The Bear sotfk-4 Page 5

  "To tell you of the proclamation of St. Mere Abelle," Cormack said, "though it seems you have already heard the word."

  "Even the church could not swallow the bile of the fool Yeslnik," said Ethelbert, his voice strained as he spat the cursed name.

  "And we came because you've wound yourself into a tight spot," Dawson said bluntly. "And so have we, caught in the walls of St. Mere Abelle."

  Ethelbert paused, his face growing very serious. All around him men tensed, a reaction similar to that out on the docks when Dawson had mentioned the state of the war.

  "The Dame of Vanguard will not see Yeslnik win," Dawson quickly added.

  "Dame Gwydre will support my cause?"

  Dawson paused, frowning. "It's a bit more complicated than that, Laird Ethelbert." Dawson looked all around. "Perhaps in a setting more private," he continued in a lower voice. To the surprise of many in the room, and to the absolute shock of Father Destros, Laird Ethelbert nodded his agreement and told his attendants to arrange it immediately.

  Dawson and Cormack exchanged quick, knowing looks: Laird Ethelbert's predicament was obviously as dire as they had heard.

  In short order, the three visitors to the city sat in a small room before Ethelbert, who was flanked by an older veteran warrior and Father Destros on one side and by the dark-skinned woman from Behr on the other. Unlike all the others in the room, she did not sit down, and her hand did not stray far from the hilt of the fabulous sword hanging on her left hip, a sword that looked exactly like the one Bransen carried.

  "Choose your words carefully," Laird Ethelbert warned to begin the negotiation.

  "We didn't sail halfway around the world, dodging Palmaristown warships and powrie barrelboats all the way, to dance pretty," Dawson replied.

  "What does Dame Gwydre offer?"

  "Not just Dame Gwydre, but St. Mere Abelle, as well," Cormack interjected.

  Ethelbert shifted painfully in his seat, seeming even older than before.

  "The war does not go well for you," said Dawson. "You've put a grand fight against Yeslnik and his uncle before him, by all accounts, but there's too many in Delaval and Palmaristown, and all along the river. Yeslnik can put fifty thousand in the field, and you've just a tenth o' that."

  "We have heard proclamations of our defeat before," answered the veteran at Ethelbert's side. "Usually right before we chased Yeslnik from the field!"

  "A grand fight," Dawson said again. "And no disrespect intended-far from it. Would that Laird Ethelbert had won the war outright, but 'twas not to be and is not to be."

  "Then what?" asked Ethelbert. "I thought Dawson claimed that he did not dance prettily."

  "True enough," replied the old sea dog from rugged Vanguard. "You cannot win, and you know you cannot win."

  "I will kill him for you, great Ethelbert," the woman in silk promised in a thick Behr accent, leaning forward.

  Ethelbert held up his hand to silence her. "What do you know?"

  "Only what you know," Dawson replied. "And not to doubt that our own situation isn't much more promising, except that we're caught behind the tall and thick walls of the great chapel, with a horde of monks and magical gemstones to keep our enemies out. And not to doubt that we're not to win over Yeslnik's thousands, either."

  "Not alone," Cormack explained.

  "You've come for an alliance," said Ethelbert. "Ethelbert dos Entel and Vanguard, combined against Yeslnik."

  "And the Order of Blessed Abelle," Cormack added. "Those who remain loyal to Father Artolivan, at least, for rumor spreads that Yeslnik has created a shadow church to subvert Father Artolivan's power."

  Father Destros's face tightened at that, but he nodded to show that he was not surprised and, it appeared, to offer a bit of support for Artolivan.

  "Then as I said out in the main chamber you have come to offer your support for my cause," said Ethelbert.

  "Partly that," Dawson replied. "An alliance, but not fealty."

  "Explain."

  "Dame Gwydre is your peer, not your subject, and the church of Father Artolivan is something altogether different than those choices," said Dawson. "We need to work together to rid the land of Yeslnik, but not to place King Ethelbert in his stead."

  That had all of those seated opposite Dawson bristling with outrage. Except for Ethelbert, who leaned back and rubbed a hand wearily over his old, wrinkled face. After some consideration, he shook his head.

  "Vanguard separate, perhaps," he said. "But not the other holdings. It cannot be. After years of war and with the roads locked under the boots of armies, Honce cannot be as she was. The lairds must stand united."

