“I would have been here last night,” Aefric said, and started walking, allowing the knights and soldiers of his personal guard to fall in around him, while Kentigern and Ser Beornric walked alongside him. “But when the mayor of Lachedran offered hospitality, accepting seemed…”

  Aefric frowned and stopped walking, halting the whole procession.

  He turned to face Kentigern.

  “What do you mean you heard by rika bird? You didn’t hear about those skirmishes from Ser Micham himself?”

  “Ser Micham, your grace?” Kentigern asked, frowning in puzzlement. “Ser Micham left with you.”

  “Yes,” Aefric said, impatiently. “And he returned days ago by ship from Ajenmoor, along with thirty-eight refugees, quite a bit of cargo, and a letter I wrote to you.”

  Troubled understanding spread across Kentigern’s expressive face.

  “No, your grace,” he said softly, but firmly. “No he did not.”

  Ajenmoor was no more than an hour away by air…

  No. That was not the way to handle this. And Aefric made himself draw a slow, deep breath to force himself to focus.

  “Kentigern,” Aefric said, “you’re riding double with me.” He turned to Ser Beornric. “We’ll need the horses, and the boy rides double with you. And the moment we reach the castle, I want you… Wait.”

  Aefric turned back to Kentigern, who was wide-eyed with worry, but not interrupting for once.

  “Is Ser Deirdre still at court?”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  “Good.” Aefric turned back to Ser Beornric. “Get the whole of my guard ready to travel no later than” — Aefric gauged the sun’s position to be no more than an hour before true midday — “an hour past midday. Preferably midday itself.”

  “We’ll be ready by midday, your grace,” Ser Beornric said with a short bow. “If I have to drag every one of them out myself, we’ll be ready.”

  “Good. Find Ser Deirdre as well, and…” Aefric blew out a breath. He could command her to come. But with Deirdre, that would only make her drag her feet. “Tell her I have a mission for her, if she thinks she can handle it.”

  Ser Beornric’s mustache broadened with his wolfish grin. But then, he knew Ser Deirdre at least as well as Aefric did.

  “So she’s to be ready to go as well?”

  Aefric nodded, made a fist and clasped that wrist in the traditional salute of a noble to a knight.

  Ser Beornric bowed, and left to be about his orders.

  Aefric turned back and bellowed over the restless crowd.

  “General Yrsa!”

  “Your grace,” she called, and, hearing the urgency in his tone, ran forward. She stopped before him and bowed.

  “We have to accelerate our timetable. After you deal with this lot, I want another … two hundred soldiers armed and ready to travel, and enough ships to carry us all — including every knight and solider of my personal guard. And I want this all ready by midday.”

  “Then they will be ready by midday, your grace. Where are we bound?”

  “Where are we bound?” Aefric asked in disbelief. “I’m going to find out what in the thirteen hells is happening in Ajenmoor!”

  A short time later, Aefric sat at the desk in his … tertiary office? He thought that was right, but he had official rooms and offices all throughout this immense castle. He’d have to go over the list again, to be sure which one this was, in terms of priority.

  In terms of location, just now, this was his most important office.

  This was the office on the bottom floor of the castle, nearest the docks. It was a small, understated office compared to … at least two others Aefric could think of.

  This office had only the one desk, no view — light came in through slits high in the walls, with more added by candles on the desk — only three cabinets, and no rug on the red maple floorboards.

  Of course, the desk and the cabinets were still of rare red calinwood, which was notable for its dark beauty even when raw, but when finally polished — as the furniture in here was — it shone with almost an inner light. And there were still the flags of Armyr and Deepwater on the soft, gray, plastered walls, as well as a recent portrait of Aefric himself.

  Aefric’s enchanted quill pen scratched quickly as he finished writing out his orders and letter of authority for Ser Deirdre, while Kentigern, standing on the other side of that desk, rocked back and forth with worry.

  The man could have sat. There were two chairs for guests, both finely carved calinwood. But at times like these he preferred to stand. And rock.

