Equilibrium: Episode 2

by CS Sealey

“But then what she said was true…Is this really only about keeping the balance?”

  “Angora is invaluable to us,” Emil said, folding his arms. “Yes, we must maintain the equilibrium but not just for its own sake. The enemy could exploit our weakness and attack the common people mercilessly. She is not a trophy we wish to keep and admire. She is a tool, just like myself.”

  “Then what do we do? When we find out where she is, we can’t just go there and force her to come back. She’s not an escaped slave any more.”

  “We can at least talk to her. Once Aiyla manages to see her, I will go myself with Kayte and – ”

  “I’m not sure that’s the best idea, Emil,” Tiderius said hesitantly. “If we wish to persuade Angora to come back, we need to make her feel at ease. Aiyla is her closest friend. She should go with Kayte.”

  “What about you?”

  Tiderius absently pressed his hand to his chest where Angora had spelled him before her departure. He slowly shook his head.

  “She won’t want to talk to me. Aiyla is our best option.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Lord Varren walked briskly across the castle forecourt, his face still red with anger from his latest conference with the mayor of Delseroy. For once, the king had nothing to do with his bitter mood. Mayor Kerne, who had already been drunk upon Varren’s arrival, had welcomed him into his house for a drink in celebration of Samian’s forthcoming marriage to the queen of the Ronnesians.

  “You drunken idiot!” Varren had exclaimed. “The proposal has not yet been accepted!”

  The mayor, however, had not listened. Instead, he had continued to drink wine and sing songs. Stunned and angered, Varren had left only minutes after arriving.

  He sniffed his sleeve and was disgusted to smell the man’s overpowering perfume lingering on him. Why was it that he seemed to be the only one who knew how to manage the empire? The mayor was a drunken idiot and King Samian may have matured but, as far as international relations was concerned, he still had no clue. A moment later, he threw open the castle doors with a swift motion of his hands. The doors swung wide with the force of the spell and hit the walls with a bang, surprising a manservant in the foyer and the two wardens on duty. Paying no attention to the servant’s terrified yelp and the loud crash as cutlery spilled across the floor, Varren stormed across the hall to the sweeping staircases and hurried up the left wing.

  As he passed the mounted candelabra, the aura of his barely controlled magic momentarily caused the flames to flare. The wax trembled in the sudden heat, and by the time Varren reached the top of the stairs, the candles had melted away completely, leaving the wicks burning impossibly on their own.

  “My lord, please, the tapestries!” the manservant exclaimed.

  Varren did not bother to look at the devastation he had caused, but quenched the fires with a frustrated sweep of his hands.

  “Where’s the king?” he asked a disconcerted maid on the second floor.

  “In his library, sir,” the girl replied, curtseying low.

  Varren hastened down the portrait-lined corridor. As always, he glanced at one portrait in particular – that of his old master, the man who had taken him into his service at the age of twelve. King Corhillar peered out of the frame with dull eyes, heavy jowls, and lips set in a thin line of determination. Archis Varren bowed his head slightly as he passed.

  The king’s library was on the floor above. “Come,” a voice replied to Varren’s knock.

  He found the king sitting by the fire in a large and comfortable chair with a book open on his lap. “Sire, I bring some unfortunate news,” he said, approaching the chair.

  “What is it?” the king asked, looking up from his book.

  “Kerne…” Varren began, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “He has got himself blind drunk hosting a party in celebration of your imminent union with Queen Sorcha.”

  “Has he now?” the king asked. “What of it?”

  “Sir, he could spread rumors that are mere speculation and cause mass confusion in the populace.”

  “Most already know of my proposal.”

  “But you have heard no word of reply!” Varren reminded him. “There’s no sense in letting that man spread these tales! If Queen Sorcha rejects you – ”

  “You’d love that.”

  “I have made my thoughts on the matter well known, yes.”

  “Indeed. Well, if you wish, I’ll have someone send for the mayor tomorrow morning.”

  “Tonight would be better.”

  “Fine, fine. Would you…?”

  “I would like nothing more.”

  The king sighed and rose from his chair, putting the book down on the arm. He crossed the room to his writing desk and wrote a hurried note, then signed it and waited for it to dry.

  “Allow me,” Varren said, reaching for the stump of sealing wax sitting beside the king’s inkwell. He held the wax above the note and touched one finger to its tip. The wax began to run and several drops landed beside the king’s signature. Varren handed the royal seal to Samian, who pressed it into the crimson wax.

  “Thank you, Archis,” the king said, folding the note before handing it to him. “But, please, don’t lose your temper. I don’t want to have to stage another election a mere month after the catastrophe with the lord chamberlain.”

  “That had nothing to do with me,” Varren insisted stiffly, replacing the now solid stump of wax. “The man was a rat.”

  “No doubt,” the king said. “It was a feeble attempt on the Ronnesians’ part to bribe him, but no matter. With regards to the queen, do you honestly believe there is no chance she will accept my proposal?”

  Varren slipped the king’s note into his jacket pocket and scrutinized his master’s face. The envoy, who had traveled to Te’Roek with the proposal, would have been received at least a week ago, plenty of time for even a woman to decide. He shook his head.

