“Castle Dulgath has an attic?”
“Just what Wells called it. He knows every inch of that place. Once upon a time, Dulgath was a real castle and the walls were lined with arbalests. He picked out the best one for us. Although we’re thin on quarrels, so I hope Shervin doesn’t miss, or you and I will be searching these rocks for hours. It shoots a long way.”
They reached the end of the rope and set up the dummy, a servant’s tunic stuffed with fistfuls of straw. They tied a rope under the arms and hung the mannequin from the pine post, then started back.
When they returned to the wagon, Knox took down the arbalest and set it up. The weapon could be held in a man’s arms but was too unwieldy to use that way. Instead, it came equipped with front legs that held the nose up. The rear had a block that supported the butt as well. Using wooden shims, the archer could adjust the vertical angle in advance, aim it, and then let go. So long as the target wasn’t moving—and Lady Dulgath ought to be sitting—all Shervin had to do was squeeze the trigger lever. The arbalest also had a built-in hand crank lying across its top that drew the string back. Given that the bow’s prod was made of steel and had a wingspan of five feet, no one was going to pull it back with bare fingers and a foot in a nose stirrup.
Peering across at the target, Christopher felt a stab of worry. The dummy that was nearly the height of a man looked to be the size of a wineglass.
After a quick demonstration and a few dry launches, during which Shervin didn’t say a word, Knox loaded a quarrel. The things couldn’t be called arrows. They were heavy missiles thicker than a man’s thumb, with massive iron tips. Shervin crouched, then lay flat on his stomach, looking down the length of the stock. He lifted the butt and moved it.
“No!” Knox shouted over the wind. “I’ve already aimed it.”
“Aimed wrong.” Shervin held his hand up, pointing at the sky. “Wind.”
Knox looked angry, then hesitated as he considered the word. “If you miss, you’ll have to go fetch.”
Shervin didn’t miss. The quarrel traveled faster than the eye could see, and it seemed the moment Christopher heard the snap of the string a magnificent burst of straw flew up. A loud crack cut against the blow of the wind. A moment later he couldn’t see anything—not the dummy, not even the post it hung on.
Together with Knox, Christopher ran out to the target. The pine post had been split in half and fallen over. The dummy didn’t exist. They found the tunic a few feet away with a rip through the front and back. Straw was everywhere.
“What do you think?” Knox asked.
Christopher nodded. “Good choice.”
They left Shervin in his village. The man had rituals to perform—he pronounced it writ-tools—that would take all night. Knox balked about having to come back for him in the morning, but Christopher sided with da Blade of ant-trickery, which he finally realized was supposed to be antiquity. Christopher had his own ritual to perform, and he guessed it would be easier without Shervin Gerami along.
Christopher had dreams of the future but usually restrained himself from indulging too much in anticipation. Such things could jinx his plans. He’d seen it before: Schedule an early trip and the next morning it would rain. Novron didn’t abide prediction. The moment anyone made plans, the world changed, apparently out of spite.
Christopher also believed that it wasn’t wise to spend too much time in his head. Thinking too much was a mistake. Plotting was the antithesis of doing. The man who sits and schemes continues to sit while others achieve. Christopher fancied himself a man of action, but as his defining day approached, he found thinking ahead hard to resist. Such was the case with the village of Rye. He found he hated that pile of twigs on the sand. When he became earl, one of his first orders would be to raze it. Not the first order, not even the second. Christopher—who didn’t believe in making plans in advance for Novron to thwart—had at least a small list.
First he’d get rid of Knox and Wells. They were both too intelligent and too ambitious to keep around. Payne he’d have to live with, as an earl had no power over members of the church, and he wouldn’t dare provoke Bishop Parnell. After that would come the rebuilding of Castle Dulgath. The place was nearly a ruin. He’d have to raise taxes. From what he understood, they were nearly nonexistent, and the farmers could well afford to pay more. Once he had his house in order—and in the process of being restored—he would turn his thoughts inland.
Dulgath was the smallest of the Maranon provinces and largely ignored as a result. He intended to change that. Christopher saw no reason for there to be four provinces. Swanwick and Kruger were both vast holdings, while Manzar and Dulgath were insignificant in comparison. If Dulgath swallowed up Manzar, there would be three equal-sized neighbors. Having control over a prison where any detractors could disappear was an added benefit, but the real attraction came from the expectation of tax revenue the salt mine would produce.
He’d need an army to bring Manzar into line. At present, Dulgath lacked even enough full-time guards to properly staff the front gate. He’d change that, too. Every family would be required to contribute one son to his military, along with their increased taxes. With a land as lush as Dulgath, he’d easily subdue the rocky highland of Manzar, which lacked any real towns. Then he wouldn’t be just an earl—two full rungs above his father on the peerage ladder—but an important player in Maranon affairs. He’d have the ear of the king, even if he had to cut it off to get it.
As the wagon rolled and bounced along the twisting coastal road, climbing higher and higher toward the plateau of the Dulgath Plain, Christopher surveyed his new realm and nodded silently.
This will do for a start, he thought.
When they reached the top of the ridge, Knox rested the horses, and the three got down to stretch their legs. This was the southwestern desolation of Dulgath, nothing but lichen rock, wind-tortured grass, and a grand view. At that height, they could clearly see the Point of Mann, the Isle of Neil, and Manzant Bay.
“Stunning, isn’t it?” Christopher said with deep-breathed pride.
Of course it is: it’s mine. A mother always sees her children as beautiful.
He walked alongside Rissa Lyn. As they strolled aimlessly through the tall grass, he took hold of her hand. She stopped, stiffening at his touch, then stared at him as if he’d pulled a knife.
“Relax.” He smiled, and, bringing her hand up slowly, kissed the back. “I just wanted to thank you.”
The fear in her eyes was replaced by confusion.
“You did very well,” he told her, and meant it.
Shervin Gerami had scared him, so he would’ve expected Rissa Lyn to be reduced to a sobbing mess. “You were very brave—courageous even.”
He saw a smile fighting onto her face. “I want to thank you, Your Lordship. I’ve been so afraid of that thing, and being the only one who knew…well, it was difficult.”
“Call me Christopher.”
Her eyes went large. “Oh no, sir—I couldn’t!”
Okay, so perhaps that was asking too much.
Rissa Lyn wasn’t a child; she’d spent years as a servant. Christopher might as well have asked her to fly. Letting go of her hand, he held up his own and spread his palms. “That’s fine. I just wanted to show my appreciation for all you’ve done.”
“It’s you that’s doing it, sir.” She shook her head as a look of dismay descended. “You are the only one to believe me. The only one—and I didn’t even think you did, not at first. To be honest, I was frightened of you.”