James West - Queen of the North

Algar snorted. “Not in the least.”

“Be that as it may,” Jathen said, “I charge you with keeping Rathe and his companions out of their hands.”

“So I must protect the man I will soon kill?”

“You will, if you want him to die by your hand.”

“There’s nothing I want more.”

“Then keep him safe, friend. If it serves you better, think of Rathe as a chicken you’ve been fattening up for a fine supper.”

“A chicken ?” Algar said derisively. Cold seemed to seep out of the seeing glass, and for a moment Jathen thought sure Algar could see him. He shook that off, knowing only one seeing glass of the pair-his, in point of fact-allowed the user to see as well as to hear.

Algar abruptly nodded. “I’ll do what I must.”

There came a rustling, Algar’s face vanished, and then Jathen was left to sit peering at darkness swirling inside his seeing glass.

The celebration had escaped the common room of the Cracked Flagon, but still roared up and down the snowy streets of Valdar. Shouts, drunken songs, and laughter seeped through inn’s walls, along with drafts of cold night air. Queen Erryn had feasted her men, but now she was grateful for the relative quiet. Her mind had a will to wander without General Aedran or his captains bothering her with details of the coming march.

Sipping wine that she didn’t need, it struck her that a queen ought to have a bard. She laughed at the idea of having some grinning fool trailing her about, spouting clever turns of phrase.

Breyon shot her a questioning look from across the common room. She shrugged, and he went back to pacing. He was so silent that she had almost forgotten he was there. Crackling flames danced on the hearth, casting his crookbacked shadow across wooden paneling and racks of antlers. The Cracked Flagon was not much in the way of a keep, and its common room sorely lacked the majesty of a proper throne room-or, for that matter, a proper throne-but it was the best Valdar had to offer its first sovereign.

“’Tis not right for you to leave,” Breyon said abruptly, his tone scolding. He showed her about as much respect as General Aedran and the rest of the Prythians, which was to say very little.

That didn’t trouble Erryn anymore, for why should anyone show deference to someone who had not earned it? That was the way of the fat and pampered, those born to power, those who had never earned gold and glory with steel, blood, and sweat. The way she intended to win support harkened back to ancient times, before men had plopped their arses into cushioned chairs and settled pretty crowns upon their heads. As it stood, she didn’t even have a crown. But I will have one, and I will forge it with my own hands.

When Breyon cleared his throat, Erryn turned her mind to what he had said. “I must leave … unless you want to have a weak queen who points and commands, but otherwise never lifts a finger to achieve her desires?” She had spoken slowly to keep her words from slurring, and felt confident she was hiding her drunkenness fairly well.

Breyon mumbled under his breath as he moved to the feast table-not a proper High Table, but three rickety tables pushed together. Her steward searched the confusion of platters, wooden cups, and trenchers. He ripped a drumstick off a decimated chicken, and took a bite with his few remaining teeth. By the time he tossed the bone into the fire, grease shone on his whiskered chin. Wiping his fingers across the chest of his tunic, a ratty thing of patched brown wool, he set to pacing again. Each clumping step swayed hanks of oily gray hair around his long face.

Watching him plod one way, whirl, and come back, made it seem like the room was spinning more than ever. With a groan, Erryn reclined her chair, eyes lidded. She tossed one leather-clad leg up on the table, her foot kicking a bowl of half-eaten stew to the stone floor with a dull clatter.

A pair of wiry-haired dogs crept from the shadows toward the mess. They snarled and snapped at one another, and the larger dog gave ground without much of a fight, its tail tucked between its hind legs. The smaller one watched its beaten adversary with ears pricked, then set to lapping up the stew.

“Is that all it takes to win,” she asked, “be it a battle, or a crown, or a bowl of stew?”

“Eh?” Breyon had returned to the tables, and now held a heel of dark bread. One edge was soggy with wine. The steward took a bite so big he could not close his mouth.

Erryn waved her hand at the smaller dog. “To win followers, wars, whatever else you desire, is courage all you need to beat greater strength?”

Breyon squinted at her, soppy breadcrumbs littering his chest. “Eh?”

“Have the gods struck you deaf, you old fool?”

Breyon swallowed, his throat working convulsively. He managed to get the food down without strangling himself. He looked at what was left of the bread in his hand, made a face, and tossed it aside. “ Courage? Strength? What do I know of such things? Till you come along, I was naught but a humble woodcutter and sometime gaoler for Lord Sanouk.”

“The dogs ,” Erryn insisted, needing to hear from someone, other than the voices in her mind, that success could be won, if you had courage enough.

Breyon glanced around, baffled. “Dogs? What’ve dogs got to do with anything? They wallow in the shit of lesser beasts, eat their own vomit quick as they gobble what you toss ‘em. Gods protect you if you look to the way of dogs for answers to anything.”

Erryn exhaled a gloomy sigh. If she wanted promises and hope, false or otherwise, she was not about to get them from Breyon. That left the truth. “You said it was not right for me to leave. Why?”

“Well,” he said slowly, “who’s to lead Valdar, if not the queen?”

“Until I return, you’ll lead Valdar. I named you steward, you accepted, and that’s what stewards do. I also leave with you two thousand strong Prythians to secure my holdings. With winter nipping our arses,” she added, trying for a humorous tone, “most likely you’ll spend your days making sure the miners aren’t pilfering any gold they take out of the mountains, and your nights drinking wine and dandling whores on your bony knees.”

Face wooden, Breyon turned back to the fire. “Never led anyone but myself, an’ mayhap an ox or two.”

“And you’ve done well,” Erryn said, aware that instead of receiving assurances, she was doing all the consoling. Maybe, she considered, that was part of being a good queen.

“I’ve you to thank for most all of it.”

“As I recall, you played a part in sacking Fortress Hilan-a large part. I dare say we’d not have won, if you hadn’t led your woodsmen friends to join me, Loro, and Lady Nesaea’s Maidens.”

He shrugged off the praise. “Lord Sanouk was a cruel bastard- evil , if the stories of what he did to those folk down in Hilan’s catacombs are true-and he deserved what he got. Could be that the gods lent me a bit of strength and wits, just to bring him down a notch.”

Lord Sanouk had been brought far lower than a notch, Erryn considered. He was a corpse. And, even if it had been Rathe’s hand that made him so, the Scorpion of Cerrikoth would not have had that opportunity if not for the efforts of others, many who had perished that night.

“The gods might’ve played their part in helping you,” Erryn allowed, “but as I see it, you still have strength and wits enough to secure Valdar while I’m away.”

Breyon shook his head. “I’m just a woodcutter.”

“No!” Erryn said fiercely, sitting up straight and jabbing a finger at him. “You’re Steward of Valdar. If you don’t start acting the part, I’ll have off your manhood, and feed it to yonder dogs.”