Dragonlinks (26 page)

‘If he is still alive.'

‘That, regrettably, could be a problem,' declared Fa'red with something genuinely approaching regret in his voice. ‘I have heard nothing from him for some time. Still, I have contingency plans, so do not worry.'

The human head's eyelids flickered, then opened to reveal unfocused eyes. The eyes turned to Fa'red.

‘Who disturbs my rest?' asked a thin, high voice in rhythm with the animal's breathing. The grafted head's lips barely moved.

‘Fa'red and the Preceptor,' said Fa'red. ‘Your masters.'

‘Masters,' echoed the thin voice.

‘Ask him a question,' prompted Fa'red.

‘What is the mark of a lindrak?' asked the Preceptor.

‘The tattoo of a shadow walking upright, on the ribs, beneath the left arm.'

The Preceptor's jaw dropped and he stepped back a pace.

‘It cost me the lives of three good, loyal friends and a pint of my own blood to learn that,' he said in wonder.

‘Return to your rest now,' Fa'red said to the head.

The head's eyes closed, and it lolled slightly on the neck of its host. The voriole curled up on the floor.

The Preceptor managed to restrain himself for the first dozen steps.

‘That was miraculous!' he blurted out. ‘Why a man could be all but immortal with the aid of such a beast.'

‘Living like that? Bah! That one only cooperated because I have promised to kill him after I have all that I
need. What I need from him is men trained to be like lindraks, or better. They could be very helpful to realise the full power of the mailshirt.'

‘It always comes back to the mailshirt,' said the Preceptor. ‘Say we seized the mailshirt. What then?'

‘Neither Kings, not lindraks, nor armies can stop us.' Suddenly the Preceptor seemed to lose patience. ‘Is this why you brought me here? To show me
this
?' he asked testily.

‘Yes, in part.'

‘And the other part?'

‘How well disposed is the King to the Marisa River treaty?'

‘Badly, as am I. It would give landlocked Baltoria access to the oceans. Baltoria is a rich and powerful kingdom that might quickly buy and build fleets and eventually dominate our war sloops.'

‘Persuade him to sign it,' said Fa'red.

‘What? Insanity!'

‘Persuade him to sign it and I shall give you control of these deadmoon warriors. With them your back will be safe from the displeasure of the King.'

The Preceptor was tempted but tentative.

‘But what is so special about the Marisa River, Fa'red?'

‘It is a soft underbelly, Preceptor.'

‘Whose underbelly?'

‘All in good time, Preceptor, all in good time.'

The Preceptor had a dislike of the ceremony of court, and even the fuss of a minor audience with the King was annoying to him. The hospitalier dressed him in a shirt
with flared white sleeves under a sleeveless gipon of oak-leaf green. To these were added burgundy tights and pointed slippers.

‘And a mantle, Preceptor – you must have a mantle,' insisted the hospitalier.

‘This is just a private audience,' the Preceptor snapped tersely.

‘Ah, but a look of style and prosperity inspires confidence in His Majesty. Clothing is the hallmark of the quality within: His Majesty is always saying that.'

One day it will be different, the Preceptor thought to himself, but for now he accepted a scalloped mantle buttoned at the right shoulder. He was a fit, lean man who led from the front in battle, yet a lean figure was equated with failure in the eyes of the appearance-conscious king.

A door herald escorted him along the plaster-faced corridors of Altimak Palace. He was shown into a balcony suite facing northeast, and the window gave a fine view of the Garrical Mountains beyond the Barrier Ranges. Protocol demanded that he remain standing until the King arrived, and that he face the window until the monarch entered and addressed him. The Preceptor knew and understood the protocols well, even though he despised them.

There was the clack of a latch being raised behind him.

‘Ah! Hail and well may you be, Preceptor,' came the monarch's familiar and distinctive voice behind him.

The Preceptor turned, spread his arms and bowed in a single motion.

‘My place to serve you, Sire,' he responded.

‘Ha, ha, as plain as ever in your robes, I see,' said the King as he motioned the Preceptor to a chair.

‘I try to make my service and loyalty to you speak louder than my clothing, Sire,' he replied smoothly.

