The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (11 page)

Still, that would have to wait, since it would take sorcery, and she dared not try anything significant for a few days yet.

Why was everything so fucking difficult? She’d replaced one lousy bridge, and she’d been a basket case for over a week. Why? Why had the bridge been so hard? Had it been because she’d done Darksong with Wendella just before?

Anna just sat at the worktable, slowly chewing through a hard cracker, knowing she was stalling, almost not
caring. She finished the cracker, then looked at the papers on the corner of the table.

Her nails clicked together, and she looked down, surprised that her old nervous habit had resurfaced. Were things getting that bad?

T
he broad-shouldered man in the gold-trimmed red tunic lifts the dagger, momentarily balancing it on his forefinger. “It’s not right,” he murmurs to himself before half turning to the window and the gray downpour outside. “A gold, and it’s not balanced right.”

The man in the gray cloak waits on the hard wooden chair.

The red-clad man leaves the window and sets the knife on the dark wooden writing table, beside the flickering oil lamp. He picks up the scroll once more and studies the words before setting it on the desk and letting it rewind itself. “And why will your master not come himself, the honorable soul that he is?”

“The bitch sorceress knows his likeness, Lord Ehara.” The man in gray shifts his weight on the hard chair.

“—and she holds his consort and heir. I know. Too bad that he cannot put his consort aside and take another. Heirs are easy enough to come by. The harmonies know, I’ve got enough of them.” Ehara’s bass laugh booms off the walls of the small study. “Your master writes that the lords in the south of Defalk would willingly swear to me. Yet he does not say why this should be so. Perhaps you could explain that, Master Slevn.” Ehara’s voice drops into an almost silky bass as dark as his beard and hair.

“Not a one of the southern lords of Defalk have much
love of the bitch, save perhaps Geansor, and he’s a cripple who can’t live forever.”

“I had heard Birfels supported her.”

“For lack of a better alternative, Lord Ehara. He has removed his older son from Falcor, you may have heard. His younger remains in Abenfel. Only his daughter is hostage to the sorceress.”

“You say that Birfels is hostile to the sorceress. Why, pray tell, if he did remove his sons, would he leave his daughter?” Ehara again turns his back to Slevn.

“She must find a consort, I would imagine,” Slevn says slowly. “None of Birfels’ neighboring lords have sons of an age. I do know that Birfels told the sorceress that he had no love of the sorceress’s efforts to educate the daughters of lords at Falcor. Nor of allowing the widowed ladies to hold their dead lords’ lands. I understand you have no love of such thoughts, either.”

“What of Lord Gylaron?” asks Ehara abruptly.

“Gylaron has been brooked too often by Lord Geansor, and by those in Falcor who side with the cripple in order to keep the south weak and divided.” A faint sheen of perspiration coats Slevn’s forehead.

“Oh . . . so your lord would be the overlord of the south under me, relying on my armsmen and their blades and blood? Why did he not write me such a proposal?”

“He did not say such, my lord Ehara.”

“Yet he thinks such, or you would not have voiced it.” Ehara laughs again. “Tell your master that I ask much of my overlords. More, I wager, than he would dream or wish.” Another laugh follows. “What of Lord Arkad? His lands are the key to the south of Defalk.”

“Lord Arkad is ailing. His seneschal runs his lands. They are rich lands, perhaps the richest in Defalk.” Slevn blots his forehead with the back of his hand when Ehara half turns toward the window and the continuing rain. “And he has no heirs, not ones close enough to worry about.”

“Your master would tempt me, then? Ha! Defalk once
was rich, and may be again. Now it is but a ruin of a land, governed by a madwoman for an underage boy and lords who do not know that the world must change.” Ehara touches his black beard, and the blue eyes flash for a moment, although his voice drops into an even tone as he finishes. “It must change before the ships of Sturinn flood our coasts. One way or another, we cannot ignore the Maitre of Sturinn.”

“Now is the time to take Defalk, then, and you can reap the riches of its rebirth,” suggested Slevn.

“Poetry now? Riches of its rebirth? Your master is known for his turn of phrase. Did he suggest you use that phrase?”

“No, Lord Ehara.”

