Summerblood (40 page)

We should be there in the morning,” Vorinn announced from the entrance of what had once been the Royal Pavilion, which Rann now shared with Lykkon.

“How
many
of us?” Rann replied, looking up from the map Vorinn had left him the night after Avall had been taken: the most detailed map they had of Gem-Hold and environs, along with a master plan of the hold itself. Not that the latter did much good, the various clans having designed and built their own quarters within their designated sections without recourse to any larger pattern. Not even the Hold-Warden knew all the ins and outs of that warren. Which could either aid a sneak attack, as had clearly been the case with the Ninth Face's seizure, or complicate one.

Not that there'd be much chance of room-to-room fighting. If it came to actual combat, this would be a siege, plain and simple. That was what had preoccupied Rann for the last five days. So much so he'd already forgotten he was engaged in nominal conversation.

“All of us,” Vorinn said carefully, for emphasis.

Rann started, then recovered himself. “Even the baggage train?”

“They've been pushing to catch up.”

“Even the portable trebuchets?”

Vorinn sighed tolerantly and gestured to a chair opposite Rann. “May I?”

“You're the commander,” Rann replied. “I'm merely the acting Regent. We've equal status before Law.”

“And before the men—the ones who'll actually fight?”

Rann shrugged and leaned back in his chair, fingers laced across his chest. Vorinn found a flask of cooling cider and poured himself a cup, not bothering to seek a clean one. “When you're sharing death,” he chuckled softly, “why worry about what other things you might share?”

“Then why worry about who the men will follow?” Rann snapped. “No, don't answer that,” he went on quickly. “I have no right to trivialize a serious matter. But the fact is, I think they'll follow
you
. They followed Avall because of what they thought he could do—what they were
afraid
he could do, more properly. You, they'll follow out of what they know you
can
do. Out of love, maybe. I wish we'd had you with us during the spring campaign.”

“I wish I could've been there,” Vorinn replied frankly. “Though I doubt anything would have turned out differently. I've looked over the accounts of the major battles. There wasn't much Gynn could've done that he didn't do. Or Barrax, either,” he added. “One was fighting with impossible supply lines, but with the weather as his ally; the other with the fury of the invaded, but with his main point of defense gone, the pride of his traditional warriors wounded, a third of his army unable to reach the battlefields, and across terrain it was next to impossible to defend.”

Rann prodded the map. “And this place?”

“A fortress-hold hollowed into a mountain, but itself situated in a hollow. We—”

He broke off, glancing at the entrance. Lykkon had returned,
along with his brother, Bingg, bringing fresh meat rolls for dinner. They had company, too: Tryffon and Veen. Preedor wasn't feeling well, and not for the first time on this trip. Like Eellon, his vigor was deserting him all in a rush.

Rann made room for them around the map table, but let them find their own chairs, which they did. Bingg passed out napkins and distributed the rolls across a number of small camp tables, then went in search of clean mugs when Veen commented on the dirty ones. Tryffon called for ale.

“I guess this is a council of war,” Rann sighed, leaning forward once again.

“More a precouncil,” Tryffon offered. “It won't do for the most visible among us to seem less than fully informed—not that I'm impugning either the intellect or valor of anyone present.” He was looking at Rann when he said that, but his gaze carried no condemnation. Which unnerved Rann a little. One never quite knew what Tryffon was thinking. Certainly no one would've guessed beforehand that he would be first to proclaim Avall King—though as coequal Chief of perhaps the most powerful clan, no one would have nay-said him, either. Still, he'd seemed a little distant then, perhaps at odds with King Gynn, or maybe with the fact that so much of their plan relied on untried weapons.

Now, however, he had his brother-son to hand, closer to him than Avall to Eellon or Tyrill to Eddyn. It was as if two parts of a machine had been reunited, which had finally set a larger mechanism working properly. Tryffon clearly loved to plot war with Vorinn.

“Mostly,” Tryffon rumbled, “I thought I'd give you one final briefing on the basic layout of the place. I know you've been there recently, Rann,” he went on, “but Veen somehow escaped being stationed there, so she's operating at a disadvantage. She'll see it for herself by midday tomorrow, if she chooses, but I'd rather she know what to expect when she arrives.”

“I'm ready,” Veen agreed through a mouthful of roll.

Rann scooted the map down so that she could see it, while
Tryffon stood behind her shoulder. “It's basically a D-shape,” the older man explained. “The flat side is the mountain—Tar-Megon. The bottom two-thirds of the hold were actually carved out of a subsidiary peak that thrust out from it, and parts of the hold, including Priest-Clan's precincts, are back in Megon itself. The mines are below ground level, and can't be assailed—besides which, as we've heard, they were sealed with explosives. Maybe Zeff has cleared an access to them, maybe he hasn't, but we have to act on the assumption that he has, and therefore has access to gems beyond the one he presumably will have taken from Avall.”

Vorinn cleared his throat. “You were talking about the layout of the place …”

Tryffon nodded. “The rest of it thrusts out maybe a quarter shot into a vale easily one shot wide and thrice that long, that being north and south. That area is kept open: grass in the summer, snow in winter. The Ri-Megon runs out of the mountains three shots north of it, then flows
under
the hold before issuing out the southern side. It's cased in rock for most of that distance—too far to hold one's breath, in case anyone was wondering—but part of it surfaces halfway through, which is how we happen to have Kylin. Megon Vale is surrounded by a ridge that's maybe a third as high as the hold. It's covered with trees, though there're signs that Zeff has considered establishing a third line of fortifications there—after the hold itself and that palisade he's built out from it.” He looked at Vorinn, as though expecting him to take up some cue.

