At the fringe of the main camp, Strahteegos Grahvos’ most trusted retainers stood guard about his pavilion, their bared steel turning away any who came near. When a horseman, both his face and body muffled in a dark cloak, rode up, he leaned from his saddle, whispered a few words to an officer, and was immediately passed through.
Within the main room of the pavilion, Grahvos and seven other thoheeksee conversed in low, guarded tones. When a ninth man entered, Grahvos hurried over to him and they exchanged a few whispered sentences. Then the newcomer laid aside his cloak and accompanied the old Strahteegos back to the table.
Grahvos tapped his knuckles on the table and the other nobles broke off their conversations to turn toward him. “Gentlemen, I declare the Council of Thoheeksee … what’s now left of us, at least … now in session. I think that most of you know Captain Vahrohnos Mahvros of Lohfospolis. It was he who had the courage to undertake the mission of which I spoke earlier. He has just returned from the camp of High-Lord Milo and King Zenos, where he spoke in my name. He … but let him tell of it.” He sat down.
Mahvros booked half again his thirty years. His darkly handsome face was drawn with fatigue and the nervous strain of the last day. But his voice was strong. “My lords, I spent most of the afternoon and early evening with High-Lord Milo, King Zenos of Karaleenos, Lord Alexandras of the Sea Isles and Thoheeks Djefree of Kumbuhluhn, though the High-Lord seemed to speak for all most of the time.
“He swears that no man or body of men marching south will be harmed or hindered; indeed, if they march along the main traderoad, they can be certain of guides to show them to unpolluted water.
“The High-Lord emphasized that he wants none of our arms or supplies or equipment. We are welcome to bear back anything we brought north. He demands only the surrender of the persons of the High King and the Queen.”
“Haarumph!” Thoheeks Mahnos of Ehpohtispolis interjected. “He is most welcome to that pair, say I. Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
“Yes, yes,” Grahvos agreed. “We made a serious mistake with Zastros, but none of us could have known at the time how much he had changed in his three years of exile. We now know and, hopefully, it’s not too late to save our homelands from any more of his misrule.”
Another voice entered the conversation—the gritty bass of Thoheeks Bahoa growled. “I went along with the majority—every man here knows that—but I told you then that Zastros was not Zastros. Our fathers’ duchies adjoined. I’ve known the man all his life, and the Zastros of the last year ia not the Zastros of years agone!”
“Well, be that as it may be,” Grahvos snapped. “The High-Lord Milo wants the High King and his witch-wife. Our alternatives are few: we can continue to sit here, while the men desert individually and in whole units, until starvation, or camp fever or an arrow in the night takes us; or we can try another assault on that goddamned deathtrap of a bridge … though, to my way of thinking, falling on our swords would be an easier way of suiciding.
“I say that we leave Zastros and his wife to our esteemed former foes and take our men back home; God knows, we and they have enough to do there. How says the Council?” Seven ayes answered.
“Now that that is settled,” Grahvos went hurriedly on, “let’s bring another thorny matter into the open. Who is going to rule without Zastros? Each of us has as much claim to the Dragon Throne as the next. But can the Southern Kingdom survive another three or more years of civil war and anarchy? I think not.
“Look around this table, gentlemen. Our Council was once made up of two and thirty thoheeksee; including Zastros, there are now but nine in our camp. If young Vikos made it back safely, there are two living thoheeksee in all of the Southern Kingdom, and the late King probably died by his own hand.
“What of the rest, gentlemen? Twenty thoheeksee, almost two-thirds of the original Council, died senselessly and uselessly while fighting like curs over a stinking piece of offal!
“I say: no more, gentlemen, no more! If we name another of our own number king, how long will it be before one or more of us is tempted to overthrow him, replace him, eh?”
There were sober nods and mutterings of agreement around the table.
At length, Thoheeks Bahos grunted the obvious question. “Then what are we to do, Grahvos? Our kindgom must have a strong ruler, but a tyrant tike Hyamos and bis lousy son will beget another rebellion.”
“The High-Lord Milo of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, Karaleenos keh Kuhmbuhlun has freely offered the thirty-three duchies of the Southern Kingdom full-standing memberships in his Confederation. All nobles will retain their lands, cities, rights, and titles; only their sworn allegiance will change. We will have no king; each thoheeks will act as royal governor of his duchy for the High-Lord. The High-Lord or his emissary will meet with the full Council each year to work out taxes and any other business matters.”
The first to speak after Grahvos had dropped his bombshell was Mahnos. “What of our warbands?”
“We will, of course, be expected to furnish men for the Army of the Confederation, and to see to the training of the spear levy. Nor will noblemen be denied bodyguards and armed retainers, but the large warbands are to be dissolved.”
Mahnos nodded emphatically. “Good and good again. Give a man a small army to play with and all hell breaks loose. Besides, I’d rather see my people pushing plows than pikes. You have my ‘aye,’ Grahvos.”
Within a scant hour it was settled, for the firm yet fair government of Kehnooryos. Ehlahs had been the subject of speculation and admiration for the thirty years since its inception; and all the thoheeksee agreed that almost any form of rule was preferable to the last few years. The meeting broke up and they scattered to their various commands to order their forces, agreeing to meet, each with retinues of reliable, well-armed men, at Zastros’ pavilion at a specified time.
Lillian leisurely set up the transceiver, attaching it to the powerpack in the matching chest and to its antenna—that long, slender brass rod that she, while in Zastros’ body, had had permanently affixed to the highest point of the pavilion. Then she plugged in the mike and carefully adjusted the frequency. There was, she knew, no chance of discovery or interruption this time, for Zastros was heavily sedated—even were he not, only the timbre of-her voice and those words known to no other could bring him out of his trance-state. Nor were the guards to be expected to check this far into the pavilion until they changed, and that was at least two hours away.
She depressed the button that gave out her call signal. Almost immediately a man’s voice crackled from the set.
“This is the J. & R. Kennedy Center. Who’s calling, please?”
“Dr. Landor. This is Dr. Lillian Landor. Who is the board member on duty tonight?”
“Uhhh, Dr. Crawley, ma’am. You wish to speak with him?”
“Of course I want to speak with him, you dunce! Why else do you think I called? And, wait a minute!” she snapped. “I hold four degrees buster. I’ve as much right to the title ‘Doctor’ as has any other board member. If I hear one more goddamned ma’am out of you, you’ll spend the next ten years in the body of a goddamned alligator! You get me, you goddamned chauvinist?”
The man stammered some unintelligible reply. Then there was dead air for a short while while she fidgeted and silently fumed.
A new voice came through the speaker. “This is Bud Crawley, Lily. What seems to be the problem this time?”
“Dr. Crawley,” she replied icily, “I warned you all about the riskiness of this insanity from the start, and I knew I was right, even if you didn’t. Well, the army is at the Little Pee Dee River, just west of the ocean swamps, and it cannot go any farther north, not without help from the Center.”