Kings of the North (5 page)

Chalvers was waiting for his attention, he noticed, and nodded again. “Go ahead.”

“The other road is here, Sir King, along the Honnorgat. At thaw every spring, the river floods some stretches and makes it impassable for tendays at a time. That connects with an even less passable track in Prealíth but intersects one that cuts across here—” He pointed. “—from the river to Bannerlíth. Most of our traffic goes up to the river road, then into Tsaia at Harway. From Harway to Vérella, the Tsaian road is two wagons wide and passable in most weather. We do have wagon access here and here.” He pointed to the southwest corner and partway up—opposite Verrakai land, Kieri thought. “But that middle way was never satisfactory with both Verrakai and Konhalt jealous of traffic. Mud holes and brigandage. We traders think the Verrakai supported both.”

“So we don’t get as much trade coming in or out, and it’s hard for people to get their wares to a Tsaian or Finthan or southern market.” Kieri looked the map over again; this one did not have all the steadings marked on it, only the few towns and the trade routes.

“Yes, my lord. T’elves don’t mind; they don’t depend on trade, anyway, not our kind at least. And there are Siers, you know, who are happy to live out in the woods on what they can gather and grow.
And I say nothing against that—each to his own. Only if we need an army, my lord, we need a way to feed and clothe it. I know
you
know that; I’m not meaning any disrespect.”

“No offense taken,” Kieri said. “You’re quite right. Armies must be fed, clothed, and paid—they don’t come cheap. Some changes we must make, and I agree that better roads is a good place to start. Where would you put the roads?”

“We can’t do a thing about the southern trade road once it’s in the Ladysforest,” Chalvers said. “We’ll likely never have a trade route by land to Bannerlíth. But up to the last steading before the Ladysforest, it could be improved—bridges over the runoff streams instead of fords, for instance. And the river road or that middle road, supposing the new Verrakai duke allows, could be laid out like the Guild League roads, all-weather roads for heavy traffic.”

“Those cost a great deal,” Kieri said, thinking of what he’d been told in Aarenis. “Where would the stone come from? And the labor?”

“That’s this map, my lord,” Chalvers said, unrolling another and spreading it on top of the first. Kieri stared. Chalvers had marked the resources needed for road building: where they were, what ways led to them, and his estimate of costs. “The roads alone will pay for themselves in five years—increased trade. It’s true we don’t have the population of Tsaia or Fintha, but perhaps we could hire rockfolk—dwarves or gnomes—to cut and move the stone.” Kieri had doubts about that; he suspected the elves would not favor such a plan.

“But the real improvement—and we need the roads to make it work—is this,” Chalvers went on. He put his finger back on the first map, on the Honnorgat northeast of Chaya. “The river towns have landing places and some crude wharves, but they’re not adequate as trading ports. That’s what we need. Water travel—down the Honnorgat to the eastern sea, to Bannerlíth at least and maybe around to Aarenis—would open new markets and be cheaper transport than overland.”

“It’s a long way,” Kieri said, tracing the route with his finger. “Over the mountains, even going through Tsaia, is shorter.”

“Yes, but Tsaians take toll of everything that passes through. Downriver, no problem. Harbor fees and cargo taxes at Bannerlíth, but I know the Pargunese and Kostandanyans trade to Aarenis without stopping there.” He tapped the map again. “Look here. There’s a
marshy area, a double handful of little mucky streams, not good for anything: dig it out, make it a harbor off the river. What comes out to make the harbor can build up around it to support buildings.” He looked up, grinning. “Our very own river port. Tsaian ports are all above the falls. They’d use our road to reach this port, and they’d pay
us
tolls. It would still be cheaper, even for them, than going overland—at least for some goods.”

“You talk to the Pargunese?” Kieri asked; that had trapped his attention.

Chalvers shrugged. “Well … yes. There’s some trade across the river—not much—but traders will talk to traders whether their rulers are friends or not. We’ve seen their seagoing ships heading downriver, loaded with furs and timber and whatnot. Salt fish, I expect. Woolen goods: their women are fine weavers.”

