Kharadmon gave back a toothy grin. ‘Then, colleagues, we have every sane excuse to keep him flustered.’ Devilish in speculation, he said, ‘Do you think him a match for Arithon s’Ffalenn?’
Sethvir laughed. ‘We’re going to find out all too quickly.’
Upon his awakening, Morfett was told that he would be swearing fealty to a s’Ffalenn king within a fortnight, and that governance of Etarra would be made to conform to Rathain’s original royal charter.
The Lord Governor’s pouched eyes narrowed. ‘Over my dead body.’
‘If need be,’ Kharadmon said, unblinking.
Acute enough to differentiate a threat from a promise Morfett gave unctuous agreement, then launched on a vicious course of subterfuge.
Two days of intrigue yielded no satisfaction. Bribes failed to budge even the greediest factions. Worse than implacable, the farmers had somehow become obsessed by the idea that guild overlords no longer owned land- rights. They bandied legalities like barristers and backed their petition with threat of strikes. When hired assassins failed to silence their spokesman, Morfett discovered why. A soft-spoken stranger who wore a black hat had sown insurrection among the country folk with a tact that confounded. The city seneschal inscribed a writ for the man’s arrest, only to find that
The incident left the Lord Governor indisposed.
He lay ill on silk sheets while, in disregard of politics or loyalty, his wife and daughters surrounded themselves with seamstresses who laboured over sarcenets, brocades and pearl fringework to create a whole wardrobe of new gowns.
‘But this is the sensation of the season!’ his wife shouted indignantly through the bedchamber doorway. ‘If we’re going to be hosting blooded royalty, everybody important shall come calling. This prince might be welcomed as the devil but your daughters would surely become laughingstock were we all wearing last spring’s fashions!’
Morfett clapped his hands over his ears and groaned. His city and his household had slipped his control. Held miserably supine by his churning stomach, he concluded that Etarra’s citizens had been bewitched: only foul sorcery could corrupt them from five centuries of crownless rule. Storms, strikes, a plague of fiends, even the manifestation of Dharkaron’s divine chariot would have been kinder than this infestation of mages. The thought of kneeling before royalty caused Morfett to howl at his body-servant to attend him at once with the chamberpot.
He got instead the imposing, blue-clad sorcerer, Asandir, who cured his upset stomach directly and sent every servant within earshot scurrying to fetch official clothing.
‘Get up!’ This mage evinced none of Sethvir’s vague charm. ‘The council and trade ministers are convened in the oratory, and most of Etarra’s populace crowds the trade square in hot anticipation of your speech.’
The Lord Governor hauled his bulk upright and found himself stuffed unpleasantly fast into an embroidered shirt with gold clasps. He might have feigned the return of his cramps had Asandir’s steely manner not been impervious to falsehood.
Regaled in tasteful colours for the first time since his birth, Morfett, Defender of Trade, Protector of Justice and Lord Governor Supreme of the Northern Reaches, lumbered like a disgruntled bear from his lair to initiate due process to re-establish monarchy in Rathain.
In a hall of gilt and alabaster, Lirenda, First Koriani Enchantress, delivers her report to the Prime: ‘Desh-thiere’s remains have been sealed under ward and imprisoned in the caves at Skelseng’s Gate. This disposition is intended to be temporary. When royal rule is re-established at Etarra, the Fellowship will transfer the Mistwraith to a place of more permanent captivity. We might learn then why they faltered at the end and preserved the fell creature alive…’
Under Strakewood’s evergreens in the northern reaches of Rathain, the clan gathering to celebrate new sunlight extends for a fortnight; bored with the feasting, too young yet to dance, a pair of barbarian boys break away from the festivities to play at raids on Etarra merchants…
In a tavernyard shadowed by the snow-capped peaks of the Mathorns, Elaira waters her bay mare while the horsemaster offers well-meant advice: ‘If it’s on to Etarra you’re bound, let the cook fill your saddlebags. Provisions are scarce in the markets there. The postriders all say the same. Farmers won’t sell to the townsmen and talk of sorcerers and monarchy has the trade-guilds lathered into an uproar…’
XIII. ETARRA
The Lord Governor Supreme of Etarra was never a man to worry off weight in a crisis. On the morning the royal heir was to arrive he found his carnelion studded belt pinched his waist. His best boots were tight around the calves and the bunions on his feet grown much worse. Small annoyances became major aggravations when one was forced to stand on display under sunlight too warm for brocades. Jostled by anxious city ministers who crowded the road and the verges before Etarra’s southern gate, Morfett squeezed another sigh past the constriction of his pearl-studded collar. Today, the sorcerer riding herd upon his obligations was Sethvir. Offended that the Warden of Althain should flaunt his own demands concerning finery by wearing a robe as threadbare and ink-stained at the cuffs as the one he had first appeared in, Morfett silently fumed. His head ached, made worse by the nuisance that his gold-sewn scarlet clashed offensively with maroon.
At least the post was not filled by Asandir, who was altogether less forgiving over matters of personal sensitivity.
‘Asandir will be escorting the prince,’ the Warden of Althain announced in uncanny response to private thought. He turned dreamy eyes upon the fidgeting person of the Lord Governor. ‘The ballads from times before the mists name him Kingmaker because every royal head in the history of humankind has been crowned by his hand.’
‘How uselessly sentimental.’ Morfett tugged at his jacket, the buttons of which pinched his breath.
The outer gates of Etarra overlooked a steep slope, the city itself wedged across the gap between the Mathorn’s eastern foothills and a west-jutting spur of the Skyshiels. Accessed by five roads, the approach from Daon Ramon was a switched-back conglomeration of mud bricks and shoring that broadened the original pack trail enough for the passage of wagons. What level ground remained before the gate turrets was already uncomfortably crowded, a forced stir through packed bodies indicating the arrival of still more city officials. The turnout commanded by the sorcerers was thorough enough to impress. Beside guild ministers, trade officials and council governors, many had brought along their perversely curious wives.
Still sore in the throat from the shouting required to keep his spouse and daughters properly at home, Morfett said, ‘The governor’s council will never acknowledge your pretender’s right to rule.’
Sethvir gave back his most wayward and maddening smile. ‘Give them time.’
