Enchanters' End Game

by David Eddings

  ‘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.

  ‘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, yes.’

  ‘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.

&
nbsp; 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 taproom 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.

  Once they entered the Drasnian enclave, Issus led the way rather quickly to the house of Droblek, the Drasnian port authority. They were admitted immediately and conveyed at once to a dimly lighted but comfortable room where the enormously fat Droblek sat sweating. With him was Count Melgon, the aristocratic ambassador from Tolnedra.

  ‘Novel attire for the chief eunuch of Salmissra’s household,’ Count Melgon observed as Sadi pulled off his wig and false beard.

  ‘Just a bit of deception, my Lord Ambassador,’ Sadi replied. ‘I didn’t particularly want this meeting to become general knowledge.’

  ‘Can he be trusted?’ Droblek asked bluntly, pointing at Issus.

  Sadi’s expression became whimsical. ‘Can you be trusted, Issus?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ve paid me for up to the end of the month.’ Issus shrugged. ‘After that, we’ll see. I might get a better offer.’

  ‘You see?’ Sadi said to the two seated men. ‘Issus can be trusted until the end of the month – at least as much as anybody in Sthiss Tor can be trusted. One thing I’ve noticed about Issus – he’s a simple, uncomplicated man. Once you buy him, he stays bought. I think it’s referred to as professional ethics.’

  Droblek grunted sourly. ‘Do you suppose we could get to the point? Why did you go to so much trouble to arrange this meeting? Why didn’t you just summon us to the palace?’

  ‘My dear Droblek,’ Sadi murmured, ‘you know the kind of intrigue that infests the palace. I’d prefer that what passes between us remain more or less confidential. The matter itself is rather uncomplicated. I’ve been approached by the emissary of Taur Urgas.’

  The two regarded him with no show of surprise.

  ‘I gather that you two already knew.’

  ‘We’re hardly children, Sadi,’ Count Melgon told him.

  ‘I am at present in negotiations with the new ambassador from Rak Goska,’ Sadi mentioned.

  ‘Isn’t that the third one so far this summer?’ Melgon asked.

  Sadi nodded. ‘The Murgos seem to be particularly susceptible to certain fevers which abound in the swamps.’

  ‘We’ve noticed that,’ Droblek said dryly. ‘What is your prognosis for the present emissary’s continued good health?’

  ‘I don’t imagine he’s any more immune than his countrymen. He’s already beginning to feel unwell.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll be lucky and recover,’ Droblek suggested.

  ‘Not very likely,’ Issus said with an ugly laugh.

  ‘The tendency of Murgo ambassadors to die unexpectedly has succeeded in keeping the negotiations moving very slowly,’ Sadi continued. ‘I’d like for your gentlemen to inform King Rhodar and Ran Borune that these delays will probably continue.’

  ‘Why?’ Droblek asked.

  ‘I want them to understand and appreciate my efforts in their present campaign against the Angarak kingdoms.’

  ‘Tolnedra has no involvement in that campaign,’ Melgon asserted quickly.

  ‘Of course not.’ Sadi smiled.

  ‘Just how far are you willing to go, Sadi?’ Droblek asked curiously.

  ‘That depends almost entirely upon who’s winning at any given moment,’ Sadi replied urbanely. ‘If the Rivan Queen’s campaign in the east begins to run into difficulties, I suspect that the pestilence will subside and the Murgo emissaries will stop dying so conveniently. I’d almost have to make an accommodation with Taur Urgas at that point.’

  ‘Don’t you find that just a bit contemptible, Sadi?’ Droblek asked acidly.

  Sadi shrugged. ‘We’re a contemptible sort of people, Droblek,’ he admitted, ‘but we survive. That’s no mean accomplishment for a weak nation lying between two major powers. Tell Rhodar and Ran Borune that I’ll stall the Murgos off for as long as things continue to go in their favor. I want them both to be aware of their obligation to me.’

  ‘And will you advise them when your position is about to change?’ Melgon asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Sadi replied. ‘I’m corrupt, Melgon. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘You’re not much of an ally, Sadi,’ Droblek
told him.

  ‘I never pretended to be. I’m looking out for myself. At the moment, my interests and yours happen to coincide, that’s all. I do, however, expect to be remembered for my assistance.’

  ‘You’re trying to play it both ways, Sadi,’ Droblek accused him bluntly.

  ‘I know.’ Sadi smiled. ‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’

  Queen Islena of Cherek was in an absolute panic. This time Merel had gone too far. The advice they had received from Porenn had seemed quite sound – had indeed raised the possibility of a brilliant stroke which would disarm Grodeg and the Bear-cult once and for all. The imagined prospect of the helpless rage into which this would plummet the towering ecclesiast was almost a satisfaction in itself. Like so many people, Queen Islena took such pleasure in an imagined triumph the real thing became almost too much trouble. The victories of the imagination involved no risks, and a confrontation with an enemy always ended satisfactorily when both sides of the conversation came from one’s own daydreams. Left to her own devices, Islena would probably have been content to let it go at that.

  Merel, however, was less easily satisfied. The plan devised by the little queen of Drasnia had been quite sound, but it suffered from one flaw – they did not have enough men to bring it off. Merel, however, had located an ally with certain resources and had brought him into the queen’s inner circle. A group of men in Cherek had not accompanied Anheg and the fleet to Algaria largely because they were not the sort of men who made good sailors. At Merel’s stern-faced insistence, the Queen of Cherek suddenly developed an overpowering enthusiasm for hunting. It was in the forest, safe from prying ears, that the details of the coup were worked out.

  ‘When you kill a snake, you cut off its head,’ Torvik the huntsman had pointed out as he, Merel, and Islena sat in a forest glade while Torvik’s men roved through the woods harvesting enough game to make it appear that Islena had spent her day in a frenzy of slaughter. ‘You don’t accomplish all that much by snipping pieces off its tail an inch or so at a time,’ the broad-shouldered huntsman continued. ‘The Bear-cult isn’t really that concentrated in one place. With a little luck, we can gather up all the important members presently in Val Alorn in one sweep. That should irritate our snake enough to make him stick his neck out. Then we’ll simply chop off his head.’