In Lofty Halls

  Lynetor’s hall was warmed by a roaring fireplace. Stone pillars supported the arcing roof beneath which there were long tables occupied by further roaring men. Had once been the seat of kings in the old days when the middle kingdoms had split Baidon across her belt. Now, there was a high table where the old throne once sat. Herik, his bulging medicus and chosen lords at its centre, then the Constable of Lynetor and his wife, and finally Einar Smashednose. They looked out over the long tables and their drinking, feasting occupants. Smashednose was whiteness to their merriment, yet subject to very little of it.

  The Constable of Lynetor sat awkwardly next to the old warrior, emanating none of the warmth of the great fireplace, none of the merriment of the flautist who played by the window. His old, sagging face was constantly flicking from noise to noise. He had barely touched his food and had not drunk from his goblet. Smashednose could sympathise with him. The Constable had been a prisoner in his own fort for a month, and now the attacking army was inside the gates. His garrison was serving little more than an ornamental purpose. On top of it all, he was probably deathly scared of getting poisoned. Smashnose hadn’t touched the man’s drink, and Herik? Poison wasn’t the man’s style. If Lord Herik had wanted him dead, he’d have taken the man’s head off. Smashednose knew that for certain. Hell, the old warrior had been part of the council where they’d decided not to sever the man’s neck.

  Silker, Hessen and Fenris were sat down on the long tables, drinking and carrying on. Whiteeyes had a woman by his side, one of the camp’s healers, even. Made Smashednose a little nervous that. Not the healer, but the attitude. Had they forgotten that Ralke’s camp wanted blood? Every time that Smashednose saw one of Ralke’s men get up from their bench, he half expected them to walk over to his lads. Start trouble. The old warrior ran his calluses over the grooves in the handle of his dagger. It was easy to do. He was using it to carve his meat.

  It was, Smashednose reckoned, a hall of fools. Men forgetting bad blood for the sake of ale. Generals forgetting wars for the sake of pride. Still no word from Lord Ignate in the south. Smashednose took a gulp of his goblet, calmed his twitching hands.

  There was one more seat to Smashednose’s right, Lord Beker. The man was hunched over a leg of turkey, washing it down with copious amounts of wine. So far, he’d managed not to spill any on his tunic. He looked up from his food, caught the old warrior staring.

  “What?”

  “I said nothing,” Smashednose said.

  Becker put the chicken leg down, wiped some of the grease out of his salt and pepper beard. “I didn’t ask you what you said, Einar. What are you thinking? You’ve been looking like a dog pissed in your cup all night.”

  “I’m a moody old hound, Becker,” Smashednose replied. “My face always looks like this.”

  “So I am,” Becker said. “And it’s usually because of what I am thinking.”

  “Why are you in this war?” Smashednose asked.

  “Blood,” Becker said. “I have cousins on…”

  Smashednose cut him off. “You have cousins on Philippe’s side too. War in Baidon is always a family spat.”

  “Well, if you want to keep what you have, you have to choose a side sooner or later. Our friend the Constable almost chose too late. He gets to keep his head, but I doubt Herik is letting him keep half of his land.” Becker stopped talking and smiled politely as a maidservant refilled his cup.

  Both he and Smashednose were too old to be leering at her like some of the other men in the room. In truth, this was probably the worst mob the hall had ever hosted. When she was gone, “I’ve answered your question, Einar. You answer mine.”

  “We should have split the army,” Smashednose said.

  “This again. We have split the army. Ignate is in the south.”

  “Only needed the half of us to siege Lynetor once we knew the Constable was going to surrender after his oath was fulfilled,” Smashednose said. “The rest of us could be watching the Kings Pass, or marching down to support Ignate. But Herik. Our Lord Herik thinks he’s won the war tonight. We don’t even know who Ignate is fighting in the south.”

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  “By the Saints, man. He’s fighting Philipe the Bane,” Becker said.

  “And who is Philipe paying to fight for him? Both sides have plenty of money. If you think he doesn’t have hired troops, you’re mad. Herik thinks we’ve got him trapped between Lynertor and Breyford, but if Ignate falls, it goes to shit. If he’s paid the right men, it goes to shit. If…”

  “Is this what you really think?” Becker said. The old lord had a particularly sour expression now. He had probably been caught up in the promise of victory as much as the rest of them.

  Smashednose shrugged. “It might not happen. I’m just a bitter old pessimist after all.”

  When it finally happened, Smashednose wasn’t expecting it. He had been distracted, distracted by Lord Becker, distracted by troops and fields in far-off corners of his mind, distracted by the murky, sullen expression of the old man staring back at him from his brimming cup of wine. But that is what made it a surprise. Smashednose was alerted by the sudden shattering of a clay jug against the stone, the barking of the excited dogs.

