by David Drake
“Continue, Lady Tenoctris,” Garric said mildly. Because of the sudden silence, he didn’t have to raise his voice. That was good, because shouting both sounded angry and made him feel angry when he did it.
“My friend Cashel is quite correct,” Tenoctris said, cheerful and apparently herself again. “I was wrong about the Great Gods: they did exist, and there was sufficient evidence to have proved the fact to me if I’d been willing to consider it. Sharing my mind with a demon has—”
There was another chorus of gasps, though it stilled instantly of its own. The crack! of Cashel’s ferrule on stone wasn’t really necessary.
“I never learned to watch what I said around civilians either,” said Carus wryly. “At least she doesn’t wear a sword.”
“—forced me to become more realistic,” Tenoctris said. “Which is something of an embarrassment to someone who thought she was a realist.”
Tenoctris looked around the table, touching everyone seated with her smile. Garric didn’t understand where she was going with the discussion, and he was very doubtful that anyone else did either. He wanted to take Liane’s hand, but that wasn’t proper behavior for a council meeting.
“The problem, you see . . . ,” Tenoctris said. Her voice became minutely thinner; the brightness remained, but it’d become a false gloss over her concern. “Is that the Great Gods of the Isles do not exist in this world which the Change brought. The Gods of Palomir-that-was are trying to climb the empty plinth, and they have power of a sort that I don’t completely understand.”
She shook her head, smiling. “In fact I don’t understand it at all,” she said. “It’s working through principles that are nothing like those I do understand. But I can help deal with it. And Wizard Rasile can help, and everyone in the kingdom will help according to their skills. There will be enough work for men with swords to satisfy even a warrior like your ancient ancestor, Prince Garric.”
The ghost in Garric’s mind clapped his hands in glee. “By the Lady!” Carus said. “If I was still in the flesh, I’d manage to forget that she’s a wizard, I swear I would!”
“Obviously we need to deal with whatever upstarts challenge the rule of Prince Garric,” said Tadai. “But—”
He pursed his lips, his fingers extended before him. He was apparently studying his perfect manicure.
“—need we really be concerned about which statue is up in which temple?”
“What?” cried the priest of the Lady. “This is quite improper! I protest!”
“Lord Tilsit,” Liane whispered.
“Lord Tilsit, be silent!” said Garric. He glared at the west where those outside the royal bureaucracy stood, then the east gallery for low-ranking palace personnel. “I remind you that those who aren’t seated at the council table speak only when requested to.”
The priest raised his hands and genuflected. His face had gone blank.
“Lady Tenoctris?” Garric continued mildly, grinning in his mind. “Does that suggestion ease our problems?”
He’d been using that tone since he was a tall thirteen-year-old and men in the common room started bothering the inn’s pretty waitress—Sharina. Nowadays Garric didn’t have to knock people down himself if they didn’t take the hint, but there were times he wouldn’t mind the chance.
“Lady Tenoctris the atheist,” Tenoctris said, adding a self-deprecating laugh, “would be perfectly happy with no Gods or Gods she could ignore as she’s done all her life till now. Unfortunately, while the Great Gods of your—our, I apologize—former world watched, the Gods of Palomir would rule. Their rule in former times was the rule of men over beasts.”
“ ‘Boys throw stones at frogs in sport,’ ” whispered Liane, quoting the ancient poet Bion, “ ‘but the frogs die not in sport but in earnest.’ ”
Garric squeezed her hand. Propriety could hang for the moment.
“Franca the All Father, Fallin of the Waves,” Tenoctris said, “and Hili, Queen of the Underworld. They’re immanent now. If Palomir’s rat armies succeed, widespread belief will make Them all-powerful and perhaps eternal.”
“The solution appears to be to defeat the rats and anything else that allies with Palomir, then,” said Garric. King Carus had come to that conclusion long since. While marching instantly with an army wasn’t always the best choice—
“It got me and my army killed in the end, lad,” the ghost agreed.
