A King in Cobwebs Read online

  “Now I tell you ‘no,’” said the Power, “for again I see the place you crave. And again, glory.”

  “No.”

  “And a true beauty.”

  As Durand stood, eyes upon the wellhead, the Power’s words loomed before his mind’s eye. He felt the Traveler rising, mounting slowly like some midnight storm. “She is there. It is all there once more. You have only to find it.” There followed a sound like a warship gathering sail, like ropes and rigging, and the Traveler receded from the light. But Durand did not raise his eyes until the gloom had drowned every tooth and knuckle of this Prince of Heaven.

  Durand drew a breath in the empty room. His doom was laid before him once more.

  4

  Lord in All but Name

  Hardly a moment passed before the living and the dead crowded back on Durand. First, voices poured down the well shaft from Gunderic’s Tower, then the lolling and creeping dead tumbled from the stairs.

  Durand faced the Lost and, in a moment of bloody-mindedness, bulled straight through the heart of them, climbing stair after stair, seeking the sky, gritting his teeth as the things groped and clung. He wanted open air. Finally, a small door let him into the light and noise of the crowded castle yard. With Heaven’s Eye burning bright above, Durand tumbled free and left the dead behind.

  The duke’s whole column of carts and horses was packed in the yard, tight as an adder in its shell, as the duke’s people struggled to be ready before noon. Durand slammed the door on Lost souls and dove into the easy chaos of wheels and barrels and hooves like an otter dives into a stream. With a little luck, he’d get Abravanal’s train through the gates in time to beat the Herald’s deadline.

  And so, though Durand still felt the effects of a night’s missed sleep, he was wearing an honest smile—and levering half a ton of loaded cart out of a tangle—when Kieren peeked around a nodding mule. “Durand, is this what called you away so suddenly? I hadn’t known you were a muleteer. In any case, there have been developments since we spoke. You will be pleased to hear that I will stay behind when His Grace leaves us. The business of government cannot cease. And, as I explained to His Grace, our Sir Coensar has always been a man for the tournaments.”

  The cart Durand was levering shifted ominously, threatening to drop its entire cargo—furniture, it looked like—on Durand’s back. “We will be happy to have you, Sir Kieren, I’m sure,” he said as he forced the cart back on its wheels.

  “Do not rejoice prematurely, Durand, for I will not be loitering in Acconel. With all this trouble over the border, I will travel west with a strong party into the lion’s den itself!”

  “Yrlac?” Durand said.

  “Yes, Yrlac. I thought ‘lion’s den’ was clear enough. Ferangore itself, I think—the very capital of the place. No sense giving the rebels the space and time to move, with Coensar away.”

  Durand pictured Ferangore with its high sanctuary full of Rooks and horrors, Lamoric dead before the gates, and Radomor seething upon his throne like some Power of the Hells. Durand scrubbed sweat from his forehead. “You do not plan to bring Almora there?” Durand said.

  “Not quite the dullard you pretend to be, I see. You bring me to my point. Perhaps you have already been wondering why I sought you out here among the carts and asses. I am not only passing the time till the duke departs. Which he must do before long.” Kieren shot a glance at the Herald, who stood amid the confusion, fixed like the needle of some giant sundial, marking the seconds. “No. I need a loyal man to take command of the city and garrison of Acconel itself, someone not caught up in this bit of idiot minstrelsy. And I’d rather it was someone with at least a grain of good judgment.” Kieren’s mustache gave a wry twitch. “I am afraid it will need to be you, Durand. We’ll need to be sure the city is prepared should the Thorn in His Grace’s Backside, Lord Leovere, or any of his compatriots come calling. You’ll need to reinforce the garrison and keep your eye on the watch.”

  Durand blinked at the man. “Me, Commander?”

  “Oh, Heavens, Durand. Close your mouth. You’ll have me thinking again.”

  “It is an honor,” said Durand.

  “Heaven help me. It’s a job, not an honor. Someone must take charge while I’m in Ferangore. You’ll need to keep your wits about you. As for the stores, stables, taxes, feast days, docks, serving men, candles, bedstraw, beggars, widows, orphans, and fish in old Silvermere, Lady Deorwen knows the daily running of Castle Acconel. Any man would interfere with her at his peril, I think.”

