The Magestone

21 Kasarian—events at Krevonel Castle (20th Day, Moon of the Knife/21st Day, Month of the Ice Dragon)

As I preceded Mereth downstairs on our way to the audience chamber where we were to meet with Gurborian and Gratch, I weighed in my mind her reactions to events earlier that night. She had clearly been shaken by her unexpected confrontation with the dire wolf in my bedchamber, but, surprisingly, she had not fainted from fright. Considering that she had never before beheld such a beast, and must have initially assumed it was alive, she had responded well, lunging to one side while gripping her staff to ward off its attack. I was favorably impressed by her steadfastness—most unusual for a female. Later, she had also proved undaunted by the sight of Bodrik’s wounds when he returned injured. Indeed, she had offered useful assistance, pouring a timely cup of wine for him, and displaying an obviously experienced hand with the bandages. I judged that those actions provided evidence that her service during the Dales war was likely worthy of respect.

When Bodrik reported that he had killed Lursk, Gurborian’s Master of Arms, it was as well I could confidently trust my castellan. Otherwise, I might have been reasonably concerned that Gurborian had contrived, by bribe or threat, to shift Bodrik’s allegiance to Reptur, and send him back to Krevonel as a spy. I knew, however, that Bodrik was sworn to me. by an unbreakable blood oath. He had taken a notable risk in tempting Lursk to duel on Reptur’s ground, but his rashness had been rewarded. Immediately after Lursk fell, Gratch had intervened to prevent the Reptur troops from killing Bodrik. As Bodrik had calculated, he had been ushered directly to Gurborian, who rightly recognized that the loss of his Master of Arms was of far less import than the potential opportunity to woo Krevonel’s alliance with his faction. Instead of killing Bodrik, Gurborian had allowed him to return to Krevonel, bearing Gratch’s penned response to Volorian’s invitation. As we had hoped, Reptur would come to Krevonel at midnight.

I dispatched Gennard to arrange a suitable repast in the green audience room, and to take there my sire’s poisoned sword. By Alizonian custom, conferring barons always disarmed before entering a meeting room, from which all mere retainers would be excluded. These measures had been originally intended to reduce the incidence of outright armed clashes between mortal enemies, but over time, would-be combatants tended to provide themselves with concealed weapons in case active offense or defense became necessary within the locked chamber.

Bodrik announced Reptur’s arrival. I was gratified by my castellan’s choice of four armsmen to stand for Krevonel. I recognized three of Reptur’s four armsmen—able fighters all, but not equal to our troop.

Gurborian and Gratch had arrayed themselves handsomely. I watched Mereth closely for any betraying signs of intimidation, but was greatly heartened when she assumed a most convincingly magisterial demeanor, reminiscent of old Baron Moragian.

As soon as the four of us had disarmed in the hall, Mereth marched directly to my sire’s chair at the head of the oval table within the audience chamber.

I deliberately turned my back on them in order to secure the interior beam in place to bar the doors. I had relied upon Gratch’s choice of chairs—ordinarily, he would never have consented to sit with a door to his back, but he had to assume our barred double doors precluded any surprise entry. Moreover, he was right-handed, and had to be lured by the direct proximity afforded for a knife thrust toward Mereth. My sire’s sword was conveniently within my reach behind the chair across from Gratch, to Gurborian’s left and Mereth’s right.

Gennard had prepared a tray for us on the conference table. Moving to my desired chair, I shifted the three gold goblets and poured a generous measure of Krevonel’s best bloodwine for our guests. They naturally waited for me to sample my own portion before tasting theirs.

Gurborian frowned at Mereth’s empty hands. “Can it be,” he inquired, “that you shun this excellent vintage, Volorian?”

Mereth achieved a remarkably rueful, close-mouthed grimace as she scribbled on her slate, then presented it for me to read. She had written, “Frustrated due to ague. Cannot taste food or wine properly.”

“ ‘I can scarcely express my frustration,’ ” I read aloud. “ ‘This ague has robbed me of my taste so that I cannot properly appreciate food or drink.’ ”

Gurborian relaxed somewhat in his chair. “What a pity,” he said. “When your taste returns, you must prevail upon Kasarian to send some casks of this wine to you. I find it quite laudable. Don’t you agree, Gratch?”

