Traitor’s Knot: Fourth Book of The Alliance of Light

‘Tal, damn you, wait! Stop and listen to this!’ Vhandon’s blunt grip trapped his fellow’s wrist, halting the rush for the stairwell. ‘The Mad Prophet’s brought us a parcel of joy! The child’s a goatherd who believes all the mummery, that Duke Bransian’s allied with the Light.’

‘You say?’ The taller blond chuckled with rapacious delight, then cracked his knuckles to limber his sword-hand. ‘My beer coin says the duke’s brothers will spit him.’

Vhandon’s frown vanished. ‘And mine says, Bransian will get his lambasting blade in before them.’

‘Ath!’ Talvish plunged for the landing, snorting back laughter. ‘The duke might, at that. It’s a squeaking tight call.’

A fleeting glance was exchanged in the dark, as side by side, the retainers who were life-pledged to serve Arithon descended to wring the Mad Prophet for news.

Whisked at brisk speed through the shaded, tight streets of Alestron’s inner citadel, with the two men-at-arms padding like predators after him, Fionn Areth was shown through an iron-strapped door, into the bowels of a drumkeep.

‘Up there,’ said the blond, whose leopard’s glance absorbed everything, and whose narrow lips did not smile.

The sturdy partner with the reticent face held his stance.

Parted from Dakar, assigned to these veterans, Fionn Areth stifled his questions. He shoved back his straw hat and set about climbing stairs.

The swordsmen trod after him, matched. The feat should not have been possible, the breathless goatherd thought sourly. Their differing frames should not have been able to stride in such seamless tandem. Distempered by the time he was granted a guest-chamber, Fionn Areth closed the door on his disconcerting armed escort. Faced about, he bumped into a liveried page, sent to help with his bath and his dress.

‘No.’ Flushed scarlet, Fionn Areth jerked his thumb toward the doorway. His scowl would have credited the Prince of Rathain, as he dispatched the fellow outside.

The room had no rug, no tapestries, no ornaments. A bronze-bound clothes-chest sat beside a low table bearing a basin, and a close stool, shoved underneath. The bed-covers were linen and beautifully woven, with a weapon rack waiting at hand’s reach. The bronze tub had massive, lion ring handles, and was already filled and steaming. Fionn Areth stripped and washed, pausing a moment to admire the towels. Hair dripping, lips pursed in a tuneless whistle, he hooked up his grimed hose to wipe down his baldric and scabbard.

Still naked, hands busy, he heard the door gently open. He wheeled, but found no one there: only a clean pair of boots and a pile of folded clothing.

Sword in hand, he advanced. His nonchalance frayed into a desperate silence as he surveyed the offering he was expected to wear.

The garments themselves were no less than royal. Fionn Areth fingered the silk shirt, nipped and darted with a gentleman’s cords and eyelets, and finished with silver-stamped studs. The matching hose were too narrow and short. The emerald doublet was exquisite, but left him terrified the rich velvet would finger-print if he touched it. Worse, it fastened over the left shoulder with buttons and cord, adorned by a black sash braided with silver, then a belt, and a studded baldric whose fastening required a bewildering set of chased buckles.

Fionn Areth dropped the shirt, his calluses catching on satin facing and sleeve-ribbons. The boots were too small. Knuckles pressed to his temples to forestall a headache, he stopped trying to number the rows of frogged silver buttons.

He had been ten times a fool to have done away with the servant.

‘Pox on the finicky habits of greatfolk!’ Wiping damp hands on his shivering flanks, he assaulted the problem, aware he was going to be late.

By the end, Fionn Areth faced the wracking decision of whether to leave his blade behind on the bed. The scabbard provided was too narrow and long. Presented before a duke who loved war, he was going to make a bungling impression bearing a weapon that banged at his ankles. Bothered to curses, the Araethurian hiked up the hose, gave a rankled jerk on the doublet, then buckled on his sweat-stained baldric and minced toward the door.

His testy jerk flung open the panel. On the other side, experienced faces impassive, were the two men-at-arms appointed to stand as his formal guard.

‘Please follow,’ said the lean one with overdone elegance. He spun on his heel and plunged toward the stair, doubled over with suspect sneezes.

Fionn Areth regarded the grim-faced henchman who, politely, intended to follow. ‘I won’t stand being mocked,’ he snapped under his breath.

The older man looked him once, up and down. His pale eyes flickered over the disaster of snarled cords, mishooked eyelets, and crumpled sash, dragged askew by the blotched leather harness, which hung the dead-serious set of the sword. ‘Of course not, stripling. A pity we’re late. You might have sent Talvish for a doublet that fit, not to mention a suitable scabbard.’

Flushed, Fionn Areth dug in his heels. But the fellow’s mailed fist clapped down on his shoulder with uncompromising camaraderie. ‘On you go. The cooks here are war-trained, and apt to pitch fits if the duke’s honoured guest doesn’t show at the banquet.’

The feast took place in a vaulted hall, located above a gallery with bare floors, evidently used for sword training. Twilight was falling. Led in from the gently darkening streets, pricked by the first flare of watch lanterns—that, by Alestron’s immutable custom, would be snuffed by full dark, to preserve the night-sight of the look-out—Fionn Areth was shown through an oak-beamed entry. He stumbled, wide-eyed, past walls arrayed with collected blade weaponry. Hustled upstairs, he was propelled by Talvish’s firm hand into a dazzle of candle-flame. There, he paused blinking, while the on-going conversation tailed off and stopped, and the strapped door boomed shut behind him. As his sight readjusted, his panicked glance showed that his honour guard had pulled back. Isolated in front of Alestron’s best blood, Fionn Areth squared his shoulders and pulled himself straight, hitched short by the treacherous trunk hose. The dandyish garment was inches too short and threatened to skim off his hips.

