“I bring you greetings on behalf of my cousin in the hills, m’lord,” he said. “I am Dranth, scion of the Raven’s Guild of Yarim.”
Talquist rose slowly and gestured the man forward, sizing him up as he walked nearer. The code he had uttered was an even more secret one than that of the golden measure, used only in the gravest of times.
“To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the guild scion himself?” Talquist asked, pointing to a chair before his desk. “My condolences, by the way, on the demise of your guildmistress.” He watched Dranth’s face carefully for a sign of surprise that he knew of her death, but the man merely nodded. “I had not met her, nor had we done business together, but her reputation was well known to me.”
“Doubtless,” Dranth said dryly. “M’lord.” He sat down slowly in the chair.
“Since you have approached me under the auspices of the golden measure, tradesman to tradesman, one guild hierarch to another, I am obliged to help you in whatever way I can, if the request be reasonable. What do you want?”
“Actually, I believe what I bring may be of aid to you, m’lord,” Dranth said respectfully. He drew forth a parcel wrapped in sheepskin from within the folds of his cloak and laid it on the table in front of the emperor-to-be. “Please examine this.”
Talquist nodded to the package. “Open it for me,” he said pleasantly.
Dranth smiled. “Gladly, though you have nothing to fear from me of traps or poisons, m’lord. Your long life and robust health are quite important to me; you will see why in a moment.”
He pulled from the sheepskin parcel a sheaf of documents, each in the spidery script of assassin’s code, next to carefully rendered schematics of tunnels, bunkers, and breastworks.
“The guildmistress was doing reconnaissance in the Firbolg kingdom of Ylorc at the time of her death,” Dranth said softly. Talquist noted that his voice was both sweet and poisonous, like the scent of almonds in arsenic. “She had gained the Bolg king’s trust, and thereby had unfettered access to his inner sanctum, his secrets, and his plans. She sent back a great deal of information, including troop numbers and schedules, hallway and infrastructure diagrams, munitions caches, and a host of other very important material.” He tossed the documents on the table in front of Talquist. “Among the other things she discovered was that he is planning to move against Sorbold.”
Talquist snorted. “If he is, I’ve seen no evidence of it. The Bolg have been busy redecorating Canrif more than building up for war. King Achmed doesn’t seem the land-grabbing type to me; he wants the demi-human monsters he reigns over to be seen as men, and to that end he is pursuing manufacturing and trade agreements, not war.”
Dranth nodded thoughtfully. “What is he manufacturing?”
Talquist shrugged. “The Bolg produce a strange but interesting array of goods,” he said. “They make a very light, very tensile rope, that is prized in the shipping trade. They also spin some finely delicate ladies’ unmentionables, which has always amused me. A unique type of wood from their inner forests past the mountains bears a faint blue tint beneath its dark natural hue, and that is highly sought after, especially overseas.”
“And they also make weapons,” Dranth noted. “Extremely effective and deadly weapons.”
“Yes.”
“But while they have trade agreements with you to buy and broker their rope, their wood, and their lacy folderol, they do not sell you their weapons.” Dranth smiled icily. “Do they?”
Talquist stared at the guild scion for a long time, then looked down at his desk and smiled.
“What score are you looking to settle with the Bolg?” he said finally, tracing the pattern of the wood grain in his desk.
“The death of our mistress,” Dranth answered.
“And none other?”
“No. She was seeking revenge for another matter, the theft of water, but that is no longer of consequence. The Raven’s Guild has sworn to avenge her death to the exclusion of all missions, or contracts, sparing no expense, no cost of any kind, human or otherwise, until the very end of Time, if necessary.”
Talquist chuckled. “My. That is certainly a very intense sentiment.” He looked up into the serious face of the guild scion, his smile dimming slightly. em“If you wanted my help in achieving your revenge, you should merely have requested it under the auspices of the golden measure. It is not required that I agree with your vendetta; only that it is not against my interests.” His smile broadened. “And it is not.”
Dranth nodded, relief in his eyes that was not mirrored on the rest of his face.
“In fact, I believe that if we join forces, we can both exact your revenge and further my plans very nicely.” He pushed his chair back, rose, and walked slowly to the tall windows that overlooked the city’s central square where the Scales stood, their immense wooden arm casting a dark, rectangular shadow over the streets. “First, you do understand that our conversations are guarded by the sacred vow of the guildmason?”
“Of course.”
“And that, as brothers in the guild, we are sworn to deal honestly with one another?”
Dranth’s brows narrowed. “The Raven’s Guild abides by the same ethics and vows as all other guilds, m’lord. Our area of business notwithstanding.”
“Do not misunderstand me, guild scion,” Talquist demurred, opening his hands in a benign gesture. “I fully respect your guild’s reputation and your expertise. I have dealt with many of your brother guilds in my time as guild hierarch in western Sorbold. I just need to know the truth—did the guildmistress truly uncover a plot by the Bolg to invade Sorbold, or—”
“No.”
“Ah. Good. Well, then, pray join me at supper to discuss how we might be able to mutually achieve our ends.” Dranth nodded, and Talquist rang for the chamberlain.
When the cordials were served, and the last of the trays taken away, Talquist leaned over the table.
“Now that I understand the capabilities of your organization, I believe I have a way to fulfill your request.”
Dranth interlaced his fingers. “I’m listening.”
“All of the intelligence you brought to me is genuine, except for your erstwhile claim that the Bolg intend to attack Sorbold, is that correct?”
“Yes,” said the guild scion, his eyes darkening. “Why?”
Talquist swirled the liqueur in his snifter gently and inhaled the bouquet.
“What do you know of the kingdom of Golgarn?”
Dranth shrugged. Golgarn was a distant realm, to the southeast of Ylorc and Sorbold. The forbidding mountain passes of the Teeth prevented overland trade and travel between Roland and Ylorc to Golgarn, so the only real method of communication was by avian messenger, the only manner of trade by sea. “There is a brother guild there. Esten was in infrequent contact with them, on rare occasions when a debtor of one kind or another attempted to make his way there, or here, to outrun a debt. She always found them very cooperative, and reciprocated quickly. They are on friendly terms with Sorbold, are they not?”
“They are,” Talquist agreed. “But not friendly enough.” He took a sip of the golden liquid as Dranth raised a questioning eyebrow. “You will go to Golgarn, infiltrate their networks of information that make their way back to the king. And you will tell them the same fairy tale you told me—that you have incontrovertible evidence that the Bolg king is building up his army with the intent of invading them.”
“They won’t believe that any more than you did,” Dranth said darkly. “They have the mountains to protect them. The Bolg tunnels do not approach their realm within five hundred miles.”
Talquist grinned. “Yes, you are correct. If someone were to go to Beliac, the king, and tell him such a fanciful story as you told me, he would see through it immediately. Which is why you have to let him uncover the information himself.” He drained his glass, then reached for the decanter to refill it. “If documents with the authenticity of these, enhanced a little to show that the Bolg actually have tunnels with five miles, rather than five hundred, of Golgarn, were to be found in, say, a raid of an establishment of questionable loyalty—such as your brother guild—it might cause Beliac to worry enough to go investigate.”