entering the city, be they farmers on their carts, or townsfolk afoot, or nobility on horses, were being thoroughly searched by wary soldiers with drawn weapons-northerners, Jaryd saw, looking down on them.
'They're searching for weapons?' Jaryd asked Captain Tyrun, who stood on the wall beside him, looking grim. 'Who would be foolish enough to smuggle weapons into the city at such a time?'
'Not weapons,' said Tyrun, with a shake of his head. 'Messages. Or maybe poisons.'
'Even if there were Goeren-yai who'd take revenge for Lord Krayliss,' Jaryd countered, 'I couldn't imagine them being so subtle. Goeren-yai take revenge by chopping necks with swords. Anything else is dishonourable.' His arm throbbed in its sling, and he felt naked beside his men's chainmail, which was too much effort to don because of the injury. He worried for Sasha, too. His men reported seeing her leave on her big black horse, and there were no reports of her return. He hoped she hadn't done anything stupid. But then, knowing Sashandra Lenayin, that seemed a futile hope.
Jaryd exhaled hard. 'With Krayliss gone, what'll happen to Taneryn? Who'll be the great lord?'
'Uncertain,' said Tyrun. 'If I were a suspicious man, I'd guess they intended to decide that at this Rathynal. Only they thought we'd kill Krayliss when we went north and they'd just have to decide who to replace him with. Prince Damon only delayed things a bit.'
'Won't Taneryn get to decide their own great lord?'
'Seriously?' Tyrun frowned at his commander in a way that made Jaryd feel about ten years old. 'How many provinces get to decide their great lord? The Goeren-yai are a majority in maybe seven out of eleven provinces, and how many Goeren-yai great lords are there? Only noble lords can decide to raise a great lord from their midst if there is no natural heir; commonfolk have no voice. Krayliss's family survived this long because the chieftains of Taneryn have always held great power and Krayliss's great-grandfather fought hard against the Cherrovan, but refused to convert. He was the only one.'
'Krayliss has sons…' Jaryd ventured.
'Huh,' Tyrun snorted. 'There's an old law, Sylden Sarach; it means 'judgment of clans' in some old tongue or other, I forget. Old Corporal Cadyth was telling me about it. Under the old ways, a chieftain's entire family could be dissolved if his peers deemed that family's honour stained beyond repair.'
'Dissolved?'
'Aye, dissolved. The family heads executed, the children adopted into other families. King Soros kept that law, though it's never been used since. Mighty useful now, I'll reckon. They'll find a way to get the whole family out of the way, find one of Krayliss's enemies in Taneryn-and he has plentywho's willing to convert, and there's your new great lord.'
'You talk as though you don't approve.'
Captain Tyrun shrugged. 'Approve, disapprove… I am a humble company captain from lowly stock. My father was a stablehand and my sister married a miller. I do as the Great Lord of Tyree commands.'
'And what of the king's commands?' Jaryd ventured.
'Usually that's the same thing.' Tyrun gave his young apprentice a stern, sideways stare. 'Pray that it should remain so.'
'Master Jaryd! Master Jaryd!' Jaryd turned to find a young man in lordly clothes and chainmail emerging from the gate guardhouse, evidently out of breath from having climbed the stairs fast.
'Rhyst!' Jaryd welcomed the lordling with surprise, as he pushed past the other soldiers on the wall. 'I had not spotted you lately. Captain Tyrun, have you met Master Rhyst Angyvar? He's the second son of Lord Ignys Angyvar, he and I were sparring partners as lads, among other things.'
'Master Rhyst,' Tyrun acknowledged, with a short bow.
'What brings you?' Jaryd added, unable to keep the edge from his voice. In all the days he'd been back in Baen-Tar, Rhyst had not so much as said hello.
'Word that you are required urgently at your father's bedside,' the lordling replied. His young face wore the anxiety of bad news. 'Your father has taken grievously ill, Jaryd. It doesn't look good, I'm sorry.'
Jaryd stared, his heart thumping unpleasantly hard in his chest. Now? Of all the times, his father had to pick now?
