"Kurtz, Katherine - Deryni Chronicles 02 - Deryni Checkmate 1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)
CHAPTER THREE
I am a man: I hold that nothing human is alien to me.
Terence
" 'AND OF the total, a two-fold increase over the last year's harvest, owing to good weather. Thus endeth the account of William, Reeve of the Ducal Estates at Donneral, rendered in March, the fifteenth year of the Duke's Grace, Lord Alaric of Corwyn.' "
Lord Robert of Tendal looked up from the document he had been reading and frowned as he glanced across at his employer. The duke was gazing out the solarium window to the barren garden below, his thoughts miles away. His booted feet were propped casually on a green leather footstool, and his blond head rested lightly against the high back of the carved wooden chair. It was obvious from the younger man's expression that he had not been listening.
Lord Robert cleared his throat tentatively, but there was no response. He pursed his lips and regarded his duke wistfully for another moment, then picked up the account roll from which he'd been reading and let it fall from a height of about two feet. Its impact echoed in the confines of the narrow chamber, rustling the documents and account rolls assembled on the table and breaking the duke's reverie. Lord Alaric Anthony Morgan looked up with a start and tried in vain to cover a sheepish grin as he realized he'd been caught daydreaming.
"Your Grace, you haven't heard a word I've said," Robert muttered reprovingly.
Morgan shook his head and smiled, rubbed a lazy hand across his face. "I'm sorry, Robert. I was thinking of something else."
"Obviously."
As Robert reshuffled the documents he'd disturbed in his outburst, Morgan stood and stretched. He ran an absent hand through his close-cropped blond hair as he glanced around the sparsely furnished solarium, then sat down again.
"Very well," he sighed, leaning forward to probe at the parchment halfheartedly with a ringed forefinger. "We were doing the Donneral accounts, weren't we? Do they seem to be in order?"
Robert pushed his chair back a few inches and flung down his pen. "Of course they're in order, Alar-ic. But you know we have to go through this formality. These accounts represent a sizeable portion of your land holdings holdings which you will shortly be losing as part of the Lady Bronwyn's dowry. And even if you and Lord Kevin are inclined to take each other's words in such matters, Kevin's father the duke is not/"
"Kevin's father the duke is not marrying my sister!" Morgan retorted. He glanced sidelong at Robert for a long moment, theri let his wide mouth relax in a smile. "Come, Robbie, be a good fellow and let me go for the rest of the day. You and I both know those accounts are correct. If you won't let me out of reviewing them altogether, let's at least postpone until tomorrow."
Robert tried to look very stern and disapproving, then gave in and threw up his hands. "Very well, Your Grace," he said, gathering up his account rolls and tallies. "But as your chancellor I am constrained to point out that the wedding is less than two weeks away. And you have court tomorrow, and the Hort of Orsal's ambassador arrives tomorrow, and Lord Henry de Vere wants to know what you intend to do about Warin de Grey, and "
"Yes, Robert; tomorrow, Robert," Morgan said, assuming his most innocent expression and only barely controlling a grin of triumph. "And now may I be excused, Robert?"
Robert rolled Kis eyes heavenward in a silent appeal for patience, then waved dismissal with a gesture of defeat. Morgan jumped up and bowed with a certain ironic flourish, then turned on his heel and strode out of the solarium to the great hall beyond. Robert watched him go, remembering the slender, tow-headed boy who had become this man Duke of Corwyn, Lord General of the King's Armies, King's Champion and a half-Deryni sorcerer.
Robert crossed himself furtively at that last thought, for Morgan's Deryni heritage was one thing he preferred not to remember about the Corwyn family he had served all his life. Not that the Corwyns had not been good to him, he rationalized. His own family, the lords of Tendal, had held the hereditary chancellorship of Corwyn for two hundred years now, since before the Restoration. And through all those years, the dukes of Corwyn had been fair and honest rulers, even if they were Deryni. Being strictly objective, Robert found he had no complaints,
Of course, he had to put up with Morgan's capricious whims occasionally, like today. But that was all a part of the game they played. The duke probably had good reason for insisting on adjournment this afternoon.
Still, it would have been nice to win occasionally....
Robert gathered up his documents and stored them neatly in a cabinet near the window. Actually, it was just as well the duke had curtailed the accounting for the afternoon. For though Morgan had probably conveniently forgotten about ft, there was to be a state dinner in the great hall tonight. And if he, Robert, did not coordinate it, the affair was sure to be a resounding failure. Morgan was notorious for eschewing formal functions unless they were absolutely necessary. And the fact that a number of eligible ladies would be present who keenly desired to become tbe next Duchess of Corwyn was not going to improve the duke's disposition.
Whistling lightly under his breath, Robert dusted his hands together and headed toward the great hall the way Morgan had gone. After this afternoon's session, it would be a distinct pleasure to watch Morgan squirm under the scrutiny of those ladies tonight. Robert could hardly wait.
Morgan scanned the courtyafd automatically as he left the great hall. Far across the yard by the stables, he saw a stable boy running beside a huge chestnut destrier, one of the R'Kassan stallions the Hortic traders had brought in last week. The great horse was barely trotting, one of his long strides making three or four of the boy's. And to the left by the forge, Morgan's young military aide, Scan Lord Derry, was talking earnestly with James the blacksmith, apparently trying to agree on how the animal should be shod.
Derry saw Morgan and lifted a hand in greeting, but he did not cease his wrangling with the smithy. Horses were a very important subject with" young Derry. He considered himself an expert; and, in fact, he was. Consequently, he was not to be bullied by a mere blacksmith.