Since a courtesy bow would invite a disaster, the Araethurian made the best of the awkwardness. He dipped his chin in salute toward the glittering persons before him.

‘Daelion’s bollocks!’ a deep voice said, awed. ‘Dakar! What have you brought us?’

‘A master-worked piece of Koriani spell-craft.’ The Mad Prophet was already wedged in a stuffed chair, within easy reach of a carafe. A goblet of wine rested on his crossed knee. ‘The young man was shapechanged to match the Master of Shadow as the bait for a plot that was foiled. May I present to your lordship and brothers, Fionn Areth, lately from Araethura?’

‘He doesn’t fill Arithon’s boots, that’s for certain,’ someone else quipped from the side-lines.

Fionn Areth assayed an ungainly step forward, creaking in the tight boots. His sight had adjusted. Before him, broad as a shambling bear and seated backwards astride an oak chair, the imposing fellow in front had to be the reigning Duke of Alestron. He wore no jewels. The only costly glitter upon him was the high polish of chain-mail, worn under the faded scarlet and gold of an old-fashioned heraldic surcoat. A beard that, in youth, had flamed like a lion’s, had grizzled to iron grey. He had eyes like steel filings, a face of lined leather, and the bastard sword cocked back at his heels could have spitted a yearling calf. ‘Guest welcome, young man,’ his deep voice resumed, ‘from the s’Brydion of Alestron.’

The duke’s bulk was shadowed by two more grey-eyed men. Large-boned, and wearing their piebald hair in a clan braid, by stance and expression, they seemed alike as two wolves culled from the same litter.

‘My brothers, Keldmar and Parrien,’ said the duke, his arms folded over the back of the chair and his avid gaze still fixed on the Koriani’s made double. ‘My mother’s sister’s son, Sevrand, the heir next in line for the title.’

The successor who nodded, beer tankard in hand, was a broad-shouldered, tawny-haired giant, also armed. He lounged by the window-seat, propped on an arm strapped with bracers, a targe and a short-sword slung on his back.

The duke inclined his head to the left. ‘There stands my last brother, Mearn.’

Youngest, not yet grey at the temples, the sibling just named proved to be a whip-slender version of the rest. His preferred taste embraced a rapier, but disdained the encumbrance of armour. His narrow wrists were encircled with lace, and his taut, balanced body wore tailored style, tastefully set rubies, and a doublet trimmed with gold ribbon.

Exposed before that spare, pleated elegance, and surrounded by men who wore blades like jewellery, Fionn Areth felt coarse as an unfired brick. He swallowed, then ventured through the expectant stillness, ‘I am honoured to be here, your lordships.’

Duke Bransian’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. Steel-clad knuckles pressed to his shut lips, he clashed a quelling fist on his chair, overriding Keldmar’s and Parrien’s simultaneous bid to offer rejoinder. ‘The women will be joining us for the meal, along with the rest of the household.’ The duke finally smiled. ‘Meanwhile, we were pressing Dakar for news. Be welcome and join us, and make free to say how we might make an honoured friend comfortable.’

‘There is nothing I require,’ Fionn Areth declared stiffly. After his host’s crisp, clanborn accents, the twang of his Araethurian origins spun drawled echoes to the farthest corner of the room.

‘Nothing?’ Mearn advanced, to a light-footed rustle of lawn. ‘But then, you shall entertain us.’

‘The goats didn’t teach him to make conversation,’ Parrien said. He pulled his dagger, balanced the tip of the blade on his thumb, and set the steel spinning with a deft flick of his forefinger. ‘Or did they?’

His seeming twin, Keldmar, laughed into the breach. ‘Words, is it? That’s mockery, man. What use has this fighting cock got for hot air? That’s a nice enough sword, despite the gross scabbard.’ Disturbing grey eyes bored into the guest. ‘Is that blade sharp, child?’

Fast as echo, Parrien launched a rejoinder. ‘Never mind sharp! Can he use it?’

Keldmar considered. ‘Maybe. But I’ll stake you my next turn on watch that Sevrand can best the young rooster, even sunk in his cups.’

‘That’s lame!’ Mearn cut in. ‘Sevrand’s no contest!’ At close quarters, now, he paced round the victim, then saw fit to amend his assessment. ‘Except for the boots. That could even the match. But is that a sufficient handicap, do you think, to the beer Sevrand’s swilled since the watch-bell?’

‘No such foolery,’ Dakar said with sidelong relish. ‘Fionn’s not come here to make casual sport. Actually, he longs to enlist, and hopes you’ll consider his prospects as a field officer.’

‘Does he!’ The duke shoved erect off the back of his chair. ‘Do you presume, young man, you’ve the skill and the nerve for it?’

‘By Ath!’ burst in Keldmar. ‘He can scarcely get dressed!’

‘Oh? You oafs would measure a man by his looks?’ Parrien moved, snake-fast, and recaptured his twirled dagger without shifting his attentive stare from Fionn Areth. ‘Does he actually think he can meet the requirements?’

Dakar shrugged, sipped his wine. ‘I made him the promise I would provide him the chance to speak on his own merits.’

‘No,’ Mearn declaimed. ‘No question about it. Another ten minutes wearing those boots, he’ll be too crippled to stand for a demonstration.’