"Oh, I'm sure the King wouldn't be offended to hear that a lowly apprentice Ranger thought he was crazy," said Halt. "Kings usually love to hear that sort of thing."
"But Halt:to let him out, after all these years? It seems:" He was about to say "crazy" again, but thought better of it. He thought suddenly of his recent encounter with the Wargals. The idea of thousands of those vile beasts streaming unopposed out of the Pass made his blood run cold.
It was Halt who answered first. "That's just the point, Will- after all these years. We've spent sixteen years looking over our shoulders at Morgarath, wondering what he's up to. In that time, we've had many of our forces tied up patrolling the base of the cliffs and keeping watch over Three Step. And he's been free to strike at us any time he likes. The Kalkara were the latest example, as you know only too well."
Gilan glanced admiringly at his former teacher. Halt had instantly seen the reasoning behind the King's plan. Not for the first time, he understood why Halt was one of the King's most respected advisers.
"Halt's right, Will," he said. "And there's another reason. After sixteen years of relative peace, people are growing complacent. Not the Rangers, of course, but the village people who provide men-at-arms for our army, and even some of the barons and Battlemasters in remote fiefs to the north."
"You've seen for yourself how reluctant some people are to leave their farms and go to war," Halt put in. Will nodded. He and Halt had spent the past week traveling to outlying villages in Redmont Fief to raise the levies of men who would make up the bulk of the army. On more than one occasion, they had been met with outright hostility-hostility that melted away as Halt exerted the full force of his personality and reputation.
"As far as King Duncan is concerned, now is the time to settle this," Gilan continued. "We're as strong as we'll ever be and any delay will only weaken us. This is the best opportunity we'll have to get rid of Morgarath once and for all."
"All of which still begs my original question," Halt said. "What brings you here in the middle of the night?"
"Orders from Crowley," Gilan said crisply. He placed a written dispatch on the table and Halt, after an inquiring look at Gilan, unrolled it and read it. Crowley was the Commandant of the Rangers, Will knew, the most senior of all the fifty Rangers in the Corps. Halt read, then rolled the orders closed again.
"So you're taking dispatches to King Swyddned of the Celts," he said. "I assume you're invoking the mutual defense treaty that Duncan signed with him some years ago?"
Gilan nodded, sipping appreciatively at the fragrant coffee. "The King feels we're going to need all the troops we can muster."
Halt nodded thoughtfully. "I can't fault his thinking there," he said softly. "But:?" He spread his hands in a questioning gesture. If Gilan were taking dispatches to Celtica, the sooner he got on with it the better, the gesture seemed to say.
"Well," said Gilan, "it's an official embassy to Celtica. " He laid a little stress on the last word and suddenly Halt nodded his understanding.
"Of course," he said. "The old Celtic tradition."
"Superstition, more like it," Gilan answered, shaking his head. "It's a ridiculous waste of time as far as I'm concerned."
"Of course it is," Halt replied. "But the Celts insist on it, so what can you do?"
Will looked from Halt to Gilan and back again. The two Rangers seemed to understand what they were talking about. To Will, they might as well have been speaking Espanard.
"It's all very well in normal times," Gilan said. "But with all these preparations for war, we're stretched thin in every area. We simply don't have the people to spare. So Crowley thought:"
"I think I'm ahead of you," said Halt, and finally, Will could bear it no longer.
"Well, I'm way behind you!" he burst out. "What on earth are you two talking about? You are speaking Araluen, aren't you, and not some strange foreign tongue that just sounds like it, but makes no sense at all?"
2
H ALT TURNED SLOWLY TO FACE HIS IMPULSIVE YOUNG APPRENTICE, and raised his eyebrows at the outburst. Will, subsiding, muttered, "Sorry, Halt," and the older Ranger nodded.
"I should think so. It's more than obvious that Gilan is asking if I'll release you to accompany him to Celtica."
Gilan nodded confirmation of the fact and Will frowned, puzzled by the sudden turn of events. "Me?" he said incredulously. "Why me? What can I do in Celtica?"
The moment the words had left his mouth, he regretted them. He should have learned by now never to give Halt that sort of opening. Halt pursed his lips as he considered the question.
"Ask interminable questions, interrupt your betters and forget to do your chores, I suppose. The real question is, Can you be spared from duty here? And the answer to that is 'Definitely.'"
"Then why:" Will gave up. They would either explain or they wouldn't. And no amount of asking would make Halt deliver that explanation a second sooner than he chose to. In fact, he was beginning to think that the more questions he asked, the more Halt actually enjoyed keeping him dangling. It was Gilan who took pity on him, perhaps remembering how closemouthed Halt could be when he chose.
"I need you to make up the numbers, Will," he said. "Tradition-ally, the Celts insist that an official embassy be made up of three people. And to be honest, Halt's right. You're one who can be spared from the main effort here in Araluen." He grinned a little ruefully. "If it makes you feel any better, I've been given the mission because I'm the most junior Ranger in the Corps."
"But why three people?" Will asked, seeing that Gilan at least seemed disposed to answer questions. "Can't one deliver the message?"
Gilan sighed. "As we were saying, it's a superstition among the Celts. It goes back to the old days of the Celtic Council, when the Celts, the Scotti and the Hibernians were one alliance. They were ruled then by a triumvirate."
"The point is," Halt interrupted, "of course Gilan can take the message to them. But if he's a sole messenger, they'll keep him waiting and fob him off for days, or even weeks, while they dither over form and protocol. And we don't have that sort of time to waste. There's an old Celtic saying that covers it: One man may be deceit. Two can be conspiracy. Three is the number I trust. "
"So you're sending me because you can do without me?" Will said, somewhat insulted by the thought.
Halt decided that it was time to massage Will's young ego a little-but only a little. "Well, we can, as a matter of fact. But you can't send just anyone on these embassies. The three members have to have some sort of official status or position in the world. They can't be simple men-at-arms, for example."
"And you, Will," Gilan added, "are a member of the Ranger Corps. That will carry a certain amount of weight with the Celts."
"I'm only an apprentice," Will said, and was surprised when both men shook their heads in disagreement.
"You wear the oak leaf," Halt told him firmly. "Bronze or silver, it doesn't matter. You're one of us."
Will brightened visibly at his teacher's statement. "Well," he said, "when you put it like that, I'd be delighted to join you, Gilan."
Halt regarded him dryly. It was obviously time for the ego-stroking to end, he thought. Deliberately, he turned to Gilan.
"So," he said, "can you think of anyone else who's totally unnecessary to be the third member?"