He was relieved to see he had brought plenty of blank paper.
The Duke of Caergoth stood at a table, glaring irritably. The surface before him was large and layered in green velvet. A stripe of blue silk twisted through the middle of the table like a river, and several heaps of cloth looked like miniature hills. Across the table were spread hundreds of tiny figures carved to look like knights, footmen, dwarven infantry, goblin hordes-all of them commanded by a few gloriously decorated lords mounted on horseback. The most resplendent of these, in silver armor and mounted upon a rearing black stallion, held the banner of Caergoth, a red rose on a field of blue, aloft on a standard.
Duke Crawford examined the position of the Evil Ones-his name for the enemy he faced on this make-believe battlefield. Today his army was challenged by a powerful but undisciplined horde. He had arranged an elaborate feint to draw the heavy infantry, a brigade of ogres, into range of his catapults, and he was preparing to unleash a devastating barrage. His own knights, armored and mounted on powerful chargers, waited behind a hill, ready for a smashing counterattack.
Only then did he feel the humming vibration in his stomach-the magical summons of his lord. He stepped to a small door in the side of his game room, pulled it open, and saw the outline of a pale glow by a small drape on the wall of the alcove. He hastened over and pulled the curtain aside to reveal an ornate crystal mirror-a mirror that was growing bright with magical illumination.
“My Lord Regent!” Crawford said. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
Bakkard du Chagne’s dour image confronted him from the depths of the mirror. “Never mind that,” snapped the lord in Palanthas, his voice transported across the miles through the medium of magical mirrors in both places. “I have learned that both Solanthus and Thelgaard will be delayed in arriving for the conference.”
Crawford blinked. He-or rather, his staff-had been preparing for the conference for months on end, and he had not been expecting problems. “But… why?” he asked, finally.
“Pride, no doubt. Even arrogance,” snapped du Chagne. “Petty political maneuvering. The important thing is that we do not reward their posturing.”
“Um, yes,” Crawford agreed. “What do you want me to do?”
“My daughter is traveling there by royal galleon-she will be arriving in Caergoth within a matter of days. She will be hosting the conference, so you are to fete her as you would me-and let the tardy lords know when they arrive, that they have missed these signal honors.”
“Certainly, my lord.” The duke was dismayed to hear that the princess would be arriving so soon. He was within a week of having the Evil Ones utterly destroyed-and now the gods only knew how long it would be before he got back to his gaming table.
As if to further mock him, someone knocked firmly on the door.
“Go away! I’m busy with my general staff!” Duke Crawford barked.
“Beg pardon, my lord, but it’s urgent.” It was the stern voice of the duke’s veteran captain, Sir Marckus.
Crawford looked back to the mirror, as the lord regent gestured impatiently. “Go-but remember what I have said.”
“Of course, my Lord,” replied the duke, bowing, then pulling the drapery back across the mirror. He stepped out of the alcove and closed the door. “Very well-come in!” he snapped to his officer outside the room.
Marckus, with his impressive flowing mustache and impeccable uniform, opened the door and stood back so a messenger could enter. The man, smelling of wet horse, dashed into the room with his hat in his hand and bowed, ready to apologize to the gathered nobles and officers but blinking in surprise as he raised his head and saw only the duke.
“Speak, man!” demanded the lord, as the messenger stared in astonishment at the war game arranged on the table.
“Begging your Excellency’s pardon, but the harbor lookouts report that a convoy from Palanthas is approaching the port, ten stout galleons. They fly the flag of the princess-it must be the Lord Mayor’s daughter and her entourage.”
“By Joli, they’re not expected until the day after tomorrow!” The duke glanced at his tabletop in disappointment. “I had the Evil Ones outmaneuvered-would have annihilated the whole force by tomorrow morning! Now it will be weeks before I get back to such fun!” The duke sniffed, then called out, “Sir Marckus!”
“Yes, Excellency!” The knight captain stepped into the game room, snapping to attention.
“See to an honor guard immediately-to be in attendance on the docks as the Lady of Palanthas disembarks. Get the street sweepers busy-I want the whole avenue between here and the waterfront spotless. Have people turn out in a proper welcome-you know, lining all the walkways, balconies, that sort of thing.”
“Of course, Excellency. May I inquire as to the available time before her arrival?”
“Something less than an hour, so hop to it.”
“As you wish, my lord. If you will excuse me?” Somehow, the knight-a veteran officer of many battle campaigns-maintained his dignity as he marched away.
The ten ships of the Lord Regent’s fleet were lined at the docks of Caergoth, sails furled, gangplanks lowered. The captain of the Palanthian Guards, Sir Powell, led the procession of knights, a score of whom had been transported, with horses, on each vessel. All two hundred of the detachment were formed up, in neat ranks.
Lady Selinda Du Chagne debarked to enthusiastic cheers from the adoring populace of Caergoth. At eighteen, she was a stunningly beautiful young woman, with high cheekbones and hair the color of fine-spun gold. She smiled as she came down the gangplank, waving as she climbed into the waiting carriage.
For the first time in years, the “Princess of Palanthas” had been allowed to leave her native city. Caergoth was, she saw at a glance, a quite different place: solid and down to earth, compared to the elegant but rigid and stifling city to the north.
For eighteen years, Palanthas had stifled Lady Selinda very much indeed.
She was met on the dock by Sir Marckus Haum, captain of the ducal guard. He bowed to her and saluted Captain Powell, the dour but capable knight in charge of Selinda’s escort. Moments later she was ensconced in an open carriage, rolling through the streets while the people lined three or four deep along the entire road from the waterfront to the castle. There was a naive enthusiasm in their uncritical shouts and cheers. Most of them had never heard of her a couple of hours earlier. At home Selinda was lucky if the jaded citizens of Palanthas took the trouble to move out of the way when her noble carriage traversed the streets.
Furthermore, she found the stone, square houses and shops of Caergoth comforting, reassuring. The place had a look of permanence about it, with broad walls sectioning off the neighborhoods of the city, ensuring that any attacker would have to fight his way through many gates before reaching the castle proper.
That vaulted edifice sat upon a commanding bluff overlooking the sheltered harbor. The steepness of the hill climbing away from the waterfront forced Lady Selinda to keep one hand firmly clenched around a support bar in her lurching carriage.
She observed the gleaming ranks of men-at-arms arrayed in compact formations in the broad square before the castle itself. There must be a thousand of them, she guessed, organized by arms: squares of pikemen, their tall weapons held high, straight ranks of archers with crossbows clutched at the ready, burly swordsmen in gleaming plate mail breastplates rigidly clasping their crimson shields over their hearts. A line of massive, steel-strapped catapults loomed behind the soldiers, an impressive array of artillery that looked capable of reducing a small castle to rubble with a single barrage.
Castle Caergoth loomed over her, more dominant, forbidding, and warlike than any structure in all of glorious Palanthas. Selinda couldn’t help but gawk at the tall turrets, arched bridges, immense palisades, and studded ramparts. Gray and scuffed across its vast faces, it looked more a product of nature than man.