The lands were hilly and dusty, a buffer between the plains and the forests to the west. No buildings or civilization as those above water considered it. Turg moved in the tent, and Laquatus heard breaking glass. The gurgle of pouring liquid told the ambassador the jack had found his cache of seawater. He considered disciplining the frog, but the heat of the day drained away all initiative. His hatred festered as he wondered how long it would take the mercenaries to arrive.
The first scout into the camp surprised the ambassador, interrupting the merman's sulk in the heat. The man was small and covered in more warts than the aristocrat's jack. He dismounted and bowed. "Your Excellency-" he began.
"Surely there is a spokesman less repellent than you," Laquatus interrupted, looking back the way the scout had come. "I paid for the best, not the worst." The merman watched teeth grind as the man reached for a sword. Actually, the discolored skin reminded the ambassador of certain breeds of fish, but he was bored and needed entertainment. "I will return with my captain," the red-faced mercenary ground out. Laquatus waved and watched the fellow jerk himself into the saddle and start up the trail. The ambassador went into the hot tent to rouse his protector. Turg lay somnolent, broken glass all around him. Laquatus found an unopened bottle of salt water and smashed it against the tent pole bracket, ignoring the shards that fell on his champion. The merman took a long draught and poured the rest over his body. Already the frigid waterways down below seemed a dream in this heat. He kicked Turg viciously in the ribs, driving him up and outside. Laquatus saw the broken glass slash the frog's feet. He followed, resigning himself to only petty cruelties until he could once more call upon mer warriors.
The village was only a wide spot in the road, completely overwhelmed by the caravan camped around it. Laquatus hammered his heels into his steed and sent the long-suffering mare forward. The brisker pace cooled the ambassador down, his sodden garments losing heat as they dried. The mercenaries leading him watched sourly as he passed, water dripping down to the ground. The aristocrat had appropriated and emptied most of the column's canteens. The fighters' drinking water dribbled down the ambassador's back to the dirt as he passed. The mercenary leader was lost in a cloak, trying to seal off the heat. Laquatus could feel Turg closing from behind as he sprinted from a mud hollow to get to the camp. The hot breath of the amphibian seemed to fill the merman's lungs as he crowded against the column commander.
"All the hunting parties bring their captures here," the man said pointing to the swathe of activity. The encampment was swollen with the cries of animals and people. Bears, cougars, and wolves were caged, as well as fauns and Krosan dragonettes. A huge elk, nearly the size of an elephant, was secured to a stake by a nose ring. Though the noise enveloped them, it was without the frenzy expected from wild animals. Many seemed docile, even lost as they lay within the enclosures of steel. The hum of controlling spells called to the ambassador. The merman felt his champion slowly entering the camp behind him and drifting toward the pens. Laquatus broke the spell, and Turg started at the surge of will. The amphibian ran to his master, goaded by the aristocrat's bad humor.
"Sorry ambassador," called Laquatus's escort as the mercenaries peeled off for other duties, leaving him and the amphibian with only the company of their baggage. "It takes some effort to avoid the magic controlling the animals."
Laquatus nodded in recognition. The Mer Empire special-ized in spells of control and illusion, and a profitable business was made in training and equipping the hunters who entered the forest.
"Without the spells provided by the empire it would be impossible to manage these animals," the ambassador muttered, taking control of the giant elk. His mental bludgeoning sent it rampaging across the camp, its painful cries of no interest to the ambassador. Despite its matted hide and sores, it still had enough power to rip the stake out of the ground. He nodded at the ease with which he could hijack the spells.
The leader of the caravan approached. At least Laquatus thought him a leader in his finery. The man was tall and slender, his clothes of sturdy leather dyed in subtle hues with fancy stitching. A sword with a jewel-encrusted handle hung at his side, and in his hand he carried a quirt made of bone or ivory wrapped with many shades of leather. The merman could feel the quiescent magic humming in the tool as the man came closer.
"How may we serve your Excellency," he said, bowing and sweeping his hat low as if at court instead of a dusty camp. The mercenary knew Laquatus as the backer of the caravan, having been hired in Cabal City.
"A valuable bauble has mistakenly come into the possession of the Order," the ambassador said carefully. "Lieutenant Kirtar received a prize that belongs to the Mer Empire. The officer was called west before I could retrieve it."
"Indeed, the Order can be most troublesome about baubles," the man said and nodded to a group of wagons. Laquatus could see the loot of many a rediscovered battlefield. Such expeditions must be hidden lest the Order take offense. The Order routinely fed almost all recovered artifacts into great crushers. The ambassador feared that the prize might be destroyed in the name of such stupidity.
"If you are as determined to reach Lieutenant Kirtar as your earlier communications indicated, you might find this of interest." The mercenary led the aristocrat to a wagon. Chained by the foot to a wheel and lying in the mud was a Knight of the Order. Burns and knife cuts recorded the camp's hospitality. An arm was torn off, the stump wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. He was feverish and mumbling in delirium.
"He's perfect," breathed Laquatus, considering the miserable prisoner. Kirtar would welcome him anyway, but a present always made a guest more popular. This rescue would also diffuse some of the nastier rumors that the lieutenant's men might have heard during their time in the city. With a lot of coaching and an array of false memories, the fallen knight would make a splendid passport. The only question was whether the miserable tool could survive reaching Kirtar's forces.
"How far is the good lieutenant?" asked the ambassador, irritated that he must be dependent on these mercenaries. "I would bring this pitiful wretch to his commander as soon as possible." The mercenary captain looked at Laquatus kneeling down and laying soothing hands on the captive. The merman saw a flash of pity on the mercenary's face as the ambassador opened the shirt and inspected the wounds. His wounds were nasty, but he might survive a hard ride in the saddle with proper incentive.
"Kirtar is at least five days' ride west," the caravan leader said, turning to stare down the road. "In these conditions, I could not guess how long it would take you to reach the aven."
"What do you mean?" said Laquatus, already impatient to continue.
"The creatures of the forest lie in your path," the mercenary explained, gesturing to the ranks of animals captured in the camp.
"Creatures are no threat," Laquatus said with a snort. "You capture the dumb animals wholesale."
"But something disturbs them," the mercenary said worriedly. "We followed in the Order's wake, hoping to capture what remained, but the beasts circle ahead of us. Moving continually, they block the way and sweep across our path. My men and I have hunted for years, and never have I seen the beasts so disturbed save during a fire or sudden storm. The animal world is in upheaval, and I have no explanation. Something west drives the beasts to a frenzy."
"Yet you control your camp," the ambassador said acidly, standing up. If this was an attempt to extract hazard pay, it would go hard for the mercenary. Turg raised his head from a supply wagon he was stealing from at the merman's pique and began to move closer, anticipating violence.