At the window of a chamber high in Melyobar’s travelling palace, one particular observer watched with an expression that was almost vacant.
“How much longer’s he going to keep us waiting?” an impatient voice demanded from behind him.
Andar Talgorian, Gath Tampoor’s Imperial Envoy, slammed the shutters and turned to the questioner.
Clan High Chief Ivak Bastorran, hereditary leader of the paladins, was above middle years, and his neatly trimmed hair and beard were touched with silver. But his physique was still impressive, the heritage of a lifetime of soldiering, and his eyes were sharp and artful from nearly as long a career in scheming. He wore the clan uniform – red tunic, black breeches, knee-high leather riding boots – as though it had formed around him. Tight, crisp, no creases. His boots shone almost as brightly as the decorations and braid he wore.
“It’s getting here at this hour that irks me,” Talgorian complained.
“Nothing special for a soldier,” Bastorran snorted. “Pity you never had the discipline of a military background.” It was intended as a dig. A small barb in the ongoing mutual loathing between men of equivalent power and differing aims who vied for the Prince’s attention.
Talgorian refused to bite and said nothing.
An eavesdropper glamour hung in the air just below the sumptuous anteroom’s ornate ceiling. It took the shape of a large brass ear. There was no pretence as to its function, no subtlety intended. Beneath his shirt Talgorian wore a medallion containing a blocking glamour which overrode the eavesdropper. He was sure Bastorran had something similar. Visitors were forbidden to bring spells of any kind into the palace, but it was unlikely anyone would challenge such men.
“The waste of time is what I find frustrating,” Bastorran added. “I have more important matters to attend to.”
“Such as increased Resistance activity?”
That was a hit. The paladin glowered. “We try not to call them that. Makes it sound like they have a just grievance. I prefer deviants, hooligans, misfits –’
“However you name them, they are more active. In both empires and in the colonies. Not least here in Bhealfa.”
“The clans are on top of it. We have informers in the insurgent ranks, and there’s little happening we’re not aware of.”
“All interested parties have their spies.”
“Not as highly placed as mine.”
Talgorian regarded that as a bluff, else the paladins would have made better headway with the problem. He tried steering back to the subject. “Well, our sources indicate the rebels are involved in more attacks and criminality than ever before. That has to be of concern to all of us.”
“It’d be less of a concern if we were put in sole charge of dealing with them.”
“You know that would be politically unacceptable.”
“Unacceptable my arse. Politics is a mire. It bogs things down when speed’s of the essence. It conciliates when we should be striking without mercy. You’re in it by choice. It’s your job to spew silken words amounting to no more than a pile of horse shit. I wade in the privy out of necessity.”
“Your views on the subject are well known,” Talgorian replied dryly, “so let’s not rehearse them again, shall we? The fact remains that politics is what we’re engaged in, like it or not, and that means we practise the art of expediency. It’s how we get things done.”
“My point exactly. Expediency. Compromise, concessions, give and take. Allow us a clear path and you’d see improvements in the situation then.”
“I would hardly say that the regime we have now is particularly soft, any more than the penalties meted out by your clans could be called lenient.” He didn’t wait for Bastorran to contradict that, and pushed on. “And you have to admit the paladins are in a delicate position with regard to the Resistance, what with you serving both Gath Tampoor and Rintarah. You’ll never have a free hand as long as that’s the case.”
“Now we have a subject your views are plain about,” Bastorran replied heatedly. “We make alliances. It’s our tradition.” He spoke deliberately, as though instructing a dim child. “The paladins bear arms for anyone who needs our services.”
“Anyone who can pay for them, you mean.”
“Do you do your job unpaid? Or is your patriotism so great your services are given freely? There’s no contradiction in what we do. We’re stateless, remember, and by choice. Which makes it possible for us to serve and fight without being hampered by ties of nationhood. In any event, no one clan serves both empires.”
“Nevertheless, a paladin of whatever clan is ultimately loyal to all clans.”
“If conflicts of interest arise, paladins withdraw. If that’s impossible we serve faithfully, and that includes meeting brother clansmen in battle if need be.”
Which had never been known, Talgorian reflected. And he was far from alone in thinking that if the paladins’ stateless condition, a privilege accorded to no other group, wasn’t expediency, he didn’t know what was. The word mercenary hung in the air, but he had no appetite for using it. He didn’t want to make more of an enemy of this man. “The idea that you could take up arms against yourselves,” he said, “I always found that difficult to understand.”
