They were at one end of a majestic hall with furnishings as lavish as the other rooms they had passed through. As with the preceding rooms, Amric paid little attention to the decor, though his roving gaze lingered on the towering tapestries that brushed the floor, and he speculated at what they might conceal. An enormous table of dark wood stretched into the room; Amric did not bother to count the high-backed chairs, but he estimated that a full company of soldiers could eat at the table without fear of bumping elbows. A lone figure was seated at the far end of the table, an ornate goblet in one hand as he studied an array of papers spread before him. The guards, ten strong as the last group had been, encircled them.
“Weapons,” said one, in a tone that retained a measure of courtesy without offering the illusion of choice.
Amric glanced back at his companions, and found them watching him intently. The corner of his mouth quirked upward in a smile. He unbuckled the baldric that held the two swords across his back and placed it on the end of the table. He drew the knife from behind his belt and laid it beside the swords. After a moment’s hesitation, Halthak stepped forward and relinquished his gnarled staff as well. The guards eyed Bellimar, who spread empty palms and smiled, the peculiar intensity of his stare seeming to invite a challenge. The lead guard met that stare for a long moment, perhaps searching for deception, and then he suddenly leaned away from Bellimar and fell back half a step. Shaken, he cast about to his men as if to gauge their reactions, or to reassure himself of their presence. Then he recovered and made a curt gesture. The guards formed around them, and they moved as a group in formation through the room.
As they approached, Morland pushed the papers from him and raised the goblet to his lips, studying them with dark, dispassionate eyes over its jeweled rim. Amric was seated in the chair nearest Morland but still well out of arm’s reach, Halthak to his immediate left, and Bellimar next. The guards took stolid stances behind their chairs, hands resting on the pommels of their swords.
Amric took a moment to study the merchant. He was a tall man, lean and hard like a twisted piece of iron swathed in silks. His dusky complexion, aquiline features and sunken cheeks gave him a cadaverous appearance, and his dead eyes seemed to be weighing whether to eat his prey and be done with it or try to wring some utility from it first. Amric felt an immediate and abiding dislike for the man.
The silence hung taut in the air as they regarded each other. Finally Morland spoke in a voice like dry leaves. “Do you know why I am here, swordsman?” he rasped.
“It is your house,” Amric replied.
Morland’s eyes tightened at the corners. “Here, in Keldrin’s Landing?”
“For the scenery?” Amric hazarded. He heard Bellimar stir in his seat, but he did not glance aside.
“You are baiting me, here, at the center of my power?” Morland demanded.
“My apologies,” Amric said. “It seems I left my manners in an alley, skewered on the point of an assassin’s dagger. Forgive me for saying it, but you and Vorenius look nothing alike.”
“Ah yes,” Morland said. “Now is as good a time as any to put that distasteful matter behind us. The boy is an utter fool. I can scarcely believe we share a bloodline, however distant it might be. The only use I can find for him is gathering hired swords to me, and even that is largely just to keep him out from under foot.”
“If he is so onerous to you,” Bellimar said, “why retaliate on his behalf, when he was prevented from committing a heinous act, and still allowed his life in the end?”
Morland waved a dismissive hand. “Vorenius’s actions out in the wilds are his own affair, provided he does not invoke my name. Had you slain him, swordsman, I would have been well rid of him and the matter would be closed. As it is, you spared his life, and he returned to Keldrin’s Landing squawking of the assault to all who would listen. To my eternal chagrin, his relation to me is somewhat well known here, and thus propriety had to be observed.”
“Then it was a matter of etiquette?” Amric asked, bristling.
“I am pleased you understand. More importantly, I have devised a means by which we can clear the debt between us.”
“I owe you no debt,” Amric growled.
“Sadly,” said the merchant, “that is not, strictly speaking, the case. You have caused me a loss of face, however indirect, and I cannot be seen to brook such defiance. It would erode my business dealings.”
“What do you propose?” Bellimar interjected before Amric could retort.
“I understand you seek the Sil’ath warriors who came to me weeks ago,” Morland stated, then paused. “Speaking of which, where is your other Sil’ath companion?”
“Oh, he is about somewhere,” Amric said. “He sends his regrets that he will not be meeting you face to face this evening.”
The implication was not lost on Morland, who gave a tight-lipped smile. “How unfortunate. May he come to no harm in his wanderings tonight. As I was saying, you seek the Sil’ath warriors who came to me weeks ago. As circumstance would have it, they undertook a task for me but have not returned. You can absolve your debt to me, and theirs as well, by completing this task. This will be of mutual benefit to us both, since you must realize your best chance to locate them will be to follow in their steps.”
Amric bit back another angry response contesting the debt. He needed to glean as much as he could from this man, so instead he asked, “What is this task?”
“I am coming to that, swordsman. First I must return to my initial question: Do you know why I am here? No? It is not, as you put it, for the scenery.” Morland’s lip curled in disdain. “Geographically, this city is an inconsequential little dung heap. It is making me rich, I must admit, but I will celebrate the day I leave this place behind. Being here in Keldrin’s Landing is like living in a demon’s armpit. Strategically, however, this city enjoys a number of unique properties that warrant close consideration. Very close consideration indeed.”
He trailed off, one finger caressing the base of the goblet. After a moment, Bellimar cleared his throat. Morland’s brow creased in irritation and he turned to the old man as if noticing him for the first time.
“Your name is Bellimar, yes? How did you come by it? Surely no parent would bestow it, given its history.”
Bellimar’s smile was fixed upon his face, and he did not return the sudden looks from his companions. “You were extolling the strategic properties of this city, Morland?”
“So I was,” Morland murmured. “Of this region, more accurately. This wart of a city just happens to be the nearest speck of civilization to the phenomenon. Are you aware that the greatest scholars among the nations are observing a marked drop in the world’s magical energies, of late?”
Amric and Halthak exchanged a blank look. Only Bellimar seemed unsurprised at the turn of the conversation.
“It is true,” Morland said. “It was gradual at first, a year or more ago, but in recent months it has accelerated. The most powerful sorcerers in all the lands are expressing concern as they can no longer draw on the same reservoirs of power they have in the past.”
“I fail to see the problem,” Amric said in a dry tone.
“Do not be a fool, boy,” the merchant snapped. “Magic is power, and our civilizations are in no small way built on that power. If this trend continues at its current rate, we face chaos and upheaval on a heretofore unseen scale.”
“There are many who theorize,” Bellimar said, his voice soft, “that magic is so intrinsic to life that, were that energy to ebb too low, our world would become a barren husk, devoid of life. Remember our discussion of auras, swordsman. Magic resonates with other magic, humming together like harmonic vibration, and we exist in accord with the energy that permeates our world. Not only will the fantastic creatures suffer from its loss. None of us would survive.”