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PROLOGUE
Sir Geros was ensconced in the privy behind his small, neat house when a scurrying servitor brought word that the tower watchers reported two armed riders approaching from the northeast. As the old warrior dropped worn baldric over his scarred, shaven head and fitted its links to those of his scabbard, he heard the first belling of the hall's pack of hounds.
By the time he reached the courtyard, the riders were through the open gates—which laxity was as a rasp drawn across a raw nerve to the old soldier. He and the old thoheeks had always seen eye to eye on tight security for both hall and hard-won duchy, even if their ideas had differed on other points, but now Thoheeks Hwahltuh was gone to wind and neither his widow (the fat, Ehleen bitch, thought Sir Geros) nor the regent followed very many of the practices of the old lord's lifetime.
The riders guided their big, northern horses at a slow walk through the broil of leaping, snapping dog-flesh, the second, larger man pulling along as well a pack-laden sumpter mule. As they came closer, Sir Geros could see that, under the thick overlay of dust, the scarred faces of both men were lined with fatigue. Weary too were the beasts, their heads drooping low, but the riders sat straight, their plain half-armor dented and patched here and there but polished and oiled beneath the road dust.
Polished, also, were the unadorned hilts of their broadswords and the light axes dangling from their saddlebows. The heads of the two lances socketed on the mule's load sparkled like burnished silver in the first rays of Sacred Sun. Sir Geros did not need to examine the scabbarded sword blades to know that they too would surely be well honed and unblemished.
He knew—and respected and empathized with—this stripe of men from the days when he was a warrior and had ridden with and fought beside Middle Kingdoms Freefighters. The Sword was not only their life but their grim god—and they treated that god with respect.
As the hall servants kicked and cuffed the pack away from the mounting blocks, a groom reached for the reins of the lead rider's stallion and nearly lost a hand for his courtesy. Big, square yellow teeth clacked bare millimeters from the jerked-back fingers.
Sir Geros detected a fleeting glimmer of soundless command—his mindspeak, for all his strivings, had never been very good—and the warhorse stood stock-still while, jackboots creaking, the wiry rider dismounted and, after hitching his sword around for easier walking, strode toward the old castellan.
A swordlength away, he halted. "Don't you recognize me, then, old friend? Have these years of soldiering changed me that much?"
Sir Geros looked hard then. He took in the gray-blue eyes, their corners crinkled from much squinting against sun glare and the elements, the high forehead, permanently dented by the heavy helm which probably was now part of the mule's cargo. He could see that the skin must once have been fair, but now it was weathered to the hue of polished maple, with the fine, high-bridged nose canted slightly to one side and with two large and innumerable small scars scoring the reddish-bristled cheeks.
A short, red-blond spade beard spiked forward from the man's chin, and a thick, luxuriant mustache must once have flared, though now it was plastered to his face with sweat and dust.
The stranger had stripped the leather gauntlets from hands which were square, with a dusting of blondish hairs on their backs; the fingers were long and the nails clean and well kept. A small ruby set in carven gold adorned the least finger of the right hand—which digit, Sir Geros noticed, was missing its last joint—and the next finger bore the steel-and-silver band of a noble Sword Brother. This last proved the old warrior's first estimation correct; this man was a sworn member of the Sword Cult.
But Sir Geros' black eyes strayed at length back to those gray-blue ones, so like to . . . to hers, to those of the Lady. The Lady Mahrnee, she who had been the beloved first wife of Thoheeks Hwahltuh, and whom Sir Geros had worshiped at a distance for all the years he had served her husband.
And he knew then that, at long last, their eldest son was come to claim his patrimony.
Roaring, heedless of the dust and filth of travel, Sir Geros flung both arms about the younger, slighter man, pounding the armored shoulders and trying to speak his heartfelt welcome through tightened throat.
