“What did you have in mind?”
“Booze.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. The good stuff. One of the dunderheads we scared off had a flask of the stuff he dropped. Best stuff I ever had. I’ll have a barrel of it. And some iron or steel. Plus some gold, and silver, and copper, and brass. Then you’ll have your spores.”
“You’re asking for an awful lot.”
“What I’m asking for, you can find just about anywhere. What you’re asking for, you can only find here. So I’d say I’m being reasonable.”
Desmeres glanced at Dowser. The puppy was dangling from under his arm, desperately trying to wriggle free so that he could get to the mysterious new creature. He didn’t seem in the least bit interested in anything else.
“What I’m asking for, I could try to find on my own. What you’re asking for, you need me to get,” Desmeres countered.
“I could get what I want whenever I want. This bow is all I need to get my needs filled.”
“It is an intriguing contraption. I’ve never been much for weapons with too many moving parts. To be honest, I’m not convinced it’s much of a threat.”
“Oh, yeah?” the gnome said.
He raised the crossbow and leveled it at a low-hanging branch as thick as Desmeres’s forearm. When he pulled the trigger, the wheels and gears clicked and whirred. A metal dart launched with a twang, kicking with such force it knocked the gnome from his feet. The dart bit into the branch and easily punched through to the other side, protruding amongst a cluster of splinters.
Desmeres glanced at the surprising amount of damage achieved by the little weapon.
“Impressive,” he said.
The gnome scrambled to his feet, brushing off the snow and not allowing even the implication that his dignity might have been bruised. “My own design. Of course it’s impressive.”
“But now you’re unarmed.”
“I’ve got three more darts just like that, right here,” he said, turning to indicate the long metal barbs strapped to his back like a quiver of arrows.
“Not in the crossbow, you haven’t.”
“No, but the other gnomes have plenty.”
“Dowser here doesn’t seem to think there’s anyone else about. Certainly no one as interesting as you.”
The gnome glanced aside, a flutter of nervousness flavoring his expression for an instant.
“I’m confident if I were to knock you to the ground or throw you in a sack, that would be the end of it and I’d be free to find my own ingredients. But that’s no way to conduct a negotiation, now is it?”
“No.”
“We don’t talk business with weapons pointed at one another, do we?”
“No. That’s uncivil is what that is,” the gnome said. “Matter of fact, I’m not even going to draw this for another shot. Yeah. As a representative of my people—and there are plenty of us, don’t you think for a minute there aren’t—I think I’m willing to discuss terms a little further, since maybe you haven’t got enough silver and gold to make just a raw trade worthwhile.”
“That’s very diplomatic of you.”
“So what’s your counter offer?” the gnome said. “And for that matter, what’s your name again?”
“Desmeres Lumineblade.”
“Gwellin Stemsprout.”
“Let’s start with why you’re doing what you’re doing, Gwellin.”
“You mean defending my home? Can’t imagine why a self-respecting gnome would want to do a silly thing like that.” He set down his weapon and crossed his arms. “What do you expect me to do when a bunch of thick-skulled lumberers come tromping through here?”
“I expect you to do just what you did. In my experience, gnomes love to make fools of the larger races. But you aren’t doing yourself any favors. Eventually someone will come in here with enough mystic knowledge to set the woodsmen’s minds at ease about curses and spirits, and it won’t take them long to figure out they’ve been duped. And what do you suppose will happen then?”
“They’ll be in for a fight is what’ll happen then.”
“Again, aren’t we diplomats here, Gwellin? Don’t you think war is best avoided?”
“What do you propose I do? Just turn belly up and let those nincompoops run roughshod through my neck of the woods?”
“I suggest you open trade with them. Set borders, perhaps lease land rights. They clearly have things you want.”
Gwellin considered the words, then shook his head. “Nothing doing. They don’t know how to treat a forest.”
Desmeres sighed. “What would you have them do differently?”
“Cut down the big trees. Leave the little trees alone. Is that so hard to understand? Little trees turn into big trees. Simple. You cut down the big ones, that makes room for little ones to become big ones, you cut down the big ones again. Simple. Plus, those big trees start to really wreak havoc on a nice little burrow like mine. All those roots, twisting and turning, busting up my nice walls. I had a perfectly good mural get cracked all to bits by this big tree over here. Had to dig a whole new place.”
“I’m sure, at least within your borders, the woodmen could see their way clear to cutting down only the trees you indicate.”
“What’s your angle here, Lumineblade?”
“I need that ingredient, and you can get it for me. And besides, the last thing I want is a gnome for an enemy, Gwellin. Your kind can be a handful, and word spreads quicker than gossip among you.”
“Fine. You want your spores? Head on back and… no… Like you said, they won’t like that I’ve been making a fool of them… Hah! Tell them a gnome moved in and cured the curse. Yeah! And in exchange for keeping the evil spirits at bay, he wants a barrel of booze, per month. Yes. And in my borders, they only chop the trees I mark.”
“A barrel is a lot of booze. Taller than you. I’m not sure you’ll go through it in a month.”