“Most assuredly, my lord,” Gratch dutifully responded.

Mereth rapped her staff upon the floor, and made a peremptory gesture at Gurborian, who laughed sharply.

“You always were impatient, Volorian,” Gurborian said, “as direct with words as with swords.” He turned back to Gratch. “Pray explain to the Worthy Baron what a singular opportunity awaits him and Krevonel when they ally with Reptur to promote our new venture.”

Whatever else one might say about Gratch, one would scarcely characterize him as direct in any matter. I recalled Volorian had written that if Gratch’s object in prying near our estates was to spy upon Escore, it was a wonder he had approached the actual border region—it would have been more like him to take ship to Karsten and worm his way around by the most devious possible route. I was intensely curious to hear how Gratch would try to lure us into denying our Line’s traditional utter rejection of magic. It was not surprising when he chose to approach the subject obliquely.

“We cannot, of course, enhance the already formidable reputation secured by the Line of Krevonel,” Gratch said earnestly to Mereth.

Mereth nodded, as if acknowledging an accepted fact.

“It appears,” Gratch continued, “that you no longer care to participate in the active conduct of affairs at Alizon Castle, being fully occupied, no doubt, with your renowned breeding efforts at your country estate.”

Mereth nodded again, and drummed her gloved fingers restlessly on the table top.

Undaunted, Gratch forged ahead, creeping nearer to the nub of his argument. “My lord and I have carefully considered what enticements we might offer to encourage a certain . . . change of mind on your part,” he said. “We knew that the virtues of our proposal would appeal to your keen military judgment, but oftentimes extra . . . factors can speed one’s decision.”

Mereth thumped her staff suddenly, startling Gratch into a slight stammer. “W-worthy Baron?”

She scrawled one word on her slate. I held it so both Gurborian and Gratch could see the boldly written query, “Terms?”

While she wiped the slate, I added. “And in return for what action by Krevonel?”

Gurborian had propped his chin on one beringed hand, his expression passive, but expectant. He was—at least for the present—evidently content to let Gratch speak for him.

Gratch sipped thirstily from his goblet. “I understand,” he said, “that the Worthy Baron’s pack is lacking in only one champion strain—the bloodline held exclusively by Baron Bolduk.” His voice took on a wheedling note, as if he were trying to induce a newly weaned pup to put its head through a spiked collar for the first time. “Quite recently, Baron Bolduk actively embraced our proposals. Should you join our faction, it is most likely that he would favorably entertain your request for breeding rights.”

Mereth subjected Gratch to a withering stare, rightly implying that so flagrant a bribe—without previous explanation of the reciprocally required action—was too contemptible to deserve comment.

It seemed a suitable time to divert their attention to me, and possibly trick them into saying more than they intended. “Speaking of Bolduk’s Line,” I remarked, “I heard lately that the younger whelp died quite suddenly during the New Year’s Assembly . . . on the Sixth Day, was it not? Doubtless the old Baron was sorely grieved.”

Gurborian affected a doleful outward expression, but his eyes glinted with satisfaction. “Just so,” he said. “I hastened to his side as soon as the sad news reached Reptur. As I had suspected, their old feud with Ferlikian was behind the death. Baron Bolduk was most appreciative of my condolence.” He addressed Mereth directly. “You will want to confer with him, I am sure, since both of you have long held similar attitudes regarding certain . . . matters. You will find that Bolduk has completely revised his former convictions now that he has assessed the rewards promised by our venture.”

Mereth wrote briefly and to the point. I simply voiced her command: “ ‘Detail this venture.’ ”

Gurborian nodded to Gratch, who dipped a finger in his bloodwine and drew a scarlet streak across the table top. Once he had added a few more such lines, I saw that he was sketching a crude map of Alizon’s borders.