  "Aye, and not Vanguard separate," said Dawson.

  "Then what?" Ethelbert demanded. "What does Dame Gwydre want?"

  "Queen Gwydre," Dawson dared to correct, widening the eyes of the four across the room. "Ethelbert remains independent and supreme in his holding," Dawson quickly added. "Your city is your own, good laird, in gratitude from all of Honce for the battle you dared wage."

  "Silence!" Laird Ethelbert shouted. "You come to my throne demanding fealty of me?"

  "We come demanding nothing but offering our help in your struggle with Yeslnik."

  "Mutual benefit?"

  Dawson nodded. "Best kind."

  "But to the end result of a Queen Gwydre?" Ethelbert asked incredulously. "Why would I agree to any such thing?"

  "Because your only other choice is to be pushed into the sea," Cormack said, surprising everyone. "Or to remain trapped here surrounded by enemies. With a Queen Gwydre enthroned, Laird Ethelbert would be a man of the highest standing across the realm, independent within his own holding and in his dealings with others, like the sheiks of Behr. Such will not be the case with a King Yeslnik."

  "But wouldn't that be the case with King Ethelbert?" the laird asked.

  "We cannot prevail were those the terms," said Cormack. "Our only hope lies in turning some of Yeslnik's minions to our cause. The Order of Blessed Abelle helps with that, but the name of Ethelbert is not held in high esteem in the lands of central and western Honce. You have dug deep trenches with your war, and not a family in Honce has been spared the grief. Such is not true of Dame Gwydre, who will be viewed as an alternative to the misery the common folk have known these last months and years. They will view her with hope, a savior from their pain, and will perhaps turn against their King Yeslnik and fight for her."

  The old warrior to Ethelbert's side began to protest, but the laird cut him short with a snarling and derisive, "The common folk."

  "All the men of Vanguard and all the men at your command combined would falter at the feet of Yeslnik's great army," said Dawson.

  "And so you are in as desperate a situation as I," Ethelbert protested.

  "Nay, for we can just sail home and be done with it," Dawson replied.

  "The walls of St. Mere Abelle are impenetrable," Cormack added. "Forever and more can the brothers remain within. We are all quite above this war of yours if we so choose."

  Ethelbert's narrowed eyes were his only response.

  "Or it would have been, and still would be, a small matter for Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan to broker a truce with Yeslnik in exchange for the autonomy of Vanguard, a land for which he cares little, and to which he cannot easily march or sail," Cormack added, though didn't quite believe. "But we choose this path."

  "Because Dame Gwydre is no different than Delaval and Yeslnik," Ethelbert said with a snicker.

  "So different you'd never think her a laird… err, dame," Dawson answered.

  "Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan choose this path out of generosity and duty," said Cormack. "They cannot abide the agony the common folk of Honce suffer because of the designs of an ambitious laird."

  Ethelbert stiffened at that, and Cormack added, "We know that Delaval began this war, and that you tried to do as we now hope. And we have no love of Yeslnik or his second from Palmaristown, a brutal and wretched man. We would see Yeslnik defeated. This is
the only way, and even this plan seems desperate."

  "But you would do it for Queen Gwydre?" asked Ethelbert.

  "We do it because it's right," Dawson answered. "Same reason we just fought the Samhaists in Vanguard."

  "But you called it desperate and claim that you can sail away from it."

  "A sorry bunch of heroes that'd make us," said Dawson.

  "Heroes, yes," the laird replied with more than a little sarcasm.

  "We have come as friends and allies, Laird Ethelbert," Cormack said, "openly and under a flag of truce. Our offer is one of cooperation and friendship and is yours to accept or reject."

  "And if I reject?"

  "We sail away to St. Mere Abelle."

  "To Yeslnik's side?"

  "Never," Cormack and Dawson said together.

  Ethelbert managed a nod of acceptance at that. He waved them away, then. "Go to your boat or remain in the castle if you choose-my attendants will see to your room and needs. We will meet again when I have discussed this with my generals here."

  The three rose, bowed, and turned to leave, but Cormack hesitated and fixed his gaze on the Behr warrior woman. "That sword," he said. "It is most marvelous."

  The woman eyed him dangerously, unblinking.

