“This man professes to believe, as do his followers, that the ancient god Altis appeared to him and revealed that it was Cybelle’s destiny to rule from the Eastern Sea to the Western, from the far Northlands to the Southern Sea. In the relatively short time that ‘the Voice’ has been in power, he has managed to take over most of the countries between the Eastern Sea and the Great Swamp.”
Ren glanced at Rialla to make sure that she was still listening before he continued. “Long ago, after the Wizard Wars, the people of the East rose up in anger against anyone who practiced magic, much as we in the West did. In the East, however, there was no refuge. Without countries like Reth or Southwood to shelter them, the mages disappeared into stories told to frighten children.
“The religious revival is spreading even faster than the rule of Cybelle; the last few countries to join the empire have not even put up a fight. I am informed that the Voice of Altis performs miracles. Altis has given him the power to make light where there was only darkness, to make a building burst into flame with a wave of his hand. He can kill with a word. Sound familiar?”
Rialla looked up at his question. “A trained mage has set himself on the throne of Cybelle.” Her voice had lost all traces of timidity or mockery and was merely thoughtful.
Ren nodded and smiled with the growing conviction that she would turn out to be an adequate tool for his purposes. “He plans to continue through the Great Swamp by clearing the ancient path through it. My sources say he can do it.”
The Spy master’s smile dropped from his face and he sat forward intently on his chair. “Sianim, for all its military fame, is just a small city-state; alone against Cybelle we’d stand no chance at all. The Western nations need to face the Easterners as allies if we are to have a chance to stand against them. I have been working to patch old hostilities for the last few years. The most difficult conflict to smooth has been the persistent fighting between Darran and Reth.”
“So what do you need me for? There are other people who speak Darranian,” said Rialla quietly, obviously not stricken with any sudden urge to be of assistance.
“Lord Karsten is the driving force behind the Rethian alliance. There are people who don’t want Darran to be tied to Reth; the last outbreak of war is still fresh in the minds of those on both sides who lost kin. The antagonism is in no way helped by Reth’s traditional link with magic; as you well know, Darranians view sorcery as something twisted and defiled. Karsten’s influence is such that he is capable of overriding the objections of his peers in the council—if he survives to do so.”
Ren cleared his throat before continuing, watching the woman narrowly to gauge her response. “Last week an assassin’s arrow killed the horse that Lord Karsten was riding. Karsten was lucky, but I want to know who was behind the attempt so I can have them stopped.
“Lord Karsten is sponsoring a week-long celebration of his birthday at his country estate, Westhold. Because of the attempt on his brother’s life, Laeth has agreed to attend the celebration to see what he can find out.”
Ren leaned forward intently. “But I need something more. My dear mother used to say, ‘An unguarded tongue will bring down the stoutest walls.’ Around Lord Karsten’s brother every word will be weighed, measured and carefully doled out.
“What I need is someone no one notices—a part of the furnishings of the keep. Unfortunately the furniture can’t tell me what it hears—but a slave can.” Ren watched Rialla closely for her reaction, but not so much as a twitch gave away her thoughts.
She stared silently at the floor for a moment, then lifted her eyes to meet his. “I would do a great deal for Sianim: but not this. Paint a tattoo on someone else and I will teach them to be a slave, but I will leave Sianim before I go back to Darran.” Her voice was cold and hard, the voice of someone with the courage to cut the skin from the side of her face and cauterize the resultant wound.
Ren sat back undismayed: he still had a carrot to dangle in front of her. “To make the alliance more acceptable to Rethians, Lord Karsten has proposed several changes in Darranian law. Marriages with outsiders will be legal; this is required, of course, to permit the marriage between the princess and King Myr. Trade taxes will be lowered or possibly eliminated.” He paused and softened his tone to attract her attention. “The third change is the elimination of slavery within Darranian borders. This was deemed necessary because Reth views slavery as an abomination used only by the most barbaric of people.”
He couldn’t see if she had gone for his bait yet, so he rambled on to give her time to think. “In a strange way, the last change is the one that the Darranians find most objectionable. Slavery is not integral to their economy; slaves are merely luxuries that only a few can afford, but they are integral to Darranian culture. Most of the nobles of the council own several, and are loath to part with them. You, I am sure, have a greater understanding of this than I.”
The former slave bowed her head for a moment and then looked back at the Spymaster. Ren had been waiting for a reaction and he finally got one. “Do you know what you ask of me, Spymaster?”
“Yes,” he answered. “With your help, it may be possible to eliminate slavery in Darran. Laeth told me that you would be interested in such a mission.”
The tension left her body as suddenly as it had come. In a weary voice Rialla said, “Tell me the essentials and give me some time to think it over.”
Ren leaned back in his chair, satisfied that his strategy was working. “Most of the powerful nobles in the kingdom will be at Westhold with their entourages. Obviously, they aren’t likely to discuss their newest attempt on Lord Karsten’s life. I want you to determine who supports the alliance, who resists it and—most importantly—why. Don’t worry if your information seems trivial; I assure you that the most innocent facts are capable of illumination when combined with intuition and intelligence.”
Rialla rubbed the scar on her cheek, as if to relieve some persistent ache, and asked, “You are sure that Laeth agreed to this? For all that he has chosen to live in Sianim, he is Darranian. For him to agree to spy, or escort a spy to his brother’s home is the worst sort of betrayal.”
Ren nodded, “He agreed because of the threat to Lord Karsten.”
“When would we leave?” Rialla asked neutrally.
“Five days.”
She nodded and got to her feet. “I’ll give you my answer tomorrow morning.” The door shut quietly behind her as she left.
Feeling numb, Rialla made her way through the busy streets to the stables where the war horses, a source of income for Sianim second only to its mercenary services and training, were kept. She slipped under the ancient stone archway that lead into the stables, and allowed the familiar smells and the sounds of the horses moving quietly in their stalls to calm her. It was lunchtime and she had the place to herself.
Ignoring the friendly muzzles that were extended to her over the stall doors, she found a bench that wasn’t too cluttered with bits of mending or grooming tools and huddled on it, drawing her legs up beside her and leaning wearily against the wall.
The gray stone was cool against her cheek. She closed her eyes and contemplated what she’d been asked to do. Even the idea of going back to Darran was enough to raise a cold sweat. Darran had stolen her family, her heritage and a part of herself. In return she’d been given the scars she carried, inside and out.
Perhaps it would have been different for someone born into a more restrictive society, where women had little control over their destiny. Rialla had been born to one of the wandering Trader clans that traveled throughout the South; primarily through Southwood, Ynstrah and the little principalities that made up the Anthran Alliance. In the`Trader clans, women were people of power. The women controlled a clan’s finances and determined where the clan would travel the next season.