"I suppose that's the only real solution," Kyrtian sighed, and winced at the thought of a mouse, a dolt, or a frail flower as a wife. What a disgusting situation, he thought, frowning. And I'm going to have to do something about it fairly soon. Mother isn 't going to allow me to put it off much longer.
Gel snorted at his rueful expression, as a particularly hard bounce sent them all in the air for a brief moment. "Don't mope," he replied sternly, then added, with a crude chuckle, "At least you aren't going to be saddled with a wife who has the hips of a cow, the manners of a pig, and the face of a horse. You Elves are never less than handsome, so you won't have to wish for a bag to put over her head when you do your duty to present the estate with an heir."
Kyrtian flushed, feeling the tips of his ears burn. Gel had been his teacher, companion, and friend for as long as he could remember, but the human could be amazingly coarse, sometimes. How on earth could he explain that what made him dread matrimony was the fear that he'd find himself bound for centuries to a dull, insipid idiot? How could he possibly get up
enough interest in a maiden like that to do his duty by the estate and the clan? Gel would only laugh, and tell him that it wasn't what was between a girl's ears that mattered—
If I could find someone like Mother, he thought wistfully, I'd wed her no matter what her rank was. Did Father ever really know how lucky he was to find a maiden with wit, courage, sense, and intelligence? What are rank and magic worth, compared with qualities like that?
"We'll have to tell Milady about the new scheme for a siege," Gel said cheerfully, interrupting his thoughts. "She'll probably want to have a hand in it herself this time—and I think you ought to give her a bit of a command. Maybe then she'll stop teasing us about our pastime."
"You know, you could be right." Kyrtian braced himself as the carriage hit a series of ruts that threatened to bounce them all against the ceiling, rattling his very teeth. This was the worst part of the road; in a moment, everything would suddenly smooth out as they reached the paved section. "Maybe if she gets a taste of this, she'll realize just how challenging it is."
My only other choice would be to tell her the truth—that it isn 't a game, that Gel and I are training the humans to defend the estate if—or when—combat comes here. I don't want to do that; I don't know that danger is coming, I just feel it in my bones. Their estate was relatively isolated, and he and his mother certainly were not in the first social circles, but still. .. first had come the Elvenbane, that weird wizard-girl who had, by all repute, single-handedly engineered an uprising of totally unsuspected halfbloods. Not that he expected any trouble from the halfbloods—his people were perfectly free to join the Wizards any time they wanted to, and none of them did. Still, to have a dreaded legend come to life and take down the most powerful Elvenlord on the Council, and do it with the aid of Lord Dyran's own son, who she somehow subverted—well, it had all of the Elvenlords looking for more halfbloods-in-disguise in their midst.
And when the Great Lords were looking for one thing, they might find something else they didn't care for.
Then had come a second rebellion, this time of the Elven-
lords' own disregarded second and third offspring, the "spares," which apparently involved a new sort of magic that disrupted even the most powerful Elven magic. That war was not going well for the Great Lords. It wasn't so much that they'd lost a great deal of territory, for the relatively small number of Young Lords who had revolted had only taken a few estates; the problem was that they'd taken and held them, and continued to hold, and although Kyrtian didn't know this for certain, he suspected they were making themselves felt. They were a thorn, not in the side, but in the foot, and one which was felt with every step the Great Lords took. That made them edgy; always a dangerous thing. Kyrtian didn't like the idea of having an edgy, inquisitive Great Lord nosing around anywhere near his estate. Or his people.
And if anything happened because there was an inquisitive Great Lord sniffing around—well, he wanted to be ready for it.
"Maybe she'll want to take up the sword for herself," Gel suggested, with a sly twinkle. "You know she'd be good at it. I think if she ever got a feel for righting, she'd be as addicted to it as we are."
"Oh, there's a thought!" Kyrtian laughed wickedly. "I could make her my second-in-command. Then what would you do?"
"Go on my knees and submit," Gel admitted. "And bow to the inevitable. I've seen her move and I've seen her at the hunt— she's got better reactions than you do. Ancestors! Put a bow in her hands, and I'll surrender on the spot rather than face her!"
