Paul Kearney - Hawkswood's Voyage

“Lawyer’s niceties!” Haukir snorted.

“Those lawyer’s niceties may have some import if the case is brought before a Royal commission,” Abeleyn said.

“You cannot put the High Pontiff on trial,” Skarpathin of Finnmark said, a conservative despite his youth and the bloody steps he had taken to secure his throne.

“No, but perhaps he is not the High Pontiff, if Macrobius yet lives. Also the purges were initiated by a Prelate, not a Pontiff. We have yet to read a Pontifical bull extending them formally.”

“I hear that two thousand of the Knights are almost on Hebrion’s borders, cousin. That would not have anything to do with your haste to table this issue?” Haukir said, smiling unpleasantly.

“I rejoice that the resources of the Church are so lavished on my kingdom, but like Lofantyr I think they could be better employed elsewhere.”

“You need men to fight the Merduks, not words,” Markus, the Fimbrian marshal said suddenly, his bluntness disconcerting. “You can no longer rely on the troops of the Church, that is plain. The Pontiff and his Prelates are playing their own game; they do not care about the fate of Ormann Dyke. They may even be glad to see it fall, if it rids them of this rival Pontiff at the same time.”

It was unforgivable to speak the truth so openly. Isolation has atrophied any kind of diplomatic subtleties the Fimbrians might once have possessed, Abeleyn thought.

Haukir seemed to be on the verge of another explosion, but the Fimbrian continued speaking in his level, toneless voice.

“The Fimbrian Electorates have decided to put their forces at the disposal of the west. There are six hundred tercios under arms in Fimbir itself. These troops have been set aside for possible employment beyond the borders of the electorates. Any monarch who needs them may have them.”

The table sat stunned in silence. Six hundred tercios! Over seventy thousand men. They had had a chimera in their midst and had not known it.

“Who will these tercios serve under?” Lofantyr asked.

“They will have their own officers, and any expeditionary force will be commanded by a Fimbrian marshal who will in turn accept orders from whichever ruler employs him.”

“ Employs?” Cadamost asked, his red eyes narrowing. “Tell me, Marshal, who will pay the wages of these soldiers?”

For the first time Markus looked less than impassive.

“Their costs will have to be met by the monarch they serve under, of course.”

So that was it. The Fimbrians were killing two birds with the same stone. Now that the electorates had seemingly patched up their differences they no doubt had a wealth of unemployed soldiers on their hands. What to do with them, these peerless fighters? Farm them out to the other western states, relieve a no-doubt strained economy—and extend Fimbrian influence at the same time. The Fimbrian crutch might well transform into a club one day. It was a neat policy. Abeleyn wondered if Lofantyr were desperate enough to take the bait. Surely he must see the ramifications.

“I would speak to you privately after this day’s meeting is concluded, Marshal,” the Torunnan king said at last.

Markus bowed slightly, but not before Abeleyn had caught the gleam of triumph in his eye.

“T HE damn fool!” Mark raged. “Can’t he see what he is doing? The Fimbrians will put a leash about his throat and lead him around like a dog.”

“He is in a tight corner,” Abeleyn said, sipping his wine and rolling a black olive round and round the table to catch the sunlight. “He has been baulked of his reinforcements by the Church, so he must have men from somewhere. The Fimbrian intelligence service must be quite efficient. The timing of this offer is perfect.”

“Do you think they hanker after empire again?”

“Of course. What else could have persuaded the electorates to cease their internal strife? My ploy of bringing the Narbukan envoy here has fallen flatter than a pricked bladder. It is strange. Golophin must have suspected that there was something afoot in Fimbria, for it was he who advised me to sound out the electorates. I do not think he imagined this, though, not in his wildest dreams.”

“Or nightmares. Our alliance looks like pretty small beer compared with this news.”

“On the contrary, Mark. It is more important than ever. Cadamost has come to some secret arrangement with the marshals, of that I am sure. They accepted his invitation, not mine. And Torunna needs troops. How does one get to Torunna from Fimbria? Via Perigraine! Cadamost has been playing a very deep game. Who would have believed him capable of that?”

They were seated at a roadside tavern in one of the main thoroughfares of the city. Waggons and carts trundled past unendingly, and around them was the red-gold shade of the turning trees, avenues of which lined almost every street in Vol Ephrir. Scarlet and amber leaves dotted the ground like a crunching carpet, and there was a cool breeze blowing. If they looked up, past the well-constructed buildings on the other side of the street, they could see the palace towers of Vol Ephrir shining white with marble. Abeleyn raised his glass to them and drank. It was Candelarian. Fully half of Candelaria’s exports were to Perigraine.

“We must speak with Lofantyr,” Abeleyn said. “He must be made to see what he is doing. We will not dissuade him from utilizing Fimbrian troops, but he must at least be frugal in their deployment. One good thing about this: it has secured his independence from the Church, and it may ensure the recognition of Macrobius as Pontiff once again. Lofantyr will back him all the way. He has nothing to lose and much to gain from a Pontiff who might well become a Torunnan puppet.”

“If Himerius steps down,” Mark said sombrely.

“A very interesting if, cousin. Who would support him if he did not? Almark, of course, and Finnmark—most of the Border Duchies.”

“Peregraine, maybe.”

“Maybe. I am all at sea when thinking of this kingdom. Cadamost has rattled me—most unpleasant.”

A third person joined them at their table, appearing out of the throng of people who coursed up and down the street. She bowed to both kings and then drank some wine from Abeleyn’s glass.

“My lady Jemilla,” the Hebrian monarch said easily. “I trust you have been enjoying your trip about the city?”

“It is a wonderous place, sire, so different from our crowded old Abrusio. Like something from one of the old courtly tales.”

“You look pale. Are you well?”

Jemilla was wearing a loose robe of deep scarlet encrusted with pearls and gold thread. Her dark hair was bound up on her head with more pearl-headed pins, and her face was as white as sea-scoured bone.

“Quite well, sire. I am a little tired, perhaps.”

Mark ignored her. He had been rather scandalized by Abeleyn’s bringing her to the conclave, especially since the Hebrian king was officially, if secretly, betrothed to his sister.

“You should keep out of the sun. It is very bright on the eye in this part of the world. There is no dust to blunt its passage.”

“I am waiting for my barouche, sire. Will you walk me to the corner? My maids seem to have deserted me for the moment.”

“By all means, my lady. Cousin, you will await my return?”

Mark flapped a hand affably enough and buried his nose in his glass.

“He doesn’t like me,” Jemilla said when they were out of earshot.

“He is attracted to you, but Mark is an austere sort of fellow at times. He loves his wife, and is prone to guilt.”

“You and he behave like a pair of ‘prentice ensigns out on the town. Have you no attendants with you?”

Abeleyn laughed. “My bodyguards—and Mark’s—are very discreet, and Cadamost no doubt has people watching us also. You need not fear for my safety in Vol Ephrir. If anything happened here it would reflect badly on Perigraine’s king.”