Not for the first time, Heladar found himself thinking of the high constable he'd deposed, and wondering if his own fall would come as swiftly as the one he'd arranged for Irreph Mulmar. He felt the weight of watching eyes on him: the dale folk, who hated him as much as they'd loved Mulmar. He kept his face hard and fearless as he looked slowly around at the patiently watching mountains. Then he directed his mount unhurriedly toward the castle. Though the sun was still high and the day fair, a cool breeze seemed to come out of nowhere, tuck cold fingers over the high collar of his armor, and wind its way slowly down his spine. Heladar Longspear rode into the High Castle and wondered how much longer it would be his.
9
The great doors boomed shut, causing torches to flicker up and down the walls of the high-ceilinged great hall, reflected flames glimmering on the motionless helms and breastplates of the lord's honor guard. The Council of the High Dale was in session.
Lord Heladar Longspear looked glumly down the great table. The searchers had so far come back empty-handed. Their mysterious enemies had slid away from seeking blades as a breeze loses itself in the woods. An old man and a girl, if the report just in from Eastkeep was to be believed. Only two, with swords and some magic, against all his warriors and. the mages of the Brotherhood.
Yet there were almost thirty fresh graves up behind the barracks. Worse, the arch-backed chairs halfway down the table where the lesser mages sat were empty. Mrinden, Kalassyn, and Sabryn were not here. Of the three, only Kalassyn still lived-and he lay abed, still too near death to walk about or sit in a chair half the evening. No one looked at the empty seats.
Silence fell over the murmuring councillors as Heladar's gaze ranged over them all. Twelve pairs of eyes looked back at him. Longspear did not bother to rise, smile, or utter empty words of welcome. They all knew why he'd called them here.
"Councillors," he said heavily, his eyes on the few faces he did not know as fellow agents of the Brotherhood, "I thank you for your swiftness in answering my call. Haste is of importance in dealing with any violence, unless one wants open war to erupt. We must deal speedily with the mysterious attacks and lawless outrages that have occurred in our fair dale this day and the night just past."
He left a little silence then. As usual, the most stupid of the local merchants rushed in to fill it. Fat Jatham, they called the wheezing, heavy-lidded, pudding-bellied weaver. He wore a splendid tunic, his own work no doubt.
"Hem-ah, Lord," Jatham breathed, "we've all heard wild rumors of battle, and spells, and many of y-our brave warriors slain. But I daresay most of us-as I, myself-were abed, asleep, for most of what went on. Will you tell us what befell?"
Longspear stared at him, not letting anything show on his face. Was the little man's slip about the sword brothers deliberate or merely slow wits? Everyone in this room and the dale around knew with cold certainty that the men-at-arms-his Wolves, the people called them- obeyed only Longspear and the mages. It was not polite, however, to say so. If open defiance started, it would spread like a wind-driven fire in dry grass. And if stamping it out meant a weaver's body swinging on the newly built gibbets on the castle walls, what of that?
He raised his hand to indicate Angruin. The cold-eyed mage brought him orders from Zhentil Keep, often making it clear he thought swordsmen like Longspear were just barely intelligent enough to obey them. He made it clear that Heladar was to take orders from him, in private, or suffer the wrath of Manshoon-after the pain of whatever dark magic Angruin Myrvult cared to inflict on him.
Well, then, let Angruin obey Lord Heladar in public, and do it well. Called himself Stormcloak and thought himself a big man because he could work a few nasty spells on folk, did he? Let him do some work.
A long-ago memory came to mind: an old Zhent warrior drinking himself to death, telling Heladar, "Priests and mages both are deadly to ye, boy. Deadly to us all. Mind ye keep 'em busy, for they're most apt to get into trouble and do ye ill with underhanded work when they've time to plot and scheme and skulk. Keep 'em too busy to dig ye a grave."
Angruin dragged his cold eyes only slowly from Longspear's face and said to the weaver, "Unknown persons-at least two and probably many more-have somehow entered our dale. They used magic against our loyal troops, so we suspect magic allowed them to sneak in among us. Our patrols first met with them in the practice field above the barracks, just north of here"-he nodded toward the window, but not a single head in the room bothered to turn and look-"last night, and there was a battle."
He paused for effect, looking around the table. "Magical fire was hurled against our forces. For safety, we advise that no one approach that place. Spread the word among the people: Avoid the upper field. There's nothing to see there, in any case, and the magic that still lurks there can twist the unwary into the forms of snakes, newts, or worse. Our soldiers have set a guard to discourage the curious."
"Is that," the urbane, poker-faced Sembian merchant asked calmly, "what happened to the mages who are not here with us today?" Xanther Srildar sat in his usual seat, right across from the empty chairs. Not for the first time, Longspear wondered if he was more than he appeared to be.
Angruin obviously felt the same. "Yes," he said flatly. "We lost some of our swordsmen but repulsed the intruders."
"How many?" The blunt question came from dark-eyed, dark-browed Blakkal Mord, a local leather worker. This one was no friend to any newcomers to the dale-including, of course, all men of the Brotherhood.
Angruin's eyes narrowed. Certain councillors were always trying to find out just how many soldiers the lord commanded in the dale. Were they truly simple enough to believe they'd ever be given a truthful answer?
"A score and three," Angruin said promptly. "At the field, when we chased these enemies through the woods, and this morning, when they attacked the road guard at Eastkeep."
There was a stir up and down the table. Not all here had heard of this before. Not surprisingly, Xanther and the other Sembian merchant, the wine dealer Saddusk, spoke together. "What befell there?"
Angruin looked meaningfully to the Lord of the Dale. Longspear motioned him to continue and picked up his flagon. It was good wine. He gave a silent nod of thanks to Thammar Saddusk, who returned it gravely. Then he turned back to the wizard. It had been happy fortune that the wine merchant had decided to move to the dale, in semiretirement from the bustle and high prices of Sembia's crowded cities, just after Longspear had taken it. The wine at the High Castle, by all accounts, was better than what one could get in Zhentil Keep itself, unless one was both noble and too rich to care what was charged for it.
Angruin began with a shrug. "Two people-an old man and a young woman, the watchers on the keep wall say-came out of the woods and fought with the guard on the road. They prevailed, entered the guard hut, and then fled."
"Prevailed?" Gulkin Hammarlin asked, his tone none too friendly. "Were all the guards slain?" The burly former hiresword was no friend to Zhent newcomers, either, and apt to be difficult. He was the best carpenter, glazier, and roofer in the dale, though; too useful to silence.
"Yes." Angruin's mouth shut like a trap, leaving only the single word hanging in the air over the table.
"Nine armed men?" Saddusk's dry voice asked. "What of the guard-wizard? What's his name-Dommil, or whatever?"
Stormcloak gave Longspear another inquiring look. Heladar took great satisfaction in raising his own eyebrows in mock surprise and motioning him to continue again.