thought the honors were about equal. I had certainly told her more than I wanted to about Mélusine, although I’d managed to keep from being cornered into talking much about myself, and I had learned rather more about the current state of affairs in Corambis than Mrs. Fawn was comfortable explaining.
We had come to Corambis, it seemed, at the tail end of a war; we’d only missed the war itself by a matter of days. News of one side’s surrender had reached Arbalest only the day before we’d arrived, and that explained a good deal of Mrs. Fawn’s discomfiture: the defeat was still raw.
The war had been fought between the northern half of Corambis and the southern— or, rather, as Mrs. Fawn said with a mulish glint in her eye, between Corambis and Caloxa. Any wizard knew the importance of using the proper names of things, and I understood immediately that one of the issues at stake was whether Caloxa was the proper name for the southern half of Corambis. Forty years was not enough to settle that question, and I doubted this Insurgence, or its defeat, had done the job, either.
The Corambins of forty years ago had not been as thorough as Michael Teverius. When he came to power in the Wizards’ Coup, he had personally murdered every last scion of the house of Cordelius, including the infant prince Daniel. I’d never quite believed the stories of Michael throwing Daniel from the Crown of Nails, but the murders were real enough: one night in a grisly mood, Shannon had shown me the axe, rusting away beneath the blood that had never been cleaned off.
The Corambin generals, however, had been content with executing the king, James Hume. They had left his infant son, Gerrard, alive, and that mistake had now cost them, and everyone else involved, dearly. Gerrard, whom Mrs. Fawn called variously Prince Gerrard and the Recusant— another disputed piece of nomenclature— had raised his army against the Corambins, and although Mrs. Fawn said reluctantly that he never had a hope of winning, it had taken the Corambins three years to defeat him. And in the end, he seemed to have defeated himself, for the news brought was definite. Gerrard Hume was dead, and had been dead before the surrender had been given by someone called the Margrave of Rothmarlin.
Before I could dig further, and before Mrs. Fawn could trap me into describing the circumstances of my exile, Mildmay came back. He looked dreadful, almost gray and sweating and leaning on his cane more heavily than he normally allowed himself. And the cough was definitely worse, no matter how he tried to suppress it.
“Is a nasty cough,” said Mrs. Fawn. “Pleuriny?”
At a guess, “pleuriny” was what Corambins called the Winter Fever. “I hope not,” I said. “We’d like the room for two nights.”
Mildmay opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again, but he was still frowning when we reached our room, which was only marginally large enough for two grown men. I closed the door and said, “What?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Game they play here ain’t one I like.”
“So? You can manage one extra night in a hotel without playing cards, can’t you?”
“Not if we want to pay the bill.”
“I thought you just sold our mule.”
“That’s for the diligence or stagecoach or what ever the fuck they call it.”
“And what? You couldn’t be bothered to get enough money for her? You forgot what you were doing in the middle?”
“Maybe I didn’t feel like taking the poor bastard for everything he had, okay?” he said, nearly shouting, and then went scarlet.
“You pick the oddest times to have an attack of morality,” I said, which only made him go redder.
But then he said, “Maybe since I’m the one has to deal with it, it ain’t no business of yours.”
“In other words, I should shut up and be thankful, is that it?” “You could try it.”
“Yes, because I have so much to be thankful for in the delight of your company,” I said bitterly.
That hit home; he
We had come to Corambis, it seemed, at the tail end of a war; we’d only missed the war itself by a matter of days. News of one side’s surrender had reached Arbalest only the day before we’d arrived, and that explained a good deal of Mrs. Fawn’s discomfiture: the defeat was still raw.
The war had been fought between the northern half of Corambis and the southern— or, rather, as Mrs. Fawn said with a mulish glint in her eye, between Corambis and Caloxa. Any wizard knew the importance of using the proper names of things, and I understood immediately that one of the issues at stake was whether Caloxa was the proper name for the southern half of Corambis. Forty years was not enough to settle that question, and I doubted this Insurgence, or its defeat, had done the job, either.
The Corambins of forty years ago had not been as thorough as Michael Teverius. When he came to power in the Wizards’ Coup, he had personally murdered every last scion of the house of Cordelius, including the infant prince Daniel. I’d never quite believed the stories of Michael throwing Daniel from the Crown of Nails, but the murders were real enough: one night in a grisly mood, Shannon had shown me the axe, rusting away beneath the blood that had never been cleaned off.
The Corambin generals, however, had been content with executing the king, James Hume. They had left his infant son, Gerrard, alive, and that mistake had now cost them, and everyone else involved, dearly. Gerrard, whom Mrs. Fawn called variously Prince Gerrard and the Recusant— another disputed piece of nomenclature— had raised his army against the Corambins, and although Mrs. Fawn said reluctantly that he never had a hope of winning, it had taken the Corambins three years to defeat him. And in the end, he seemed to have defeated himself, for the news brought was definite. Gerrard Hume was dead, and had been dead before the surrender had been given by someone called the Margrave of Rothmarlin.
Before I could dig further, and before Mrs. Fawn could trap me into describing the circumstances of my exile, Mildmay came back. He looked dreadful, almost gray and sweating and leaning on his cane more heavily than he normally allowed himself. And the cough was definitely worse, no matter how he tried to suppress it.
“Is a nasty cough,” said Mrs. Fawn. “Pleuriny?”
At a guess, “pleuriny” was what Corambins called the Winter Fever. “I hope not,” I said. “We’d like the room for two nights.”
Mildmay opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again, but he was still frowning when we reached our room, which was only marginally large enough for two grown men. I closed the door and said, “What?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Game they play here ain’t one I like.”
“So? You can manage one extra night in a hotel without playing cards, can’t you?”
“Not if we want to pay the bill.”
“I thought you just sold our mule.”
“That’s for the diligence or stagecoach or what ever the fuck they call it.”
“And what? You couldn’t be bothered to get enough money for her? You forgot what you were doing in the middle?”
“Maybe I didn’t feel like taking the poor bastard for everything he had, okay?” he said, nearly shouting, and then went scarlet.
“You pick the oddest times to have an attack of morality,” I said, which only made him go redder.
But then he said, “Maybe since I’m the one has to deal with it, it ain’t no business of yours.”
“In other words, I should shut up and be thankful, is that it?” “You could try it.”
“Yes, because I have so much to be thankful for in the delight of your company,” I said bitterly.
That hit home; he
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