The Four Forges (48 page)

“You propose conquering?”

“Far from it. We will be conquered if we’re not ready.”

“Bistane, if there is one thing I’ve had taught to me, and taught well, it is that one never picks up a weapon unless one intends to use it. If we arm for war, there will be war.”

“It’s coming.” Bistane took his attention from her and gazed out the window at the far end of the room. “I’m no ild Fallyn, but I can feel it. You know it’s in my blood. We Vantanes are war hawks, nothing less. I won’t start a quarrel, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let one plow me under.”

“And if you can’t say that in front of the others, what will you say?”

He turned his eyes back to her and smiled thinly. “I will say we need to reclaim our bloodlines. Take in and train the children we once tossed aside. Become as teachers to a world which doesn’t want to be a student but can hardly refuse us. Go forth, and illuminate. Open the gates that the Accords keep locked.”

“That, at least, sounds altruistic.” Impatiently, she tapped a nail on the highly varnished tabletop.

“Lara. I won’t lie to you. I may evade the truth with Tressandre, but I won’t lie to you. She’s sensed it as well. The ild Fallyn are recruiting half bloods to see if they can breed back lost Talents. As for war, the Bolgers are gathering clans again.”

“They hardly threaten us.”

“True, but they make good mercenaries for those who can. How long do you think the Kernans and the Galdarkans will stay disorganized and scattered? The only things that kept these lands from being held by the Galdarkans were their own allegiances to the Magi, each to his own small fiefdom, and they held old scores and enmities in memory of them. If they had ever united then, we would be under their yoke now. There is a vast continent out there, and we have but a handhold on the western edge of it.”

She let out a soft sigh, in spite of her intentions, and Bistane leaned back. “I have to fight you on this.”

He nodded slowly. “I thought you might.”

“Sometimes I think the Accords are all that keep us civilized. It is not just the agreement not to war on one another, except for Honor Duels, but the ban against creating new Ways. You know, and I know, that our hold on magic is not what it should be. There are monstrosities out there, Bistane, that we created, and we cannot undo. There may come a day when one of us decides to create that which will be an abomination to all life. The Accords bind us against that.”

“It keeps us bound to one another,” he agreed. “Perhaps I think we’re beyond that, and you don’t.”

“If you’re right and I’m not, there is no harm done. You know we can rise to fight if we need to. But if I’m right and you’re not, all that we have could collapse. We won’t have to worry about Kerith tearing us apart, we’ll be at each other’s throats again.”

“Do we not learn?”

She looked at his face. “I’m afraid to bet my life on it. What of our vows?”

“We strike back once, twice, and it’ll be over. If we’re ready. There’s where you and I will knock heads, my lady. If we’re not, they can overrun those of us who hesitate, who take the higher course of passive resistance. Your concerns about the lands, the Gods, will be plowed under with the carrion and bones.” He pushed his chair away and stood. “At least you know.”

“I thank you for coming to me and telling me.”

He gave a short bow before leaving her alone in the Conference room. She looked at her reflection in the highly polished tabletop. If she had not come, this subject could never have been brought up, for a vote would never have been taken without her presence. But since she did come to attend, Bistane had seized the opportunity.

War,
she thought. The very premise of it would sweep away the smallish concerns she had about the Andredia, even though she knew, in the long run, the health of the river would be far more important to the world. Who would listen to her troubles if they would be spending days arguing about abandoning or reconfirming the Accords?

Damn Bistane. His words would overshadow hers to the extent she was not sure she would be heard at all.

She would have to plan anew.

SEVRYN STOOD WITH HIS back to the wall of her apartment, shrugging now and then uneasily, his customary stillness fled, as if he were at odds with himself. His fidgeting sent his clothes chafing against his body, kedant-laced scars burning and aching, close to intolerable. He focused his thoughts elsewhere. She did not often have to summon him, he usually appeared whenever she needed him, as if he knew. Or perhaps it was because he and Jeredon often shadowed each other, and her. Perhaps. His unrest nagged at her senses, at her Talent, and that bothered her. What should she be seeing that remained unfathomable to her? He brushed his dark, bronzed hair from his forehead, shifting weight, wincing ever so slightly, a sudden darkness in his gray eyes.

