"You're right. I don't know anything about Garth of Ordunin or about Skelleth, and the Sword of Bheleu is legendary, which means the available information can't be trusted. I do, however, know the Seer of Weideth, albeit only slightly. It's a hereditary post, one of these odd little oracular talents that turn up here and there. Weideth is a village in the hills in the northwest of Nekutta, and its seers have certain undeniable gifts as long as they remain within the immediate area. The current Seer is no great prophet, but he can do a simple divination; I'm afraid there's no disputing his facts."
"Then this sword really is too powerful to defeat by mundane methods?"
"Oh, we can't be sure of that; a clever assassin might manage something. There could be flaws in the Seer's detail work in that particular conclusion. I would certainly agree that an army won't work; he couldn't have missed the mark by that much."
"Do you want to try an assassin, then?"
"Chala, my dear, I'm not going to try anything. I don't know enough about it. I'm going to get some expert advice first."
"What sort of advice?"
"Oh, I think I had best consult an astrologer and a theurgist, since there may be a god involved, and experts on swords and overmen and perhaps an archivist or two. I'll find a really good diviner to study the entire affair; I'm no good at that sort of work myself."
"Shandi, if you're going to do all that, wouldn't it be simpler just to convene the entire Council and turn the whole thing over to them at once? You know that you need approval from a quorum before you start commissioning assassinations or fooling with major arcana."
Shandiph considered this silently for a moment. The pleasant glow he had felt earlier was almost wholly dissipated now, and he found himself slightly irritable in consequence.
"You're right, Chala. Aghad take this overman, you're right. I hate convening the Council; there's always argument, and I always have to break it up. There's no getting around it, though; this is important enough for the whole Council. A border has been violated and the invaders are using magic. That's exactly the sort of thing that the Council is supposed to prevent."
"Well, at least if you, turn it over to the Council, you won't have the entire responsibility."
"Oh, I don't mind the responsibility. It's better than having to listen to that fool Deriam and his idiot theories about the natural supremacy of Ur-Dormulk or trying to keep peace between Karag of Sland and Thetheru of Amag. You know, I came down here early just to get away from Deriam and now I'm going to have to invite him here."
"I thought you came to see me!"
"I did, I did; after all, I could have gone anywhere from Ur-Dormulk, couldn't I?"
"I know, Shandi. I guess we won't be finishing the game, will we?"
Shandiph looked at the scattered caravanserai pieces. "I suppose not. And just when my luck was changing!"
"Ha! You would have been lucky not to lose a hundred coins!"
"Would I? We'll see next time, then!" He smiled, then frowned. "Right now, though, I had best go find the Charm of Convocation." He clambered awkwardly to his feet.
Chalkara began gathering up the carved tokens. "Shall I come with.. you?"
"You tempt me, but no. Only the Chairman is to see the Charm-another silly rule."
"In that case, shall I go and tell the King to expect company?"
"Yes, I think so; it is his castle, after all. He might get upset if three dozen magicians were to turn up on his doorstep without warning."
Chalkara nodded, and began placing the ivory pieces neatly into their places in the rosewood box.
Shandiph watched her for a moment, then said, "Gan and Pria bless you, Chala." He left, closing the door gently behind him.
That night each and every member of the Council of the Most High had the same dream, and each awoke knowing that he or she was to leave immediately for Kholis.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Saram was not called away immediately, but eventually, as Garth was beginning to feel rather soggy from the vast amount of ale he had consumed; someone came looking for the interim baron. A jurisdictional dispute had developed between two of his ad hoc ministers.
Garth watched him go, taking Frima with him, and marveled that he could walk straight. The human had consumed ale mug for mug with him, and if Garth was feeling the effects, then surely, he thought, the much smaller human should be staggering drunk. It did not occur to him that he had been drinking earlier as well, before picking up the sword, while Saram had not.
It was the middle of the evening and the tavern was crowded; nonetheless, as usual, the Forgotten King was alone at his table in the corner beneath the stairs. Garth seated himself opposite the old man.
For a long moment neither spoke; Garth was unsure how to begin, and the Forgotten King preferred to let the other speak first.
"I have questions I would ask you," Garth said at last.
The old man said nothing, but the yellow cowl dipped in a faint nod.
"You say that you cannot die by ordinary means. How can this be? What would happen if you were struck with a good blade? If your neck were to be severed, would you not die like any other mortal?"
"My neck cannot be severed by any ordinary blade," the King replied.
The hideous dry voice caught Garth off-guard; he had forgotten how unpleasant it was to hear. He hesitated before asking, "How can that be?"
The yellow-draped shoulders rose, then sank.
Garth felt a flicker of annoyance and immediately looked at the hilt of the Sword of Bheleu. The gem was glowing very faintly.
That was not necessarily bad, he thought. Perhaps if he were to allow himself to become angry, the old wizard would douse the sword's power as he had done before, and Garth would be able to escape from the weapon's hold without making any sort of deal at all.
He turned back to the Forgotten King and asked, "You say no ordinary blade can kill you; what of the sword I carry?"
"You are welcome to make the attempt," the old man replied.
Garth considered that.
If the result were the destruction of the sword, then all would be well, and his problems would be at an end for the moment. If the result were the death of the King, then he would have performed an act of mercy, but he might be stuck with the sword indefinitely. If both were destroyed, that would be best all around.
There was surely some other way of getting free of the sword. Perhaps, even if it were not destroyed, it would be sufficiently weakened by the effort to loose its hold.
One way or another, the odds appeared to be in his favor. He decided to risk it. He stood, reached up, and pulled the sword from its sheath, awkward in the confined space of the tavern. The tip of the up-ended scabbard scraped the ceiling as the blade came free. It was obvious that he would be unable to swing the blade up over his head; he would have to use a sweeping horizontal stroke instead.
There was a hush, and he looked about, realizing that the other patrons of the tavern had abruptly fallen silent. They were staring at him and at the great broadsword, wearing expressions that ranged from vague curiosity to abject terror.
"Have no fear," he called, "I mean none of you any harm. The old man here has challenged me to strike off his head. Haven't you, old man?"
The yellow-garbed figure nodded, and Garth thought he caught a glint of light in one shadowed eye.
The overman looked along the path he planned for the sword and saw that it would pass uncomfortably close to the humans at a neighboring table. "Excuse me, friends," he said, "but I would greatly appreciate it if you could step back for a moment, to give me room to swing."
The humans quickly rose and backed away.
Satisfied that he would endanger no one but the King, Garth took a good two-handed grip on sword and tried to swing it.