Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [137]
“Er … yes … thank you.”
The girl poured sib into wide cups of delicate southern ware and set them on the table. Dorrin settled herself gingerly in the chair across from the one he’d been in. The last two days on the way, the weather had turned cold and wet; she was longing for a soft chair and a warm fire.
Andressat did not sit until she gestured to him, and then perched on the edge of his chair, obviously nervous. She had never seen him anything but confident, even arrogant; she could not believe that her own rank impressed him, having heard before his opinion of northern titles. Curiosity overcame her fatigue as the room’s warmth and a few swallows of sib eased her bone-deep chill.
She waited until he, too, had drunk half his cup of sib and nibbled a pastry while she ate two. “My lord Count,” she said then, “I am happy to have you here as my guest, but I do wonder that you have come so far, in this season. Surely it is some matter of importance that brings you here.”
“Yes, my lady—lord—” He blinked, flushed, looked down. “I’m sorry; I’m not used to your form of address.”
“No matter,” Dorrin said. “Everyone stumbled over it at first. Tsaia has not had a woman duke for generations.”
He took another gulp of sib, nearly choked, then put the cup down. “My lord Duke, what I have to say—what I wanted to say to the king—is a grave matter—a dangerous matter—but I must explain—”
“Go ahead,” Dorrin said.
“It began when that man Alured—who now calls himself Visla Vaskronin—claimed the duchy of Immer,” Andressat said.
Dorrin listened with growing interest—and alarm—as Andressat told her about Alured/Vaskronin’s demands: that he be recognized as the legitimate heir of Immer from ancestry in Old Aare, that Andressat send his archives to Cortes Immer for Alured’s scribes to examine.
“And that I would not,” Andressat said, with some of the spirit she remembered. “My forefathers gathered all they could of old records—it is the greatest library in Aarenis. I would not lose it to that—person.”
“How did he take your refusal?” Dorrin asked, though she was sure she knew.
“He threatened me,” Andressat said. “Threatened me, and sent an envoy, with soldiers, to demand that I let his scribes examine every document in my archives. He was sure I had proof of his royal ancestry and was denying him out of my own ambition.” Andressat met Dorrin’s gaze. “I swear to you, Duke Verrakai, that I have no ambition of ruling Aarenis. It is enough for me to rule my own land well, even if …” He paused. Dorrin waited, but he seemed unlikely to continue, his gaze now fixed on his sib.
“This is certainly enough for me,” Dorrin said, trying for common ground. “Though I had commanded a cohort, I had no idea how much work there is in a domain, even of this size.”
“Yes,” Andressat said. He sighed; Dorrin wondered if he longed for his much warmer homeland. “What you must know is … in my archives, I did find much of interest. Of interest to Alured, certainly, but also to everyone—everyone in Aarenis and also you folk in the north. I wanted to talk to the king about it, and apologize—”
“Apologize?”
“For my past rudeness.” Andressat had flushed now, continuing to stare at the half-empty cup. “I—I always thought our claim to nobility was best, you see. The northern titles mongrel, born of nothing but ambitious pride. That we of Andressat, and the Duke of Fall, were the last and only to have direct descent from those who had ruled in Aare.” He paused again, then gulped and went on. “I was wrong. I treated him—the king—and you yourself as if you were baseborn, persons of no lineage, when it is I who have no claim beyond that of … of convenience.”
Dorrin stared; he looked up, and she saw his eyes glittering with tears he quickly blinked back.
“My pardon, my lord,” he said, his voice a little thick. “It is still hard to admit.”
She felt a rush of compassion for this old man, annoying as he had been before. “My lord Count,” she said, “whatever you think of your lineage, you yourself have served your realm