by David Weber
He looked around the council table at the faces which had suddenly smoothed of all expression at the waters they’d unexpectedly drifted into, and he smiled grimly.
“There are limits to what even a king can do in the face of entrenched hatred...and stupidity,” he said. “I’m sure you and Prince Bahnak have discovered the same thing from your side. But that doesn’t keep it from being stupidity, and there comes a time when it must be changed. That’s my view, at any rate. And”—he met Arsham’s gaze levelly—“my brother’s, as well.”
Arsham’s eyes flickered and his ears folded back ever so slightly. That was all he allowed to show, but Vaijon drew a deep, unobtrusive breath and felt others around the table doing the same. However candidly and openly Yurokhas might have discussed the canal project and even the entire future of human-hradani relations with Tellian and Bahzell, he’d been careful to avoid anything which might have been construed as an unconditional statement of support in King Markhos’ name. There’d never been any doubt about where Yurokhas’ own sympathies lay, but everyone had always understood why the King couldn’t be that open...assuming, of course, that he’d ever truly been as supportive as his younger brother. But now—
I wonder if he was actually authorized to say that? Vaijon wondered. But surely he wouldn’t have said it without Markhos’ approval! I know a lot of people dimiss him as impulsive or even reckless, but I also know that reputation’s a mask, a façade he’s built just as carefully as Bahzell’s built that “country bumpkin” disguise of his. Even so, though...
He looked at Yurokhas, one eyebrow arched, and the prince looked back at him and then nodded, ever so slightly.
Tomanāk, that was an official statement. To a very select group, perhaps, but that was Markhos himself speaking to Arsham—and to Bahnak, for that matter! I wonder if delivering that was the real reason the King let him come along as an “observer” in the first place?
“Well,” the champion heard his voice say into the silence which had greeted Yurokhas’ comment, “speaking as someone who’s had a little experience with stupidity of his own, I can say of my own knowledge that it is possible to...reshape it once someone finds the appropriate hammer. Of course, it takes a heavier hammer for some of us than for others.”
Another rumble of amusement—this one more than a little relieved sounding—greeted his wry tone, and he smiled.
“In the meantime, unfortunately,” he continued, “according to both Prince Bahnak’s and Kilthan’s sources, somebody seems to have found a big enough hammer to get through to the River Brigands and the Purple Lords.” He grimaced. “At this point, we don’t know exactly what they’re likely to do about it, but I think we can take it for granted that anything they can do, they will do. In a lot of ways, we probably need to be more concerned about the Brigands than the Purple Lords, simply because they’re so much closer. At the same time, though, however Arthnar may feel about the canal in general, I can’t see him actively trying to interfere with our operations, given the Brigands’ own history with the ghouls.”
Heads nodded, and he shrugged.
“We’ll be keeping an eye on him, of course, and on the Purple Lords, but I don’t expect either of them to have much short term effect on us here. So, having said that, let’s take a look at where we are and where we want to be by the end of the summer. Hurthang?”
The Horse Stealer nodded and rose. He walked around to the large easel set up at the foot of the table and flipped back the cover to show the large-scale map of the Ghoul Moor it had concealed.
“As you can see,” Vaijon said, “we’ve marked last year’s gains in green. We lost a little ground over the winter down in the southwest, farthest from the river, and we need to regain that first.”
Hurthang drew his dagger and used it as a pointer, indicating the area in question, and Vaijon gave everyone a moment to absorb the lines on the map. Then he continued.
“Hopefully, we can clean that up in the next week or two. Prince Bahnak would like to get it taken care of before the new arbalests arrive. After that, we’ll turn to expanding the depth of the corridor along its southern edge, pushing back from the river. As you can see, there are at least half a dozen ghoul villages in the area we’re talking about.” Hurthang’s dagger indicated the crimson symbols of the villages in question. “Two of them in particular are going to be hard to get at because of the terrain, so we’re thinking—”
Chapter Fourteen
“I’ll not want to hear as how you’ve taken any foolish chances once I’ve gone,” Bahzell Bahnakson said sternly, frowning down at Tellian Bowmaster with his mighty arms folded across his chest. “There’s healers in plenty here in Sothōfalas, but never a champion, and there’s limits in all things.”
