The Conqueror Page 10

  “Ah—no, not exactly in that way.” They were sort of bound to bring that up.

  Vall allowed the silence to sink in. Sinopus was a threat to them in the psychological sense, and it would take a fool not to see it.

  “Does the Great Khan fear that the Emperor will initiate aggressive war against the Horde? Then surely this is not the place for negotiation, Lord Vall. You would be better served to speak to him a little more directly about that.” She considered his problem with a formal air. “One thing I have learned over the years, is not to butt my nose in where it is not welcome. However, that is not to say that we don’t have trade and customs agreements in place with the Empire. It is common knowledge that we do.”

  She was speaking for the sake of not having dead silence in the room, she was speaking to gain a little breathing space for all of them. While they had some idea, it was up to Vall to state a case.

  “Perhaps we might intercede on the Great Khan’s behalf.”

  His reluctance, his very presence, indicated this might be something out of the everyday routine.

  Eleanora beckoned, and her secretary, tense with the atmosphere in there and the need not to draw attention to oneself, started out of a head-down trance of transcription and listening intently.

  “Yes? Majesty?”

  “Water.”

  The secretary bobbed up to pour from Eleanora’s pitcher.

  Lord Vall, looking a bit bedraggled by this time, sipped at his own water while they all took a moment to regroup mentally. None of them wanted this to degenerate into a slug-fest.

  It was Eleanora who spoke first.

  When she did, it was as flat, confident and neutral in tone as she could make it.

  “I will personally give to the Great Khan our assurances, Lord Vall. It goes something like this. In any conflict between the Horde and the Empire, it is our intention to remain neutral, and to maintain our sovereignty. It is our intention not to get sucked into fights that are not our concern and not to any single one’s benefit—not at any price. Furthermore. It is our intention to work actively with our neighbors in the advance of collective security, and peaceful commerce, and the self-determination of peoples. We believe that whatever the provocation, whatever the cause, all international disputes should and will be worked out by fair, open and peaceful negotiation sanctioned by all parties.”

  “Ah, well—yes, of course—of course…”

  Yes, of course, they would have to say something like that. It was an official position, one most carefully stated for the record. She would no doubt release the gist of it immediately, the minute the meeting was over.

  Vall was visibly sweating now, and yet a look of wry humor crossed his face. He was beginning to see why Eleanora had such a reputation. He was beginning to understand that a mere woman could be every inch able, even worthy to govern in her own right. The success of her kingdom, flourishing insofar as he had been able to see, was no mere fluke. These westerners were very different, of course.

  No reputable Hordesman would stand it for a second.

  “And?”

  You had to admire her in that moment—the Great Khan could swallow her whole if he so chose, probably in no time at all if he focused exclusively on Windermere. A thousand ships could be here in two weeks, a month at most, even if they had to row all the way. There was a fine port just a few miles from the capital, and there were negligible forces to oppose the Khan. It was an interesting judgment call, for if Windermere was valuable, it was not entirely vital to the plan as he had half-guessed it. He understood only so much of what the Great Khan had in mind. He was only going to be told so much and have only so much to go on. In short, he was a diplomat, and yes, a spy of sorts, reporting back his impressions, giving long accounts of what he had seen and heard. He was obviously not going to be the only spy or person with an agenda hereabouts, but his impressions had confirmed in some very thorough briefings before departure. Clearly they were all doing their homework. As someone in the service once said, what you don’t know can’t be wrested from you under torture.

  But he was no general, no admiral, and therefore not privy to all of that sort of information. Perhaps that was best, in that it made his job so much simpler, but it placed him in a terribly awkward position sometimes.

  It’s not that he couldn’t put himself in their places, in fact that was a requirement. He had a mission to perform, statements to make and it wasn’t personal in any way. Not to one such as Vall. It was better than kings talking it out face-to-face sometimes—that would end in bloodshed as often as not, or Lord Vall didn’t know kings. He put all of this in a friendly, even casual tone, just laying out the groundwork for what might be a working agreement. If they were amenable. It was all in how you put it, sometimes.

  It wouldn’t do to be rude, after all. Luckily, the laws of diplomacy had been long-established, and few of the more sophisticated rulers took men like him too personally. If only they were taking him seriously, that was all that mattered.

  When he called them assurances, he meant exactly that, he told them. Just assurances against the uncertain times that lay ahead…

  It was all just a game, when you analyzed it. And yet, at the same time, Lord Vall was very conscious that he was a guest in her house.

  The entire diplomatic party was in their power, and perhaps that was just. It made the risks apparent to all.

  “It’s just that we were hoping for something…a little more.” He faltered, the papers wavering in his hand, as he was no longer a young man himself, and there was the odd little tremor to contend with.

  Her eyes dropped to the first page and she began to read.

  Her eyebrows began to climb and then those formidable eyes came up and for the first time in a very long time, Lord Vall knew the thrill of fear.

  But they’d always known she was going to hate it.

  In Lord Vall’s opinion, a benign protectorate was the best they could hope for under the circumstances.