The riderless stallion reared, nostrils flaring. Men and dogs scattered as the big horse pirouetted on his hind hooves, the front ones lashing out, while he arched his thick-thewed neck, showed his fearsome teeth and screamed a challenge.
"Let me go, Geros!" laughed the younger man. "Steelsheen thinks you're attacking me. Let me go before he hurts someone."
Chuckling, the warrior strode over to the big gray, took the scarred head in his arms and gentled the beast for a few moments. Then he turned and walked back to Sir Geros, the stallion sedately trailing him.
"Has your mindspeak improved any these last years, old friend?"
The rays of Sacred Sun glinted on the shaven pate as the castellan shook his head ruefully. "No, my lord, I still can receive well enough, but . . ."
The younger shrugged. "Very well. Hold out your hand to Steelsheen, rub his nose, let him get your scent. I'll tell him you're a friend."
When the stallion had grudgingly accepted the fact that his brother would be most wroth were he to flesh his teeth in this particular two-legs, the younger man turned about and walked back to where his companion still sat his horse.
"Dismount, Rai, I want you to meet my oldest friend." His ready smile returned. "You know of him, even though this will be your first meeting."
"At the captain's command," was the crisp reply.
The big-boned, broad-shouldered, long-armed man hiked a leg over the high, flaring pommel of his warkak, slid easily to the flagstones and walked to meet them with the slightly rolling gait of a veteran cavalryman. His bushy, chestnut brows met over a thick, slightly flattened nose. Across the front of his corselet was painted the device which signified his rank, that of troop sergeant. And Sir Geros noted that the left gauntlet had been altered to encase a hand lacking two fingers.
When the sergeant came to a halt, the captain said, "Rai, this is Sir Geros Lahvoheetos, vahrohneeskos—that's 'baronet,' as we would say it—of Ahdrahnpolis."
The sergeant swept off his broad-brimmed travel hat of soft felt and grinned widely, bowing easily for all his binding armor and clumsy boots. "Now this be a true pleasure, my lord baronet. It's right many a long, weary mile I've rode a-singing the songs of yer noble deeds."
Sir Geros' fleshy face encrimsoned, whereupon the young officer laughed merrily and clapped a hand on the shoulder of each of the men. "Rai, you embarrass Sir Geros; he's a very modest man, for all."
"Geros, know you that Rai here is not only my sergeant but my friend, as well. Had he not taken me under his shield when first I went . . . was sent . . . a-warring, I'd have long since fed the crows on some battlefield. Captain Sir Bahrt of Butzburk assigned Rai to me when I was but a pink-cheeked ensign, and we've soldiered together ever since."
"Since you both are my friends, it is meet you should be friends to each other."
Wordlessly, Sir Geros extended his hand and, after a brief hesitation, the sergeant shucked a gauntlet to take it.
As hand clasped hand, Sir Geros spoke from the heart. "Sun and Wind witness that ever shall I be true to our friendship, sergeant. And may Sacred Sun shine blessing upon you for bearing Lord Tim safely back to us. He is the hope and salvation of this duchy, and there are those here who do love him."
He moved closer and dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. "But there are also those here who hate our lord, who would see him dead, so we must guard him well, you and I."
Stepping back, Sir Geros clapped his hands and bespoke the throng of servitors. "Master Tahmahs, see to the horses and the mule. Majordomo, the thoheeks suite must be opened, aired and prepared by the time Lord Tim has done with his bath. Oh, and see to our lord's gear, as well. Send a lad to the bath to pick up our lord's armor, clean it and take it to his suite."
More orders were snapped to other servants, and shortly, like a well-oiled machine, the hall staff were immersed in their various functions.
1
The Lady Mehleena, widow of the six-months-dead Hwahltuh—who had been Thoheeks of Vawn, chief of Sanderz and stepfather, through his first wife, of his overlord, the still-living and much respected Ahrkeethoheeks Bili, chief of Morguhn—was breaking fast. Beside her at high table sat her personal priest, Skahbros, and her eldest son, hulking, black-haired Myron. Beyond the seventeen-year-old man her other three children sat, while her companion—some servants whispered "tongue sister," some others muttered "witch" and speculated privately that the old lord's death might have been less than natural—Neeka flanked the priest.
