Miles Cameron - The Dread Wyrm

Ser Thomas slammed a fist on the great table. “I like what I’m hearing,” he said. “I like the notion of the fight this season and not next. But I have my herds to move, and most of the tail of my best men is with me. I can send a man home to muster levies, but until the drove is over-”

“I mislike the idea of keeping an army in the field all summer,” Lord Wayland said. “We’re not the Emperor with an army all the year. Fields must be ploughed. My archers are my yeomen. My spearmen are my herdsmen.” He shrugged.

Next to him, the Grand Squire grinned and nodded. “I wouldn’t mind a season of campaigning,” he quipped. “But my people would. And my wife, come to think of it.”

“A shirt of mail is a year’s lost herds.” The Bishop of Albinkirk spoke seldom, but he spoke well.

Ser John looked at Ser Gabriel. “Can you command the Emperor’s army?” he asked.

Ser Gabriel looked at his hands. “Yes,” he said.

Ser Alcaeus was seen to smile.

“Then let us build a force here, based on your company and Ser Ricar’s. I’m sure we can pay your wages.” He looked at the merchants, who flinched.

Ser Gabriel shook his head. “I’ll pay my own,” he said. “I’m the Duke of Thrake. I had other plans, but I’ll put them aside for the summer. We can keep the northern levies and the Hill clans as our reserve.”

“But what of the Royal Army?” Ghause asked, too sweetly.

Ser John frowned. “I do not think we can rely on the Royal Army this summer,” he said primly. “I don’t think we will see them north of Harndon.” He sighed. “Or if we do, we may rue it.” He looked around. “I would rather not speak all my thoughts than lie. But unless I am mistaken, the Royal Army will not save us this year.”

“Because of raids in the south?” the Etruscan merchant asked.

“Because Alba is on the brink of a civil war,” the bishop said quietly.

Ser John leaned back. “We are all king’s men here,” he said. “We will be the Royal Army.”

Ser Alcaeus looked as if he was going to choke.

Ser Gabriel frowned. “We will be an allied army of the north. If the Emperor contributes troops, he will not want to be seen as a vassal of the King of Alba.”

The Duchess of Westwall nodded. “Well said, my son. We are allies, not feudatories. Let that be clear.” She looked around-more like the griffon than was quite right. “Consider this, gentles-if the Royal Army cannot help us, and if we must raise our own army to hold back this petty sorcerer, what will we do when a serious threat comes? Why pay our taxes to a distant king who cannot defend us? Why not have our own king ?”

Ser John sat up straighter, and looked at the duchess. “I beg your pardon, your grace, but are you contending that the Earl of Westwall is not the vassal of the King? Are you suggesting…”

The duchess smiled. It was the sort of smile one might imagine on a particularly subtle fox just before he eats the chicken. “I am a poor weak woman with no great head for politics, Ser John. I speak no treason when I say that my brother cannot defend us. His writ does not run here.” She smiled, and her smile narrowed. “I merely tell you, brave knights, that neither my husband, nor I, will be bound by a document or an agreement that decribes us as the king’s vassals or requires our knight service. On the other hand, if such an agreement is worded as an alliance, we will eagerly contribute to both the field army and to the total effort and the costs.”

The Bishop of Albinkirk narrowed his eyes. “You see the Adnacrags as a sovereign county?” he asked.

The smile that the duchess wore grew, if anything, a little wider. “I have said no such thing,” she said. “Yet, I imagine that were we to make ourselves sovereign, we would only aid our own defence.”

“This is treason,” the bishop said.

“Make the most of it,” the duchess snapped.

“We owe our service to the king-” Ser John began.

“Why?” Ghause asked. “He’s just a man-and a feckless one. The way I hear it, my son and Sophie saved you all last spring. The way I hear it, the King almost lost his army in the woods and had to be saved by his slut of a Queen and the river fleet. And now he’s let in an army of Galles who are running rough-shod over the south. I’m here to tell you that we will not allow them into the north.” She sat back.

Lord Wayland’s eye went to hers. He said nothing, but his cautious expression betrayed his interest.

The young Master of Dorling shook his head like a man shaking off sleep. “My da holds our place from the Wyrm,” he said. “I am not the king’s man, and saving your grace, I’m not your man, either.” He looked around. “I like the notion of alliance, but I have nothing to say about any new kingdom except a word of advice: only a fool changes horses in mid-stream.”

The duchess’s head went back like that of an angry horse.

Ser Alcaeus nodded. “I think I might speak,” he said quietly, “for all of us who are not Albans-and say that this talk of a kingdom in the north is immoderate. I think that if it continues, my Emperor would require that I withdraw. I must say on his behalf that Thrake is a province in the Empire, and that Ser Gabriel’s possession of it is at the Emperor’s pleasure. The Empire does not function as a set of infeudations, nor are our lands inheritable without the Emperor’s permission, my lords. The Emperor owns everything. He can grant or remove any title at any time.”

Ghause smiled poisonously. “Does that include the Emperor’s throne, ser knight? Is it not held by right of inheritance?”

Ser Alcaeus looked surprised. “The Emperor is chosen by God,” he said.

“Usually after a lot of poisoning and knife fights,” Ser Gabriel said. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, your grace , but the north is not ready to have a sovereign kingdom.”

“Then the north is full of fools,” Ghause said. “Ask your imperial riding officers-ask anyone who lives on the wall! There’s as many people north of the wall as south. There’s towns north of the wall. All of them could be ours!”

Her son shook his head. “Yours, you mean. I’m sorry, your grace, but our intention is the protection of our estates-not the raising of a new banner in the Game of Kings.”

Ghause sat back and sniffed. “Well,” she said. She smiled. “We’ll see, then, won’t we?”

While every leader present was willing enough in principle, every side room in the citadel seemed to have two or three great lords discussing, debating, and often enough, shouting. If Ghause had intended to divide the council of the northern lords, she had succeeded to perfection.

“Your lady mother cannot imagine that we’d sign away the king’s rights to the whole of the north country!” Ser John said to the Red Knight. Now that he knew the boy was the Earl of Westwall’s son, he found his infernal arrogance easier to stomach-the more because the boy seemed to have grown a little more human in the past year.

The new Duke of Thrake sat with his back against the oak panelling of Ser John’s private study. “Neither the earl nor the duchess has ever had much time for the king,” he said slowly. “And it hasn’t troubled you before. Or has it?”

Ser John was pacing up and down. “I will share my thoughts, my lord. Last year-during the siege-we received no succor but yours and, in the end, the Royal Army. We had no help of your parents. I confess I am less than pleased-indeed, I’m bitter.” He pointed at the great hall. “At least the King came. The earl was five days away, and he never twitched.”

Ser Gabriel rolled some good Etruscan wine over his tongue and looked out the window, where sheets of rain were filling the creeks and making the task of the field army more difficult and vastly more uncomfortable.