“You haven’t seen me drink, Lumineblade. But more importantly, I’ll be the only gnome around with a steady supply of the stuff. It’ll make me pretty popular in the burrows and over in the mountains. Now go!” He pointed. “Make my offer and tell me what they say.”
“This is a negotiation, Gwellin. I know your terms. Now for mine.”
“You get your spores. Simple as that.”
“You would have me broker a deal with the woodsmen, to your ongoing profit, and pay me a measly spoonful of spores for my trouble? I think I deserve a bit more than that if I manage to convince the woodmen.”
“Like what?”
“You become my supplier. If I ever need Marten-spore, or any other hard to find ingredient found within Melorn, you get it for me. And you spread the word to the other gnomes. Desmeres Lumineblade is a friend of the burrows.”
Gwellin tapped his foot. “I don’t know… Becoming a friend of the burrow is a pretty big honor… We don’t just bestow than on anyone… Tell you what. You wait here. And close your eyes!”
Desmeres obediently shut his eyes. The patter of Gwellin’s feet signaled the gnome’s departure.
Others might have found such back-and-forth negotiations with what is ostensibly a smaller, weaker version of a human as beneath them. Desmeres didn’t feel that way. The truth was, gnomes were good friends to have, and moreover they were terrible enemies to have. If nothing else, they were clever, ingenious, and determined. And though they were seldom seen, they did find their way into every corner of the wilderness, and the more dedicated among them had burrowed their way into cities to feed their vices and their hunger for mischief. Plus, it had been a long time since Desmeres had been able to properly exercise his zeal for haggling.
“Eyes open, Lumineblade. And get over here.”
He opened his eyes and found Gwellin perched atop an eye-level branch. When he was satisfied the horse was in no danger of wandering off, he approached the branch. Gwellin held in his hands a stunningly intricate bit of wooden jewelry. From the gnome’s scale it was probably supposed to
be a crown or tiara, but for Desmeres it was a fine ring. The carving was easily the match for the best Desmeres himself had ever managed. The gnome had encrusted it with bits of amber cut into flawless gems, and some sort of dye brought the wood to the same silvery luster as his cunning outfit.
“I hear tell the big folk like you would pay a dear price for crafts like this. Is that true?”
“May I take a closer look?” Desmeres asked.
He held out his hand and the gnome dropped the work of art into his palm. Upon closer inspection, the artistry was even more apparent. Every design, every curve, was precisely selected to complement the grain of the wood. He returned it to the gnome.
“A wealthy collector would part with quite a bit of gold for a piece like that.”
“Do you think the woodsmen would be able to find buyers? Maybe as part of our little agreement?”
“I think I could convince them, though it would be up to you to set a price.”
“Naturally.”
“And for that, you would make me a friend of the burrows?”
“No. One more thing.”
“What now?”
Gwellin beckoned with his finger. Desmeres leaned closer.
“In this camp… are there any… ladies?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Why?”
“Why? Why?” Gwellin looked away as though it was the most foolish question he’d ever heard. “I’m a painter, among other obvious areas of expertise. I’ve never even seen a woman your size. And that’s something I’d like to see. It’d be… inspirational. You bring a nice big woman here and you’re a friend of the burrow.”
“That might take a bit of time. If I can manage the rest, would you be comfortable giving me my ingredients, and when I’m able to find a model for you, you come through with the title?”
“Sure, fair’s fair.”
“Then I think we’ve got a deal,” Desmeres said.
“You cut a good bargain, Lumineblade. I’d spit in my hand to seal the deal, but it turns my stomach a bit thinking of you doing the same, so we’ll just give our word on it.”
“You have my word.”
“And you have mine. Now go get me my first barrel of booze!”
#
Anrack stood at the head of a table in one of the more commonly used rooms of Castle Verril, the banquet hall. Like so many other important aspects of diplomacy and the day to day operations of the kingdom, great meetings and delicate discussions tended to be accompanied by fine food and good drink. Even now, with the room largely empty, the long rows of tables were scattered with sumptuous samples of the best of Northern cuisine.
The delegation was smaller than he’d expected. He’d scarcely had time to don his formal uniform before the meeting began. When he was shown to the table he would share with Myranda and—he presumed—her entourage and personal guard, he found only the two foremost places set.
A brief burst of fanfare caught his attention and he stiffened his posture. Moments later, a young woman in fine clothing stepped into the hall. She was entirely unaccompanied, and stepped quickly to the table without awaiting formal introduction.
“Elite Commander Anrack,” she said, pulling back her hood to reveal a glorious head of red hair. “It is a genuine pleasure to meet you.”
She offered her hand. Rather than accepting so familiar a gesture, he bowed. “Your Grace. I assure you, the pleasure is mine.”
“I apologize that Deacon could not be here. He was quite interested in meeting you as he’s developed a fascination with the deeper functionality of the Alliance Army.”
“I am pleased to hear that. Forgive me if I am forward in the observation, but I was given to understand that his fascinations lay in more academic directions.”