The Lady Mehleena more than filled her chair. Although the massive piece of furniture had been constructed to seat a full-grown and armored man, it was all she could do to wedge her monstrously fat rump and meaty thighs betwixt the arms; nonetheless, she would have no other chair, for this one had been her late husband's and, to her, it symbolized the power and privilege of the greatest noble in the duchy. Not that she deluded herself into the thought that she ever could lawfully occupy that position—for, though the stray Middle Kingdoms burklet or distant Kindred holding or tribe of mountain barbarians might be ruled by a woman, Mehleena was Ehleeneekos through and through, and the positions of women in civilized society were distinctly inferior to those of Ehleenee men.
On the silver plate before her was a two-liter bowl which formerly had been brimful with maize porridge topped with butter, cream and honey, her usual morning meal. Within the short time they had been at table, Lady Mehleena had reduced the bowl's contents to something less than half, washing it down with long drafts of sweet, potent honey wine, the servitor behind her refilling her cup whenever it neared emptiness. But not quite all the sticky mess had gone to maintain her over-ample girth. Her lips and chin were gooey with it, and so was the fine silk of her clothing over the mountainous swell of her breasts.
Poking an elbow into her eldest son's ribs, she snarled, "Sit up, you oaf! Sit straight As a soon-to-be, must-be, thoheeks, you must learn to make an appearance. And keep your hand off Gaios' legs. You must learn to confine your love play to the privacy of your chambers. Your peers are still half-barbarian at heart. They neither can nor will understand or tolerate such; they'll think less of you and make sport of you for your sophisticated tastes."
Absently wiping at the bits of porridge which had sprayed over him along with his mother's harsh-voiced words, the young man grumbled, "Mother, for all you say, you know that damned arhkeethoheeks will never allow me to be Thoheeks of Vawn, any more than my oafish cousins will ever confirm me chief of Sanderz. They hate us one and all, you, me, or any person of the Old Race, and you know it."
Dropping her golden spoon with a clatter, Mehleena's fat, beringed hand lashed a backhanded slap which caught Myron full in the mouth.
"Shut up! How dare you gainsay your mother? You will be, must be, thoheeks. This land must be returned to civilized control and its people to the worship of God."
"Besides," she smirked her satisfaction, "we have the barbarians hoist on their own hooks this time. Your brother Ahl can never be chief; the barbarians' own laws forbid confirmation of any man who cannot lead in war. And how can a blind man do such, eh? So, since Behrl died last year you are the eldest living, uncrippled son of Hwahltuh." Waving the line of servitors back, she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. "As I have said before, Myron, all that is needful is that you make the proper appearance at the arhkeethoheeks' court and play-act a little. He'll be bound to confirm you thoheeks—which is where the power and wealth lie. Let your cousins name whomever they wish their chief. It's just an empty title, anyway."
"Once you're confirmed and secure back here in Vawn, we can see to setting the land and people to rights and forget the arhkeethoheeks, the black-hearted pig. He never comes this far west, and—"
"But . . . but, Mother, they . . . they say he has eyes and ears everywhere?" Myron looked about him, squirming uneasily in his chair. "And . . . and for all we know, Tim could come riding in any day."
With a scream of rage, the corpulent woman sprang up, overturning the heavy chair and, with a sweep of her arm, sending porridge bowl, plate and brimming cup smashing down the length of the table. The priest gasped a gurgling cry as a sudden lapful of hot porridge burned through the fabric of his robe to highly sensitive portions of his anatomy. Maddened with pain, he dumped an ewer of cool buttermilk atop the discomfort.