  Meanwhile, poor little Edric Ol’Nia tried very hard to hide in a corner.

  As soon as Aefric waxed and sealed both letter and orders, Kentigern spoke up.

  “Really, your grace. I must object.” For the … seventh? Yes. Seventh time so far, by Aefric’s count. “Your grace cannot simply charge off after every problem. Whatever is happening in Ajenmoor—”

  “Whatever is happening in Ajenmoor,” Aefric said, “has delayed a knight of my personal guard and a ship full of refugees and cargo. All of whom should have been afforded every assistance because of letters in my own hand.”

  Kentigern sputtered for a moment. Aefric kept talking.

  “I’ve yet to visit Ajenmoor,” Aefric said, standing, and leaning closer to his seneschal, across the desk. “I need to let their mayor and his people see my face. I need to find out who or what dares delay my knight on his duty, and I need to get that — and possibly a handful of other matters — straightened out. Today.”

  Where it stood beside the desk, the Brightstaff began to glow from the yellow diamond atop it.

  In the corner, Edric gasped.

  “Is. That. Clear?” Aefric asked Kentigern.

  “It is clear, your grace,” Kentigern said with a bow. “I mean no offense. I only—”

  “You only wish to assist,” Aefric said, waving a hand to dismiss the concern. “I know this, of course. Just as I know that you are the finest seneschal I could hope for. But there are some things I must do myself, and this is one of them.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” Kentigern said, sounding somehow both mollified and hesitant. “And I understand and appreciate your grace’s point. What I meant to say, however, was that I only wish to inform you of other matters right here at Water’s End that can only be dealt with by your grace, himself.”

  “Oh?” Aefric asked, straightening up, and allowing the Brightstaff’s diamond to dim again.

  “There are reports from your vassals—”

  “Those can wait.”

  “There are personal letters from Princess Maev, Mistress Byrhta Ol’Caran, and Mistress Vercy Ol’Karmak.”

  Aefric frowned. “Shouldn’t you refer to Byrhta as ‘baroness regent?’”

  “It’s clearly a private letter, your grace, not Riverbreak business.” Kentigern lowered his voice. “It smells of her perfume, your grace.”

  Ah, the spicy, exotic scent of Byrhta’s perfume. Just the memory of it made Aefric’s heart beat faster.

  He shook his head, as much to clear it as to go with what he said next.

  “Nevertheless,” Aefric said. “Those letters will have to wait until I return.”

  Aefric started to turn away.

  “There’s more,” Kentigern objected. “Even more important matters. An emissary from Duchess Ashling of Merrek arrived three days ago, bearing a message for you. And she says her message must be delivered into the hands of the duke himself.”

  Aefric sighed. “Oh, gods. If it’s an invitation, I’ll have to go, and I don’t have time right now.” He shook his head. “Please extend my regrets, and inform her that the matter I deal with today is most urgent. The emissary is to be made welcome, and assured that I shall return as soon as possible, and receive her then.”

  Kentigern sighed. “Your grace…”

  Aefric held up a forestalling hand. “I assure you, Kentigern. This can’t be helped.”

  “Very well,” Kentigern said, heaving an even more dramatic sigh.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come,” Aefric said, and the door was opened by Ser Beornric.

  “Your troops and guards just about ready to go, your grace,” Ser Beornric said. “And your fresh clothes have arrived as well.”

  Aefric frowned. He had at least two more matters he wanted to deal with before leaving. But leaving as soon as possible was more important. One of those matters could keep, and he’d see to the other right now.

  “Excellent,” Aefric said, strapping on his backpack, an action that made Kentigern grimace.

  “Your grace, really—”

  “Edric, come forward,” Aefric said.

  The boy showed impressive courage. He was clearly frightened by everything happening — and Aefric’s fierce urgency wasn’t helping — and yet he immediately stepped forward and bowed.

  “Your grace,” Edric said.

  “Kentigern, this is Edric Ol’Nia, son of—”

  “Ler Osvalt Ol’Nia,” Kentigern said, nodding. “You have your father’s look, Master Edric.”

