Lord of Janissaries (115 page)

Gythras arrived with a speed that suggested he had been waiting outside for her to awake. He and a priestess of Hestia examined Tylara from head to toe.

“By the mercy of Yatar, she is unharmed,” Gythras said.

“I thank my Lady Hestia—”

It seemed to Tylara as if they were trying to reassure themselves as much as her. Well, they had some right in the matter; their fate would not be pleasant if she died, and her waking screaming must have been heard from one end of the camp to the other.

They took their time, and when they left, Price Strymon himself entered. His hair was uncombed and he had not shaved. There was both soot and blood under his nails.

He drew a stool close enough to the bed so that he didn’t need to speak above a whisper, and sat without asking her leave. After a moment he got up again and untied the hanging to close the tent door.

“Your priest Apelles lives,” Strymon began. “He has a long and deep cut in his shoulder and arm, and has lost much blood. He has already told Gythras how to drive out the fester-devils from water, wounds, and bandages, and his wounds seem the better for it. He will still be writing letters left-handed for a time, though—unless his wounds fester after all.”

“That is with Yatar and Hestia, is it not?” said Tylara. She sensed an uneasiness in Strymon that went beyond the danger to his honor.

“It is, if Apelles and the other healers who have dealt with your wounded have been told the truth by the starmen. It is said that in casting out the fester-devils as Apelles taught us, we let in other and worse devils.”

No need to ask who said that. She shrugged. “It is the way he treats me. Do you see me infested with devils?”

“No— My lady, why would you allow your enemies to learn this great secret? If this is true, many soldiers will live who should have died. My soldiers.”

“My Lord Rick has commanded that this wisdom—and much other that he knows—be given freely to all on this world,” Tylara said proudly. “He says that knowledge is not to be hoarded as a miser hoards gold, but spread to the winds.”

“I—see,” Strymon said. “Now, my lady, are you well enough to discuss serious matters?”

“I am quite well. Haven’t the healers told you?”

Strymon reddened. “Forgive me, but in the night we heard you screaming—louder than the wretches we were questioning about the attempt on your life. Gythras would not tell me, but it seems to me—”

“It was a nightmare, Your Highness. An old nightmare, from a time I thought I had put behind me—”

The wide grey eyes were suddenly as cold and hard as the stones of Castle Dravan. “Then the tales of how Sarakos dishonored you are no tales.” It was not a question.

Tylara swallowed twice before she could say, “No. But he is dead and food for worms.”

“Worms that fed on Sarakos’ corpse probably died of it.” His face twisted. “I have never been wholly easy in my mind, over refusing to serve under Sarakos. Had I been there, I might have prevented—My lady, I can only beg your pardon. I gave too much thought to defending my own honor, and not to how I might defend that of others.”

“You could not have known that Sarakos would be a fool as well as a brute—” she began, but Strymon raised his hand to stop her.

“I cast nothing on the High Rexja, but his eldest son always behaved like one begotten in a kitchen-midden. I cannot in honor say that I should not have known better.”

“Your own honor is pure as fire, Strymon. That makes you less than the best judge of those who have none.”

Unbidden and surprising, but not unwelcome, an old thought entered Tylara’s mind. How would matters have gone, if Strymon had been willing to march against Drantos as a captain under Sarakos?

Rather ill for Drantos, she suspected; the horse and foot of Ta-Meltemos would have given Sarakos a third again his strength, apart from Strymon’s skill. The contest in the field would have been foreordained. Yet without Sarakos free to indulge his bloodlust and treachery, might not more of the men of Drantos have seen surrender as an honorable alternative?

And her own fate—what of that? She might not be a widow at all, for Strymon would never have done to her Lamil as Sarakos did, cutting his throat like a pig while a dozen men held him. Strymon would have faced Lamil in single combat, almost certainly defeated him, but left him alive if he was prepared to yield at all.

If by some chance Lamil had died—Strymon would hardly have slaughtered the men of Castle Dravan. That would have left Bheroman Trakon alive to press his suit. Or perhaps Strymon himself would have courted her. His first wife had died bearing him a daughter, the year before the war began. She could see herself captured a little at a time by his charm, his grace, his good looks, his concern for her honor as well as his own. . . .

And then what would have happened to the starmen, if she had not been in need of an ally to destroy Sarakos and regain Chelm, and if Sarakos had not been in need of someone like Colonel Parsons to put down the guerrillas in Drantos?

Were the gods as capricious as that, in sending fates to men and women? And if they were that capricious, how could anyone be sure what they demanded?

Another question for Yanulf—and now she realized that Strymon had begun an account of the night’s events, while she was lost in dreams of how things might have been.

“—was able to buy men, but not men brave enough to simply storm into your room and shed your blood with their own hands. Had they done that, some would surely have died from the star weapon, but the rest would have killed you.

“As it was, they conceived an elaborate scheme and divided themselves into three parties, all disguised as my guards. One party set fire to the roof. The second would rescue you from the fire, and when they were safely out of the house the third would dash up and stab you. Even with all these foolish complications, they might have done their work if it had not been for Apelles. He saw that the second party were not the new watch of guards, but impostors, and gave the alarm. The man who wounded him also knocked down the ladder in the struggle. One man fell from the ladder and the other man was trapped and burned to death on the roof.”

