'You have yet to present us with facts, my Lord,' the duchess commented, her hand resting on Ruhen's shoulder. Here, in the presence of her peers, she had found some of the poise that had been missing from Amber's first meeting with her. The little boy was obviously still distracting her, but there was nothing wrong with her political senses. She was watching everything that was going on closely.
Lord Styrax inclined his head to the duchess. 'The facts, your Grace, are that I will take the Circle City within the next few days. The only thing you can affect is the manner of that conquest.'
'You're bluffing,' snapped Celao. 'You don't have the troops.'
'I brought with me the tools I needed for the job,' Styrax said mildly. 'Why would I bluff on a poor hand when it would have been simple enough to bring the Second and Fourth Armies with me?'
'Because Tor Salan hasn't been the tea party you thought it would be,' Certinse said. The Knight-Cardinal mopped up the last of his soup and looked up, his mild smile unwavering. 'Without a strong garrison, you'll lose the city again. You need to recruit there before you can conquer the Circle City, and you've not had the time to build a force.'
He broke off when the man beside him, the High Priest of Belarannar, judging by his robe, tapped him on the arm.
Cardinal Sourl, sitting on Certinse's other side, glared at the priest. He was obviously not enjoying his newfound subordinate rank. The cardinal wore military uniform, as befitted his rank of general, but it didn't appear to fit him very well and he looked uncomfortable. He lacked the martial or political power to challenge the Knight-Cardinal's authority, but he had to be irked by the fact his counsel was not even sought, so deeply did the high priest have his claws into Knight-Cardinal Certinse.
And Sourl had lost weight too, since he last wore that uniform. The Menin still knew very little about whatever had enraged the Gods so, but following that event Sourl had apparently taken to preaching to his troops every day, dressed as a priest of Nartis — he had been ordained as such when he joined the Order. The once-noted soldier had been eating like a monk and acting like a zealot, and was no longer the well-built man in his fifth decade they had expected to find.
After a few moments of whispering, Certinse looked up again. 'My Brother-in-creed reminds me that you, Lord Styrax, have built monuments like shrines to your own glory, and you destroyed the Temple of the Sun in Thotel. Such desecration only clarifies our position: the Knights of the Temples cannot accept your rule.'
Lord Styrax leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. 'Indulge me and listen a little longer. I will explain this fully, for your further consideration.'
And all the while, Amber added to himself, while you turn to your priests for advice, we're exploiting that trust you place in them — give it an hour or so and you won't be smiling so easily.
The white-eye was looking pleased. Major Teral had always feared that.
'Gentlemen, greetings,' he began. 'My name is Anote, Duke Vrill, and in accordance with Menin tradition, I am here to offer you the chance to surrender.'
The Devoted officers exchanged looks of amusement. Major Sants might be an arrogant shit, willing to undermine Teral's authority at every opportunity, but he knew how to keep his place when the enemy were watching.
'And what exactly makes you think we would want to surrender?' Teral asked. 'The Fist has never been taken by enemy action, not once in three hundred years, and you've chosen a poor week to threaten us. Our reinforcements have made our biggest concern back there the lack of bunk space. So you are welcome to break your army on the Fist and distract the men for an hour or so.'
Vrill gave a menacing laugh. He had removed his helm to receive the Devoted men and Teral could see his long dark-red hair fell past his shoulder — it was dyed, presumably, since the Menin were supposed to be as dark as Teral's own tribe. The snarling head of an animal Teral didn't recognise topped his helm and his armour was painted white, adorned with red and blue ribbons, and imbued with some magic that made the duke blur slightly when he moved. Teral had seen something like this before and he recognised how difficult it would be to fight a man wearing armour like this.
He was escorted by Bloodsworn, who stared straight ahead. Their lances were stowed and their right hands rested lightly on their saddles, inches from the handles of their long-handled crescent axes.
'Haven't you heard?' Vrill asked, looking in turn at each of the men facing him. 'Lord Styrax took Tor Salan with ease, and their defences were greater than yours. My lord wishes the Circle City to accede to his rule without bloodshed.'
'Your lord,' spat Chaplain Fell, unable to contain himself any longer, 'has abandoned the Gods. He desecrated the Temple of Tsatach and turned away from his Patron God, the Lord of Battle.'
'My lord is fighting and winning battles,' Vrill replied, 'and what is that except serving Karkarn?'
'He shall burn in the black fires of Ghenna!' roared Fell, his hand instinctively going to his mace, but Sants anticipated it and grabbed the chaplain's arm. Fell struggled for a few moments, but he was a small man and couldn't break Sants's grip.
'Duke Vrill,' Teral said in a loud voice, T am the duty commander here, and I have neither the authority nor the desire to negotiate any surrender, unless I am receiving yours. You do not have the men to take us by force, so I am afraid you are wasting your breath.'
'On the contrary,' Vrill said, his smile widening, 'it was hardly a waste.'
'And why is that?' Teral asked, even as he finished the sentence in his mind: to distract us. He turned and looked back at the fortress. Nothing had changed, not yet.
I don't understand, he thought, puzzled. They couldn't have sneaked troops around us, it's not possible.
Even the five Reaper priests were doing nothing unusual, other than kneeling in the mud with their acolytes and praying — just as the priests of Death and Karkarn within the Fist would be doing.
'I wish to make it clear that any man who surrenders and throws down his weapon shall not be harmed,' said the Menin white-eye. He raised his left hand and a monstrous roar cut through the air.
Teral almost jumped in surprise. The minotaurs were bellowing up to the sky as they headed off to the open ground to the right of the Fist.
'Your Western gate would be a good place to march your troops out of, once you surrender,' the Menin general advised.
'Are you deaf, or just mad?' Major Sants demanded, though Teral knew Sants was just as worried as he. 'We're not going to surrender the damn Fist just because you asked us nicely!'
'Oratory is not enough of a reason?' Vrill shrugged. 'As you insist, I shall arrange a demonstration instead. Do not let me keep you, gentlemen.'
He offered them a crisp salute and sat there beaming as the Devoted soldiers turned their horses and galloped back towards the half-open gate of the Fist. All four were dreading what they would find.
'Enough!' Lord Celao shouted, cutting Styrax off in mid-sentence. 'Your administrative plans do not interest me, your trade strategies do not interest me, your political assessments do not interest me!' His face was red and his jowls were shaking with fury. 'You insult my tribe by your very presence; you insult us further by suggesting we could ever accept Menin rule! The descendents of Grast will never rule Ismess!'
'Indeed,' Certinse added levelly, 'and might I also suggest you get a new chef — the eel was woefully bland.' The Farlan powerbroker looked like he was enjoying himself, despite having listened to Lord Styrax talk for half an hour on matters they both knew were inconsequential. He knew this game, and was happy to listen to and watch the faces around at him, making occasional comments and allowing the nameless priest in brown to whisper in his ear every few minutes. They would reach the meat of the conversation in due course, and then the game would really start.