It was a good memory.
Now Jakon Gallowglass, cold and angry, stood at the edge of the woods, staring at the twinkling fires of the camp not two hundred paces distant. Given the choice he would have preferred to arrive five minutes after the officers had gone, to have heard nothing of their plans. That way when he had heard of the death of the Grey Ghost and Taybard Jaekel he could simply have experienced a little grief, before resuming his life of fighting and whoring.
Gallowglass swore, long and loudly, his anger rising. He had spent many evenings in the company of Taybard Jaekel. He liked the man. He didn’t fill your head with questions. Added to which he had saved Jakon’s life twice. ‘Damn and perdition,’ he said.
If he headed off towards Shelding he could be there by late morning. At which point he would have moved beyond desertion and become a traitor.
Jakon Gallowglass was not a fool. Even if he warned the Grey Ghost it was unlikely the man or his company would survive. If they did they would become hunted men, hundreds of miles from their homeland.
‘Best you look after yourself, Gallowglass,’ he whispered.
Then he turned his back on the Shelding road and returned to his barracks.
Marl Coper had always been ambitious. As a child living on the south coast with his widowed father he had dreamed of a life of power and riches. In that order. His family had been poor, though not poverty-stricken. His father was an army surgeon, and had received a tract of land and a good house upon his retirement. After that he tended to the citizens of Lord Winterbourne’s southern estates. He would not have seen himself as poor. There was always food on the table, but clothes had to be mended, shoes repaired. They owned only two horses, both old and swaybacked. Marl needed more than this.
He was a good student at the local school, reading endlessly, studying Varlish history. It seemed to Marl that the greatest attribute of history’s giants was ruthlessness, combined with a single-minded goal. Closer examination, however, showed that all the great men had also learned the craft of politics. They had acquired mentors, patrons who could lift them, supply them with contacts, and ease their way through the treacherous alleyways of power.
Marl’s first mentor had been a canny old man who ran Lord Winterbourne’s southern manor. The thirteen-year-old Marl had run errands for him, seeking to please him at every turn. The old man took a shine to him, and began inviting him to his home. Here Marl performed services of a more disquieting nature.
By the time Marl was nineteen he had learned all that he could from the old man. It had not occurred to him at that time to engineer his death, and thus take over his role. Marl was still young and unsure of his skills. One day, however, fate intervened. They were crossing the ice-covered River Tael, when suddenly the surface cracked. The old man was spun from his feet, landing heavily, his legs slipping under water. He scrabbled to hold on to the tilting ice. Marl threw himself flat and instinctively reached out for his mentor. In that moment he realized they were totally alone. Unseen. Slithering forward he reached the old man. His lips were already blue with cold. ‘Pull me out, boy. Be careful, though. If we both go under we’re doomed.’
Marl reached out, pushed aside the old man’s questing hand and thrust his head down under the ice. The old man fought hard, but the current dragged him down to his death.
Marl Coper made a fine steward. He reorganized the running of the manor, and introduced a new breed of cattle, purchased from the north, which were more hardy and supplied more beef. He improved the horse herds, acquiring three fine stallions from across the sea. The manor house itself had fallen into disrepair, as Lord Winterbourne spent little time there, but Marl brought in carpenters and stonemasons to renovate the building. Despite the expenditure the profits from the estate doubled in three years.
He worked tirelessly, with one aim in mind. To impress the Winterbourne family. Initially this meant catching the eye of Sir Gayan Kay, Lord Winterbourne’s younger brother. Impressing him was not easy. The man was a Knight of the Sacrifice, boorish and arrogant. He had a habit of speaking his mind, no matter the hurt or the offence caused. He maintained that this was the duty of a knight, to speak the truth. As always with such people, were any to speak their minds to him he would fly into uncontrollable rages. Marl observed him quietly for more than a year. He noted that Gayan Kay professed a hatred of sycophants, and yet surrounded himself with the most appalling toadies.