The snow drifts past the study windows, almost lazily, and so infrequently that none has collected on the railings without, nor on the meadows or bare fields across the gray waters of the Toksul River from the palace. Chill radiates from the glass panes, and heavy maroon hangings have been drawn across all of the windows, except for the two wide frames behind the Liedfuhr’s desk.
Kestrin stands before the desk, and the papers on it, reading the scroll that Bassil has just placed in his hands.
“What does your sister write that no one else will?” asks Bassil after a time.
“How—because there would be no one else who would wish me to know the morass in Neserea?”
“Exactly, sire.” Bassil bows slightly.
When he finishes rereading the lines again, Kestrin shakes his head. “She suggests that this Belmar bribed the armsmen, and then he ambushed them, to prove the need for a strong Lord High Counselor…or, more likely, a return to a Prophet of Music. There are rumors that he knows sorcery, but no one is willing to say such.” He turns and looks out at the intermittent snow flakes. “Belmar himself cannot have the golds to bribe an entire company and two levels of officers…and that means the Sea-Priests. What a disaster…”
“And what of Captain Cyrn and Overcaptain Tein?”
“I can’t believe that they thought I wouldn’t find out.”
Bassil clears his throat.
“They knew that I would, and they still…?” Kestrin swallows. “They don’t think I will punish them because they think it will look like I’m covering up my own incompetence?”
“Captain Cyrn is dead. You cannot punish him more,” Bassil points out. “And if you punish Tein…”
“All my officers will think that I’m making him the scapegoat. If I do nothing, then it will appear as though I am weak-willed.” Kestrin smiles coldly. “Better I be considered vicious and spiteful than weak. Continue with the plans for a public execution. Oh…and even if we have to plant the coins, make sure someone finds a hoard of golds somewhere in the overcaptain’s possessions.”
“I think we can do that, sire, and it is probably the best that can be done at present.” Bassil bows and waits.
“So…” Kestrin draws out the word. “We have the Sea-Priests trying to weaken me, and to foment discord and rebellion in Neserea…and who knows what else in Liedwahr. The lord holders of Neserea are petitioning that Annayal consort to someone suitable—immediately. They fear that if she does not, the rule of Neserea will go to a scion of Dumar…or worse, that I will move armsmen into Neserea, and that, in time, I will annex the land.” Kestrin snorts. “As if any of the three sorceresses would allow it.”
“Are they strong enough to stand against Mansuur?” asks Bassil.
“Who knows? That is not the question, and you know it, wise overcaptain Bassil. How many lords of Defalk have died of accidents, strange fluxes, or otherwise in their beds, who went to sleep in the flush of health?”
“You think they have stooped to such? Those most honorable ladies?” Bassil’s eyes contain a grim glint.
“Honorable? That is such a noble-sounding word, and it conceals more violence and dishonesty than any other. As for them, I doubt there is little to which they would not stoop to save Defalk—and Liedwahr—from a bloody and prolonged war.” Kestrin smiles. “Just as you—or I—would find it difficult not to do the same were Mansuur so threatened.”
“And what will you do?”
“What I must. As will you.”
Bassil nods slowly.
Outside, the first flakes of snow that foreshadow winter drift by the glass.