Laraiel turned her attention from him to her writing desk and the sheaf of papers upon it, finding it easier to talk to them than directly to him, and ignoring her brother who’d come in as well, and claimed the nearest chair. “Wear your emissary badge,” she directed. “Those who overlook seeing it have only themselves to blame for being unaware that you’re speaking to them on my behalf. I want you to work your way through the delegates, our people and the others, and I want you to talk, quietly, of the need for the Accords. Use your Voice, Sevryn, but do not get caught. Understand? I have a need for you to remain undetected as you’ve been, and this request is no exception to that.”

“Understood. Anyone in particular?”

“Avoid Bistane and the ild Fallyns. Bistane brought this to me, so he will be especially sensitive. Stay a good distance from his earshot.” She pondered a long moment. “I might suggest Azel d’Stanthe. He hates these things as much as I do, yet he’s here this year, so he must have a reason. Perhaps I can help him achieve what he needs.”

Jeredon flexed one ankle as he remarked, “The historian takes no side,” from the otherwise quiet depths of his chair.

“Of course. But there is always a first time, and if nothing else, I would like to know what’s on his mind. I don’t wish to have any more surprises to deal with.”

Sevryn gave a ghost of a smile. “Shall I meet with you before the first addresses?”

“Yes. I’d like a summary by then.”

He sketched a bow and left her with her brother. She stood and fussed with her day gown, her mind far from dealing with lacings and buckles.

Jeredon sat back on his chair and looked up at her, the amber highlights of his green eyes sparkling with humor, even when his thoughts were somber. “The Accords debate rises again? And here I thought Bistane came acourting and to sing for you, and try to win you with a duel or two.”

She smacked him lightly across the nose with the belt she’d been trying to fasten. He laughed even as he ducked away and caught the belt, wrenching it from her hands. “At least he warned you.” He rubbed the smarting bridge of his nose, the one feature of his face that looked so like that of their shared father.

“That he did. He will expect a courtesy in return, I’m certain, and even with his warning, there isn’t a lot I can do except figure out how to dissent gracefully.”

“You believe they’ll bring this to a vote this session?”

“Yes. I also believe it’ll go as Bistane wants it to, even over my objections.”

Jeredon whistled softly. He’d been coiling the belt in his hands as if to snap it back at her playfully, but stopped, his face gone serious. The Holdings never moved that quickly on any discussion, but he could tell she expected just that. “There’s only one thing you can do now, then, before the afternoon session opens.”

“What?”

“Go shopping.”

“Shopping?” She raised both eyebrows in surprise.

“I realize there often isn’t a feminine bone in your body, but this season means meetings, dances, fetes and you need a new gown.”

She shut her mouth. “I can’t believe you’d suggest such an empty-headed, self-indulgent, exercise in . . . in . . .”

“Useless vanity?”

“Yes. That, and, and . . .”

“Go shopping,” he repeated firmly. “Daravan is in town and he won’t step foot within these walls, not without setting off wards or being detected. If, however, you go where he can get to you . . .”

“Oh.” She reached out and grabbed her belt back from him.

He did smile then, widely, and the amber gems in his green eyes lit up. “I’m not totally useless as a brother.” He stood. “While you’re out, I’m going to hug a few maids and kiss a few cooks and see what they’re saying.” He winked at her just before going out the door.

Lariel stood in indecision. She should tell him, before too much longer, her worries about the Andredia and the vows that Larandaril stood upon, because he was more than her brother, he was the heir after her, and if she failed in her mission, the brunt of that failure would fall upon him. She hesitated long enough that his footfalls went beyond earshot, and he was gone, and she was left alone with her thoughts.

She smiled wryly.
Some of us talk with Gods and others of us seem merely to talk to ourselves.

Whatever he suggested, she needed to do something. With a quick hand, she plucked her hooded cloak and veil off a nearby hook and shrugged into them. Daravan had to know, if he didn’t already, that the Accords were in jeopardy of being put aside. Shopping it was.

