The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [195]
“What destruction?” Lydya’s voice is strained.
“One of the storms pulverized the wizards’ brand-new keep in Lydiar,” Shierra explains.
“You can’t keep doing this . . .” Hyel admonishes.
Megaera merely raises her eyebrows. “He will, at least until he’s totally blind.”
“It passed.”
“This time. How long can you push the limits? Anyone else would be dead.” . . . and I don’t want to die because you. . .
“Important as that may be, Megaera,” interjects Shierra, “we still have this ultimatum.”
Hyel frowns, clears his throat, waiting until the room quiets. “Do we have a choice?”
“Of course we do. There’s always a choice.” Lydya shifts her weight in the wooden chair.
“Why are they doing this now?” asks Creslin.
“Best-beloved, you must be joking. You destroy their keep, ransack their port, steal ships from three nations, and . . .” She shakes her head.
“No, that’s not what I meant. Why did they even bother with an ultimatum? They certainly haven’t played this sort of official-message game before.”
“They’re desperate,” offers Hyel. “That’s all I can think of.”
“How about scared?” Shierra snaps. “First Creslin sinks that Hamorian fleet. Then he develops an army, beefed up by the last of the Westwind guards, that’s clearly superior to anything its size. Now, by seizing half a dozen ships, he has the beginning of a fleet. And because he can sink any other ship on the sea, who can refuse to trade with Recluce ships? The only way they can hope to stop you—” her eyes turns to the silver-haired regent “—is to destroy Recluce.”
“But we’re scarcely that kind of threat,” observes Klerris mildly.
Megaera snorts.
Klerris raises his eyebrows. After a moment, he asks, “You feel that Recluce is that much of a threat? With all of perhaps a thousand souls on this huge and empty island? With little gold to speak of?”
“That’s scarcely the question, Klerris, and you know it. It isn’t what we are that counts. It’s what the White Wizards persuade people that we are that matters. My best-beloved here has managed to whip half the world into fearing mighty Black Recluce. Yet they know in their minds that we aren’t that strong. It becomes an easy decision to send aid to Fairhaven, especially now that the Whites have helped rebuild Montgren and are helping build dams in Kyphros, and are paying premium prices for Hydlen grain. Especially now that Ryessa has regarrisoned the ruins of Westwind. Do you want both a strong Sarronnyn, believing in the Legend, Heaven forbid, and fearing that destructive Black Wizard Creslin?” The redhead shrugs theatrically.
“There’s more to it than that,” observes Shierra.
“There’s a. great deal more.” Creslin’s voice is low, strained. “The ultimatum is to persuade Hamor and Nordla of how unreasonable we are, and to picture Recluce as a danger to the world.”
“That’s probably right,” affirms Shierra. “And what do we do?”
“We send back our polite document stating that Recluce and all of eastern Candar has been the victim of assorted wizardly depredations, such as assassinations, conquest, and trade restrictions.” Creslin adds after a pause, “Not that it will help right now.”
“Now?”
“I see what he means.” Shierra squares to face Megaera. “They’ve already decided what they’ll do. This is but a justification. Any response of ours will be viewed as unreasonable. If we survive, however, Hamor and Nordla could always claim that they were misled by Fairhaven and use our document, which they will doubtless claim was withheld from them, to justify whatever they may later do—hopefully, trade with us.”
“So we send the response just to Fairhaven?” Megaera asks.
“Hardly,” Creslin replies. “We send it to each. They can certainly still claim they were misled. Truth isn’t necessary for politicians.”
. . . nor for you, best-beloved. . .
Both the sadness and the anguish cut Creslin