Markan Throne Page 12

  Verdin hoped the older man was not about to begin serving a fourth generation.

  Retiring twelve years before, he had handed the army over to the capable control of Kelanus Butros. After Kelanus had been chased from Branad's army, replaced by a man Mikhan neither knew well nor trusted, he had voluntarily come out of retirement and been promoted to Marshal.

  For two years, he was forced to kick his heels in Sandester, the capital city of his branch of the Vintner family. Only now did he have his chance to be useful.

  "We might be riding into a trap," said the younger man.

  Mikhan shook his head. "The scouts know their work," he replied, dropping the courtesy "highness". "The road is clear at least to the edge of the forest."

  Verdin glanced around. "We don't know how many men Marcus Vintner may have left behind," he continued.

  Mikhan shrugged. "Marcus Vintner is too honorable a man to ambush a caravan like this. Attempt to capture it perhaps, or even try to escort it to the city. Besides, your father could as easily have won the battle. If indeed, that battlefield is where His Majesty and the other Vintner ever met at all."

  "But it seems likely that they did."

  Mikhan sighed. The conversation had come around in a circle. "I agree that is what most likely has happened, if Marcus Vintner swung north to meet your father. Now, what would such a move by Marcus tell you?" Mikhan's eyes glittered.

  Verdin paused to think. Despite the honorary rank of Lieutenant in his father's army, he was not a warrior, but he had studied tactics and strategy under Mikhan. A renowned captain, officers came from all over to learn from the marshal.

  "Anything?" Mikhan prodded gently.

  "It tells me his intelligence is good," replied Verdin.

  Mikhan gave a pleased smile. "Excellent! Knowing your enemy and learning what he is up to are vitally important. As important as knowing the land on which you'll fight. But another question we must consider is this: how does Marcus come by his intelligence? This isn't the first time he has known exactly where to wait and for how long."

  "Traitors?"

  "Possible, but how do they communicate? How can a traitor know exactly where any opposing army can be?"

  "He may have a Gifted one in his ranks."

  Mikhan nodded. "Now you are thinking. Good man. Another thing to consider: why has Marcus Vintner begun to win important battles rather more often than before?"

  "He might have read your books."

  The old soldier gave a rare guffaw of laughter. "Marcus might have acquired tactical skill, but I suspect somebody has joined his army in a senior post and that somebody knows what he is about."

  "Kelanus?"

  Mikhan nodded. "Kelanus. It's never wise to put a man who knows the work out of work in time of war. No matter what he stood accused of. Better a secret execution than let a man like that go."

  "Kelanus is a traitor?"

  "You might view it that way. He needs to earn his living, like the rest of us."

  "So Kelanus is how Marcus knows where we are all the time?" A confused frown furrowed Verdin's brow.

  "Kelanus is no intelligence gatherer," countered Mikhan, "though he certainly knows how to use it. Young Verdin, there is something in Marcus Vintner's army that is missing from all the others. Perhaps it is one of the Gifted. Or a sorcerer. Whatever, I'm sure we'll find out. When we reach Marka."

  Verdin was grateful for the change of subject. "When will we see Marka?"

  "Once we get through the forest."

  "Is it truly a beautiful city?"

  Mikhan, who had visited Marka in his youth, nodded. "The most beautiful city in the known world," he replied. Pleasant reminiscence flickered in his eyes. "I can think of nowhere else as rich, as varied and as impressive. I'll not tell you too much; you can find it all out for yourself. We'll be there soon enough."

  "A scout." Verdin nodded to where an armed man, dressed in dull colors, emerged from the forest and reported to his senior officer. Done, he slipped away and was quickly out of sight, only movement betraying his presence for as long as people knew where to look for him. The man's commander crossed to Mikhan.

  "Marshal sir, the scouts report a good place to stop half a mila ahead."

  Mikhan glanced skywards and nodded. "We'll spend the night there," he replied. He turned to Verdin. "Do not forget to join the rest of the men at sword practice this evening. I noticed you missed last night."

  Verdin grinned. "I'll be there," he promised.

