I dispatched Gennard to arrange a suitable repast in the green audience room, and to take there my sire’s poisoned sword. By Alizonian custom, conferring barons always disarmed before entering a meeting room, from which all mere retainers would be excluded. These measures had been originally intended to reduce the incidence of outright armed clashes between mortal enemies, but over time, would-be combatants tended to provide themselves with concealed weapons in case active offense or defense became necessary within the locked chamber.
Bodrik announced Reptur’s arrival. I was gratified by my castellan’s choice of four armsmen to stand for Krevonel. I recognized three of Reptur’s four armsmen—able fighters all, but not equal to our troop.
Gurborian and Gratch had arrayed themselves handsomely. I watched Mereth closely for any betraying signs of intimidation, but was greatly heartened when she assumed a most convincingly magisterial demeanor, reminiscent of old Baron Moragian.
As soon as the four of us had disarmed in the hall, Mereth marched directly to my sire’s chair at the head of the oval table within the audience chamber.
I deliberately turned my back on them in order to secure the interior beam in place to bar the doors. I had relied upon Gratch’s choice of chairs—ordinarily, he would never have consented to sit with a door to his back, but he had to assume our barred double doors precluded any surprise entry. Moreover, he was right-handed, and had to be lured by the direct proximity afforded for a knife thrust toward Mereth. My sire’s sword was conveniently within my reach behind the chair across from Gratch, to Gurborian’s left and Mereth’s right.
Gennard had prepared a tray for us on the conference table. Moving to my desired chair, I shifted the three gold goblets and poured a generous measure of Krevonel’s best bloodwine for our guests. They naturally waited for me to sample my own portion before tasting theirs.
Gurborian frowned at Mereth’s empty hands. “Can it be,” he inquired, “that you shun this excellent vintage, Volorian?”
Mereth achieved a remarkably rueful, close-mouthed grimace as she scribbled on her slate, then presented it for me to read. She had written, “Frustrated due to ague. Cannot taste food or wine properly.”
“ ‘I can scarcely express my frustration,’ ” I read aloud. “ ‘This ague has robbed me of my taste so that I cannot properly appreciate food or drink.’ ”
Gurborian relaxed somewhat in his chair. “What a pity,” he said. “When your taste returns, you must prevail upon Kasarian to send some casks of this wine to you. I find it quite laudable. Don’t you agree, Gratch?”
“Most assuredly, my lord,” Gratch dutifully responded.
Mereth rapped her staff upon the floor, and made a peremptory gesture at Gurborian, who laughed sharply.
“You always were impatient, Volorian,” Gurborian said, “as direct with words as with swords.” He turned back to Gratch. “Pray explain to the Worthy Baron what a singular opportunity awaits him and Krevonel when they ally with Reptur to promote our new venture.”
Whatever else one might say about Gratch, one would scarcely characterize him as direct in any matter. I recalled Volorian had written that if Gratch’s object in prying near our estates was to spy upon Escore, it was a wonder he had approached the actual border region—it would have been more like him to take ship to Karsten and worm his way around by the most devious possible route. I was intensely curious to hear how Gratch would try to lure us into denying our Line’s traditional utter rejection of magic. It was not surprising when he chose to approach the subject obliquely.
“We cannot, of course, enhance the already formidable reputation secured by the Line of Krevonel,” Gratch said earnestly to Mereth.
Mereth nodded, as if acknowledging an accepted fact.
“It appears,” Gratch continued, “that you no longer care to participate in the active conduct of affairs at Alizon Castle, being fully occupied, no doubt, with your renowned breeding efforts at your country estate.”
Mereth nodded again, and drummed her gloved fingers restlessly on the table top.
Undaunted, Gratch forged ahead, creeping nearer to the nub of his argument. “My lord and I have carefully considered what enticements we might offer to encourage a certain . . . change of mind on your part,” he said. “We knew that the virtues of our proposal would appeal to your keen military judgment, but oftentimes extra . . . factors can speed one’s decision.”
Mereth thumped her staff suddenly, startling Gratch into a slight stammer. “W-worthy Baron?”
She scrawled one word on her slate. I held it so both Gurborian and Gratch could see the boldly written query, “Terms?”
While she wiped the slate, I added. “And in return for what action by Krevonel?”
Gurborian had propped his chin on one beringed hand, his expression passive, but expectant. He was—at least for the present—evidently content to let Gratch speak for him.
Gratch sipped thirstily from his goblet. “I understand,” he said, “that the Worthy Baron’s pack is lacking in only one champion strain—the bloodline held exclusively by Baron Bolduk.” His voice took on a wheedling note, as if he were trying to induce a newly weaned pup to put its head through a spiked collar for the first time. “Quite recently, Baron Bolduk actively embraced our proposals. Should you join our faction, it is most likely that he would favorably entertain your request for breeding rights.”
Mereth subjected Gratch to a withering stare, rightly implying that so flagrant a bribe—without previous explanation of the reciprocally required action—was too contemptible to deserve comment.
It seemed a suitable time to divert their attention to me, and possibly trick them into saying more than they intended. “Speaking of Bolduk’s Line,” I remarked, “I heard lately that the younger whelp died quite suddenly during the New Year’s Assembly . . . on the Sixth Day, was it not? Doubtless the old Baron was sorely grieved.”
Gurborian affected a doleful outward expression, but his eyes glinted with satisfaction. “Just so,” he said. “I hastened to his side as soon as the sad news reached Reptur. As I had suspected, their old feud with Ferlikian was behind the death. Baron Bolduk was most appreciative of my condolence.” He addressed Mereth directly. “You will want to confer with him, I am sure, since both of you have long held similar attitudes regarding certain . . . matters. You will find that Bolduk has completely revised his former convictions now that he has assessed the rewards promised by our venture.”
Mereth wrote briefly and to the point. I simply voiced her command: “ ‘Detail this venture.’ ”
Gurborian nodded to Gratch, who dipped a finger in his bloodwine and drew a scarlet streak across the table top. Once he had added a few more such lines, I saw that he was sketching a crude map of Alizon’s borders.
“Since our ill-advised alliance with the Kolder has been destroyed,” Gratch declared, “my lord and I have devoted ourselves to determining the most advantageous new course to expand Alizon’s dominion. For too long, we have been thwarted by the Estcarp’s hags’ detestable spells that hinder our free movement southward. Here—where the Forbidden Hills trail off into the trackless Tormarsh—the Lord Baron has persisted in probing over the years, but the Witchspells have prevented passage of more than a pitifully few spies. Some moons ago . . .” Gratch paused, looked keenly at Mereth, and added, “as you were evidently aware, Worthy Baron, I journeyed near your estates to pursue inquiries in the mountains bordering on Escore.” He marked two spots with his finger. “Here . . . and here, my lord sought word of certain powerful forces which might assist us in scourging Estcarp. . . .”