Trial of Intentions (93 page)

—Information gathered by a traveling merchant at a drinking house in the north of Kali-Firth

A
s dark hour came, Grant stepped into the Hall of Convocation. Utter silence. But he could see by the light of a high moon through the great windows that several figures occupied seats at the convocation table.
Moon's red tonight …

Not all the seats were filled. Just those who'd supported Helaina from the beginning had come. Those who could be trusted. If Grant knew Roth at all, he'd move fast not just to secure the regent seat of Recityv, but to begin directing Convocation under new auspices. Before that happened, Grant meant to secure some support for what would come much later.

Moving quietly across the marble floor, he came to the table's edge, where he could make out faces in the dimness: the Far king, Elan; Danis Malethem, king of Masson Dimn; Maester Westen Alkai from Elyk Divad; Queen Ela Valstone of Reyal'Te; from Maerd, Governor Labrae; and from the Kamas Throne, King Volen Chraestus. There was also Vendanj, Braethen, and the new First Sodalist of Vohnce, Urieh Palon.

It was odd not to see Artixan or Belamae. But he imagined the elder Sheason was weary, and likely attending Helaina. And Belamae had worries of his own.

In the shadows, all were watching him. Waiting. The inclinations of their heads suggested that they wanted answers, and direction. He had half their need.

“A bloody day,” he said. “Not one to forget. The Ascendant will try to seize control of the High Council. I suspect that'll be easy enough to do, given that he had votes enough to expand the Civilization Order.”

Danis spoke up. “Has anyone seen the order? Did Roth publish it?”

“It'll have the required number of signatures,” Vendanj said grimly. “Roth is manipulative, but he likes to stand on firm legal ground.”

“We should visit the High Council members tonight,” Danis suggested. “Perhaps we can turn enough votes to keep him from the regent seat.”

Grant shook his head. “He'll have a grip on them that simple persuasion won't loose.”

Even in the dimness, Sodalist Palon looked uncomfortable.

“What do you want from us?” Danis's question was forceful and genuine. The man had deeply respected Helaina. He also led a kingdom that rivaled Estem Salo for sheer knowledge, not to mention boasting the strongest fleet in the Eastlands. In war or peace, Masson Dimn was seen as a necessary ally.

“We'd ask patience,” Grant said. “Helaina was preparing to visit Y'Tilat Mor. Solicit their help.”

“The Mor Nation Refrains?” Maester Westen asked with obvious awe. “Dear deafened gods, even my own conservators would never ask their use.”

Westen's homeland—Elyk Divad—hadn't the Descant Cathedral, but there were conservatories in Divad that taught music at a master level.

Governor Labrae spoke next. “They wouldn't have received her, anyway. We've tried to establish trade with the Mor nations. Even offered music relics out of our oldest archives and museums—items we believe belonged to the first Mors. Our ambassadors were killed.”

A somber silence stretched in the darkened hall.

“Nevertheless, we're going,” Grant told them. “We're not asking your help with that. But it will take time. And while we're gone, if I know Roth, he'll also move fast with his expansion plans.” He looked around the table, taking a mental inventory. “The League has garrisons in most of your major cities already. He'll press you for tighter integration with your standing militaries and law guards. Don't say no. We don't want conflict to escalate for any of you. But stall him. Hold open hearings and discussions. Delay. Make it all slow and procedural.”

“Roth has no men in my lands,” King Chraestus said evenly. “Nor will he.”

Grant didn't debate it. The king of the Kamas throne was practically the military arm of Estem Salo. If Volen and the Sheason Randeur marched together, few armies would rise against them. Chraestus had won wars with both Nallan and the Mal. The latter was seen as an act of the dead gods. When the Mal went to war, there were usually two outcomes: destruction or surrender. Neighboring nations were happy that the Mal weren't expansionists.

“My point is, don't draw attention to yourselves by openly fighting with Roth. We don't want him to sense resistance.” Grant made sure to look them each in the eye. “Because whether we succeed with the Mors or not, there'll come a day we will stand up in force to put down the League. We want that to come as a surprise to Roth.”

