Octavia moved closer to Ganton. Tylara couldn’t hear, what she said. Suddenly Ganton shouted. “Aye! My lady, my lords, it has been greatly convenient to be here as a bheroman. I see, though, there are times when it is well to be Wanax.” He stood. “Morrone! Morrone, where are you? Ho, Guards! The Wanax of Drantos requires his Companion! Find Lord Morrone!”
“Here, sire!” Morrone rushed into the hall. “Forgive me, I was napping in the corner—”
“Cease prattling and fetch me my sword!” Ganton shouted. “Quickly, quickly!”
“Aye, sire.” Morrone ran to the far end of the hall and returned with a broadsword.
Ganton took it. “Coronel Caradoc, come forth! Kneel!”
“Aye, sire—”
“My lady, have I your consent?” Ganton shouted to Tylara.
“Aye, sire!”
“Then I, Ganton, Son of Loron, Wanax of Drantos, declare and proclaim Caradoc son of Cadaric worthy of the honors of chivalry.” He struck Caradoc on each shoulder with the flat of the sword. “Arise, my lord. You shall have suitable income as befits your new station; and henceforth you shall be known as Lord Caradoc do Tamaerthon.”
The pen wrote well. A space pen, Rick had called it when he gave it to her, but he had not explained what that meant. But it was certainly easier to use than a gull quill.
And so it was done. And I think well done, my husband. Caradoc has ever been a friend to this house, and I cannot believe that if Ganton gave him every honor within his gift he would change his loyalty. More, his interest runs with ours, as he is married to Gwen.
And a good thing, Tylara thought. Gwen must always be a temptation to Rick. She speaks his languages, and with her he can say what he will. Tylara looked to the mirror on the table. I think I am prettier than she. But- She looked to the bed and set her lips in a grim line. It is likely she is more skilled in the ways women attract men. Especially starmen. Yet men hold honor high. Surely Rick will not betray his friend and companion, his trusted henchman?
He has known other women since we were married. It must be. But he has been careful. There have been no stories, nothing whispered through the halls. Two women have claimed to carry Rick’s bastards, but they have been proved to be liars. One could not have been in the same city with Rick when her child was conceived! And the other did not know of the strange surgery that prevails in his homeland.
She thought of Rick with another woman, and writhed. No matter how hard she tried, when she imagined Rick straining and groaning with another, the face beneath him was Gwen’s. Enough! She lifted the pen again.
But though Caradoc has won a victory, I think the war goes not well. The Westmen ride where they will, and we hold only castles and walled towns. There will be no crops throughout much of the high plains. The Roman scribes will tell you what now is required to feed the army and its horses. I cannot think those numbers will please you, nor will they please the peers of Drantos. The taxes of this war, added to what you require to keep your fields of madweed, would have ruined us if we had not the new plows. They may ruin us yet, though the first harvest in the Cumac has yielded more than we previously took in two. And the new forges and foundries produce wagons to carry the grain, so that we are able to send it to the high plains for the army. Yet I fear there will come a time when we have not wagons, horses, and grain in the same place at the same time.
The Westmen are the death of the earth. Arekor, the priest of Vothan who lived among them, has told Caradoc–Lord Caradoc!—that they do this from policy. They burn and destroy, and pull down not only buildings and walls, but the very terraces, and stop up wells; for they live on so little that they can live in devastated lands when none of their enemies can. Thus do they keep the lands above the Westscarp in desert, and thus will they make desert of our lands above the Littlescarp if we cannot expel them or kill them.
She set the pen down and got up from the table. The next part would be very hard to write. A flagon of wine stood on a side table near her bed, and she filled a goblet.
I seldom drink wine, she thought. She looked at the empty bed. Except at night, before I go to my husband. Even now, even now, though he is gentle and kind and loves me. And though I love him with all my heart, I know I pleasure him little that way, though he says this is not so.
My husband, as you desired, we held a Council of Cheim to consider defenses against the Westmen. Hilon the blacksmith of Clayton, who sits in my council—
She frowned and crossed through the last two words.
–in our Council of Chelm, proposed that instead of supporting the army in the high plains, his town will buy the knowledge of how to make Guns, and pay to have the burghers taught in their use, and will buy firepowder.
He spoke thus: “If we put Guns on the town wall, let the Westmen come to us. We will break their teeth. Much of that and they will cease to chew on us.” You may imagine this was not greeted with joy by bheroman Traskon son of Trakon in whose lands Clayton lies.
For it cannot be long before the towns find ways to buy these Guns, and then they will be as safe as Dravan, and how will their lords rule then? And now I think, nor town, nor Dravan is safe! For I had believed that with the Guns Dravan would be safe from siege towers, yet how are we safe from Guns which can batter down our very walls?
My husband, great and momentous changes are upon us, and I no longer know what I must do to protect our children. I have often thought you know not enough of Drantos and Tamaerthon and this world of Tran to rule it. Yet if you do not, no one does, for only you know what has been unleashed upon us and what I will live to see.
She tapped the table with impatience, searching for the words to tell him of her fear without sounding afraid. Finally she wrote again.
For now you are my life as never before. Always I have loved you. Now I must needs obey you, for I know not what else I can do to preserve what is ours. And though I have not always understood, yet I have tried to make your work my work, and your cause my cause; and now that must be so no matter how little I understand.
My fear is that I shall be asked to do that I cannot do. But I am comforted, for you will never ask of me more than I can bear.
My lord, my life, my love, I am,
Tylara.
27
Rick cursed as he drank the bitter caffeine drink that for want of a better word he called tea.
His orderly watched the footman carry out the soiled breakfast dishes, then turned back as Rick cursed again. “My lord?” Jamiy asked.
“Nothing,” Rick growled. “Leave me.”
“Aye, lord.” The orderly hesitated. “You are to see Chancellor Yanulf this morning.”
“And then Sergeant Major Elliot, and after that I have letters to dictate,” Rick said. “Yeah, I know. Give me this much time.” He held his fingers half an inch apart, indicating about ten minutes: the time it would take for a standard beeswax candle to burn down that far. Time measurement was not very accurate on Tran…
What the hell does Yanulf want, coming here from Edron without notice? I’ll find out soon enough. Another goddam day of work and another night alone. Why didn’t I figure a reason for Gwen to stay- Because, you damned fool, your wife would kill you. More likely kill Gwen, and it isn’t just a figure of speech. Besides, it isn’t Gwen you want, it’s Tylara. Remember?
Yeah, and it really is. Only—
Only nothing, buster. Forget it! What’s next? Your wife doesn’t understand you? Tell that one often enough, and it’ll be true. Or maybe that’s what you want? You could do it. You have the guns. Leave Tylara, go to the University and shack up with Gwen. You could change the whole history of the planet that way. Of course, all this stuff you’ve worked for goes down the tubes, but what the hell, a good lay is worth a lot, right?
Sure, with Isobel and Makail growing up to hate me. There’d also be the Caradoc problem.