Another problem Kieri hadn’t anticipated. Tsaian traders, as far as he knew, had nothing to do with Pargun … but was that true? “So … you found out their routes,” he said to cover his unease.

“Yes, Sir King. Right now, merchant vessels coming north have nowhere to go but Bannerlíth and one port each for Kostandan and Pargun. Pargun doesn’t have a road from its port up above the falls, and they don’t trade much with Tsaia anyway. Southern merchants would come to us to reach markets in Tsaia and Fintha if we had a safe port and a good road up past the falls. We might even attract the Pargunese. Better to trade than fight, eh?”

Kieri just managed not to shake his head. He had hoped for a new viewpoint when he insisted on having a merchant representative on his Council, but he had not expected such immediate results. Chalvers had the imagination his Siers seemed to lack and solid practical experience as well.

“I’m very pleased,” he said. “I agree the roads must be improved. I have hopes that the new Duke Verrakai and Count Konhalt will prove able to reopen that middle road to safe travel within a year or two, but in the meantime we must see what we can do about our own roads. The river port … that had never occurred to me.”

“It’s an advantage we have over Tsaia,” Chalvers said. “Theirs over us have been a few good roads and a short route to Aarenis, but they have only the one pass over the mountains. If there’s war—well, I’m sure they’d go by sea if they could … and we would profit.”
He grinned at Kieri, who could not help grinning back; the man’s enthusiasm was contagious.

“You are definitely the right man for this task,” Kieri said. “Convincing the rest may be difficult. Though I am king, I prefer to work with my people rather than force them. Still, if we make a start with one road …”

Chalvers nodded. “Understood, sire. I am the newest on Council; I know that. But even a small start should begin to show its value.” He bowed and withdrew. Kieri smiled after him. What a relief to deal with a sensible, practical human after Orlith! And he hadn’t mentioned marriage.

Vérella, Midsummer, Coronation Day

D
orrin, Duke Verrakai, sat her borrowed horse in the coronation procession, very much aware that more than Duke Marrakai’s red chestnut stallion objected to her presence. The horse she understood—a spirited charger would resent her unfamiliar hand and seat. Her tact and skill should settle him quickly. But she felt the gazes of lesser peers behind her as if they were spears tickling her shoulder blades. How could she reassure them? Or would they always fear and distrust her?

Beside her, Kirgan Marrakai nodded, no hostility now in those green eyes. “You ride very well, my lord,” he said, as they turned the first corner of the palace wall. Then he flushed, having revealed he hadn’t expected her expertise.

“A fine horse,” Dorrin said. “Kieri always preferred Marrakaibred horses. What’s his name?” She smiled and nodded at the crowd lining the street, held back by Royal Guard troops.

“Firebrand, my lord,” he said. “Stable name’s Cherry.”

Ahead of them, the king touched spurs to his horse, and the gray curvetted; Duke Mahieran, just behind him, did the same. The red stallion jigged; Dorrin lifted her hand slightly, shifted her weight, and the stallion lowered his haunches, bent to the right, and began the half-parade. Beside her, Kirgan Marrakai did the same to the left, and the two of them formed a V behind the king and his uncle for a dozen steps before shifting to haunches out. As long as she kept him
busy, Dorrin found, the red stallion steadied: supple, obedient to the lightest aid. She doubted anything similar would work with the peers.

By the time the procession had completed its tour of the city bounds and returned to the palace, the stallion had relaxed. Not so the peers, other than Kirgan Marrakai and Duke Serrostin; the others’ glances were brief and ranged from anxious to hostile. The palace servants, too, as they helped the peers change from riding boots to court shoes, avoided her gaze. The same tiring maid who had giggled while adjusting Dorrin’s court dress that morning now seemed terrified of her. No doubt the woman had heard that Dorrin was one of the dreaded magelords. Dorrin longed to get away, but law and custom decreed she must attend the coronation banquet.

In the anteroom of the banquet hall, she was surprised to see Duke Marrakai slouched in a chair; she’d assumed he was still in bed, under a physician’s care. Dorrin, uneasily aware of the Marshal-General’s displeasure and the fears of some of the other peers, stepped aside to let the others talk to him first, but he gestured to her.