Danis was nodding to the wisdom of it.

“I'll be leaving to enlist the support of the Sheason,” Vendanj added. “It's no secret that there's some tension in my order. With some luck, I can resolve that.” He paused a moment, his face filled with sad remembrance. “Today's events may actually make that easier.”

Grant nodded with reverence, then moved on. What came next might be the delicate part of his request. “There are other nations who will look to you for direction, if only by example—So'dell, Ebon, Kuren. Their posture will likely mimic your own. We didn't invite them here, because we're less certain of them. But keep your spies active in their cities. Any information may help us when we return to take Recityv back and call another vote for alliance.”

In the darkened hall, Grant half-smiled that none of them denied having spies deployed in neighboring nations.

“I'll be returning to Naltus,” said Elan. “I have work to do at home. And I won't sit at Roth's Convocation.”

Grant nodded. He didn't think even Roth would push the Far. Not at this time, anyway. Taking another inventory of support, he noted that all here tonight had spoken, save Queen Valstone. But though she'd been silent, her eyes were alive with thought.

“Ela?” Grant asked with a leading tone. He'd known her well in years gone by, when she'd come often to Helaina's court. “We've not heard from you. But there's always something on your mind.”

She waved a hand. “I'm just thinking that one of us should go further with Roth. Get close. Embrace his ambition as their own.”

“Are you volunteering?” he said, his smile full now.

“Reyal'Te is known as a champion of civility. Not the League's brand of it. But more genteel, shall we say. It wouldn't be suspicious for me to be the one to do it.”

Grant liked the idea, but knew the risks. “Just be careful.”

“Oh, please. I deal with confabulators better than Roth in my pastry kitchen.” She laughed easily, and many around the table joined her.

As laughter was tapering off, Palon spoke, his face still screwed up tight. “I need to tell you something.” His voice was small. “I need to tell you all something.”

Grant leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “You have our attention.”

In the dark and silence of the Convocation hall, he related the account of Roth's visit to his home the night before.

On his right, Grant heard Vendanj whisper, “My last god…”

“All I could think about,” Palon explained, “was the lives of those I'd just sworn to serve. Their families. I'm so sorry.…”

“You must renounce it,” Chraestus said, no judgment in his voice.

“No,” Grant said immediately. “At least not formally. It would put your people in danger. And the Sheason are already dead. Let's not ignore their sacrifice.”

“What are you thinking?” Danis was nodding as though he already knew.

“Palon stands in a unique position. He's made a difficult choice as the new leader of the Sodality in Vohnce. Roth fancies himself a self-made man …
ascendant
. He admires the difficult choice.” Grant pointed to the sodalist. “Palon can get close to Roth as a result. Earn his trust. We'll make use of that.”

Palon was shaking his head absently. Grant understood the gesture—not a denial of the request, but self-condemnation.

“Listen to me, Palon.” Grant gathered the man's attention. “I don't agree with what you did. I doubt anyone here does. But don't waste the opportunity we now have by wallowing in self-loathing. There's a good path from here. Take it.”

The young man stared back at him. There was a moment of disbelief. But while they shared that moment, something hardened in Palon's eyes. It was a look Grant knew from so many wards in the Scar, from those who survived that place well. He nodded satisfaction back at the man.

But that hard look had another quality. Concern. Palon's jaw clenched.

“What is it?” Grant asked.

“Early this evening, I received a note telling me Artixan had survived the assassinations. That he'd be in today's safe chamber. I sent a few men.…”

The Sodality kept a strong room for consultation, which moved every day. Rarely the same place twice. It had become a method for securely sharing information since the Civilization Order had been instituted. The room was also where a Sheason was kept if there was any threat to his life.

“There's something more?” Grant pressed.

“Just before coming here, Roth came to me, wanted to know where today's safe chamber was.” Palon stared at Grant with distress in his face. “He's been sweeping the city for any hidden Sheason.”