  Durand glanced back at the narrow doorway where he’d left the Lost and the Powers. He could feel himself on the Traveler’s crossroad.

  Kieren was smiling around that big mustache. “That is, if you’re willing to play more than Almora’s nursemaid-in-chief.”

  “Honored, Sir Kieren.”

  “Again. Honored beyond deserving, I’m sure. But what else? Oh. The fire. By rights, that’s the Patriarch’s business, but you’ll have to sit with our treasurer. Maybe the silver for the quarrying could be turned to demolition. The burghers could be squeezed. The duke didn’t set the fire, after all.

  “Be that as it may, Yrlac must be foremost in our minds,” Kieren said. “When I reach their capital, I mean to fill the roads with our men, calling every loyal lord up to Ferangore, one after another. They’ll just happen to come fully armed, marching slow with herds of household knights along for company—trooping past the gates of every old Yrlaci lord. Perhaps with the duke’s bull banner flying, should there be anyone who misunderstands.”

  Durand found himself grinning. Yrlac was a riddle that a man might solve. Even if it came to fighting, it would be the honest work of blades under the Eye of Heaven. “There are knights enough in Gireth to watch that border. Riders up and down the River Banderol. A man or two to watch the fords and bridges. They’re eager to do it, is my guess. There will be hundreds of men, ours for the asking.”

  “Ah, Durand. Perhaps you are more than a nursemaid after all.” Kieren clapped Durand on the shoulder.

  A new clamor erupted at the tower door.

  “That’ll be His Grace,” said Kieren.

  At the outer gates, the warders took up the slack in the portcullis chains. The big chains clattered taut around the windlass upstairs.

  “Here they go,” said Kieren. He glanced at the stern Herald of Errest. The Eye of Heaven was climbing the last degree toward its zenith as the duke took Durand’s oath.

  With Coensar urging him away, the old man hesitated with one foot in the stirrup. “Where is Almora?” he said, and when the girl found her way to his side, “I know you wished to travel with us, but you must see. You are the last of our line, my daughter. When Lamoric lived. And poor Alwen. And Landast. And Landast’s wife.… She might almost have been your mother. I wonder, do you remember her?”

  “I do, Father.”

  “Too many have died, Almora. It is too much. You must stay.”

  Before he could say more, the girl gave her father a quick kiss, as poised as a princess all the while. And Abravanal’s tears tumbled down his face.

  “Your Grace,” said Coensar. “It must be now.” The Herald was watching.

  And so Abravanal climbed into the saddle and rode out with Coensar and the watching Herald at his side—and half the peers of Gireth behind. Half the contents of the castle followed, under high tarpaulins. An astonished serving girl commented that even the duke’s bed was somewhere among the teetering mountains lurching under the low gate. And off they went to the Pennons Gate, Fellwood, and the tournament at the distant Lindenhall.

  A black bird croaked and fluttered on the battlements.

  Kieren stepped out in front of Durand and the rest. “Now,” he said, “it is my turn.” And a party of forty knights cantered round the old keep, every man grinning like a brigand.

  Durand had to marvel. “Sir Kieren, where did you find all these men?”

  “One must be resourceful, Sir Durand. And I’d be happier, all things con
sidered, if the highborn of Yrlac found me in Ferangore before they had word that His Grace is larking off for the Fellwood.”

  Durand shook his head, smiling. “Amazing.”

  “A journey is so much more enjoyable when one brings a companion or two.” This inspired more fierce grins among Kieren’s armed escort. No one knew how many of Yrlac’s old liegemen might rise against Gireth, given the chance.

  Just then, a large party of town burghers appeared from the gates, the tallest puffing like a bellows in his hurry to reach them. Each man pulled off either hat or hood, taking a knee if he could bend so far.

  Kieren gave them only a frozen, sidelong look.

  The tallest look up from his bow. “Sir Kieren. Ah! It is as we heard. You are departing. We hastened to the castle to learn your mind about making safe the fire damage and clearing the ruined structures—as well as settling the matter of responsibility, of course. It began with the carelessness of the priests at the high sanctuary, as we all saw.”

