Herald of the Storm (23 page)

By the time she reached the inn it was getting dark. Lamplighters were at work on the lanterns that hung intermittently on their iron stanchions. Kaira saw a sign hanging limply outside a three-storey building, its crudely painted sigil announcing it as the Pony and Fiddle.

She walked in, holding her cloak tight around herself as though to shield her from the denizens within. Once inside she realised she needn’t have worried. Through the candlelit gloom she could make out fewer than half a dozen patrons, none seeming concerned with her. Nothing barred her way as she walked to the bar. A thin, greasy figure behind it straightened as she approached, as though he had been expecting her.

‘I have come from the Temple of Autumn,’ she said, keeping her voice low. It pained her to be skulking so, like just another ruffian off the street.

‘Yep,’ said the greasy man, turning to pick a dark iron key from where it hung with others on a row of hooks. ‘Follow me.’

He led her through the bar and up a creaking set of wooden stairs to the first floor. It was even darker here, and Kaira pulled back the hood of her cloak, the better to see any danger that might be lurking.

The man unlocked a door at the far end of the corridor and ushered her in.

‘I’ll bring food later,’ he said as she entered the room. In the candlelight she could see a small bed and a wooden table sitting beside it. Other than that the room was bare.

‘What do I owe?’ she asked, reaching for her satchel.

‘Taken care of,’ he replied, then closed the door.

Kaira stood in the gloom for several moments, listening to his footfalls creaking down the stairs.

Then it was just her in the dark and the silence.

For the first time in her life, she felt truly alone.

G
overness Nordaine was an altogether humourless woman and stultifying in her dullness. Why the king had ever chosen to take her into his employ was well beyond Janessa’s grasp. She was completely unsuited to be a tutor of either knowledge or manners. The woman wore drab shades of grey, concealing her entire body – from the headscarf on her tiny head to the frayed hem of her skirts. How she could teach style and deportment when her own was so lacking was a mystery Janessa and Graye had mulled over many a time.

The woman’s teaching style was also an endless source of amusement. She spoke in a high falsetto and, when quoting from the antiquated texts she used, she would occasionally affect an accent to better mimic the ancient theologians, philosophers and scholars she was citing. Janessa and Graye would be hard pressed to stop themselves giggling out loud when she quoted Pastergan, especially since he was fabled to have had a severe lisp.

But it was Nordaine’s manners that were the greatest cause for concern. The Governess, a pious and chaste woman, took things to extremes. The girls were not allowed to wear garments that showed anything below the neck or above the ankle, and most definitely nothing above the wrist. They must at all times remain unsmiling, unless someone of import said something droll, and they must never speak the first words in a conversation, especially if that conversation were with a man. And should they ever be anywhere near a member of the opposite sex, they must at all times be accompanied by the Governess herself, or someone of whom she approved – which usually meant Odaka Du’ur.

This excessive virtuousness had led the girls to come up with their own theories about the background of Governess Nordaine and the reasons for her rigid principles. Janessa had postulated she must have been trussed up until her thirtieth winter by an overprotective father, whereas Graye, as ever, dreamed up a much more exotic background: Nordaine had been a promiscuous harlot, given to nights of wild abandon with foreign sailors – until she saw the error of her ways. Then, in her shame, she had decided it best to teach history to young girls. They had both laughed long and hard at that.

Today though, Governess Nordaine displayed some flexibility in her stringent rules by allowing them, even at the risk of distraction, to have their lessons on the veranda at the north end of the gardens. It had been a hot morning for the time of year, and so all three of them sat with the sun beaming down and the birds singing their last songs before winter flight. Nordaine had insisted on them wearing their shawls though, lest they catch a chill, and Janessa had reluctantly agreed to it.

Not that Nordaine’s small concession meant her lessons were any more appealing, and during the course of the morning Janessa had found herself drifting off, staring into space, wishing she could be as free as the birds that chirruped and frolicked nearby.