Alone seemed best, and she had little fear of walking Calcort, knowing that she could best any ordinary attacker. The unpredictability of her movement meant that the Kobrir would not be likely to be stalking her either, although the evenings would be deadly for her, until his target and intent could be revealed. All the attendees would be mingling and politicking; it would take no Kobrir genius to know when and where to strike at night. It might not be her this time. What would be the fortune in that? She drifted along the city lanes, with only a vague idea of where she wished to go in her thoughts. She expected little in the way of success today at all.

A small child of the streets angled toward her, countenance screwed in a bashful expression, one grubby hand out begging for crown bits while the other frisked her for valuables, till she swung about and caught the thief in the ankle with the pointed toe of her boot. The child’s face screwed up further as if to burst into a loud wail, and she said quietly, softly, “Don’t. I know what game it is you play.”

The child hobbled off with a contained sniffle, and she watched it disappear into the thin morning crowd. She could not even tell if it was boy or girl. It would tell its compatriots of its findings and warn them about her. She’d have to be more wary. Lariel shouldn’t have let anyone get so close.

Calcort showed its layers of civilization as she walked. She could see the core of the inner city, a primitive fortress by her standards, though it must have been substantial in its time, for it still stood despite the centuries although its walls and arches were greatly diminished. Beyond that, she could see where the people of Kerith had built up, influenced by both the Raymy and the Vaelinars, and then the vast, outer rings of Calcort which showed the Vaelinar apprenticeship and tutelage.

She walked the old quarter, where Vaelinar manors had ruled the hills for a very long time, until Calcort itself had become unfashionable, and the Vaelinars drifted away in search of more interesting places. The soft chiming of ankle bells reached her, a music among the growing din of street hawkers, and she followed the sounds.

 
“How does the stitching look?”

Nutmeg wrinkled her brow as she looked over. “Grace, no one does a stitch like you do. So tiny and precise. It’s fine. It’s more than fine, it’s incredible.”

“It’s good enough that I can stop and take a break, then?”

Her sister good-naturedly swung her foot to poke her. “Why do you even ask? Besides, you’re done, aren’t you?”

“I am. I’ll put it on the form to hang the wrinkles out a bit.” Grace stood, shaking out the afternoon gown gently and then pulling it over the dummy form. She stepped back to inspect her work.

“I don’t see how anyone could not be happy with that.” Nutmeg smiled at the dress.

Rivergrace shrugged one shoulder. “I think it depends on the woman, don’t you? She didn’t seem at all excited about all the affairs. It seemed a chore.” She dipped the form in Nutmeg’s direction, drawling in a flat, unhappy tone, “Good afternoon, milord-stuffed-in-the-shirt. I look quite well today, but I’m really very, very bored.”

Nutmeg jumped up and made a gentleman’s bow. She growled back, “I hardly blame you. All this nonsense, m’lady-pain-in-the-neck. You look beautiful in spite of yourself, however.”

“Don’t, I though? This is a divine little dress made by the most quaint of shops in the northeast quarter. A trifle, really.” Rivergrace twitched the sleeve and sniffed. “I did the shop a favor by bringing my trade there.”

“One does what one can for the common folk. I myself dropped a half a silver crown bit in a beggar’s tray just this morning. I thought the gesture might help this suffocating headache, but there you are.” Nutmeg made a grimace.

“I pity you, sir. No doubt you spent all day waiting for the Warrior Queen to appear? That seems headache enough!”

“Quite, quite. I wasn’t born to keep waiting—”

“Dear me,” said a third, soft and gentle voice from the corner. “Do I really keep people waiting all that long?” The woman stepped forward, dropping her hood from her head, her cloak pooling about her shoulders, its hem swirling upon the floor, her gold-and-silver-flashed hair tumbling free as she did, a gleam in her cobalt eyes.

Rivergrace dropped the mannequin with a squeak, and she and Nutmeg bumped heads bending to pick it up before the newly crafted dress it bore could be damaged.

Nutmeg dropped to one knee as Grace righted the dummy, patting the dress back into conformation and settling it firmly, as her sister muttered to the floor. “Warrior Queen Lariel, I beg your pardon. We meant nothing!”