marshals.
“Urgent questions lie before us at this time, and it is imperative that the issues behind them be addressed. If the west is to have any kind of concerted policy towards the eastern crisis—and other happenings—then we must, as the heads of our nations, come to some decisions within the walls of this chamber.”
“Do we work on the basis of rumours or of fact, cousin?” Haukir asked. His white beard bristled. It was said that he and his Prelate, Marat, were related, and more closely than might be supposed. The Almarkan Prelate, gossip had it, was born into the Royal house, but on the wrong side of the blanket. Certainly the two men were as similarly gruff and obstinate as to be twins.
“What do you mean, cousin?” Cadamost shot back.
“These rumours that Macrobius is alive and at Ormann Dyke, for instance. They must be quashed before they do harm.”
“I agree,” Abeleyn spoke up. “They should be thoroughly investigated, in case there is some germ of substance at their heart.”
“Pieter Martellus at the dyke insists that Macrobius is there,” Lofantyr said.
Haukir snorted. “Do you believe him? He’s just trying to inject a little backbone into his garrison, is all.”
“I have never heard that Torunnan soldiers lacked backbone,” Lofantyr flared. “I thought perhaps their conduct at Aekir would have been testimony enough to their courage. My countrymen have been dying in their tens of thousands so that the kingdoms which shelter behind their bucklers might rest easy at night. So do not prate to me of
Bravo! Abeleyn thought gleefully as Haukir’s face darkened and he began to sputter with wrath.
But Lofantyr was not yet done.
“It has been brought to my attention that the five thousand Knights Militant promised to my Prelate by the Vicar-General of the Inceptines have turned around in their march to the dyke and are retracing their steps to Charibon. So much for the help of the Church. Himerius takes the same line as you, Haukir: he condemns out of hand without waiting to hear the evidence for or against. Myself, I vow to keep an open mind. If Macrobius is truly alive, then surely it is a sign from God that the Merduk tide is on the turn. The news from the dyke confirms this.”
Abeleyn shared a look with Mark of Astarac. So that was it. Lofantyr had found the strength to defy the new Pontiff because of the successes at the dyke. But also, Abeleyn suspected, because there were Fimbrian at the table making promises of troops. The Torunnan king did not feel he had to rely on Church forces any longer. Lofantyr was his own man again, and that was all to the good.
“Accusations and recriminations have no place at this assembly,” Cadamost said, holding up a hand to forestall Haukir’s explosion.
“Do we defy the Pontifical bull of the new spiritual leader of the Ramusian world, then?” Skarpathin of Finnmark asked easily, his killer’s face creased by a sardonic smile.
Cadamost paused, and Abeleyn spoke quickly into the silence.
“The Pontiff may not be adequately informed. He acted as he thought best to prevent disorder, confusion— even schism—within the Church at this vital time. But though we can abide by the letter of the bull, I yet believe that we can conduct ourselves as just men, and await the result of further investigations with an open mind.”
There were rumbles at this, but no open disagreement. Everyone knew that the Hebriate King and his one- time Prelate had always been at odds with one another. Haukir glared at Abeleyn suspiciously. He was the irreligious boy-king, the trickster. He must be up to something. Abeleyn kept his own face carefully bland.
Cadamost flicked a look of gratitude at Abeleyn. Clearly, his role of referee was a wearing one.
“The subjects for discussion have most of them been raised, then,” he said. “This rumour of Macrobius’ survival, the defence of Ormann Dyke and the other eastern marches, and the advent of our new colleagues, the Fimbrians.”
“There are others, cousin,” Mark of Astarac said.
“Such as?”
“Such as these damned burnings that have been going on in Hebrion and which seem set to be extended to every Ramusian state on the continent.”
“That is an issue for the Church alone to decide,” Haukir said.
“It is an infringement of the authority of the crown, and as such will be debated by this assembly,” Abeleyn said. There was nothing of the boy about him now. His dark eyes flashed like glass catching the sun.
The other rulers stared at Mark and Abeleyn, sensing something there, some secret agreement. Time enough yet, though, before revealing the Hebro-Astaran Treaty of Alliance. Abeleyn and Mark had copies of it lurking in their suites, ready to be brought out at the right moment.
“Very well,” Cadamost said. “The issue of the purges will be tabled also, though I do not see what lay rulers are able to do about it; it seems to me to be the Province of the Church alone.”
“Let us say that I have my doubts as to the motives behind it,” Abeleyn said.
“Are you questioning the judgement of the Holy Pontiff?” Lofantyr asked, ignoring the fact that he had done that very thing himself moments ago.
“He was not Pontiff when this decision was made. He was Prelate of Hebrion, and thus his actions come under the purlieu of the Hebriate crown.”
“Lawyer’s niceties!” Haukir snorted.
“Those lawyer’s niceties may have some import if the case is brought before a Royal commission,” Abeleyn said.
“You cannot put the High Pontiff on trial,” Skarpathin of Finnmark said, a conservative despite his youth and the bloody steps he had taken to secure his throne.
“No, but perhaps he is not the High Pontiff, if Macrobius yet lives. Also the purges were initiated by a Prelate, not a Pontiff. We have yet to read a Pontifical bull extending them formally.”
“I hear that two thousand of the Knights are almost on Hebrion’s borders, cousin. That would not have anything to do with your haste to table this issue?” Haukir said, smiling unpleasantly.
“I rejoice that the resources of the Church are so lavished on my kingdom, but like Lofantyr I think they could be better employed elsewhere.”
“You need men to fight the Merduks, not words,” Markus, the Fimbrian marshal said suddenly, his bluntness disconcerting. “You can no longer rely on the troops of the Church, that is plain. The Pontiff and his Prelates are playing their own game; they do not care about the fate of Ormann Dyke. They may even be glad to see it fall, if it rids them of this rival Pontiff at the same time.”
It was unforgivable to speak the truth so openly. Isolation has atrophied any kind of diplomatic subtleties the Fimbrians might once have possessed, Abeleyn thought.
Haukir seemed to be on the verge of another explosion, but the Fimbrian continued speaking in his level, toneless voice.
“The Fimbrian Electorates have decided to put their forces at the disposal of the west. There are six hundred tercios under arms in Fimbir itself. These troops have been set aside for possible employment beyond the borders of the electorates. Any monarch who needs them may have them.”
The table sat stunned in silence. Six hundred tercios! Over seventy thousand men. They had had a chimera in their midst and had not known it.
“Who will these tercios serve under?” Lofantyr asked.
“They will have their own officers, and any expeditionary force will be commanded by a Fimbrian marshal who will in turn accept orders from whichever ruler employs him.”
“
For the first time Markus looked less than impassive.
“Their costs will have to be met by the monarch they serve under, of course.”
So that was it. The Fimbrians were killing two birds with the same stone. Now that the electorates had seemingly patched up their differences they no doubt had a wealth of unemployed soldiers on their hands. What to do with them, these peerless fighters? Farm them out to the other western states, relieve a no-doubt strained economy—and extend Fimbrian influence at the same time. The Fimbrian crutch might well transform into a club one day. It was a neat policy. Abeleyn wondered if Lofantyr were desperate enough to take the bait. Surely he
