"All right, if you're going to be that way about it, I'm not going to let your people touch a single one of my ships until somebody tells me why the pulleys are down here instead of up there."
King Rhodar sighed and beckoned to an engineer who was meticulously greasing a huge pulley block. "Have you got a sketch of the rigging handy?" the portly monarch asked the grease-spattered workman.
The engineer nodded, pulled a rolled sheet of grimy parchment out from under his tunic, and handed it to his king. Rhodar glanced at it and handed it to Anheg.
Anheg stared at the complex drawing, struggling to trace out which line went where, and more importantly why it went there. "I can't read this," he complained.
"Neither can I," Rhodar told him pleasantly, "but you wanted to know why the pulleys are down here instead of up there. The drawing tells you why."
"But I can't read it."
"That's not my fault."
Not far away a cheer went up as a boulder half the size of a house and entwined in a nest of ropes rose majestically up the face of the cliff to the accompaniment of a vast creaking of hawsers.
"You'll have to admit that that's impressive, Anheg," Rhodar said. "Particularly when you note that the entire rock is being lifted by those eight horses over there - with the help of that counterweight, of course." He pointed at another block of stone which was just as majestically coming down from the top of the escarpment.
Anheg squinted at the two rocks. "Durnik," he said over his shoulder, "do you understand how all those work?"
"Yes, King Anheg," the smith replied. "You see, the counterweight off balances the-"
"Don't explain it to me, please," Anheg said. "As long as somebody I know and trust understands, that's all that's really important."
Later that same day, the first Cherek ship was lifted to the top of the escarpment. King Anheg watched the procedure for a moment or two, then winced and turned his back. "It's unnatural," he muttered to Barak.
"You've taken to using that expression a great deal lately," Barak noted.
Anheg scowled at his cousin.
"I just mentioned it, that's all," Barak said innocently.
"I don't like changes, Barak. They make me nervous."
"The world moves on, Anheg. Things change every day."
"That doesn't necessarily mean that I have to like it," the King of Cherek growled. "I think I'll go to my tent for a drink or two."
"Want some company?" Barak offered.
"I thought you wanted to stand around and watch the world change."
"It can do that without my supervision."
"And probably will," Anheg added moodily. "All right, let's go. I don't want to watch this anymore." And the two of them went off in search of something to drink.
Chapter Eleven
MAYASERANA, QUEEN OF Arendia, was in a pensive mood. She sat at her embroidery in the large, sunny nursery high in the palace at Vo Mimbre. Her infant son, the crown prince of Arendia, cooed and gurgled in his cradle as he played with the string of brightly colored beads that had been the ostensible gift of the crown prince of Drasnia. Mayaserana had never met Queen Porenn, but the shared experience of motherhood made her feel very close to the reputedly exquisite little blonde on her far northern throne.
Seated in a chair not far from the queen sat Nerina, Baroness of Vo Ebor. Each lady wore velvet, the queen in deep purple, and the Baroness in pale blue, and each wore the high, conical white head-dress so admired by the Mimbrate nobility. At the far end of the nursery, an elderly lutanist softly played a mournful air in a minor key.
The Baroness Nerina appeared to be even more melancholy than her queen. The circles beneath her eyes had grown deeper and deeper in the weeks since the departure of the Mimbrate knights, and she seldom smiled. Finally she sighed and laid aside her embroidery.
"The sadness of thy heart doth resound in thy sighing, Nerina," the queen said gently. "Think not so of dangers and separation, lest thy spirits fail thee utterly."
"Instruct me in the art of banishing care, Highness," Nerina replied, "for I am in sore need of such teaching. My heart is bowed beneath a burden of concern, and try though I might to control them, my thoughts, like unruly children, return ever to the dreadful peril of my absent lord and our dearest friend."
"Be comforted in the knowledge that thy burden is shared by every lady in all of Mimbre, Nerina."
Nerina sighed again. "My care, however, lies in more mournful certainty. Other ladies, their affections firm-fixed on one beloved, can dare to hope that he might return from dreadful war unscathed; but I, who love two, can find no reason for such optimism. I must needs lose one at the least, and the prospect doth crush my soul."
