The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (31 page)

“Ah,” was all Standor replied.

“You're as safe as can be. Don't help spread silly rumors, Riggtar. If you hear some piece or other of disquieting news, just come to me. I'll 26
tell you what's what. It's only proper, we're colleagues even if I'm a senior, better informed, official.”

“Thank you, I will. Much obliged, Irrom,” Standor replied, making and extra effort to seem grateful.

“I most certainly will come to you for more information, you pompous, little jackass.”

“He's decommissioning them?” Gorth asked, not even trying to hide his surprise.

“So that pretentious fool kept saying, My Lord,” Standor said. “But ever since, I kept wondering if that is what's really going on.”

“What do you mean? And, by the way, call me Gorth. It gets tiresome, this formality.”

“Oh, I couldn't. But to answer your question, I was thinking: what if it were all true, except the decommissioning part?”

Standor decided to compromise and avoid the honorifics, without treating the young lord in a too familiar way.

Gorth frowned.

“I think I see what you mean. The high king would have a sizable force on its way up north, without having raised any suspicion as to his true intent.”

“Exactly. He disbands them, but without disarming them, here in the camp near Ormidon, and then he has them go, unit by unit, up the Northern Highway—”

“Where he reassembles them. He could be at the Amirathan border in a week's worth of forced marches.”

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Parrimar Weckstall had been the steward of Landemere Castle for almost two decades. He considered himself a professional. Masters came and went. It didn't matter. As long as he got paid for his services he would render them to whomever was doing the paying. That was only right. It was in the nature of servants, and that was what he was.

A servant. A high-ranking and extremely capable one, to be sure, but still, at the end of the day that was what he was. He didn't owe loyalty to his employer. That was for lords, for nobles. Or friends, if his employers happened to have any. Parrimar was neither. He was a hired hand and he stayed hired as long as the money kept coming.

He remembered the day the young prince had invaded Landemere Castle with a handful of men. Scant hours later he was lord and master of the situation, the castle, the duchy and, most important of all, Parrimar Weckstall. Which was perfectly all right.

It was Midwinter eve and it had been a hectic few weeks. The young warlord had decided to have his revels at the castle which meant Parrimar had been kept quite busy overseeing the preparations.

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Not to mention that the guests arrived in a deplorably unorganized

and uncoordinated way.

The great hall was decked with festive tapestries and dozens of floor candelabras, ablaze with the light of candles — the superior kind, made of beeswax, not the tallow ones — gave the place a bright and inviting, festive allure. Guests were still arriving, and those who were already there were talking animatedly, standing in little groups in the space left in the middle of the tables. Servants went from one to the other, carrying serving plates with bite sized appetizers and cups with drinks. A small orchestra played music on the balcony above the door that led to the private wing of the castle.

From his vantage point near the great doors, Parrimar's eyes darted all over the place, making sure everything went smoothly and mentally making notes of the performance of the servants. He was going to need to have a word with some of them.

The hall was filling up nicely already. Several Amirathan nobles, the lord mayor of Dermolhea and some of his aldermen, high officers of the army, fine men all of them. Most regrettably, His Highness, the prince-regent, had seen fit to invite some lowborn soldiers he treated as friends, and some farmers who, so he was told, were the mayor and the councilors of the village near Lorseth Castle.

Parrimar Weckstall was a servant, and if that was what his master wanted, that was perfectly all right by him. He would keep his thoughts to himself.

He startled when a group of Mukthars entered the great hall.

The first few to enter seemed half civilized. The first two of them could even pass for human, he decided. The same could not be said for the group that followed them.

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“I don't understand it,” Kashynshko said to Lushorm who walked

beside him. “Lorsho is so modest, keeping his war scar out of sight like that. It's a feast, by the Gods. He should be flaunting it for all the guests to see. Instead he hides it under his hair.”

“Don't you see?” Lushorm asked. “He
is
flaunting it. By hiding it, he is drawing all the more attention to it.”

“Yeah, maybe so,” Mashurgy, who was walking behind them, added, not entirely convinced, “but if I had a scar like that, I would wear my hair very short.”

“If you had a scar like that, you would raze your head and tell everybody you'd gone bald overnight, Mashurgy,” Navrisha said with a good-natured smirk.

“Oh, yeah, I would.” The Mukthar grinned.

“He let me have a look at it, after much prodding. It's beautiful,”

Navrisha added.

She sighed dreamily.

Notwithstanding some minor annoyances, like the barbarian invasion, everything seemed to go smoothly enough. Then his eyes caught a girl, in a most inappropriate attire, trying to crash His Highness's feast.

“I'm sorry, girl,” he said, raising one eyebrow as if he had discovered a nasty stain on one of the tablecloths, “I'm sure you are not on the guest list, and anyway, you can't enter dressed in riding pants.

Shoo.”

“Bite my junk, bitch,” Chulonda said as she passed the steward without giving him a second look.