‘Well, yes, but the feeble-minded may mistake your dour exterior for impoverishment.'

‘Too true, Sire,' replied the Preceptor, now desperately trying to suppress a fit of laughter. ‘I shall look to my robes with greater care henceforth.'

‘Good, good, I do
care
about your career, you know. Now then, I have been briefed that you wish to discuss the Marisa River treaty. I must confess to impatience with any part of my realm being given away.'

The Preceptor unrolled a map of the northern province of Skelt on the table between them. A stretch of the Marisa River running from the Chasmgyle Falls on the Baltorian-Passendof border to the seaport of Tol on the Skelt coast had been outlined in red ink.

‘I wish to brief you on an offer of improved terms,' the Preceptor said as he placed tiny gargoyle scroll-weights to hold the map open. ‘The new proposal is not to give away any land at all. See here, the Marisa River skirts Dragonfrost then turns inland on the plain between the Algon Mountains and the Bravenhurst Ranges. The Chasmgyle Gorge marks the end of the navigable waterway.

‘As you know, Baltoria is landlocked, yet the border is only thirty miles from the sea across north Skelt.'

The King's nose wrinkled as if a bad smell had intruded upon the air between them.

‘So are you again proposing that we merely give our territory to the Baltorians for their seaway access?'

‘No, not at all, Sire. The Marisa River could well be made into a joint sovereignty, along with Bargehorse
Road beside it. That would extend all the way to the Chasmgyle Falls at the Passendof border.'

He traced the stretch in question on the map with his finger.

‘Note well that while the Baltorians get free passage along a mere thirty miles, Skelt gets access to seventy miles of the river through Baltoria.'

The King frowned and shook his head. This was not a bad sign. When he sneered, that meant displeasure. A frown and a shake merely meant that he did not understand.

‘I see,' said the monarch, slowly and uncertainly. ‘So the Baltorians would still be able to take both their own and Passendof's produce all the way to Tol by barge, and there unload it directly onto merchant ships. They would avoid paying border taxes and customs to Skelt.'

‘True, Sire, but so too would Skeltian barges and merchants have access to the Passendof border at Chasmgyle.'

‘But we have little trade with Passendof compared to the huge loads of Baltorian goods that are taxed in Tol.'

‘This treaty favours us through what it can become, rather than what it is,' the Preceptor insisted, tapping the Chasmgyle area. ‘Grain ships from D'loom could go to Tol, and their cargoes be taken by barge to the Passendof border. It would open up a new market for our grain, and eventually lead to who knows what?'

‘There will be a loss of revenue, nonetheless. Most of the barges on the Marisa are Baltorian.'

‘Indeed, but barges can easily be built. Also, if Tol were to gain in importance as a centre of trade, armed merchant convoys would be calling there in greater numbers. This would reduce the number of privateers in the
Tanglesea Islands and thus free your patrol sloops for work further south. It would be all for free, too.'

The King peered at the map again, and stroked his chin. The Preceptor noted that he was not frowning, which meant that he perceived an advantage.

‘I
could
be disposed to agree,' he declared, sitting back with his arms straight and his hands spread on the table. ‘Where would the treaty be signed?'

‘Why in Skelt, Sire, here in Altimak itself. The crown prince of Baltoria would be instructed to journey here from Hez'ar, as
his
family and people are the beneficiaries and
we
are making the concessions.'

The thought of foreign royalty arriving to beg for favours from a resurgently powerful Skelt appealed to the King.

‘This has some virtue,' he conceded. ‘There must be no loss of territory, mind.'

‘That has been discussed, Sire. The Baltorians would be allowed to build their own piers and pierhouses in the shallows off Tol, while we would be granted a diplomatic enclosure at Chasmgyle, a full hundred yards by two hundred yards, and with our own barge wharf.'

This was the Preceptor's trump card. The King had an obsession with expanding his realm, and this actually gave him a crumb of Baltorian territory in exchange for nothing. The monarch's response was not disappointing.

‘Ho then, so the mighty King of Baltoria would trade land for free passage, now
there's
the act of a desperate man.'