There was a quiet dignity in Nerina's open acceptance of the implications of the two loves that had become so entwined in her heart that they could no longer be separated. Mayaserana, in one of those brief flashes of insight which so sharply illuminated understanding, perceived that Nerina's divided heart lay at the very core of the tragedy that had lifted her, her husband, and Sir Mandorallen into the realms of sad legend. If Nerina could but love one more than the other, the tragedy would end, but so perfectly balanced was her love for her husband with her love for Sir Mandorallen that she had reached a point of absolute stasis, forever frozen between the two of them.
The queen sighed. Nerina's divided heart seemed somehow a symbol of divided Arendia, but, though the gentle heart of the suffering baroness might never be made one, Mayaserana was resolved to make a last effort to heal the breach between Mimbre and Asturia. To that end, she had summoned to the palace a deputation of the more stable leaders of the rebellious north, and her summons had appeared over a title she rarely used, Duchess of Asturia. At her instruction, the Asturians were even now drawing up a list of their grievances for her consideration.
Later on that same sunny afternoon, Mayaserana sat alone on the double throne of Arendia, painfully aware of the vacancy beside her. The leader and spokesman of the group of Asturian noblemen was a Count Reldegen, a tall, thin man with iron gray hair and beard, who walked with the aid of a stout cane. Reldegen wore a rich green doublet and black hose, and, like the rest of the deputation, his sword was belted at his side. The fact that the Asturians came armed into the queen's presence had stirred some angry muttering, but Mayaserana had refused to listen to urgings that their weapons be taken from them.
"My Lord Reldegen," the queen greeted the Asturian as he limped toward the throne.
"Your Grace," he replied with a bow.
"Your Majesty, " a Mimbrate courtier corrected him in a shocked voice.
"Her Grace summoned us as the Duchess of Asturia," Reldegen informed the courtier coolly. "That title commands more respect from us than other, more recent embellishments."
"Gentlemen, please," the queen said firmly. "Prithee, let us not commence hostilities anew. Our purpose here is to examine the possibilities of peace. I entreat thee, my Lord Reldegen, speak to the purpose. Unburden thyself of the causes of that rancor which hath so hardened the heart of Asturia. Speak freely, my Lord, and with no fear of reprisal for thy words." She looked quite sternly at her advisers. "It is our command that no man be taken to task for what is spoken here."
The Mimbrates glowered at the Asturians, and the Asturians scowled back.
"Your Grace," Reldegen began, "our chief complaint lies, I think, in the simple fact that our Mimbrate overlords refuse to recognize our titles. A title's an empty thing, really, but it implies a responsibility which has been denied to us. Most of us here are indifferent to the privileges of rank, but we keenly feel the frustration of being refused the chance to discharge our obligations. Our most talented men are compelled to waste their lives in idleness, and might I point out, your Grace, that the loss of that talent injures Arendia even more than it injures us."
"Well spoken, my Lord," the queen murmured.
"Might I respond, your Majesty," the aged, white-bearded Baron of Vo Serin inquired.
&
nbsp; "Certainly, my Lord," Mayaserana replied. "Let us all be free and open with one another."
"The titles of the Asturian gentlemen are theirs for the asking," the baron declared. "For five centuries the crown hath awaited but the required oath of fealty to bestow them. No title may be granted or recognized until its owner swears allegiance to the crown."
"Unfortunately, my Lord," Reldegen said, "we are unable to so swear. The oaths of our ancestors to the Duke of Asturia are still in force, and we are still bound by them."
"The Asturian Duke of whom thou speakest died five hundred years ago," the old baron reminded him.
"But his line did not die with him," Reldegen pointed out. "Her Grace is his direct descendant, and our pledges of loyalty are still in force."
The queen stared first at one and then at the other. "I pray thee," she said, "correct me if my perception is awry. Is the import of what hath been revealed here that Arendia hath been divided for half a millennium by an ancient formality?"
Reldegen pursed his lips thoughtfully. "There's a bit more to it than that, your Grace, but that does seem to be the core of the problem."