  Pioter Grey was red-faced and yelling, the veins of his heavy neck bulging. His words were an incoherent torrent, but given that he’d just raised his dagger against Fenris and Hessen where they sat. He needed no explanation. The man was drunk, angry and furious about the death of his brother, Ralke Grey.

  It happened quickly. Fenris barrelled into Pioter as he clobbered Hessen with a fist. The two men crashed into a pillar, entangled. Silker was out of his seat, taking stock of the situation with his hand cautiously on his dagger. More bodies rose, men from Grey’s camp, charging towards the fray. The music was suddenly replaced by profane cries and unheard bellowing for peace.

  “What the devil?” Becker said, standing.

  Smashednose was already up, moving down the steps from the high table. He had his knife out still, the handle gripped tight and ready, but he tucked it away. Had to remember that with all the men under his command, he was a senior lord, of sorts. Lords didn’t stab people to death at feasts. They called for calm, and in a camp that had been salivating for battle, it was a scarce commodity.

  “Stand down,” Smashednose yelled.

  Despite Smashednose’s own command, Silker joined Hessen in the fight as more from the Grey camp arrived, careful to keep daggers out of it. It was the right thing to do, but it didn’t do much to settle the thing down. More men got up from their benches, and even the healer that Fenris was with slipped through the fight and tried to drag Poiter off Fenris. It quickly became a brawl of a dozen. There was nothing that Einar Smashednose could say to stop it, so he joined. Alas, what a lord he was.

  He grabbed a shoulder indiscriminately with vicelike fingers and pulled a man down, giving him a knee in the ribs as he did so. “Don’t get up.” One on one, Smashenose could affix his glare on the winded man. It was a frightening glare that spoke of a harder, more blood-ridden life than the young welp would know. He obeyed with a shiver.

  As Smashednose turned back to the brawl, he caught a fist across his jaw. He went back, nearly fell, but didn’t, stagging into someone behind who propped him up. It was Lord Becker. Before long, a jewelled finger was pointed at his assailant.

  “You’ll lose your hand for that, you little cunt,” Becker said.

  The sight of both the old warrior and lord gave some of the brawlers pause. They backed away from them with uncertain obedience, but the flame was still raging at the centre of the fight where Fenris Whiteeyes wrestled Pioter Grey over a dagger. Smashednose was pleased to see he had had enough restraint not to pull his own dagger out. Under different circumstances, he would have. Under different circumstances, Smashednose would have let him.

  The healer hammered Pioter across the back with her fists. She was by no means a weak woman, but the man was consumed by rage, and it did little to get him off Fenris. Pioter kicked back, caught her in the ribs and knocked her to the floor. Fenris snarled at that, managed to reverse the position so that he was on top. Both of Whiteeyes’s hands were fixed on the dagger, so he butted Pioter’s nose with his forehead and a little blood sprayed back at him. A few more of those, and Pioter would be out cold, or even dead.

  Now that Fenris had gained the upper hand, it seemed a good time for Smashednose to interject. Make sure Pioter knew who’d saved his skin, not that it would do much other than hurt his pride. He seized hold of Fenris and gave commands. The brawlers became peacemakers, and they pulled the men apart. Pioter spat blood and vile into Fenris’s face, and Fenris lurched at him but got nowhere, as he was held between Silker and Smashednose.

  “What is the meaning of this?” It was Lord Jung, finally having come down from the high table, now that the real violence was over. Lord Herik was watching from his place, part amused, part aloof, part pissed at the interruption of his feast. It was like you could see him deciding between what sort of ruler he would become. A man practising faces. Smashnose wouldn’t care much as long as he was a ruler who paid.

  “Does violence and infighting have a place at the feast of our great victory?” Lord Jung asked the room. He straightened his robes, ran a hand over his short-cropped silver hair. “These men belittle the hall of Lynetor, besmirch its honour. They dishonour the true king for whom they fight. Have them dragged…”

  Smashednose was going to cut him off. He had to before Jung pronounced a punishment that he wasn’t likely to take back, but there was no need.

  The doors to Lynetor’s hall swung open, clashing against the walls as warm summer wind flickered the torches. A man in male staggered through, followed close by the soldiers that had been watching the entrance. His face was pale white. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. When he stopped in the centre of the hall, swaying uncertainly, Smashednose noticed the patter of blood that was dripping from somewhere under his tunic.

  “I have an urgent message for Lord Herik,” he cried lamely, and before either of the guards could catch him, he collapsed.