“I’ve been putting on my own boots every morning for quite some time now.” Tellian’s tone was mild, but there was a certain sharpness in his gray eyes. “And what happened on the way here made your point for you quite nicely, Bahzell. Don’t pound it into the ground.”
“It’s not the ground I’m after trying to pound it into,” Bahzell replied with a twinkle. “Still and all,” he continued before Tellian could fire back, “I’ll grant you’ve a point of your own. And it’s not as if you’ll be gallivanting around the city where just anyone as wishes you ill can be getting at you.”
“Oh, no,” Tellian agreed cuttingly. “I’ll be hiding in my apartments—when I haven’t crawled under the bed, that is. Is there anything else you’d like to remind me about before you go? Like coming in out of the rain? Eating all of my vegetables? Wait! I know—reminding me to wipe the drool off my senile old chin?”
“If I’d not come so close to losing you, I’d not give you so hard a time,” Bahzell said in a much gentler tone. “I’ll not say another word about foolishness, but this I will say. Whoever it was as was truly behind the lads who tried for you, they’ve proven as how you can be killed.” He looked very levelly into Tellian’s eyes. “It was only Norfram’s luck you weren’t, and had one of those arrows been after hitting you betwixt the eyes rather than in the chest, there’s not a thing in all the world even Vaijon and I could have done about it. That’s a scare I’m not wishful to be having again, nor one as Hanatha should have. You’ve those who love you, Tellian Bowmaster, and there’s not a one of us doesn’t know how many others would sooner see you dead than sit down to dinner. They’ve come close enough to be thinking as how next time they might succeed, and if it should happen they do, there’s too much chance as how all you’ve set your hand to would be dying with you. It’s not in my mind to badger or pester, and well I know there’s no way at all, at all, we could wrap you up in cotton wool. But that’s not to say you can’t be taking a little caution, and you’ll do me the favor of thinking about those of us who do love you.”
Tellian’s eyes softened, but then he shook his head with a snort.
“Of course I will, you big...lummox. Now go before you make me break down and bawl into my beer.”
“Now that I’d pay money to see,” Brandark remarked to no one in particular, and Tellian shot him a quick grin.
“Don’t start saving your kormaks anytime soon. I suspect I’ll be able to bear up under my embarrassment with manly fortitude.”
“And after you went and got my hopes up.” The Bloody Sword shook his head, ears half-flattened mournfully.
“Blame your overgrown friend. And”—the baron glanced out the open window at the early afternoon sunlight—“you’re wasting daylight.”
“Such a way with words you have,” Bahzell said, and unfolded his arms to clasp forearms. “I’ve your letters to Hanatha and Leanna,” he added, touching his belt pouch, “and I’ll tell them as how you were whole and healthy when last I saw you. Stay that way.”
“Yes, Poppa,” Tellian sighed, gripping the hradani’s massive forearm.
“Good.”
Bahzell gave his arm one final squeeze, then he and Brandark turned and headed for the stables where Walshar
no and Brandark’s warhorse awaited them. Hathan Shieldarm and his cousin Tarith were waiting as well, and Hathan arched his eyebrows.
“Took it with his usual becoming humility, did he?”
“Not so much as anyone would have been noticing,” Bahzell told his fellow wind rider dryly.
“I wouldn’t want to say I told you so, but—”
Hathan shrugged eloquently, and both hradani laughed. Then they sobered, and Bahzell turned to Tarith.
“I know it grates on him, Tarith, and I’ve no doubt at all as how he’ll snap and fret if it should be you sit on him too tight. But I’m thinking whoever it was tried last time won’t be minded to give over.”