“I wouldn't have bothered,” Vorinn responded at once. “Archers on the ridge could hit the hold, but the porches would block most of the arrows, just as the trees would block any arrows fired at them. He's cut some of them,” Vorinn added, “to deny us shelter. But not as many as he ought. In other words, he may not have given himself enough room to play, if it comes to that. On the other hand, he's well sited to withstand a siege. If we come at the hold itself, he's got many levels of porches from which he can throw any number of obnoxious things down on
us, and a long way in which to do it. The lower five spans of the hold are solid stone three spans thick, with very, very few apertures, and none of them is of a size to admit even a slender woman, never mind an average-sized man.”

“What about the drains?” Veen ventured, eyeing Kylin, who'd slipped in silently a short time before.

Kylin looked up at that. “They're blocked with piercedstone screens at the bottom, which are still two spans above the ground. The shafts inside are almost vertical part of the way and fully vertical the rest. You could climb them, but it would take forever.”

“Not a viable option,” Vorinn concluded. “At least not during a siege. So the bottom line is that we have to look at our strengths, which are numbers, resources, and maneuverability.”

“Zeff, however, has blackmail on his side,” Lykkon countered. “And hostages.”

“He does,” Vorinn conceded. “Be assured that I know that an actual attack is only one of many, many options.”

Movement by the entrance caught Rann's eye. Bingg, who'd stationed himself there had looked up abruptly, then rose, cocked an ear, and pointed toward the canvas roof, where a steady patter was growing louder by the moment. Not for the first time did he wish they'd brought a weather-witch. But witches were sworn to Priest-Clan, and no one from that clan could, for the nonce, be trusted.

“Rain,” Rann informed the company. “Which will complicate the assembly of the engines as well as their maneuverability, should the rain persist.” He glanced at Tryffon anxiously. “I know some adepts from Weather claim to be able to call the rain, and folks say that's what Rrath did with the storm there at the last. But …
can
they? Is there any chance this is anything more than a natural occurrence?”

Tryffon shrugged. “I wouldn't put anything past Priest— not anymore.”

Bingg was on his feet again, but this time he left the tent, only to return an instant later with his hair slicked against his
skull. In spite of that, his bearing showed the subtle shift that indicated that, even without livery, he was functioning as royal herald. “Riders,” he called clearly but politely. “By their tabards, I'd say they were messengers, but their colors mark them as from Argen.”

Rann felt his blood run cold. “Confirm their business, then show them in,” he called, in spite of the anxiety that, for no clear reason, suddenly washed over him.

The young woman who entered a moment later looked as though a strong breath could knock her over. She was soaked to the skin, for one thing, which added nothing to an already small stature, but her face was gaunt as well, in a way that reminded Rann of how Krynneth had looked when he'd come stumbling into the Citadel with word War-Hold had fallen. But surely her report couldn't be as bad as that.

The girl's words gave the lie to his optimism. “Priest-Clan has seized power in Tir-Eron,” she panted. “And every Clanor Craft-Chief in the city is either dead, missing, or in hiding.”

Silence greeted her. Stunned silence.

Then, slowly, from Tryffon. “Not good news—but is anyone really surprised?”

If anyone was, they didn't affirm it. Nor did they all speak at once—save with eyes grown hard and grim as winter.

“When?” Vorinn asked eventually. “And any other details— but take your time. A hand's haste will make little difference in the long run.”

“Tyrill?” Lykkon inserted cautiously.

“In hiding. It was she who sent me.”

Rann nodded, feeling sick to his stomach. He didn't need this, not now, not with the present crisis about to enter another stage.

As if reading his mind, Vorinn spoke again. “Whatever's happened there,” he said, “our work is here, where we have the smaller but ultimately more powerful force to face. If we go haring back to Tir-Eron, we'll waste time and give both
factions a chance to strengthen their positions, to the point that we could get trapped between.”

Rann nodded again, then motioned to the messenger. “Lady, at your leisure.”

She wavered where she stood and would've fallen had Bingg and Vorinn not raced to catch her and lead her to a chair. Bingg stuffed a meat roll into one hand and a mug of hot cider into the other. She stared at them blankly, too tired even to eat or drink. But she told her story, clearly, and with surprising detail—but also with a certain flatness of voice that suggested she was merely repeating what had been long rehearsed.

“As for Tir-Eron itself,” she said in conclusion, “it's theocracy on the one hand, anarchy on the other, and the people, as usual, caught between.”

“They don't support Priest-Clan?”

“They support security over ideology, and tradition over revolution. That generally means Priest-Clan, but only from habit. I—I'm sorry. I can't think anymore. If you'll give me a moment—”

“You've told us enough for now,” Rann assured her. “And Vorinn's right: There's nothing we can do about it anyway, from here. Nothing, that is, but worry.”

“I'm more concerned about the rain,” Vorinn remarked, gazing at the roof. “Anyone who's ever tried to move a siege tower or trebuchet through knee-deep mud can't help but be.”

Rann lifted a brow in query. “And you have done these things?”

Vorinn nodded. “At War-Hold-Summer. The building and the moving were real. What wasn't real—that time—was the dying.”

Rann regarded him solemnly for a long moment. Then: “Whatever legitimate government Eron has at present would seem to be in this tent.”

Nor was there much to be done about it until a very tired girl awakened.