The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (21 page)
“We're having a spot of trouble, Deynarr, and some colleagues and myself thought you might be just the man to help us. Your kinship has served the City loyally for hundreds of years now, and your own merits have not gone unnoticed, believe me. In fact, as I was saying to my good friend Bryma, with those airheads that make up the directorate now we could use a level headed man of experience to join their ranks, if you get my drift.”
Bur Deynarr got his drift. There would be a price to pay, of course, the nature of which would be revealed promptly, he was sure.
The senator coughed.
“I'm telling you probably what you already know, since I'm sure you keep your finger on the pulse of foreign affairs.”
Bur Deynarr barely managed to keep his finger on the pulse of what happened in his own household, as was made very clear to him when he discovered that a distant cousin had come to live there. A discovery he made three days after the boy had moved in. It didn't worry
him in the least. Riathona — only in bed, and when she was exceptionally pleased with his performance he dared call her Alla, even to himself — would explain everything he needed to know. Several times over, until he got it.
He nodded.
“The kingdom of Ximerion is coming under almost unbearable pressure. It can't be long anymore before Lorsanthia will strike. Now that Trachia is subjugated and as good as pacified it can bring the quasi-totality of its armed forces to bear upon King Tenaxos. His chances are slim, very slim. Once Ximerion is out of the way we could be next.”
“But didn't Ximerion win a major battle, some months ago?”
Deynarr asked. He almost immediately regretted opening his mouth.
Riathona always said it was better for him to look thoughtful and dignified. People would infer wisdom where there was only ignorance, she had admonished him several times.
He seemed to be in luck this time.
“Yes, indeed, Deynarr, and although that was on their northern border, your sharp mind has immediately seen the implications of that victory and the subsequent — how shall I put it? — independent behavior of the king's youngest son. Several questions impose themselves.
Has Ximerion effectively split up in two parts or is it merely a ruse and is the son preparing a natural fortress for his father to retreat into, should it become necessary? More importantly, should the latter occur would he — or they, as the case may be — offer us assistance in case Lorsanthia attacks the independent city states? By all accounts the young princeling is a shrewd young man, but is he smart enough to see that he has nothing to gain by a defeat of either his sire or us?“
The senator paused, but this time Bur was smart enough to keep silent. He frowned.
“I see that you have a firm grasp on our problems, the major one
being that we don't know enough. Most of the old commanders agree with me that we should fill that gap in our knowledge. But in a discreet manner. We can't send an official delegation to a barbarian prince.
Meri seems to think it would be unseemly. I couldn't care less about such vanities. What I do care about is that we can not be seen as weak, in need of the assistance of, to put it bluntly, foreign aid. It would give all kinds of wrong signals to our Influence.”
“I agree completely,” Bur Deynarr murmured.
“As was to be expected of a future senator… ah, you sly fox, you.
You made me spill the goods.” Senator Tembar smiled. “We thought of sending a trade mission to the dominions of the prince. Nothing official of course, we couldn't send dignitaries or a senatorial commission.
So, we thought to send the next best thing. A man with the necessary experience, the understanding worthy of a senator, but not a senator yet. Not to beat about the bush, we thought of you to head the mission.”
Bur's heart made a jump for joy in his chest. Riathona would be so pleased with him.
“If I can put my paltry abilities to the service of the City, by all means,” he said with the exact degree of humility.
“You're far too modest, my dear Deynarr. Mind you, seeing as the mission will have a strictly unofficial character, the City won't be able to finance it.”
“That won't be a problem,” Bur hastily assured the senator.
Riathona would be more than glad to go to the expenditure.
“No, I didn't think so, but let's not talk about money,” the senator said with a slight tone of distaste. “I will be sending a document with what you need to know and what we expect to learn to your house.”
“Where it will be opened by your wife who has the brains, but the
wrong gender. Damn pity, she would make a far better senator than you will and she would have been a formidable commander as well.
Well, the senate can suffer one fool more, I suppose. Not for too long, hopefully. The son seems to be made of altogether better mettle. Anyway, as long as you do as your wife tells you, you can't go wrong, I guess.”
In a rare outburst of affection Riathona had hugged Bur when he told her the news. Immediately thereafter her restless mind had started planning. Her thoughts were only interrupted once.
“Dear,” Bur said, “Senator Tembar will be sending some documents over concerning the mission. They will probably arrive when I am out, so, if you would be so kind as to read them for me. You can then tell me all about it when I return home.”
Riathona smiled.
They had a good marriage.
It was the end of November, and although the weather most days
was fine for the time of the year, it was getting colder. Anaxantis, muttering and with ill grace, had taken to wear a woolen tunic on the insistence of Ehandar. In the tent on the training grounds three braziers had been installed. In addition to the front of the tent remaining open, flaps in the roof were opened to let the fumes escape.
Two hours after midday Tomar and Hemarchidas entered it, having met outside the tent.
Hemarchidas opened his mouth, but Tomar was quicker and cut him off.
“We have a lot to discuss,” he announced straight away. “The usual stuff. The state of our treasury, the recruitment and training of new soldiers, the immigration efforts, the various building projects… ah, well, you know the drill. Also, there are problems on the Plains. Two newly founded villages came to blows and people died. I also have a draft of a formal treaty — let's just call it that, and not an imposed set of laws — with the kingdom of our Mukthars. I must finalize it before the Midwinter feast so their king can formally sign and seal it. I was thinking of a short and sweet, well-attended and thus duly witnessed ceremony in the great hall of Landemere Castle. Should take all of fifteen minutes. I have tried to make it sound as an agreement between equals. By the way I still don't know what they call their kingdom.”