  True neutrality was going to be an illusory goal for Windermere, or so Lord Vall assured them.

  Chapter Ten

  Lowren’s hunting lodge was located near what was called an outlier, a place where a portion of the long escarpment above the plains had broken away. As the land settled, the slot between the two got wider. This created a narrow canyon, open at both ends, separating what was a small table-top mountain from its parent. Standing five or six hundred feet above the surrounding plain, its crags were heavily forested and its eroded limestone fissures issued forth a hundred streams and rivulets. The canyon itself was a wonderful place to hunt on foot with the bow. It was within easy riding distance of the lodge, and the dogs would either hunt alongside the men or be held by boys looking after the horses while the party scoured the canyon and side-ravines on foot.

  Caves along both rims, where the ground sloped up to the base of fairly substantial cliffs sheltered the occasional bear. The forest was full of small varmints which were good for the pot, although deer were scarce this week for some reason. There were plenty of deer trails and plenty of deer tracks. There were signs of recent browsing and plenty of fresh droppings—just no deer.

  However, a group of the younger warriors had come up with an elk, and Bastian had, according to the story, ridden up alongside at a full gallop as it bounded away. Taking the thing completely by surprise, the youngster killed it with a single shot to the heart. Lowren had given the trooper a thin gold necklace that he had personally worn many times. To the lad, it meant a lot and to Lowren, it was just one small slice of a treasury that dated back to the reign of his father, a most prudent man and a bit of a miser. Lowren saw the value in that now. All liberality stems from economy—just one of many maxims of government the old fellow had passed on to two attentive if highly-spirited sons. The smell of the elk roasting had been something to be experienced, notwithstanding the home cooking at his own house or the more sophisticated or even just unfamiliar dishes he had experienced in his recent travel
s.

  There were tall pines and massive oaks, sheltering the lodge from strong winds and providing acorns in the case of the quercus genus to attract large numbers of deer, in season and upon occasion.

  It was too early for any major threads of migration that would stretch on for miles after an initial trickle had swelled into flood proportions.

  In the meantime, no matter what sort of a time the men were having, and they were surely enjoying themselves, but Lowren was a bit bored. He was feeling away from events and cut off from information. If they weren’t here to take meat, specifically venison for the winter supply, then he at least might as well be elsewhere. He had too much to think about, too much to worry about, and too much to do rather than stick around the lodge. He had spent too much time here in the past, he decided. When I should have been learning, studying—and building up a more professional little army.

  While he was still young. He was now an only son, and if he fell, who would be there to look after his mother? What about those who could not fight, and who would be defenseless if their king and too many of his men fell in a war they all saw coming and none save one really wanted if they were honest with themselves?

  This wasn’t about patriotism, something he had a kind of contempt for. All wars are ultimately fought for economic reasons, in Lowren’s personal opinion.

  The questions were many and the answers few.

  Men being what they were, they would flock to his colors, and this humbled him in some ways. But wasn’t it better than packing it all up on carts and heading west?

  He could not imagine himself as a vassal or his people as slaves of the Horde. The mere thought brought anger—was this patriotism? Or was it the human heart, the human condition, and its own stubborn notions of justice?

  To flee would ultimately be futile, he was convinced of that.

  Sooner or later, they would run hard up against some other nation and their enlightened self-interest—although there were kindred tribes, there hadn’t been much contact in recent years. No one alive today could quite say, just where the Molimni, for example, might be sought, or how long it might take a man to ride there. They might welcome some new allies, or be threatened by the imminent arrival of a new nation in a land they had made their own. Certainly their neighbors would be watching closely, with a few concerns of their own. So much of statecraft involved a balancing act.

  Then there were the times when his thoughts turned to Eleanora. There was the sovereign, and then there was the person. There was the question of which way she would jump.

  After consulting with all and sundry, it was believed that the Queen of Windermere was about thirty-two, certainly no more than thirty-five years of age. The vanity of women being what it was, and the vanity of queens being what that was, no one was really sure and no one had ever come up with a really good way of asking. It was a kind of state secret, he thought with a grin, not that he didn’t like her all the more for it.

  After seeing her in the flesh, Lowren figured she was two or three years older than he, no more than that. It was an odd thought, but brides had been offered to Lowren before and he had always disengaged himself from such negotiations as inoffensively as he possibly could. He just wasn’t ready, perhaps.

  Or perhaps not!

  Eleanora had the most disturbing eyes—one look and you knew you had met your equal. Not that that really changed anything.

  If only.

  Even kings had their forlorn dreams of a sort.

  ***

  The bard, clad in faded and baggy, weather-beaten finery that had seen better days, with the dust of the road still on his shoes, strummed his lute and sang forlornly for his supper.

  With deadly malice and unerring aim

  The slender bolt, its point touched with flame

  Into the thatch, so carelessly flown

  The hand is revealed, the face still unknown

  And the raging flames by the strong winds are blown

  Out of the smoke, straight through the pyre

  An apparition, he steps from the fire

  His armour bright, the blade strong and bright...