  “They are biding their time with us now. I doubt very much we will receive an answer at all. They will continue to stall us while they reinforce the northern border. Though Galenros has been unable to see any clear decisions being made in Te’Roek, he has seen their Circle talk often of recruiting and redirecting their forces. Your Majesty, I did warn you this would be their reaction. They would rather risk going to war than unite the empires and lose control over what land they have.”

  “Folly disguised as courage,” the king said and sighed. “Marriages have often prevented wars, that’s why I thought it best. My own great-great-uncle married the king of Monreith’s daughter to stop them from attacking our western border – now we are firm allies.” Samian returned to his armchair and stared into the flickering flames in the grate before him.

  “She is strengthening her armies, sir. They must know we have been far from idle these past three years. This is why we must act quickly. My intelligence tells me they are pulling men from the coastal borders to reinforce the north.”

  “Your intelligence?” the king asked suspiciously, craning his neck to see around the high back of his chair. “Something you could not share with me or your companions?”

  Varren approached the fireplace and stood before it with his hands clasped behind his back. “I have a very complex network of eyes and ears across the Ronnesian Empire, sir. I have spoken of it before.”

  “Have you?”

  “Prior to your coronation three years ago, sir, yes,” Varren said, knowing all too well Samian had not been listening at the time. “You gave me your assurances that you would not ask me the details, so long as I provided the information you wanted. In this very room, in fact.”

  “Oh, yes…” Samian said vaguely. “Well, never mind. Go on.”

  “Every few weeks, I visit each in turn. Most have said the same thing: they are halving the number of men guarding the southern border and various outposts, replacing them with conscripts. As we speak, they are moving north by road and by sea to Menthenae.”

  “Even after my proposal?
”

  “I suggest we ignore your proposal, just as they have.”

  “But I have yet to receive a negative reply.”

  “Isn’t this news the only reply you need?” Varren asked, spreading his arms wide. “While Queen Sorcha supposedly considers your offer, she sends out envoys to her allies and recruits men! Her armies will cross the Divide before she sends any sort of answer.”

  “And you are sure of this?”

  “She has advisers who know the intricacies of politics. No doubt her pet wizards will be whispering in her ear at every turn. There will be no reply, sir. You must understand that.”

  “Very well, Archis,” the king said, agitated. “What do you suggest I do?”

  “They want us to make the first move so they can see our plan of attack.”

  “But we have no plan of attack.”

  “I have been speaking with General Carter and Commander Sheon and we have devised a strategy that will surely take the queen by surprise.”

  “You’ve been formulating attacks behind my back?” the king asked, frowning. “First a network of spies, and now this? Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

  “Your Majesty, I have merely been planning, not making any moves without your consent.”

  “Then what are you planning?”

  “What I would suggest is to send a small force down to Kilsney to reinforce our forward outposts. Should we find a single one of their soldiers on the northern bank of that town, we must consider that a breach of our southern defenses. That is reason enough to go ahead with a full-scale assault. The Ronnesians will only have themselves to blame. After we have secured the north bank, we will build a temporary bridge to cross the river.”

  “A temporary bridge? Archis, that will take months!”

  “Not nearly that long, I assure you.”

  “Your men have already built it, haven’t they?”

  “Sections of it. It will be assembled there.”

  “How the hell will you manage that?”

  Varren smiled. “Wagons have been stationed in the market district for weeks for this very purpose. I have over two hundred of them at present and each will carry as many pieces as possible. Once the men reach Kilsney, the carpenters will lash the pieces together and, hopefully, catch the Ronnesians by surprise.”

  “That sounds awfully ambitious to me.”

  “Our men will cross that river and push the Ronnesians back. We have tried boats before, and failed dismally. We cannot approach en masse along the southern bank from the east, their encampment is too well guarded. This is the only option we have yet to try. General Carter assures me that he has selected his best battalions.”

  “I hope you’re right,” King Samian said.

  “If all goes to plan,” Varren continued, “the bridge will create a diversion, while we transport the bulk of our forces down the Divide by ship and disembark on the south bank further upstream. Hopefully, the men in the outposts will have been drawn to the battle at Kilsney, allowing our forces to approach without detection, flank the encampment and bring about a swift victory.”

  “Won’t they suspect something like that?”

  “Maybe, but their forces are stretched thin at the border. The Ronnesians will not be able to withstand our combined forces for long, whether they see us coming or not.”

  “Yes…” the king said, nodding thoughtfully. “Though I regret going to war, Queen Sorcha has had her time to decide. What’s the first move?”

  “Firstly, you must send orders to General Carter and Commander Sheon. Also, citizens should be asked to enlist in the home army to ensure Delseroy remains safe while the soldiers are away. Have Galenros find out what he can about the enemy’s movements, then we will convene with the captains to discuss the finer details.”

  “Right,” the king said, leaving the library with Varren at his heel. “I shall send the messengers immediately. We reconvene in the royal suite in two hours.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Zoran Sable spun his knife absently from finger to finger as he listened to the man’s proposal. His hood was back, as it always was in meetings with clients, but his face mask remained in place, obscuring his features. His dark hair fell carelessly over his forehead and brow, leaving his dark eyes heavily shadowed. He was well aware that his appearance unnerved those who sought his services. If his clients were afraid of him, they were more likely to respect him. If they respected him, they would hire him.

