Act of Will (15 page)

SCENE XIX

A Council Meeting

D
inner was a tense affair, to say the least. Apart from the six of us there were the count and countess of Shale, Chancellor Dathel, and the rulers of Verneytha and Greycoast and their military advisors. On each of the two doors into the dining room stood heavily armored infantrymen with swords and pikes, and the corridor guard had been doubled. They were taking no more chances.

We sat around a long mahogany table and toyed with our unexotic food, glancing round the bare walls to avoid looking at the concerned faces all around us. The beef in front of me might have been more constructively used by a cobbler but, sensing that it came from the remains of Shale’s last cow, I sawed at it with my knife and chewed respectfully.

I should add that, despite the miserable castle and the lousy food, I was in reasonable spirits. I figured the situation had been exaggerated and we stood to make some easy money, and lots of it. The attack on the count’s room had not seriously swayed my general optimism. Yes, the assassin would have killed me if the others hadn’t been there to deal with him, but they
had
been there, and I wouldn’t be going anywhere without a heavily armed escort from here on in. I was, after all, the party linguist. Mithos and the rest of them could handle the odd murderous soldier while I read books and shared pithy little observations about Shale’s cultural history. It was sort of cool to have been brought in as some kind of expert, even if I wasn’t really an expert in anything useful: I was a guest, a minor celebrity, even, and that was a part I could have fun with.

“In the light of today’s attempt on my life,” said the count, “I suggest we move rapidly to our principal business.”

Count Arlest of Shale was a sinewy man in his early fifties, but he seemed exhausted, almost frail. His hair was brownish, greying; his eyes were anxious; and his cheeks hollow. He wore a monkish smock of coarse cotton, belted at the waist with brown leather, and the only sign of his office was a thin band of copper around his temples.

His wife was younger and not unattractive, despite the worry lines around her eyes. Her hair was long and reddish, her eyes a soft, foggy green, and her skin was pale as new ivory. She wore a high-collared dress of blue cambric in a slightly outmoded fashion. Her slim white hand rested on her husband’s clenched knuckles throughout the meeting.

“Gentlemen,” said the count, turning specifically to his fellow leaders, “this is Mithos, the group leader.”

Mithos nodded to each of them and we followed suit as he gave our names. Duke Raymon of Greycoast was a robust, heavyset fellow with a ruddy complexion, a thick russet beard, and blue eyes that sparkled amiably. He looked like a port drinker. He wore voluminous robes of orange satin trimmed with fur and embroidered with gold thread, and heavy rings. He was the only person present who actually looked like a noble, and I rather took to him for not letting the situation get him down.

The other was an altogether different creature. He was introduced as Edwyn Treylen, governor of Verneytha. He was a small, wiry man with the sharp nose and tight, glassy eyes of a rodent, or—better still—some stoatlike predator. He clasped his thin hands and drummed his fingernails on the table very slowly, looking at us. He had a way of fixing you with his beady gaze for a minute or more as if you were an insect in a collection.

“Are they aware of the situation to date?” boomed the duke of Greycoast, his voice rolling like an empty beer barrel.

“I thought we could begin with a list of the attacks thus far,” said the count softly. The somber chancellor passed him a page of spidery writing.

“Here is a chart showing the territories of our three lands,” said the count. “Shale, Greycoast, and Verneytha, the last lying directly north of the other two.”

He paused as if he was unsure how to proceed, and then added, “It began eighteen months ago, during the winter months, though we did not deem the matter important at that time. We received sporadic accounts of attacks on merchant caravans between Ironwall, the capital of Greycoast, and the seaports twenty miles south. At this stage, of course, it was a purely regional affair, so I was not informed of the situation.”

Here the duke of Greycoast spoke up. “It was a few inadequately reported attacks. Nothing more,” he said, laying his palms on the table and leaning back with an expressive shrug. “These things happen on wealthy trade routes. There was little traffic on the road, so I just increased patrols slightly and thought no more of it.”

He hesitated, and the count took the opportunity to proceed. “Duke Raymon did all he thought necessary at the time and cannot be blamed for not raising the alarm earlier,” he said. Greycoast settled down, but from the quick glance he shot his neighbor from Verneytha, I got the feeling that this had been discussed less amicably before.

“Would you pass the mustard, please?” I inserted, trying to dress up the leather on my plate, having already tried some very disappointing chutney. Renthrette, who was sitting next to me, turned and gave me an incredulous look.

“What?” I whispered, slightly defensively, adding to the table at large, “Oh, sorry. I just wanted . . . you know . . . this meat . . . Sorry. Please go on.”

Arlest did so, hurriedly. “The attacks continued but spread west into southern Shale, concentrating particularly around the Iruni Wood, which marks the Greycoast border. Again traders were attacked, murdered, and robbed, as were the inhabitants of some of the smaller hamlets and villages in the area. No survivors were left. The apparently random nature of the attacks prevented us from making a connection to those in Greycoast until similarities came to light almost by chance during trade discussions with the duke. In every case, the attackers were mounted and shot arrows with crimson flights.”

I paused in my chewing and looked at him. I didn’t like that detail about the arrows. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it just made them sound organized, but there was something else: like they wanted people to know what they were doing. Bandits didn’t do that.

Arlest continued. “It was well into the spring before a survivor could confirm our fears, but by this time the assaults were widespread and had been reported as far apart as Hopetown in central Greycoast and just west of our capital, Adsine. The survivor had been taking the main trade route from Ironwall to Hopetown with a convoy of wagons and an escort of ten men. In former days such a guard would have been more than adequate. The road cuts straight through the Proxintar Downs, from whose hills the raiders came riding, heavily and uniformly armed, wearing scarlet cloaks and helms that left only their eyes uncovered.”

