The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (4 page)

Skent waited outside the middle hall. The sound of voices drifted through the door that was slightly ajar. The page bowed. “Mutton stew with potatoes, lady.”

“Thank you.” Anna wished they had less mutton and goat, but the drought had left those as the most plentiful meat animals in Defalk. Perhaps after a few years of the returned rains, that would change—except there would be some other problem.

“The lady Anna,” announced Skent.

The middle hall went silent as Anna stepped in, Skent behind her.

“Go on,” she said with a smile, still vaguely amused that the girl born Anna Mayme Thompson in Cumberland, Kentucky, could silence an entire hall of people merely by appearing.

As she settled into the chair at the head of the table, Anna noted that Skent had managed to find a seat near the foot of the table across from Cataryzna, the only heir to Sudwei and attractive as well.

Jecks followed her eyes and nodded. “Good match, if their affection holds.” Jecks sat to Anna’s right, Hanfor to her left. Hanfor was commander of the liedburg armsmen and of the nucleus of what Anna hoped would be a standing and highly professional national army. Young Jimbob sat below his grandsire, and below Jimbob and Hanfor sat Menares and Dythya.

Anna wanted to smile as she regarded the two would-be lovers at the foot of the table. Beside Cataryzna was her thin-faced and stern aunt Drenchescha, a lady who would certainly ensure that Skent did not become overly friendly too soon.

“I see you did not protest when Lord Geansor requested that his sister accompany Cataryzna on her return,” said Jecks, pouring some of the red wine into Anna’s goblet.

“I cannot be everywhere, and Drenchescha is most capable of looking after Cataryzna’s interests.”

“Geansor seemed pleased to return her for your program of fostering and education.”

“That’s what I thought. Why did you think so?” Anna took a small sip of the wine.

“It’s to his advantage. She could be no safer than with you, and anyone who attacked Sudwei could not take the heir. Also, you will find her a husband, and one you favor, and one that she can accept, and that means more support for his lands. How can the man lose? He is capable, but remains a cripple.” Jecks filled his own goblet and handed the pitcher to Hanfor, who in turn filled his goblet and passed it to Dythya.

“I hope he sees it that way.”

“He will, Lady Anna,” said Hanfor.

At Hanfor’s words, both Dythya and Menares nodded. A faint look of puzzlement crossed the redheaded Jimbob’s face, then vanished.

Anna wondered if she should speak up, and avoid anything vaguely private. Somewhere, sometime, she’d read that sotto voce conversations by rulers in public made people uneasy.

“Have you had any luck in the search for a weapons smith?” Anna asked more loudly, turning to the graying arms commander.

“No, my lady.” Hanfor smiled briefly. “Yesterday, a journeyman wheelwright tried to convince me that he could do the job. He couldn’t explain the difference
between a shortsword and a rapier.” He paused as one serving girl set the large bowl of stew before Anna, and another eased a basket of hot bread beside it.

“We need to advertise,” the sorceress mused.

A puzzled look crossed Jecks’ face, hidden quickly by a pleasant smile. Hanfor merely waited, as did Dythya and Menares.

“Can we send scrolls or messages to Ebra or Ranuak suggesting that the position of weapons smith to the Regency for the Lord of Defalk is open?”

“To whom . . . ?” began Menares.

“Do they have guilds or something?”

“Of course, that would work,” added Dythya with a smile. “You could also send scrolls to the portmasters at Encora and Narial.”

“And they would pass on such news?” asked Menares skeptically.

“They would contact the mastercrafters,” Dythya explained. “If the master smiths had journeymen who needed positions, they would tell them. If positions are few, then they would tell any one who came about the opportunity so that the newcomers would not take from those already smithing there.”

“I could see that,” mused Hanfor. “I could send scrolls to a few armsmen who might know of weapons smiths.”

“We’ll talk about that tomorrow.” Anna wanted to rub her forehead. Even at dinner the problems kept assaulting her. She used the overlarge serving spoon to ladle out her portion of stew, then eased the huge bowl toward Jecks, and the bread toward Hanfor.

“It smells good,” offered Dythya. “Better than the heavy noodles and the fried dumplings.”

As her stomach growled again, Anna hoped so. She also hoped she could get some sleep uninterrupted by some nightmare or another.

