Riding southeastward toward Hasty, Stephen Nez kept his mount mostly at a trot. But from from time to time he dismounted, leading it loose-reined along the road's edge, where it snatched bites of the grasses and forbs that flourished there.
This was well-settled country, the farmsteads not concentrated into hamlets, but dribbled along the highway in twos and threes. Often the road was bordered by woods, tended more or less for the production of firewood and fence rails. But even more it was edged by pastures and fields, with a row of sugar trees on the road's west side for afternoon shade. Most bore the marks of spiles, used to tap the sweet sap in early spring. The maize, inspired by recent rains, was nearing knee high, and farm folk wearing broad-brimmed straw hats, the products of long winter evenings, were out with busy hoes, chopping weeds. The rail fences wore thorny skirts of raspberry and blackberry cane, their fruit bringing hungry birds. Bees and hornets zipped and hovered, probing, drinking deeply of the nectar.
There was more traffic, here on the Hasty-Cloud Highway, than Steven was used to. Often he met wagons, carters and horsemen on everyday errands. But more than a few were clearly refugees, Hasty folk presumably, returning to their rural roots, their belongings stacked behind the seat. Or trudged on foot, with bags on backs or heads. Most looked neither to right nor left, their thoughts—on what?
Often Stephen slowed at their approach, to tell them in passing that there was work for them farther up the road, felling trees at the Knees of the Misasip, work that came with food and protection.
But mostly he held to his brisk pace, and arrived at Hasty that evening. There he found lodging with a Dinneh couple he knew, who made leather goods. They didn't plan to leave, they told him. They were too old for a refugee's life, and content to die when the time came.
Master Carlos Del Passo left his push cart at the tradesmen's delivery entrance, and hoisted the heavy quarter of freshly butchered beef onto his shoulder. The 4th usher was in charge of dealing with delivery men, and recognizing the cart, and recently Carlos, as legitimate, opened the door to him. The usher's breath smelled of whiskey. Early in the day, Carlos thought.
"Looks heavy," the man said, eyeing the haunch.
He didn't sound under the influence, but neither did he look too well. Recovering from a hangover, Carlos decided. "Any bigger," he answered grinning, "and it would carry me."
The usher laughed, then led him down a now familiar corridor to the staff kitchen, and left him there. The chief staff cook had Carlos lay the meat on a platform scale, placed weights on a counter-beam until it balanced, and examined the invoice Carlos handed him. The readings agreed closely enough. He initialed both copies with a graphite stick. Carlos counter-initialed them and pocketed his copy. Only then did they exchange chitchat, Carlos commenting that if staff ate as well as it seemed, he'd like to get a job there.
The cook laughed. "Be careful what you wish for," he said. "You might get it." Then more seriously, "We had people who didn't come back to work after last payday; afraid the Dkota are coming. So if you're serious about working here, this is a good time to apply."
"Quit, eh? I'd think if the Dkota arrive, the best place to be is inside these thick stone walls."
"Yeah, if you live in. But few do, except guards."
"The town is walled."
"Walled, sure. But think of all those thatched roofs just waiting for fire arrows. It won't come to that, of course, even if the Dkota are out raiding. They'll burn a few villages out in the marches, steal some horses and girls, and gallop off home like before."
"Who do I talk to about . . ."
A man interrupted, bursting wide-eyed and excited into the large kitchen. He was visibly shaking. "There's fighting upstairs!" he squawked. "Shouting, and swords!"
Eldred sat in his lesser audience chamber, twenty feet long and fifteen wide. As for "audience"—that referred to the listening king; there were no spectators. The room held only His Majesty; two large bodyguards, each with a sword held at "order arms"; another by the door; and the inner bailiff, wearing a dagger at his right hip, and carrying a ceremonial but deadly mace in his left hand. His function was to receive persons at the door, and on command, escort them to the low railing before the king, where they would speak. And finally the king's executive secretary, a nobleman of years and dignity, learned in the law and human behavior. He sat to one side, at a writing table on line with the railing.
Ordinarily, Eldred heard petitioners two mornings a week, from 9:00 o'clock till 11:30. They were not plaintiffs bypassing the courts, simply persons asking favors or other considerations of the king. Such hearings were an important reason for Eldred's popularity—the hearings, and Eldred's usual affability.