—acting fast was almost always a better choice than dithering.
“Lord Waldron,” Garric continued, “prepare the army to move as soon as possible. We’ll determine which troops to take based on the supply situation, which you’ll coordinate with the proper bureaus.”
“Done,” said Waldron, and nodded. The young officer standing behind him started for the door at as fast a walk as the crowd permitted. Hauk, Tadai, and Royhas were muttering to aides also.
“Your Highness?” Liane said. She spoke in a polite undertone to indicate she wanted to address the council instead of informing Garric in a private whisper.
“Go ahead, Lady Liane,” Garric said, silencing the room again without really shouting. Well, not shouting as he’d have thought of it in the borough, calling to his friend Cashel on the crest of the next hill.
“Your Highness,” Liane said, “we know that our enemies have been capturing humans on Cordin. They probably believed that because of Palomir’s location, it would be some time before we in Pandah learned about the raids. On the other hand, they must know that their grace period will be over shortly.”
Garric kept from frowning by conscious effort. Liane had remarkable skills, but she was too much a lady to project her voice to be heard beyond the ends of the table. He supposed he could repeat anything that had to be known more generally.
“Before you commit the army,” Liane said, “it might be well to be sure that there isn’t a large body of rats already marching toward Sandrakkan to strike fresh victims while they still have surprise. Or toward Haft.”
Garric’s body tensed as though he’d been dropped into ice water. Toward home, he thought.
“Yes,” he said, marveling that his voice remained calm and businesslike. “Lord Zettin, I want you to put your companies across all the routes to the west and northwest of Palomir. If they meet small raiding parties, they’re to attack after sending a courier back. If they find a larger body, they’re to shadow it while waiting for reinforcements. And send messengers to the district that the enemy is threatening.”
Duzi, may a rat army not already be attacking Barca’s Hamlet.
Instead of simply acknowledging the order, Lord Zettin said, “Your Highness? Might I suggest that I send at least one troop to Telut to see what these pirates and their creature are doing?”
That’s a good—
Cashel’s quarterstaff rapped the stone floor again. “If you please?” he said. “Rasile has something to say about that.”
CASHEL STOOD, HIS staff planted. He looked around the hall, not so much because there was anything in particular he wanted to see, but because it was reflex in him. Sheep wandered all different ways, and as soon as you let one out of your sight for a minute or two, you could be sure it was getting into trouble.
Rasile raised a tumbler of water. It was a pretty thing with a design in gold between two layers of clear glass, or mostly clear. A servant had fetched it from the sideboard next door in the private room where Garric could go off with one or two people to talk about things the whole council needn’t hear.
Cashel had ordered it brought because the servant ignored Rasile asking. A lot of people didn’t like the cat men, which wasn’t hard to understand. It was just as well for the fellow that he hadn’t said the wrong thing when Cashel stepped in, though.
“The one who controls the Worm,” Rasile said, “is moving toward a particular place. I do not know where it is, but perhaps one of you will recognize it.”
“What place is that?” asked a long-faced man who had something to do with transport. “I don
’t see—”
Rasile upended the tumbler. As the contents poured out, she said something that sounded more like a hinge binding than it did words.
Scarlet wizardlight flickered around the stream the way a potter’s thumbs mold clay. Instead of splashing down, the water spread into a round temple with a domed roof; an instant later the roof vanished and the columns that’d held it up crumbled into a ring of stubs, some taller than others. Fallen barrels lay scattered roundabout.
The illusion ended; the water splashed onto the tapestry. Some of it sank in, but the cloth was tightly enough woven that beads and little rivulets quivered nervously in the surface.
“Why, I’ve seen that!” said Lord Attaper, leaning forward with a puzzled expression as though he were trying to make sense of the way the spilled water now lay. “That’s the Temple of the Tree, they call it. In Dariada on Charax.”
