The last page, a larger piece of finer parchment, he kept in hand and read again, shaking his head. Apparently, in his absence, he’d been put in charge of all the military; promoted to some damned fool made-up rank of High Fist.
He toasted the page. I can blame my blasted brother for this, I’m sure.
Shouted alarms from the deck brought him to his feet and he charged for the door, snapping up a hanging sheathed falchion. The night was particularly dark, overcast and threatening a bone-chilling rain. Even as he peered round, searching the surrounding waters, he realized the cause of the panic as strangely contrary and warm gusts of wind blustered about him.
‘Stand back!’ he yelled to the sailors, gesturing them away from the mid-deck.
What looked like shifting tatters of night, or shadows, flitted about the deck, thickening to an obscuring dark. Sailors raised hands in warding signs against evil, while some muttered prayers. Two ran below-decks. Cartheron readied his sword – though he suspected who it was, he couldn’t be certain what might emerge here.
A strong gust of dry gritty air buffeted him, stinging his eyes, and then the darkness faded away to reveal two men, one lean, the other short and apparently aged, and Cartheron stepped up, sheathing his sword. ‘Welcome aboard, m’lords.’
The lean one, Dancer, greeted him, saying, ‘Cartheron.’ The little old fellow walked past him without even an acknowledgement and disappeared into the cabin. Cartheron sent a questioning glance to Dancer, who shook his head. ‘Make for Malaz, captain,’ he said.
‘Aye aye.’ He searched for and found his mate, Algar. ‘Relay the order.’ The mate hurried off.
The wiry knife-fighter had gone to the side and was looking out over the rolling waters. Cartheron noted the dust and dirt on his clothes and gear – all signs of hard travel. He cleared his throat. ‘If I may … why here? Why not go straight there?’
The young man nodded. ‘Too many eyes on the island now. Best we arrive without announcing it.’
‘Ah. Well, Surly will be relieved.’
‘Will she?’ the fellow murmured, as if to himself.
Cartheron frowned for a moment. ‘Of course. Your pact – ah, that is, the plan.’
Dancer’s gaze moved to the cabin door, and pinched in worry. ‘Yes. The plan. We should be able to go ahead with that now.’
Cartheron crossed his arms against the cold, nodding again. ‘Good, good. And you and your, ah, partner? How did that go, if I may ask?’
The still quite youthful-looking lad ran a hand through his thick, night-black hair – dislodging dust – and shook his head. ‘It was a dead end.’
* * *
Malle of Gris sat in one of the twin thrones of Gris her parents had commissioned the day she and her twin brother were born. Her brother Malkir’s throne had remained empty since he died the previous year in a hunting accident outside Li Heng. A death Malle blamed on his hired escort, the Crimson Guard, who should have died to a man and a woman protecting him.
Her official title remained something of a question as her mother, the queen, lived still, sickly and bedridden. ‘Princess Regent’ was one suggestion, or ‘Duchess’, as many of the eastern city states were regarded as duchies. However, the only title she allowed was ‘Malle of Gris’ as, she argued, this should be good enough for anyone.
This evening she sat among representatives of Gris’s dwindling allies. Present were lords, knights, or siblings of the rulers of the far eastern duchies, principates, and baronies: Haljhen, Nita, Balstro, Jurda, Habal, and Baran. They all sat at board in the huge stone hall, eating and talking in low voices, until Malle raised a hand for silence. ‘Lords and ladies … as you know, we have suffered a setback. Jurda is now isolated and besieged. What course of action do you suggest?’
An older, bearded knight, Lord Fense, uncle of the ruler of Jurda, Duke Rethor, climbed to his feet. He bowed. ‘Malle of Gris … my nephew and lord, Rethor, sends assurances that he will hold against the damned Bloorians for as long as it takes – all he asks is that a relief force be assembled.’
All present banged the table and shouted their support for Duke Rethor. Malle raised her hand for silence once more. She was not surprised; hundreds of years of feuds, raids and attacks lay behind a mutual hatred between the Bloor and the Jurdan ruling families. ‘My compliments to the Duke. Please assure him that every effort will be made to push back the Bloorians.’
Lord Fense inclined his greying head and sat.
‘Anything else?’ Malle asked of the table.
A woman as young as Malle herself cleared her throat and rose; Lady Amtal, daughter of the Countess of Haljhen. Slight and pale, affecting a mousy demeanour, she was, as Malle knew, in truth a skilled sorceress, and a rumoured agent of the Queen of Dreams herself. She curtsied to Malle. ‘Gris,’ she began, ‘I mean no disrespect, but duty demands I place my mother’s words before you – and I beg you take no offence.’
Malle nodded. ‘Go on. We are at council here and all may speak.’ She did, however, reach out to the armrest of her brother’s throne, as she used to reach out to his arm.
Lady Amtal curtsied again. ‘My mother counsels that we consider negotiation. Our position yet remains one of relative strength, but who knows what the future may hold?’
Malle squeezed the armrest. Negotiate while we still can. She took a calming breath. Such counsel anticipated defeat. Which I refuse to accept. ‘Thank your mother the countess for her wisdom, Lady Amtal. All options remain open, of course.’
Lady Amtal curtsied once more and sat. No one else rose. Malle nodded to them. ‘Very good. We assemble a force, then, and push back to relieve Jurda.’
All present banged cups and fists to the table – even the slight Lady Amtal tapped a hand. Malle ordered another round of refreshments be served.
Usually, such meals ended with an evening of entertainment from singers, jugglers, and other such mummers. Malle of Gris, however, kept a very sombre table, and so one by one the gathered nobles and knights-at-arms bowed and took their leave.
Once the last had left – a thoroughly soused knight of Baran half dragged along by his two hirelings – Malle regarded the broad chamber, empty but for servants cleaning up, and cleared her throat. She spoke into the darkened hall. ‘What say you, Ap-Athlan?’
From the shadows along one wall a slim, aged man in leathers stepped forward. He bowed to Malle and, walking past a table, helped himself to a few leavings of grapes. ‘Our list of allies grows shorter by the month,’ he observed, and tossed the grapes into his mouth one by one.
‘And?’ she asked, a touch wearily, chin in hand.
‘We need more. More allies, more troops. More of everything, frankly.’
‘And?’
‘Since we have impressed and recruited all we can, I suggest hiring.’
Malle scowled her disapproval. ‘You know what I think of mercenaries.’
‘Skinner and his troop are close by …’
The scowl became a grimace of distaste. ‘Collecting Wickan scalps for Duke Baran. You do know why he’s called Skinner?’
The sorcerer shrugged his indifference. ‘Fear is a potent weapon, Malle.’
Malle looked at the empty throne next to her, and sighed. ‘I know this. But it can fuel hate,’ her narrowed gaze slid over to the mage, ‘which is far stronger.’
Ap-Athlan daintily cleared his throat and stroked the small grey goatee at his chin. ‘Indeed. Perhaps so.’
She waved him off. ‘That is all for the night.’
Bowing stiffly from the waist, he left, still tossing grapes into his mouth.
Alone but for the servants, Malle sat in thought upon her throne. One by one they finished their tasks and slipped away until one last servitor – a skinny, sleepy-eyed youth – came and sat at her feet.