“I know, Milord.” Tarith’s shrug was heavier than Hathan’s, but his expression was determined. “And I’ll bear what you had to say about poisons in mind, as well. I won’t deny I’d feel happier with you here to do the sitting on him, but I know you can’t. For that matter, if you tried, he’d really pitch a fit! He’s not going to like it if he finds out about it, but I’ve arranged for one of the Court magi with the healing talent to ‘just happen’ to run into him every two or three days.” Tellian’s armsman smiled. “If anyone’s managing to get any poison into him, she’ll pick it up.”
“And just who’s going to pick you up—or the pieces of you, at any rate—if the Baron should discover this little plan of yours?” Brandark asked interestedly.
“She’s a very good healer, Lord Brandark,” Tarith said without so much as cracking a smile, “and she’s promised to repair any damage I might suffer.”
“Good man!” Bahzell clapped Tarith on the shoulder, then looked past the cousins to where Walsharno stood, ears cocked, beside Brandark’s mount. The warhorse looked like a pony in the courser’s shadow, and Walsharno tossed his head impatiently.
Bahzell started to reply, then stopped himself. Walsharno had a point, after all, and the courser would undoubtedly be unscrupulous enough to use Bahzell’s own words to Tellian against him if he tried to pretend otherwise. Under the circumstances, discretion would undoubtedly be the better part of valor, he decided.
“I’m thinking we should be on the road,” he said out loud, instead, and heard Walsharno’s silent laugh in the back of his mind.
* * *
“Well, at least we’re rid of Bahzell.” Malahk Sahrdohr’s tone was almost as sour as his expression. “That should simplify things a bit. For now, at least. Somehow I have the feeling he’ll be back.”
“He is rather like the bad kormak, isn’t he?” Master Varnaythus replied. The older wizard sat well back in the comfortable leather chair, feet propped on the ottoman in front of him, nursing a moisture-beaded tankard of ale. He took a deep, appreciative sip, although he really preferred wine or whiskey as a rule, then looked back up at Sahrdohr. “In a way, I rather admire him, you know.”
“Admire him?” Sahrdohr blinked. “He and his father—his whole damned family—have been nothing but a massive pain in the arse for years now!”
“And your point is?” Varnaythus arched one eyebrow across the small table at the younger, taller man. “There’s nothing wrong with admiring an adversary, Malahk.” He waved the forefinger of his free hand gently. “In fact, it’s far better to admit you admire—or at least respect—an enemy than it is to denigrate him the way Cassan does. Think about it. Cassan gives lip service to the fact that Tellian is a dangerous opponent, but under the surface he lets his hatred turn into contempt. He doesn’t really respect him because he’s too busy hating to waste time and effort dispassionately evaluating him, and that’s one of the reasons Tellian’s been able to to accomplish so much. Respecting an adversary’s capabilities is the first step to taking them effectively into consideration in your own plans.”
Sahrdohr started to reply quickly, then stopped and obviously reconsidered what he’d been about to say. After a moment, he nodded, albeit more than a little grudgingly.
“All right, that’s fair,” he said. “In fact, I’ll go further and admit it’s wise. And having all three of Scale Balancer’s champions out of Sothōfalas should make actually killing Tellian a lot easier if we can get another shot at him. But Bahzell’s clearly Their more important target, and we didn’t even come close to killing him when we had the chance.”
“No, and I’m not going to be anywhere within thirty or forty leagues of him when we do try to kill him, if it’s all the same to you,” Varnaythus said dryly. “That’s what demons, devils, ghouls, trolls, and dog brothers are for, thank you very much. When the time comes, of course. And the good thing about it is that we can use anything that comes to hand against him without worrying about drawing attention to our plans for the Sothōii in general. No one’s going to be a bit surprised if any of Them or Their allies want to kill one of Tomanāk’s champions, after all. And that, my friend, means we can delegate that particular little task to one of Their other servants. I don’t know if we’re going to manage to get him onto the Ghoul Moor to enjoy our little surprise along with Vaijon and the others, of course. In some ways, that could work out for the best, but that really irritating talent of his for surviving could cause that whole arm of the operation to come up short, instead. And I’m just delighted to leave it up to Krashnark’s servants...especially if Bahzell’s going to put in an appearance. After all,” he smiled thinly at his companion, “we’re wizards. We do the subtle, sophisticated work and leave that crude heavy lifting to those better suited to it.”