  He dropped behind the marshal and cloaked himself in thought. He desperately hoped his father was alive and well, convinced they had passed the most recent meeting place between his father and Cousin Marcus. He had no wish to be thrust to the claim young. He wanted to live a little first. He had long since decided that he could do without the Throne at all but, if his father's claim proved successful (as he was certain it would), he would meet his duty. An onerous burden, but one he could and would carry.

  He had stared and stared at the family's genealogical charts, hoping against hope that Marcus or even Enthan Vintner would actually have the stronger claim. The last Emperor had disappeared in the chaos of Marka's collapse, so his legal status was questionable. He had never been crowned. Marcus Vintner claimed descent from this man's younger brother.

  More worryingly, Hingast claimed to be a direct descendant of the last Emperor: if the Supreme Council discounted Hingast's claim, they should also ignore that of Marcus. The fact that the last man to sit on the Throne had never been crowned in his three-week reign, meant that the stronger claims lay with descendants from the previous generation.

  From where his family's claim originated. There must be a way to wriggle out of it.

  And if he did wriggle out of it, another problem reared up. Although his father had a younger brother, Verdin did not. If he rejected his birthright (assuming his father became Emperor), the Throne would pass to his Uncle Nazvasta. Then, if Verdin had a son with a somewhat more ambitious outlook, the Empire risked a fresh collapse even before a proper reunion. Verdin did not want the Throne because he had other ambitions, even if he saw no way yet to realize them.

  He wanted to be instrumental in reuniting the Empire, to be the man who led the armies who reimposed Marka's will, the man who directed the diplomats. He could not do that as heir to the Throne and later – Siranva send much later! – its occupant. Should his father be recognized, Verdin would be forced to look at all his plans afresh. Unless his father's second wife produced a son; that would give him a more honorable escape.

  He could confide in nobody. Everyone here stood solidly behind Verdin's father: to do otherwise was treason. Verdin looked about him, at the soldiers and their families who surrounded him. Did anyone harbor doubts about the validity of Branad Vintner's claim? What about Marshal Mikhan, who had spent more than half a century fighting for his family's claim? There was not a single person here he could trust as a confidant. It would be too dangerous – for the confidant as well as himself.

  Bored by his thoughts, he rode forward to come alongside Mikhan again.

  "Why is it so barren out here?" he asked. "Where are the farms and people?"

  "Good question. We're in the Markan Metropa. There were farms here, and soldiers too, but many areas have suffered raids."

  "That is something we must change," murmured Verdin, his blue eyes hardening. "Are these raiders anything to do with Hingast?"

  "Him, or one of the other claimants, or just men struggling for their own survival. It's hard to say. Whatever their origin, if they harm others, they deserve to hang."

  Verdin silently agreed. The sooner they restored order to these lands, the better. Only that needed an Emperor and his father had the best claim. Trapped, with no way out.

  ***

  Dervra inverted reality to prevent sound escaping his tent. A lavish piece, intended to impress all who could see sorcery at work and deter those with Siranva's pathetic gift. His tent was equally lavish, second only to Hingast's own
. Carpets and rugs from Eldova covered the ground; the dark furniture came from a long forgotten Prefecture named Senia, destroyed centuries before by the first Imperial Republic. He barely noticed any of these things, more than used to them. They had been his companions for months.

  A small sound caught his attention.

  The sylph slave, terrified eyes wide and earpoints laid back in her hair, poured a cup of alovak. Dervra took it without offering thanks. He had forgotten she was still inside the tent and listened to her panicky breathing for a moment. She belonged to Delwin, if he remembered correctly. These things were unimportant.

  He nodded her towards the tent flap. Taking the hint as an order, she fled, most likely glad to escape. Sorcery frightened sylphs and they had an uncanny ability to sense its use. She probably did not even know what had frightened her. Typically sylph.

  He had never worked out how they did it, despite testing several specimens to destruction. Perhaps they had some latent ability for the Gift from their human inheritance.

  But it was irrelevant.

  He thought of Hingast's hunts. The only sylphs exempted from his hunting were found in his camp. There were no male sylphs here: all bar two were infertiles and the exceptions were breeder females.