He reached a side gate to the left of the great hall and let himself through. The gardens were still dead from the long winter, but that would probably mean he could be alone for a while. He saw a man cleaning the falcon mews far to the left, close by the stable area, but he knew he wouldn't be disturbed from there. Miles the falconer was a mute though his eyes and ears were doubly sharp, as seeming compensation for the handicap and the old man preferred the clicks and whistles of his falcons, which he could imitate, to the speech of men. He would not bother with a lonely duke who sought the solitude of the deserted gardens.
Morgan began to walk slowly down a path away from the mews, his hands clasped behind him. He knew why he was restless today. Part of it was the political situation, only delayed, not solved, by Kelson's defeat of the Shadowed One last fall. Charissa was dead, and her traitor accomplice lan, too, but an even more formidable adversary now prepared to take her place Wencit of Torenth, whose scouting parties were already reported along the mountains to the northeast.
And Cardosa tKat was another problem. As soon as Wencit could get through the snow, which would be soon, he would be hammering at the gates of the mountain city once again. The approach through the high passes east of Cardosa was not difficult after the first week of spring flooding. But on the west, the direction from which relief must come, the Cardosa Pass would be a raging cataract from March to May. There could be no aid for Cardosa until the thaws were nearly over two months hence. And that would be too late.
He paused by one of the reflecting pools in the dead garden and gazed absently into the depths. The gardeners had clea/ed away the winter's debris and restocked the pond, and now long-tailed goldfish and tiny polliwogs swam in the currentless water, drifting across his field of vision as though suspended in time and space.
He smiled as he realized he could call them if he wished and they would come. But the thought did not amuse him today. After a moment, he let his eyes focus on the surface of the water, let himself study the reflection of the tall blond man who started back at him.
Wide grey eyes in an oval face, pale from the winter dimness; hair glistening gold in the wan spring sunlight, cropped to only a few inches for ease of care in the battlefield; full, wide mouth above the squared-off chin; long sideburns accentuating the lean cheekbones.
He tugged at the bottom of the short green doublet with annoyance, glared at the reflection of the golden gryphon blazoned aesthetically but incorrectly across his chest.
He didn't like the outfit The Corwyn gryphon should be green, proper on black, not gold on green. And the little jeweled basilard stack in his belt was a travesty of weaponry an elegant but useless accoutrement his wardrober, Lord Rathold, had insisted was essential to his ducal image.
Morgan scowled darkly at the pompous image in the water. When he had a choice which he had to admit was most of the time he preferred dark velvets covering mail, the supple sleekness of riding leathers, not the bright satins and jeweled toadstickers people seemed to think appropriate at a ducal court.
Still, he supposed he must make a few dress concessions. The people of Corwyn did not have their duke in residence for much of the year, what with service at the court in Rhemuth and such. When they did, they had a right to expect that he would dress befitting his rank.
They need never know that his compliance was not complete. For while they would not be surprised to find that the jeweled plaything at his waist was not his only weapon there was a stiletto in a worn leather scabbard on his left forearm, as well as other aids still, they would doubtless be chagrined were they to learn that he would wear light mail under his finery at dinner tonight. Quite chagrined. For to humans that betokened a mistrust of one's guests a terrible breach of etiquette.
At least this would be one of the last state dinners for a while, Morgan thought, as he began walking again. With the spring thaws coming, it would soon be time to head back to Rhemuth and the king's service for another season. Of course, this year it would be a different king, with Brion dead. But his latest dispatch from Kelson indicated
His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the gravel far to his right, and he turned to see Lord Hillary, the commander of the castle garrison, approaching at a brisk walk, his blue-green cloak whipping behind him in the breeze. His round face was puzzled.
"What's wrong, Hillary?" Morgan asked as the man drew near and sketched a hasty salute.
"I'm not sure, Your Grace. The harbor lookout reports that the Carah'ghter fleet has rounded the point and will be docking by nightfall, as soon as the tide shifts. Your flagship, Rhafallia, is in the lead, and she's flying royal dispatch signals. I think it could be the mobilization order, m'lord."
"I doubt it," Morgan shook his head. "Kelson wouldn't entrust that important a message to ship transport. He'd send a courier." He frowned. "I thought the fleet went only as far as Concaradine this trip."
"Those were their orders, m'lord. And they're back a day early at that."
"Strange," Morgan murmured, almost forgetting Hillary was there. "Still send an escort to meet Rhafallia when she docks and bring back the dispatches. And let me know as soon as they've arrived."
"Aye, m'lord."
As the man moved off, Morgan ran a puzzled hand through his hair and began walking again. That Kelson should send dispatches by ship was strange indeed. He almost never did that. Especially with the uncertainty of the weather farther north this time of year. The whole thing had an ominous ring to it, like like the dream!
He suddenly remembered what he'd dreamed last night. In fact, now that he considered it, that was another part of what had been bothering him all day.
He'd slept badly, which was unusual since he could generally turn sleep off and on at will. But last night he'd been plagued by nightmares vivid, frightening scenes which had made him wake in a cold sweat.
He'd seen Kelson, listening tensely to someone whose back was all that he could see and Duncan, his usually serene face drawn, troubled, angry, very unlike his priestly cousin. And then the ghostly, cowled visage he'd come to associate with legend last fall-Camber of Culdi, the renegade patron saint of Deryni magic.
Morgan looked up to find himself standing before the Grotto of the Hours, that dim, cavernous recess which had been the private retreat and meditation place of the Corwyn dukes for more than three hundred years. The gardeners had been at work here, too, burning leaves they had swept away from the doorway itself. But there was still debris just inside the entrance, and on impulse Morgan swung back the creaking iron gate and stepped inside. Taking a lighted torch from the wall bracket by the gate, he raked away trie winter's debris with his boot and made his way into the cool interior.
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