The jingling persisted, plucking at a corner of his dream until his wife laid a hand on his shoulder. "Raien," she said, "Talrie's ringing."
The Cyncaidh pushed himself upright, groaning. The angle of sunlight through the gap in the curtains told him it wasn't nearly seven yet; why would Talrie be waking him this early? He swung his legs out of bed. "What is it?" he called.
"Your lordship, I have an urgent message for you from the palace. You're wanted there for an eight o'clock meeting. The courier is in the foyer, awaiting your acknowledgement."
Cyncaidh grunted, and turned to his wife. "I hope this doesn't mean what it might," he muttered, then raised his voice again. "Just a moment."
At the door, his steward handed him an envelope, its wax seal pressed with the emperor's signet. "Thank you, Talrie," he said, and went to his dressing table, where his penknife lay in its sheath. Slitting the envelope, he withdrew the paper folded inside, scanned it, then turned soberly to where Talrie stood discreetly outside the door. "Tell the courier I'll be there in good time," he called, "and have our horses ready by seven."
Varia had already disappeared into her bathroom. Cyncaidh went to his, and instead of drawing a bath, knelt in his tub, drew a pitcher of cold water, and poured it over his head, sputtering and gasping. Then he drew warm water, and washed. Shaving wasn't necessary. It was a rare ylf who grew facial hair below the eyebrows; they were likelier to be hairless entirely.
When both had dressed, they went together to their private dining nook overlooking the Imperial River, and the splendid park below their bluff. The morning was cool, and the broad balcony doors only slightly ajar, just enough to let in birdsong from the trees below. Morning sunlight slanted through the numerous panes, and Talrie had adjusted a shade wing so it wouldn't shine in her ladyship's eyes.
While waiting for their omelettes and toast, they sipped the almost obligatory sassafras tea with honey. Varia reread the short message, then looked up, frowning.
"What can she possibly hope to accomplish? I'd assumed the alliance was a ploy, a step in some long-term plan for political union. But to actually invade?" She shook her head. "Perhaps Ferny Cove pushed her over the edge."
"Perhaps it started as a ploy," Cyncaidh suggested, "and got out of control. At any rate she's playing into my hands. And Quaie's as well."
Quaie. The Rude Lands alliance had already increased his influence. The man frightened her. The only time she'd met him, at a palace banquet, his eyes had done more than undress her. If she ever fell into his hands, it seemed to her her fate would be worse than the captured Sisters' at Ferny Cove; he'd keep her alive longer. For she was not only one of what he referred to in his circulars as "Sarkia's brood of witches"; she was Cyncaidh's wife.
Don't think like that! she told herself sharply. It's not the sort of situation to create in your subjective world. It might start solidifying!
Quaie's hatreds were extravagant and beyond understanding. He scorned humans; seemingly hated any of them not subject to ylvin authority. But most conspicuously he hated Sisters; they were his most cherished hatred, particularly since Ferny Cove. And he hated anyone who opposed him, notably her husband. Like most hatreds, Quaie's were no doubt rooted in fear, though of what, even A'duaill hadn't discerned.
In a sense, he seemed to disdain even the talent that marked his own race. A large majority of ylver lit fires without tinder or flint, protected themselves from insects by weaving repellent fields, speeded their own healing. Like strength, intelligence and beauty, talent varied between individuals; that was understood. But some, a small percentage, disapproved of or distrusted those whose talent went beyond their own. Which included most who ruled. These disapprovers weren't a political faction, but they saw in Quaie a kindred soul, and supported him.
Varia wondered what A'duaill might find if he were free to interrogate Quaie as he had her the summer before.
Her reverie was interrupted by a serving girl with their cart, and she became aware that her husband had been watching her. He smiled ruefully. "Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned Quaie," he said, and spread jam on a toasted muffin.
She smiled back, also ruefully. "It's odd," she said, "to think of you two having any common ground at all. I suppose Murdoth will be there this morning."
"He's sure to be."
"He's as bad as Quaie."
Cyncaidh chuckled. "Not really. But he's often thorny where Quaie would be oily."
Varia made a face. "Oily and venomous."
As she spread her toast, she deliberately turned her thoughts to Curtis. He'd no doubt left Illinois for Washington County, where his life would be ruled largely by weather and the other straightforward realities of farming. She'd cleared him for the long ylvin youth. What ill effects might that have on him now, without her? He'd probably remarry, then watch his wife and children age. No doubt he'd have to leave them eventually. Washington County had no place for a man forever twenty-five years old.
If it hadn't been for Idri . . . If it hadn't been for Idri, she wouldn't be here with Raien.
Cyncaidh didn't break in on her reveries again that morning. By her face as much as her aura, it was best to leave her with them.
The emperor's council room had one large oval table, around which sat the council's dozen members, none of whom looked older than twenty-five, though at least one or two besides the Emperor had passed eighty. There were also two recording secretaries armed with piles of slender graphite crayons, and two consultants, one of them Varia, for her knowledge of the Sisterhood.
