The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (50 page)

Anna tried to ignore the tears that oozed from the brown-haired mother’s eyes.
At least she can hold him, see him. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. No one whipped and tortured you—not physically, anyway
.

“Your rooms are ready for you,” Anna said. She stepped back. “They are, aren’t they, saalmeister?”

“They will be, Regent.”

“Immediately.”

Darflan bowed.

Anna turned to the nurse. “Lady Wendella’s wish is your command. In anything.”

“Yes, Regent.”

Anna turned back to Darflan. “Leave the door open and escort Lady Wendella to her quarters when she is ready. Offer any assistance she wishes. In anything, and make sure she gets a good meal immediately. And hot water for a bath when she wishes.”

Wendella looked at Anna, shaking her head. “I cannot pretend I like you, sorceress. You cannot buy my loyalty.”

“I have your loyalty,” Anna said. “I respect you, but I don’t like you, and I never will. But you will run Stromwer far better than Dencer. If you don’t, I’ll find someone who will until your son can.”

“I will run Stromwer, and I will run it well.” Wendella lowered her eyes. “I will not, I cannot, speak ill of you. But I will not speak of you, save as I must.”

“That’s fine. Now . . . get some food and whatever you need.” Anna nodded and stepped back out onto the landing, and started down the steps, her boots echoing in the stone stairwell.

At the bottom, in the main corridor, Jecks glanced at Anna.

“You wonder why? She’s been tortured, and she’s still sane. She has to be loyal, and backing the Regency is the only way her son can hold his lands, because I’m the only one who will back her. She’s smart enough to see that.”

The white-haired lord shook his head.

Was she crazy? She didn’t think so. Wendella had been a bitch, but there was a difference now. She’d never be more than civil to Anna, but that wasn’t the point. Preserving Defalk was. “Jecks? Have I taken Stromwer from its heir? Have I imposed an outside lord?”

The hazel eyes met hers. “You, lady, are more deadly than either Ehara or Konsstin. You will not let personal hatred move you from what you know is best. Even the harmonies could not preserve them now.”

Anna was the one to shake her head. “Me? The woman who’s nearly gotten herself killed a half-dozen times? The woman who has to return a child to his mother before anything?”

“She will come to respect you,” Hanfor said slowly. “If she has not already. So will her armsmen.”

“Those that survive,” Anna said.

“That is most of them,” Hanfor answered. “And they appreciate that you limited your spells to those who attacked you.” He laughed. “The common armsman is more glad for his life. It is all he has.”

Anna shivered. “I think I need some dry clothes and some food. It’s been a long day.”
How many more to come?
“And a hot bath.”

“Now you hold all Defalk,” Jecks said. “You can rest.”

Anna wanted to laugh. With Ehara and the Sea-Priests plotting something? With Mansuuran forces in Neserea? With a civil war in Ebra, and one side being backed probably by both Sturinn and Dumar?

She took a breath. Jecks was right. She could rest—briefly. And a bath would feel good.

L
ord Ehara lifts the crystal decanter, lets the light from the window illuminate the amber liquid, then sets the decanter on the writing desk. He walks to the shorter bookcase and extracts a volume.
The Art of War
. He replaces the leather-bound book. “They never call it ‘the profession of war’ or ‘the faith of war’ or some such. It’s always an art.”

The rangy man in the white of a Sea-Marshal nods from
the wooden chair across from the writing desk. “War is conflict, like the conflict of harmony and dissonance. In conflict, nothing is certain. So warfare is an art. It is not like smithing a blade or plowing a furrow.”

“Sturinn has been good at war.”

“We deal always with the uncertain. The sea is our home, and it is never sure.”

Ehara extracts another book, scans it, and replaces it on the shelf. “Why are you here? Why a fleet of forty ships? Why not just replace me? I could not stand against Sturinn.”

“You are perceptive,” jerRestin says. “We prefer perceptive allies and friends.”

“You talk of friendship, Sea-Marshal jerRestin,” says Ehara easily. “I have taken your tokens of friendship and your advice. Now, I have lost hundreds of golds, five companies of lancers, and the confidence of many of my officers. Southern Defalk lies in the bloody hands of that butchering sorceress.” Ehara lifts a goblet of wine from the desk in a mock toast, then replaces it, untouched.

