Jan
ca’Vörl
JAN LIKED FYNN. He wasn’t sure how his matarh would
feel about that.
Matarh had told him
how she’d never known Fynn, how he’d been born only a few months
after Archigos Ana had kidnapped her from Hïrzg Jan’s tent on the
battlefield. When he was a child, Jan hadn’t understood all the
implications of that; now, he thought that he finally began to
understand the dynamics of the relationship between older sister
and younger brother, twisted and distorted by their vatarh’s vanity
and pride. He could understand how his matarh could never allow
herself to like Fynn, could never treat him as brother, could never
trust him.
But he liked the man,
his onczio.
Fynn had sent a note
to Jan immediately after Second Call, inviting Jan to join him for
the afternoon briefing. Jan sat alongside Fynn, with Fynn leaning
over to whisper wry comments to him as the various ministers and
advisers updated the new Hïrzg on current political situations.
Helmad cu’Göttering, Commandant of the Garde Brezno, related that
there had been a minor skirmish with Tennshah loyalists east of
Lake Cresci, easily put down. (“You should see them run like
whipped dogs when they see real soldiers riding through their
hovels. They’re all afraid of good Firenzcian steel,” Fynn said
softly into Jan’s ear. “My own blade has the blood of uncounted
dozens of Tennshah soldiers staining it. In the Autumn, if you’d
like, we could tour the region, and maybe chase some of these
rebels ourselves.”)
Starkkapitän Armen
ca’Damont of the Firenzcian Garde Civile gave Fynn an update on the
Holdings’ war in the Hellins, which—if everything the starkkapitän
said was true—was not going well for the Holdings and the Kraljiki.
(“The Holdings doesn’t know how to wage a real war, Jan. They
depended on Firenzcia for that for too long and they’ve forgotten.
If we could send our Garde Civile and a battalion of good Red
Lancers over there for a month, we could put down these Westlanders
for good.”)
Archigos Semini
speculated on who the Concord A’Téni might name as the new Archigos
of “that false and despicable Faith in Nessantico,” giving them a
long and tedious commentary on each of the a’téni of the major
towns in the Holdings and their relative strengths and weaknesses.
He contended that A’Téni ca’Weber of Prajnoli would ultimately
become the next Archigos in Nessantico. (“And in the end it won’t
matter which one they pick, so all this hot air and effort was a
waste of our time, eh?”)
There were reports on
a food shortage in East Magyaria (“You did have enough to eat for lunch, didn’t you?”), on
trade inequities between Firenzcia and Sesemora (“Do you find this
as boring as I do?”), on the relative value of the Firenzcian solas
against the Holdings solas (“By Cénzi, wake me up when this one’s
finished talking, would you, Nephew?”). By the end, Jan was no
longer listening. Glancing over at Fynn, he could see that his
onczio’s eyes had glazed over as well. The new Hïrzg’s fingers were
tapping the polished tabletop impatiently and he was squirming
restlessly in his seat. When the next minister rose to give her
report, Fynn raised his hand. “Enough!” he said. “Send me your
report and I’ll read it. I’m sure it’s fascinating, but my ears are
about to fall off my head from overuse, and I’ve promised my nephew
a hunt. Leave us!”
They grumbled
inaudibly, they frowned, but they all bowed and left the room. Fynn
motioned to the servants standing against the walls to bring in
refreshments. “So . . .” Fynn said as they nibbled on breads and
meats and drank the wine, “the life of a Hïrzg is delightful, isn’t
it? All that babbling, on and on and on . . . I see why Vatarh was
always in a sour mood before these briefings.”
“I think Archigos
Semini was mistaken,” Jan said. He wasn’t certain why he said that;
somehow, he trusted that Fynn would listen. Matarh always lectured
him, as if she were teacher and he student; Vatarh was more
concerned with his own pleasure than listening to his son’s
opinions. Onczio Fynn, on the other hand, had actually listened to him last night at supper, when the
others at the table would have preferred he stay quiet. So he spoke
his mind now, his voice trembling only a little. “Ca’Weber won’t be
named Archigos. The Concord will pick Kenne
ca’Fionta.”
Fynn raised a thick,
dark eyebrow. “Why do you say that? Semini seemed to think that
ca’Fionta was the weakest of the lot.”
“That’s exactly why,”
Jan answered, more eagerly now, ticking off points on his fingers.
“Archigos Semini is assuming that the Concord A’Téni will think as
he would think, and would choose the person he would choose. They
won’t. The rest of the a’téni will be worried now—Archigos Ana’s
assassination has made them see that a strong Archigos has enemies,
and they’re also wondering how long the Faith can remained
sundered, now that Archigos Ana is dead. So they’ll choose Kenne:
because he is weak, and because he’s
older than any of the rest of them, and even if he’s ultimately a
bad choice, they won’t have to deal with it for
decades.”
Fynn laughed. He
clanked the rim of his goblet against Jan’s. Leaning toward Jan, he
put a burly arm around his shoulders. “Well spoken, and we’ll see
soon enough if you’re right. What else are you holding back? Come
on now, you can’t keep the rest from me.”
Fynn was smiling and
Jan smiled in return, feeling a warmth toward the man.
“Starkkapitän ca’Damont might be right about the war in the
Hellins, but he misses the importance
of the war. With the Holdings’ Garde Civile concentrating on that
struggle and bleeding resources, money, and soldiers every month,
they can’t be looking east with any strength. They’re in a weak
negotiating position against the Coalition; they’re in an even
worse position militarily. A strong Hïrzg might take advantage of
that, one way or another.”
Fynn’s eyebrows
climbed higher. His arm tightened around Jan’s shoulders. “By
Cénzi,” he said, “I should make you my
councillor, Nephew. You have your matarh’s subtle
mind.”
He hugged Jan again
one-handed, then sagged back in his chair. “Ah! I like you, Jan! It
makes me wonder what I missed with my sister.” Fynn frowned at that
and took another gulp of his wine. “Did you know that I wasn’t even
aware I had a sister until I was nine
or so? Vatarh never once mentioned her to me. Never. Didn’t speak
her name once; it was as if she’d never existed for him. Then, when
he decided he’d finally ransom her, he sat me down and explained
how she’d been snatched away by the Witch Archigos. He didn’t tell
me how that ended his war with the Holdings; that I learned much later. Vatarh was always bitter
about that, his one defeat. I suppose Allesandra was the symbol of
that failure for him—he certainly married her off quickly once she
returned. I never really knew her. . . .”
He took another long
drink of the wine and slammed the goblet back down on the table so
hard that Jan jumped. Wine spilled; the base of the goblet left a
crescent-moon divot in the table.
“Now, we hunt!” Fynn
declared, pushing back his chair and standing up. “Come on, Nephew.
We’re off to Stag Fall.”