  “Indeed,” said Kieren. But, with a broad fixed smile, the aging Fox turned to Durand. “Sir Durand, I am very much afraid that I must leave you. Hospitality is arranged on the road, and we cannot keep our hosts waiting. Farewell to you.” Kieren nodded a bow to the burghers. “And to you as well. You must take these things up with Sir Durand, my friends. We must go!”

  With that, Kieren swung himself aboard a spry bay gelding and led his laughing companions through the gates.

  * * *

  DURAND SENT THE burghers to the Painted Hall, reasoning that the walls must come before shops and sanctuaries. He had no intention of losing the city to some surprise raid and spent the afternoon marching back and forth across the city, kicking sentries awake and peering into barrels of arrows. There were no men in half the city’s towers. And, though some captains spoke of means by which he might get hold of more men, he knew that if Leovere mounted an attack, disaster must follow.

  He tramped back through the gates of Castle Acconel, as footsore and begrimed as if he’d come from a battlefield, only to find the solemn Ailric stepping out to greet him.

  It took Durand a moment to recognize his new shield-bearer.

  “They’re complaining, Sir Durand,” said Ailric. “According to the treasurer, the strongboxes have been emptied to supply Abravanal’s cavalcade. There isn’t a penny left for the high sanctuary, fire or no. Patriarch Oredgar waited two hours from noontide and vows to return.”

  “The Patriarch was waiting for me and left, you say? There will be a reckoning for that.”

  “He grew impatient with the burghers.”

  “‘Impatient,’” Durand said. “Patriarch Oredgar, with his sanctuary still smoldering, was impatient with them. I’m surprised they’re alive. Perhaps it’s just as well I missed him.”

  A dozen Rooks croaked their scorn from the battlements as Durand climbed into the cool gloom of the entry stair.

  In the hall, the living townsmen were far outnumbered by the Lost souls who stalked haltingly through the room like cloaked men who had only just forgotten why they had come.

  “They have been waiting some time, Sir Durand,” whispered Ailric. And it took a moment for Durand to realize that the youth referred to the living and not the dead—and that Durand had stopped on the threshold while fifty anxious men waited.

  “A moment,” said Durand. “You’ll get nothing badgering me in the doorway. I’ll have a seat and listen.” And, without a flinch at the horrors peering in, Durand walked down the hall and took a place by the duke’s throne, one usually reserved for Kieren or Coensar. He was alone but for Ailric at his elbow.

  “Where are their ladyships, Ailric?” Durand asked.

  “The chamber block. They will not be disturbed.”

  “Will they not?” Durand said. He would be needing Deorwen.

  “Adamant.”

  “Right,” said Durand. “Almora has been pushed hard enough today. She may stay where she likes.”

  Serving men brought bread while Durand sat alone before the delegations.

  A round man twisted his hat in both hands. “Sir Durand, we’ll need to work out some way of making this good.”

  A yellow-bearded companion interjected. “It was the priests’ fire.”

  The first man gave a sidelong nod. “I’m sure we’re all brave enough now that His Grace the Patriarch has left us, but something must be done. Many will be without homes.”

  “And we won’t see a clipped penny from Oredgar.”

  Durand nodded gravely. “It will be put right. Somehow we will do it,” he said, though he did not have a penny to offer.

  He was distracted too, for the Lost souls wandered among the townsmen and servants. They tugged at the hems of living men. They probed like herons in shallow water. They knelt among the floor rushes to let their tongues flicker at spilt wine.

  Durand closed his eyes.

  “There could be a levy from the householders of the neighboring streets,” said the round man. “They benefited most from the houses which were pulled down.”

  “And the Patriarch could pay for the houses that burned,” his comrade added.

  When Durand opened his eyes, a bloody face was blinking into his own—someone he had crushed under the gates of this very fortress, long ago. At his elbow stood a man that he’d killed in the lists. A bloated white figure in a bondman’s blue surcoat scrabbled at the tablecloth. Water pattered from the skirts of his garment. With astonishment, Durand recalled throwing the man from a bridge over the River Glass years and leagues away. And there was Euric, of course, fumbling and shambling.