“You coined it? Then, coin no more phrases in the hearing of Lord Dencer. He might not take it well.” Ehara glances from the table to Slevn. “I must think about what you have suggested. Tell your lord I am strongly considering his proposal and I will inform him shortly after your return to Stromwer. You may go.” The lord pauses. “Who knows of this?”

“Only my lord and you, sire.”

“That is for the best.” Ehara nods, then extends his hand, which bears both a golden coin and a small sealed scroll. “These may speed your passage.”

“Thank you, Lord Ehara.”

Ehara waits until Slevn has left the study before he beckons to the officer waiting outside.

When the door shuts again, the Lord of Dumar turns to the lancer in the red uniform of Dumar. “The man in gray will be set upon by brigands or thieves when he reaches the Sudbergs—or if he talks to anyone who seems of import. Then the thieves will slay them both. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Good.”

The red-clad lancer departs, and Lord Ehara beholds the rain and clouds once more.

A
nna pushed away the plate that contained but one scrap of meat and a crust of bread. She felt totally gorged, and yet she knew she’d be ravenous in another few hours—another few glasses, she mentally corrected herself, still trying to adjust to Erdean terms. Glasses instead of hours, deks instead of miles, except a dek was much closer to a kilometer.

Across the cleared space of the receiving-room work-table, Jecks took a sip of wine from his goblet, then spoke. “Were I to eat half what you do, Lady Anna, in a few weeks they could stuff me and serve me to all Elhi, and there would be leavings for the dogs.”

Hanfor, seated beside Jecks, finished a last scrap of cheese, and nodded in agreement with the older man.

“If I ate half what I’m eating, I’d die of starvation in two weeks,” Anna said dryly.

“I know. Your cheeks are still too thin.”

“I’m still paying for rebuilding that bridge, but it’s a good thing I did. The Fal is rising. No one would be able to ford it now, and probably not for the rest of the year, if ever.”

Jecks looked to the window and the gray clouds outside, then back to the table. His eyes did not quite meet hers when he spoke. “Lady Anna, much as you wish to help all, you cannot. You did rebuild the bridge, and it has taken half a season for you to recover. As you told the fosterlings, not even the most powerful sorceress in Liedwahr can do everything that needs to be done. Not even you can do all that needs must be done in Defalk or even in Falcor itself.”

Then who will?
Anna wanted to ask, even as she answered, “That’s the problem.”

“All rulers have that difficulty, lady.” Jecks laughed, a short but warm sound. “That is why I grow increasingly glad that I am not a regent or a ruler.”

“Careful, I might just resign in your favor. After all, you are the grandsire of the heir.”

“No one would let you. They trust you more than they do me. They will let you kill yourself on their thoughtless behalf, but that is another kind of sheep.”

That’s always the way people treat the willing horse . . . or regent—flog her to death with overwork
.

“We’re nearing spring, and I’m even more worried about the liedgeld, and especially about this lord Arkad.” Anna decided to change the subject slightly. “All the others have either made an effort or faced extraordinary difficulties.” She laughed. “The difficulties may or may not be real, but a prudent ruler should move cautiously in those cases, I think.” She turned to the handsome Jecks. “What do you think?”

“I doubt both Lord Arkad and Lord Gylaron of Lerona,” Jecks said slowly, “and Lord Dencer, as you know. The troubles of the others seem real enough, and all have made some effort except for Lord Vlassa’s heirs.” A wry smile crossed his face. “A regent should avoid conflicts between heirs unless you mean to kill all but one.”

Anna winced. “I’m not up for that.”
Yet
. “Gylaron’s effectively Dencer’s northern neighbor, isn’t he? I don’t care much for that. There seems to be a disproportionate number of southern lords who are reluctant to pay.”

“I had noted that before.”

“Arkad is the closest. Perhaps we should visit him.”

“You wish to remind him personally of his obligations?”

“None of my other reminders have worked, have they?”

Jecks shook his head.

“How many armsmen should I bring?” Her eyes went from Jecks to Hanfor and back again.

“As many as you can spare, I would say,” answered Jecks. “I would have your spells and instrument ready as you ride toward his gate.”

“I would that we had more archers,” added Hanfor.

“You think Arkad is likely to rebel?”

“If he has not paid his liedgeld, he has already rebelled,” said Jecks dryly. “Best you put an end to it quickly.”