But today he was not his usual self. For one thing, he'd been abraded by the rumors rampant in his capital. Not that he believed them; he rejected them utterly. What bothered him was their insolence, and their effects on the people. The Higuchians were to blame, he did not doubt, disrupting order and the peoples' trust. But more personal than the rumors, more painful, was the disappearance of his daughter Elvi, with her brainless "squire," young Halvorsen. It cost him sleep.
He did not let such matters interfere with duty though.
A guild master, representating the glue makers, had just been heard and led out, when the palace's senior usher hurried in, an unusual interruption. "Your Majesty!" he said, "a messenger has just arrived, with urgent business! You may wish to hear him out of order."
The king frowned. Usually Arpad would identify the matter. Well. Presumably he had a good reason. "Bring him in," Eldred said.
The usher went back into the antechamber, returning a moment later with a man wearing the uniform of the royal postal service, and carrying a bulky package. No petitioner, apparently, but standard procedure held; the inner bailiff led him to the railing.
"What have you brought, my good man?" the king asked.
The messenger kept his eyes averted and his voice soft. "Your Majesty, a package from Zandria. With a message from Lieutenant Mitchell, commanding a royal force at arms there."
Eldred felt his hackles rise. "You've seen the contents?"
"No, Your Majesty. But the letter was read to me before it was sealed, in case something happened to it."
In case something happened to it? What in God's name is this about? The king snapped his fingers in sudden impatience, the sound loud and imperious in the otherwise quiet room. "Open them! And give them to me!"
The messenger's hands shook so, he cut himself trying to sever the strings that wrapped the bulky package. Brookins took it from him, then handed the folded letter to the king, its seal unbroken. The king left it that way, laying it on his lap. It was the package he would deal with first, for he feared it most; it seemed to him it held a human head, bundled against seeping blood. Again he snapped his fingers, demanding haste. Brookins stripped away the severed cord, leaving the gob of imprinted sealing wax undisturbed on the knot, then placed the package in Eldred's hands. Fierce-eyed, the king opened it. Instead of a head, it held a light hauberk, and wrapped in it a helmet, all in the style of the royal guard. But too light to be effective; a costume.
Who'd worn it was beyond doubt. The king went pale, as if he might faint and fall from the throne, but he gathered himself. Opening the lieutenant's letter, he began to read. She was alive, or had been when it was written. And it was Halldor Halvorsen she'd left with, to follow the armsmen, intending to join them when they caught the Higuchians, and take part in the fighting. Finally she'd caught up with them at Zandria; Lieutenant Mitchell had her in his safekeeping. He'd bring her with him when he returned to Hasty.
Eldred contemplated what he'd read. Something was terribly wrong here. Why send the messenger? Or her armor? If the lieutenant and his men had reached Zandria, why hadn't they come back, bringing her with them?
And why hadn't Elvi sent a message of her own?
Of one thing he was sure: the Higuchians were behind it, and they would pay. With the first installment today, because he knew who was next on his audience list. As soon as he'd seen the name, he'd remembered, and had him moved up. God was good.
Now, turning hard dangerous eyes to the inner bailiff, he gestured toward the messenger. "Have this man taken to the guardhouse and held there securely till I have time to question him more thoroughly. I'll be along soon." And to the messenger, "Go now. If you answer my questions, you have nothing to fear."
He handed the bundle and letter to Brookins, who lay them on a corner of his writing table. Meanwhile it was not the antechamber door the bailiff took the messenger to, but a door in the back of the room, concealed by one of the velvet wall hangings. It opened into an ill-lit passageway, where instead of an outer bailiff, there waited two guardsmen, rarely called upon. Until they heard the door latch, they'd been on their knees shooting craps with practiced silence. They were on their feet as the door opened. Stepping into the audience chamber, they received custody of the messenger, and gripping his arms firmly, led him into the passageway. The bailiff closed it behind them, then covered it again with the hanging.
Before receiving his next petitioner, Eldred sent the inner bailiff hurrying to the royal apartment to fetch a bottle of whiskey, an unprecedented request. The bailiff returned quickly, the bottle in his blouse, and ignoring appearances, Eldred downed a stiff drink. When he'd recovered his breath, he ordered the next petitioner brought in.
