Storm Warning - Mercedes Lackey [100]
Ulrich sat down next to Karal with a smile of approval for his preparations. Karal was not the only secretary attending this meeting, but he was clearly the best organized of the lot. The others were fumbling out their supplies and trying to be unobtrusive at the same time, and it wasn’t working.
The envoy from Rethwellan was supposed to sit next to Ulrich, but to Karal’s astonishment, which he quickly cloaked, it was the Prince-Consort who took the chair there. A solemn-faced young man in sober blue took the seat next to Daren’s, and prepared to take his own set of notes on behalf of the Prince.
So the Prince-Consort also plans to act as the Rethwellan envoy? That’s just a little irregular, isn’t it? But no one else seemed to mind, and only the Shin’a’in envoy raised an eyebrow. On the other hand, Daren had once been his brother’s Lord Martial, and presumably could still speak with authority on military matters within Rethwellan. Perhaps he was the best choice for this meeting.
Eventually the Queen herself arrived with very little fanfare. Talia came quietly along behind her, and took up a special seat that Karal had thought was for the Prince Consort.
Evidently not. He studied the Queen’s Own, wondering just what the basis for her position was here. Clearly she was some kind of advisor, but what did she do? I’m going to have to ask someone some time soon. These Valdemarans were so surprising that they might even tell him the truth!
When everyone attending the meeting was seated, and all the underlings had their papers and supplies in order, the Queen stood. Selenay wore only a circlet of gold on her head to denote her rank; otherwise her clothing was nothing more than a richer version of the Herald’s livery. That in itself was fascinating, because Solaris of all of the Sons of the Sun in living memory was doing precisely the same thing with her robes of office. She seldom wore the Crown of Prophecy except when the Voice was going to possess her; as for the rest, the sole symbol of her office was the special Sundisk pectoral that only the Son of the Sun wore, a neckpiece as ancient as Karse itself. Her robes were the same as any other Priest; save only that the cloth was a little softer, of a slightly finer weave. This was very effective, as it made her seem much more approachable than any of her predecessors. Had she taken her cue from the Queen of Valdemar, or had she contrived the notion herself?
“The forces of the Eastern Empire are currently not moving forward through Hardorn,” the Queen began, as soon as the murmur of talk was replaced by silence. It was odd, but she looked a lot calmer than Karal would have been in identical circumstances. He made note of that; impressions could be useful. “We have taken this opportunity to gather intelligence information, and we have called this Council to present it to the representatives of all of our allies at once. Much of this will be new even to me.”
Ah. So she isn’t using the royal plural; when she says “we, ” at least in this Council, she is talking about more people than just herself. Also useful to know.
And with that, she sat down and gestured to the first of a series of underlings to come forward and make his report.
Karal took copious notes. The first was a basic report on how much territory the Empire had already annexed, and the current situation with what was left of a government in that portion of Hardorn still held by loyalists.
The news wasn’t good. The Empire held roughly half of Hardorn at this point. There was resistance, which became more organized with every passing day, but the question in the minds of those who had written this report was whether or not it would become well-organized enough in time to actually stop the Empire short of the Valdemar border.
“The current government consists of a Special Council,” the clerk read, as Karal wondered who had been intrepid enough to ferret out all this information. It had to have been obtained at firsthand. “There are thirty surviving nobles, the heads of the Guilds, and someone who claims