Authors: Mary Kirchoff
Then again, when Rejik died and Cormac had at last become lord of Castle DiThon, he’d believed he actually had a chance to get ahead. He had hoped to pay off the gambling debts he’d run up in expectation of his inheritance. But he discovered soon enough that there was barely enough money to keep the castle running, and little more. Cormac’s own creditors had forced him to sell off lands, among them Stonecliff.
Once again, the fates prevented him from getting what he wanted. Cormac slammed the port glass to the desk a little harder than he’d intended. The stem snapped from the pear-shaped bottom, splashing the dark red liquid onto his hand. Growling in irritation, he wiped his hand on the thigh of his breeches.
“You’ll ruin the only suit that still fits you, Cormac, and you can’t afford another, unless it’s of that dreadful brocatelle the merchants are passing off as genuine brocade.”
Cormac looked up to see his wife Rietta strolling into the room. Her presence caused his mood to sour more than the wine spill had. “Can’t a man have some peace in his own castle?”
“Not during his brother’s funeral.”
Through eyes just beginning to fog with port, Cormac considered his wife. In her late thirties, Rietta had that tight-lipped, smooth-skinned look of a woman who never smiled much for fear it would cause wrinkles. Her severity was emphasized by wearing her dark, thin hair in a tight chignon covered by a strong veil of lace netting. She was too thin for Cormac’s taste, her bosom a sunken thing thankfully covered by the long gorget she wore around her neck. Rietta’s silent, lithe grace brought to mind a cat, a black, sneaky creature that appeared
only when she wanted something and left bad luck in her wake.
“You left me alone to deal with all those wailing old women from the village, not to mention Dame Berwick and her toothsome daughter.” Rietta shivered. “If you ask me, Quinn escaped a fate worse than death with that one.”
Cormac thought he knew such a fate firsthand, even thought of remarking on the pot calling the kettle black, but Rietta never seemed to catch his irony, especially when it was at her expense. He was definitely not in a mood to joust with her. “If you’ve come just to pull me back into that dank abyss with you, I’ve more important things to deal with now.”
“It’s bad enough that scalawag sister of yours hasn’t blessed us with her presence,” sniffed Rietta as if Cormac hadn’t spoken. “What will everyone think if the lord himself isn’t there to greet the mourners?”
Cormac poured himself a new glass of port and tossed it down in one gulp. “They’ll think I’ve gone on with the business of running a vast estate. I made an appearance and accepted more condolences than I could stomach, anyway.” He gave her a sly look. “However, they
will
wonder where the lady of the manor is.”
Rietta was too smart to rise to the bait. “I watched you leave with Berwick. What have you done with him?” She glanced about the room artlessly, though it was obvious the other man was gone.
Cormac sighed heavily. “We finished our business, such as it was, and he left. I assumed he’d returned to the great hall.”
“You’ve not given up on getting back Stonecliff already, have you?”
“Through marriage, yes. I can see no other lawful option, since Quinn had the ill-timed bad luck to be slain.” Cormac fiddled pensively with a dry quill pen that lay on his desk. “More’s the shame that he induced
in me a brilliant idea for using Stonecliff to recover the family fortunes. It would be a perfect place to establish a fortress from which we could extort a toll on the vessels that traverse the river, including Berwick’s own ships from Hillfort.” Cormac sighed again and tossed back more port. “But it’s not to be.”
With a disapproving eye, Rietta watched his drinking. “As usual, Cormac, you’re not using your head.”
“I endeavor to, whenever possible.” Cormac’s perpetual scowl at his wife deepened. “Should I infer from your tone that you have the answer that has eluded me?”
“As usual.” She strode to his desk and removed the nearly empty bottle of port to a distant shelf. “And, as usual, it’s right under your cherry-red nose.” He scowled again at her inference. “Propose another union between the families.”
“Of course I thought of that, but you can’t possibly mean Honora,” Cormac said. “You have loftier ambitions for your daughter than to marry her into a merchant family.”
Rietta raised one thin, dark brow. “Don’t be absurd.”
“I know you look forward to the day, but you can’t mean to offer up Kirah,” he said, tapping the desk with the quill. “Even if she weren’t too young, her marriage would mean that I’d
pay
a dowry, not receive one. That goes for Honora, too.” Scratching his temple, he thought for a moment more. “Bram is also too young. Even Berwick, desperate as he is for a noble connection, would not promise Ingard for a marriage to one so much younger than she.”