“Deacon is a collector of fascinations.” She gave him a quick, measuring glance. “If you’ll forgive me the observation, but you seem to have some fairly recent injuries. Have the palace healers not had a chance to see to you? Because I would be happy to cure you of your ailments.”
He raised a hand. “Thank you, no. I am of the belief that when health returns too readily, we lose our respect for how precious it is. And furthermore, poor decisions and shortcomings should have real consequences.”
“I see. Well, I admire your dedication. Please, be seated.”
When she took a seat, he did so as well.
“Let me begin by complimenting your own dedication, Madam Duchess. Kenvard has always been a city of tremendous tactical value. That it remained in ruin for so long is a fine example of the shortsightedness of the fallen regime.”
“I was more personally invested in the history of the place than its strategic significance. It was and is my home, but I thank you.”
“I realize your time is limited so I will endeavor to be brief. I had some questions regarding an individual known as Desmeres Lumineblade.”
Myranda nodded. “I know him well.”
“As I believe you are aware, I’ve been tasked by the queen with apprehending him.”
She sighed, as if she’d been told that a naughty boy had raided the cookie jar. “What has he done now?”
“His initial crime was theft of royal property.”
Myranda nodded. “Ah, yes. The weapons he supplied to the Undermine. That was to be expected.”
“So he’d announced his intention to rob the queen?”
“He’d announced his intention to retrieve the weapons when the battle to liberate that capital was complete. They were a loan in his eyes.”
“That does not give him the right to snatch them from under the noses of the Honor Guard.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way, but laws are laws. Has he done anything else?”
“In escaping the Elite, he has assaulted me personally, resulting in the burns that still mark my face, and he has killed one of my men.”
Myranda’s face became stern. “I see…”
“You have worked with him in the past, and likewise have been at odds with him, correct?”
“I have. And I found him to be a formidable individual in both capacities. At no point in that time did he strike me as willing to take a life lightly. Under what circumstances did he attack one of your men?”
“I was not present at the time, but we were attempting to gain entrance to one of his storehouses.”
“Why?”
“It was a tactical decision, one that is not relevant to the present discussion.”
“I suspect that it is quite relevant, Commander… I’m sorry, what is your first name?”
“Preston.”
“Preston, if you are seeking insight into Desmeres and his thinking, you need only understand one thing. Desmeres is not like Deacon. He does not collect fascinations. He is single-minded, a man who pursues a single goal almost slavishly. He would do nothing if it did not further that aim.”
“And what is that aim?”
“For as long as I’ve known him he wished only to hone his craft, to become a better weapon-maker and to put those weapons into more skilled hands and against more challenging obstacles.”
“You do not believe he would kill to test his weapons? Or to protect them?”
“Not to insult your soldiers, but killing one of them wouldn’t prove much of anything to him. He’s tested his weapons against far greater foes. And he has no need to go to such lethal lengths to protect his weapons either. If he can steal them from the queen herself, I very much doubt he would have any difficulty stealing them from anyone else.”
“And yet he has done so.”
“It isn’t like him. There must be a reason.”
“Clearly he has a vendetta against the queen or the military, or has been hired by someone who does.”
“That isn’t like him. It wouldn’t serve his purpose. If he is truly fighting you, and not merely defending himself, then it is because it benefits him or his purpose in some way. I am certain he hasn’t been hired. He does not work for hire. He would consider him
self above that.”
“He was allied with an assassin for ages. That was surely work for hire.”
“The assassin worked for hire, certainly. Desmeres was merely a broker to find new ways for his weapons to be tested. To him, that would be an enormous distinction. I can’t explain his behavior. Perhaps he has found a new purpose. And if that is the case, the key to stopping him is finding out what he is after.”
“How would you suggest we do that?”
“Ask him. You’ve encountered him enough times already—leave a message for him, or place one in a position to be intercepted.”
“And endure the lies he would concoct in response?”
She shook her head. “No. Call him what you will, but there are two things that utterly define Desmeres. His honesty and his pragmatism. He will mislead, he will conceal, but he will not lie. And if you make a well-reasoned appeal, he will take it as intended.”
A servant approached.
“My apologies, Duchess, but the queen requests your presence.”
“Of course,” Myranda said. “Commander, is there anything else?”
“No. I believe I have learned all I can from you. Thank you for your time.”
They both stood, and Anrack offered a bow again as she departed. He watched her go and considered her words. Either the woman was naïvely trusting or all he believed he knew of Desmeres had been viewed through a flawed lens. He briefly considered the possibility that the latter was true. Only briefly. Myranda was a wizard, a warrior, and it was said she was a fine diplomat. But clearly she was not a proper judge of character. He distilled her words to what few scraps might actually help him and discarded the rest. No sense cluttering his mind with such detritus.
#
Gwellin sat in the crook of a tree branch and looked to the north impatiently. He’d taken the time to retrieve and repair the dart he’d fired, and now was lazily turning the cranks of his bow to draw the string. Though he wouldn’t give Desmeres the satisfaction of confirming it, the blasted thing took several minutes of cranking to pull to tension.
The Redemption of Desmeres Page 30