The King of Skelt was no fool, however, and he now raised the matter of security around Tol – in the light of what would become a large Baltorian presence. There was
also yet another hidden agenda. The Preceptor's civil militia now numbered seven thousand mounted archers and four thousand heavy lancers at Yuledan, a mere fifty miles east of the capital. Since the death of the Adept 14 mage in neighbouring Hamaria there was less certainty about controlling rebellions through the defences of enchantment. The power, ruthlessness and discipline of the Preceptor's militia made him a good man to have as far as possible from the capital.

‘The new roads that I have been building in the Garrical Mountains are a measure of security,' the Preceptor argued earnestly as the King thought through strategies. ‘They put the Baltorian capital of Hez'ar within easy reach of my mounted militia, should they decide to abuse our hospitality at Tol.'

‘Oh, the Baltorians are the least of our concerns,' retorted the King with a dismissive wave. ‘You see if Tol becomes more prosperous, it could become the target for the privateers that swarm about in the Tanglesea Islands, or even some other hostile kingdom. No, Preceptor, the ideal use for your mounted militia would be the land defence of Tol and the waging of war on my behalf in the north.'

The Preceptor was aghast. Not only did he hate t he tropics, this would put him well beyond the Court and substantially reduce his influence.

‘Your Majesty, Bravenhurst, Passendof and Baltoria are our only neighbours to the north, and all are well disposed to Skelt. The privateers' island kingdoms are too small to be a threat –'

‘Ah no, I'll hear no more, Preceptor. As you said yourself, the situation could change enormously after the Marisa River treaty is signed. No, my mind is made up. I
shall sign the treaty, and your militia will go north to Tol. You will be made governor of the northern province, as a reward for your diligence on our behalf.'

The Preceptor left after further talk about minor details, and the King went to the window and gazed out across a stone courtyard flanked by cloisters. He was rewarded by the sight of the Preceptor striding away in a towering rage, and the monarch laughed out loud as the scholar-warrior tore off his scalloped mantle and flung it back over the head of the pursuing hospitalier.

‘I think he took that very well, do you not agree, Fa'red?' asked the King without turning.

There was a dull clack as a false panel in a wall swung out, followed by the tread of a heavy man across the stone floor.

‘I do believe Your Majesty's interests will be consummately served by this treaty,' the Adept 12 said smoothly.

The King did not turn. He wished to say in truth that he had not set eyes upon Fa'red in months, so kept his eyes averted.

‘I told him to begin moving his accursed mounted militia north today. With most of the Skelt coastline between us and him I should think that even his twenty flying brigades will be distinctly weary should they ever have a mind to come south to attack Altimak.'

The treaty was scribed up and presented to the Baltorian Ambassador for preliminary ratification. Within a day a courier and his escort set out for Hez'ar and four weeks later the Baltorian Crown Prince was standing at the rostrum before the Skelt throne, signing the parchment scrolls that formally gave Baltoria access to the sea.

The Preceptor was by then installed in Tol with his militiamen. It was seen as poor politics to move troops after a treaty had been signed, so the move had to be made in advance. The Preceptor hated the tropics, disliked ships and sea travel, and was now far from all the contacts that he had cultivated so carefully since his humiliation in Hamaria five years earlier. He was surprised, however, that Fa'red now chose to buy a mansion on the outskirts of Tol. The merchant-mage declared that there were new opportunities for trade in the place, now that the Marisa River and its bargehorse tracks were open to free trade.

The Preceptor also noticed that several of the pseudo-lindraks had come with Fa'red. A week passed after the ratification of the treaty, then Fa'red came to him with a certificate of general clearance to be signed for seven riders who were about to go up the Marisa River to the Passendof border.

‘They are to help with the merchants' enclave at Chasmgyle,' Fa'red explained.

‘But this certificate clears them to cross the border and continue on to Dremari, the Passendof capital itself.'

‘Well Preceptor, our merchants need help in Dremari as well,' the merchant-mage replied with no hint of any expression on his heavily scarred face.

Only days later the seven riders emerged from the Passendof Mountains and onto the high plateau. Passendof was a landlocked kingdom almost on the equator, but its altitude made the climate cool in spite of the sun being nearly overhead.