The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [29]
"That I believe," said Daragus of Gilth. "If Silvertree seized it ere he died, and his mages failed to make off with it ere they perished, his daughter is best suited of all in Aglirta to be its retriever."
"We know Silvertree's dead?" the tallest of the Sirl agents asked, raising an eyebrow. "His body's not been found."
"Nor," one of his fellows-the shortest and most stout, a bearded man in red velvet adorned with cords and tassels of gold-pointed out, "have those of his wizards."
Daragus shrugged and spread hands that gleamed with many massive gold rings. "The months pass, and there's no sign of any of them."
"Might I remind you," the factor in green responded, "that wizards can change their faces and all, far more easily than most men?"
Daragus gave him a sour look. "And might I remind you, Factor Phelodiir, that fireside tales are one thing, and what wizards actually take the trouble to do, day by day in the real Aglirta, is quite another. It costs trouble and coin and the stuff of life to cast spells, and more to maintain them. Why bother? If you've magic enough to spare some to spin such a spell, you've enough to see no need for hiding. Act openly, and blast down all who come riding to do you harm-that's the wizards' way."
"What thickheaded mages you've met with, I must say," the tall factor said to that, shaking his head.
"Gentlesirs, gentlesirs," the Tersept of Sart said in swift and slightly overloud soothing, "let our brawl be where it truly lies, with the so-called Risen King, and not with each other. We all stand in the same peril because of him. We all face the loss of our freedom, because of him. The Snake-priests connive and stab with poisoned blades up and down the Vale… because of him."
"Glarsimber," the Factor of Gilth growled, "spare us the grand speech. Only fools and tyrants expect rivals-and let's be blunt, that's what we are-to speak with one voice, in sweet accord, in the first instant they catch sight of a common foe. Fireside tales again."
"Has he really demanded that all baronies and towns surrender their armies to him?" the bearded factor asked. "What were his words, exactly?"
"He wants to be 'recrowned,' Carthel, and have us all swear oaths to him," Daragus of Gilth replied in a near-snarl. "Whereupon he'll promptly issue orders to all who serve any of us, bidding these swords be here and those lances hie themselves there… well away from we who whelmed and trained them. He need not speak plainly to make his intentions and destination clear. Not a-"
"Wait a bit, wait a bit," Factor Phelodiir interrupted. "Nothing of this is news to any here. My Lord of Sart, there's more riding you than this-I could tell so when you called for this conclave, and I can see it waiting in your eyes right now… and more than that: waiting impatiently. What news?"
The Tersept of Sart, aware that he had the full attention of his guests for the first time since inviting them to sit, unhurriedly selected a decanter, held it up to the light to gaze at its contents critically, and poured.
Into the silence the Lord of Sart was building, Factor Carthel murmured, " 'Tis true. I can see it in him now, itching to be free. Speak, Belklarravus."
Tersept Glarsimber Belklarravus of Sart looked up over his glass at the four factors-his old rival Daragus and the three from Sirlptar: Phelodiir, Carthel, and the tall one… Telabras, that was his name, yes-and found rage rising in him once more, just as it had when he'd first heard the news. He set down his glass so they wouldn't see his hand tremble, knowing he could do nothing about the redness that must now be washing across his face, and said crisply,