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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

After the Council of Barons

Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.  

—Mao Tse-tung

When the rest had left, Karl led Tyrnael and Thomen up the back stairs and into his private office, the one that connected to his and Andy's bedroom. He brought a dusty bottle of Riccetti's Best down from the shelves, uncorked it, and poured each of three mottled-green whiskey glasses half full.

"What are we going to do?" Tyrnael asked.

"It's simple." Karl waved them both to a seat and braced himself against the wall. "Tell him, Thomen. You worked it out."

The boy—no, it wasn't fair to call him a boy—Thomen Furnael sipped his whiskey, smiling over the rim of the glass. "We are beginning to think too much alike, aren't we?"

"I don't think like either of you." Tyrnael downed his whiskey and shook his head in irritation. "I don't understand what's going on."

While Karl poured Tyrnael a second glass, Thomen sipped at his. "True. Two things are happening. For one, do you remember that poacher that you hanged?"

"Of course."

"Well, I tried to turn him loose—but Karl figured out what I was trying to do and stopped me."

Karl had to admire the way that Tyrnael merely said, "Oh?"

"The reason he was able to stop me was that he figured out what I was going to do, and took the next step. I am about to do the same thing, in reverse: Karl is thinking of trying to take on Pugeer in person, have Ellegon sort through his mind and find out if he was behind the Kernat raid, and if he was guilty, kill him. Correct?"

"Correct." Karl nodded. "Like I said, we think too much—"

"Then you're a damn fool." Thomen Furnael threw his glass against the wall. It shattered, spraying glass and whiskey around the room.

Footsteps thundered in the hall outside; three guards, pistols drawn and cocked, rushed into the room.

"Majesty—"

Thomen didn't move. "It's nothing, soldiers," he said, sitting absolutely still, his hands folded across his lap.

The soldiers' faces were studiously blank.

"Dismissed," Karl said coldly. "Get out of here."

When the door closed behind them, Karl spun on the younger man. "What was that about?"

"That was to get your attention. I would have preferred to kick you in the balls to get your attention, but I don't think I could."

"And now that you've got my attention?"

"You're not going to do it." The younger man stood and walked to the window, tapping his signet ring against the glass. "Karl, if you even think about trying it, I'm going to break security and this window and shout so loudly about what you're planning that you won't believe it."

He turned back to Karl. "You had to stop me quietly; I may have to stop you noisily."

"You—"

"I don't like the odds, and I'm not going to let you play the game. Think it through, Karl," Thomen said, slowly moving to the sideboard to pick up a fresh glass. "May I?" he asked, hefting the whiskey bottle.

"If you're going to drink it this time."

"Fine. —What if it is Ahrmin, Karl? Don't you think he's noticed that you do things yourself? Even after all this time, the extent you like to stick your hand in the way of the knife manages to surprise most of us, but he's been studying you for years—and he's been on to you ever since he set up the siege at Furnael Castle, back during the war. That was intended to catch you. You like to be out in front of things; you always have.

"Just in case anyone might have thought that you had outgrown it, you ran that raid on Arondael's castle a few tendays ago. If it is Ahrmin behind all this, you'll find yourself breaking into the castle, and then—"

"And then the trap gets sprung. If it is a trap."

"Exactly."

"Your suggestion, then?"

Thomen drained the glass as he returned to his chair, taking the bottle with him. "I don't like the odds; we have to know." He poured himself another glass.

Tyrnael looked from one to the other. "So? We let matters rest where they are?"

Thomen shook his head. "No. We investigate; we send out spies, we move troops into position—"

"Can't that set off a war between us and the Nyphs?" Tyrnael cocked his head to one side. "Wouldn't we be better striking first?"

"We are better off not striking at all, if the Nyphs aren't guilty." Thomen, Baron Furnael, shook his head. "You'll have to gamble, just like the rest of us. His majesty will have to brace Pugeer's ambassador, and get him to understand that there's going to be a reprisal only if Nyphien was responsible."

"If they are?" Tyrnael asked dubiously.

"Baron, when I was a boy, my father sent my mother and me away from the war. To safety, he thought. We were seized by slavers and sold off."

For a moment, Karl could almost see Thomen's father standing there, as Thomen gripped the glass with white-knuckled fingers. "I am not going to talk about that time, Baron," Thomen said quietly, the words paced like metronome beats. "It was not pleasant. Not for my mother; not for myself."

Setting his glass and bottle down on the floor, Thomen Furnael drew his beltknife and balanced it on his palm. "I swear, Baron, that we are going to do our best to find out who did to your people what was done to me, and when we do, they are going to die."

The young baron slid the knife back into its sheath. "If we can capture any, you and I are going to work the choke nooses ourselves, and watch them dance in the air while they beg for another breath. Unless you want in on that, your majesty."

Karl Cullinane smiled. "When you get older, Thomen, you'll learn that it doesn't matter who does it."

