“When those ways are noble, I do,” his brother agreed. But he could see Ealon was having none of it. He changed tack. “Brother, listen. Think strategically. If you do this, what will happen?”
“Every client king on the planet with pretensions to independence will receive a fine warning of what happens when you cross the house of Summerfield.”
Cormoran moved his head from side to side. “Or…every king will have reason to rethink whether allegiance to a house that is clearly corrupt and dishonorable is in his best interest. I can think of six royals who might band together to form an insurrection that would topple the house of Summerfield before winter arrives. Hearth might be torn apart—from a united planet under one crown to a squabbling assembly of nation states dragging our people into disorder and chaos. At best we might be looking at mass executions for the house of Summerfield and another interregnum. Did you ever think of that?”
Ealon’s eyes flitted back and forth, taking in this information but saying nothing.
“No, it is clear that you haven’t,” Cormoran sighed. “The other kings look to us to lead. This is right and good. The Mountain and Plain Alliance, which binds the interests of men and dwarfs, also looks to us, not as sovereigns but as the wielders of power—not might alone, but moral power.”
“If you are averse to killing him, let us capture him. Hold him for ransom.”
“Is this your idea of compromise?” Cormoran glanced briefly to the sky. “Firstly, there is no way we could do it without detection. Women can scream, and I have no doubt the lad can as well. And secondly, there is no honor…”
He saw Ealon’s eyes glazing over, as the youth readied for another speech. Cormoran shook his head and gave up. He glanced over his shoulder. “We have a battle—”
But the moment Cormoran looked away, Ealon was in motion. His brother did not see the dagger, did not see the quick arc through the air, did not see it bearing down upon the naked part of his neck.
2
Cormoran did not see his brother’s lunge, only the widened eyes of the dwarf reacting. It was enough. Cormoran spun around, swiping his gauntlet upward toward his own neck—since that and his head were the only exposed parts of his body. He felt Ealon’s blade connect with the gauntlet, and felt rather than heard it as it scraped down the armor covering his arm. With his left hand he reached around and tugged at his sword from where it hung on his right side, popping it out of its scabbard, catching Ealon in the gut with more force than Cormoran had intended.
The prince crumpled to the grass and rolled, clutching at his stomach, barely stifling a groan of protest and agony.
“Shhhh…” Cormoran hissed into his ear. “Unless you still want to face those guards. And make no mistake—I will let them have you.”
Ealon’s eyes shot daggers at his brother even as he struggled to gain his breath.
Cormoran sheathed his sword once more. He grabbed the black piping of his brother’s doublet and hauled him to his feet. “If you want to do something to end this war, there is an honorable way to do it. But it is not here.” He pointed to the battlefield. “It is there.” He shoved Ealon in front of him, and gave his brother a kick in the seat of his britches. As they made for the tree line, Cormoran allowed more volume to his voice. “You can fight with honor, or you can huddle in our own pavilion. And then you’d better hope that our enemy has more honor than you.”
“Sunderland!” Acting postmaster Elias Bracegirdle’s voice carried above the din of the Everdale Courier Services offices.
“By the horn,” Ellis swore. “What now?” But he left off sorting his route and padded quickly through the offices toward his superior. Bushy haffolk eyebrows raised as he passed, and a couple of the young women actually shrank as he passed them and then giggled. It was impossible to tell, from Bracegirdle’s voice, whether Ellis was in trouble or just being summoned for some other, less fell reason. Ellis poked his head into Bracegirdle’s office and tapped at the door. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
Bracegirdle looked every bit a haffolk nearing his seniority, having a round, portly frame, his trousers held aloft with suspenders after the old fashion, with spectacles teetering on the edge of his voluminous nose. Tufts of gray hair clung to the sides of his head and merged with the tufts coming out of his ears. At one time, he had been a stickler for order, but Ellis wondered at the disarray adorning his office now. Next to a picture of the Old Puck, a calendar hung askew, Bracegirdle’s retirement date marked in large, splashy red digits. “Sit.”
Ellis sat.
Bracegirdle did not look up at him just yet—he continued to scan several pieces of parchment in front of him, nodding and grunting occasionally.
Ellis waited, and he struggled to be patient. He was aware that his route was waiting, and the morning was not getting any younger. Kit would be wondering where he was.
Finally, Bracegirdle looked up at him, and he did not look pleased.
Ellis cocked his head.
“I received a complaint,” Bracegirdle said.
Ellis looked away and sighed. “I was afraid of that. I’m sorry about the sneakin’.”
Bracegirdle’s eyebrows rose. “Sneakin’?”
“This isn’t about the sneakin’?” Ellis asked, suddenly tense.
“Do I want to know about the sneakin’?” Bracegirdle narrowed one eye.
“Uh…probably not, sir. We just…we got the job done, sir.” Ellis squirmed in his seat. He felt smaller than usual.
“Well, whatever that was about, this is not about that. I received a complaint from that idiot Goodfoot. Says you were napping.”
Tubber, Ellis thought. He balled his hands into fists. I’ll get him back for that. “It was first lunch break. Kit went to get some cheese from Farmer Proudspindle, so I took a short doze in the meadow.”
Bracegirdle looked like he was chewing the cud. “That…sounds wonderful.”
Ellis nodded, beginning to relax a little. “It was a typical day.”
“Do you expect to take a nap again today?”
Ellis glanced back and forth. “I hope to.”
“Good. Wish I could join you.” Bracegirdle sighed and set the parchment aside. “Sunderland, no one cares what you do on your lunch break. There are no regulations in the courier’s code about catching a quick doze in the middle of your route…”
“I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Ellis said.
“But…this busybody Tubber Goodfoot has filed a formal complaint, instead of coming to me, which means—however spurious—it is now part of your permanent record and likely as not there will be a formal inquiry. The inspectors will be calling, no doubt. I’ll go on record to say it’s a pile of rubbish, of course.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It shouldn’t hurt you, except…”
“The postmaster’s position?”
“Yes. I know you applied. And I know how badly you want it.” The old haffolk looked around, as if to check to make sure there was no one in the tiny office. Apparently there was not, as he continued, in a lowered voice. “And between you and me, I think you’d do a fine job.”