Fearing the onset of one of her cousin's fearsome and ever more frequent rages, Neeka, too, arose and moved toward Mehleena. Behind the high-table serving area, the servitors huddled in a knot, trembling, for their lady had, on occasion when thwarted, near killed servants.
But this time their fears proved groundless, as did Neeka's solicitude. After taking several deep breaths, Mehleena signed for the chair to be righted and the floor and table cleaned, reseated herself and resumed her conversation in an almost normal tone.
"Myron, my son, I can but thank God that womenfolk of my house are long-lived, for I can see that, for all my efforts to improve you, you are going to need someone to think for you for the rest of your life."
"Of course the arhkeethoheeks has spies and informants in the halls of his liegemen, but Neeka knows who all of them are—every one, Myron. And we await only your confirmation to see to suitable 'accidents' to rid ourselves of them."
"As to the Lord of Incest, your half brother, let me assure you that as surely as we sit here at table, we are rid of him. There's been not one word from him since we heard of that battle wherein his captain was slain and most of the officers and common sorts slaughtered. That was over five years ago, Myron. Both Neeka and I feel certain that the young swine is dead. And—"
The door at the end of the dining chamber swung open and a tall, spare man and a tiny, brown-haired woman entered. At sight of the newcomers, Myron started to rise in habitual deference, but his mother shoved him back into his chair, snarling wordlessly.
The tall man smiled wryly. "Good morning, dear stepmother. For all your preachments, I see that sweet Myron still knows his place, and, except for you, would defer to his betters."
Rage darkening her puffy face, Mehleena made to rise, but the man languidly waved one well-kept hand, "No, no, my dearest stepmother, keep to that place . . . for all that it should be mine, I doubt me there's another dining chair that is massive enough to hold the hundred kaiee you must weigh without splintering 'neath you." He chuckled, and his diminutive companion pealed a silvery laugh.
"Were your poor father alive," Mehleena hissed in cold rage, "you'd not bespeak me so, you eyeless spawn of a barbarian bitch!"
But another, maddening chuckle was her only answer.
In a slow, stately advance, the couple came up the length of the room and took seats at one end of the wide table. While servitors set the places and brought food, the blind man rubbed absently at ink stains on his fingers, ran a hand over his neck-length ash-blond hair and then steepled his long fingers before remarking, "Ah, the good Father Skahbros is setting a new fashion in clerical garb, a robe bedecked with food stains rather than crusted with jewels. Most original, I must say, holy sir." His dry chuckle came again, while the embarrassed priest hung his head.
"If all you've come for is to insult me and bedevil my priest, you are to quit this board!" Mehleena snapped, her voice quivering with the intensity of her hate. "I'm the lady of this hall and I'll not have—"
The blind man's palm smote the table with a sound like a thunderclap. All mirth had departed from his handsome face, and, when he spoke, ice shards crackled in his words.
"You will mind your words, my lady . . . and your manners! You forget yourself and overestimate your station. While still my father lived, you were lady of Sanderz Hall, and the years of pain and misery you brought us all were many indeed."
"But the thoheeks is gone to Wind now, his body ashes for half a year. Ahrkeethoheeks Bili of Morguhn has appointed me regent over clan and thoheeksee until it is known for certain if Tim Sanderz will return to claim his patrimony—that office and rank to which he was born."
"For the sakes of those of your children who are more like our father than like you, I have allowed—understand me, madam!—allowed you to retain the outward trappings and authority of chatelaine. But, as all save you and your creatures seem to know, you rule within your sphere only by my sufferance!"
"Were my sweet sister, the Dowager Princess of Kuhmbuhluhn, amenable, she would be in your place. But for all the evil you wrought and tried to wreak against her and Tim, she would not see you debased and humbled within this hall, nor will she allow me to send you, your cousin, your pervert of a son and your priest of an illegal cult packing."
"But mind your flapping tongue, madam, and your manners around me. I have neither love nor even bare respect for you. I . . ."