"Five hundred years of strife and bloodshed over a technicality?"
Count Reldegen struggled with it. He started to speak several times, but broke off each time with a look of helpless perplexity. In the end he began to laugh. "It is sort of Arendish, isn't it?" he asked rather whimsically.
The old Baron of Vo Serin gave him a quick look, then he too began to chuckle. "I pray thee, my Lord Reldegen, lock this discovery in thy heart lest we all become the subject of general mirth. Let us not confirm the suspicion that abject stupidity is our most prevailing trait."
"Why was this absurdity not discovered previously?" Mayaserana demanded.
Count Reldegen shrugged sadly. "I suppose because Asturians and Mimbrates don't talk to each other, your Grace. We were always too eager to get to the fighting."
"Very well," the queen said crisply, "what is required to rectify this sorry confusion?"
Count Reldegen looked at the Baron. "A proclamation perhaps?" he suggested.
The old man nodded thoughtfully. "Her Majesty could release thee from thy previous oath. It hath not been common practice, but there are precedents."
"And then we all swear fealty to her as Queen of Arendia?"
"That would seem to satisfy all the demands of honor and propriety."
"But I'm the same person, am I not?" the queen objected.
"Technically thou art not, your Majesty," the baron explained. "The Duchess of Asturia and the Queen of Arendia are separate entities. Thou art indeed two persons in one body."
"This is most confusing, gentlemen," Mayaserana observed.
"That's probably why no one noticed it before, your Grace," Reldegen told her. "Both you and your husband have two titles and two separate formal identities." He smiled briefly. "I'm surprised that there was room on the throne for such a crowd." His face grew serious. "It won't be a cure-all, your Grace," he added. "The divisions between Mimbre and Asturia are so deep-seated that they'll take generations to erase."
"And wilt thou also swear fealty to my husband?" the queen asked.
"As the King of Arendia, yes; as the Duke of Mimbre, never."
"That will do for a start, my Lord. Let us see then to this proclamation. Let us with ink and parchment bandage our poor Arendia's most gaping wound."
"Beautifully put, your Grace," Reldegen said admiringly.
Ran Borune XXIII had spent almost his entire life inside the Imperial compound at Tol Honeth. His infrequent trips to the major cities of Tolnedra had, for the most part been made inside closed carriages. It was entirely probable that Ran Borune had never walked a continuous mile in his life, and a man who has not walked a mile has no real conception of what a mile is. From the very outset, his advisers despaired of ever making him understand the concept of distance.
The suggestion that ultimately resolved the difficulty came from a rather surprising source. A sometime tutor named Jeebers - a man who had narrowly escaped imprisonment or worse the previous summer - put forth the suggestion diffidently. Master Jeebers now did everything diffidently. His near brush with Imperial displeasure had forever extinguished the pompous self importance that had previously marred his character. A number of his acquaintances were surprised to discover that they even liked the balding, skinny man now.
Master Jeebers had pointed out that if the Emperor could only see things in exact scale, he might then understand. Like so many good ideas that had surfaced from time to time in Tolnedra, this one immediately got out of hand. An entire acre of the Imperial grounds was converted into a scale replica of the border region of eastern Algaria and the opposing stretches of Mishrak ac Thull. To give it all perspective, a number of inch-high human figures were cast in lead to aid the Emperor in conceptualizing the field of operations.
The Emperor immediately announced that he'd really like to have more of the lead figures to aid his understanding of the masses of men involved, and a new industry was born in Tol Honeth. Overnight lead became astonishingly scarce.
In order that he might better see the field, the Emperor mounted each morning to the top of a thirty-foot-high tower that had hastily been erected for that purpose. There, with the aid of a great-voiced sergeant of the Imperial guard, the Emperor deployed his leaden regiments of infantry and cavalry in precise accordance with the latest dispatches from Algaria.
The general staff very nearly resigned their commissions en masse. They were, for the most part, men of advanced middle age, and joining the Emperor atop his tower each morning involved some strenuous climbing. They all tried at various times to explain to the beak-nosed little man that they could see just as well from the ground, but Ran Borune would have none of it.
