’s no man, dammit, he’s a murderous, hotheaded boy in a man’s body. He needs guidance, discipline!”

Mother Mahrnee smiled grimly. “Bili,
your
lord, is less than two moons shy of eighteen summers, lord count, and he is a seasoned warrior…as you have reason to know, would you but admit the fact He has fought battles and single combats; he has commanded men and earned their respect. King Gilbuht of Harzburk saw fit to knight him on the field, investing him with the Order of the Blue Bear!”

“He has done as much as any veteran. He has bedded noblewomen and tumbled serving girls, one at least within this hall, he has fought and pillaged and razed and raped his way through at least two intakings. Though he is as stark a warrior as you are likely to meet, he is no braggart or hector, preferring to let his scars and his honors and the strength of his arm tell of his prowess.”

“
Fagh
! The accomplishments of a northern barbarian pocket princeling!” snorted
Komees
Djeen, derisively. “But, as I told
him
, a
thoheeks
must have more than a strong arm and an overgrown battle-axe to rule in Morguhn! Why, the arrogant young puppy even attempted to murder the High Lord. Sun and Wind, my ladies, this isn’t some blood-soaked barbarian kingdom, where the lords rule by steel and rope!”

Mother Mahrnee’s laugh was harsh. “No wonder you were so successful a
strahteegos
—your maneuvers are nothing short of amazing! Up until the eve of the very day that his illness claimed him, were you not urging Bili’s sire to rule in that very way you now claim to abhor—badgering him to hang the Ehleen
kooreeos
and all his priests, and to have off the heads of
Vahrohnos
Myros and half a score of petty lords of the old blood! One might think, on the basis of your past preachments, that you’d be overjoyed with your new lord, not ceaselessly nitpicking and criticizing him in public and in private.”

The old man stamped a foot in his angry frustration. “But last night, to try to slay a Kinsman over so petty a matter—”

“The High Lord does not fault him,” stated Mother Mahrnee flatly. “Why then should you? The High Lord told my sister and me that, had he been in Bili’s place, considering last night’s dangers and turmoil, he might well have done the same thing to a subordinate—Kinsman or no—who had seen fit to disobey orders and desert his assigned post. I repeat, Count Djeen, why do
you
continue to harp on a matter which the Undying High Lord, who was the only injured party, has seen fit to utterly dismiss?”

“I’ll tell you why!” Mother Behrnees’ blue eyes flashed fire and her voice cracked like a lash. “Pique, petulance and pettishness are what now drive our
Komees
Djeen, sister! So yon waste breath trying to reason with him. Showing his breeding, Bili respected age and deferred to military experience; whereupon the good
Komees
seized upon this respect and deference as a lever to cant his lord in directions contrary to his nature. After swallowing far more censure and disrespect than would the average nobleman, our son enlightened Count Djeen, made it clear to him whose hand holds the whip. Count Djeen has for so long been issuing uncontested orders and manipulating the lives of younger men that he is now peeved beyond bearing to be confronted by a young man who not only owns the power to command
him
, but who refuses to be manipulated!”

“Madam, you go too far!” His gnarled right hand had unconsciously sought his dirk hilt and his single eye glowered.

Hotly, Mother Mahrnee’s voice cut in. “Oh, no, Count Djeen, not nearly far enough! Do you truly think you’ll need that dirk to still us from stating the bare truth? Or don’t you think you’ve enough Morguhn blood on your hands?”

He opened his mouth, but so enraged was he that he could not speak, as she ruthlessly went on. “Poor Bili blames himself for his brother’s death, but it is you who must bear that onus, Count Djeen. You and Spiros browbeat him into allowing Djef—who though but six moons younger was much less seasoned, having been reared at Eeree, which fights fewer wars than Harzburk and is internally peaceful—to lead last night’s sortie.”