“Since our ill-advised alliance with the Kolder has been destroyed,” Gratch declared, “my lord and I have devoted ourselves to determining the most advantageous new course to expand Alizon’s dominion. For too long, we have been thwarted by the Estcarp’s hags’ detestable spells that hinder our free movement southward. Here—where the Forbidden Hills trail off into the trackless Tormarsh—the Lord Baron has persisted in probing over the years, but the Witchspells have prevented passage of more than a pitifully few spies. Some moons ago . . .” Gratch paused, looked keenly at Mereth, and added, “as you were evidently aware, Worthy Baron, I journeyed near your estates to pursue inquiries in the mountains bordering on Escore.” He marked two spots with his finger. “Here . . . and here, my lord sought word of certain powerful forces which might assist us in scourging Estcarp. . . .”

“You dared to consider consulting the vile Mages of Escore?” I interrupted. It was not difficult to feign intense dismay, given the appalling nature of the Escorian threat.

“Calm yourself, Honorable Kasarian,” Gurborian purred. “It has been said that you are a swordsman of notable skill. Would you refuse to employ the sharpest blade available merely because you disapprove of the decoration on the hilt? I urge you to weigh the obvious advantages of our strategy. Who else can counter—indeed, overpower—Estcarp’s hags? The sole strength of the Witches lies in their magic. Why should we not enlist even more puissant magic on our behalf? As a scholar, you must know that in the far past, it was the Mages of Escore who first drove the Witches over the mountains into Estcarp.”

Gratch leaned forward, stabbing his wine-stained finger at the area of his map that represented Escore. “Like Alizon,” he asserted, “Escore does not forget past insults or past foes. For a thousand years, Escore, too, has been border-blocked by Estcarp. Their Mages likely still cherish hopes for further revenge.”

“How say you, Volorian?” Gurborian inquired. “Surely you do not mourn the destruction of the Kolder—unreliable foreigners who failed miserably in their campaigns against the hags. Escore is nearby, and centuries-steeped in Power. Should we not seize so promising a means to enlarge Alizon’s borders while also avenging the honor of our Foresires?”

Mereth surveyed Gratch’s map, then wrote on her slate for me to read, “Krevonel has always hated magic. How can this plot help Krevonel?”

I nodded, as if in firm agreement, and “read” aloud, “ ‘You know very well the position our Line has always taken regarding magic: it is an abominable practice, never to be accepted. How can you propose that Krevonel consider allying with such disgusting foulness?’ ”

“But no magic shall be wielded within Alizon itself,” Gratch quickly averred. “The full force of Escore’s fury will be directed entirely against Estcarp.”

Mereth regarded him balefully, scribbled briefly, and flourished her slate at me. I had to admire her spirit—the genuine Volorian could have reacted no better. I read her words as they were written, since they were perfectly chosen. “ ‘And if Escore should prevail against Estcarp, then where next do they turn for prey?’ ”

Gratch sputtered, and flushed a dusky red.

Gurborian laughed aloud. “I had wondered whether your years away from court might have dulled your wits,” he exclaimed. “I see they remain as sharp as your hounds’ teeth. You pose a fair question. Until we complete our negotiation, I cannot supply the particulars, but you may be assured that Alizon will emerge with full dominion over all lands to the west of the mountains. I will not settle for less.”

“Can you confide to us the names of those negotiating for Escore?” I inquired.

Gurborian shook his head. “Alas, no. Our contacts must for the present remain secret. It is their imperative condition, you understand.”

“But you are dealing with acknowledged Mages,” I persisted.

“Of course,” Gurborian snapped. “Those with minor skills would be of scant use to us.”

Mereth passed me her slate. Again, I read it directly aloud. “ ‘How do you plan to control Escore’s Mages? Will they not attempt to enslave Alizon with their foul magic?’ ”

“No, no,” Gurborian objected. “You misunderstand the thrust of our argument. We shall deal with only the most powerful enemies of Estcarp, those Mages whose desire for revenge is greatest. We shall assure them that once they have swept away the hags, Alizon will occupy and administer the whole of Estcarp. Their own sovereignty to the east of the mountains will be complete; we guarantee not to challenge it. Think of the advantages for them: a stable border, steadfast Alizon guarding their western approaches—perhaps we might even indulge in some limited trade to our mutual benefit.”