But Sir Geros—whose hatred and contempt for the second wife of the old thoheeks was matched only by her hatred of him—had entered the room and, ignoring its other occupants, made his way rapidly to Lord Ahl. Bending, he whispered a short message into the blind man's ear, then, at a curt wave of the regent's hand, departed as quickly and quietly as he had come.
2
Captain-of-Lances Tim Sanderz floated on his back in the gently steaming, herb-scented bathwater, his eyes closed, allowing the soothing warmth to sink into tired muscles. From shaven pate to stubby toes, there was hardly an inch of visible skin that was not crossed by scars, and torso and limbs alike were ridged and callused at the weight-bearing points of armor. As he slowly moved his arms and legs to and fro to keep himself afloat, the muscles rippled under his skin.
Opening his eyes, he allowed his gaze to wander across whitewashed ceiling, down the painted stucco walls. How familiar it all was; it almost seemed that the past ten years had never been, that he was still the eldest boy growing up in his father's hall.
"Father . . ." he mused, conjuring up the image of that aged and stooped, but gnarled and powerful little man, always smelling of the milk and curds and cheese that had made up so much of his diet. The long years I hated you and cursed you. And now I have returned, and you are gone to Wind and Brother Bili says that none of it was really your fault."
Closing his eyes again, the captain thought back to that last conference with his half-brother and overlord, the arhkeethoheeks, Sir Bili of Morguhn.
For all his exalted rank, Sir Bili's private office was Spartan in its simplicity. A refectory table, a few chairs and stools in a windowless and lamp-lit room, the thick, stone walls lined with cabinets and the floorspace cluttered with chests, the double-thick door fitted with iron bolts as thick as a warrior's wrist.
Glancing about while the nobleman poured wine for them both, Tim felt certain that he sat in a second hall armory, was sure that the many chests would yield up plate and swords, dirks and axes and war hammers, that the cabinets held resting hornbows, bales of arrows, stands of pikes and bundles of darts.
For it was common knowledge that Bili of Morguhn had never gotten over the Ehleen-spawned rebellion that had burst forth in Morguhn and Vawn long before Tim was born. Bili remembered well the ruthless butchery of his kin, the besieging of this very hall. He recalled how he and his uncles, cousins and one of his brothers had had to hack their way out of his own capital, Morguhnpolis, and remembered also the death of that much-loved brother, Djehf Morguhn, ere the siege of Morguhn Hall had been broken by the approach of Confederation troops.
All of Bili's personal servants were Middle Kingdoms men, as were his picked bodyguard. Not one servitor in Morguhn Hall was of Ehleen blood; moreover, all were, if not of the Middle Kingdoms, Kindred or Ahrmehnee from the western marches. He governed his own duchy harshly, as pitilessly as a northern burk lord ruling a conquered province, trusting none but his brothers, his sons and Kindred of proven loyalty. Few men of any race liked him, but there was not one who did not fear and respect Bili.
Sliding a cup of wine across to Tim, Bili said bluntly, "To me. Tim, you're already thoheeks, and that's a load off my mind, young kinsman. I've been worried sick these past months with no word from or of you, afraid I'd wind up having to confirm a thrice-damned Ehleen pervert to the Duchy of Vawn, your stepmother's eldest, Myron. Not that he'd have ruled, of course; she would've, and she's far worse than even such as he will ever be. Why, my informants tell me that, since your father's death, she's brought in a priest of that damned, baby-butchering, blood-drinking Old Church of the Ehleenee; that she flaunts the outlawed bastard before all at the hall, clothes him in silks and supports him in indolent luxury."
Tim shrugged. "Well, my father's been dead half a year. Perhaps this so-called priest is her lover."
Bili smiled coldly. "That thought came to my mind when first I heard of this priest, but my folk tell me such is not the case. For one thing, Mehleena is as perverted as her son. Her lover is reported to be her cousin, the witch, Neeka; for another, this priest is what the Ehleenee call 'one of God's Holy Geldings'—before they'll ordain a man into that order, they take his ballocks off, and most of his yard, too."