The other was a Captain Docheri from Morghild's command, who'd worn out a series of post horses in four eighteen-hour days of hard riding, to report. Since arriving last night, he'd slept seven hours, then been wakened gray-faced and groggy, to wash, dress, and eat before the meeting.
Cyncaidh read the report aloud to the Council. It was sobering, though it had less information than he'd expected. The southern commander's strategy was described—the unexpectedly early crossing, the landing at Parnston instead of Curryville, and the forced march of units to Inderstown to complete the crossing more quickly. It also described the smashing foray of the Kormehri cavalry, identified with certainty by their uniforms and by questioning wounded prisoners. And by their war cry, "Ferny Cove."
Varia's gaze switched to Lord Murdoth. He'd reddened angrily, his aura darkening and thickening. As if the Kormehri had somehow wronged Quaie by hating him for his barbarities.
The number of imperial casualties were given, but those of the March militia cohorts were only estimated, their troops having scattered badly.
Docheri then gave an oral report, and when he'd finished, the emperor asked the first question: "How," he wondered, "did we so drastically underestimate the southern alliance?"
In a sense the question was rhetorical. The evaluations had been made in that room, by himself and this council. But Docheri answered. "Your Majesty, we had no idea that the allies would work so well together. Or coordinate at all; there was no precedent for it. Actually the alliance seemed somewhat of a joke, though neither Colonel Morghild nor Colonel Cearnigh treated it as one. But obviously its commander is an unexpectedly skilled leader and military planner."
Murdoth snorted, his glance touching Varia on its way to the emperor. "The Sisterhood's to blame," he said. "They've married sorceresses to every ruler south of the river." He paused, glaring again at Varia as if adding mentally and one north of it. Then went on, "And controls them like marionettes; I have no doubt that if the light were right, you could see the strings."
The speaker of the majority Empire Party, spoke next. "If it weren't for our ill-advised expedition to Kormehr, and the outrages at Ferny Cove, none of this would have . . ."
Murdoth interrupted angrily. "That vile Dynast has lived for more than two centuries, and has dreamed of our destruction the whole time. She—"
The emperor's light gavel struck the bell in front of him, its brittle clang cutting Murdoth off sharply. "Lord Murdoth, we have rules of courtesy here. Do not interrupt again." His gaze went to Varia. "Lady Cyncaidh, do you have any comments on the role of the Sisterhood in this?"
"Speculative comments, Your Majesty. The Dynast has always been strongly prejudiced against Your Empire, and taught us to fear and loathe it. But the Rape at Ferny Cove seems clearly to have changed her approach. Previously she'd had a treaty only with the Kormehri, and that only for the use of an area of land, and the protection of the Sisterhood within its boundaries. While giving the Kormehri unique rights in marketing the Sisterhood's products."
"May we suppose that the military commander is one of her people? Perhaps the commander of her guard forces?"
"It seems quite possible, Your Majesty."
At this, Captain Docheri raised his hand.
"Yes, Captain?"
"We know a bit about the commander's identity, Your Majesty. His name is Makurdi. He's said to be an Ozman, who somehow came to Tekalos and led a rebellion that overthrew the king there."
Macurdy! At the name, Cyncaidh's glance went to Varia, just for a moment. Her bright green gaze had snapped to the captain like a compass needle to a lump of magnetite.
"An Ozman," the emperor said thoughtfully. "The Ozmen have a considerable military reputation."
He turned the discussion to how they might respond to the invasion. After consulting briefly during a break, the Empire Party, with its plurality in both the Council and the biennial Great Parliament, kept as close as it could to its isolationist tradition. Its position was that the militias and garrisons should carry the burden of defense, the March taking the major responsibility. The Throne Army should not be involved; the invaders couldn't possibly fight their way to the border of the empire. However, to reassure the Marches, a senior crown officer, perhaps Lord Cyncaidh, should coordinate the defense.
The A'conal Party—in these days the center party—went a long step further. Lord Finntagh was its official spokesman in the Council, to support the fiction of the Emperor's neutrality. Finntagh recommended that the 1st Imperial Legion be sent south to the Elmintoss military reservation, ready to enter the Inner Marches if the invaders reached them.
Predictably, Murdoth proposed that the ducal armies be imperialized, and march south with the Throne Army, to crush the invaders utterly so they could never come back.
When he'd sat down, Cyncaidh stood. "Who," he asked, "do you propose should lead that army?"
Murdoth glared, and after a moment answered, "If the decision was mine, I'd name General Quaie."
"And what disposition would you make of enemy prisoners?"
Murdoth's glare intensified, his face threatening to swell like a balloon. "I'd hold a slave sale," he said.
Cyncaidh nodded. "Would they be safe to keep around as slaves? In large numbers?"
"There'd be no large numbers."
"Ah. I suppose not, with Lord Quaie in command. And what would you recommend he do with his army, when he reached the Big River?"
