Storm Warning - Mercedes Lackey [165]
It’s easier to apologize than get permission. He could make amends to the Emperor later, if he needed to.
At least he knew one thing; it was less likely now that Charliss was actively sending this against him. However, it was still possible that Charliss had known this would happen, and had sent him off on a doomed mission to be rid of him.
And condemned hundreds of thousands of good soldiers with me. That made him angry; the loyalty of the Army to the Emperor was legendary. To have that loyalty betrayed so callously was a betrayal of everything the Empire held sacred.
Which isn’t much. When he thought back on the state of the Court, of the corruption deep in the bureaucracy, perhaps he shouldn’t be angry or surprised.
He shook his head. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that while he was maneuvering to get his army into a defensive position, there was Valdemar, virtually unscathed, poised, and waiting.
If I were the Queen, I’d strike right now. I’d bring in Karse, hit the Imperial lines at a dozen places and break us up into manageable pieces, and then wipe the pieces out at my leisure. I wouldn’t hesitate. Just arm the natives, and they’d probably take care of most of it for me. That would give me Hardorn with a minimum of effort—and I might even be able to penetrate into Imperial territory before it got too expensive.
He had to do something to keep Valdemar so busy with its own troubles that it wouldn’t have the leisure or the coordination to strike now.
Unfortunately, that meant using a weapon that he’d held in reserve because he hated it so much.
But a man threatened will use anything to stay alive. I am fighting for not only my life, but the lives of my men. I cannot hesitate. I will not hesitate.
He would not entrust this to an aide or a messenger. Instead, he unlocked a drawer of his desk, and removed a square of something heavy wrapped in silk. He laid the square in the middle of his desk and unwrapped it, uncovering a piece of polished black obsidian-glass, perfectly square and perfectly flawless.
This was another reason why all candidates for the Iron Throne should be mages. Some messages were too important for anything but personal delivery.
He reached into the drawer again, and brought out a hand-sized portrait of a man; it was an excellent likeness, though the man himself was hardly memorable. This was a good thing; it was not wise to employ a man who was distinctive as a covert agent. With the portrait was a lock of the man’s hair; the physical link needed to contact him.
It was also the physical link that any decent mage could use to kill him if he became uncooperative, as all agents knew very well. There was nothing like having a little insurance, when one dealt with covert operatives.
Using the portrait, he fixed the agent’s image in his mind, and reached for the energies of his own personal reserve of magic. He did not care to trust the lines of power hereabouts; his mages had already warned him that they were depleted and erratic. What these disruptions had done to them, he did not care to speculate. While he relied on his own protected pool of power, he should be immune to the disturbances around him.
He stared into the black glass, emptying his mind of everything except the agent and the need to speak with him, flinging his power out as if it was a fishing line, and he was angling for one fish in particular.
His power slowly drained out as he sought and waited; sought and waited. This might take a while; he was prepared to wait for as long as it took. His agent was not in command of his own movements, and it could be some time before he was free to answer the call. That was fine; a mage must learn patience, first and foremost, before he could build any other skills. A mage must learn concentration, as well, and Tremane had ample practice in both virtues.
The marks crept by and the candle burned down, and at long last, past the hour of midnight, the answer came to his call.
The agent’s face formed in the glass, expression