  Briel Challan was one of his regular clients, a man who had bribed, blackmailed and swindled his way to the top while retaining a respectable face. Born the first son of a minor noble house, he had risen from bankruptcy to wealth, almost matching that of Queen Sorcha herself. Challan was now the mayor of Te’Roek, and one of the most powerful men in the Ronnesian Empire. Trusted with many matters of state, a word from him could halt trade or even the queen’s armies. He was not a man to be trifled with and had built up a reputation of being ruthless but fair in politics. He was also zealously loyal to the queen.

  Mayor Challan had come down to El Smials especially to talk to Zoran. He had not arrived in a good mood. The only reason the mayor had left Te’Roek was because Zoran had refused to come to him, causing him to miss out on the city’s largest festival for the year. Yet, Challan would settle only for the best. He had taken Queen Sorcha’s personal ship, the Imperial, and had sailed for a week down the west coast of Kirofirth and along the Torrylin Canyon to El Smials. After docking, Challan had then spent two days trying to find the assassin in the capital of Andril, bribing the locals for information, until finally finding his man.

  The two of them were now seated in a private room in a dingy tavern. El Smials’ market district was well known for its grand covered bazaar, a long, arched sandstone building that dominated the district. However, Challan had chosen to meet in one of the darker corners of the area. Despite his high status, the mayor appeared quite at home in the small tavern and had already drunk a couple of ales. Zoran had helped himself to four firewaters during their conversation, drinks Challan had paid for, but showed none of the strong spirit’s side effects.

  “Sable, you are quieter than usual.”

  Zoran stirred from his thoughts and regarded Challan coldly, stilling the knife between his fingers. “What do you expect? This is hardly a kill that will go unnoticed.”

  “That is the point,” Challan said. “I need you to create a spectacle.”

  “That is something I rarely do, you know that.”

  “I simply want you to be less subtle than you normally are. I don’t want the populace to assume it was an accident or a natural death. I want the message to be clear!”

  “So hire an amateur,” Zoran said, propping up his head with his hand, “someone who can only do big and loud. Or hire a group of mercenaries. I hear the best guild halls are in Orego.”

  “Sable, I want you to do it!”

  “Then change the criteria.”

  “Damn it, man, I came all this way and you meet my efforts with stubbornness and incivility! I’m offering you a considerable amount of money here. You could buy a very large property with it, or fund a small military campaign! I suggest you take this seriously.”

  Zoran fixed his eyes on the mayor’s own and glowered.

  “You insult me. I take all contracts deathly seriously, Challan.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Challan demanded. “You’ve dozens of people, important people! What’s just one lousy boy?”

  “That’s just it, he’s not lousy. His father was, certainly, and reckless and cruel. But this new king has ideas, good ideas.”

  “What do you know of his plans, eh? You’re not an Ayon sympathizer, are you, Sable?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? The north does not concern me.”

  “Then how do you know anything about King Samian’s plans? Not even our best spies know what he’s up to.”

  “My snitches are better than yours. I know he has a great tu
tor and is learning fast. He is young and eager to impress, but unlike his predecessors, he has put the people first. I am intrigued by him, and that is why I do not wish to see him dead. He could bring about peace in the northlands if his plans succeed. Besides, this contract has nothing to do with your own personal advancement, and I’m very wary of that.”

  “What do you know of my motives?”

  “If anyone got wind of your plans, you would be imprisoned, or worse. This is the politics of war – I don’t go anywhere near that sort of thing any more, no matter how much you offer me. That boy, as you call him, does not deserve to be killed by a rat like you.”

  Challan burst into laughter and banged his hands down on the table, sending their empty mugs rolling onto the floor. “An assassin with compassion!” he said, tears glistening in his eyes. “I’ve never heard of anything more ridiculous!”

  Zoran watched the pewter cups spin until they stopped, waiting for the man’s laughter to ebb. “Is it truly more ridiculous than an overweight aristocrat who has never wielded a sword in his life taking the war into his own hands?” Zoran asked, folding his arms. “Go back to your comfortable manse and let soldiers deal with soldiers’ business.”

  “Sable, this war goes beyond the battlefield!” Challan argued, his laughter gone. “If the Ayons win, the Ronnesian Empire will collapse and you’ll be forced even further south!”

  “I can survive in the elven lands.”

  “Those pointy-eared cravens would wet themselves at the mere sight of you! They would never hire an assassin.”

  “You would be surprised…” Zoran muttered.

  “Then you will not do what I ask of you?” Challan asked, standing. “Even if I raise the amount?”

  “Even if the full fury of the Ayon Army were bearing down on me,” Zoran said, looking up into Challan’s red face. “I am not a pawn in your foolhardy schemes. Samian will do wonders if given the chance. Didn’t he offer Queen Sorcha his hand in marriage? Is that not proof enough that he wishes to end the centuries-old conflict? Why do you wish to flare violence now?”