Murdoth turned to the Emperor. "Your Majesty, I object to your chief counselor's insults!"
"Your objection is noted, but I fail to see an insult. Please answer. I'm interested."
Murdoth took a steadying breath. "He should do with it—whatever Your Majesty wishes."
"Thank you, Lord Murdoth. Lord Cyncaidh, what was your motive in asking?"
"General Quaie might be tempted to cross the river on his own determination, to punish the Rude Lands for their invasion."
Murdoth broke in. "General Quaie might very properly wish to. As I would. But he'd never make such a move without Your Majesty's authorization."
"Indeed he wouldn't. Because if I were to imperialize the ducal armies, which I would only do if my own forces were insufficient, I would not appoint General Quaie to their command. He is a skilled and proven military leader, but I have learned not to trust his judgement in victory." He paused, looking around the table. "Well. Gentlemen, I will not make any firm decisions without knowing more than we do now. Which we certainly will, quite soon. And while there are other matters we could discuss, there are none that can't wait. I am going to conclude this meeting."
He turned to Cyncaidh. "Chief Counselor, do you have any last words?"
"Only that I'd like to question Captain Docheri on details that may cast light on southern strengths and limitations."
"As you wish. Gentlemen, we'll meet here again tomorrow at nine. We may well have further information on the war by then; perhaps the invaders' initial success will have been reversed. Meanwhile, good day."
Chair legs scraped, feet shuffled, and the Council left. The Emperor watched the last of them out, then nodded Cyncaidh and the captain into his adjacent chamber, an intent Varia following. When they were seated, the emperor looked musingly at her before speaking. "Lady Cyncaidh, you seem to have heard something in Captain Docheri's testimony that I missed; something that seemingly your husband also caught. Something to do with the southern commander. Perhaps we should clear that up before questioning the captain on other matters."
"Thank you, Your Majesty. You are most considerate." She turned to Docheri. "Makurdi. It's certainly a strange name. Is it his given or his surname?"
"Your ladyship, that brings us to a somewhat less believable part of the story. He's said to be an escaped Ozian slave. And if that's true, he has no formal surname."
She gnawed a lip. "A slave. What brought an Ozian slave to Tekalos?"
"The stories our sources told are at second hand, or third or fourth, which makes them more difficult to accept. Some of them seem—quite fanciful. The important part is what we know for certain: he is formidable."
"Nonetheless, the stories may reflect elements of truth. And the Merchants Guild may be able to refer my husband to men who were in Tekalos during the rebellion or since. The more he knows, the better able he'll be to question them. I want you to tell us everything you've heard of this Makurdi, regardless of how unlikely it seems."
"Well, my lady," Docheri said, "the story is that although a slave, this Makurdi had somehow married one of the Sisterhood. And she'd been stolen from him, and he'd run away from his master to find her." The captain paused, as if to see if she'd had enough. She nodded him on. "Then somehow, with the help of dwarves he'd rescued from bandits—" the captain paused again, shrugging, as if to say that should give them some idea of how far-fetched the stories were "—with the help of dwarves, he freed a number of rebels held prisoner in the king's very courtyard, standing off and killing a number of king's men single-handedly while they escaped. Then, supposedly, he got away and fled into the mountains, where he met a great boar and ensorceled it to carry him on its back. That's another thing: he's said to be a magician. He then gathered together an army of Kullvordi." Docheri shrugged. "Supposedly his lieutenant is a beautiful Ozian spear maiden who followed him out of love, but he's spurned her because he cannot love any woman but his lost wife, who'd cast a spell on him."
He spread his hands apologetically. "And that seems to be all of it. Oh! Except that he has two rows of teeth, all the way around!" The captain showed his own in an almost smile.
The emperor had watched Docheri's aura for any sign that he was making it up, in whole or in part. Seemingly he was being entirely honest.
Cyncaidh wasn't surprised that Varia had turned pale. Especially at the last part—that Macurdy couldn't love any woman but his lost wife.
"Your Majesty," he said, "my wife has been ill-disposed. With your leave, I'd like to take her home. Perhaps you'll consent to see me later today."
The Emperor nodded. "By all means, Lord Cyncaidh. I'll discuss this with you promptly after lunch." He turned to Varia. "Lady Cyncaidh, I trust you'll feel better after resting."
He and the captain watched them leave, Docheri puzzled. The Cyncaidh hadn't asked one question.
She knows this Makurdi, Paedhrig told himself. Knows him personally. If he weren't an Ozman, I'd think they'd been lovers. Well. Raien will enlighten me later. Meanwhile I'd best see that the captain doesn't wonder too much.
He looked at Docheri. "A highly intelligent woman, Lady Cyncaidh. Also fearless. And highly talented, an adept. I suspect Lord Cyncaidh has gotten her pregnant again; women can be strange in early pregnancy.
"Whatever. Let's you and I explore those military questions."