Furies of Calderon (15 page)

Aquitaine watched the exchange, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth. “I hate to interrupt your fencing, gentlemen, but I have other interests this evening, and we have issues to discuss.” He took another sip of wine and waved at the other chairs on the dais. “Sit down. You, too, Aldrick. Should I have someone carry Odiana to her chambers so that she can rest?”

“Thank you, sir,” Aldrick rumbled. “I’ll keep her with me and take care of her later, if it’s all the same to you.”

They settled down into chairs facing Aquitaine. The High Lord gestured, and the slave girl hurried to one side, returning with the traditional cloth and bowl of scented water. Then the girl settled at Fidelias’s feet and unlaced his sandals. She removed the stockings beneath, and with warm, gentle fingers began washing Fidelias’s feet.

He frowned down at the slave, pensively, but at a second gesture from the High Lord, Fidelias uttered a concise report of the events at the camp of the renegade Legion. Aquitaine’s expression darkened steadily throughout, until, at the end it had grown to a scowl.

“Let me test my understanding of what you are telling me, Fidelias,” Aquitaine murmured. “Not only were you unable to attain intelligence regarding Gaius’s chambers from this girl—in addition, she escaped from you and every one of my Knights.”

Fidelias nodded. “My status has been compromised. And she has almost certainly reported to the Crown by now.”

“The second Legion has already been disbanded into individual centuries,” Aldrick supplied. The slave moved to kneel at his feet and to remove his sandals and stockings as well. The single, long piece of scarlet cloth wound around her had begun to slip and gape, displaying an unseemly amount of supple, smooth skin. Aldrick regarded her with casual admiration as he continued. “They will meet at the rendezvous as planned.”

“Except for the Windwolves,” Fidelias said. “I advised Aldrick to send them ahead to the staging area.”

“What!?” snarled Aquitaine, rising. “That was not according to the plan.”

The blocky Calix came to his feet as well, his eyes bright. “I warned you, Your Grace. If the mercenaries are not seen in Parcia over the winter, there will be nothing to link them to anyone but you. You have been betrayed.”

Aquitaine’s furious gaze settled on Fidelias. “Well, Cursor? Is what he says true?”

“If you consider adjusting to changing conditions in the field treachery, Your Grace,” Fidelias said, “then you may name me traitor, if it pleases you.”

“He twists your own words against you, Your Grace,” Calix hissed. “He is using you. He is a Cursor, loyal to Gaius. If you keep listening to him, he will lead you to your death at Gaius’s feet. Kill him before he poisons your thoughts any further. He, this murderous thug, and his mad whore—they all want nothing but your destruction.”

Fidelias felt his lips tighten into a smile. He looked from Aquitaine to Calix—then to Aldrick, where the slave crouched at his feet, her lips parted, her eyes staring. Over Aldrick’s lap, Odiana neither stirred nor spoke, but he could see her mouth turn up into a smile.

“Ah,” Fidelias said, his own smile spreading wider. He folded one ankle over the other knee. “I see.”

Aquitaine narrowed his eyes and stalked over to stand over Fidelias’s chair. “You have interrupted a pleasant moment with the anniversary gift given me by my own dear wife. You have, it would seem, failed miserably in what you said you would do for me. Additionally, you have dispatched my troops in a fashion which could embarrass me acutely before the rest of the Lords Council, not to mention the Senate.” He leaned down toward Fidelias and said, very gently, “I think it would be in your own best interest to give me a reason not to kill you in the next few seconds.”

“Very well,” Fidelias said. “If you will indulge me briefly, Your Grace, I may be able to let you decide for yourself whom you can trust.”

“No!” sputtered Calix. “My lord, do not allow this deceitful slive to so use you.”

Aquitaine smiled, but it was a cold, hard expression. His gaze swept to the Rhodisian Count, and Calix dropped silent at his glance. “My patience is wearing very thin. At the rate we’re going, gentlemen, someone will be dead by the end of this conversation.”

Heavy tension fell onto the room, thick as a winter blanket. Calix licked his lips, throwing a wide-eyed glare at Fidelias. Odiana made a soft sound and stirred artlessly on Aldrick’s lap before settling again—leaving Aldrick’s right arm free to reach for his sword, Fidelias noted. The slave seemed to take notice of the tension as well and crawled a bit backward, until she was no longer between the High Lord and anyone else in the room.

Aquitaine stared down at Fidelias for a moment. Then he gestured toward the slave, who went scurrying, returning a moment later with parchment and pen. Aquitaine said, “Be quick. My patience is rapidly running out.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Fidelias accepted the paper and pen, dipped the quill into the inkpot, and swiftly made a few notes on the paper, careful to let no one see what he was writing. No one spoke, and the scritching of the quill seemed loud in the hall, along with the crackle of the fire pits, and the impatient tapping of the High Lord’s boot.

Fidelias blew on the letters, then folded the paper in half, and offered it to Aquitaine. Without looking away from the man, he said, “Your Grace, I advise you to accelerate your plans. Contact your forces and move at once.”

Calix stepped forward at once, to Aquitaine’s side. “Your Grace, I must disagree in the strongest terms. Now is the time for caution. If we are discovered now, all will fall into ruin.”

Aquitaine stared down at the letter, then lifted his eyes to Calix. “And you believe that by doing so you will protect my interests.”

“And those of my Lord,” Calix said. He lifted his chin, but the gesture meant little when the High Lord towered over him. “Think of who is advising you, Your Grace.”

“
Ad hominem
,” noted Aquitaine, “is a notoriously weak logical argument. And is usually used to distract the focus of a discussion—to move it from an indefensible point and to attack the opponent.”