“You have taken our advice and our coins when it suits you,” answers the rangy man with the tanned face. “And a few gems.”

“That may be,” Ehara laughs. “Rulers have that habit. What suggest you now?”

“Wait for her to come to you.”

“Now you suggest this?”

“Had you not meddled in Defalk, she would have no reason to enter Dumar.”

“Oh.” Ehara lifts the goblet again in another toast. “A toast to mighty Sturinn. You have encouraged me to enrage my neighbor, knowing my efforts would fail—”

“You began those efforts before we came to offer friendship.”

“I stand corrected, mighty Sea-Marshal.” Ehara takes a deep swallow of the amber wine. “You encouraged me to increase my efforts. That will encourage the sorceress of the north to invade poor Dumar. Because mighty Sturinn
is my friend, Sturinn can then bring all her troops and ships to my aid, crushing the cruel and sorcerous invader. Then Sturinn will bring us trade, and more ships, and new customs. And before long, Dumar will join the Ostisles under the Maitre of Sturinn. Do I have that right?”

“Almost,” admits jerRestin. “Except that Lord Ehara will be viceroy for Dumar and Defalk, high above all in Liedwahr.”

“That is so you Sea-Priests can claim you have come but to help your friend and ally.”

“Would you rather stand against the sorceress and the Liedfuhr of Mansuur alone? Who now knows of the Lord of Bultok or the Marque of Cealur? All those lords have vanished into the maw of Mansuur.”

“A sad choice I face.”

“A better choice than without Sturinn,” points out jerRestin.

Ehara laughs and lifts his goblet. “Here’s to waiting. May it not prove too costly.”

The Sea-Marshal frowns momentarily.

T
he main guest chamber at Stromwer had two narrow stone windows, opposite each other in one corner,

with a hot breeze, a bed, and a small bathchamber built into one corner of the narrow and deep room. Rickel had located a small writing desk and had the servants move it into the room, along with three chairs.

Anna supposed she could have used the late Dencer’s study, but she didn’t feel comfortable with that. That sort of thing seemed too presumptive, even if she had effectively conquered Stromwer. She massaged her forehead. The double vision had vanished after the last two days of rest, but she still had a slight headache.

With the
thrap
on the door, she turned her head. “Come in.”

“My lady.” Jecks wore a clean blue tunic, and had washed up. He looked more handsome than ever as he stepped into the guest chamber. Behind him stood a messenger bearing leather bags of some sort.

Anna had to make an effort not to smile insanely. She was glad to see Jecks . . . and his smile and twinkling eyes. She needed something positive in her life. “Lord Jecks.”

“My lady. You have some . . . dispatches . . . from Falcor.”

“Dispatches?” Anna offered a smile, hoping her smile wasn’t too inviting, too forward.
Idiot! You worry about being too distant, and you worry about being too forward
. “I suppose it had to happen.” She kepi smiling, not exactly sure why.
Hormones? Do I have any left?

“Put them there.” Jecks gestured to the braided brown-and-white rug beside the wide bed.

“Yes, sire, Lady Anna.”

As the messenger departed, the regent looked at the three bags of scrolls Jecks had escorted in.

The white-haired lord smiled broadly and lifted the largest bag. “Those are from Dythya.” He stacked the scrolls on the foot of the bed behind the small writing desk.

Anna groaned.

Jecks held another bag and began to extract a second set of scrolls. “These are from Menares.” A third and smaller bag followed. “These are from Himar.”

“Wonderful.”

“You are the regent, and some things about the business of Defalk must be handled by the regent.”

“Scrolls are better than battles,” she conceded.

“They offer less hazard to health.”

Anna wasn’t sure that administration, especially by horse-carried messages, wasn’t hazardous to health and sanity. She took a deep breath and started with the scrolls from Dythya, opening and scanning them and putting them in piles on the bed—those where there seemed to be something she needed to do; those that were information she probably needed to go over; and those complaining about Menares. When she was done, over a glass later, the first pile held a half-dozen scrolls; the second a dozen; and the third, five.

She took a swallow of wine, dark purple and not nearly so good as that of Lerona, and picked up one of the to-do scrolls. “This one says that she and Himar have located a farm smith who’s done knives and stuff. They think he could do blades . . . maybe.”