Having been one of the king's throne guards, Stephen knew the procedure. What he didn't know was the situation. His saber and belt knife had been taken in the vestibule, but they'd be returned when he left. And as he entered, it seemed to him the king would remember him, perhaps greet him in a personal way.
But being led the few yards to the petitioner's railing, he began to realize something was seriously wrong. The inner bailiff's grip was tight, and the king's gaze hard and grim. They numbed him so, he hardly heard the bailiff speak his name. Then it was time, and he began his recital, the king listening, gaze cold as a snake's. Even so, telling it steadied Stephen. He summarized what was underway, then asked the king to send his rifle companies and artillery. "I believe we can break the invaders there," he finished.
The king continued to eye him, and Stephen's apprehension re-congealed. Finally Eldred spoke to the corporal of the watch. "Corporal Glynn," he said, "put this traitor to death! Here and now, while I watch!"
Stephen was rooted to the spot.
Being left-handed, Corporal Paddy Glynn's position was a step behind the king on his left, his ceremonial but very sharp two-handed sword unsheathed at order arms. Now Paddy raised it to present arms. "As you order, Your Majesty," he said calmly, then turning his gaze to the petitioner, boomed "Prisoner! On yer knees!" Paddy knew no precedent for this, no set phrase, but he'd ad-libbed it nicely. All attention, most intensely the king's, fixed on Stephen Nez, whose brown face had grayed and turned wooden. But Stephen's knees did not buckle. Slowly he knelt, the act breaking the bailiff's hold.
Paddy stepped forward—and without the least forewarning delivered a right-handed side-fist to the king's forehead. As Eldred slumped unconscious, Paddy pounced from the dais, and sword ready, spoke sharply to the other guards: "Michael! Arturo! It's now or never! Are ye with me?"
On the other side of the throne, a shocked Arturo husked out "I am!" Michael was already advancing on the inner bailiff, great sword threatening. "And I!" he said. The bailiff froze, and his mace thumped to the carpet.
Now Paddy's voice turned soft. "And you, Sir Lawrence? Are you with us?"
"God's mercy, I cannot help myself. For I fear the king is mad, and I do not doubt that the Dkota threat is as real as bloody death."
In the palace, the fighting was sporadic and reluctant, because the adversaries felt themselves brethren at arms. At first, loyalists controlled the corridors. But the rebels threw words before blows. They all knew the rumors of invasion, and had serious misgivings about Eldred. Thus some were quickly turned, and within the hour the rebels held the palace.
The king was locked in the dungeon, for a mutiny was liable to be followed by a counterstroke, certainly when the deposed ruler had been popular. And many in the guard looked at him as a bargaining chip, to be held secure.
No one was being let in or out of the palace. Things were chaotic, and a new kind of rumor and fear abounded, of coats waiting to be turned, of conspiracies to take command and execute the guard.
Carlos, his ears and eyes open, was happy to remain inside, a friend of the chief staff cook. And one thing he could not miss: Corporal Paddy Glynn was said to be in charge.
But not, Carlos thought, the ruler; no one actually ruled. The guard held sway, but no formal directives or policies were being issued, because none of the royal guard knew what needed to be done. Paddy gave orders when he saw the need, trusting they'd be followed. The preexisting bureaucracy could keep things running, more or less—the kitchen staff, for example, still prepared food—but there was no mechanism of command, no oversight, evaluation or enforcement.
In fact, the mutiny had been impromptu: Paddy had acted to save Stephen Nez. But once he'd had Eldred manacled and the key in his own pocket, he knew very well what it meant.
So now, with the palace more or less secured, who might he turn to who had the authority of class, position and experience to be recognized as regent? Someone in the palace or at the military reservation, whose authority would be accepted by the troops. Someone who'd defend Sota.
Paddy saw the need as urgent. He had no authority over the forces at the military reservation, and he needed the rifle companies and artillery sent as quickly as possible to man the ambush under construction. Meanwhile, if artillery showed up outside the palace gates, things would get desperate. And if Eldred was returned to the throne, he'd surely execute the rebels.
Paddy had already attached the royal pages as his own. Now he sent two of them running off to Lord Brookins' room. Between himself and the king's secretary, they might interest an acceptable royal in-law to rule as regent.
By that time, of course, Carlos had found an unoccupied room from which to notify Luis and the others of what had happened.