“You dared to consider consulting the vile Mages of Escore?” I interrupted. It was not difficult to feign intense dismay, given the appalling nature of the Escorian threat.
“Calm yourself, Honorable Kasarian,” Gurborian purred. “It has been said that you are a swordsman of notable skill. Would you refuse to employ the sharpest blade available merely because you disapprove of the decoration on the hilt? I urge you to weigh the obvious advantages of our strategy. Who else can counter—indeed, overpower—Estcarp’s hags? The sole strength of the Witches lies in their magic. Why should we not enlist even more puissant magic on our behalf? As a scholar, you must know that in the far past, it was the Mages of Escore who first drove the Witches over the mountains into Estcarp.”
Gratch leaned forward, stabbing his wine-stained finger at the area of his map that represented Escore. “Like Alizon,” he asserted, “Escore does not forget past insults or past foes. For a thousand years, Escore, too, has been border-blocked by Estcarp. Their Mages likely still cherish hopes for further revenge.”
“How say you, Volorian?” Gurborian inquired. “Surely you do not mourn the destruction of the Kolder—unreliable foreigners who failed miserably in their campaigns against the hags. Escore is nearby, and centuries-steeped in Power. Should we not seize so promising a means to enlarge Alizon’s borders while also avenging the honor of our Foresires?”
Mereth surveyed Gratch’s map, then wrote on her slate for me to read, “Krevonel has always hated magic. How can this plot help Krevonel?”
I nodded, as if in firm agreement, and “read” aloud, “ ‘You know very well the position our Line has always taken regarding magic: it is an abominable practice, never to be accepted. How can you propose that Krevonel consider allying with such disgusting foulness?’ ”
“But no magic shall be wielded within Alizon itself,” Gratch quickly averred. “The full force of Escore’s fury will be directed entirely against Estcarp.”
Mereth regarded him balefully, scribbled briefly, and flourished her slate at me. I had to admire her spirit—the genuine Volorian could have reacted no better. I read her words as they were written, since they were perfectly chosen. “ ‘And if Escore should prevail against Estcarp, then where next do they turn for prey?’ ”
Gratch sputtered, and flushed a dusky red.
Gurborian laughed aloud. “I had wondered whether your years away from court might have dulled your wits,” he exclaimed. “I see they remain as sharp as your hounds’ teeth. You pose a fair question. Until we complete our negotiation, I cannot supply the particulars, but you may be assured that Alizon will emerge with full dominion over all lands to the west of the mountains. I will not settle for less.”
“Can you confide to us the names of those negotiating for Escore?” I inquired.
Gurborian shook his head. “Alas, no. Our contacts must for the present remain secret. It is their imperative condition, you understand.”
“But you are dealing with acknowledged Mages,” I persisted.
“Of course,” Gurborian snapped. “Those with minor skills would be of scant use to us.”
Mereth passed me her slate. Again, I read it directly aloud. “ ‘How do you plan to control Escore’s Mages? Will they not attempt to enslave Alizon with their foul magic?’ ”
“No, no,” Gurborian objected. “You misunderstand the thrust of our argument. We shall deal with only the most powerful enemies of Estcarp, those Mages whose desire for revenge is greatest. We shall assure them that once they have swept away the hags, Alizon will occupy and administer the whole of Estcarp. Their own sovereignty to the east of the mountains will be complete; we guarantee not to challenge it. Think of the advantages for them: a stable border, steadfast Alizon guarding their western approaches—perhaps we might even indulge in some limited trade to our mutual benefit.”
I pretended to be impressed. “That does sound eminently rewarding to both sides,” I admitted. “The Lord Baron must have commended you when you presented the proposal to him.”
Gratch hesitated, pouring himself more bloodwine. “As to that,” he began to say, but Gurborian interrupted.
“Norandor has not yet been advised regarding our venture,” Gurborian said. “We prefer to be able to present him with the complete results of our negotiations.”
“So you have not yet actually found the Mages you seek,” I stated, forcing him to commit himself . . . or lie.
“It is a delicate procedure.” Gurborian signaled for Gratch to refill his goblet. “Our efforts proceed concurrently, like a brace of hounds questing after two separate scents. Gratch has been pursuing our potential Escorian linkages, whilst I have been enlisting barons to our cause. Each effort strengthens the other. The Mages will be the more impressed by a large faction of like-minded barons, just as the barons will be similarly impressed by the experience and power of the Mages with whom we deal.”
“I should think,” I observed tentatively, “that locating Escorian Mages would be a difficult, indeed dangerous undertaking.”
As I spoke, I watched Gratch closely. Oftentimes, folk who boast of their mastery of a skill like poisoning fail to recognize that others may also stumble upon useful scraps of poison lore of which they may be unaware. Among Krevonel’s ancient manuscripts, I had found a description—annoyingly pierced by vermin’s teeth—of a certain rare root which, when dried and powdered, was promised to loosen a guarded tongue. Having acquired and powdered such a root, I had cautiously sampled a few grains to gauge whether the flavor could be noticed in wine, and also to test its effect on an Alizonder, since the document had originally been seized in a sea raid on the shipwreckers of Verlaine. Aside from a slight warming of the blood, I detected no other effect on me, but I thought it worthwhile to try the potion on Gratch, whose home isle of Gorm was near enough to Karsten to render him perhaps vulnerable. I had therefore tipped a pinch of the root powder from my signet ring’s hidden compartment into Gratch’s first goblet of bloodwine. It was gratifying to see that his breathing had noticeably quickened, and a film of sweat was glistening on his forehead. I awaited his reponse to my statement with special interest.
“There are more mages and would-be mages lurking about in those border mountains than you would believe,” Gratch blurted. “Of course, most are worthless, self-deluded fools. I mind one I came upon this past summer—an old recluse who had brewed a potion supposed to stimulate the body to great feats of strength and endurance. He was so enamored of the effect he felt when he dipped his fingers in a basin of it, that he had his apprentice fill a bath with the potion so he could immerse his entire body.”
“Such a potion could be of great value to soldiers,” I acknowledged. “The mage was mightily affected, I trust?”
Gurborian scowled. “The old fool died outright from excessive excitement,” he said bitterly, “and his witless apprentice was so frightened that he turned out the tub, scrubbed the floor, and burned the only directions for mixing the potion.”
“What a loss,” I commiserated.
Gurborian waved his hand dismissively. “Only a minor disappointment when measured against the range of our accomplishments. An assurance for the future greatness of Alizon is within our very grasp.” He regarded me keenly. “You cannot deny that your word wields weighty influence upon the younger whelps of your Line. What more dazzling prospect could you set before them than an Alizon whose borders extend into . . . even beyond Karsten. I should certainly prize your counsel and leadership in the triumphant days to come.” For an instant, his fingers hovered near his tunic pocket as if he intended to reach inside, then he hesitated, and merely extended both his hands flat on the table. “In addition to the high position I would guarantee you,” Gurborian continued, “it might be possible that other rewards. . . .”