Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (35 page)

After receiving instructions—and sometimes, clinking purses—directly from the king, Gobetween would glide forth. An hour or so afterwards, still masked but now clad in the clothes of a peasant, he colluded with a second agent; “the Scandalmaster.” The Scandalmaster’s job was to relay the instructions—and sometimes a few of the purses—to the scandalmongers; a flock of assorted scoundrels, actors, tricksters, accomplished tattlers and desperate aristocrats with huge gambling debts, whom he
always interviewed one by one, so that none might learn the identity of the rest.

If Gobetween’s nights were spent gliding and masked, his days were spent unmasked but disguised as a commoner, for he frequented taverns and cockpits and marketplaces; he loitered about city gates and other public gathering places, listening and encouraging people to speak, generously buying drinks for strangers, asking discreet questions. In his nobleman’s persona he attended aristocratic parties and did his listening there; indeed, he could find very little time to sleep, but he enjoyed much wealth in his coffers, much prestige as the scrupulous Lord Genan of Áth Midbine, and much perverse satisfaction.

When Gobetween’s enquiries had assured him that a particular propagator of lies had successfully inculcated his message in the desired quarter, he would direct the Scandalmaster to give a purse to the tattler. On past occasions some quarreling and resentment had bubbled up from the gossips when payment was withheld. But no longer; those who quibbled were soon found in gutters with their throats slashed, or were never seen again. After the Scandalmaster notified the others of the reason for the killings, they discovered in themselves a strong sense of diplomacy when dealing with him, and became earnest proponents of the virtues of cooperation.

Thus in shadows and darkness Uabhar’s assistant Gobetween glided on his clandestine missions.

On the morning after the betrothal party, Asrathiel and Ryence hastened to attend an audience with King Thorgild. The ruler of Grïmnørsland, accompanied by Crown Prince Hrosskel, heartily welcomed the son and granddaughter of his good friend Avalloc to his sumptuous lodgings in the west wing of Uabhar’s palace. Bright sunshine streamed through the windows of the drawing room, a lofty chamber overlooking the grounds; the light glanced off multitiered chandeliers, gilt picture-frames, polished mahogany furniture and tall mirrors. A portrait of Uabhar, twice the height of a man, loomed like some prying disciplinarian on the wall above the mantelshelf.

Thorgild, with his broad face coarsened by salt winds, his bushy eyebrows, sea-waves of coppery hair and luxuriant beard, was like some manifestation that had arisen from the russet kelp-forests of the ocean; some chieftain of the mer-folk. His eldest son, Hrosskel, was the very image of him, matching him in height, but with close-trimmed beard and mustache,
and golden streaks through his auburn locks, like his two brothers. Both were attired in costumes of rich fabrics dyed aquamarine, turquoise and the blue-green of verdigris. Embroidered peacock-feathers adorned the prince’s tunic, and the king’s splendid surcoat was stitched with the ancient emblem of Grïmnørsland—a square-sailed longboat.

The weathermasters, less striking in their grey robes, cordially greeted father and son, after which all four seated themselves around a low table laden with refreshments. Thorgild dismissed his attendants. Following the initial exchange of pleasantries Ryence enquired what the Torkilsalvens thought about the Ashqalêthan military columns heading east, and the Slievmordhuan army’s sudden flurry of regimental reviews and training exercises.

“The troops of Chohrab and Uabhar,” said Thorgild, deep-voiced, “are making ready to trounce the comswarms when they crawl out of their caves at the end of Winter. What else could they be at?”

Ryence, though inclined to be rash where matters of the heart were concerned, was more circumspect about political affairs. Unwilling to cast aspersions without evidence, he merely shrugged. “I have never heard of governments going to such great lengths to repel bandits. Perhaps Uabhar and Chohrab have decided to wipe them out once and for all.”

“I myself would have contributed troops to the cause, had it been requested, however I have been assured there is no need,” said the monarch.

“Then you have set my mind at rest, sir.”

Asrathiel said, “My lord, may I ask your advice on another matter?”

Thorgild inclined his shaggy head, stately and dignified.

“It is a fact,” said the damsel, “Ellenhall and Rowan Green are being vilified by rumor in this city.”

“Truly?” The monarch was taken aback.

Prince Hrosskel turned towards his father. “It is so, unfortunately,” he affirmed. “I myself have heard the whispers.”

“I have never heard any ill spoken of the weathermasters,” said Thorgild, speculatively stroking his chin with a heavily beringed hand. “I believed Rowan Green had no enemies.”

“We believed so too,” said Asrathiel, “but someone has kindled these rumors, and the fire continues to be stoked. Your Highness—” addressing Hrosskel “—d o you know aught about the source of this hearsay?”

“Nothing at all, Lady Maelstronnar, but I will tell you this, in strictest confidence—I cannot be at ease about . . .” the prince hesitated, and then said with an expression of significance, “about our host.”

“Hrosskel has never taken to Uabhar,” boomed Thorgild, less guarded.

The prince glanced involuntarily at the portrait over the mantelpiece. “His behaviour is increasingly inexplicable,” he said.

“You overstate. Uabhar is not a man I would have chosen for a friend,” said Thorgild. “He can be cruel, and I do not hold with his practices, but he is my neighbor, and a powerful one at that. I, too, sometimes feel uncertain about what he is at, for rumors are legion, yet I have
no proof of
any under-hand designs on his part, it is all unsubstantiated, all hearsay, and I know of no evidence that he wishes to denigrate Rowan Green or any reason why he should do so.”