  Dervra had invented the "sport" of sylph hunting to distract Hingast from destroying cities and killing thousands of humans. The demise of a handful of sylphs paled to insignificance compared to that. Their sacrifice was a humanitarian consideration, their killer a highly unstable young man. But Hingast had his uses yet.

  Now the slave had gone, Dervra sat and sipped his alovak. Any second now...

  He was no longer alone. A woman stood before him, wrapped head to foot in a brown robe. At her side stood a male sylph, hands clasped meekly before him, a leash leading from his collar to somewhere inside the woman's robe. The sylph was plainly dressed in linen shirt and woolen knee-length breeches.

  "Good evening, Nicolfer."

  The woman smiled. She often gave the impression she could not stand, but such pretense was pointless here. Her ankle tendons had been cut in an ancient confrontation with Grayar, but that injury had been healed long ago.

  "Dervra," replied the woman, her voice only slightly muffled by the robe. As friends and allies, they met all too infrequently. "At last, I have news." Jet eyes glittered.

  "Yes, at last."

  "Both Vintners have arrived in Marka," continued Nicolfer. "There are some interesting tensions. Marcus's General hates Branad's General. Despite being defeated and captured, Branad has not renounced his claim to the Throne; at least, not yet. Both Supreme Council and Senate are bitterly divided because only two claimants were invited and not all of them. That includes your boy. Even better, many of those who believe that Marcus Vintner's claim is strongest do not feel happy that Marcus Vintner Senior is still alive. There are many factions to exploit."

  Dervra sat back and steepled his fingers. Much of this he already knew, and he suspected Nicolfer knew that he had many sources of information. But there might be a good chance she'd hear something that his other spies missed.

  Like himself, she had once been one of the Ten. They probably technically still were. Even if no longer uniquely practitioners of sorcery and the Gift, but they had been the first. And still the most powerful.

  "It is in our interest for the factions to continue," he said, finally. "The fool I'm with at the moment still believes that I support him fully and, moreover, that he is the most important of my servants. Worse, he believes that I am his servant." He sniffed. "Yes, Nicolfer, exploit the divisions you find. Feed the cracks of distrust and hatred."

  Nicolfer smiled and tugged the leash gently. The boy's head came up, though his earpoints were laid back in his hair. His eyes were wide with barely suppressed panic; even the infertile Dervra had just dismissed showed less fear.

  "Tangan is coming along nicely. He now knows how much Sandev and Grayar are responsible for making sylphs into what they are today. Now he knows why his kind dream so much of flying and why they do not fear falling."

  Dervra leaned forward. "His hate grows? Looks frightened to me."

  Tangan's gaze remained firmly on the rugs and he visibly trembled.

  "He is frightened of us." Nicolfer's voice held scorn. "I train him to be independent again. For a higher purpose."

  Twisting his head to look deep into the sylph's eyes, Dervra doubted it. The boy's gaze flinched away as he cringed. Sylphs should be angry, murderously angry, at the changes that made them what they were today, but there was no evidence of that in this creature. "I think you'll have to keep trying," he said.

  Nicolfer nodded, then she and Tangan were gone.

  Whatever she planned to use the sylph for was probably doomed to failure. And why had she named the creature Tangan? If the wrong ears heard that name, it would bring owner and owned a lot of trouble.

  Dervra sat back and sighed. Sometimes he felt he juggled a million and one different balls, trying to keep all of them in the air at once. There were things he must try to influence, but this time he needed a little luck. This was a thing he had always believed one made oneself, but he hoped for something more this time. If Nicolfer succeeded in exploiting the tensions already showing between the two Vintners...

  He smiled.

  ***

  Verdin tried not to stare as they approached the guard.

  Ever since it came into sight, Verdin had spent most of his time gawping in awe at the giant pyramid, with its glowing ruby crown. Even Mikhan, who had visited Marka in his youth, could not hide his wonder at so large an object. The entire pyramid seemed to glow with frightening intensity in the late afternoon sunshine. The city, itself a source of admiration and open mouths, looked primitive in comparison. Everybody stared at the pyramid, unable to believe that men could build such things.