The carriage jolted one last time, as the wheels bounced up onto the pavement, then Kyrtian and Gel settled back with identical sighs of relief as rough ride gave way to smooth rolling that was as comfortable as sailing on a smooth lake.
"I trust you've taken care of things for the men as usual?" Kyrtian asked Lynder. The young human had only been Kyrt-ian's body-servant for two months, but he'd been meticulously trained by Kyrtian's previous man, and the Elvenlord was confident he could handle his new responsibilities as invisibly as his predecessor.
The man looked a little anxious. "The bathhouse is cleared and ready, dinner's been held, there's to be music and late-leave
for the other servants to join the entertainment—" He hesitated, and glanced pleadingly at Gel, clearly wondering if he'd missed something.
"Exactly right, Lynder," Kyrtian said soothingly, to take the look of anxiety out of his eyes. Lynder had probably missed one or two details, but the other servants would see to it that everything went smoothly anyway. After years of these mock-battles, everyone knew what was expected afterwards. The house-and field-servants were expected to reschedule their own baths so that the returning fighters could have the place to themselves. Dinner had been held back so that it would reach the tables hot and fresh as they came out of the bathhouse—and it wouldn't be the usual bread and stew, but something a little fancier. Roast meat or chicken, usually, a choice of side-dishes, and something in the way of a sweet. There would be a little extra beer—not enough to cause problems, but a glass or two more than usual for everyone. Some of the household musicians would come down after dinner, and there would be some lively music and dancing, and if beds had two occupants or none in them tonight instead of one, no one would be taken to task. Tomorrow would be a quarter-holiday, work and drill to start a bit later in the morning than usual so that the men could sleep in a bit. All in all, the men would feel themselves well rewarded for their hard work today.
And we need to begin planning the next holiday by tomorrow at the latest, Kyrtian reminded himself. He didn't like to make the intervals between holidays too long; he didn't want the house-and field-servants to start feeling aggrieved at the special treatment the fighters received.
The carriage slowed and came to a stop; in the dusty gold light that was swiftly fading, a servant in emerald-green tunic and trews opened the door, and Kyrtian got out, followed by Gel and Lynder. Round, blue-white lights hanging in clusters of four from bronze posts already blazed on either side of the white stone staircase that led to the front portals of the manor. More green-liveried servants took possession of the armor and arms as Kyrtian looked about. Gel saluted and stalked off towards the barracks in that tireless, ageless stride that Kyrtian
could never imitate, with the final rays of the setting sun illuminating him like some god-touched hero of human history.
Kyrtian ran up the alabaster steps of the manor with Lynder close behind, deep shadows now giving way to blue dusk. At the top of the stairs, double doors of cast bronze would have swung open at the merest touch of his magic, but he ignored them entirely, intending to take the inconspicuous doorkeeper's entry at the side. The green-clad doorkeeper had expected just that, and was holding open the smaller portal for him, bowing slightly as he passed through.
"Beker!" Kyrtian greeted him. "Is your wife better?"
The human's long face brightened at the question. "Oh, much better, Lord Kyrtian! We cannot thank you enough—"
"You'll thank me by not letting things get to such a pass before you say something," Kyrtian replied, with just enough of a stern tone to his voice that the doorkeeper would know he was serious. "Don't keep going back to the 'pothecary; when the simple cure doesn't work, go to Lord Selazian. That's why I keep him as a retainer, Beker; make the lazy lout work for his living!"
"Yes. Lord Kyrtian," the doorkeeper whispered, bowing further. "I will, my lord."
"Carry on, Beker," Kyrtian replied, and moved on, leaving the doorkeeper to shut things up behind him.
"Lynder, remind Lord Tenebrinth to have a talk with the apothecary, will you?" Kyrtian said in a quiet aside as they strode down the middle of the entrance hall. A thick, pale-grey carpet beneath their feet muffled all sound of footfalls, and although the alabaster ceiling and grey-veined marble walls were not imposing, Kyrtian thought they had a great deal of dignity about them. "I can't have my people getting sick and relying on that—that herb-shaman for everything! I wouldn't have had him at all, if you humans hadn't insisted on him."
