On cue, a pair of doors opened in the wall and two men stood there, dressed wholly in black.
“I bid you welcome, gentlemen,” Cadamost said in his lilting voice.
The men marched into the chamber and took seats at the council table without a word. The doors boomed shut as if to emphasize the finality of their entrance.
“I give you Marshals Jonakait and Markus of Neyr and Gaderia, authorized in this instance to speak also for the electorates of Tulm and Amarlaine. In effect, they are the voice of Fimbria.”
The other monarchs sat stunned, none more so than Abeleyn. His own envoys had returned empty-handed from the enigmatic Electors of Fimbria. But the four electorates had combined to send two representatives to the conclave. It was unprecedented. One of the reasons for the fall of the Fimbrian Hegemony had been the bitter rivalries between the electorates. What had caused this change of heart?
Cadamost looked rather smug. Regarded as a political lightweight by the other monarchs, he had nevertheless pulled off a massive diplomatic coup. Abeleyn glanced at the red-rimmed eyes, the unimpressive exterior of Perigraine’s king. There was more to him than a singer’s voice.
The Fimbrians sat impassively. They were square men, their hair shorn brutally short and their hollow-cheeked faces speaking of great physical endurance. They wore traditional Fimbrian black, the garb of all men of any rank in the electorates since the fall of their Hegemony and the death of the last emperor. Torunnan black and scarlet, the dress of Lofantyr, was a derivative of Fimbrian sable, and it was the Torunnans who had inherited the mantle of foremost military power upon the continent. But who knew how the Fimbrians would fare these days? Narbukan Fimbria, it was true, had opened itself to the outside world after the schism with the rest of the electorates, but as a result it was no longer seen as truly Fimbrian.
“We are here at the behest of two kings,” Jonakait said. “We of the electorates recognize that the west is facing its greatest threat since the time of the Religious Wars. Fimbria, once the foremost power in the world, will no longer isolate itself from the normal run of diplomatic contact. I am here, authorized to enter into agreements and treaties with the other monarchs of Normannia, and authorized also to promise military aid if that is what is required.”
“Why didn’t your Electors come in person?” Lofantyr asked sharply, clearly resenting the “foremost power” bit.
Jonakait blinked. “Markus and I are authorized to act on their behalf. We have been invested with Electoral Imperium. We sit here as the de facto rulers of Fimbria, and are able to authorize any course of action we see fit.”
Things had been changing in Fimbria then, and no one had even noticed, Abeleyn thought. The Electorates had somehow patched up their squabbles and acted in unison. He wondered just how much authority these two men truly possessed.
“Can you sanction the commitment of Fimbrian troops?” Lofantyr asked, his eagerness transparent.
“We can.”
The Torunnan king leaned back. “You may be held to that promise, Marshal.”
The Fimbrian shrugged ever so slightly.
Abeleyn wondered, though, who else among the men seated around the table would truly tolerate Fimbrian tercios on the march again across Normannia. He had thought himself open-minded, devoid of any prejudices springing from the past, but even he felt a cold shiver at the thought. The memories ran deep. No wonder many of the faces around the table looked outraged as well as astonished.
Cadamost took the floor again, striving to push the meeting past the sensational entrance of the two marshals.
“Urgent questions lie before us at this time, and it is imperative that the issues behind them be addressed. If the west is to have any kind of concerted policy towards the eastern crisis-and other happenings-then we must, as the heads of our nations, come to some decisions within the walls of this chamber.”
“Do we work on the basis of rumours or of fact, cousin?” Haukir asked. His white beard bristled. It was said that he and his Prelate, Marat, were related, and more closely than might be supposed. The Almarkan Prelate, gossip had it, was born into the Royal house, but on the wrong side of the blanket. Certainly the two men were as similarly gruff and obstinate as to be twins.
“What do you mean, cousin?” Cadamost shot back.
“These rumours that Macrobius is alive and at Ormann Dyke, for instance. They must be quashed before they do harm.”
“I agree,” Abeleyn spoke up. “They should be thoroughly investigated, in case there is some germ of substance at their heart.”
“Pieter Martellus at the dyke insists that Macrobius is there,” Lofantyr said.
Haukir snorted. “Do you believe him? He’s just trying to inject a little backbone into his garrison, is all.”
“I have never heard that Torunnan soldiers lacked backbone,” Lofantyr flared. “I thought perhaps their conduct at Aekir would have been testimony enough to their courage. My countrymen have been dying in their tens of thousands so that the kingdoms which shelter behind their bucklers might rest easy at night. So do not prate to me of backbone, cousin.”
Bravo! Abeleyn thought gleefully as Haukir’s face darkened and he began to sputter with wrath.
But Lofantyr was not yet done.
“It has been brought to my attention that the five thousand Knights Militant promised to my Prelate by the Vicar-General of the Inceptines have turned around in their march to the dyke and are retracing their steps to Charibon. So much for the help of the Church. Himerius takes the same line as you, Haukir: he condemns out of hand without waiting to hear the evidence for or against. Myself, I vow to keep an open mind. If Macrobius is truly alive, then surely it is a sign from God that the Merduk tide is on the turn. The news from the dyke confirms this.”
Abeleyn shared a look with Mark of Astarac. So that was it. Lofantyr had found the strength to defy the new Pontiff because of the successes at the dyke. But also, Abeleyn suspected, because there were Fimbrian at the table making promises of troops. The Torunnan king did not feel he had to rely on Church forces any longer. Lofantyr was his own man again, and that was all to the good.
“Accusations and recriminations have no place at this assembly,” Cadamost said, holding up a hand to forestall Haukir’s explosion.
“Do we defy the Pontifical bull of the new spiritual leader of the Ramusian world, then?” Skarpathin of Finnmark asked easily, his killer’s face creased by a sardonic smile.
Cadamost paused, and Abeleyn spoke quickly into the silence.
“The Pontiff may not be adequately informed. He acted as he thought best to prevent disorder, confusion-even schism-within the Church at this vital time. But though we can abide by the letter of the bull, I yet believe that we can conduct ourselves as just men, and await the result of further investigations with an open mind.”
There were rumbles at this, but no open disagreement. Everyone knew that the Hebriate King and his one-time Prelate had always been at odds with one another. Haukir glared at Abeleyn suspiciously. He was the irreligious boy-king, the trickster. He must be up to something. Abeleyn kept his own face carefully bland.
Cadamost flicked a look of gratitude at Abeleyn. Clearly, his role of referee was a wearing one.
“The subjects for discussion have most of them been raised, then,” he said. “This rumour of Macrobius’ survival, the defence of Ormann Dyke and the other eastern marches, and the advent of our new colleagues, the Fimbrians.”
“There are others, cousin,” Mark of Astarac said.
“Such as?”
“Such as these damned burnings that have been going on in Hebrion and which seem set to be extended to every Ramusian state on the continent.”