Vendanj was already running for the door. “Where?!”

Braethen raced beside the Sheason.

Palon shouted to them the location of the day's strong room—right there in Solath Mahnus. Grant told Palon to stay put, and raced after Braethen and Vendanj through the darkened Convocation hall.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

No Grey Country

The traditional belief of Alon'Itol kings is that they will one day meet every man, woman, and child that dies during their reign, and have to make an accounting to them.

—From the
Register of Devotions,
an index of avowals recently stolen from the Cathedral of Bastulen

S
trong westerly sun shone across the concourse in dusky gold and auburn hues as thousands of Ir-Caul men marched over the parade yard. Mira watched solemnly as rows of twenty moved in processional fashion, having left vacant spots where their dead comrades had walked. It looked like an endless, awful smile that had lost too many teeth.

They were returning from a broad sweep to the north and west. Rumor had arrived ahead of the army that they'd never reached the battlefront, and that many—too many—had fallen in the attempt.

The men needed no drum or caller to mark time for their measured steps. Nor did they stomp or make a show of their uniform lines and cadence. They simply moved past the mezzanine where the king and his generals looked on, unspeaking. It seemed a silent ceremony, one of mutual respect: soldiers for their monarch, and Relothian for his fighting men.

Just beyond the marching column, other men drove teams of muscled work-horses that pulled their war machines. The creak and roll of axles and wheels over the yard stone echoed flatly around them. Many of the gearworks rose high against westering sun, casting long shadows that slowly passed over the king and his coterie. Some of the great trebuchets and catapults had been ruined, making their shadows appear like strange, twisted creatures as they stretched toward them. Near these, men with tool belts walked like healers watching over ailing friends. Field gearsmiths, no doubt.

As the procession continued, Mira saw many men who had likewise been crippled. Some limped, and some were assisted by comrades or conveyed on stretchers—legs and arms lost or rendered useless. She grew angry, recalling the conversation she'd overheard in the king's sister's chicken coop:
Perhaps they know we've been filling the traveling army with loyalists.

Mira had a suspicion that the corruption of Relothian's house was responsible for deliberate tactical failures in matters of war. Which would also mean that men were dying in battle because their generals were purposely making bad decisions.
Getting rid of loyalists.
Staring out over the returning army—so many lost, so many wounded—she thought about her own decimated people. She couldn't remain silent any longer.

Mira stood up from her seat far to the king's left. She swept past him, speaking loud enough for all to hear: “Come with me.” She caught sight of Thalia, Relothian's sister, and her escort, General Marston. She'd recognized their voices—from the chicken coop—when they'd all gathered earlier this hour for the return of this Ir-Caul brigade. They rose at her invitation.
Good, let's make some accusations.

She stepped fast down two sets of stone stairs and out onto the broad parade yard, where she waited for the king and the rest to catch up.

“Stop them,” she said to Relothian when he came up beside her.

Relothian turned on her. “I don't suffer indignity on one of our oldest and proudest traditions. Tell me what this is about.”

Mira stepped within arm's reach of the passing battalion. She reached out and grabbed one of the footmen, yanking him from the march and hauling him around to face the king.

The men broke ranks and began to draw their swords. The king held up his hand, and gestured for them to continue their ceremonial procession. “If you don't have good reason for this, Far, you'll never leave this yard.”

She stared back at the king evenly, her own anger an easy match for his indignation. Still, she had taken a great gamble on her assumptions.

She eyed the man she'd pulled from the marching line. “You've lost many men from this brigade. Nearly one in three. Tell us how.”

The man didn't look at her, instead staring directly at his king. “Sire, I'd rather not. I don't complain. I'm proud to serve.…” The footman trailed off, his voice thick with emotion.

“What's your name?” Relothian asked softly, showing a tenderness she'd not heard from him before.

“Lian, sire.” The man never averted his gaze from the king's eyes.