"Morin, he's killing us," one portly general complained bitterly to the Emperor's chamberlain. "I'd rather go off to war than climb that ladder four times a day."
"Move the Drasnian pikemen four paces to the left!" the sergeant bellowed from the top of the tower, and a dozen men on the ground began redeploying the tiny lead figures.
"We all must serve in the capacity our Emperor chooses for us," Lord Morin replied philosophically.
"I don't see you climbing the ladder," the general accused.
"Our Emperor has chosen another capacity for me," Morin said rather smugly.
That evening the weary little Emperor sought his bed. "It's very exciting, Morin," he murmured drowsily, holding the velvet-lined case that contained the solid gold figures representing Ce'Nedra and Rhodar and the rest of the army's leaders close to.his chest, "but it's very tiring, too."
"Yes, your Majesty."
"There always seems to be so much that I still have to do."
"That's the nature of command, your Majesty," Morin observed. But the Emperor had already dropped off.
Lord Morin removed the case from the Emperor's hands and carefully pulled the covers up around the sleeping man's shoulders. "Sleep, Ran Borune," he said very gently. "You can play with your little toy soldiers again tomorrow."
Sadi the eunuch had quietly left the palace at Sthiss Tor by a secret doorway that opened behind the slaves' quarters onto a shabby back street that twisted and turned in the general direction of the harbor. He had quite deliberately waited for the cover of the afternoon rainstorm and had dressed himself in the shabby clothing of a dockworker. Accompanying him was the one-eyed assassin, Issus, who also wore nondescript clothing. Sadi's security precautions were routine, but his choice of Issus as his companion was not. Issus was not a member of the palace guard nor of Sadi's personal retinue, but Sadi was not concerned on this afternoon's outing with appearances or proprieties. Issus was by and large uncorrupted by palace politics and had a reputation for unswerving loyalty to whomever was paying him at the moment.
The two passed down the rainswept street to a certain disreputable establishment frequented by lower-class workers, and went through a rather noisy tapro
om to the maze of cubicles at the back, where other entertainments were provided. At the end of a foul-smelling hallway, a lean, hard-eyed woman, whose arms were covered from wrist to elbow with cheap, gaudy bracelets, pointed wordlessly at a scarred door, then turned abruptly and disappeared through another doorway.
Behind the door lay a filthy room with only a bed for furniture. On the bed were two sets of clothing that smelled of tar and salt water, and sitting on the floor were two large tankards of lukewarm ale. Wordlessly, Sadi and Issus changed clothes. From beneath the soiled pillow, Issus pulled a pair of wigs and two sets of false whiskers.
"How can they drink this?" Sadi demanded, sniffing at one of the tankards and wrinkling his nose.
Issus shrugged. "Alorns have peculiar tastes. You don't have to drink it all, Sadi. Splash most of it on your clothes. Drasnian sailors spill a lot of ale when they're out in search of amusement. How do I look?"
Sadi gave him a quick glance. "Ridiculous," he replied. "Hair and a beard don't really suit you, Issus."
Issus laughed. "And they look particularly out of place on you. " He shrugged and carefully poured ale down the front of his tar-spattered tunic. "I suppose we look enough like Drasnians to get by, and we certainly smell like Drasnians. Hook your beard on a little tighter, and let's get moving before it stops raining."
"Are we going out the back?"
Issus shook his head. "If we're being followed, the back will be watched. We'll leave the way ordinary Drasnian sailors leave."
"And how is that?"
"I've made arrangements to have us thrown out."
Sadi had never been thrown out of any place before, and he found the experience not particularly amusing. The two burly ruffians who unceremoniously pitched him into the street were a bit rough about it, and Sadi picked up several scrapes and abrasions in the process.
Issus staggered to his feet and stood bawling curses at the closed door, then lurched over and pulled Sadi up out of the mud. Together they reeled in apparent drunkenness down the street toward the Drasnian enclave. Sadi noted that there had been two men in a doorway across the street when he and Issus had been ejected and that the two did not move to follow.
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