It was better than thinking the alternative – that soon she would have to choose a husband, one who would rule the Free States beside her and to whom she would have to bear children so the line of kings and queens might continue. It was a thought that both disgusted and angered her, even though she had been given the choice of whom to marry. Surely if she wanted none of her would-be suitors, it was no real choice at all.

Janessa caught herself. She must not dwell on such things. Must not blame everyone around her for her predicament. She was strong and she would survive this. And so she turned her thoughts to other things: those singing birds, the sun shining on the first falling leaves. It was her inattentiveness to Nordaine’s relentless monologue that allowed her to notice the messenger across the gardens. He was moving with some urgency, and even from a distance Janessa could see his garb was travel-stained, his face wan under its filth, as though he had ridden for many days. He was accompanied by one of Skyhelm’s Sentinels who was struggling to keep up with him. When Janessa saw Odaka advancing to greet the messenger, she could hold herself back no longer.

Ignoring the cries of her governess, Janessa hurried across the gardens to where the men were exchanging quick words. Her stomach was churning, a rising sense of dread worming its way up from inside her belly as she speculated on the news the messenger had brought.

Was it about her father? Had he been killed in battle? Had the Khurtas smashed the armies of the Free States and were even now rampaging across the provinces?

By the time she had crossed the garden Odaka and the messenger were finishing their conversation.

‘What is it?’ Janessa demanded, in no mood to stand on ceremony.

Odaka turned at her words, regarding her first with surprise, then with thoughtfulness.

‘Tell me! I demand to know. Is the message from my father?’

‘I am sorry, regent,’ said Nordaine, arriving behind her, breathless from an ungainly pursuit across the gardens.

Odaka continued to regard Janessa curiously, as though weighing her up. Janessa had seen that look many times before, and never been sure what he was thinking. But now it was obvious he was musing whether she was mature enough to be entrusted with this latest news.

‘Come along, young lady,’ said Nordaine. ‘Whatever news has arrived, you need not concern yourself with it. It is a matter for the regent and your father’s council.’

‘No,’ said Janessa, shrugging off her governess’s hand. ‘If one day I am to be queen I must learn about matters of state. What better time than now, when our lands are threatened. Odaka, what does the message say?’

He looked from the parchment to Janessa. ‘I will be discussing this message with all the council members still in the city. We convene shortly in the war chamber. Meet us there, your majesty.’ With a respectful bow of his head he withdrew.

Janessa turned to Governess Nordaine, whose face by now was quite flushed.

‘That will be all for today, Governess,’ she said. She tried for the first time to sound commanding in the manner of her father. It seemed effective, for the governess lowered her eyes and backed away.

Behind her stood Graye, looking on with a half smile. Oh, how Janessa would have loved to just take her by the hand and run away like they had planned so many nights ago, but her life had moved on. She was no longer just a callow girl. She had grave responsibilities; she was part of her father’s council.

She needed time to dress appropriately before greeting the council and chose a plain brown dress with little adornment. It seemed proper for such a sober occasion. Consequently, by the time she reached the war chamber the rest of the council were already convened.

Janessa had been in the war chamber many times before, but today it appeared different. It bore banners and trophies from a hundred battles, some of which her father had won. As a child, playing at her father’s feet, she had taken little notice of them, but now they seemed in sharp focus, screaming out their history, impressing on her their proud legacy.

Three tattered pennants of the ancient Sword Kings took pride of place on the northernmost wall, flanked by axes and spears won by the Duke of Valdor in the border wars with Golgartha. The black iron crown of the Mad King Xekotak, taken in the ancient Dragon Wars of the Kaer’Vahari, stood on a plinth to the east, and to the west was the twisted, hideous skull of Groë Magnon, the reiver lord of the Blood Isles.

There were scores of others, both ancient and new, but Janessa had no time to regard them all as she walked towards the table of oak and iron that sat in the chamber’s centre. At the head of that table was Odaka Du’ur, looking as stern and resolute as she had ever seen him. To his right hand was Captain Garret of the Sentinels. Janessa had known him all her life, and he was a constant feature of the palace; always there, watching over her vigilantly from the shadows. The years had turned his brown beard to grey and made his smiling eyes more careworn and dark. She trusted Garret more than any other man, and it comforted her to know he was there.