She took a bite of the stew—spicy, but not burning,
thank heaven, or the harmonies
, she mentally corrected herself.

Anna looked to the server. “Jysel, would you convey my thanks and compliments to Meryn?”

Jysel bowed and flushed. “Yes, Lady Anna.”

“Thank you.” Anna needed to work in another visit with the cooks, among everything else, but the personal touch was what made the difference. It definitely did, but it took time, and that was something that was also in short, short supply.

Like everything else in Defalk, she mused, taking another mouthful of stew, nodding to herself as she did, appreciating a meal that was neither bland nor tongue-searing.

W
hat have you discovered, Bassil?” Leaning forward in the silver chair, Konsstin peers across the polished walnut of the desk at the raven-haired officer who has entered the Liedfuhr’s private study.

“About Defalk, sire?” Bassil’s words are formal and barely contain the hint of a question in their tone.

“What else? I did not send you out to seek out the price of grain in Encora.” Konsstin leans back and tugs at his beard, half light brown, half silver, and close-trimmed.

“The seers show that the sorceress has recovered. Lord Jecks and the heir have returned to Falcor, and the liedburg flies Jimbob’s ensign with a Regency symbol. They are training more armsmen.”

Konsstin frowns. “The bitch is serious.”

“So it appears, sire.”

“What about the dissonant northern traders?”

“Nothing. Their seers watch us and the sorceress. The Ranuans have been silent.”

“And about Bertmynn?” Konsstin pushes back the heavy chair and stands, clasping large hands behind his back for a moment, pushing back the silver cloak, revealing the close-fitting sky-blue velvet tunic and trousers with the silver piping that nearly matches the silver in his hair and beard.

“As you requested, we sent a hundred golds and two-score blades. You know that another young lordlet has taken Synek?”

“That’s Hadrenn. We can’t have two of them fighting over a corpse. We’ll have to choose before long.” Konsstin paces in a small circle for a time, then looks straight at the dark-haired younger man. “Send Hadrenn fifty golds . . . no weapons. Tell him it’s a token to help rebuild the devastation caused by his nettlesome neighbor. Use those exact words—‘nettlesome neighbor.’ I don’t want them thinking of her as a danger, just as a troublesome problem.”

“Just fifty?”

“In another two weeks—make that three weeks—send off another fifty golds. People remember unasked-for and repeated smaller gifts more than large ones. Besides, our lordlet Hadrenn will use them more wisely if they’re small.” After a pause, the Liedfuhr adds, “Gifts need to be bigger than pocket change and small enough that the recipient can delude himself into believing he’s not being bought.”

“I will remember that, ser.” Bassil stands, waiting, apparently relaxed, his eyes never leaving Konsstin.

Konsstin’s head and eyes turn toward the wide windows to his left. “We need a true Empire of Music, Bassil.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Don’t humor me!” Konsstin’s voice rises to a bellow.
“I don’t need someone who tiptoes around agreeing with me.

Bassil has stepped back, but his eyes meet those of the Liedfuhr. “You do not like those who agree, nor those who disagree, nor those who question. What would you have me do, ser?”

Konsstin’s frown is broken by a hearty laugh. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said today.”

“It can be dangerous to be too honest around those who are powerful.”

“Perhaps I am too hard on people . . . but everyone has a scheme, and those who do not scheme flatter in the hopes of position and influence.” His hazel eyes harden, then smile. “What do you want, Bassil?”

“Position, influence, and enough coins to be comfortable. I would rather obtain all three through ability than through scheming or flattery.”

“Do you have enough ability for that?”

“I think so. You would have to be the judge of that.”

“So,” laughs Konsstin, “you grant me my due.”

“How could I do otherwise? You are the Liedfuhr.”

“Careful, that verges on flattery.”

Bassil swallows.

“Enough of these games. I know what you want, and you’ll have the opportunity to prove that ability . . . or to fail. That’s all anyone can ask for.” The Liedfuhr’s fingers brush his close-trimmed beard. His lips tighten, and his eyes close for a moment before he continues. “I wasn’t spouting idle thoughts about an Empire of Music, you know. It will not be long before the ships of Sturinn seek Liedwahr for more than trade. And what will they find? A bunch of ragtag holdings and merchant city-states scrapping with each other?”

