Bastorran sighed resignedly. ‘So what are you proposing?’
‘That an expedition be sent to investigate what’s going on in the north. We know precious little about this warlord or what his intentions might be.’
‘And this expedition’s orders?’
‘Would be to make contact with Zerreiss, if that’s feasible, or to spy out the situation if it’s not. But this is sensitive. Sending an imperial flotilla could be seen as inflammatory. We thought a Bhealfan force might be less controversial.’
‘A fine distinction, the difference between a Gath Tampoorian expedition and one flying the flag of its…
protectorate
. Your barbarian warlord might not appreciate the subtlety.’
‘It’s not meant for him. It’s for Rintarah. We don’t want to signal our concerns too obviously and draw their attention.’
‘They’d see through it faster than Zerreiss, surely?’
‘We might just get away with the pretence that it’s nothing more than a Bhealfan trading mission.’
‘But in reality you’d have some of your people on board?’
‘Of course.’
Bastorran pondered. At length, he said, ‘I’ve no objections to this in principle. But if I back you with the Prince I want to be able to call on your support in turn.’
‘Naturally. Do you have a cause in mind?’
‘Not yet. Let’s just say you owe me, shall we?’
Talgorian nodded.
‘I expect to be kept informed of progress,’ Bastorran continued, ‘and I’d want a few paladins among the crew.’
‘That can be arranged. So, we’re in accord?’
‘On this matter, yes. Have you broached the subject with Melyobar?’
‘The expedition, no. Zerreiss, several times.’
‘And?’
‘There’s only one subject on his mind. As usual. That’s why we need to work together.’ He glanced up at the eavesdropper and felt a twinge of apprehension, though he knew he was protected by the best counter-magic money could buy. Instinctively, he moved closer to the paladin and dropped his voice a little. ‘I assume there’s been no news concerning…a certain Qalochian?’
‘Ah.’ Bastorran grew sober. ‘None. Beyond unconfirmed sightings and the occasional suspicious deaths of clansmen. You appreciate the unique circumstances surrounding the man.’
‘Yes. But… I’ll be frank. I’m getting a certain amount of pressure from above on this issue.’ He momentarily lifted his eyes heavenward.
‘The Empress?’ Bastorran was slightly awed despite himself.
‘Her circle.’ They both knew it amounted to the same thing. ‘They’ve been conveying a measure of restlessness, shall we say, at the lack of progress.’
‘Do I have to remind you that we have our own reasons for wanting him dealt with? You can’t say we lack motivation. Bhealfa might be just an island but it’s a damn big one when searching for a single man. And that’s assuming he’s here. We have reason to think he is, but he could be anywhere in either empire or their dependencies.’
‘I appreciate the difficulties.’
‘Which are made no easier by the extraordinary restrictions placed on us as far as this matter’s concerned.’
‘Our hands are tied. But we have to get the thing cleared up. You know the danger, and the consequences of failure.’
Bastorran was about to respond when there was a knock at the door.
A servant entered. He escorted in another paladin, less than half the High Chief’s age and as trimly attired. The family resemblance was unmistakable. But where Bastorran, for all his rigidity and bluntness, was susceptible to at least a degree of reason, Talgorian knew this young man to be bull-headed. As he knew him to be arrogant, and by reputation, brutish.
‘I believe you’ve met Devlor, my nephew,’ Bastorran said. It was obvious the older man delighted in the younger. He exuded something like fatherly pride.
‘Of course,’ Talgorian replied, giving a laconic head bow. ‘I trust the day finds you well, Commander.’
‘Tolerably.’ Devlor Bastorran barely regarded him, while managing to convey indifference and haughtiness in a single word.
The older man beamed indulgently and gave his nephew’s shoulder a mock punch. ‘The finest swordsman in the two empires,’ he boasted. ‘I know, I trained him myself.’
Talgorian had heard the brag before, and others concerning the younger Bastorran. He greeted it with a judicious, hollow smile.
‘Leave the insubordinates to the likes of Devlor here,’ the elder paladin added, ‘and you’d see an end to their whining soon enough.’
His nephew flashed a cruel, white-toothed smile of agreement.
‘No doubt,’ the Envoy remarked.
Ivak Bastorran had no male issue. Rumour held that Devlor was being groomed to take over leadership of the clans when his uncle expired, hence his high rank at such a tender age. If the rumours proved true, Talgorian saw trouble ahead.
His train of thought was curtailed by the functionary’s return. Announcing that the Prince was ready to see them, he led Bastorran and Talgorian to the audience chamber. Devlor stayed behind, to the ambassador’s relief.
The Prince’s suite was disordered. Papers, books, blueprints and bric-a-brac covered every surface, and much of the lushly carpeted floor. The scent from copious bouquets of flowers and pot pourri didn’t quite mask the smell of sweat and fear. Near the back of the room was a large object covered by a blue velvet drape.
They were announced and the flunky withdrew. The Envoy and the paladin glanced at each other, then began picking their way through the clutter.
Melyobar seemed hardly aware of their presence. He was on his hands and knees, sifting through documents and blueprints. Several weighty tomes with metal hasps lay open about him. He wore his familiar agitated demeanour. His prematurely greying hair was askew, his sweat-sheened cheeks flushed.
A short bout of discreet throat-clearing made his visitors’ presence known. The Prince lifted his head and blinked at them. A degree of recognition dawned and he got up, clutching the back of a chair to steady himself, as though he were a much older man. They refrained from assisting, unsure of his reaction if they laid hands on him, and instead waited with heads bowed.
On his feet, puffing, the Prince said, ‘I’m glad you dropped by,’ as if this wasn’t a long-standing regular audience.
‘The honour is all ours, your Highness,’ Talgorian responded tactfully. He discreetly nudged Bastorran, who mumbled a similar platitude.
‘There are weighty issues to be pondered,’ Melyobar declared.
‘Indeed there are,’ Talgorian agreed, hopeful of a rational exchange for once.
‘Do you know,’ the Prince confided, ‘two or three days ago I thought I had him.’
‘Who?’ Bastorran asked before Talgorian could stop him.
Melyobar looked affronted. ‘Who? Death, naturally. Who else?’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course, Highness.’
‘It was in a village my troopers came across in the… south somewhere, I think,’ Melyobar related. ‘The peasants were harbouring him, I’m
sure
of it. Not that I was there myself, obviously. I’m no fool! But would they give him up? Would they hell! He’d coached them in falsehood. Lies come to him as naturally as truth. More so. He’s had greater trade with lies.’ He glazed into some kind of reverie.
‘What happened, Majesty?’ Talgorian gently prompted.
‘Happened? They persisted in their refusal to surrender him, that’s what. Claimed they knew nothing about him. The sneaks! So I sent an order that had them put to him.’
His visitors were puzzled. ‘Sir?’ Bastorran queried.
‘I had them put to him. You see? Put them to
Death
. See? Eh?’ He laughed at his little joke.
They politely echoed his mirth with puny chuckles and thin smiles.