Parrimar's mouth fell open, and for a moment he stood still, as if petrified. He was just recovering from the fierce blow to his authority 26
and was about to run after her, when a group of three girls entered. He

looked from them to the impudent girl who was by now disappearing between the other guests, then back at the new arrivals.

“Who are you?” he asked rather abruptly, failing to hang on to his professionalism.

“Kindly go copulate with yourself.” The tallest of the lot smiled.

“What? What did you say?” the confused steward asked.

“You are a penis,” Alanda added, studying his face for any sign of a reaction, while she and her sisters walked by.

“I think you're supposed to be more crude, if you want to have the same effect on men as Chulonda has,” Tyrenda said. “Though why you would chose to baffles me.”

“I called him a phallus. That seems plenty rude to me.”

“The secret lies in the delivery, I think,” Volunda said, while scan— ning the hall. She adjusted her hair, and pouted her lips. “Never mind.

I want to see every yummy-looking noble young man who is single and of marriageable age, and bedazzle him.”

“The important point is not that he is yummy-looking, Volunda,”

Tyrenda chided her. “He must be of noble stock and capable of producing heirs for the House of Eldorn.”

She looked around like a nervous mouse.

“You know we can't rely on little Ferret for that,” she added.

“Fine,” Volunda sneered, “If that is all you're worried about. I'm still going to leave the ugly ones to you.”

“Girls, girls,” Alanda intervened, trying to placate her sisters, “there seem to be enough boys around for all of us. Volunda, why don't you go check out that group there, huddling together in their black cloaks? I think I saw some interesting guy myself, talking with those

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barbarians over there.” She started to slowly walk away from her sisters in an almost gliding way. “Tyrenda, find yourself a nice, sensible boy as well,” she added as an afterthought.

Parrimar was still recovering when he saw a fifth girl enter. She was almost rotund, with a pale skin and bright red cheeks, wearing a sickeningly pink dress, with a lot of lace frills. Berninda peered into the hall, only once looking at the steward and snickering at him.

“You didn't happen to see His Grace, the Duke of Ramaldah?” she asked in a coy voice.

“As far as I know His Grace is still in his chambers, My Lady of…

eh…”

“Eldorn, my good man. I'm his betrothed. The soon to be Duchess of Ramaldah. Those silly geese you saw waggling by a moment ago are my sisters.”

“No, you curly-haired little pervert,” Obyann shouted into the room at the same time backing out of it. “That is most definitely not why the 26
chandeliers are there. Get dressed already, the both of you. We're running late as it is.”

Thick veins stood out on his neck. He snorted, then looked around in the hallway, trying to remember which way it was to Arranulf's room.

“This is not a keep,” he grumbled under his breath, “it is a town that someone has thrown a roof over. Typical for those highfalutin Landemeres. Just a castle would be far beneath them. They'd feel deprived.”

He caught sight of Eynurm, who had just rounded a corner.

“Ha, Tarnwood,” Obyann cried out, “have you seen Landemere?”

“Arranulf? Nope,” Eynurm said with a sheepish smile. He scratched his head. “I'm trying to find my way out of this maze to the great hall. You'd better hurry, we're running late, you know.”

“Don't tell me, tell the freaks,” Obyann snarled, his face becoming red with indignation. “Damn, a mother cat would lose her kittens in this pile of stones.”

“Want me to help you find Arranulf?” Eynurm offered.

“No, that's all right. No need for all of us arriving late. You go along. Good luck getting out of this labyrinth.”

“Ah well, you know what they say: just face the right way to skin the cat and start walking.”

Arranulf caught his image in the big mirror standing in one of the corners when he rose out of the tub.

He had been happy to occupy his old suite of rooms and let Anaxantis and his brother have the ducal apartments. He was the prince-regent of Landemere after all. In preparation of the big feast he had 26
ordered his bathtub to be filled with hot water. Once the servants were

gone, he had contentedly lowered himself into it and lathered himself with his favorite scented soap, made of a mixture of olive oil, thyme oil and various sweet-smelling herbs. He had washed himself vigorously.

Then he had leaned back to relax, his head hanging over the side, a thick towel on his neck.

He had soaked in his tub until the water became tepid. Now, as he was drying himself, he saw his reflection in the bronze surface that was polished to a high sheen. He studied himself critically. Was he ugly? No, he decided. He just wasn't especially attractive. A longish, slender body with neither fat nor prominent muscles. He put his weight on one leg, copying the posture of an ancient statue he had seen once in a temple. He smiled insecurely at his own image. He could be called charming, he decided, fetching even, but never ravish— ing, gorgeous. Maybe he could be endearing to someone. He would never be enchanting.

He fondled his member, just enough to make it grow some. He looked at himself critically. Nothing to be particularly ashamed of.

And nothing that could make Hemarchidas's heart beat faster. He tried to picture the prince standing next to him. He tried to imagine him naked, just for comparison's sake… and immediately felt dejected.