  Edric fought down the smile, but lost his fight against the blush.

  “Confirm his identity and his patents with the historian, and then see about getting him fostered.” Aefric leaned closer to his seneschal. “A gentle house, if you could. He’s had a hard life.”

  “Of course, your grace,” Kentigern said.

  “Edric,” Aefric said, “this is Kentigern, my seneschal. Trust him in all things, and do as he says.”

  “Of course, your grace,” Edric said with another bow. Clearly Leca had been tutoring him, because that bow was more precise than any bow Aefric had seen from Mayor Brangton.

  Aefric took the Brightstaff in hand and turned to Ser Beornric. “Let’s go.”

  “But your grace,” Kentigern said.

  He sounded frantic enough that Aefric turned to hear the rest of what he’d say.

  “There’s… I just…” Kentigern shrugged helplessly. “Princess Astrid of Malimfar is here.”

  Of Malimfar? Impossible. Malimfar tried to invade through Merrek this past spring. Only Aefric’s magic had stopped Malimfar’s armies before they stormed Armyr’s half of the Indecisive River Valley.

  Aefric frowned. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

  “You did, your grace,” Kentigern said, sounding as uncomfortable about this as he looked. “Princess Astrid, the crown princess of Malimfar herself, arrived by ship yesterday, seeking an audience with your grace.”

  “Did you inform the king?” Aefric asked.

  “I sent a rika at once. Should arrive at Armityr by tomorrow.”

  “How did she arrive?” Ser Beornric said. “Full entourage?”

  “No,” Kentigern said, sounding upset about that. “Only four knights. Two ladies-in-waiting. A handful of others, and hardly enough luggage to last her an aett.”

  Ser Beornric shook his head. Said to Aefric, “That’s the royal equivalent of traveling with nothing but the pack on your back. Maybe you should…”

  He trailed off when Aefric sighed and shook his head.

  “She’ll just have to wait as well.”

  “But she’s a princess,” Kentigern said. “By protocol alone, you must see her before you leave.”

  “We’re all but at war with Malimfar. The usual protocols don’t apply.”

  “Not so,” Kentigern said firmly. “At times like these, the protocols are more important than ever. They are all that prevent the sort of incidents that turn ‘all but at war’ into ‘at war.’”

  “Nevertheless,” Aefric said, “I can’t chance it. For all I know, she’s here to challenge me to a duel, to restore her father’s honor. And I don’t have time for it. If she wants to try to kill me, she can wait until I come back.”

  “But she’s—”

  “Kentigern,” Aefric said sharply. “You will make excuses. And you will tell her I will be happy to receive her when I return from pressing business. If you must, you may tell her that lives hang in the balance, because they do. But you must do this. Am I understood?”

  “You are understood, your grace,” Kentigern said, and though his voice sounded sour, he bowed. “I … will think of something.”

  “Thank you,” Aefric said. “I know this isn’t easy for you. But believe me. What’s going on in Ajenmoor right now is very important.”

  “I understand, your grace,” Kentigern said.

  He didn’t sound as though he understood at all. But he did sound as though he’d extend doubt’s benefit to his duke for the time being. And he clearly expected to understand everything by the time Aefric returned, or shortly thereafter.

  No one should be able to express so very much with four words and the right tone of voice. Kentigern really would have made an excellent skald.

  But for now, Aefric had to be about business every bit as important as he claimed.

  And for the sake of Ajenmoor, every one of those refugees — and Ser Micham himself — had better be alive and intact when Aefric arrived.

  This should have been a pleasure cruise. A hot, midsummer day with a bright, clear sky. Cool winds and fresh spray from the lake. And Aefric seated aboard his large, comfortable wooden chair on the afterdeck, enjoying his lunch, with the Brightstaff standing tall beside him, and Sers Yrsa and Beornric sitting nearby, on folding canvas chairs.

  And Aefric did sit in his chair. The ship he sailed was the Duke’s Hand (renamed from Duchess’ Hand, after Arinda’s death), which normally served as the duke’s pleasure craft. And the afterdeck — apart from the ship’s wheel, of course — was entirely his domain.