I pretended to be impressed. “That does sound eminently rewarding to both sides,” I admitted. “The Lord Baron must have commended you when you presented the proposal to him.”

Gratch hesitated, pouring himself more bloodwine. “As to that,” he began to say, but Gurborian interrupted.

“Norandor has not yet been advised regarding our venture,” Gurborian said. “We prefer to be able to present him with the complete results of our negotiations.”

“So you have not yet actually found the Mages you seek,” I stated, forcing him to commit himself . . . or lie.

“It is a delicate procedure.” Gurborian signaled for Gratch to refill his goblet. “Our efforts proceed concurrently, like a brace of hounds questing after two separate scents. Gratch has been pursuing our potential Escorian linkages, whilst I have been enlisting barons to our cause. Each effort strengthens the other. The Mages will be the more impressed by a large faction of like-minded barons, just as the barons will be similarly impressed by the experience and power of the Mages with whom we deal.”

“I should think,” I observed tentatively, “that locating Escorian Mages would be a difficult, indeed dangerous undertaking.”

As I spoke, I watched Gratch closely. Oftentimes, folk who boast of their mastery of a skill like poisoning fail to recognize that others may also stumble upon useful scraps of poison lore of which they may be unaware. Among Krevonel’s ancient manuscripts, I had found a description—annoyingly pierced by vermin’s teeth—of a certain rare root which, when dried and powdered, was promised to loosen a guarded tongue. Having acquired and powdered such a root, I had cautiously sampled a few grains to gauge whether the flavor could be noticed in wine, and also to test its effect on an Alizonder, since the document had originally been seized in a sea raid on the shipwreckers of Verlaine. Aside from a slight warming of the blood, I detected no other effect on me, but I thought it worthwhile to try the potion on Gratch, whose home isle of Gorm was near enough to Karsten to render him perhaps vulnerable. I had therefore tipped a pinch of the root powder from my signet ring’s hidden compartment into Gratch’s first goblet of bloodwine. It was gratifying to see that his breathing had noticeably quickened, and a film of sweat was glistening on his forehead. I awaited his reponse to my statement with special interest.

“There are more mages and would-be mages lurking about in those border mountains than you would believe,” Gratch blurted. “Of course, most are worthless, self-deluded fools. I mind one I came upon this past summer—an old recluse who had brewed a potion supposed to stimulate the body to great feats of strength and endurance. He was so enamored of the effect he felt when he dipped his fingers in a basin of it, that he had his apprentice fill a bath with the potion so he could immerse his entire body.”

“Such a potion could be of great value to soldiers,” I acknowledged. “The mage was mightily affected, I trust?”

Gurborian scowled. “The old fool died outright from excessive excitement,” he said bitterly, “and his witless apprentice was so frightened that he turned out the tub, scrubbed the floor, and burned the only directions for mixing the potion.”

“What a loss,” I commiserated.

Gurborian waved his hand dismissively. “Only a minor disappointment when measured against the range of our accomplishments. An assurance for the future greatness of Alizon is within our very grasp.” He regarded me keenly. “You cannot deny that your word wields weighty influence upon the younger whelps of your Line. What more dazzling prospect could you set before them than an Alizon whose borders extend into . . . even beyond Karsten. I should certainly prize your counsel and leadership in the triumphant days to come.” For an instant, his fingers hovered near his tunic pocket as if he intended to reach inside, then he hesitated, and merely extended both his hands flat on the table. “In addition to the high position I would guarantee you,” Gurborian continued, “it might be possible that other rewards. . . .”

But Gratch had been staring fixedly first at Gurborian’s hands, then at Mereth’s gloved hands, and abruptly he exclaimed, “Hands! I knew I had heard something about Volorian’s hands. The left hand—during this summer, you lost parts of two fingers while separating your hounds. Why are your hands concealed in those gloves?”

“The ague produces frequent chills,” I intervened, but it was too late. Before I could prevent him, Gratch seized Mereth’s left hand and snatched off that glove, revealing her full complement of fingers—as well as her gender.

While Gratch glared as if he had uncovered a venomous toad, Mereth jerked her hand free from his grasp. Gratch bellowed, “A bitch’s hand—this is not Volorian!”