"Yet what I can do to change the factors and limitations which constrain the King's options I will do. And if it proves possible to create circumstances which will make the wisdom of my own views and recommendations apparent, then I will do that, also. Nor-" he let his eyes sweep over their faces in the lamplight "- will I forget those who help me to create those circumstances."
"I see," Saratic murmured once more. He and Garthan looked at one another across the table, and then Saratic turned his gaze back to their host. "And may I ask, Milord, if you've given thought to the best way in which we might aid in the creation of those circumstances to which you just referred?"
"Well, no," the pipe-smoking man said mildly. "I mean, certain possibilities seem obvious enough. For example, this 'Lord Festian' who Tellian convinced the King to install at Glanharrow in place of your kinsman Mathian is scarcely likely to be equal to the sorts of challenges any lord must expect to face and master in safeguarding his lands and the people consigned to his care. Surely it would be appropriate for those in a position to demonstrate his incompetence to do so."
He bared his teeth in a smile any shark might have admired, and equally toothy smiles came back to him from his guests.
"And," he continued, "there's always the matter of this so-called champion of Tomanâk, 'Prince Bahzell.' Perhaps you may have failed to note that while His Majesty is prepared to acknowledge the existence of a chapter of the Order of Tomanâk among the hradani, and even to treat this Bahzell as one of the War God's champions, he has not expressly granted Bahzell ambassadorial status. While I feel certain King Markhos would be horrified if some evil mischance befell Bahzell, it wouldn't be the same as if that mischance had befallen an accredited ambassador from a civilized land."
"Nor does he enjoy the legal immunities of an ambassador," Tarlan said slowly. His thoughtful voice was little more than a murmur, but the pipe-smoking man nodded.
"Obviously not," he agreed. "There is the matter of his supposed status as a champion of Tomanâk, of course. But with all due respect to His Majesty and his other advisers, how can anyone honestly believe Tomanâk would choose a hradani-and a Horse Stealer hradani, at that-as one of His champions?" He snorted contemptuously. "If this Bahzell wants to claim the privileges and powers of a champion, I think it would be only fair to give him the opportunity to prove he deserves them. And since Scale Balancer's courtroom is the field of battle, there's really only one place he could do that, isn't there?"
One or two of the others exchanged glances of varying degrees of uneasiness as they listened to his last couple of sentences, but no one disagreed. After all, the mere thought of a hradani champion of any God of Light was far worse than merely ridiculous. It verged all too closely upon outright blasphemy, whatever others might think.
"I, for one, agree with you completely, Milord," Saratic said, and Garthan nodded firmly. Tarlan also nodded, only a shade less enthusiastically.
"Thank you, Lord Saratic," the pipe-smoking man said. "I value your support. And it has always been the tradition of my house to remember those who have lent us support when we most needed it."
More than a hint of avarice flickered in Saratic's eyes. It didn't supplant the anger and vengefulness which already filled them, but it honed and strengthened those preexisting emotions, and the pipe-smoker hid a smile of satisfaction as he saw it.
"It seems to me, Milord," Saratic said after a moment, "that if we really put our minds to it, there ought to be some way in which we might both demonstrate this Festian's inadequacy as Lord Mathian's usurper-I mean, of course, successor-and simultaneously provide 'Prince Bahzell' the opportunity to prove his status as Tomanâk's champion once and for all."
"I'm certain there is," the pipe-smoking man agreed. Then he put his hands on the tabletop and pushed to his feet, smiling at the others.
"However," he continued, "I fear the hour has grown quite late. I have a full and demanding day waiting for me tomorrow, and so, with your permission, I will bid you all good night. No, no," he said, shaking his head and raising the palm of one hand as two or three of his guests made as if to stand, as well. "Don't let my departure interrupt your conversation, gentlemen. It would be a poor host who expected his own early retirement to cut short his guests' enjoyment of discussions among themselves." He smiled at them again. "Stay where you are as long as you like. The servants have been instructed to leave you in peace, unless you summon them for additional refreshments. Who knows? Perhaps your discussions will suggest some way in which we might all further the Kingdom's interests and prosperity."
He nodded to them all, and then walked softly out of the room.
Chapter One
Thick mist swirled in slow, heavy clouds on the chill breeze, rising from the cold, standing water and scarcely thicker mud of the swamp. Somewhere above the mist, the sun crawled towards midday, burnishing the upper reaches of vapor with a golden aura that was delicately beautiful in its own way. All thirty of the mounted men were liberally coated in mud, however, and the golden glow did little to improve their tempers.
"It would be the Bogs," one of the trackers growled, grimacing at the mounted troop's commander.
"Would you really prefer the Gullet?" the grizzled horseman responded in an equally sour voice.
"Not really, Sir Yarran," the tracker admitted. "But at least I've been down the Gullet before. Halfway, at least."
Sir Yarran grunted a laugh, and so did most of his men. Their last trip down the Gullet had not been a happy one, but the men in this troop were not so secretly delighted by at least one of its consequences. Yet the laughter faded quickly, for like Sir Yarran, all of them were unhappily certain that the mission which brought them to the swamps this morning had been sparked by an effort to undo that consequence.
Sir Yarran rose in his stirrups as if those extra few inches of elevation could somehow help his sight pierce the billowing fog. They didn't, and he growled a mental curse.
"Well, lads," he said as he finally settled back into the saddle, "I'm afraid we've no choice but to keep going for at least a bit farther." He looked at one of his men and pointed back over his shoulder the way they'd come. "Trobius, go back and find Sir Kelthys and his men. Tell him we're pushing on into the swamp." He grimaced. "If he cares to join us, he'll be welcome, but there's little point his wallowing about in there, unless he's nothing better to do than freeze his arse off in muddy water along with the rest of us."
"Aye, Sir Yarran." Trobius sal uted, reined his horse around, and went trotting off into the mist. Sir Yarran contemplated the swamp ahead of them sourly for a few more moments, then grunted resignedly.
"All right, lads," he said. "Let's be going. Who knows? We might get lucky enough to actually find something to track."
"Aye, Sir," the tracker acknowledged, and urged his horse forward, picking a careful path deeper into the watery muck. "And pigs may fly, too," he muttered to himself, and Sir Yarran glanced at him. Fortunately, his voice had been low enough Sir Yarran could pretend he hadn't heard him. Which suited Sir Yarran just fine. Especially because he was in complete agreement with the other man.