“You would, you’re a civilian,” the paladin responded, appending, “With respect,” though he meant no respect at all. “It’s about honour.”
Talgorian raised a cynical eyebrow at that. “The reality of the situation is that the clans are never going to be entirely…’ He was going to say trusted. “The clans are unlikely to be granted the latitude you want as long as you insist on this particular… tradition,” he rephrased diplomatically.
“Over the centuries many have tried to persuade my predecessors away from our customs. I very much doubt the present administration, or indeed your good self, is going to have any more success than they did, Ambassador.”
“I would never be so presumptuous, Clan High Chief.”
They exchanged professional, insincere smiles and mentally crept away from the topic.
There was a soft bump as the palace flattened something. A farmhouse perhaps, or somebody’s orchard. Nothing of any importance.
Bastorran said, “I will concede that difficult problems do arise in respect of security.” He noted Talgorian’s guarded expression. “I’m thinking of recent events concerning your Council for Internal Security,” he clarified, “and the disappearance of a certain special unit captain.”
It was Talgorian’s turn to hide embarrassment. “You suspect the Resistance had a hand in it?”
“She’s a reasonably important middle-ranking operative by all accounts. Certainly an asset to them if she has defected, and her escape was assisted. On the other hand, things often prove more complicated than they first seem.”
“What’s your interest in the matter, beyond the security implications?”
“Several clansmen were killed during her escape. Losing our own isn’t something we take lightly.”
“I’m told her escape was purely a criminal matter.”
“Whatever it was it should never have been allowed to happen. The whole affair was a botch from start to finish. When a member of one of the great families gets killed, like this Phosian boy, even if it was incompetence and not assassination, heads should roll. Anything less and the mob loses proper respect for authority.”
“You may well be right. But the fate of a lowly captain isn’t what concerns us at the moment.” He nodded towards the pair of elegantly carved doors at the far end of the anteroom. “It would benefit us both if we had a united front when we see the Prince. I suggest we keep the agenda simple for him.”
“Don’t we always?”
“More so today, I mean. By concentrating on one or two issues of special importance.”
“If you’re hoping to dominate this audience with your own concerns,” Bastorran rumbled angrily, “you can –’
“No, no, no, it’s not that.” He waved a hand in an appeasing
gesture. “I just want to be sure certain matters that affect us all are given priority.”
“I sometimes wonder why you bother with the pretence of protocol. Gath Tampoor’s going to do whatever it wants anyway, isn’t it? Given this island’s no more than another of the empire’s puppet states.”
“Protectorates,” Talgorian insisted. “Unfortunately, in some matters that require Bhealfan co-operation it behoves us to feign legality. Unilateral action could stir up even more agitation among the populace. Something we can do without at a time when our forces are stretched countering Rintarah’s ambitions. You know that.”
The paladin nodded. “Too well. Laws, treaties, etiquette, they’re all as bad as politics. They clog everything up. Sweep the lot away, I say.”
The Envoy kept his impatience in check. “What we have is what we have. Until such time as other, more direct arrangements can be made.”
“Anyway,” Bastorran sniffed, “what is it that’s so important?”
“This warlord we’ve been hearing about. Zerreiss. By all accounts he’s expanding his sphere of influence at an alarming rate.”
“Is that all? You’re worried about one barbarian chieftain? I thought it must be something important!”
“It might not do to be so dismissive of a possible threat to our borders.”
“Afraid another empire’s rising, are you?” He laughed derisively. “Concerned you could have a rival?”
Talgorian gave him a stony look.
“One tin-pot leader overthrows a few others,” Bastorran went on. “It happens all the time. He’ll fall back into obscurity soon enough. They always do. It’s ridiculous to think savages could offer a threat to the might of either empire.”
“Of course it is. But what about some of our more far-flung protectorates? There are northern dependencies that produce valuable resources for us. Seeing the supply of those resources cut off, or worse, having the prize fall into the hands of a warlord, would be another burden for us at a time of unrest.”
“The northern wastes are a long way away. You have one of the two largest navies in the world. Distance and force of arms should be enough defence for you. Anyway, I still think you’re exaggerating the risk.”
“With respect, High Chief –’ again, none was meant “– I would suggest that the Gath Tampoorian Diplomatic Corps has more of an eye on external affairs than the paladins generally do. And our assessment is that we need to keep a close watch on the Zerreiss situation.”
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 annou
nced 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.”
The Covenant Rising Page 11