  "Affwin Wi is from the land of Behr, where such swords are crafted," Ethelbert answered.

  "It is Jhesta Tu, is it not?"

  "Speaking a name does not reveal understanding," the dark woman replied in her thick Behr accent, biting the syllables short and almost stabbing with the hard consonant sounds. "And does not impress. Speaking of what you do not know is the mark of a fool."

  Cormack sorted out a reply, wanting to explore the origin of this particular sword a bit further. Instead he changed his mind and just smiled, bowed, and caught up with his companions, who had decided to go back to the security of Lady Dreamer. Impertinent fools," said Kirren Howen, the general who had sat by Laird Ethelbert's side for the private meeting. Past middle age but not nearly Ethelbert's contemporary, the thick-haired, graying warrior took care with his tone to make his claim one of support and not absolute judgment.

  Laird Ethelbert turned from the counter where he was pouring fine liquor for the two into delicate glasses he had recently received from Behr.

  "Look at these," he said, holding them up for his friend. "You can see the tan liquid through their shining sides. So much more delicate and beautiful than a bronze mug, no matter how many wolves or dancing ladies you carve into one."

  Kirren Howen cocked his head curiously. "Yes, laird." He took the glass as Ethelbert moved over and extended it to him.

  "Yet another fine example of the idiocy of parochialism, do you agree?"

  The general seemed not to understand.

  "Beasts of Behr!" Ethelbert exclaimed with a laugh, explaining it all so bluntly and so simply, as was his wont. Certainly Kirren Howen caught on to the meaning immediately. For most of Honce, the desert kingdom south of the impassable mountains was a place of barbarians and beasts masquerading as men. But Laird Ethelbert and those of his court knew better.

  "Have you ever seen Affwin Wi dance?"

  "My laird?"

  "You have witnessed her in battle, no doubt."

  "Of course."

  "As fine a warrior as ever carried a blade-though she would not even need a blade to kill most opponents."

  "I cannot deny the truth of that."

  "She is equally exquisite when she dances. A promise of love, delicate and beautiful, or dangerous, even deadly. She can twirl about on the ball of one foot slowly enough to kill a man with lust or break into a spin so fast that if she kicked out of it she could surely crush a man's heart with her foot. She is Behr, you see. So raw and pure, colorful and dark, delicate and deadly."

  The door burst in then and two men, brawny warriors both, stumbled into the room, nearly tripping over each other.

  "My laird," they said together.

  "I can take their miserable ship right out of the water, Laird Ethelbert," promised one, Myrick the Bold, the ferocious and impetuous commander of Entel, the city's dock section.

  "And I will deliver their heads to the gates of Chapel Abelle," said the other, an enormously strong man named Tyne.

  "I thank the old ones and Blessed Abelle and the Sun God of Behr-whichever might be listening!-for you every day, Kirren," Ethelbert said to his older and calmer general. He tapped his glass against Kirren Howen's.

  Another man, small of frame and hardly hinting at any warrior stature, rushed into the room. "Your pardon, my laird," said Palfry, Ethelbert's favorite attendant, like a son to the old laird. "I tried to slow them…"

  "I told you to summon these two, Palfry, not to excite them," Ethelbert said with a slight chuckle. "You know how hot run the humors of Myrick and Tyne!"

  "Yes, laird," Palfry said, lowering his eyes.

  "What do you think, Kirren?" Ethelbert asked. "Should we let Myrick sink this boat from Vanguard and just kill the emissaries, or cut off their heads as Tyne suggests?"

  Kirren Howen's eyes went wide with surprise. Quite the diplomat, are you not?" Cormack scolded Dawson again when they and Milkeila were alone in the captain's private room on Lady Dreamer.

  Dawson snorted. "Speaks the man who told Ethelbert he couldn't win the war."

  "What choice was I given after Dawson proclaimed Gwydre the Queen of Honce?"

  "I didn't sail halfway around the world to parse my words, monk," said Dawson.

  "His temperament might have been more calm if we'd brought Callen Duwornay," Milkeila suggested softly, not looking at them.

  Both men gaped at her, then laughed aloud, the tension broken. The budding love between Dawson McKeege, Dame Gwydre's most trusted advisor, and Callen, the mother-in-law of the rogue known as the Highwayman, was, after all, the worst-kept secret on the Mirianic.