“Our host is a brilliant proselytizer,” murmured Hrosskel. “It is little wonder his boys are thoroughly webbed in his nets of persuasion; they have been subject to his influence since infancy. I myself have only lately seen through his mask. Even now his manner is so convincing that he still induces me to doubt my own good sense.”

“Notwithstanding, one cannot pin down anything to accuse him with,” said Thorgild, addressing Asrathiel and Ryence. “I would think twice about accusing him in any case, because I value goodwill between kingdoms, and especially that goodwill which is desirable between two families soon to be united. Solveig will eventually be settled in Cathair Rua, far from her parents. If any trouble were to break out between realms, it would bode ill for her; therefore diplomacy is the order of the day. Kieran will be a fine husband for my daughter and a fine king of Slievmordhu; on that I have no qualms. If his father’s actions occasionally bemuse, I deem it best to practice tolerance. No man is beyond reproach.”

Additional topics were discussed, and after sharing some food and drink with the Torkilsalvens Asrathiel and Ryence took their leave, not entirely satisfied with the interview.

As soon as courtesy would permit, the weathermasters departed from Uabhar’s palace. When they congregated at the house of the weathermasters’ ambassador prior to the return journey, Asrathiel and Ryence recounted their conversation with King Thorgild, and Dristan gave an account of what he had lately learned from his father’s network of allies in the Slievmordhuan city.

“Evidently it is not enough that lies about our probity are being broadcast in Slievmordhu,” Dristan began. “Now it is being wrhispered that we, the weathermasters of High Darioneth, are secretly and illegally plundering hoards of treasure hidden at the site of the ruined fortress of Strang, and that
the Comb is the least of them, and that we are making ourselves unimaginably wealthy while officially disavowing our clandestine activities.”

The other weathermasters listened in growing indignation. “Well, it is all my fault!” Asrathiel burst out at last. “It was my desire to make public my claim on the Dome that sparked this trouble!”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Galiene. “Your guilt is misplaced, Asra. There was no deliberate misdeed on your part. You cannot hold yourself responsible for Uabhar’s unpredictable response.” Everyone agreed with Galiene, reassuring Asrathiel, so that eventually she allowed herself to be soothed.

Dristan continued, “Unfortunately the rumors expand; it is said that by seizing all this wealth for ourselves we are cheating the people of Slievmordhu of money that might be spent on hiring mercenaries to protect their villages from Marauders. I have left instructions for our friends here in the city to vigorously deny the rumors, but the damage to our reputation is spreading fast. We must immediately cease exploring the Dome.”

“But I ask again, who is generating these rumors and how are they disseminated?” asked Albiona, scandalized.

“That is the vexing question. Nobody knows.”

“Then it seems we have unwittingly made an enemy without a name! Such a foe cannot be countered.”

“In my opinion,” said Dristan, “the enemy is obvious. It is Uabhar; Uabhar whose paid gossips are doing this work.” Several of his companions murmured their accord with this judgment.

“Gossips paid? By the
king?
” Albiona cried.

“Even so.”

“This is outrageous!” she fumed. “By law the Dome site belongs to Asrathiel. She may do as she pleases with anything that is found there. Has Uabhar meddled with the laws of inheritance without anyone’s knowledge?”

Asrathiel was pleased to hear Albiona defend her, given their previous disagreements. She recalled Prince William’s warnings concerning Slievmordhu’s capricious legislator, but trying to keep a cool head, said, “Albi, this is only a supposition. Nothing is proved.”

Dristan said, “I have learned that the palace claims the legislation was changed some time ago. In any case, Uabhar can make these laws retrospective if he chooses. He is, after all, the highest lawmaker in his kingdom.”

“Moreover he can be vicious and vindictive in the extreme,” said Ryence. “He has an evil temper, and will stop at nothing to get his way. Recall the
witnesses who disappear; the royal siblings who perish before their time; the unspeakable torments his inquisitors inflict upon those whom he judges to have crossed him. Uabhar’s ire is dangerous, to be sure.”

“Dangerous indeed! For our own good we should act as if he is the promulgator of the lies, even if we have no evidence,” said Albiona.

“We have given him the Comb,” said Galiene, “and we shall stay away from the fortress of Strang. In fact, I propose that we publicly renounce all hereditary claims to ownership of the Dome, if Asrathiel agrees.”

“I certainly
do
agree!”

“That is well. What more can we do to mollify this unpredictable tyrant?”

“I would rather give the sly demon a taste of a levin bolt than mollify him,” muttered Ryence.

“We can only try to disseminate the facts,” said Asrathiel, “and hope that truth will prevail.”

With that, they took their leave of one another. Asrathiel took off in her aerostat, and the weathermasters’ convoy rattled through the streets of Cathair Rua, beginning their northward journey. Several people who watched them pass shouted, “Down with the weathermasters! Down with the thieves!” and shook their fists, and some made gestures of throat-cutting or hanging, and the weathermasters looked upon this and were shocked. Never in their history had they been treated thus. Notwithstanding these threatening displays, the visitors from High Darioneth manifested no evidence of distress, displaying no flicker of fear or wavering of purpose.

Far behind them, almost alone in a private chamber of the palace at Cathair Rua, King Uabhar was falling about in paroxysms of hatred. “This Goblin Comb!” he shouted, spitting foam. “That they should be seen to be giving me my own property! By Doom and bloody Ill-Fortune—that they should be seen to be extraordinarily generous! And I, forced to play the role of the humble receiver of a lavish gift which I am unable to publicly spurn!”

The voiceless page, terrified and bewildered, stood frozen in the shadows. In his hands he carried empty goblets he had been clearing from the tables. He dodged out of the way as a candelabrum smashed against the wall where he had been standing. “Get gone,” growled the king, and the boy took to his heels.