"Certain information has come to me, information of value to you, I believe."
"About what?"
"The activities of a certain resident of the outer lands-the Skyshroud Forest, perhaps."
Greven's teeth began to grind. Talking to a Kor was like trying to swat flies with a broadsword-things never seemed to connect.
"Speak plainly before 1 have your legs broken!"
"I speak of the elf Eladamri, Dread Lord."
"You have news of Eladamri?" Greven tried to take the Kor by the arm, but he missed somehow-his hand swept through empty air. Furah stepped back just beyond his reach.
"Forgive me, Dread Lord, but I dislike being touched-a quirk common to my people."
"Get to the point!"
Furah pressed a hand to his chest again. "Eladamri has been trying to enlist the cooperation of the Dal, the Vec, and the Kor in his war against you," Furah said. "I myself went to a conclave in the forest on behalf of my people."
"And how was Eladamri's message received?"
"With great enthusiasm, Dread Lord."
"But not by you? Why are you informing on them, Furah?"
Behind Greven, a trio of moggs overturned a crucible of molten flowstone on their way up a ramp into the airship. The liquid stone, immune to commands or programming, formed into legions of tiny silver spheres and skittered in all directions. Workers who stepped on the flowstone slipped and fell, all over the dock. With a snarl, Greven left the Kor man and roared for all work to cease. The tumultuous airship dock fell silent, save for the hiss of the waiting flowbots.
"Everyone stand still!" Greven shouted, and he was heard throughout the dock. "When the stone solidifies, it will be safe to move again."
A tiny silver bead whirled in place at Greven's feet. As it cooled, the flowstone slowly flattened into an egg, then a disk, and finally spread itself as thin as paper. It lost its silver color and took on the patina of whatever substance it was lying on.
"Resume work!" Greven called. The dock exploded with activity all over again.
He turned around, expecting to find the Kor waiting for him, but there was no sign of Furah. What should he make of this information? If Eladamri had forged an alliance with restive elements among the outland Dal and Vec, then the simple, annoying elf rebellion could turn into a full-blown civil war.
Crovax… Crovax had taken half the army on a mogg's errand into the worst swamp on Rath. He was expecting to trample over a few hundred elves, when in fact he was facing an unknown force of much greater size.
He shouted for his Vec foreman and ordered him to keep the repairs going no matter what.
"Where are you going, Dread Lord?" asked the foreman.
"To see the emissary."
He found Belbe in the evincar's suite. She was sitting in one of Volrath's grand chairs, watching Ertai wash himself in the evincar's ornate bath.
"Hello, Greven," Ertai said breezily. He sat in steaming water up to his hips while a jointed fleshstone appliance scrubbed his back with a sodden rag.
"What in the overlords' name-?" Greven spotted Belbe in Volrath's chair, observing Ertai's ablutions.
"It's called a 'bath,'" Belbe said. "Evidently a custom among humans. The ritual serves both as relaxation and hygiene."
"I know what a bath is, Excellency." Greven's molars were ready to pulverize iron at that moment. "Why is this enemy of Rath, this prisoner, in the royal bath?"
"Because I was dirty," Ertai replied. "It's hardly fitting for a sorcerer of my skills and a candidate for evincar to go around smelling like one of your moggs."
Words failed Greven completely. He spread his powerful hands and looked to Belbe for enlightenment.
"It's true," she said. "Crovax, while presenting excellent qualifications, cannot be the sole candidate. It wouldn't be efficient to award the position to him without competition. Since Ertai has demonstrated outstanding magical ability, including some untutored influence over flowstone, it's efficient to offer him a chance to try for the job as well."
Belbe descended from the high chair. She was clad in a large, belted scarlet tabard that flowed from her shoulders like a cape and swept to the floor. Against the monochrome decor, she blazed like a flame.
"Which reminds me, Lord Greven. Would you like to be considered for evincar as well? You have many years of effective service on your side and manifest talents for the job."
There it was, plainly stated at last. Greven had pondered this possibility since Volrath's departure, and he knew what his answer must be.
"Thank you, Excellency, but I must decline," he said.
"As you choose, but why?"
"I'm content to remain a loyal servant of the throne."
"It would mean the end of the control rod."
"I've considered that. I served Volrath for many years, and I've seen firsthand the effect unfettered power had on him. I would rather be the blade than the hand that wields it."
Ertai plucked the washcloth from the fleshstone scrubber's soft claw. He wiped his face with it and said, "Why is that?"
He could not explain his past to these-children. Greven had once been en-Vec, a leader of a great warrior nation. Treachery and jealousy cost him his position, his clan, and his life. With no other recourse but ignominious death, he fell into the hands of Volrath and became il-Vec, the hated outcast.
He said simply, "Because the victim curses his killer, not the blade that cuts him."
"Blades have no choice who they cut. Men do," Ertai replied.
"I have given my answer!" Greven thundered. He struggled for calm in the presence of the emissary. "Excellency, I have news of grave import." Greven recounted his odd conversation with Furah. Belbe listened while walking around the edge of the tiled bathing pool.
"You believe Crovax has led his army into a trap?" she asked after some contemplation.
"I do, Excellency."
"How would you remedy this situation?"
"I doubt I could reach Crovax with a relief force before the rebels strike," Greven said. "Worse, Crovax would probably commandeer any companies I brought, enlarging Eladamri's bag of killed or captured."
"That sounds like him," Ertai said, digging at his ear with the washcloth.
Greven ignored him. "I can, if Your Excellency desires, puttogether a force and go to Crovax's aid," he said. "I can have a scratch force prepared in two hours."
"No," said Belbe.
"No?" Greven and Ertai asked together.
"This expedition is Crovax's audition, his way of proving he is strong enough to be evincar. Very well, let him prove it. If your informant is correct, Crovax faces a more skillful enemy than he imagines. This is his chance to prove his mettle."
"Cold," muttered Ertai. When Belbe asked him to repeat himself, he said, "The water's gone cold."
"Then get out," snapped Greven.
Ertai looked from the hulking warrior to the gamine emissary and shook his head. "I can wait."
Greven gritted his teeth, then he continued. "We may lose many soldiers, Excellency."
"Yes."
"And valuable arms, and a host of moggs."
"Quite possibly."
"Does any of this concern Your Excellency?"
"What matters in a test of strength is who wins," Belbe said. She paused, looking into the pool where Ertai sat. Her crimson-draped reflection wavered with every ripple of the water. "Victory belongs to the strong."
"Don't forget luck and brains," Ertai added. "The strongest wrestler may fall if he slips up-and a smart fighter provides his own bar of soap." So saying, he squeezed the cake of soap in his fist. It squirted free, landing at Greven's feet. He kicked the perfumed bar back into the tub.
"So, I am to do nothing?" Greven asked once the metaphors had settled down.
"Put the garrison on alert," Belbe said. "And try to trace this Furah-if he spies on his friends, he may be spying on us as well."