  "It was a dangerous play," Cormack said after a bit, as Dawson broke out a jug of his rum and three wooden mugs.

  "The world's burning, front to back," Dawson replied, handing Milkeila her mug first. It pleased him for some reason each time he remembered that this woman from Alpinador could drink the both of them under the table.

  "A play no less dangerous than Cormack's follow," Milkeila said in her somewhat shaky command of the Honce tongue. She brought the mug up, dipped a finger into it, and closed her eyes.

  "Now why do you do that?" Dawson asked. "A bit of barbarian magic to take the bite away?"

  Milkeila merely smiled as she always did when Dawson asked that predictable question. She took a great swallow of the rum, nearly draining the considerable mug.

  "She cheats," Dawson said to Cormack.

  "At everything," Milkeila's husband agreed. "That's why I keep her by my side."

  "Oh, I'm knowin' why you keep her by your side, monk. Too many days in a chapel full of men."

  Both men looked at Milkeila as Dawson finished the crude remark, but both knew better than to expect a blush from this warrior, strong with the spear and her shamanistic magic and secure and comfortable in her skin.

  "What I'm wondering is why she's keeping you," Dawson finished, raising his mug in toast to Milkeila, who smiled and returned the lift.

  "For once we agree," said Cormack.

  "Your words with Laird Ethelbert were correct," Milkeila said. "We should state our case openly with that one. He will see any deception, and he knows more about us than we believe."

  "Now where do you get that?" asked Dawson.

  Milkeila just stared at him hard, gradually directing his gaze to Cormack.

  "The woman from Behr," Cormack explained. "Her sword."

  "Looked a lot like Bransen's sword," said Dawson.

  "Such swords are common in Behr, perhaps," Cormack offered.

  "When we see her again, seek a vantage to peer beneath the left fold of her blouse," Milkeila advised.

  "Why would I be doing that, aside from her obvious charms?" asked Dawson.

  "I'm not sure," Milkeila repl
ied. "Just a hint, perhaps, and a guess. Laird Ethelbert is no fool. He has survived the overwhelming force of Laird Delaval and several times seemed almost on the edge of victory."

  "True enough," Cormack said. "He is cornered and in a desperate place, but let us not underestimate him."

  "Or those around him," Milkeila added. "We have witnessed the fighting prowess of the Highwayman, and if Laird Ethelbert's bodyguards are of equal skill they will be formidable."

  "If they're half as good as that one they could sink my ship by themselves," Dawson agreed and drained his wooden mug. I would, laird," Myrick the Bold said. "At your word, my archers will sweep the deck…"

  He stopped under the mocking laughter of Laird Ethelbert.

  "My laird?" he asked.

  "Yes, yes, we should kill every one of them!" Ethelbert said with sarcastic exuberance, which melted into a self-deprecating, lonely chuckle. "They committed the greatest crime of all."

  The three generals looked to each other with mounting confusion, and Kirren Howen finally asked, "Laird?"

  "They told the truth," Ethelbert explained. He wasn't looking at them as he spoke, rather staring off into the empty corner of the room. "The greatest crime of all, to tell a laird the truth."

  Another sad laugh ensued. When Ethelbert lifted his glass to his lips, his hand trembled severely. "Especially an old laird," he finished, looking back at the three.

  "What would you have me do, laird?" an exasperated Myrick asked.

  "Think," came the simple response.

  Myrick and Tyne exchanged confused looks, but when they turned to Kirren Howen they saw that he understood. His expression revealed his sadness.

  "So this is how we lose," Ethelbert said. "A much softer fall than we had expected, yes, Kirren?"

  "Perhaps no fall at all," the general replied. "Do you trust their promises of autonomy?"

  Ethelbert paused, then chuckled again, then shrugged. "Have I a choice? Truly?"

  "Yes, laird!" said Tyne. "Send them away! Or send their heads away!"

  "Our enemy gathers in the west," Ethelbert replied. "Our allies north along the coast have been ravaged. We'll find no reinforcements from Felidan Bay or the Mantis Arm. Yeslnik has razed those towns immediately west of us, so we'll find no support, supplies, or warriors should we choose to march. What is left to us, then? To wait here until the armies storm our gates once more?"