“Your Grace,” Calix said, ducking his head. “Please, listen to reason. To act now would leave you at somewhat less than half your possible strength. Only a fool throws away an advantage like that.”

Calix squared his shoulders. “Put simply, Your Grace—stick to the original plan. Send the Windwolves to winter in Rhodes. Gather your legions when the weather breaks in the spring and use them then. Bide. Wait. In patience there is wisdom.”

“Who dares wins,” murmured Aquitaine back. “I cannot help but wonder at how generous Rhodes seems to be, Calix. How he is willing to host the mercenaries, to have his name connected with them, when the matter is settled. How thoroughly he has instructed you to protect my interests.”

“Former Cursor. Of course. The former Cursor here has done a very good job of predicting what you would tell me.” Aquitaine consulted the paper he held. “I wonder why that is.” He moved his eyes to Fidelias and arched his eyebrows.

Fidelias watched Calix and said, “Your Grace. I believe that Rhodes sent Calix here to you as a spy and eventually as an assassin—”

“Why you—” Calix snarled.

Fidelias overrode the other man, his voice iron. “Calix wishes you to wait so that there is time to remove you over the winter, Your Grace. The mercenaries will have several months to be tempted by bribes, meanwhile robbing you of their strength. Then, when the campaign begins, he will have key positions filled with people beholden to Rhodes. He can kill you in the confusion of battle, and therefore remove the threat you represent to him. Calix, here, was likely intended to be the assassin.”

“I will
not
stand for this insult, Your Grace.”

Aquitaine looked at Calix and said, “Yes. You will.” To Fidelias, he said, “And your advice? What would you have me do?”

Fidelias shrugged. “South winds rose tonight where there should have been none. Only the First Lord could call them at this time of year. At a guess, he called the furies of the southern air to assist Amara or one of the other Cursors north—either to the capital or to the Valley itself.”

“It could be coincidence,” Aquitaine pointed out.

“I don’t believe in coincidence, Your Grace,” Fidelias said. “The First Lord is far from blind, and he has powers of fury-crafting I can hardly begin to accurately assess. He has called the south winds. He is hastening someone north. Toward the Calderon Valley.”

“Your
Grace
,” Calix hissed. “This common born dog has called me a murderer to my face.”

Aquitaine surveyed the scene for a moment. Then, quite deliberately, took three or four steps away from them and turned his back, as though to study a tapestry hanging on one wall.

“Your Grace,” Calix said. “I demand your justice in this matter.”

“I rather tend to believe Fidelias, Your Excellency.” He sighed. “Work it out among yourselves. I will deal appropriately with whoever is left.”

Fidelias smiled. “Your Excellency, please allow me to add that you stink like a sheep, that your mouth froths with idiocy and poison, and that your guts are as yellow as a springtime daffodil.” He steepled his fingers, regarding Calix, and said, very soft and distinctly, “You… are… a… coward.”

Calix’s face flushed red, his eyes wild, and he moved, a sudden liquid blurring of his arms and hips. The sword at his side leapt free of its scabbard and toward Fidelias’s throat.

As fast as Calix was, Aldrick moved faster. His arm alone whipped into motion, drawing the blade from his hip, across the limp form of the woman on his lap. Steel met steel in a ringing chime only inches from Fidelias’s face. Aldrick slid to his feet, Odiana curling her legs beneath her as she lowered herself to the floor. The swordsman’s face remained upon Calix’s.

Calix eyed Aldrick and let out a sneer. “Mercenary. Do you think you can best an Aleran lord in battle?”

Aldrick kept his blade lightly pressed to Calix’s and shrugged. “The only man who has ever matched me in battle was Araris Valerian himself.” Teeth shone white in Aldrick’s smile. “And you aren’t Araris.”

There was a rasp, and then steel glittered and blurred in the dim light of the hall. Fidelias watched, hardly able to keep up with the speed of the attacks and counters. In the space of a slow breath, their swords met a dozen times, chiming out, casting sparks from one another’s blades. The swordsmen parted briefly, then clashed together again.

And the duel was over. Calix blinked, his eyes widening, and then lifted a hand to his throat as scarlet blood rushed from it. He tried to say something else, but was unable to make any sound.

Then the Rhodesian Count fell to the ground and lay unmoving, but for a few, faint tremors as his faltering heartbeat pumped the blood from his body.

Odiana looked up at Aquitaine with a small, dreamy smile, and asked, “Ought I save him, Your Grace?”

Aquitaine glanced back at Calix and shrugged. “There seems to be little point in it, dear.”

“Yes, lord.” Odiana turned adoring eyes to Aldrick and watched as the swordsman knelt down to wipe his blade clean of blood on Calix’s cloak. The man clenched his fingers and let out a bubbling gasp. Aldrick ignored him Fidelias rose and went to Aquitaine’s side. “Was that to your satisfaction, Your Grace?”

“Calix was useful,” Aquitaine said Then he glanced at Fidelias and asked, “How did you know?”

Fidelias tilted his head. “That he was planning to kill you? Were you able to sense it in him?”

Aquitaine nodded. “Once I knew to look for it. He fell apart as you described the role Rhodes had assigned him. We’ll probably find a fury-bound dagger in his coat with my likeness and name etched into the steel.”

Aldrick grunted, rolled the not-quite dead Calix onto his back, and rummaged through his jacket. The telltale bulge Fidelias had seen earlier proved to be made by a small dagger with a compact hilt. Aldrick let out a hiss as he touched the knife and set it down hurriedly.