The Charnel Prince (6 page)

No. It’s ridiculous.

She was about to tell Cazio that when Austra suddenly burst into the courtyard. She was out of breath, and her face was flushed and wet with tears.

“What’s wrong?” Anne asked, taking Austra’s hands.

“It’s horrible, Anne!”

“What?”

“I s-s-saw a cuveitur. He was giving out the news in the square, by the wine shop. He’d just come from— Oh, Anne, what shall we do?”

“Austra,
what
?
”

Her friend bit her lip and looked into Anne’s eyes. “I have terrible news,” she whispered. “The worst in the world.”

LEOVIGILD ACKENZAL STARED at the spear with a mixture of fear and annoyance.

The fear was entirely rational; the sharp end of the weapon was poised only inches from his throat, and the man holding the shaft was large, armored, and mounted on a ferocious-looking steed. His iron-gray eyes reminded Leoff of the pitiless waters of the Ice Sea, and it seemed to him that if this man killed him, he would not even remember him in the morning.

There was certainly nothing he could do to stop the fellow if murder was on his mind.

That he should also be annoyed was quite irrational, he supposed, but in truth it had little to do with the armored man. Days before—in the hill country—he’d heard a faint melody off in the distance. No doubt it had been some shepherd playing a pipe, but the tune had haunted him ever since, the worse because he’d never heard the end of it. His mind had completed it in a hundred ways, but none of them were satisfactory.

This was unusual. Normally, Leoff could complete a melody without the slightest effort. The fact that this one continued to elude him made it more tantalizing than a beautiful, mysterious—but reluctant—lover.

Then, this morning, he’d awoken with a glimmer of how it ought to go, but less than an hour on the road brought this rude interruption.

“I have little money,” Leoff told the man truthfully. His voice shook a bit as he said it.

The hard eyes narrowed. “No? What’s all that on your mule, then?”

Leoff glanced at his pack animal. “Paper, ink, my clothes. The large case is a lute, the smaller a croth. Those smallest ones are various woodwinds.”

“Auy? Open them, then.”

“They won’t be of any value to you.”

“Open them.”

Trying not to take his gaze off the man, Leoff complied, opening first the leather-bound case of the lute, which sounded faintly as the gourd-shaped back bumped against the ground. Then he proceeded to unpack the rest of his instruments; the eight-stringed rosewood croth inlaid with mother-of-pearl that Mestro DaPeica had given him years ago. A wooden flute with silver keys, an hautboy, six flageolets of graded sizes, and a dark red krummhorn.

The man watched this with little expression. “You’re a minstrel, then,” he said at last.

“No,” Leoff replied. “No, I’m not.” He tried to stand taller, to make the most of his average height. He knew there was little intimidating about his hazel eyes, curly brown hair, and boyish face, but he could at least be dignified.

The fellow raised an eyebrow. “Then what exactly are you?”

“I’m a composer.”

“And what does a composer do?” the man asked.

“He composes music.”

“I see. And how does that differ from what a minstrel does?”

“Well, for one thing—”

“Play something,” the man interrupted.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Leoff frowned, his annoyance growing. He looked around, hoping to find someone else, but the road stretched empty so far as the eye could see. And here in Newland, where the terrain was as level as a sounding board, that was very far indeed.

Then why hadn’t he seen the approach of the man on a horse?

But the answer to that lay in the melody he’d been puzzling over. When he heard music in his head, the rest of the world simply didn’t matter.

He picked up the lute. It had gone out of tune, of course, but not badly, and it was only a moment’s work to set it right again. He plucked out the melody line he’d been working on. “That’s not right,” he murmured.

“You
can
play, can’t you?” the mounted man challenged.

“Don’t interrupt me,” Leoff said absently, closing his eyes. Yes, there it was, though he’d lost the end.

He started into it, a single line on the top string, rising in three notes, dropping into two, then tripping up the scale. He added a bass accompaniment, but something about it didn’t fit. He stopped and started again. “That’s not very good,” the man said.

That was too much, spear or no. Leovigild turned his eyes on the fellow. “It would be
quite
good if you hadn’t interrupted me,” he said. “I almost had this in my head, you know, perfect, and then along you come with your great long spear and . . . What do you want with me, anyway? Who are you?” He noticed distantly that his voice wasn’t shaking anymore.

“Who are
you
?
” the man asked placidly.

Leoff drew himself up straight. “I am Leovigild Ackenzal,” he said.

“And why do you approach Eslen?”

“I have an appointment to the court of His Highness, William the Second, as a composer. The emperor has a better opinion of my music than you do, it seems.”

Bizarrely, the man actually smiled. “Not anymore, he doesn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s dead, that’s what I mean.”

Leoff blinked. “I . . . I didn’t know.”

“Well, he is. Along with half the royal family.” He shifted in his saddle. “Ackenzal. That’s a Hanzish-sounding name.”

“It is not,” Leoff replied. “My father was from Herilanz. I myself was born in Tremar.” He pursed his lips. “You aren’t a bandit, are you?”

“I never said I was,” the fellow replied. “I haet Artwair.”

“You are a knight, Sir Artwair?”

Again, that ghost of a smile. “Artwair will do. Do you have a letter proving your claim?”

“Ah, yes. Yes, I do.”

“I would very much like to see it.”

Wondering why Artwair should care, Leoff nevertheless rummaged through his saddle pack until he found a parchment with the royal seal. He handed it to the warrior, who examined it briefly.

“This looks in order,” he said. “I’m returning to Eslen just now. I’ll escort you there.”

Leoff felt the muscles of his neck unknotting. “Very kind of you,” he said.