“There must be a hundred ruined temples like that, every one as likely as the next!” Lord Waldron protested. “Maybe more, since the Change.”
The guard commander and army commander acted like two rams in a flock, though it never got out of hand. Cashel figured—and they figured—that Garric would end the trouble quick if that happened.
“I know that,” Attaper said, grimacing. “And it was twenty years ago I was on Charax, I know that too. But I tell you, I saw what Rasile showed, and I was sure it was the Temple of the Tree.”
“Yes,” said Rasile, grinning with her tongue out. “The image I formed is not wholly to be seen with the eyes, Warrior Waldron.”
Tenoctris turned to Rasile, standing beside her. The Corl was short even for her own species, so their heads were nearly on a level.
“Can you face the Worm?” Tenoctris said. “You were drawn to it, after all.”
“You know what the Worm is?” Rasile said. “Of course you do; you are Tenoctris. So yes, I can face it.”
Rasile grinned again. People around the table were straining to hear. Cashel didn’t have a problem because he was standing right behind them, but it must be just a buzz to anybody more than arm’s length away.
“But I do not see how I can possibly defeat it,” the Corl said, “even if I have the help of your friend, the warrior Cashel.”
“We’re even, then,” said Tenoctris. Her own smile, though human, made her look a bit like a dog getting ready for a fight. “Because I assure you, I have no idea how I’m going to deal with entities who—”
She shrugged expressively.
“—emotionally I can’t even make myself believe in.”
Garric was holding the room quiet by glaring at anybody who started to chatter while the wizards were talking. “Your Highness,” Tenoctris said, “Rasile will go to Dariada with the aid of Master Cashel, if he . . . ?”
Tenoctris looked up at Cashel.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He’d go wherever somebody who understood things told him to go. “That is, if . . . ?”
Sharina was already looking over at him; she nodded. She didn’t look happy about it and Cashel wasn’t happy himself, but it was good to be doing something useful.
He frowned and said, “But Garric? I don’t mind fighting a pirate or even a couple pirates, but there was a herd of them at Ombis. There’ll be more pretty quick, because tramps and no-goods will join in for the loot. I guess there’s going to be a lot of ordinary fellows too, only they’d rather drink wine than sweat plowing somebody else’s field.”
“Right,” said Waldron. “I’ll send a regiment. Ah—one of the units from the Valles garrison would probably be sufficient, if we don’t want to weaken the field army.”
“Your Highness?” Liane said.
“Lady Liane, please move your stool forward and join the council,” Garric said. “And state your opinion of Lord Waldron’s proposal.”
He’d been sharper than he usually was, and sharper for sure than he usually was with Liane. Cashel felt sorry for his friend with so many different things to keep track of all at once, but it was sure a wonder how well he did.
“Charax since the Change is a loose federation of cities, each with control of the region around it,” Liane said. She held a gilt-edged scroll, but she didn’t bother to open it. “They insist on their independence, and they won’t allow foreign troops on their territories. That’s particularly true of Dariada, because the Tree Oracle is located there.”
“They’ve been turning away the envoys I’ve sent regarding tax assessments,” Chancellor Royhas said in a growl. “I suggest we use enough troops that at the same time we deal with these pirates, we can convince the Dariadans and their fellows that they’re parts of the kingdom, now.”
Cashel could see Liane stiffen. A flash of anger touched her face—and vanished just as quickly.
“No, milord, we will not do that,” said Garric. He didn’t seem to have glanced to the other side to see Liane’s expression, so the edge in his voice must mean that he felt the same way anyhow. “Cashel—and Lord Waldron? Bands of pirates have very rarely been a danger to walled cities. This gang would be no exception were it not for the Worm, and troops wouldn’t help with that problem. Take whatever escort you want for the journey, but we won’t upset the folk of Charax by marching into what they consider their independent territory.”
“We will not be walking, Warrior Garric,” Rasile said politely. “We will not need the escort you offer.”
