The Fell Sword by Miles Cameron

the north, on both sides of the Wall. More, as the Wall mouldered it lost its value as either fortification or boundary. In the last hundred years, the Muriens had built their lordship at the expense of the Southern Huran across the river and the lordships to the east and west who were nominally allies and near relations.
    The Earl himself had completed the job, vanquishing the Orleys in a series of pitched battles in the woods and a climactic siege of Saint Jean, once the mightiest fortress on the Wall. Young and full of vigour, sorcerously aided by his wife, the Earl had toppled the Orleys, taken Saint Jean and razed it; throwing the bodies of each and every Orley, their children, their women, and their servants into the blaze. It was a victory so total that the old King hadn’t bothered to declare him forfeit, and the young King was his wife’s brother and not inclined to make trouble. The old King had fought the great fight at Chevins with no help from the Muriens and died soon after, and the young King had never attempted to make his writ felt in the north.
    For a while, there were the usual rumours that an Orley heir survived. Murien laughed at them in scorn and ploughed their monuments and their peasants alike under the rocky soil. As his sons grew to manhood, no one challenged his primacy as Lord of the North.
    Lady Ghause stretched like a cat, showing a fine length of stocking that made her mate growl again. She ate her way through a small pile of scones and licked raspberry jam off the spoon with a curl of her tongue and then ran her eyes over him.
    ‘Stop it, witch! I’ve work to do.’ He laughed.
    ‘There was talk of a letter?’ she asked. ‘Work? The Cock of the North? You do no work.’
    ‘The Huran have a feud dividing their clans – they’re close to war. The Sossag grow stronger and the Huran weaker, and that’s my business. I’ve a rumour of Moreans among—’
    Ghause took another scone. ‘The Moreans always have men among the Huran. It stands to reason – they share that part of the Wall.’
    ‘Woman, if you eat that many scones every morning you’ll have thighs like the pillars of this hall.’ He laughed at her appetite.
    ‘Churl, if you were as fit as I the scullery maids would more willingly jump into your bed,’ she said.
    ‘The way their swains jump into yours, bitch?’ the Earl spat.
    ‘I find that older trees have harder wood,’ she said, and he almost choked on his cider. He shook his head. ‘Why do I love you, you selfish, vain sorceress?’
    She shrugged. ‘I think you like a challenge,’ she said, and motioned to her third son, Aneas, who waited below the dais for her orders. He was her favourite son – absolutely obedient, charming, a fine jouster, a decent bard.
    ‘Yes, Mother?’
    ‘It’s time we fostered this lanky by-blow,’ the Earl said. ‘By the virgin, he’s too old to wait on our table. Let’s send him to Towbray.’
    ‘You said all Towbray’s sons were lechers and sodomites,’ his wife said sweetly.
    The Earl poured a dollop of Wild honey onto a piece of heavily buttered new bread and ate it messily, getting the honey on his beard and hands. She could smell the latent ops in the honey. ‘I did. That Michael – what a little hellion! Ran away! If my son did that—’ He shrugged. Paused.
    Her lovely violet eyes narrowed. ‘Your son did do that, you fool,’ she said cattishly.
    He frowned. ‘You tax me too hard, madam.’ He half rose. ‘Was he mine? Are any of them mine?’ he muttered.
    She leaned back. Her eyes held his pinned. ‘The fourth one has a little of your look – and your piggish tastes.’ She shrugged.
    He laughed again and slapped his thigh. ‘By God, madame.’
    ‘By the Enemy, you mean.’
    ‘I’ll have no part in all your blasphemy,’ he said. ‘Here’s the messenger, and the letter. It’s from Gavin.’
    A message from her second son was reason for interest. She pulled her robe closed, leaving just enough flesh on