“Do you think the other lords will regard any action against Arkad as too high-handed? Or me as the madwoman of Defalk?” asked Anna.

“Better to be thought headstrong and high-handed than weak.” Jecks touched his chin and the hazel eyes twinkled. “And those lords you worry about already say you are headstrong.”

In Defalk, having an opinion meant a woman was headstrong.

Anna took a swallow from her goblet. “Another week, if the roads don’t get worse?” She glanced to Hanfor.

The veteran nodded.

“Lady . . .” Jecks coughed.

Anna turned toward her local equivalent of a movie star.

“I might suggest that Jimbob be with us.” Jecks covered his mouth and coughed.

“To give an impression of friendliness—or to convey that the Regency is acting on his behalf?”

“Both, and to give him a greater understanding of how frail a lord’s loyalty can be.”

“Is it wise to have us all together?”

Jecks laughed. “It matters not. If you fall, so do we all.”

Hanfor nodded. “He must see things as they are, while he is still young enough.”

Anna wanted to wince, even as she recognized the truth of the two men’s observations, even as she wanted to
protest that she was scarcely that important. Except, Lord knew how, she had become just that.

The door creaked ajar, and Cens peered inside. “Counselors Dythya and Menares, as you requested, Lady Anna.”

“In a moment,” Anna said. “I’ll ring.”

Cens nodded and closed the door.

“Dythya will never return to Elhi,” Jecks said. “Not since you have made her a counselor.”

“I needed someone to put Menares in his place, and I couldn’t keep ordering him to work with her.” Positions and prestige and titles were almost as bad in Defalk as they had been in academia, except in Defalk a lot more was at stake.

“And will you find someone to do that to me?” Jecks’ tone was somewhere between idle and playful.

“I already have. When I need her, Lady Essan will do quite nicely.”

“Ha! You are a dangerous woman.”

Anna doubted that. In order to stay alive, she’d done what had been necessary, and as a result, got stuck doing a very large job that she didn’t know nearly enough about. The one saving grace was that no one else alive knew the job, either. The bad part was that those who knew the job had died trying to do it.

The sorceress lifted the bell and rang, and the door opened. She waited until Menares and Dythya had seated themselves around the table.

“You sent word that we had gotten an answer from the Ranuan traders, the Exchange or whatever?”

“Yes, Lady Anna,” answered Dythya, half rising from her seat and extending a scroll.

Anna took it. “What does it say?”

“They will extend credit to the southern lords for this crop year, and they hope that the debt can be resolved after harvest.”

“That means we have to come up with another thousand golds by next year at this time.”

Menares and Dythya nodded. Jecks frowned.

“Has there been any response to our scrolls and messages for artisans and smiths?”

That got two headshakes.

“It is early,” Dythya said.

“Very early,” Menares added. “Those who might seek another situation would not do so until the roads clear.”

Always, it was the roads, the damned roads. Anna shrugged. “Can you two write some messages for my signature to Birfels and the other southern lords noting that I’ve made the necessary arrangements for them to obtain seed grain on credit?”

“Who might the others be?” asked Menares smoothly.

Anna wanted to grin and smack Menares simultaneously. The former counselor to the late and unlamented Lord Behlem still tended to ensure that Anna spelled out anything that might reflect unfavorably on him later—a great tendency for an academic or a bureaucrat, but not exactly what she wanted. Still . . . it made her think.

“Lord Geansor, out of courtesy, although he probably won’t need it. Lord Dencer, Lord Sargol, and Lord Gylaron. Maybe, the other lord down there—Arien . . .”

“Tybel,” supplied Dythya.

“Thank you. That should do it.” Anna pursed her lips. “And in the scrolls to Sargol, Dencer, and Gylaron, add a few words about how this should help in ensuring that they pay the remainder of the liedgeld they owe.”

Jecks smiled. Hanfor grinned.

“Is that all, Lady Anna?” asked Dythya.

“For now,” Anna answered. “Thank you.”

“By your leave?”

The sorceress and regent nodded.

After the two had left, Jecks spoke. “The reminder to the three lords will be helpful. You are telling them that you’ve done them a service and suggesting that they’ve failed in their obligations without quite directly saying so. You would not be disturbed if I sent out a few scrolls to
some of those more friendly to the Regency, pointing this out along with some other news?”