Jecks nodded. “How much?”

“A gold a season, plus a silver a finished blade. We purchase all the materials and the equipment.” Anna shrugged. “We might as well try. Give him a season trial?”

“We have no other smiths,” Jecks pointed out. “If you supply the hammers and anvils and wrought iron, blades will cost you half what you would purchase them for.”

“We were talking a gold a blade. . . .”

“Your own smith might cost the Liedstat as little as three or four silvers a blade.”

Nodding, Anna pulled out some of the crude paper she’d taken from Dencer’s study, and began to write on the small table, carefully, so carefully because the combination of quill and local ink meant everything took forever to dry. Then she laid the sheet on the bed to dry and picked up the second scroll.

“Lord Nelmor has sent his son Tiersen to Falcor for fostering.” Anna snorted. “She’s enclosed Nelmor’s scroll as well. Of course, it’s because his sister Ytrude is so pleased. Right! It’s because another company of Neserean lancers has been quartered in Elioch. Listen to this.

“. . . once you have dealt with the problems in the south, we look forward to your return to Falcor. We remain your obedient servant in all matters. . . .”

Anna snorted. “All that matters is the danger closest to his lands. Maybe I should ensure there are dangers on all borders.”

“Some rulers have done so. For a few years, it has worked. Then people disregarded the danger and the ruler, and so did those who threatened,” offered Jecks dryly.

“Well . . .” Anna licked her lips. “I’ll send Nelmor a scroll that says how I’m glad to hear that Tiersen has gone to Falcor. I’ll reassure him that all holdings in Defalk are dear to me, especially his, given the deep and early friendship offered by his family.” Anna paused and glanced at Jecks.

“You are a wicked woman. He will burn at that hint that you hold his sister so highly.”

“Good. She was there, when all the male lords—except you—were still twiddling their thumbs. I’m still committing
to saving his neck.” Anna reached for another sheet of paper.

The third scroll was about taxes or tariffs. The merchants of Falcor had requested that the lord’s tariff be reduced to one copper on twenty, instead of the one on ten. Anna handed the scroll to Jecks, and looked at the next one.

“Lady Anna?”

She looked up from reading the next scroll—about the need to find golds to repair the street sewers in Falcor that had been clogged by the Evult’s flood. “Yes?”

“Have you reduced the liedgeld for the lords?”

“No. I’ve let some pay late.”

“Then should you allow the merchants to pay less?”

Jecks had a point. The liedgeld came from the peasants and holding workers, in effect. Why should one group get relief? Or, if she gave the merchants relief, how soon before every lord was at her door?

She sighed. “Can we suggest that we will review the tariff, but that, given the needs of Defalk, it must stand. Say that we will be looking into fairness for all those who pay tariffs in all forms?”

Jecks grinned. “You are indeed wicked.”

Anna was just afraid she’d brought American politics to Defalk. She reached for another sheet of paper.

After drafting her political reply she went back to the sewer business, directing Dythya to spend another hundred golds to repair the sewers—and to enforce the rules requiring them to be flushed periodically. It might help reduce disease, but she wasn’t sure by how much.

Then came the next scroll.

“We have another message from our friend Hadrenn. Like everyone else he has a problem.” Anna read selected passages to Jecks.

“As last I wrote, we of Ebra must change with changing times, and we were most pleased with your recognition of Synek as a domain of Falcor,
and with the aid you provided most graciously. I was most honored by your later elevation of the domain of Synek to the Thirty-three of Defalk. . . .

‘`. . . Bertmynn has received coins from the Liedfuhr of Mansuur, and blades for his armsmen as well. Now Gestatr has discovered that a ship from the Maitre of Sturinn has arrived in Elawha, claimed unjustly by Bertmynn when it should be a separate domain. From the vessel have come lances, blades, and golds . . .

“. . . we of Synek, while not yet hard-pressed, must fear the worst. . . .

“In short,” Anna concluded, “‘we’re loyal; we’re in trouble; and please send coins.’.”

Jecks laughed.

“All I do is spend money.” Anna glanced at the two piles of scrolls she still hadn’t even sorted. “More coins than we really have.”