I looked around the room. The party was attentive. Renthrette looked eager, almost excited. Duke Raymon was staring at the table, though it was hard to tell if he was upset by the account of what had happened, or embarrassed to have their dirty laundry aired for our benefit. Edwyn Treylen sat quite still, his lips slightly parted, his eyes roving around the room as if sizing us all up. When his eyes met mine and held them, I turned back to Arlest.

“I am telling you this because later accounts illustrate that this is their habitual mode of assault. Sometimes they attack with only six or seven men. On other occasions there must have been eighty of them or more. In each case they have just enough to ensure a comfortable victory, losing few, if any, of their own troops. As they charge towards the caravan they shoot their bows, cutting down the mounted resistance to nothing. They circle the wagons, shooting all the while, often with burning arrows. Then they charge into close quarters with their lances. If they dismount, they use a long, two-handed axlike weapon. . . .”

He paused thoughtfully, and I saw the countess’s grip on his hand tighten encouragingly. We had seen the ax already.

“In the summer of last year the raiders reached southern Verneytha and led a series of forays into the Great Wheat Field region, firing crops and causing immense damage to villages. Cavalry from Verneytha went after them, but were unable to track them down. A week later, on the trade route from Hopetown to Harvest, Verneytha’s capital, a major cargo of metal goods was attacked, leaving eight arrow-ridden wagons and a pile of corpses. Verneytha sent three units of fifty cavalry to search the area. Two of them found nothing; the other was destroyed utterly.”

I stared first at the count and then at Treylen, the governor of Verneytha, who was sitting as still as ever, his face blank. I’d say the beef had turned to ashes in my mouth, but that wouldn’t mean much. What I had been thinking of as a sort of jaunt in the countryside, something a little more exciting than a picnic but of the same basic ilk, had suddenly turned into a bona fide death trap. We were out of our depth here. Something was very wrong, and it was the kind of something that Will Hawthorne did not wish to be part of.

As if to make me surer in my resolve, the count went on. “In October two villages close to Ugokan in northern Shale were robbed, fired, and their inhabitants brutally and methodically slain. In November some dignitaries of Greycoast and their forty-man armed escort were ambushed and executed as they crossed the Downs into Shale. Throughout the winter the attacks continued, targeting isolated, wealthy villages and trading groups in Verneytha.

“The three of us met and elected to use this castle as the base for our attempts to track and destroy the raiders. With financial support from Verneytha and Greycoast I was able to deploy my cavalry and certain units of infantry, but to no avail. I lost forty infantry in one fell swoop when their camp by the Elsbett Wood was assaulted. The cavalry spent two months pursuing red herrings and hoofprints that led nowhere.

“At that point we decided to bring in outside help. You are the third party to assist us. The first was wiped out as they escorted a vital fruit-and-vegetable convoy from Harvest. The second repaid their expenses and left. They were part of a group of fighters who hired themselves out to defend wagons leaving the Hopetown market. A huge force of what have become known as ‘the crimson raiders’ attacked the convoy. There were no survivors.

“Over the last month, the frequency of the raids has escalated to such a degree that we’ve felt obliged to close most of the major trade routes, including the vital Hopetown roads, to all traffic. The death toll of our soldiers and citizens is close to a thousand. We have lost a fortune in trade and our lands face bankruptcy and starvation. We
must
put an end to this situation.”

By now there was a desperation in his voice that had not been there earlier. His eyes passed over us and they shone for a moment as if he was close to tears.

If he was, he blinked them away as Duke Raymon rocked forward and growled, “I put my men at your disposal. My seal will admit you to any building in Greycoast. We will cover all your expenses. What do you say?”

“We will help you if we can,” said Mithos.

For a second I thought he was joking, but I should have remembered who I was dealing with. I was too dumbfounded to utter more than a sort of strangled gasp, which everyone seemed to associate, understandably, with the beef.

“Shale is not a wealthy land,” said the count after a short smile of relief, “but we can put our soldiers and this castle at your disposal. On behalf of the three lands I can offer you one thousand silver pieces and a quarter of whatever stolen property you recover if you can put a stop to the raids. We have soldiers enough to meet them in the field, but we need to know
who
they are and
where
they are if we are to do battle on even terms. I think that is all.”

The governor of Verneytha snapped his fingers and gestured brusquely to his military advisor, who placed a bag of coins on the table. The governor pushed it across to Mithos, holding him with his rat eyes. “And for a further two hundred silvers,” he said, very quietly, “you will bring a progress report to my palace in Harvest, two weeks from today.”

“If the count has no objection? . . . ” said Mithos coolly.

“No,” said Arlest, “though I expect you to keep us informed as a matter of course.”

The duke of Greycoast did mind. He rubbed a pink hand over his red face and wheezed noisily. “I see no reason to pay extra for what we will all learn together,” he said, eyeing Treylen frankly.

“It’s my money,” said Treylen. “My people’s money. My lands are a little more distant. I just want to be sure I am kept properly abreast of all developments.”

He said the last two words looking pointedly at Mithos. Raymon scowled but said nothing.

“Due to the widespread nature of the attacks,” said Mithos, in a businesslike manner, “we will be moving around all three regions. Though the keep is a worthy and secure base for our investigations, we cannot expect to operate solely from here. When we are in Grey-coast we will pass on whatever we know. Likewise in Verneytha. If there are major developments, we will ensure that word reaches all of you.”

The duke of Greycoast relaxed slowly, apparently satisfied. Mithos gave him a reassuring smile and closed his hand around the bag of coins that Verneytha had given him. Treylen considered him closely, as if trying to decide whether to demand the return of the money. For whatever reason, he didn’t.