Tylara could not keep back a smile. Her would-be murderers seemed to have been a pack of prize fools. Had Yatar addled the murderers’ wits to save her?

“Have you—is there anything you may tell me of who hired those men?”

“Matthias, priest of Vothan, fled the camp before True Sunrise,” said Strymon. “Several of his men went with him. They passed the northernmost of our outposts before the alarm, and told the officer of the guard that they were on urgent business for the High Rexja.”

“I suppose that can be called the truth,” said Tylara. “Fleeing from the headsman is certainly best done in haste.”

Strymon’s smile was forced. “My lady, how much do you know of Ta-Meltemos?”

She shrugged. “We hear stories—”

“Yes, yes. Stories you are too polite to repeat. They are true. My fathers seems in good health, and has a sweet and forgiving nature. But—” Strymon swallowed hard. “He cannot find his way from bedroom to throne room without a guide, and lately we do not even dare have him appear on state occasions.”

“I had heard,” Tylara said gently.

“The last time, he rose from the throne to question the High Marshal of Ta-Boreas about sweets and children’s toys.”

“Then you govern the land.”

“I confess I do not. I have always been a soldier. You must understand, until recent years Wanax Palamon was as good a king as ever ruled our land. It was only when he—changed that Toris took new advisors, and the first wars between Drantos and the Five Kingdoms began.”

“Your brother—”

“Was much younger then. Lady, Ta-Meltemos is ruled by Chancellor Rauros. He was sent to us by Issardos, and found much favor with my father during his declining years. Now he is sometimes—Lady this is not easily said. There are times when Palamon recognizes no one but Rauros. Not even his sons.”

“It cannot be easy, living in such a court. I see now why you and your brother would prefer the field. In your place I would do the same. Prince Strymon, do you believe that Rauros knows of this plot against your honor?”

Strymon pressed his lips into a thin line. “I do not know. But I will know.”

“How?”

“Yes. That is the question, is it not? The only men I can trust are soldiers with no more skills at intrigue than I have.”

You need a woman. I will find you one. But for now—
“There are priests of Yatar whose loyalty is to honor and the gods. They might serve you well.”

“Priests of this new religion?”

“It is not
new
, Highness. It is the religion of the starmen. We—New Christians—honor all the commandments of Yatar. We also recognize His Son, the Christ.”

“I must think on this.”

“Of course. For now, we must think again who is behind this plot. The High Rexja—”

“Again, I do not know. I can say nothing against the High Rexja. Nor can Teodoros.”

“You asked him?”

“Yes, my lady. My brother says he doesn’t know anything about plots.” Strymon shrugged elaborately. “I would be surprised if he did. It is not in his nature.”

“Issardos,” Tylara said carefully.

Strymon nodded. “It would not surprise me if Chancellor Issardos had a hand in this. It would insure war to the death between Ta-Meltemos and Drantos. If half what you say of Lord Rick’s abilities is true—and Matthias has, it seems, seen Lord Rick in battle—then I might well die in such a war. That would leave Teodoros on my throne.”

“As Issardos’ puppet,” Tylara said softly.

Strymon sighed. “I love my brother, but—yes. I can trust Teodoros, but without me to guide him, he would be no match for Issardos. I doubt Issardos would care if Teodoros ruled over ruins and beggars, so long as he could not disturb the peace of the Five Kingdoms.”

“Issardos is a fool,” said Tylara. “The Time will disturb everyone’s peace, and the skyfolk will do worse.”

“Perhaps a fool, but a dangerous one.” He straightened and squared his shoulders. “You will sleep and wake surrounded by my guards, and eat and drink nothing that has not been tasted first.” Strymon raised his voice. “The baker who prepared the honeycakes and those who sought your life last night have an appointment with the headsman. Their bodies will be cast into the middens and their heads borne through the camp by heralds crying out ‘Here be hardy traitors, who sought the lives of the Crown’s prisoners.’ ”

Strymon looked around the tent, then lowered his voice to a true whisper. “That should discourage the faint-hearted. With Matthias gone the stouter spirits have no leader. If these measures are not enough, I swear by Yatar, Vothan, and Hestia that I will release you without a ransom and send you to your husband.

“Yet I would not do that before we have talked further. I have thought on what you said yesterday, and I have listened to my own priests of Yatar tell about the Time. It seems it has never been easy for the Five Kingdoms.”

“This my husband says.”

Strymon fell silent. Then he turned and paced the length of the tent. For a moment he stared at the tapestry of dragons spitting
skyfire
onto a melting city. Then he took a deep breath and turned to Tylara. “My lady, there may be ways to bring peace to the Realms of Drantos and Ta-Meltemos.”

Tylara caught her breath. She was not wholly surprised.
But I thought it would take much longer.
Inwardly she thanked Matthias and Issardos for making her work easier.

Now I know why the gods spared me. Am I fit for this task? Dayfather, Warrior, Mother, you have given me back my life. Now give me strength and wisdom to use it in your service.

23

Rick Galloway looked at the map on the camp table in front of him. An inkwell, a dagger, and a pair of gloves held down the corners and kept the hot wind off the Westscarp from blowing the map as well as the dust all over his tent.

If maps had faces, Rick decided, this one would be wearing a sullen frown. He remembered telling his “General Staff” classes that you should always look at a map when you couldn’t think of what to do next. The map would almost certainly tell you something.