  Lo and behold, from his ashes and his dust

  The Conqueror arises, as surely one must—

  Surely he knows thee, and the flavour of your mind

  For you always come back, and when it is time

  He will make short work, of you and your kind.

  “Yeah!” One or two of them were indulging in a liquid lunch.

  A small grin stole over his face. He was just warming them up for a longer show later in the day.

  He broke off and bobbed his head at a few polite murmurs from the few loungers in the room.

  The bard cleared his throat in modest fashion before speaking.

  “Thank you, thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “Where’s Bibbs?” Lowren strode into the hall, where a few loungers and tankards and the smell of ale attested to their fairly simple plans for the days ahead.

  He nodded at one or two newcomers.

  “Ah, sire. I believe he’s off with some of the lads.”

  Lowren nodded at the unfamiliar young face. Another spoke up, a pudgy beardless fellow. It really wasn’t necessary to get up when Lowren entered the room, and as if sensing that, the fellow froze for a second and then lowered himself back into the seat from what was looking like an awkward position.

  “They’re following the tracks of some wild cattle. At least that’s what they said, sire.”

  Lowren nodded and sought out Garvin, having heard his voice and a snippet of talk from the storerooms at the rear of the hall, where the back of the main hearth dominated the kitchen and washing areas.

  “Garvin. We shall have to leave Bibbs and the others a note.”

  “Absolutely, sire.”

  Lowren made up his mind quickly in some situations, and took much time at others.

  This was one of those times when the decision to leave, having eaten at him all day, must be acted upon at once. In truth, the capture of some stray cows would be good work and almost a kind of military exercise. Bibbs could learn about command and handling kids, and the young men could be alone, out of sight of both their own nominal serjeants and their hopefully not-so-nominal sovereign.

  “Are we going somewhere, sire?”

  “Yes. We’ll need good horses. Four or five men will be plenty.” There were one or two dogs lying about, but they were content enough.

  There was a small contingent of household servants to look after them—and Bibbs and the other men if it came right down to it.

  Lowren grinned, gnawing at a lip. Odds were they’d have an impromptu and slightly-guilty little party as soon as the reality of their abandonment sank in. Couldn’t blame them, really. He might have done the same thing in their place.

  The young men, all ears around the king, possibly the very troopers in question, looked at each other and back to the conversation. They put their mugs and cups down with solid thunks.

  “I’ll just go pack your things, sire.” Garvin stared at a trooper, one in particular, and the lad stepped right up from the bench and came over.

  “Sire.”

  Lowren glanced at him, nodded, and then strode out the door.

  “Come with me, and I sure hope your hands are all nice and clean.” Garvin was only half-kidding.

  Lowren’s hunting garb was as humble as the next man’s and about as grubby, after a week of riding tall-grass prairie, bordering on dry scrub-steppe, and then there was the muck and heavy brush up in the hills, over in the back and beyond.

  He practically slid to a halt on his heels. He turned and gave the others a serious look. He picked them off, one by one with a pointed finger.

  “You. You. You...and You. Pack your things. If I know Lowren, we’ll be gone within a half an hour.”

  That left enough manpower to look after things.

  A thin, lonely hand went up. The boy was pale and a bit narrow in the shoulders. Qui
te tall, they were sort of wondering when he’d begin to fill out.

  “Uh...sir?”

  “Ah, yeah. Stott. You too.”

  Stott leapt to his feet, looking relieved and slightly-apprehensive at the same time.

  Other than that, there had to be some paper, a bloody quill and some ink around the place somewhere. It was a royal residence, after all.

  Now, what would Garvin put in a note to Bibbs, other than the obvious. He strode from the room with his new side-kick right at his heels.

  He looked around Lowren’s sparsely furnished bedroom, big enough and with wide, heavily-shuttered windows and its own big fireplace.

  “All right, bag it all up. Carefully—”

  “Right, serjeant.” The fellow was willing enough, anyways, and if he was lacking in skill, that could be rectified by a little coaching.

  “Fold it, fold it lad.”

  Garvin found what he was looking for in Lowren’s small desk, a relic from the past and looking distinctly shabby, sitting there rather forlornly, tilting slightly back towards the wall, with the bottoms of the back legs soft and a bit shorter now from the dry-rot.

  “Ah, yes.” He sat down, pulled out a sheet of paper and inked a quill that didn’t look like it needed sharpening too badly.

  It took a moment and then he had it. The surface rocked slightly under the weight of his elbows. Lowren really ought to do something about that, he thought.

  Dear Trooper Bibbs,

  You are in charge of the men here and the old woman has charge of the kitchen and household. Don’t mess with her. Don’t screw it up and don’t let any of these younger fellows kill themselves. Come home when you run out of food...or ale, or stories or whatever.

  No, that wouldn’t do. He crumpled it up.

  He looked at the blushing trooper as the boy packed Lowren’s spare tunic, a loose flowing cotton shirt, and one or two slightly more intimate items of clothing. Here he was, putting the king’s hose and underclothes in a bag that smelled distinctly like it belonged to any regular, everyday, mortal human being. The kid had this awed look on his face and Garvin bit back unnecessary comment.