“Sorry if I gave you a fright. You shouldn’t have been traveling alone, anyway—not in these times.”

By noon, the infant-eyed sky of morning was cataracted an oppressive gray. This did nothing to improve Leoff’s mood. The landscape had changed; no longer totally flat, the road now ran alongside some sort of embankment or ridge of earth. It was so regular in shape, it seemed to him that it must be man-made. In the distance he could see similar ridges. The strangest things were the towers that stood on some of them. They looked as if they had huge wheels fixed to them, but with no rims, only four big spokes covered in what looked like sailcloth. They turned slowly in the breeze.

“What is that?” Leoff asked, gesturing at the nearest.

“First time in Newland, eh? It’s a malend. The wind turns it.”

“Yes, I can see that. For what purpose?”

“That one pumps water. Some are used to grind grain.”

“It pumps water?”

“Auy. If it didn’t, we’d be talking fishling right now.” Sir Artwair gestured broadly at the landscape. “Why do you think they call this Newland? It used to be underwater. It would be now, but the malenden keep pumping it out.” He pointed to the top of the embankment. “The water is up there. That’s the great northern canal.”

“I should have known that,” Leoff said. “I’ve heard of the canals, of course. I knew that Newland was below the level of the sea. I just—I suppose I thought I wasn’t that far along yet. I thought it would be more obvious, somehow.”

He glanced at his companion. “Does it ever make you nervous?”

Sir Artwair nodded. “Auy, a bit. Still, it’s a wonder, and good protection against invasion.”

“How so?”

“We can always let the water out through the dikes, of course, so any army marching on Eslen would have to swim. Eslen itself is high and dry.”

“What about the people who live out here?”

“We’d tell them first. Everyone knows the way to the nearest safe birm, believe me.”

“Has it ever been done?”

“Auy. Four times.”

“And the armies were stopped?”

“Three of them were. The fourth was lead by a Dare, and his descendents sit yet in Eslen.”

“About that—about the king—” Leoff began.

“You’re wondering if there’s anyone left to sing to for your supper.”

“I’m not unconcerned with that,” Leoff admitted, “but clearly I’ve missed a great deal of news while on the road. I’m not even sure of the date.”

“It’s the Temnosenal. Tomorrow is the first of Novmen.”

“Then I’ve been on the road longer than I thought. I left in Seftmen.”

“The very month the king was killed.”

“It would be a kindness . . .” Leoff began, and then, “Could you please tell me what happened to King William?”

“Surely. He was set upon by assassins while on a hunting expedition. His entire party was slain.”

“Assassins? From where?”

“Sea reavers, they say. He was near the headland of Aenah.”

“And others of the royal house were slain with him?”

“Prince Robert, his brother, was slain there, as well. The princesses Fastia and Elseny were murdered at Cal Azroth.”

“I don’t know that place,” Leoff said. “Is it near to where the king was killed?”

“Not at all. It’s more than a nineday’s hard riding.”

“That seems a very strange coincidence.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Nevertheless, it is the case, and it doesn’t go well for those who suggest otherwise.”

“I see,” Leoff said. “Then can you tell me—who rules in Eslen now?”

Artwair chuckled softly. “That depends on whom you ask. There is a king—Charles, the son of William. But he is, as they say, touched by the saints. He must be advised, and there’s no lack of advice available to him. The nobles of the Comven give it most freely and at every opportunity. The praifec of the Church has much to say, as well. And then there’s William’s widow, the mother of Charles.”

“Muriele Dare.”

“Ah, so you know something, at least,” Artwair said. “Yes, if you had to pick one person to say rules Crotheny, she would be the best choice.”

“I see,” Leoff said.

“So you say you’re worried about your position?” the knight said. “Are positions for your sort rare?”

“There are other patrons who would have me,” Leoff admitted. “I am not without reputation. I last served the Greft of Glastir. Still, a royal appointment . . .” He looked down. “But that’s a small thing, isn’t it, in all this mess.”

“At least you have some sense, composer. But cheer up—you may have your position yet—the queen may honor it. Then you’ll be right in the thick of things when the war starts.”

“War? War with whom?”

“Hansa—or Liery—or perhaps a civil war.”

“Are you joking with me?”

Artwair shrugged. “I have a sense for these things. All is chaos, and it usually takes a war to sort things out.”

“Saint Bright, let’s hope not.”

“You don’t fancy marching songs?”

“I don’t know any. Can you sing some?”

“Me, sing? When your mule is a warhorse.”

“Ah, well,” Leoff sighed. “Just a thought.”

They traveled in silence for a time, and as evening came, a mist settled, made rosy by the waning sun. The lowing of cattle sounded in the distance. The air smelled like dried hay and rosemary, and the breeze was chill.

“Will we reach Eslen tonight?” Leoff asked.

“Only if we travel all night, which I don’t fancy,” Sir Artwair replied. He seemed distracted, as if he were searching for something. “There’s a town where the road crosses the canal up here. I know an inn there. We’ll take a room, and with an early start we’ll be in Eslen by midday tomorrow.”

“Is something wrong?”

Artwair shrugged. “I’ve an itchy feeling. It’s likely nothing, as in your case.”

“Were you searching for anything in particular when we met?”

“Nothing in particular and everything out-of-place. You were out
of place.”

“And what’s out of place now?”

“Did I say anything was?”

“No, but something is—it shows in your face.”

“And what would a minstrel know about my face?”

Leoff scratched his chin. “I told you, I’m not a minstrel. I’m a composer. You asked what the difference was. A minstrel—he goes from place to place, selling songs, playing for country dances, that sort
of thing.”