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“As well take two hradani—or a dozen—as one,” Axeblade agreed with an answering shrug. “I don’t know who’s going to explain any of this to the coursers, though!” he added.
“Well, as to that,” Bahzell said, “I’ve taken the liberty of asking Sir Jahlahan to send word to Deep Water. Would it happen you and your lord are after knowing Sir Kelthys and his courser?”
“Aye,” Axeblade said slowly, his expression thoughtful.
“So am I,” Bahzell said. “And I’m thinking as how Kelthys will vouch for me to you two-legged Sothoii, while Walasfro is after talking fast enough to the other coursers to keep me untrodden on. Besides, like as not we’ll be needing him if the surviving coursers are to tell us what happened out there.”
“That we will,” Axeblade agreed.
“Well, then,” Bahzell said. “With Walasfro under him, Kelthys can be making the trip to Warm Springs from Deep Water faster than we can get there from Balthar. Even allowing for the time to be getting word to him in the first place, it’s in my mind he’ll be there before ever we are, or close enough behind to be treading on our heels. So if you’re fit for the saddle, then I’m thinking its past time we were on the road. You can be telling me the details while we travel.”
“Milord Champion, Master Axeblade is—” Sir Jahlahan began, but Bahzell raised one hand.
“It’s plain as the nose on my face—or on Brandark’s—as how this man’s worn himself to the bone getting here, Sir Jahlahan. I’ll not let him push himself hard enough to be doing himself in, but no more will I insult him by pretending every hour isn’t more precious than gold.”
Bahzell held Axeblade’s eyes levelly, and the horse trainer nodded slowly.
“I’ll ask you to be finding him a fresh horse while I send word to Hurthang, and to be seeing to it as Brandark is mounted and we’ve supplies for the trip,” Bahzell said. “And then we’ll be leaving.”
Chapter Seventeen
The nondescript man stood gazing moodily out of a second-story i
Unlike the weather during his last visit to the baron, the day beyond the window was beautiful. Just a hint of a breeze whispered across the city of Balthar, scarcely enough to set the great standard over the castle above the city gently flapping. Birdsong echoed from the city’s towers and eaves, drifting through the rise and fall of voices from the market two blocks over and the rumbling clatter of the wheels and hooves of a heavy freight wagon passing below the window. The early morning sun shone brilliantly from a high blue sky, cradled amid dramatic billows of fleecy white clouds. Like most Sothoii towns and cities, Balthar enjoyed excellent drains and sewers, and the air breathing lightly through the window was remarkably free of the odors it would have carried in many another city the unremarkable man had visited in his time. He drew a deep, lung-filling breath of the fresh spring air … which did absolutely nothing to improve his mood.
“Well!” he said finally, turning away from the window. He balanced on the balls of his feet, weight forward, hands still clasped behind him, and both of the other men in the room seemed to shrink ever so slightly away from him. “This is a fine mess, isn’t it?”
His tone was almost conversational, but neither of the others appeared inclined to respond, and he smiled thinly.
“Come, now! You know the plan as well as I do. Would you say it’s proceeding properly?”
“Not exactly according to schedule, no,” one of his companions finally replied. The speaker was taller than the nondescript man, with black hair, yet shared something of his lack of remarkability. Except, perhaps, for his dark eyes. There was a peculiar stillness about them, an almost reptilian, unblinking watchfulness. “On the other hand, Master Varnaythus, that’s scarcely mine or Jerghar’s fault, is it?”
He met the nondescript man’s gaze steadily, and it was Varnaythus who finally shrugged irritably.
“I suppose not,” he said in a peevish tone. Then he shook his head. “No. No, it isn’t,” he continued in quite a different tone. It wasn’t precisely apologetic, perhaps, but it was at least an admission that his irritation was making him unreasonable.
“Actually,” he turned back to the window’s open casement, but his shoulders weren’t quite so taut and his hands’ interlocked grip relaxed slightly, “I think what I’m most frustrated about is having such an unanticipated opportunity slip through our fingers this way.”
“If I’d had even a day or two of warning,” the black-haired man replied, “I might have been able to put together enough men to do something about it. But Tellian rode out of here like Fiendark’s Furies were on his heels. And the armsmen he took with him were all from his personal guard.” He shrugged. “I don’t have more than a dozen men here in Balthar at the moment—and usually barely half that many, given how low a profile we have to maintain—and I’m not going up against Tellian’s handpicked guards, even from ambush, without at least twice their number. We might get Tellian before they killed us all, but the Guild doesn’t accept contracts it knows are going to be suicidal.”
“I understand, Salgahn,” Varnaythus said. “I don’t like it, but I certainly understand it. And I don’t disagree with your analysis. It’s just that opportunities to catch Tellian in the open, especially when he’s distracted by personal problems and his guard might be down, are so few and far between that I hate to waste one when it comes along.”
“A pity you couldn’t scry far enough ahead to see it coming,” the third man said at that. Jerghar Sholdan was taller than Varnaythus, shorter than Salgahn, and better dressed than either of them. Indeed, he looked like what he was—a wealthy merchant banker who had arrived in Balthar several months before to represent the interests of half a dozen prominent Axeman and Purple Lord merchants. He was well groomed and clean-shaven, with fair hair, manicured hands, and cheerful blue eyes, yet there was something else about him … Varnaythus knew what that “something else” was, since it was he who had provided the charm which both offset the “banker’s” aversion to direct sunlight and prevented others from noticing his minor peculiarities.
“Scrying isn’t as simple as people without a trace of the Art at their command sometimes assume, Jerghar,” Varnaythus said, still gazing out the window. “And unless I’m mistaken, it was your job to keep Tellian under observation, since that entire portion of the operation is your responsibility.”
He turned from the window finally, facing Sholdan with a thin smile.
“Scrying takes concentration, a lack of distractions, and enough preliminary information to at least know where to look. Even the best wizard can only employ one scry spell at a time, you know. To watch all of our possible targets by gramerhain, I’d have to concentrate on doing nothing but that, and given the quality of coconspirator currently available to me, I don’t seem to be able to find enough time free of distractions to do other people’s work for them.”
Sholdan’s eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened, showing just a flash of sharp, oddly elongated teeth. He started a quick retort, then made himself swallow it unspoken as he remembered who—and what—Varnaythus was.
Varnaythus watched him unblinkingly, then smiled again, even more thinly than before.
“The problem,” the black wizard said as if the venomous exchange had never occurred, “is that there are too many cooks busily stirring this particular pot. We know who most of the major players are, but don’t delude yourself into believing that we know who all of them are. There’s no possible way to predict what people you don’t even know about are going to do next. That’s bad enough, but I prefer it to having someone I do know about take me as completely by surprise as Cassan managed with this little gem.”