“Come closer,” he said. “You were Phelan’s captain; I hold no grudge against you for your name.”

“You are kind, my lord,” Dorrin said, wondering why he said nothing about the attack in the courtyard. “But how do you feel?”

“They tell me I fell and hit my head—what a thing to happen on a coronation day, eh? But a head as hard as mine does not crack easily, whatever the physician says. I have a headache, that’s all. Anyone might.”

Dorrin looked at him closely, concerned. Despite his words, he looked the color of new cheese, and his gaze wavered. She leaned close. “My lord duke, with no intent to argue, I have seen soldiers take such a blow, who wore helmets. They needed to lie quiet; our physicians insisted on it. By your leave, I would have you obey the physician; you are not yet well.”

“It is the coronation banquet—my last, I am sure, for Mikeli is young and will long outlive me. I do not wish to miss it.” He gave her a crooked smile. “If I die now, no one will blame you. You had nothing to do with it.”

So he remembered nothing of it; that in itself could be expected
with a blow to the head, but as for the rest—if that were all, he should look better than he did. Dorrin looked around; the other peers, out of courtesy or nervousness, had left a little space for her and Duke Marrakai to talk, but the Marshal-General stood not far away, watching. Dorrin caught her gaze and nodded. The Marshal-General moved nearer.

“My lords,” the Marshal-General said, her tone edged. “How may I serve you?”

“Tell Verrakai you do not blame her,” Marrakai said. “She is worried about my health, but I am as hale as any man of my years. It was but a knock on the head from falling.”

The Marshal-General looked closely at his face. This time her voice was gentler. “My lord duke, I understand her worry. Such blows are not always harmless; I believe yours did more damage than you know. Will you not retire?”

“No!” Marrakai’s voice was loud enough to turn heads. More quietly he repeated what he had told Dorrin. “And I won’t go off to bed like some errant boy who’s displeased his tutor!”

This vehemence convinced Dorrin—and, she saw, the Marshal-General as well—that his injury was still affecting him and perhaps worsening. “Marshals have healing powers, do they not?” Dorrin said to the Marshal-General.

“So, it is said, did magelords once,” the Marshal-General said, looking Dorrin in the eye. “Are you unwilling to use your powers that way?”

“Not unwilling but unskilled,” Dorrin said. “Healing was the rarest of the gifts, and there was no one to teach me. All I’ve healed so far is a well.”

“A well?”

Dorrin shook her head. “Too long a story for now. If you have the ability, Marshal-General, or know someone …”

Marrakai slumped in his chair, his head falling forward; his eyes had not quite closed, but when the Marshal-General called his name, he mumbled something they could not understand. Now the other peers crowded in, including Kirgan Marrakai.

“What did she do this time?” asked one of the barons; others shushed him.

“
She
did nothing,” the Marshal-General said. “It is that blow to the head. Send for the physician and any Marshal in the palace. My lord Verrakai, I ask you to lend your aid, as a Falkian would.”

“Certainly,” Dorrin said. Every instinct told her they had little time, that something was wrong inside Marrakai’s head. She had seen the same in battlefield wounds.

“Help me lift him from the chair to the floor.” The other peers shuffled back as two palace servants came forward. Together with the Marshal-General and Dorrin, they lifted Marrakai—no easy task—and laid him on the floor; someone hastily handed them a folded cloak to put under his head. “Duke Verrakai, lay your hand on his shoulder—like that, yes—and one on his chest; I will hold his head. And now I ask all Girdsmen to pray with me for the healing of this peer of your realm, while I also pray and Duke Verrakai calls on Falk.”

Dorrin felt hands on her own shoulders and glanced back to see Duke Mahieran and the king both standing there, as if guarding her back and joining her effort at the same time. Others, behind them, reached to form a human chain. She closed her eyes, calling on Falk and trying to feel what the Marshal-General was doing so she might aid. Power rose in her, as it had before without her bidding. She opened her eyes and looked at Marrakai’s face. He had gone pale again, almost gray around the mouth. It wasn’t fair—he had done nothing wrong—he had defended her; he must not die for that.