Deryni Checkmate by Katherine Kurtz Page A

was another problem. As soon as Wencit could get through the snow, which would be soon, he would be hammering at the gates of the mountain city once again. The approach through the high passes east of Cardosa was not difficult after the first week of spring flooding. But on the west, the direction from which relief must come, the Cardosa Pass would be a raging cataract from March to May. There could be no aid for Cardosa until the thaws were nearly over: two months hence. And that would be too late.
    He paused by one of the reflecting pools in the dead garden and gazed absently into the depths. The gardeners had cleared away the winter’s debris and restocked the pond, and now long-tailed goldfish and tiny polliwogs swam in the currentless water, drifting across his field of vision as though suspended in time and space.
    He smiled as he realized he could call them if he wished—and they would come—but the notion did not amuse him today. After a moment, he let his eyes focus on the surface of the water, let himself study the reflection that gazed back at him.
    Wide gray eyes in an oval face, pale from the winter dimness; hair glistening gold in the wan spring sunlight, cropped short for ease of care in the battlefield; full, wide mouth above the squared-off chin; long sideburns accentuating the lean cheekbones.
    He tugged at the bottom of the short green doublet with annoyance, glared at the reflection of the golden gryphon embroidered aesthetically but incorrectly across his chest.
    He did not care for the outfit. The Corwyn gryphon should be green, proper on black, not gold on green. And the little jeweled basilard stuck in his belt was a travesty of weaponry—an elegant but useless accoutrement that his wardrober, Lord Rathold, had insisted was essential to his ducal image.
    Morgan scowled darkly at the pompous image in the water. When he had a choice—which he had to admit was most of the time—he preferred dark velvets covering mail, the supple sleekness of riding leathers, not the bright satins and jeweled toadstickers people seemed to think appropriate at a ducal court.
    Still, he supposed he must make a few concessions to tradition. The people of Corwyn did not have their duke in residence for much of the year, what with service at the court in Rhemuth, and on the king’s business. When they did have him, they had a right to expect that he would dress befitting his rank.
    They need never know that his compliance was not complete. For while they would not be surprised to find that the jeweled plaything at his waist was not his only weapon—there was a stiletto in a worn leather scabbard close along his left forearm, as well as other aids—still, they would doubtless be chagrined were they to learn that he intended light mail under his finery at dinner tonight. Quite chagrined. To humans, that betokened a mistrust of one’s guests: a terrible breach of etiquette.
    At least this would be one of the last state banquets for a while, Morgan reflected as he began walking again. With the spring thaws coming, it would soon be time to head back to Rhemuth and the king’s service for another season. Of course, this year it would be a different king, with Brion dead. But his latest dispatch from Kelson indicated—
    The sound of footsteps on gravel jarred him from his train of thought, and he turned to see Lord Hillary, the commander of the castle garrison, approaching at a brisk walk, his blue-green cloak whipping behind him in the breeze. His round face was puzzled.
    “What’s wrong, Hillary?” Morgan asked as the man drew near and sketched a hasty salute.
    “I’m not sure, Your Grace. The harbor lookout reports that the Caralighter fleet has rounded the point and will be docking by nightfall, as soon as the tide shifts. Your flagship, Rhafallia , is in the lead, and she’s flying royal dispatch signals. It could be the mobilization order, m’lord.”
    “I shouldn’t think so,” Morgan replied, shaking his