Thomen's anger at him was still manifest, but the young baron had dismissed it as irrelevant. Karl had to admire him; while he hadn't forgiven Karl for stopping him, this was a matter of state policy, and personal feelings couldn't be allowed to enter into it.

A simple application of reasoning, really—the emperor planned to risk himself, but the emperor couldn't be risked. Nor, for that matter, could he afford to strangle a baron with his own two hands to shut him up, passingly tempting as that seemed.

So: "Okay, Thomen, we'll do it your way." Karl Cullinane drained his own whiskey, looked longingly at the bottle, then shook his head. Too much work to do. "First thing is we work out how many troops we're sending into Tyrnael. I'll want to get Nerahan in on this"—he tugged on the bell rope, twice—"since he seems to understand cannon better than the rest of you."

"Cannon?"

Karl Cullinane seated himself at his desk and pulled out paper, reaching for a map of the border area. "Cannon." He spread the map out on the floor and pulled out a box of gaming pieces. "If we're taking on the Nyphs, we're going to be able to blast them into little, bloody pieces." The door opened. "Nartham. Good—I want Garavar and Nerahan here, now."

* * *

Karl Cullinane rubbed at tired eyes and looked from Nerahan to Garavar to Thomen to Tyrnael. "Anybody got anything else?"

Kneeling at the northern edge of the map, General Garavar leaned forward. "I can't see any major improvement," he said, tapping at the map, "unless you want to move this battery from here to here."

"I don't like it." Tyrnael shook his head. "Not close enough to the border. We can't move cannons quickly; I'll want them to be as close as possible to the troops."

Which made sense, both for defensive and offensive purposes.

"Hmm . . ." Nerahan raised a finger to his lips and then touched it down to the map. "There. There's a good road down the side of the hill, and it seems to make sense to me to keep the guns as high as possible."

Karl looked over it again, trying to decide. "It could work either way. If it rains, those roads are going to turn to mud, and we're not going to be able to get the guns down from there for days."

"I disagree. Respectfully, always respectfully." Nerahan shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We only need to move them in order to attack, and we attack at our convenience, not theirs."

"Good point. Garavar, who do you want in tactical command? Gashier?"

"No. Too hotheaded," the general said. "Kevalun."

"I was going to give him—"

*Karl.* A distant voice sounded in his head. *Karl, we've got trouble.*

He jerked upright. "Ellegon!" What is it? 

*He's probably not hurt, but Jason's missing.*

What? Tell me—  

*We're not going to be able to do anything about it tonight. I will be landing in the courtyard in just a minute. Meet me.*

"On my way."

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

After the Council of Barons

Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.  

—Mao Tse-tung

When the rest had left, Karl led Tyrnael and Thomen up the back stairs and into his private office, the one that connected to his and Andy's bedroom. He brought a dusty bottle of Riccetti's Best down from the shelves, uncorked it, and poured each of three mottled-green whiskey glasses half full.

"What are we going to do?" Tyrnael asked.

"It's simple." Karl waved them both to a seat and braced himself against the wall. "Tell him, Thomen. You worked it out."

The boy—no, it wasn't fair to call him a boy—Thomen Furnael sipped his whiskey, smiling over the rim of the glass. "We are beginning to think too much alike, aren't we?"

"I don't think like either of you." Tyrnael downed his whiskey and shook his head in irritation. "I don't understand what's going on."

While Karl poured Tyrnael a second glass, Thomen sipped at his. "True. Two things are happening. For one, do you remember that poacher that you hanged?"

"Of course."

"Well, I tried to turn him loose—but Karl figured out what I was trying to do and stopped me."

Karl had to admire the way that Tyrnael merely said, "Oh?"

"The reason he was able to stop me was that he figured out what I was going to do, and took the next step. I am about to do the same thing, in reverse: Karl is thinking of trying to take on Pugeer in person, have Ellegon sort through his mind and find out if he was behind the Kernat raid, and if he was guilty, kill him. Correct?"

"Correct." Karl nodded. "Like I said, we think too much—"

"Then you're a damn fool." Thomen Furnael threw his glass against the wall. It shattered, spraying glass and whiskey around the room.

Footsteps thundered in the hall outside; three guards, pistols drawn and cocked, rushed into the room.

"Majesty—"

Thomen didn't move. "It's nothing, soldiers," he said, sitting absolutely still, his hands folded across his lap.

The soldiers' faces were studiously blank.

"Dismissed," Karl said coldly. "Get out of here."

When the door closed behind them, Karl spun on the younger man. "What was that about?"

"That was to get your attention. I would have preferred to kick you in the balls to get your attention, but I don't think I could."

"And now that you've got my attention?"

"You're not going to do it." The younger man stood and walked to the window, tapping his signet ring against the glass. "Karl, if you even think about trying it, I'm going to break security and this window and shout so loudly about what you're planning that you won't believe it."

He turned back to Karl. "You had to stop me quietly; I may have to stop you noisily."

"You—"

"I don't like the odds, and I'm not going to let you play the game. Think it through, Karl," Thomen said, slowly moving to the sideboard to pick up a fresh glass. "May I?" he asked, hefting the whiskey bottle.