“Unless matters change, that is what they will find,” points out Bassil. “That is the way the eastern half of Liedwahr has always been.”

“The western half was that way, too, until the time of my great-grandsire.” Konsstin clasps his hands behind his
back once more and paces back and forth in front of the walnut desk. “You know, the Maitre of Sturinn is building warships with three masts, ones tall enough to touch the clouds. The Ostisles have submitted.”

“It will be years before—”

“A Liedfuhr has to think years in the future, Bassil. No one else does.” Konsstin offers a snort. “Defalk was practically prostrate while that sorceress was recovering. Did anyone think what would happen once she recovered? Did any of those close enough to act do anything?”

“What might they have done?” asks the raven-haired younger man. “Your seers’ pools showed that Ebra was ravaged. The Norweians were still rebuilding Wei, and there was no effective ruler in Neserea after the death of the Prophet . . . and his consort. That leaves Ranuak, and the Matriarchy has never used arms except at sea or in defending their own lands.”

“And Dumar,” adds Konsstin.

“You would have expected Ehara to march his small armies up the Great Chasm in winter?”

“They should have done
something
. Why am I the only ruler in Liedwahr who sees the images in the pool of the future?”

“The sorceress seems to see the future.”

“That she does. I must grant her that. But what can she do? Defalk is surrounded on five sides. She has no access to the ocean and thirty-three stiff-necked and feuding lords who are only agreeable when you have their necks under your boots. She can only be in one place at a time, and she has no standing army, and no naval forces, and a land that can barely support its people.”

“Yet the people support her.”

“For now. They once supported Barjim, and then half fled Falcor at the first whiff of battle.” Konsstin unclasps his hands and stretches. “For that matter, what am I supposed to do? I proposed a confederation to that idiot my daughter married. No . . . he had to have his own empire,
and now where are they? Charred corpses under a monument that no one will recognize a generation from now.”

“Lord Behlem was somewhat headstrong,” temporizes Bassil.

“That’s like saying . . . Oh, never mind. And now I have to deal with Neserea. My grandson takes after his mother and his, grandmother, both vipers, the harmonies soothe their departed spirits, and I’m in the most awkward position of being his regent—from a thousand deks away.” Konsstin turns and marches toward the windowed door, which he flings open, and steps out onto the balcony, where the wind blows the silver cloak back over his shoulders.

Bassil follows, standing back from the sculpted limestone balcony railing.

From the western balcony of the blufftop palace, the Liedfuhr surveys the stone walls of the fort below that commands the junction of the Ansul and the Latok Rivers. Then he swivels on one boot heel and studies Bassil. “I’ve sent the lancers to support that lizard Nubara . . . but it will take a lizard to deal with a viper.”

“Should you not take a stronger position?” asked Bassil.

“Are you suggesting that I should?”

“You know your grandson and Neserea far better than I do, ser. But you do not trust him, and you did not trust his father or your daughter, and Neserea flanks Defalk and Nordwei.”

“And Dumar. Let us not forget the ever-ambitious Ehara.” Konsstin turns back to the balcony and the view of the two rivers that form the Toksul, the great river of Mansuur that flows westward to Wahrsus and the ocean. “So I should cross the Westfels and expand Mansuur . . . because no one else can see the dangers . . . or because I am ambitious . . . or because . . .”

His words die away in the stiff wind that blows uphill to the palace and eastward across the bluff.

Bassil waits for what the Liedfuhr may command.

U
nder gray clouds that appeared to be slowly lifting, Anna looked out over Falcor from the north tower, the one in which she had stayed when she had first come to the liedburg, the one where poor Garreth had sketched that sole image Anna had been able to send across the mists between Erde and earth for Elizabetta. Garreth—tortured by the prophet Behlem’s consort Cyndyth, another innocent who had died just because she’d been close to Anna.

Anna shook her head. Now she couldn’t use her skills even to
see
her youngest, much less send anything across the gulf between worlds. Her eyes traveled westward over the roofs of Falcor, seeing what appeared an endless stretch of gray and brown and white. The white was the already melting slush from the first snow seen in Defalk in nearly a decade.