Cashel didn’t say anything. He was happier than not that they wouldn’t have soldiers around, though, even if he didn’t have to command them. It wasn’t exactly that he didn’t like soldiers, but he didn’t have anything in common with them.
“I don’t know anything about a Tree Oracle,” said Lord Tadai. “Though since the Charax I did know of before the Change was an island of fishing villages and goat farmers, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Cashel liked Tadai because he didn’t bluster even a little bit, though he was tough as they came in his own way. A lot of people with power liked to show off, including big fellows with a mug or two of ale in them. Cashel wasn’t like that himself, and it was good to know other folk who were the same way as him.
Liane cleared her throat; Garric nodded to her. “The whole island of Charax,” she said, “appears to be as it was in the past millennium, before the Isles were unified under the Old Kingdom. The Tree Oracle is just that, a tree which responds to petitioners through human priests. A very old tree. The oracle is administered by a federation of the whole island, though the states fight one another regularly.”
“The historians of the Old Kingdom treat the struggle against the Confederation of Charax as a major step in the predestined rise to greatness of the Kings of the Isles,” Garric said with an odd smile. “It didn’t occur to me when I read the accounts that I’d someday be dealing with people who wouldn’t view the sack and burning of Dariada as a splendid triumph.”
“I suppose the oracle’s a fraud,” Waldron said. He snorted. “A way to make priests rich and keep everybody else in line.”
“I wouldn’t know, milord,” Liane said, leaning forward to look past Garric at Waldron. “I don’t have enough information.”
Cashel couldn’t help smiling. He knew Lord Waldron had been insulted, but he wasn’t sure Waldron did. There were other smiles around the table, though. Waldron was curtly sure of himself, and it didn’t help his popularity that he was generally right.
“It would appear that the pirates do not consider the oracle a fraud, Warrior Waldron,” Rasile said. “I would not usually hope to learn wisdom from folk who have been cast out of their bands, but these outcasts have bent a Worm to their will. I could not do that, and I think that even Tenoctris would find the task difficult.”
“I,” said Tenoctris forcefully, “wouldn’t dare to try. The Worm destroyed its own world. Should it get loose in ours, it would destroy a second.”
Garric looked around the room again. Everybody kept their mouth shut. They’d learned not to waste Garric’s time babbling when there was w
ork to do, and there was plenty of work now.
But instead of the dismissal Cashel expected, Garric said, “Mistress Ilna? Do you have something to add before I close the meeting?”
Ilna stood on the west side of the room, knotting one of her designs. Lord Zettin was standing beside her, which surprised Cashel more than most things would. The soldier—who’d been a sailor not long back—had a seat at the table, but he was leaving it vacant.
Ilna caught Cashel’s eye and smiled; not much but as much as she ever did. Then she said, “I don’t have anything to say, no. I’ll be going off shortly to deal with a problem that Master Zettin showed me.”
ILNA HEARD WHAT was going on in the council meeting, but her attention was on the pathways opening as her fingers knotted lengths of yarn. The design was like a track through a forest, forking again and again. She saw nothing beyond the path itself, but she had a sense of the direction.
Aides jostled and whispered around her. Ilna knew she could’ve had a chair at the table. She didn’t feel she had any business being at the council meeting in the first place, so she hadn’t asked for that, today or ever in the past.
She wasn’t sure why she’d even bothered to come. Common courtesy, she supposed: her friend Garric had asked her to attend, so here she was. She’d been surprised that Lord Zettin, who did belong and had a chair placed for him, had chosen to stand beside her. She hadn’t asked him what he thought he was doing because that was none of her business. She’d certainly wondered, though.
Garric’s direct question had taken Ilna by surprise, but she’d given the same answer as she’d have done with a week to prepare. That was one advantage to always telling the flat truth.
Not that she did it because it was advantageous.
“Say!” piped the young courtier standing behind Lord Waldron. His tunics were of the best quality and he wore them well. “What does she mean saying Master? He’s a peer!”