Nightfall’s vision; dizziness nearly felled him. The wood felt cold and damp beneath his fingers. The circle of sailors closed, driven by action to a murderous frenzy. Bereft of alternatives, Nightfall caught the lowest cleat, dropped his weight to a minuscule fraction, and scrambled up the mast. The weight shift eased the stress on his rib as well.
Shouts arose from the sailors. Sea-wet air bit through the hole in Nightfall’s shirt, prickling his skin into gooseflesh. The click of sheet clamps and the flap of the sail drowned out the whispered plans beneath him. Nightfall’s options paraded before him. Clinging to the mast, he would succumb to exposure; or, when numbness and fatigue overcame him, he would plummet to his death. Surrender to the crew would cost him his freedom, but that could be regained. Apparently, King Rikard wanted him alive. So far, Nightfall had not killed or seriously wounded any of the sailors, which meant he still had an excellent chance to make it to Alyndar without a fatal "accident."
Still clutching the pole, Nightfall redrew his knife and let it fall. It tumbled harmlessly through the air, clattering to the deck. "I surrender," he said.
King Rikard Nargol the Hammer-handed perched upon his high-backed chair, surveying the Great Hall of Alyndar. The array of tapestries and paintings covering the stretches of stone wall between peaked windows had grown familiar, seldom rearranged in the thirty-eight years of his reign. A shield decorated with his crest, a fist clutching a hammer, hung over the entryway door. A guard dressed in Alyndar’s silver and purple escorted a young emissary between rows of benches and toward the dais.
Waiting for the men to traverse the aisle, Rikard studied the nobles who sat on the nearest benches. As always, Prince Leyne, the elder of his two sons, sat stiffly in the front, alert and interested in the proceedings. A perfect copy of Rikard’s shrewd, dark eyes stared back at him from the face of his heir. Leyne also sported his father’s sharply-defined cheeks and thick, war-trained musculature, though there the resemblance ended. Instead of his father’s brown curls, now turned gray, Leyne had inherited the late queen’s golden locks and handsome features. Now twenty-six, Prince Leyne could marry any woman he wished; but, instead, he had committed himself to combat training and court affairs. Other gentlefolk lounged around the Great Hall, but most of these had lost interest in the matters of state. They had broken into huddled groups, their conversations a dim hum of background.
Guards with pole arms and swords stood at attention around the perimeter, their demeanors brisk but their drooping faces betraying boredom. Only one man sat with the king. At his right hand, Chancellor Gilleran poised on his seat, gaze fixed on the approaching messenger and escort. Short hair framed pale, blue-gray eyes. Each strand lay in its place, so straight and neutral brown as to appear to have no color or texture at all. Though fifteen years younger than his king, Gilleran had entered his forties. Crow’s-feet etched his eyes and age had coarsened his features, making him look as dangerous as being a sorcerer made him in actuality.
Rikard knew that other kings, earls, and barons would have balked at the idea of allowing a sorcerer in their castles. Most feared the ritualistic slaughter that users of magic performed to gain their powers, ritual that, by report, required the sorcerer to consume his victim’s beating heart. But to Rikard’s knowledge, Gilleran had never slain any of Alyndar’s retinue or its citizens. The sorcerer’s powers served the kingdom well; his reputation, though unproven, kept the stewards and lesser retainers briskly efficient; and his guile complemented Rikard’s own wisdom.
The messenger and his escort stopped before the dais. Now, King Rikard could see the white eagle symbol on the blue and red tabard that marked the young stranger as an emissary of King Idinbal from the southern country of Hartrin.
The messenger bowed deeply.
King Rikard gestured to him to rise.
The emissary obeyed, studying the king respectfully through green eyes beneath wide, dark brows and a fringe of reddish bangs. “Sire, I bring greetings from Hartrin and my lord, King Idinbal, as well as an agreement. l believe, sire, that you will find it generous and satisfactory.”
Rikard nodded with guarded courtesy. Rising taxes against his own goods arriving in Hartrin had caused him to boost tariffs against Hartrin in kind. Affairs had spiraled nearly into economic warfare, and he had as much desire to see the situation defused as Idinbal. Alyndar’s fur and lobster trade into the south lands gleaned more profits than Hartrin’s spices and perfumes in his own lands. Still, ldinbal had a reputation as a cunning and frugal strategist, and not only on the battlefield.
The emissary continued. "King ldinbal has agreed to pay a quarter of his profits as tariff."
King Rikard’s brows arched, then beetled as he waited for the other shoe to fall. As usual, Chancellor Gilleran sat in expressionless silence. Prince Leyne leaned forward attentively.
"His Majesty, King ldinbal, has agreed to pay half his profits for the following six months provided he can trade freely, without tariff, over these next six months. Sire, he has asked that you do the same." Message finished with an efficiency that all but demanded an impulsive consent, the emissary lowered his head, awaiting a reply.
Rikard watched his elder son’s face as he deliberated. The young features crinkled in thought.
Rikard allowed his own mind free rein. Spring had come only recently. Ice chunks still cluttered the Klaimer Ocean, making ocean passage difficult, but no longer impossible. Hartrin’s sleek ships would cross the channel heavily over the spring and summer, disappearing as late autumn and winter clogged the water with floes. Meanwhile, Alyndar’s fur trade would flourish in the colder months when the animals came into full coat, and Alyndarian wagons would lurch overland through Nemix, Delfor, Trillium, and Brigg into Hartrin. While Alyndar did its briskest trade, Hartrin would do little in return.
King Rikard glanced at Leyne. The prince frowned, shaking his head, and it pleased the king to see that his son had thought the matter through, arriving at the same conclusion. "Thank your lord for his most…" He paused to draw sarcastic emphasis onto the next word. "… generous offer. But Alyndar has no interest in this agreement-"
"Father, wait." Leyne rose.
Every eye darted to the prince. Hartrin’s negotiator turned to face the young man directly.
"Perhaps we can work this agreement, with one minor change." Leyne addressed the Hartrinian directly. "Are you in a position to speak for King Idinbal on this matter?"
The emissary nodded. "Yes, Sire, I am."
Prince Leyne looked back to the king, apparently realizing he did not have the same authority. "I understand King Idinbal’s need to wait for his payment; you’ve had a difficult winter. But our coffers are currently full. Perhaps my father would agree to your trade if Alyndar paid Hartrin in the coming six months and Hartrin paid us in the ones following."
King Rikard smiled, pleased by his son’s negotiating. Compromise always worked better than direct refusal of an offer, and he had trapped Hartrin neatly. To decline the concession would almost require an admission of deceitful intentions, and Hartrin did more overland winter trade than Alyndar did in the summer. "Quite correct. I would agree to this."
The emissary paled, turning back to the king. "I…"
The door to the Great Hall whipped open suddenly, slamming against the far wall with a jolt that dislodged the hanging shield. Prince Edward Nargol strode into the aisle, flanked by his personal steward and two members of the guard. The shield plummeted in Edward’s wake, missing the harried steward by luck alone, crashing to the floor at his feet. The sound of metal striking stone rang through the room. The steward leapt backward, eyes round as coins, hands clutching at his chest.