  More of the townsmen felt brave enough to speak. There were raised voices.

  The dead gathered at the high table, soon filling every seat.

  “Something will be arranged. No one will sleep in the street,” Durand said.

  But there were dead men all around him, and he could not think. They leered on every side.

  “I did nothing, you devils,” Durand muttered. “Nothing but what had to be done. The gates. The siege. The river. All to defend my lord and my people. To the Hells with you all.” But the dead remained.

  “Sir Durand?” asked Ailric. Some of the arguing townsmen might have noticed.

  And then Durand heard a scrabbling at the narrow window behind him. Silhouetted against the panes, Durand saw black and shaggy wings, half-flattened against the leaded glass.

  He clenched his cracked teeth.

  “And so he is duke, or nearly,” said an uncanny, but familiar, whisper. “I wonder how he enjoys it? A man might develop a taste for such things.”

  “And find means to indulge such tastes, brother.”

  Durand felt like some fairground bear, prodded past exhaustion by the dead, the living, and now by the whispering Rooks.

  “What do you want with me?” Durand rasped. As ever, the Rooks’ words circled and circled in his head, their echoes never quite dying.

  “Oh, brother, he speaks to us—and in the company of others.” The castle’s folk were too busy eating to notice, Durand hoped. “Does he draw glances? No? Well. You see how the common herd passes oblivious through life, noticing nothing but the bread before them.”

  Durand tried to keep the alarm from his face. “What do you wish of me?”

  “Sir Durand?” asked Ailric, a line stitching his forehead.

  “Sorry. Thinking aloud.” A serving man set wine before him and Durand poured a cup for his shield-bearer. A few drops landed on the cloth, spreading.

  “Oh, Durand, can a ghost no longer haunt his slayer without interrogation? Where is custom gone in these dark times? You become impatient with us, but we are only curious, Your Grace. Yes. Only curious.”

  “But you ought to be … elsewhere.” The Hells should have snapped up two creatures such as these.

  “Oh yes. ‘Elsewhere.’ I suppose. But we do so enjoy your company, Durand of the Col. And curiosity has always been our vice. How would the spider look without his legs? How will you
deal with this man Leovere, for example? With his people only just across the bridge and this castle surely full of his men?”

  “Oh, brother. You don’t mean spies, do you?”

  “Spies in Acconel?”

  “Or assassins, brother.”

  “How delicious!”

  “Think of it? Do you imagine that anyone took the time to count the serving men who accompanied the cavalcade? Might there not have been room for a man or two to slip away? To carry news? The duke is on the road! The city is leaderless! And, well … Heaven knows.”

  Durand turned to Ailric who waited at his elbow. “Ailric, are any of the serving men missing since the duke took to the road?”

  “Three men, maybe. The ushers are cursing it. But the place is in a muddle. They may simply have gone along with His Grace.”

  “Check the stables,” Durand began, but stopped himself. “No. After this morning, who could say whether one horse more or less was missing?”

  As Durand tried to think, he found Euric’s halfwit ghost bending over the tablecloth. It had found the spilled wine, and a gray and gleaming tongue slid from the monster’s slack face, very near Durand’s own goblet.

  “Hells,” said Durand. He snatched the goblet out of harm’s way, though the wine sloshed and Ailric had to be nimble.

  “I could try it, sir. If you wish.” A dozen dead men looked up, dazedly startled by Ailric’s sudden preparation to stand.

  “No. No.”

  Durand himself was standing. He looked across the Painted Hall. The dead tottered and slunk and prowled in every corner. The huge moon-faced giant bobbled mere inches from his side. At close quarters, Durand made out a jutting beard. And it stirred a memory. There had been fight at a mill. Durand and Radomor’s man, Gol, caught a Valduran. Fulk, Durand remembered. Was he the first man who’d died on Durand’s account? Was that what this was? Was it the blood on his hands?

  Euric seemed happier with claret.

  The delegation of townsmen stood staring at him, looking as pale and gape-mouthed as a basket of fish. What had he said? What had they seen him do?