aspic

On every stand hung a set of armor—but not modern armor, as Pasevalles had so crossly pointed out: the helmets and breastplates and curious metal-strip skirts were of a type that Isgrimnur had seen before only in very old paintings in the Sancellan Mahistrevis. 'This is armor from the Imperium!" he said, impressed. "Or damn clever copies." Pasevalles drew himself up to his full height. "They are not copies! They are real. My father has been keeping them for years My grandfather bought them in the great city." "In Nabban," Isgrimnur mused. He walked along the rows, examining the various costumes, his warrior's eye seeing which were flawed in design, which simply missing pieces from the original arrangement. The metal the old Imperatorial craftsmen had used was heavier than that now used, but the armor was splendidly made. He leaned close to examine a helm with a twining sea-dragon crest. To get a better look, he puffed away a fine layer of dust. "These have not been polished in some time," he said absently. "My father has been ill." Little Pasevalles' voice was suddenly querulous. "I try to keep them clean, but they are too tall for me to reach and too heavy for me to lift down." Isgrimnur looked around the room, thinking. The uninhabited armor suits seemed like watchers at a Raed, waiting for some decision. There were still many things for him to do. Surely he had spent enough time with this boy? He walked to the tower window and peered out into the gray western sky. "We will not eat for some hour or so yet," he said at last, "and your uncle and Prince Josua will not be speaking of the other important things that must be discussed until afterward.

Go and get your father's cleaning things—at least a whisking broom to get the dust off. You and I can make short work of this." The boy looked up, eyes wide. "Truly?" 'Truly. I am in no hurry to go back down all those stairs, in any case." The boy was still staring. "Bless me, child, go on. And bring a lamp or two. It'll be dark soon." The boy sped out of the room and down the narrow stairwell like a hare. Isgrimnur shook his head. The banqueting hall of Chasu Metessa had a fireplace along each wall, and was warm and bright despite the chilliness of the season. The courtiers, landed folk from all over the valley, seemed to be dressed in their finest: many of the women wore long shimmery dresses and hats almost as weirdly inventive as those to be seen at the Sancellan Mahistrevis itself. Still, Isgrimnur noted the air of worry that hung like a fog in the huge, high-raftered chamber. The ladies talked swiftly and brightly and laughed at tiny things. The men were mostly quiet; what little they did say was spoken behind their hands. A cask of Teligure wine had been breached at the start of things and its contents shared out around the room. Isgrimnur noticed that Josua, who was seated at the right of their host Baron Seriddan, had raised his goblet to his lips many times, but had not yet allowed the page beside him to refill it. The duke approved of Josua's forbearance. The prince was not much of a drinker at the best of times, but since the chance of dislodging Benigaris from the ducal throne might rest on the knife-edge of tonight's doings, it was doubly important that Josua's wits be sharp and his tongue cautious. As he surveyed the room, the duke was stopped short by a pale glimmer in the doorway, far across the room. Squinting, Isgrimnur suddenly smiled deep in his beard.

It was the boy Pasevalles, who had doubtless once more escaped from his mother and her ladies. He had come, Isgrimnur had no doubt, to watch Real Knights at table. He may just get an eyeful. Baron Seriddan Metessis rose from his seat at the head of the table and lifted his goblet. Behind him a blue crane, symbol of the Metessan House, spread its long wings across a wall banner. "Let us salute our visitors," the baron said. He smiled ironically, his sun-browned, bearded face wrinkling. "I am doubtless a traitor already, just for letting you inside the gates. Prince Josua—so it does no further harm to drink your health." Isgrimnur found himself liking Seriddan, and respecting him more than a bit. He little resembled the duke's fondly-held image of an effete Nabbanai baron: his thick neck and seamed peasant face made Seriddan look more a genial rogue than the hereditary master of a great fiefdom, but his eyes were shrewd and his manner deceptively self-mocking. His command of Westerling was so good that little Pasevalles' fluency no longer seemed surprising. After the glasses were drained, Josua rose and lifted his own cup to thank the folk of Chasu Metessa for their hospitality. This was greeted by polite smiles and murmurs of approval that seemed more than a little forced. When the prince sat down, the whisper of table talk began to grow once more, but Seriddan gestured for quiet. "So," he said to Josua, loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. "We have fulfilled the obligations that good Aedonites owe to their fellows—and some would say we have done far more than that, considering you appeared in our lands unasked for, and with an army at your back." Above the smiling mouth, Seriddan's stare was cool. "Will we see your heels in the morning, Josua of Erkynland?" Isgrimnur suppressed a noise of surprise. He had assumed that the baron would send the lesser folk of his household away so that he could talk to the prince in privacy, but apparently Seriddan had other ideas. Josua, too, was taken aback, but quickly said: "If you hear me out and are unmoved, Baron, you will indeed see our heels soon after sunrise. My people are not camped outside your walls as a threat to you. You have done me no wrong, and I will do you none either." The baron stared at him for a long moment, then turned to his brother. "Brindalles, what do you think? Does it not seem odd that an Erkynlandish prince would wish to pass through our lands? Where might he be going?" The brother's thin face bore many similarities to the baron's, but the features that looked roguishly dangerous on Seriddan seemed merely tired and a trifle unsettled on Brindalles.

