“I… I’ll try… Tim.” The old knight stammered. “But, my lord—but you must know, Tim, I was born a nobleman’s servant, as were both my parents and all their folk before them. My father was a majordomo to a komees, which was higher than any of my folk had risen… until me.”
“And you raised yourself on the strength of your arm, on the richness of the blood you shed for the Confederation and on your matchless valor, Geros,” nodded Tim. “If ever any man deserved a cat, it was you.” He gently tapped the silver likeness of a prairiecat which rested on the old warrior’s breast. “I’ve never understood why you, a nobleman in your own right, entitled to rich lands in Morguhn, forsook those lands to serve as castellan here, at Sanderz Hall.”
Geros sighed. “My… Tim, I could never have been happy as a lord. I was born to serve, and service is my pleasure. I… but let us talk of these matters on another day. There are things you must know, and I know not how long my folk can keep others out of earshot of us here.”
“How many in the hall are you sure of, Geros?” asked Tim.
The elder set down the bottle to tick off names on his fingers. “Old Tahmahs, the head groom, is loyal; then there’s Mahrtun, the dragoon ‘sergeant, and the five troopers. The majordomo, Tonos, blows first hot then cold; I can’t say he’s our man, but he doesn’t seem Lady Mehleena’s either.”
Tim frowned. Tones’ name was not one of those given him by Archduke Bili, and it could bode ill to have so powerful a servant leagued against one.
Geros continued, graying brows knitted in concentration. “Our only reliable people in the kitchens are Hahros, the meat cook, and his eldest apprentice, Tchahrlee. Hahros is a retired Confederation Army cook and far better qualified to be head cook than that mincing effeminate, Gaios, but naturally Gaios has simpered his way into Lady Mehleena’s good graces. Anyway, I’ve taken the liberty of promising Gaios’ position upon my 1—” At a warning frown from Tim, he hurriedly corrected to, “your assumption of your patrimony.”
Tim nodded. “You know these folk better than I; speak in my name when it seems wise or needful. I’ll back you up.”
Geros smiled thanks and went on. “The keeper of the cellars, Hyk, is an Ahrmehnee and another of the ones I cant figure.”
“In that case,” said Tim, grimly, “I think we should start bringing arms up out of the armory a few at the time and secreting them somewhere where we can get to them easily, when and if we need them.” Then, noticing the return of Geros’ smile, he inquired, “Or have you already commenced such, old friend?”
Quickly, the castellan told of the stocks of arms hidden in various parts of the hall and outbuildings—enough to equip forty men, if somewhat sketchily. Adding, “But Tim, even if we do see troubles, they’ll be nothing like the risings here and in Morghun years ago. For one thing, there be precious few Ehleenee in Vawn, save those servants hired since your lady mother’s time. Almost all the farmers in the duchy are Ahrmehnee, so too are the mechanics and tradesmen hereabouts. The nobles all are first- and second-generation Horseclansmen… and you know well what sort of shrift they’d give Ehleen rebels or religious fanatics.
“No, Tim, the only danger lies in the fact that Mehleena is set on her spawn, Myron, sitting in your father’s place. There were some very peculiar aspects to the death of your brother, Behrl, last year.”
“Yes,” Tim answered. “So Bili informed me. Something to do with a mock fight, wasn’t it?”
Geros grimaced. “Closer to an out-and-out duel, my… Tim. It was during that last, long illness of Lord Hwahltuh. Young Behrl was at the sword posts, one morn. Myron and the boy who then was his lover sauntered out and began to make crude and disparaging remarks. Finally, Behrl—who never could stomach Myron for any length of time, anyhow—suggested that his tormentor get a sword and see if he could do better.
“Now, Tim, Myron is no mean swordsman. He is long in the arm and strong. But, in all my years, seldom have I seen a man handle steel as did Behrl; the lad was an artist with the sword.
“Anyway, Myron sent his bumboy running and soon was at the posts himself. I’m told that Behrl, in his turn, twitted Myron’s showing—at least, this was overheard by Gaib, the farrier, who happened to be passing by. I was in my house when I heard the first ringing of the blades and the fighting shouts. I headed for the practice yard as fast as these legs would carry me, but halfway there I heard a terrible cry and, when finally I panted up, Behrl lay dead in his blood, his chest hacked half through, just below the shoulderblade.
“Tim, Myron is a good swordsman, as I said, but Behrl was his master—and mine own. Without outside help, interference, there be no way that Myron could have even nicked Behrl, much less slain him!”
Tim pursed lips and squinted. “There were no witnesses?”
Geros shook his head. “Only the bumboy. What I got out of him on the spot was little—he was verging on hysteria— and seemed to back up Myron’s lies. And when I wanted to question him the next morning, he was nowhere to be found. It was nearly two weeks before Moorahd, the hall hunter, hauled what was left of the corpse out of the north forest. A hot summer that was and the body was ripe, and animals had been at it till there was no way to tell just what had killed him. We only knew it was the runaway by a silver torque Myron had given him.”
“Very convenient… for somebody,” grunted Tim. “So now, the only way we can get at the truth is to put dear half brother Myron to the question. And if the man he is be as stubborn as the child he was it would have to be rather severe questioning. Hmmm.”
A grin split Geros’ face almost from ear to ear. “Ah, Tim, it will do these ears good to hear that strutting, buggering popinjay howl! Of course, your father’s Room of Truth has not been used in some years, but I doubt not it can be put to rights quickly enough, and…”
Tim grimaced. “And we’d have the archduke, possibly even the prince as well, down around our ears before the echoes had died. We must never forget that this isn’t a northern burk but a duchy of the Confederation, wherein, what we have here contemplated is illegal; not even the High Lords, up in Kehnooryos Atheenahs, can put a Confederation nobleman to the torture without ironbound proof of wrongdoing.”
The young captain smashed scarred knuckles into horny palm. “Why? Why could there not have been one living witness? The deed must’ve been planned long and carefully to have been carried off so cleanly.”
Then he fell silent. A dim, almost imperceptible farspeak was nibbling within his mind: “But there was another witness. Brother Tim, and Sir Geros is right, it was murder—pure and simple. No, brother, do not try to range me, please—there are other secret mindspeakers in your hall. And do not expect me to make myself known or to reveal what I saw until you have made it safe for me to do so.”
And the fleeting contact was gone, like a wisp of morning mist.
“Who are the mindspeakers, here, Geros?” asked Tim. “How many of them are ours?”
Geros frowned. “Beyond any doubt, the best is your brother, Lord Ahl. You must recall that he always was far above average in that faculty, and it has been improved by a couple of years of training at the Institute in Kehnooryos Atheenahs and the year he lived at the duke’s court. But my daughter, Mairee, is almost his peer in mindspeak… and the two are seldom parted; he even took her to the capital with him, and the duke seems to think highly of her.”
“And,” grinned Tim, shamelessly picking thoughts from the older man’s mind, “you know how she feels toward my brother and are thinking that Ahl would not prove a bad son-in-law, eh?”
Though red with embarrassment, Geros nodded vigorously. “Lord Ahl could do worse, Tim. Blind as he is the Kindred will never accept him tahneestos. But he has the wisdom to make a fine townlord, and my baronetcy in Morguhn boasts a fine little town, and, since my stepson and both my natural sons died, Mairee is my only heir.”
Tim nodded emphatically. “No need to convince me, old friend. I think it a marvelous idea, not to mention a stroke of pure luck for Ahl. I agree he’d be a better townlord than perhaps anything else; neither custom nor law requires a townlord to be sound of body himself, just to maintain a few Freefighters and a ready levy under a loyal and efficient captain.