"Lord Kyrtian—it is frightening for some of us to ask a Lord for anything, much less ask him to treat us for our ailments," Lynder replied with hesitation. "You forget sometimes that although many of us have been born and raised in your service, many more come from outside the boundary of your estate, and things are very different in the greater world."
"Well, that's why I want you to remind Lord Tenebrinth to talk to the apothecary. I suspect the man might be encouraging those fears, and if that's true, I want it stopped." Kyrtian frowned. "Ancestors! The last thing we need is to get a plague started because a man who thinks rattling bones and brewing teas can cure everything won't give up trying till his patients are dead!"
"With your permission, Lord Kyrtian, I'll ask Sergeant Gel to have a word with him first." Kyrtian saw out of the corner of his eye that Lynder was smiling a little. "The Sergeant can be very persuasive."
Kyrtian nodded, as they turned down a side corridor to the family-quarters. "I trust your judgment, Lynder. But do feel free to bring Tenebrinth in on it; he is my Seneschal, after all."
Lynder moved ahead to smoothly open a door on the right-hand side of the corridor before Kyrtian could touch it himself. "Yes, Lord Kyrtian," he replied, and as Kyrtian stepped through the door into his private quarters, he was engulfed by servants.
In other households, they would have been called "slaves," and it was true that Kyrtian was their titular owner—but if any one of them wanted to leave, he would have only to petition the Elvenlord and permission would be instantly granted. Somehow, some way, Kyrtian would find a way to smuggle the human out to the territories held by the Wizards or the free humans. Not that anyone would ever ask for that permission—the world open to free humans was hostile and uncomfortable, and entirely too dangerous to be much of a temptation.
As had been the case with Kyrtian's father and grandfather, Kyrtian and his mother were respected, admired, even beloved, not only by the humans of the estate, but by the few Elven retainers who called them their liege-lords. There were three who were of the most importance; the aforementioned Tenebrinth whose position as Seneschal predated Kyrtian's birth, Selazian the Physician who had been studying the diseases of humans as well as Elves for literally centuries—and Lord Pelenal, Kyrt-
ian's Agent, who handled all the affairs of the estate that needed to be conducted outside the walls of the estate.
Kyrtian and his mother were as dependent on Pelenal's good will as he was on theirs, but he had never given them even a moment of unease. Pelenal bought new slaves, negotiated contracts, and haggled to get the best prices for the foodstuffs produced by this most fertile of estates. Pelenal was one of those most despised of creatures, an Elvenlord with so little magic he might just as well have had none at all. Despite the fact that there could not possibly have been a better Agent in all of the estates, Pelenal would never have attained that position of power in the service of anyone other than Kyrtian's family. He knew that; saw Elves with more magic than he groveling for crumbs at the tables of greater Elvenlords, and demonstrated his gratitude in the most tangible of terms on a regular basis.
That was just as well, because where real power, the political power of the Council of the Great Lords was concerned, Kyrtian had none. His only power was economic, and that was in no small part due to Pelenal's clever management.
Still, that power could be formidable.
As servants swarmed over him, stripping him to the skin as they propelled him towards the bathing room, he allowed himself the luxury of feeling just a little smug. Political power came and went—even magic power could fade with time, or be lost to further generations—but economic power was a much more dependable, if underrated force. His grandfather had understood that, even if his father hadn't—but his father had the services of Tenebrinth to ensure that the estate's prosperity continued. Pelenal had simply built on that foundation.
The bathing-room, of green-veined marble with shining silver fixtures, featured a sunken tub longer than Kyrtian was tall, and deep enough for him to sink in up to his chin. Just now it was so full of steam it was difficult to see across it. Kyrtian stepped into the tub carefully. When father vanished, things could have been very bad, if mother hadn't had the good sense to ask Tenebrinth if he knew someone he could trust to become our outside Agent. Kyrtian eased himself down into the hot,