To Odaka’s left sat Chancellor Durket, smiling his pig-faced smile even as she entered. Durket had been as much a feature in her life as Garret, but never as welcome.

And that was it: what remained of the King’s Council. There were other seats around the black oak table, eleven in all – one for the king, two for his generals of foot and horse, two for the lord governors of the city states, five for the nobles of the provinces and one for the Master of the Wardens. They each sat empty now, the men whose places they represented gone north to see off the Khurtas.

Of course there were other men of import who served the king – the Seneschal of Inquisitors and the High Constable of the Greencoats amongst them – but they were men of Steelhaven, men of the city only, and not privy to the machinations of the Free States or sufficiently worthy of a seat at the council table.

As Janessa walked forward the three remaining council members stood. She stopped before the chair opposite Odaka. The one set aside for her father.

‘Please sit, your majesty, and we will begin,’ said the regent.

Janessa sank into her father’s ornate chair with surprising composure. The three waited for her to sit before taking their own places and Odaka made to open proceedings. Janessa could hold back no longer.

‘How is my father?’ she asked.

All eyes turned to her, Durket’s looking perturbed at the break in protocol, Garret’s looking sympathetic.

‘He lives, your majesty,’ Odaka said, unflustered by her interruption. ‘The messenger from the front carried his very words.’

Janessa nodded her thanks, now feeling somewhat foolish. If she was going to participate in the war council’s meeting she must keep a better control of her impulses.

‘The news from the north is not good, though. The king sends sobering words. Dreldun burns, its capital smashed, its people fled.’

Durket looked up, almost fretful. ‘But how? The Khurtas are savages. They are no besiegers. How could they have razed Touran?’

‘Dreldun’s capital is a frontier city,’ Garret said, ‘and Touran is no fortress. The Khurtas could have conceivably taken it, but my question is: how did they do it so quickly? Clearly their Elharim warlord has taught the Khurtas well. There is no way those savages could have pulled off so audacious an attack without the guidance of a skilled tactician.’

‘However it was achieved,’ said Odaka, ‘the fact remains that the way is now clear to Coppergate. The king has tried all he can to negotiate with Amon Tugha, but it seems his entreaties have been rebuffed. The Elharim prince is happy for now to let his horde rape and plunder our northernmost province, but inevitably they will move south.’

‘Maybe they won’t,’ said Durket, clinging desperately on to what little hope he could. ‘Coppergate is a bastion of the north. It will not fall so easily. Amon Tugha would be mad to try and take it.’

‘It may not come to that.’ Odaka glanced towards Janessa, as though she would not want to hear his next words. ‘King Cael intends to face the Khurtic horde on the field before it ever reaches Coppergate. He will smash them in the valley of Kelbur Fenn and send them back to their blasted plains.’

‘But that would be madness,’ said Garret, putting into words Janessa’s own thoughts. ‘Why give up a defensible position to face the enemy in the open? Coppergate is almost as impregnable as Steelhaven.’

‘The king has twenty thousand foot who would be well placed to defend the city, but his five thousand horse are useless behind Coppergate’s defences. He has not laid out his plans to me, but I can only guess he intends to smash the Khurtas with his cavalry in the narrow pass. The enemy will have a single line of approach and even that horde can never stand against the Knights of the Blood. It is the only viable plan.’

‘But what if it fails?’ Janessa could hear the alarm in Durket’s voice. It almost sickened her. He was leagues away from the front, from the danger her father faced, and yet he quailed in fear.

‘That is out of our hands,’ Odaka replied. ‘Our main problem is the refugees from Dreldun headed towards us in their thousands.’

‘But what of Ironhold? And Braega?’ said Durket. ‘Surely they can take in some of them.’

‘They have, but the people of Dreldun are fleeing in huge numbers. The Khurtic horde has spread terror throughout the province. There are simply not enough cities secure enough to take in all those displaced so, inevitably, they are heading here.’