The solution came to Piro in a flash. Why hadn't she thought of it before? The war table piece would have the new elector's features. Driving her weary legs, she ran up the stairs and down the corridor to the war table room.
She'd avoided this chamber since she'd been in here to view her faceless piece. Now she darted over to Ostron Isle and peered across the table, careful not to touch anything.
'The elector's piece has no features yet,' Tyro said, coming out of the shadows. Piro gave a little start of fright, but she hadn't done anything wrong. She squared her shoulders.
Tyro stepped closer, the nuances of his expression hidden by the twilight. 'The piece's face went blank the night the elector died and has remained blank since. It was the first thing I checked.'
'Pity…' She tilted her head, trying to make out the agent's expression. 'Why doesn't the mage force the five great families to agree to a new elector?'
'If a decision was forced upon the five they would resent the mage. The four losing families would unite against Tsulamyth. No, Piro. It is better to let them sort it out.'
'By killing each other?'
'Ahh, but then they can resent each other and not the mage.' One corner of Tyro's mouth lifted in the wry smile she had come to know so well. Dunstany's smile.
She felt an odd tug in her belly. She'd hardly eaten today. 'Was the mage angry with you, Tyro?'
He looked blank.
'Because you opened the gate.'
He turned away. 'No. We came to an understanding.'
His reply did not ring true. She should find the mage and make it clear that she was to blame. Where to start looking?
First she had to slip away from Tyro.
Piro used Isolt's new pet wyvern as an excuse to slip away. 'I'd better feed Loyalty.'
'I'll come with you,' Tyro said.
They found the wyvern and foenix playing in a private garden courtyard, complete with its own fountain. Piro upended a bucket of fish scraps from the kitchen. The wyvern leapt on the fish, gulping them down, while the foenix nibbled one at a time.
'It's lucky for my foenix that Isolt's wyvern is too young to know they should be deadly enemies,' Piro told Tyro. With the fish fast disappearing down the wyvern's throat, the Affinity beast looked decidedly deadly. Piro eyed Loyalty uneasily. 'How long before she grows horns?'
'Another year or two,' Tyro answered. 'That's when she'll have to be let loose if she hasn't bonded properly with Isolt. She'll be too dangerous.'
'Agent Tyro?' Ovido came trotting into the garden. He ignored Piro as if she was an interloper. 'The mage has been called to meet the new elector, Comtissa Cera of House Cerastus.'
'At last!' Piro turned to Tyro. 'Now the mage can — '
'The new elector will want to clean up Ostron Isle before interfering in other kingdoms' squabbles,' Tyro warned.
He was right. Piro's heart sank. 'But my brothers — '
'The world does not revolve around the troubles of House Rolen,' Tyro snapped, then seemed to regret his temper. 'First thing tomorrow, Tsulamyth will try to convince Elector Cera of the importance of this particular squabble.'
Byren had force-marched his men over the secret pass and across the foothills, through slopes of winter-bare grape vines, to what had been Cedar tradepost. Now it was a well-built fort. He'd kept his followers out of sight and he was glad he had. Originally, he'd intended to wait until he heard Orrade's attack on the far side, before launching his own, but he'd had an idea. Why use force when trickery would do? He took Corvel and Feid aside to explain his plan.
Both warlords heard him out, then tried to find flaws.
'So you'd approach the fort late in the day as a trader returning home to the spar with a wagon of goods to sell?' Feid rubbed his jaw. 'That'll get you inside overnight until they open the gate on Foenix Spar-side but, if your identity was discovered, you'd — '
'No one will recognise me.' Byren didn't mention that he knew the tradepost's keeper, and he expected the man not to reveal him. Besides, he trusted to his mother's training. Piro was not the only one who had enjoyed acting out the myths. All he needed was padding to make him look fat, ash to age his hair, and he could hunch over to make himself seem shorter. The Merofynians were looking for a young, tall kingson. 'I'll need three or four likely lads to come with me.'
'Take my sons,' Corvel offered. 'They're spar-born. They can pass for a trader's sell-swords.'
Byren had been meaning to take his honour guard, but Corvel was right. Winterfall and the others were not spar-born, and might unwittingly betray him.
So, just on dusk, Byren dressed in a trader's serviceable cloak and joined three of Corvel's four sons. The youngest drove a wagon borrowed from the sympathetic vintner. Its wheels moved slowly under the weight of a dozen barrels of fine Rolencian red as they headed for the main road over the pass.
With the player's assistance Byren had disguised himself, rubbing ash into his face and beard to turn them grey, and affected a limp. Old Man Narrows had loaned his own staff to complete the transformation. Seela was right, warriors in the prime of life tended to dismiss the old and the lame.
Cedar tradepost came into view, the top floor of the third storey visible over the palisade. Last time he was here, he'd been defending the scholar and his family. He wondered briefly what had happened to them and little Rodien. He could only hope they were safe somewhere.
Then the tradepost had nestled in the valley, near the narrow defile that led to the only path over the Divide. Now, hastily built but sturdy wooden fortifications had been extended so that a palisade surrounded the tradepost, blocking the defile's entrance. Everyone had to pass through the fort.
Defended by one gate tower, the gate facing Rolencia was sturdy, and already closed. Byren led the horses, leaning heavily on a staff. When he rapped on the wood, the gate-keeper opened the slit and accepted Byren's story without reservations.
'Your goods must be worth protecting to hire three sell-swords,' the gate-keeper said. 'What do you carry?'
'Rolencian red for the warlord's own cellar.'
The gate-keeper closed the slit, slid the bolts out and swung the gate to let Byren and the cart in. Corvel's youngest son flicked the reins to get the horses moving, and the other two walked alongside the wagon.
They'd entered the courtyard and the gate was closed behind them, when the gate-keeper announced, 'There's a new tax for crossing the Divide, one-fifth of your wares.'
'One-fifth!' Byren spluttered as he knew a trader would. 'That's daylight robbery.'
The gate-keeper smirked. 'If you want to sell your wine to the warlord, that's what you'll be paying.'
Grumbling energetically, Byren ordered Corvel's sons to unload the right number of barrels.
As they were being rolled away, the gate-keeper turned back. 'There's also the charge for housing and feeding your horses, and yourselves.' He named an exorbitant price.
Byren threw up his hands. 'You'll ruin me.' But he paid, after some haggling.
In the tradepost proper, he found several other travellers, none of whom were happy with the new charges. But they kept their voices low. From the gossip, he learnt how the keeper of the tradepost had objected when the Merofynians first arrived. Now he and his family worked as servants in the kitchen.
Byren bristled on the keeper's behalf. The sooner he reclaimed Rolencia, the sooner he could right the wrongs done in King Merofyn's name.
When the keeper's son served their meal, the lad's gaze fixed on Byren, then glided deliberately past him. In a few moments, the keeper himself came out to supervise. The fort's forty or so Merofynian solders crowded the tables, claiming the best of the food.
The keeper put a tray of pastries on Byren's table, pausing just behind him.