“Ingrid,” Rietta corrected. “You’re right. Bram is out of the question. He’s going to become a Knight of the Rose, like my father, and his father before him, and—”
“Yes, I know, like all male Cuissets, back to Vinus Solamnus,” interrupted Cormac in an unflattering imitation of Rietta’s own haughty voice. “A bunch of pansy-assed, overdressed, magic-wielding charlatans.”
If Rietta had had any respect for Cormac, his words might have angered her. They didn’t. “You’re such a peasant, Cormac. But that’s an old argument I don’t wish to pursue now.” She straightened her skirts needlessly. “You’ve forgotten Guerrand.”
Cormac threw his head back and laughed at the absurd suggestion. “Don’t you remember? We eliminated Guerrand as a possibility before we offered up Quinn. The reason hasn’t changed. He’s a wastrel.”
Rietta leaned over the desk toward her husband, her expression intent. “It’s true the reason hasn’t changed, but the circumstances have. Now he’s the only son available. You said yourself that Berwick is desperate. You simply have to persuade him that Guerrand
has
changed.” Rietta snickered unkindly. “That tradesman hasn’t many options with a daughter like his.”
“What if Guerrand doesn’t agree?”
Rietta sighed with exasperation. “You’ll have to help him see that he hasn’t many—any—options. Threaten to cut him off. He hasn’t any means of support besides you, has he? He hasn’t completed his training as a cavalier, so he’s not likely to run off and join a crusade. Appeal to his sense of DiThon family loyalty. Make him see that he’d be doing it for family and castle—and to make himself more comfortable.”
Rietta’s words sounded surprisingly reasonable to Cormac, yet he doubted the comfort argument would gain him ground with his indolent half brother. Guerrand seemed unconcerned about material things. Cormac had never been able to use that as leverage to get Guerrand to do anything he didn’t already want to do.
“For Kiri-Jolith’s sake, Cormac, you’re the lord and master here!” Rietta cut into his musings. “Don’t ask him, just tell him he has to do it. Guerrand wanted to become a mage, not a cavalier. Yet you forced him to train as the latter, and he seems to have forgotten the former.”
Secretly, Cormac did not consider that subject a victory, since Guerrand was taking the longest time in history to advance from squire to knight.
“If you’re as wise as I think,” said Rietta slickly, nearly choking on the words, “you’ll insist that the marriage take place in a fortnight, on the same day you’d set aside for Quinn and Ingrid.”
Cormac looked scandalized. “Without a proper mourning period? Such a rush will make the whole thing look like—well, exactly like what it is, a marriage of political convenience.”
Rietta laughed. “Don’t fool yourself that it’s ever appeared to be anything else. No one is more aware of propriety than I,” she said. “Yet, in this case, what is proper is less important than that we not give Guerrand time to change his mind or flee.”
A small sound from near the fireplace punctuated Rietta’s comment. “What was that?” she asked, looking toward the section of wall from which the noise had come.
Cormac dismissed it with a toss of his head. “Rodents. I hear them all the time in here. Likely they have thousands of hidey-holes in this old castle.”
“I’ll have the chamberlain put out traps.” A small sigh escaped Rietta’s patrician nostrils. “I fear I’ve been gone too long for propriety and must return to the great hall. Concerning Guerrand, you must do as you think best, my husband.”
Rietta wore a tight-lipped, triumphant smile as she watched her husband’s port-fogged mind ponder her words. She knew he would do it, had already decided to, but would not admit it to her so readily. She knew all too well how to persuade her husband to do what she wanted. She had but to provide and plant the seed. Cormac himself, with the aid of port as fertilizer and desperation as sunshine, would make the notion grow.
As she slipped from the room and donned her well-rehearsed
expression of grief, Rietta only hoped Cormac would do it soon, before Berwick had time to pursue other avenues.
* * * * *
Hurry, hurry, hurry! Kirah screamed inwardly, as if willing her feet to move faster in the cramped confines of the crawl space outside Cormac’s study. Kirah knew as Rietta did that Cormac would do as his wife suggested. The young girl had gasped aloud when she’d realized it. Thank Habbakuk they’d attributed the sound to rats. She’d started crawling when Cormac headed with purpose toward the door of his study. She knew with certainty that he was not en route to the privy.