Tim shuddered. "Sun and Wind! What kind of people are these Ehleenee of the Old Cult?"
"Fanatics, snapped Bili, adding, "to be born and bred Ehleen is to be inculcated with fanaticism and treason with your mother's very milk. My peers speak most unkindly of, me, claiming that I blindly hate and unreasonably mistrust such few Ehleenee as remain in Morguhn. But their duchies did not—a bare generation ago—suffer civil war and ruin because of an Ehleen holy war. Yes, many of them did lose kith in the Vawnpolis campaign and in the mountain fighting that followed, but those dead are only memories to them now, and dim memories at that. Every time I ride over my lands, I am confronted by stark reminders of what evil deeds, were committed here."
The passion faded from his pale blue eyes. "But, to your case, young kinsman. Could we do this the way I feel to be proper, we'd ride into Vawn at the head of your lances and my dragoons, put every Ehleen who looked at us sideways to the sword, impale that outlaw priest side by side with your stepmother, burn Neeka alive and cleanse your duchy of any taint of the Old Cult or like treasons."
"But alas, we are not honest burk lords, you and I, and if we did such, we'd have Prince Zenos and his army at our throats in a twinkling. We'd be flagrant lawbreakers, y'see, and—for all his pro-Kindred sentiments—the prince could not allow us to get away with it."
"However, man, I think you should take at least a couple of files of lancers with you. Only a few of the hall folk are Sir Geros' people or mine. And as old Hwahltuh became more and more senile, that damned Mehleena persuaded him to let go almost all his Freefighters. I know, for I hired most of them onto my own force. I doubt there're now a half-dozen over-aged blades left."
Tim just smiled. "I'm taking Rai with me, Brother Bili—he's a weapons master. And I'm no mean swordsman, myself."
"Of course you're a good fighter," Bili snorted. "Else you'd not be here, after ten years of Freefighter life. But many a good blade has fallen to the poisoned cup, the strangler's cord, the knife thrust in the dark. You can't wear armor all the time, kinsman, can't go abroad everywhere full-armed. Nor can one or two men guard your back twenty-four hours a day."
"I am sure that these Ehleen swine have killed before, Tim. Ahl's blinding was said to be an accident. I think that even Ahl believes it was, but not I. And there is and was much to be questioned in the matter of Behrl's death, so much so that the prince almost sent a committee to investigate it—would that he had! And, for all his great age, your father's passing was most strange. None of my informants had ever before seen a man die as he did. You are the last male Sanderz of untainted blood, Tim, and I fear for your safety if you take risks among such folk."
But Tim had ridden off with only Sergeant Rai, a single pack mule and an assortment of his oldest clothes, leaving his lances camped in Morguhn and his two wagonloads of loot from the intaking of Getzburk locked in the cellars of Morguhn Hall.
The water had begun to cool, and Tim momentarily debated jerking the bell rope to summon the servants with more heated water, but ended by rolling over and pulling himself out of the bath and, after making certain his heavy blade was near to hand, stretching out on the tiles to await the arrival of Rai with clean clothing. But Sir Geros came in first, bearing a brace of cups, and a small bottle of brandy and wearing a self-satisfied smile.
Wrapped in a length of thick cloth, Tim sniffed, sampled then drained the small cup. "Where'd you liberate this, you old bummer? It tastes to be twenty years old."
Sir Geros nodded. "Twenty-five, my lord. It—"
"Enough of that," said the younger man, shortly. "Appearances are well kept, in public, but, man, you jounced me on your knee and paddled my arse, when I needed it—which as I recollect was right often. In privacy, let's be on a first-name basis, eh? Geros?"
"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 prairie cat 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. Tonos' 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 l—" 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 can't 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 Morguhn 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, ...
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