The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [115]
“I’d assume they want a foothold in Arcodd, Your Highness,” Garin said. “They sieged Cengarn once.”
“So they did.” Voran paused for a grimace. “Bastards.” He nodded Laz’s way. “Continue.”
“She has sent a priestess of some standing south along with a contingent of two hundred cavalrymen. They have orders to secure a bridge somewhat to the north of you.”
“What?” Brel broke in. “A bridge? What bridge? What kind of madmen would build a bridge in the wilderness?”
Laz hesitated. From Berwynna he’d learned about the strange little village and its ramshackle bridge, but he wondered if it were wise to admit to the knowledge. Fortunately, Garin provided something of an answer.
“Merchants from the west pass through there,” Garin said. “They’ve mentioned a wide river, and I’m assuming they bridged it to get their mules across.”
“Of course,” Brel said. “My apologies. Go on, good scribe.”
Laz did so. “Once the contingent has fortified the bridge site, the priestess, along with a suitable escort, will proceed to your dun.”
“I wonder how many men they deem suitable.” This time Voran interrupted. “Not the full two hundred, at least.” He turned to look directly at Laz. “Is that the last of the letter?”
“Except for some prayers and farewells, Your Highness,” Laz said.
“We don’t need to hear those. Could you copy those letters—in Deverrian, that is—for me? I’m going to send messengers to the High King. I want him to realize that we need more men up here on the border. The fear of losing northern Arcodd will doubtless inspire him to send some.”
“Huh!” Brel snorted. “He’d better send a small army.”
Voran ignored him and waved his hand in Laz’s direction. “You may go,” he said. “May I have those letters by the morrow morn? You’ll find me in the great hall.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Laz rose and bowed. “I shall deliver them to you personally.”
With his maimed hands, carrying everything he held in his lap turned out to be difficult. Laz paused long enough to stuff the letters and his wax tablets into the dispatch case, and while he was doing so, the three others went on talking as if he, a mere servant, were no longer there, even when he got up and started for the door.
“If they’re planning on taking Cengarn,” Brel was saying, “they’ll need a bigger base camp than that fortress the dragon saw a-building.”
“Just so,” Voran said. “A place where they can winter if naught else. It’s a long way from their cities to Arcodd. I’ll wager it’s Cengarn they’re after.”
“And if they take Cengarn,” Garin put in. “What’s to stop them from turning their greedy eyes to Cerrgonney? The Boars claimed all of it at one time.”
“And its iron mines.” Voran smiled in a grim, tight-lipped gesture. “No doubt the king will realize that as well.”
A sudden thought struck Laz like an arrow. He hesitated, unsure of protocol, near the door. Fortunately, Brel noticed him and once again demonstrated his lack of concern for the niceties.
“What is it, loremaster?” Brel said. “There’s somewhat on your mind, isn’t there? Out with it!”
“My thanks.” Laz bowed to him. “About that base camp?”
“Go on.”
The prince and the envoy turned slightly in their chairs to look his way.
“Marshfort,” Laz said in Gel da’Thae then caught himself. “In the Deverrian speech, that is to say, Cerr Cawnen. I know Alshandra’s warleaders coveted it once, some forty years ago, I believe it was. It’s a fortified city with its own water supply.”
“Of course.” Garin paused to swear under his breath in a language Laz didn’t know, although the tone was unmistakably foul.
“Cerr Cawnen?” Voran said. “That’s the second time that name has come up. Where—”
“I’ll show you on the map, Your Highness.” Garin got up and stood by the table. “It would be a grand spot to launch an attack against Prince Daralanteriel.”
“Indeed,” Brel put in. “The bastards want grass as much as they want iron. Maybe more.”
“Cerr Cawnen is the key to taking the Westlands and the grass.” Garin slapped his hands together. “We’ve been blind, Your Highness.”
“So we have,” Prince Voran said.