The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [81]
She found Haruuc alone, brooding over a great map laid out on a table in a room with more maps hung on the walls. Vounn paused a respectable distance away from the table and dropped into a curtsy. “Lhesh,” she said.
He raised his head and looked at her with weary eyes. “Lady Vounn.”
“Am I disturbing you?”
“You’re a welcome change from the disturbances of the Gan’duur.” He forced energy into his face and beckoned her closer. “Look at this. Tell me what you see.”
Vounn looked down at the map. Bright colors stood out on a faded background—the basic map had been created many years ago and updated several times. It showed Rhukaan Draal, its outskirts drawn and redrawn as the city expanded, and the surrounding area. The Ghaal River with its cataracts and the road leading north to the Gathering Stone were easy to recognize. The map also marked hills, streams, ravines, farmholds, and lanes. Simple wooden markers painted red, black, or white had been placed atop it, mostly to the north of the city. The black markers lay in scattered patterns atop farmholds, the red in a sweeping arc, the white in widely scattered clusters.
She pressed her lips together as she considered the patterns, then said, “I’m a diplomat, not a strategist, lhesh, but I would say this shows the Gan’duur attacks.”
“The attacks, my response, and sightings of Gan’duur raiders.” Haruuc swept his hand through the air above the map. “They move quickly, staying ahead of my men. They strike, split up, and move on. And this concerns me—” He pointed to the northeast and southwest extremes of the activity represented on the map, to white markers that stood off on their own with neither red nor black markers around them. “We received word by messenger falcons this morning of these positions. No attacks, just riders. They displayed no banners, so we can only assume they’re Gan’duur, but it seemed they were riding here—and here.” His fingers moved to indicate the river west and east of Rhukaan Draal. “An old Cyran bridge across the upper river. A ferry crossing on the lower.”
“They mean to cross the Ghaal.”
“Cho,” said Haruuc. “Boats have been dispatched downstream and riders upstream. Perhaps we can catch them, but it may be too late.” He fell back into a chair and pressed his knuckles together. “The patterns of clan warfare. You see now what I hope to forestall. Maabet. I thought my people were past this.”
“A philosopher of Karrnath once wrote ‘A farmer may sow wheat, but nature had the field before him,’” Vounn said.
Haruuc looked at her over his fists. “Falko Gergus in The Battle Called Life.”
“You know it.”
“ ‘If you want fine wool, better to befriend the shepherd than the wolf,’” the lhesh quoted back to her with a thin smile. “Gergus’s metaphors have never found favor among goblins, but his principles are sound.” He lowered his hands and sat up. “But I doubt that you came here either to discuss military philosophy or to hear my complaints. What do you want, Vounn?”
She bent her head. “I would be grateful if you could arrange a meeting between Senen Dhakaan and I. There are things I would like to discuss with her.”
“But that she doesn’t seem interested in discussing with you.”
Vounn nodded.
Haruuc grunted. “I know that feeling too well. The Dhakaani clans could teach stubborn to the sea.” He rose. “Let’s go talk to Senen together.”
“Now?” asked Vounn in surprise.
“ ‘The smith who knows his iron doesn’t let it cool on the anvil,’” said Haruuc, quoting once more from Falko Gergus. “You’ve obviously waited too long on Senen already, and I’ve spent too much time looking at field positions that are out of date.” He motioned for Aruget, standing at the back of the room. “Run to Senen’s quarters and see if she is there.”
“Mazo.” Aruget left. He was back quickly.