  Verdin's attention returned to the guards, neither of whom he recognized. The Vintner Arms were everywhere, but set on a darker blue background than that used by his branch of the family. These must be Marcus Vintner's men. His mouth tightened as he realized there were no banners on a pale blue ground.

  He idly noted the army had camped on the forested side of the city, well away from pastureland and arable crops. Patches of bare ground throughout the forest showed it too was a crop; Marka had earned its renown across the continent for its wooden furniture and other wood articles.

  "I am Verdin Branad Vintner, son of Branad Ulvic Vintner." He announced himself with a touch of formality.

  The men barely acknowledged him. They showed no surprise to see him or the caravan. As if they were expected.

  "Branad's tent is twelve spanas that way," said one. "Room for your caravan maybe, but probably not your tents."

  Mikhan's eyes narrowed at the familiar use of Branad Vintner's name, but he said nothing.

  That his father's tent stood at all proved he at least still lived. Verdin thanked the guards and waited for Mikhan to pass the orders back. He rode slowly in the indicated direction and tried to ignore the large number of soldiers staring at him and his entourage. Neither hostile nor friendly.

  Every standard Verdin saw was the gold dragon's head on a dark blue field, so he must have entered the sprawling camp by Marcus's end. He glanced at the city walls and marveled at their size. The camp sat within easy catapult range of the city.

  "Looks as though neither claimant was welcomed with open arms," he remarked.

  Mikhan showed his teeth. "The Council and Senate are probably still arguing over which claim to recognize," he replied. "Whoever invited your father and his cousin to Marka did so in the knowledge there was no easy decision."

  "But my father lives." He was cheered by the news.

  "Look over there." Mikhan pointed to two male sylphs. Neither looked particularly sylphic, dressed only in peculiar short breeches and painted green, gray and brown, one with vivid black slashes across his chest. "What do you suppose those are for?" The Marshal looked as though the mystery of M
arcus's good battlefield intelligence had been solved.

  "Sylphs?" Verdin blinked. "I wonder what the Supreme Council and Senate have to say about Marcus Vintner using sylphs in his army?"

  "That probably depends what he uses them for."

  Soldiers – at least Verdin recognized these men – ran downhill to meet the caravan and direct it to a clear place beside Branad's tent. The man himself came to meet them.

  "Father."

  Verdin and Branad embraced. Verdin's mother, sister-mother and his sisters came out of the armored carriage and took their turn to hug Branad, pleased to see him alive. There were a few relieved tears.

  "We passed a battlefield on the Candin Plain," said Verdin.

  A shadow passed across Branad's face. "We didn't win."

  Marshal Mikhan slipped from his horse. "What were the terms?" he demanded.

  "They captured me." Branad sounded close to tears and his son stared at him in consternation. "I agreed to follow Marcus until we reached Marka."

  "And beyond, else you'd be fighting again." Mikhan looked about him.

  "Come inside." Branad turned and walked towards his tent.

  "We saw some sylphs covered in paint," said Verdin, walking beside his father. "We assume they are Marcus Vintner's? Why has he broken the precepts? What does he use them for? Oh."

  Branad sighed. "Verdin, this is Belaika-y-Marcus. He belongs to Cousin Marcus."

  The named sylph, painted in field colors and also with the vivid black slashes, inclined his head, but his earpoints were slanted forward. His silvery gray eyes held irritation.

  Mikhan stared at the sylph, but his eyes also held understanding.

  Branad broke the short silence. "Cousin Marcus uses them as scouts. Apparently, it is something the sylphs offered to do. They are excellent and I can vouch for that."

  Much of Belaika's irritation faded.

  Mikhan looked at the sylph with increased respect. "Yes, I can see how they're ideally suited for scouting. This paint will hide them in most backgrounds, and their ability to stay perfectly still in almost any position helps disguise them. Their senses are superior and I also believe their hearing range is greater." He had been speaking to himself; now he raised his voice a little. "How do you communicate with each other in the field, Belaika-y-Marcus?"