  Today, the Duke’s Hand was merely the most convenient ship for him to use, to lead the caravan of five other ships — all of them two-masted schooners, like the Duke’s Hand — north up the lake to the Searun River, and from there to Ajenmoor.

  Of course, with the wind in their face today, they’d be rowing, not truly sailing. Already the great drum beat low and heavy, setting the pace for the rowers.

  But once they hit the Searun they’d have the river’s flow to help.

  His luncheon that day was simple fare, though excellent, and had been prepared by the castle cook just before he left. Trenchers of hot roast beef with melted cheese and broccoli. To drink with it, a light, pale red wine that seemed to bring out more flavor in the beef and the cheese.

  Over the meal, Ser Yrsa went over the first report from the scouts up at the Dragonscar.

  Not that there was much to report. Everything was so quiet up there that the scouts weren’t even sure the borogs were still down below, much less mining in that cave.

  Aefric considered that quiet a good thing, though. No doubt Duke Wylyn had scouts watching the Dragonscar from time to time, and the less Aefric’s own scouts would hear — while knowing what to listen for — the less chance of Silverlake’s scouts figuring out what was going on before Aefric was ready.

  As they finished eating, and savored an extra glass of the fine, pale wine, Aefric explained the basics of his Ajenmoor plan to his knight-advisers.

  Doubtless with Ser Deirdre lurking somewhere nearby, hoping to overhear.

  But Aefric’s seat was at the back of the ship, and he made sure he and the other two kept their voices down. He doubted she heard anything. And if she’d tried to use magic to eavesdrop, well, she wasn’t good enough at that sort of magic to do so without Aefric noticing.

  “There are many ways this could go wrong,” Ser Yrsa said, when Aefric was finished. “People see their duke arriving with a force this size, it’ll make them edgy.”

  “Edgy people make mistakes,” Aefric agreed. “But they tend to make mistakes that align with their activities. The innocent will be frightened, until they see what I do with those troops. As for the guilty, well, let them react and we’ll deal with them.”

  “Hardly the way things are usually done,” Ser Beornric said. “Usually everything you’re talking about would be handled with a messenger delegating these tasks to the local mayor.”

  “I tried that already,” Aefric said. “Now it’s time to get involved myself.”

  “What about Ser Deirdre?” Ser Beornric asked. “What’s her role in all this?”

  “Good point. Summon her for me, will you?”

  Ser Beornric went to the edge of the afterdeck and called down. “Ser Deirdre, your duke awaits you.”

  She must’ve been lingering nearby all right. Hardly a dozen heartbeats passed between the time that Ser Beornric called her and the time Ser Deirdre climbed the ladder to the afterdeck and somersaulted forward to one knee before her duke.

  Like Aefric, but unlike every other knight on this ship, Ser Deirdre did not wear full plate armor. Instead she favored leathers of a deep maroon red. Hardly two shades darker than the hair she wore in a long braid down her back.

  At her belt, she wore a rapier and a dueling dagger, and both almost hummed with the magic of her calling.

  Ser Deirdre was a true dweomerblade. A warrior who found magic through the arts of battle, focused mostly through her weapons.

  Some dweomerblades that Aefric had known, back with the Iron Wands, had been … explosive in their skills and magic. Ser Deirdre was far more subtle in hers.

  Aefric trained with her sometimes. And though he could do more with magic than she ever would, when it came to melee combat, she was the best he’d ever seen.

  And yet here she was, kneeling before him again. A sight that made Ser Yrsa grumble.

  Aefric was not the king. No one was expected to kneel before him save vassals, and even then only during the oaths of vassalage.

  Ser Deirdre had sworn herself to Aefric’s service nearly a season ago. And yet, she insisted on kneeling every time she was called before him.

  At first, Aefric had stopped whatever he was doing at the time and insisted on her coming to her feet immediately. But that seemed to please her. And it didn’t stop her from kneeling the next time.