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The politics of the matter held no real interest for Ivis. His task was to train this modest army.
The round table dominating the centre of the room had been cut from the bole of a three-thousand-year-old blackwood. Its rings were bands of red and black beneath the thick, amber varnish. It had been placed in this chamber by the founder of the House half a thousand years ago, to mark her extraordinary rise from Lesser House to Greater House. Since her sudden death ten years past, her adopted son, Draconus, commanded the family holdings; and if Srela’s ambitions had been impressive, they were nothing compared to those of her chosen son.
There were no portraits on the walls, and the heavy wool hangings, undyed and raw, were there for warmth alone, as was the thick rug underfoot.
Draconus was breaking his fast at the table: bread and watered wine. A scatter of scrolls surrounded the pewter plate before him.
When it seemed that Draconus had not noticed his arrival, Ivis said, ‘Lord.’
‘Report on his progress, captain.’
Ivis frowned, resisted wiping at his brow again. Upon reflection, he’d known this was coming. The boy was in his year, after all. ‘He possesses natural skill, Lord, as befits his sire. But his hands are weak yet — that habit of gnawing on his nails has left the pads soft and easily torn.’
‘Is he diligent?’
Still Draconus was yet to look up, intent on his meal.
‘At his exercises, Lord? It is hard to say. There is an air of the effortless about him. For all that I work him, or set the best recruits against him on the sand, he remains… unpressed.’
Draconus grunted. ‘And does that frustrate you, captain?’
‘That I have yet to truly test him, yes, Lord, it does. I do not have as much time with him as I would like, though I understand the necessity for higher tutoring. Still, as a young swordsman, there is much to admire in his ease.’
Finally, the Lord glanced up. ‘Is there, now?’ He leaned back, pushing the plate away with its remnants of crust and drippings. ‘Find him a decent sword, some light chain, gauntlets, vambraces and greaves. And a helm. Then instruct the stables to ready him a solid warhorse — I know, he has not yet learned to ride a charger, so be sure the beast is not wilful.’
Ivis blinked. ‘Lord, every horse is wilful beneath an uncertain rider.’
As if he’d not heard, Draconus continued, ‘A mare, I think, young, eager to fix eye and ear on Calaras.’
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The politics of the matter held no real interest for Ivis. His task was to train this modest army.
The round table dominating the centre of the room had been cut from the bole of a three-thousand-year-old blackwood. Its rings were bands of red and black beneath the thick, amber varnish. It had been placed in this chamber by the founder of the House half a thousand years ago, to mark her extraordinary rise from Lesser House to Greater House. Since her sudden death ten years past, her adopted son, Draconus, commanded the family holdings; and if Srela’s ambitions had been impressive, they were nothing compared to those of her chosen son.
There were no portraits on the walls, and the heavy wool hangings, undyed and raw, were there for warmth alone, as was the thick rug underfoot.
Draconus was breaking his fast at the table: bread and watered wine. A scatter of scrolls surrounded the pewter plate before him.
When it seemed that Draconus had not noticed his arrival, Ivis said, ‘Lord.’
‘Report on his progress, captain.’
Ivis frowned, resisted wiping at his brow again. Upon reflection, he’d known this was coming. The boy was in his year, after all. ‘He possesses natural skill, Lord, as befits his sire. But his hands are weak yet — that habit of gnawing on his nails has left the pads soft and easily torn.’
‘Is he diligent?’
Still Draconus was yet to look up, intent on his meal.
‘At his exercises, Lord? It is hard to say. There is an air of the effortless about him. For all that I work him, or set the best recruits against him on the sand, he remains… unpressed.’
Draconus grunted. ‘And does that frustrate you, captain?’
‘That I have yet to truly test him, yes, Lord, it does. I do not have as much time with him as I would like, though I understand the necessity for higher tutoring. Still, as a young swordsman, there is much to admire in his ease.’
Finally, the Lord glanced up. ‘Is there, now?’ He leaned back, pushing the plate away with its remnants of crust and drippings. ‘Find him a decent sword, some light chain, gauntlets, vambraces and greaves. And a helm. Then instruct the stables to ready him a solid warhorse — I know, he has not yet learned to ride a charger, so be sure the beast is not wilful.’
Ivis blinked. ‘Lord, every horse is wilful beneath an uncertain rider.’
As if he’d not heard, Draconus continued, ‘A mare, I think, young, eager to fix eye and ear on Calaras.’
Eager? More like terrified.
Perhaps Ivis had given something of his thoughts away in his face, for his lord smiled. ‘Think you I cannot control my mount? Oh, and a spare horse along with the charger. One of the walkers. Make it a gelding.’
Ah, then not returning to Kharkanas. ‘Lord, shall this be a long journey?’
Draconus stood, and only now did Ivis note the shadows under the man’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ and then as if answering a question Ivis had not voiced, ‘and this time, I shall ride with my son.’
Malice pulled him into the corridor leading to the Chamber of Campaigns. Arathan knew it only by name; not once had he ventured into his father’s favoured room. He drew back, stretching the link between himself and his sister.
She twisted round, face darkening — and then she suddenly relaxed, loosening her grip on his wrist. ‘Like a hare in the autumn, you are. Is that what you think he wants to see?’
‘I don’t know what he wants to see,’ Arathan replied. ‘How could I?’
‘Did you see Clawface Ivis leaving? He was just ahead — took the courtyard passage. He’ll have reported on you. He’ll have talked about you. And now Father’s waiting. To see for himself.’
‘Clawface?’
‘Because of his scars-’
‘Those aren’t scars,’ Arathan said, ‘it’s just age. Ivis Yerrthust fought in the Forulkan War. They starved on the retreat — they all did. That’s where those lines on his face came from.’
She was staring at him as if he’d lost his wits. ‘What do you think will happen, Arathan?’
‘About what?’
‘If he doesn’t like what he sees.’
Arathan shrugged. Even this close to his father — thirty paces down a broad corridor and then a door — still he could feel nothing. The air was unchanged, as if power was nothing but an illusion. The notion startled him, but he would not draw close to it, not yet. This was not the time to see where it led.
‘He’ll kill you,’ said Malice.
He studied her face, caught the amused glint, the faintest hint of a smirk. ‘Names shouldn’t be curses,’ he said.