Sahrdohr gazed at him for several moments, then leaned back in his own chair, took a large bite from the pretzel in his left hand and washed it down with a healthy swig of beer.
“You know,” he said after he’d swallowed, “I hadn’t thought of it quite that way, but you’re right, Master Varnaythus.”
“Of course I am.” Varnaythus treated himself to another swallow of ale. “That’s why I’m in charge. And it’s also the reason, young Malahk, that I’ve survived long enough to be in charge. You might want to write that down somewhere.”
* * *
“Prince Bahzell!”
Bahzell turned in the saddle as Walsharno halted under him. He and the courser both looked back the way they’d come, and the hradani frowned as a man made his way down the stone-slab sidewalk towards him. The newcomer was a tallish man, like most Sothōii, with auburn hair just starting to gray and a neatly trimmed spade beard. He wore his hair in a warrior’s braid and there was a saber at his side, but he wasn’t dressed like an armsman, and he certainly wasn’t dressed like a noble. In fact, he wore a blue tunic badged with the white scepter of Semkirk, the god of wisdom...and magi.
“No more than what you see yourself,” Bahzell replied.
“He might be a really cleverly disguised assassin,” Brandark suggested cheerfully, and Bahzell gave him a disgusted look. “I’m just saying it’s possible,” the Bloody Sword said mildly. “I never said it was likely.”
“As to that, he’ll have to be dismounting sometime.”
“Why do I have the feeling you and Walsharno were talking about me?” Brandark asked.
“I’m thinking that’s because I’ve the look of a man with a belly ache.”
“My, you are in a sour mood today.”
“Now,” Bahzell agreed with a pleasant smile, and Brandark chuckled.
The Bloody Sword opened his mouth, but before he could say anything else, the stranger had caught up with them. Bahzell looked down at him for a moment, then courteously dismounted. He still towered a foot
and more taller than the newcomer, but at least the fellow wouldn’t have to crane his neck staring up at him.
“And how might I be helping you?” he inquired.
“Your pardon, Milord.” The other man gave him a small but polite bow. “I’d hoped to catch you before you left Sir Jerhas’ townhouse, but I was delayed along the way, so I cut through the side streets to make up for lost time. My name is Brayahs—Brayahs Daggeraxe—and I have a message for you from Mistress Zarantha.”
“Ah! Then you’d be Baron Halthan’s nephew, I’m thinking?”
“I have that honor,” Daggeraxe acknowledged with another half-bow. If he was surprised at Bahzell’s identification, it didn’t show. “And I was one of Mistress Zarantha’s mentors at the Axe Hallow mage academy. She’s stayed in touch over the years, and she’s always spoken most warmly of you.”
“Aye, she would.” Bahzell shook his head with a smile. “She’s always been one as thinks the best of others, whether they’re after deserving it or not, hasn’t she just?”
“Actually, I’ve always found her rather hardheaded and careful about who she chooses to trust, Milord,” Daggeraxe said dryly.
“Oh, no, Master Brayahs!” Brandark said cheerfully, swinging down from the saddle and inserting himself into the conversation. “You must be thinking about someone else. Why, Mistress Zarantha even trusts me!”
“And I’m sure you’ve never given her cause to do anything of the sort.” Daggeraxe shook his head. “Shocking.”
“I’d not go quite so far as all that,” Bahzell said, looking down at Brandark, “but I will say there’s times a man needs to be reminding himself just why it is he puts up with some people.”
Brandark grinned impudently at him, and Daggeraxe chuckled. But then his expression turned more serious and he looked around. He’d overtaken them several blocks from the Prime Councilor’s home, on a broad street fronted by busy shops, eateries, sidewalk stalls, and taverns.