“Me neither, but I'll ask as soon as I see Timishi,” Anaxantis said.
“Hm. Then there is that other eternal source of trouble and may— hem. The pages seem to be on a spending spree. The masters of pages have authorized a hefty sum for new mantles for the head pages.”
“It's their treasury, and what else should they spend it on? Let them. It's only money.”
“Yes, that seems to be your answer whenever I mention the cost of
anything. Which reminds me that we urgently need to discuss the grain price in the Plains, before—”
“All right,” Hemarchidas interrupted him. ”That's me gone. You two maniacs could drive anybody stark raving mad with your long-winded, confusing and probably fraudulent reasonings. Well, this Cheridonian is not going to stand for it, I tell you. As far as I am concerned you should buy the grain cheap in Dermolhea and carry it yourselves on your backs to wherever it is needed. I bid you a good day, gentlemen.”
With that he walked off. Both Anaxantis and Tomar stared dumbfounded after him.
“What's gotten into him?” the latter asked.
“How would I know? I don't understand it either,” the prince replied. “Something he ate maybe?”
Tomar squinted his eyes and pointed an accusing finger at Anaxantis.
“You told him the I-am-a-poor-peasant-story, didn't you?”
“What of it? It's a good story,” the accused said defensively.
Tomar relaxed.
“Yes, it is rather.”
“And, whatever he may think, I would make a terrific robber chief,”
Anaxantis added stubbornly.
Tomar shrugged.
“Of course you would. You could be nothing else but a terrific robber chief. You're a Tanahkos. It's in your blood.”
It was late in the afternoon when Tomar left, and Anaxantis
wondered where Ehandar was. Having asked around, he learned from one of the clansmen that he had seen the prince on the training grounds of the pages, which was strange as it wasn't one of the regular practice days. He decided to go and see for himself.
The lot for the pages to exercise on was, contrary to that of Anaxantis and his clansmen, on the outskirts of the forest. When he came to the meadow he saw what appeared to be a wrestling match between several young men.
“Hi guys, has any of you seen my brother?” he asked of a jumbled heap of writhing bodies.
“I'm here,” a muted, smarting voice answered.
This elicited boisterous laughter from the mass of bodies.
Ehandar freed himself from under the pages and stood up, wiping sand off his tunic, and tried to put his hair back in order. Then he rubbed his left arm with a painful expression on his face. Yet he was smiling.
“What happened to you?” Anaxantis asked, although he had just witnessed what caused his brother's disheveled look.
“Oh, we were training in sword fighting,” Ehandar replied, pointing out four swords that lay some distance away. “At a given moment I took on all three of them together, and I beat them too. Then Echron here said I was lucky that I had my sword, because they would have gotten me in a regular unarmed fight. I was stupid enough to call them out on it, I'm afraid.“ He turned to the grinning pages. “It goes to show how much of an advantage a well trained swordsman has,” he said.
“Unarmed you can overcome me, but when I have my sword you can't.
Not even when you're armed as well.”
“Yet,” one of the pages said. “I bet that won't be true anymore in a few months, Ehandar.”
Anaxantis raised one eyebrow, and the page noticed.
“Sorry. My Lord, I mean,” he corrected himself.
“That's quite all right, Anguor. As long as it's us,” Ehandar said.
“Right. Tomorrow is regular practice, but, if you're up for it, we could continue the day after, Saturday, here, right after midday.”
The three pages yelled their assent enthusiastically.
“OK, that's it for today,” Ehandar laughed. “Off you go.”
They all collected their swords.
“Let's go home,” he said after they were gone. “I wonder what Renda has prepared for us. All that fighting has made me hungry. Oh, and I have a little surprise.”
“What did you mean when you said ‘as long as it's us’ to Curtham?”
Anaxantis asked while they were walking to the pen to retrieve their horses.
“These three, Echron, Robrant and Anguor have a real gift for the sword. I thought it would be a shame to keep them back with the rest.
So, I talked it over with Lethoras and he agreed. I'm giving them advanced lessons now. It's fun.”
“I noticed,” Anaxantis said.
“You're all right with this, aren't you? Don't you think it's a good idea?”
“I think it's a splendid idea, love.”
“I thought so too. In such a small group things tend to get less formal.”
“I know.” Anaxantis smiled. “That's my experience as well.”
“When you look at all those pages as a group, you see only a bunch of troublemakers, but once you get to know them, they become, well,
people. I mean, individuals. Did you know for instance that Echron
used to stutter?”
“Echron of Syrdunn? No, I didn't know that. They say it's an incurable affliction.”
“It wasn't very pronounced to begin with. Just a slight slurring of some words according to him, and his friends were used to it and didn't mind. But he did. It's kind of a funny story. A great story, actually. First he simply tried to avoid words with an s in them, and a few others he found difficult to pronounce. That proved impossible. There were just too many of them. Next he made a list of sentences he needed on a daily basis and practiced them when he was alone. That didn't work either. It did work, more or less, as long as he was on his own, but as soon as he had to speak to someone else he began stutter— ing again.”
“So, what was the solution?”
“He sings them. He had found out that the same words he broke his tongue over while speaking, didn't give him any difficulty when they occurred in a song. So he sang them. His friends thought he had gone mad. He explained to them what he was trying to do.”
“And that stopped them making fun of him? He must have very understanding friends.”
“Yes, he has. Over time he managed to sing only in his head.
Though, once you know the story, you can distinctly hear that there is a certain melodious quality to his voice.”
“Interesting. Interesting and admirable. I've invited the doctor for the Midwinter revels. You should present Syrdunn to Murno Tollbir.