"If you're going to drink it this time."

"Fine. —What if it is Ahrmin, Karl? Don't you think he's noticed that you do things yourself? Even after all this time, the extent you like to stick your hand in the way of the knife manages to surprise most of us, but he's been studying you for years—and he's been on to you ever since he set up the siege at Furnael Castle, back during the war. That was intended to catch you. You like to be out in front of things; you always have.

"Just in case anyone might have thought that you had outgrown it, you ran that raid on Arondael's castle a few tendays ago. If it is Ahrmin behind all this, you'll find yourself breaking into the castle, and then—"

"And then the trap gets sprung. If it is a trap."

"Exactly."

"Your suggestion, then?"

Thomen drained the glass as he returned to his chair, taking the bottle with him. "I don't like the odds; we have to know." He poured himself another glass.

Tyrnael looked from one to the other. "So? We let matters rest where they are?"

Thomen shook his head. "No. We investigate; we send out spies, we move troops into position—"

"Can't that set off a war between us and the Nyphs?" Tyrnael cocked his head to one side. "Wouldn't we be better striking first?"

"We are better off not striking at all, if the Nyphs aren't guilty." Thomen, Baron Furnael, shook his head. "You'll have to gamble, just like the rest of us. His majesty will have to brace Pugeer's ambassador, and get him to understand that there's going to be a reprisal only if Nyphien was responsible."

"If they are?" Tyrnael asked dubiously.

"Baron, when I was a boy, my father sent my mother and me away from the war. To safety, he thought. We were seized by slavers and sold off."

For a moment, Karl could almost see Thomen's father standing there, as Thomen gripped the glass with white-knuckled fingers. "I am not going to talk about that time, Baron," Thomen said quietly, the words paced like metronome beats. "It was not pleasant. Not for my mother; not for myself."

Setting his glass and bottle down on the floor, Thomen Furnael drew his beltknife and balanced it on his palm. "I swear, Baron, that we are going to do our best to find out who did to your people what was done to me, and when we do, they are going to die."

The young baron slid the knife back into its sheath. "If we can capture any, you and I are going to work the choke nooses ourselves, and watch them dance in the air while they beg for another breath. Unless you want in on that, your majesty."

Karl Cullinane smiled. "When you get older, Thomen, you'll learn that it doesn't matter who does it."

Thomen's anger at him was still manifest, but the young baron had dismissed it as irrelevant. Karl had to admire him; while he hadn't forgiven Karl for stopping him, this was a matter of state policy, and personal feelings couldn't be allowed to enter into it.

A simple application of reasoning, really—the emperor planned to risk himself, but the emperor couldn't be risked. Nor, for that matter, could he afford to strangle a baron with his own two hands to shut him up, passingly tempting as that seemed.

So: "Okay, Thomen, we'll do it your way." Karl Cullinane drained his own whiskey, looked longingly at the bottle, then shook his head. Too much work to do. "First thing is we work out how many troops we're sending into Tyrnael. I'll want to get Nerahan in on this"—he tugged on the bell rope, twice—"since he seems to understand cannon better than the rest of you."

"Cannon?"

Karl Cullinane seated himself at his desk and pulled out paper, reaching for a map of the border area. "Cannon." He spread the map out on the floor and pulled out a box of gaming pieces. "If we're taking on the Nyphs, we're going to be able to blast them into little, bloody pieces." The door opened. "Nartham. Good—I want Garavar and Nerahan here, now."

* * *

Karl Cullinane rubbed at tired eyes and looked from Nerahan to Garavar to Thomen to Tyrnael. "Anybody got anything else?"

Kneeling at the northern edge of the map, General Garavar leaned forward. "I can't see any major improvement," he said, tapping at the map, "unless you want to move this battery from here to here."

"I don't like it." Tyrnael shook his head. "Not close enough to the border. We can't move cannons quickly; I'll want them to be as close as possible to the troops."

Which made sense, both for defensive and offensive purposes.

"Hmm . . ." Nerahan raised a finger to his lips and then touched it down to the map. "There. There's a good road down the side of the hill, and it seems to make sense to me to keep the guns as high as possible."

Karl looked over it again, trying to decide. "It could work either way. If it rains, those roads are going to turn to mud, and we're not going to be able to get the guns down from there for days."

"I disagree. Respectfully, always respectfully." Nerahan shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We only need to move them in order to attack, and we attack at our convenience, not theirs."

"Good point. Garavar, who do you want in tactical command? Gashier?"

"No. Too hotheaded," the general said. "Kevalun."

"I was going to give him—"

*Karl.* A distant voice sounded in his head. *Karl, we've got trouble.*

He jerked upright. "Ellegon!" What is it? 

*He's probably not hurt, but Jason's missing.*

What? Tell me—  

*We're not going to be able to do anything about it tonight. I will be landing in the courtyard in just a minute. Meet me.*

"On my way."

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Contents
Framed