Brian Ruckley - Bloodheir

“My Blood fought alone until now,” Orisian snapped, his self-control faltering. “Our… my people would not expect me to stand aside and let others finish the struggle.”

“You think not?” The eyes above the smiling mouth were piercing and fixed. Orisian’s anger melted away, replaced by unease. He wondered if he had crossed some invisible, and dangerous, boundary; and whether he had done it himself or been led there by the Shadowhand.

“Well, perhaps you are right,” Mordyn murmured. “But Thanes must remember things that their people can sometimes forget, of course. The army Aewult has brought north is payment for an agreement his father made with your uncle. Gryvan protects those Bloods that have submitted to his own. A simple truth, best not forgotten.”

The Chancellor reached for the wine ewer. “Let me fill your cup.”

Orisian laid a hurried hand over the top of his goblet.

“No, thank you,” he said. His mind was rattling around, fumbling for some kind of handhold.

“Does the wine not meet with your approval?”

“No, it’s not that. It is as good as anything I’ve tasted. I’m tired, Chancellor, that’s all.”

“Ah. Well, these are trying times. The strongest of men would find it difficult, let alone someone of your youth. Perhaps you should consider excusing yourself from the feast tonight? I am sure Lheanor would understand; all of us would.”

The concern on Mordyn’s face was flawless. Whatever threat Orisian had seen there moments ago — or imagined he had seen — was utterly gone, replaced by simple sympathy. Sincere or not, it was utterly convincing and Orisian wondered at how easy it might be to be charmed by this man. Yet they said many men had died by his command, that every punishing tithe levied by the Haig Blood sprang from his greed, that he had turned the Ayth-Haig Thane into a helpless drunk, the better to subjugate his Blood.

“I could not do that, Chancellor,” Orisian said.

Mordyn smiled and spread his hands. “No? Well, perhaps not. Ah, but we can dream, can we not? To be freed of the responsibilities that weigh down upon us? In my weak moments, I think of little else.” He set his cup of wine down on the table. “Come, Thane. I’m keeping you from your preparations for the feast. Forgive my selfishness.”

The Chancellor rose. Orisian, trying not to show the relief he felt, did likewise. He left clutching the golden belt buckle, feeling its weight in his hand like the greatest of burdens.

Lagair Haldyn, the High Thane’s Steward in Kolkyre, was an indolent man. Mordyn Jerain knew this about him, just as he knew that he drank more than a wise man should, that he had a whore who would sometimes visit him when he travelled out of his wife’s sight, that he had once conspired in the death of a grain merchant in Vaymouth. His less than appealing traits and habits were, though, balanced by two compensating qualities that predisposed him to serve the High Thane loyally: ambition and greed.

“He is only a child, Chancellor,” the Steward was saying in that slovenly voice of his. “Since he turned up here he’s shown no aptitude. It’s as if he cannot believe he is Thane, as if he’s afraid of the very idea. He won’t present any problems.”

“He is young,” agreed Mordyn, “and it’s true that he’s come into this power long before he was ready for it. Still, there’s a bit of fire in him. I stoked it up enough to catch sight of it. Not enough to sustain him in a battle of wills with us, though, I suspect.”

He drained the last of the wine from his cup. It really was some of the very best wine to be had; quite wasted on Orisian oc Lannis-Haig. The ewer, still half full, stood on its little table. Lagair had been eyeing it greedily ever since he entered the room, but Mordyn had no intention of letting even one drop pass the man’s lips.

“He will get good advice from Taim Narran if he pays heed,” the Shadowhand said. “We would be wise to see if we can’t prise the two of them apart, one way or another. And then there’s Lheanor: he will look on Orisian with affection, no doubt.”

Lagair grunted. “Lheanor has his own difficulties. I tell you, that man’s on the edge of losing himself, just as Kennet nan Lannis-Haig did. He’s got himself all twisted up, taking Gerain’s death hard.”

“Fine. A grief-crippled Lheanor makes for an impotent Kilkry Blood. But Orisian oc Lannis-Haig still merits a close watch. Whether he likes it or not, he’s a potent figurehead for his Blood. All of this can yet end up very well for us, but not if we find ourselves burdened with an over-confident Lannis Blood, led by an ambitious young Thane.”

“Very well. I still think you worry too much, though.”

The Shadowhand shot Lagair a pointed glance and was rewarded with a flash of humility and nervousness in the Steward’s face.

“Fortunately, what you think is of less import than what I choose to worry about,” Mordyn said, articulating the words with precision.

The Steward smiled half-heartedly in agreement. Mordyn suspected that almost everything he did, even carousing with his whore, he did half-heartedly.

“If there’s glory to be had here, it’s Haig that must harvest it,” the Chancellor mused.

That, he thought with a touch of despondency, meant Aewult nan Haig. There were few people he judged less worthy of glory, but the Bloodheir was here and he would have to serve. The Lannis-Haig Blood must be indebted to Haig for its salvation, thus Aewult must work that salvation.

“I will talk to Aewult,” he continued. “We must ensure that Orisian stays here while we recover his homeland for him. And you, Steward: what is the state of your contacts here? Have you the means to set some rumours running in the backstreets and the markets?”

“If there is one thing I have learned in all my years,” said Lagair with a self-satisfied smirk, “it is that no Steward worth his title should ever be without the means to stir up a rumour or two.”

“Very well. Put it about that Orisian escaped the Black Road only because he fled and because he took sanctuary with woodwights and half-humans. And that he is too young and untried to save his Blood. All of those thoughts will already be rattling around somewhere in this rats’ nest of a city. Feed them; encourage them.”

Lagair nodded compliantly.

“Foolish of him to bring a na’kyrim here with him,” Mordyn said.

“They’ve got her hidden away somewhere in the Tower, by all accounts. Lheanor’s done everything he can to keep it quiet, the same way he’s got those Kyrinin locked up out of sight. Word always gets out, though. It’s no way for a new Thane to win favour, that’s certain: consorting with halfbreeds and wights.”

“I would be curious to see that na’kyrim, though,” the Chancellor said, as much to himself as to the Steward. “I always found it… interesting that Kennet nan Lannis-Haig kept a na’kyrim counsellor. Such a thing might be useful, I suppose, if one could overcome the hostility of the common folk.”

Lagair Haldyn snorted. “Not useful enough, given what befell Kennet.”

“Well, it does not matter now. Do you know of a man called Ochan, by the way?”

“Ochan Lyre? The Cook, they call him, but I cannot guess what such as he would have done to merit your attention.”

“If you cannot guess, better not to try. If there is one thing I have learned in all my years, Steward, which have been rather more demandingly spent than yours, it is that speculation quickly leads the unwary onto unsafe ground.”

“Of course, Chancellor. Well… Ochan the Cook. A smuggler, by reputation, and a thief and a usurer.”

“He is under someone’s protection, then, if he has the reputation but hasn’t been taken?”