"If he is not going to Nabban," came the mild reply, "he must be planning to walk straight to the sea." Brindalles' smile was wan. It was hard to think that such a diffident man could be the father of bright-burning Pasevalles. "We are going on to Nabban," said Josua. "That is no secret." "And what purpose could you have that is not dangerous to me and dangerous to my liege-lord, Duke Benigaris?" Seriddan demanded. "Why should I not make you a prisoner?" Josua looked around the now-silent room. Chasu Metessa's most important residents all sat at the long table, watching with rapt attention. "Are you certain you wish me to speak so openly? " Seriddan gestured impatiently. "I will not have it said that I misunderstood you, whether I let you pass through my lands or hold you here for Benigaris. Speak, and my people here will be my witnesses." "Very well." Josua turned to Sludig, who despite having drained his wine cup several times was watching the proceedings with a wary eye. "May I have the scroll?" As the yellow-bearded Rimmersman fumbled in the pocket of his cloak, Josua told Seriddan; "As I said, Baron: we go to Nabban. And we go in hopes of removing Benigaris from the Sancellan Mahistrevis. In part, that is because he is an ally of my brother, and his fall would weaken the High King's position. The fact that Elias and I are at war with each other is no secret, but the reasons why are less well-known." "If you think they are important," Seriddan said equably, "tell them. We have plenty of wine, and we are at home. It is your little army that may or may not be leaving with the dawn." "I will tell you, because I would not ask allies to fight unknowing," said Josua. "Hea! Allies? Fight!?" The baron scowled and sat straighten. "You are walking a dangerous road, Josua Lackhand. Benigaris is my liege-lord. It is mad even to contemplate letting your people pass, knowing what I know, but I show respect for your father by letting you speak. But to hear you talk of me fighting beside you—madness!" He waved his hand. Some two dozen armed men, who had been standing back against the shadowed walls all during the meal, came rustlingly to attention. Josua did not flinch, but calmly held Seriddan's eye. "As I said," he resumed, "I will give you the reasons that Elias must be driven from the Dragonbone Chair.

But not now. There are other things to tell you first." He reached and took the scroll from Sludig's hand. "My finest knight, Sir Deornoth of Hewenshire, was at the battle of Bullback Hill when Duke Leobardis, Benigaris' father, came to relieve my castle at Naglimund." "Leobardis chose your side," Seriddan said shortly. "Benigaris has chosen your brother's. What the old duke decided does not affect my loyalty to his son." Despite his words, there was a certain veiled look in the baron's eyes; watching him, Isgrimnur suspected Seriddan might just wish that the old duke were still alive and that his loyalty could be more comfortable. "And what does this Sir What-may-be-his-name have to do with Metessa?" "Perhaps more than you can know." For the first time there was an edge of impatience in Josua's tone. Careful, man. Isgrimnur tugged anxiously at his beard. Don't let your sorrow over Deornoth betray you. We're farther along than I had thought we 'd be. Seriddan's listening, anyway. As if he heard his old friend's silent thought, Josua paused and took a breath.