Sweep of the Blade (Innkeeper Chronicles #4) - Ilona Andrews Page 0,55

made a noise deep in his throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl.

Lord Soren sighed. “To what do I owe the pleasure of the visit?”

“I need to understand the structure of House Serak,” Maud said.

Lord Soren nodded and flicked his fingers across his desk. A giant screen slid out of the ceiling on Maud’s right and presented two pyramids of names connected by lines. The one on the left read Serak, the other Kozor.

“Who are you interested in?” Lord Soren asked.

“Tellis Serak,” she said.

Helen crawled onto one of the sofas, curled up on the big blue pillow, and yawned.

“Ah. The dashing groom.” Soren flicked his fingers, and Tellis’ name near the top of the pyramid, ignited with silver. “His father is the Preceptor; his mother is the Strateg.”

“Who is the Marshal?” she asked.

Another name ignited in the column to the left. “Hudra. She is the Marshal in name only.”

“Why?” Arland asked.

“She has five decades on me,” Soren said. “She was fierce in her day, but time is a bitter enemy, and it always wins.”

Interesting. “Are they grooming Tellis to become the Marshal?” Maud asked.

“He is the most obvious choice,” Soren said. “His ascension to Marshal would cement the family’s hold on the House. They have been preparing him since childhood. Not that he is ready, by any means. Too young, too reckless. Tonight is the perfect example. What sort of fool requests permission for a fighter flight just so he can fan his bride’s hair while she is standing on a cliff?”

Of course. If Arland had buzzed his bride in the fighter, he would be dashing. But since this was the scion of Serak, Tellis was reckless. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but Marshal candidates must be well-rounded in their military education?”

“Indeed,” Soren said. “They are trained to lead. They spend a certain amount of time with every branch of the House’s military to familiarize themselves with the people under their command, but the bulk of their education centers on the effective deployment of these forces and military strategy.”

“A Marshal usually has a specialty,” Arland added.

“Yes,” Soren confirmed. “Typically they concentrate on whatever aspect of warfare presents the greatest threat to the House in the foreseeable future.”

Maud turned to Arland. “What’s yours?”

“Ground combat,” he said.

“Arland was trained to lead us into battle on Nexus,” Soren said. “We had anticipated being embroiled in that conflict several times over the next few decades, but thanks to your sister, it’s no longer a concern.”

It was just as she thought. “How likely is it for the Marshal to have other pursuits?”

Arland’s thick blond eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?”

“If you wanted to devote a lot of your time to something not vital to the House, could you do it? For example, if you enjoyed target shooting, could you spend a significant chunk of your time practicing it?”

“Would I have time to devote to hobbies and leisurely pursuits?” Arland frowned, pretending to think. “Let me ponder. Two weeks! I took two weeks off in the last six years, and my uncle came to fetch me as if I were a wayward lamb. Because the great House of Krahr cannot endure without my constant oversight. My job, my hobby, my off time, my ‘me’ time, all my time consists of taking care of the never-ending sequence of mundane and yet life-threatening tasks generated by the well-honed machine that is the knighthood of House Krahr. I haven’t had a moment to myself since I was ten years old.”

Lord Soren stood up, took a small blanket off the back of the nearest chair, walked up to Arland, and draped it over his nephew’s head like a hood.

Okay. She hadn’t encountered that before.

“He is giving me a mourning shroud,” Arland said and pulled the blanket off his head. “Like the mourners wear at funerals.”

“So you may lament the tragic loss of your youth,” Soren said.

Arland draped the blanket over Helen, who’d fallen asleep on the pillow. “To answer your question, my lady, no. A Marshal has no time for any significant pursuits outside of his duties.”

“Tellis of Serak has logged over three thousand hours in a small attack craft,” Maud said.

Both men fell silent.

Years ago she watched a science fiction epic with its fleets of small attack crafts spinning over enormous destroyers. The reality of space combat vaporized that romantic notion about as fast as an average warship would vaporize the fleet of individual fighters. Even if the fighters somehow managed to make it through the shields, the damage