This is a thousand times worse than I’d feared! Kirah’s fevered brain cried. I’d hoped he’d be safe because he was still unsuitable. Grieving, guileless Guerrand wouldn’t even suspect why he was being summoned to Cormac’s study again until it was too late to escape.
Scrappy Kirah had known from the moment she’d heard of Quinn’s death that it was only a matter of time before Cormac and Rietta cooked up some other plot to regain Stonecliff. That was why, even more than her overwhelming grief, she’d disappeared. She’d spent as much of the last three days as possible in the tunnel outside Cormac’s study, listening, leaving only to filch food from the kitchen.
Kirah had hoped that Berwick would produce an unheard-of son to marry to Honora. She knew now that she’d only fooled herself, because it was what she wanted to think. Besides, she hadn’t thought about Cormac having to pay a dowry.
It had been a most informative, if uncomfortable, couple of days. Cormac had allowed the DiThon finances to decline further than he’d led anyone to believe. A lot
further. The normal costs of running a castle were high enough, but Cormac’s taste for fine wines and brandies, and the wedding preparations, had stretched the household budget even more. Only yesterday, Kirah had heard Cormac in a dreadful argument with the chamberlain over the cost of Quinn’s funeral.
Scrambling on her hands and knees around a turn, still in the same clothes she’d been wearing when the news of Quinn’s death arrived, Kirah caught her shift on a sharp rock. Cursing, she gave the loose-fitting dress a yank, heard it tear free, and she was off again. Three days in the tunnels had left her feeling grubbier than even she found comfortable. Her nails were torn, the cuticles bloodied by scraping along the stone tunnels. She could scarcely imagine what she must look like with wisps of cobwebs poking from her greasy mop of hair and her smudged face. A fright doll came to mind. She didn’t care.
Right now, Kirah cared only about reaching the viewing room before Cormac, or his messenger, could get there. The problem was, no direct route led through the network of tunnels within the castle. The stairway outside Cormac’s study dropped almost directly into the foyer near the great hall, but the tunnels wound around the outside walls before exiting beneath the main staircase.
Reviewing the maze in her mind, Kirah decided to take a chance. She could cut the time significantly if she exited in the dining room, crossed that room in the open—even though there was a chance she might be spotted—then entered a second passage that led to the great hall.
Scrambling quickly down the narrow chimney that passed between floors, Kirah planned what she would do when she got to the great hall. First, she’d pull Guerrand into the tunnel, kicking and screaming if necessary. She knew he hated the small, spider-filled tunnels. Kirah didn’t care about that now, either. She
had to get him out of that death room.
After that she resolved to tell him what she’d overheard. It would not be difficult to persuade him to run away with her to Gwynned, like he’d always wanted to. Guerrand could finally study his magic, and she would, well, she’d do something! Learn to pick pockets, if I have to, Kirah thought. The young woman had a talent for it, and a certain amount of skill at thievery already. Possessions had been disappearing from the rooms of visitors to Castle DiThon for years. Thus far, it had only been a bored girl’s game, but she felt certain it could easily become a profession.
The more Kirah thought about it, the more she liked the idea. Guerrand could even use his magic to help her pilfer the biggest purses. She and Guerrand would become runaways like the characters in her favorite tales. Guerrand himself had sent her off to sleep countless times with bedtime stories about notorious mountebanks and swindlers and rogues, traveling adventurers who lived by their wits and magical skills rather than force of arms. Even honest, moral Guerrand couldn’t help but see that it was their fate.
She knew the highest hurdle to overcome would be Guerrand’s ever-ready sense of guilt. He would definitely feel guilty about running away. Kirah wouldn’t. She had no time for such a useless emotion. Guilt was an excuse used by people who were afraid to do what they wanted. She’d learned the hard way that if you didn’t grab what you wanted, no one was likely to give it to you. She’d told Guerrand that before, and she’d tell him again and again until he finally understood it.
Kirah came to a section of tunnel that was taller than average, though still narrow. She raised up from her crablike position and took off at a shambling run, trying to gain time. But then she came to a skidding stop. Abruptly, as she’d expected, the tunnel took a sharp left around a chimney. Ten more steps and she’d have
to leave the tunnel through an air grate between the legs of a ponderous sideboard and take the chance of crossing the formal dining room. With any luck there would be only servants present, preparing the hall for the funeral feast later that day.