'Best you go, lad,' Tyrun said, with as close to a gentle tone as Jaryd had ever heard him use. 'We'll hold the wall for your return.'
Jaryd nodded and followed his old friend back to the guardhouse. His guardsmen looked at him as he passed; the nearest ones, who had overheard, with sympathy and concern.
'I'm sorry I did not visit when you were injured,' Rhyst said anxiously as they strode across the vast, paved expanse of Soros Square. 'I wished to, but… well, it's Rathynal. You know how it is, my mother introduces me to girl after girl, and my uncles invite me to feast after feast… I swear I never knew how many relatives and marriage prospects I had until now.'
'That's okay.' Jaryd gazed at the statue of the Angel of Mercy, looming in the square's centre ahead, wings unfurled. Where is your mercy today, angel? For Lord Krayliss, the people of Taneryn, or for me? 'What do the healers say is the problem?'
'He has a fever and the sweats. He is incoherent and his pulse is far too rapid and faint.'
'Do the lords gather?' Jaryd asked through gritted teeth.
'They do. My father among them… he sent me to bring you.'
The day felt somehow surreal. As they moved together up the main palace steps, Jaryd noticed one of the Royal Guardsmen on duty by the grand doors staring at him. Another did also, then snapped his gaze forward when Jaryd looked at him. Evidently things were bad if the duty guardsmen were staring.
Glancing sideways at Rhyst, he noted the young man biting his lip as he walked. Of course he was anxious, escorting the great-lord-in-waiting to his dying father's bedside. But still… 'Is there something else amiss?' he asked. One of the lords making trouble, he thought darkly. Even now, at such a time, they would not be able to restrain themselves.
'Something else?' Rhyst asked. 'No, nothing else.' Something about his manner felt odd. The young man's tone and expression were neutral, tinged with anxiety and concern for the situation… and yet. Jaryd recalled an old memory-Rhyst the popular, good-looking boy with the golden tongue. Rhyst had been his friend to his face, but then, later on, he'd overheard him making snide remarks about the 'dunce of Tyree' to the other noble children, to much amusement from all.
Up the end of the Great Hall, rows of chairs were arranged beneath the great mural dome high above. There, Lord Krayliss had made his grand pronouncement and led his men from the hall in the uproar. There, he had signed his death warrant.
Jaryd noticed a man approaching from the left, aged and bald and dressed in the rough work clothes of a groundsman. He was glancing around nervously and heading straight toward them. Jaryd frowned. The man wore rings in his ears and his sharp, weathered face bore the faded marks of the Goeren-yai quill.
'My Lord,' he called hoarsely, looking straight at Jaryd. 'My Lord, please, don't go upstairs.'
Jaryd sensed Rhyst stiffen with alarm. 'Get away, stupid old fool!' he snapped, grasping Jaryd's good right arm to pull him past. A pair of young nobles appeared further down at a run. They stopped, stared about, then spotted the old man, Jaryd and Rhyst. They started running toward them.
'Don't go upstairs?' Jaryd asked incredulously, pulling against Rhyst's grip on his arm. 'Why not? What in all the hells is going on?'
'Stop that old man!' yelled one of the approaching nobles. 'He's armed! He means to kill Master Jaryd!'
'Kill me?' Jaryd had time to think in disbelief as Rhyst pulled his sword. 'He could barely wield a hoe, let alone a blade.' He shoved Rhyst aside and pulled his own sword. 'What's going on?' he demanded of the old man as the running men came closer.
'Master,' the old man rasped, with little apparent fear, 'they killed your brother. I saw it with my own eyes…'
'Silence you!' Rhyst shouted, brandishing his weapon, but Jaryd stepped into his way. He could not speak. He stared at Rhyst, whose eyes were now wary, perhaps fearful. The running men arrived, slowing to a jog, then a walk.
'They took the boy from his class in the garden courtyard,' the old man continued. 'I tend the gardens there, I saw them grab him. But the boy was fast, he had a little blade-a knife, so long,' he indicated with his hands, 'a silver ornament on the hilt. He stabbed one man, and that man lost his temper and killed him.'
